G General readers GR General readers: with reservations M Mature adults only
The motion picture industry recently developed a grading system for all films presented to the public. Although producers believe adults should have access to all films, they recognize that certain reservations are in order for minors who attend theaters. For this reason a grading system was established.
CAMEO LIBRARY believes that the action taken by the motion picture industry is also applicable in the field of publishing, and that an individual rating of books will make a noteworthy contribution to the rights of adults and the protection of minors. In the interest of this belief, the CAMEO LIBRARY REVIEW PANEL was established.
The CAMEO LIBRARY REVIEW PANEL members are professionals with backgrounds in psychology and sociology. Each member of the panel reviews every CAMEO LIBRARY book and grades it according to a rating schedule. The panel, c-haired by a psychologist, meets at intervals for discussion and clarification of the rating schedule, manuscripts, objectives, and other pertinent matter. The panel chairman reports the panel's findings and recommendations to the publisher on a regular basis.
CAMEO LIBRARY
Gentlemen:
The CAMEO LIBRARY REVIEW PANEL has reviewed the book, "The 18 Hole Course," and recommends that it be rated: M-Mature Adults Only.
Very truly yours, Arthur Ferester, Ph.D. Chairman
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ONE
It all started on my birthday.
I woke up that morning to two things but was uncertain which of the two was more important and pleasant. First, as I said, it was my birthday. My sixteenth. And that's pretty important, even to someone as worldly-wise and sophisticated as Matthew Branson, which happens to be my name. Second, I had my usual morning hard-on. As it turned out, the hard-on won my full attention. A birthday goes on all day, after all, and a morning hard-on is, well, temporary, if you get what I mean.
Before doing anything about it, however, I first cast an eye toward my brother Russ asleep in the other bed in our cluttered bedroom. Russ is a mess most of the time, but especially when he sleeps. On his back, his arms and legs flung out every-which-way, his hair looking like a herd of something had stampeded through it, he was just a mess of boy and bed sheets. His own morning hard-on was poking up at a slant under the sheets, but he was oblivious to it as he slept away.
Assured that Russ was asleep, I pushed the sheet down, shoved down my shorts, wrapped my hand around that long and aching hunk of manhood between my legs and began jerking it off. Naturally, I imagined I was making it with a girl, which is what I always do when I'm masturbating. On that particular morning the girl in question was Heather Wright, as neat a piece as you ever will find. She was Russ' girl. That she fucked was a fact glowingly related to me in all the gory details by my brother because he knew that is was an experience that I, frankly, had never had. Getting it, I mean, from a girl. I thought a lot about Heather because she was the only girl I knew of who really and truly did it. Russ would never lie about something as important as that. So I knew Heather did it, and I imagined her doing it with me while I lay there cozy and snug in my bed with my hot tight fist flailing away. I imagined her all lovely and naked with her skin all white and smooth and her tits rosy-tipped and wanting to be sucked. I knew every inch of her body because of Russ' descriptions, and when I imagined actually slipping my you-know-what into her you-know-what, well, I....
I did everything to her. I kissed her in the mouth. I squeezed her tits. I licked her navel. I rubbed my hand between her legs. Then I got right down on it with my mouth and did it to her with my tongue. Finally, I slipped my prong into her.
Bingo!
I was coming.
All over the goddamned sheets. "Hurrah!"
It was my brother, of course, and far from satisfied with yelling like that he started clapping his hands like he was at the goddamned opera or something.
Gasping, recovering, I turned and glared at him and his grinning face. "You son-of-a-bitch," I grunted. "You were watching me."
"It looked like Old Faithful," he laughed.
"What are you a damned queer or something?"
"Can I help it if you made such a racket with your grunts and groans that you woke me up?"
"Sorry I'm so expressive," I said, frankly finding it tough to keep from laughing. I pushed myself out of bed and headed for the bathroom to wash myself and to bring back a damp towel or something to clean up the globby mess on the sheets.
"Hey, punk brother," Russ called out after me.
"What?" I asked, still giving it the tough-guy tone in my voice.
"Happy birthday," he said.
I still tried to be the wise-ass but it didn't really work. "Where's my present?" I asked, but it was plain that I was pleased that he'd remembered the old birthday.
"What sort of present would you like?" he asked.
"How about a roll in the hay with Heather?" I asked, grinning with anticipation.
Russ exploded into laughter again. "You got a long way to go before you're old enough to ride in that saddle," he chuckled.
I grunted and trudged on to the bathroom while Russ went on talking to me through the open door.
"I shouldn't tell you this," he was saying, "but the Old Man has a birthday surprise for you. He's gonna give it to you at breakfast."
"I'd rather have Heather give it to me right now," I said.
"Be serious," Russ replied.
"What's the Old Man got for me?" I asked.
"You'll have to wait and get it from him."
"Probably a bicycle or something equally childish," I stated, and then I stared at myself in the mirror in the bathroom. It was a sad enough sight. Not that I was physically a mess, because frankly I'm pretty damned good-looking. Blond hair, blue eyes, nice smile, terrific build-a complete set, so to speak. It wasn't anything I lacked physically that made me such a mess. It was my lack of experience, so to speak. Sixteen years old and never been-- I peered down my body at my cock hanging there at-ease and I muttered, "A lot of good you are." Which shows you the state I was in. Talking to my peter, for crissakes. Then it was as if the thing was trying to talk back to me, because its head started to wobble and come up until pretty soon it was standing out hard and hot once more and making me turn my thoughts once again to Heather. So, I sat down on the toilet and began beating it again all the while thinking about how fantastic it would be to actually have it in a cunt. My orgasms had been administered almost entirely by hand, either my own or some girl's. Now and again there was a chance to pop it off with a kid from across the street who really liked taking it in his mouth, which I let him do from time to time but which I never really got that much of a thrill from because, frankly, the kid used his teeth too much. But never once the way it should be, if you know what I mean. Right there between a girl's legs and as deep as I could make it go.
Pretty soon I came again, thinking all the while about doing it with Heather. But this time there was no worry about mopping up the leftovers. Just flush it away.
Next thing, I was back in the bedroom and trying to mop up the bed sheets, but it was no use. There's no way. I figured that my mother would just have to expect semen stains on her sheets when she's got two teen-age boys.
Russ had been watching my efforts with amusement, but I noticed that his morning hard-on was gone. Wiped out by his hand while I was in the bathroom.
"Are you going to tell me what the Old Man has in mind for my birthday?" I asked as I dressed in blue jeans and a sweatshirt.
"Nope," Russ said. "You know how the Old Man gets a boot out of surprises. like the way he surprised Mom with his announcement that the two of them would be going to Europe for the summer ? "
"Hey! Maybe they've decided to take me along instead of sending me to that cruddy summer camp with you."
"Don't I wish it? I don't want a stupid kid brother hanging around me. You'll put a cramp in my style. How am I supposed to be an effective counselor at that camp with you around to tell those snot-nosed kids all my secrets?"
"How are you gonna manage a whole summer surrounded with nothing but boys?"
"I figure I'll smuggle Heather into the camp in my duffle bag."
"She can sleep in my cabin," I smiled, turning to the mirror to comb my long blonde hair.
"Hey, brother, did anybody ever tell you that you are truly beautiful?"
"Up yours."
"That silky blonde hair, that incredibly handsome face, the strong neck, the powerful shoulders, and that body. Oh, that body is simply gorgeous."
"Sometimes I think you are queer. I'd better warn the kids at camp."
"As a matter-of-fact, I can think of only one guy in this city who's better-looking than you."
"Let me guess."
"C'est moi."
"Really?"
"Just ask Heather for references."
Turning with a grin, I said, "I'll tell you what, Russ. Seeing it's my birthday, why don't you be a truly wonderful brother and give me the best present of my life ? Heather."
Russ chuckled. "You wouldn't even know where to begin."
"I'd just start at the top and work down."
"You'd never make it across the finish line. Heather has a very large capacity for screwing. A kid of your tender years just wouldn't have the stamina. A lot of times I don't have it myself."
"Well, why not let me stand-in for you when you have to recuperate?"
Russ grinned. "I have solved that problem. Take a look in that canvas tennis bag of mine in the back of the closet."
Intrigued, I plunged my arm deep into the clutter on the floor of the closet, grasping the bag by its straps and pulling it out. I collapsed onto the floor laughing when I put my hand in the bag. "A dildo," I grunted.
I held the long, thick, latex penis high over my head. Tears from laughing ran down my cheeks.
"Where'd you get it?"
"I sent away for it. Isn't it incredible? They come in three sizes. Large, extra large, and enormous. That one's Large."
"Have you used it yet?"
"Once," Russ said, sitting up in bed, laughing, too. "And?"
"Wild. She went right out of her head. Completely blew her mind."
"Jesus, it must be nine inches, at least."
"Ten," Russ giggled. "We measured."
My laughter vanished with the sudden realization that the artificial prick I held in my hand had been where my own real one had never ventured. "Shit," I grunted, shoving the rubber penis back into the canvas bag and shoving the bag deep into the back of the closet again.
"I was going to get one of the new kind that have batteries in them and vibrate," Russ said. "Shove one of those against a clit and you really mess a chick up, I hear."
"You're a pervert of the worst type," I said, getting to my feet again.
"Somebody ought to invent an artificial vibrating tongue, too, so I could stick that in Heather while I give my own a rest."
"I volunteer," I said, sticking out my tongue.
Then the Old Man's voice came from downstairs. "Boys! Breakfast is on. Are you up?"
"The Old Man is really eager to give you your present," Russ smiled. "Aren't you excited?"
"I'm just dying with curiosity," I said. "You coming down?"
"I wouldn't miss it for the world," Russ said.
Downstairs, Ralph and Doris Branson waited. They were good parents as parents went. They gave their sons good looks, a good home, a good life. They were neither tyrants nor overly permissive. They tried to understand their sons with a full realization that there was a limit to how much any parent could understand any child. Our Old Man was a masculine father: Doris was feminine. Russ and I had no problems with proper identities. At the appropriate time, as he judged it, our Old Man had told us we could ask him any questions we had about sex, granting to us the assumption that we already knew about sex and that the most he could contribute was a certain refinement of our knowledge. Russ asked advice on contraceptives. I, who had been thirteen at the time while Russ had been fifteen, wanted to know at what age it would be okay for me to have sex with a girl.
"I can't give you an answer to that," our Old Man said. "As a father I should tell you that it's okay to have sex with a girl when you love her and are going to marry her. As a man, I should be honest and tell you that you can have sex with a girl when you can find one who'll have it with you, one that is clean, safe, and all that. I can only hope that you will use your own good judgment and make your own decision if and when the opportunity arises. I just want each of you to know that you can always come to me with any problems or ... trouble ... that you might get into."
In the three years since our talk, neither Russ nor I went to him to report any trouble. I'm sure he knew that Russ was having regular sexual relations, apparently with Heather Wright and that I was not having sexual relations with anyone but undoubtedly was willing and eager to.
My parents, seated in the sunny dining area of our handsome duplex Manhattan apartment, smiled at me as I joined them for breakfast.
"Russ will be down in a minute," I said. I noted as I sat down that there was no gift-wrapped package in evidence.
"Happy birthday, dear," Mother said, rising from her chair to kiss me on the cheek.
"Thanks, Mom," I replied, blushing slightly.
"It's hard to believe that you're sixteen," my Father said. "It seems like it was yesterday when you were born. My, but time flies. I was saying to your Uncle Martin yesterday that you'd grown into a fine, handsome young man."
"How is Uncle Martin?" I asked, sipping my orange juice.
"Fine, Matthew," he said, glancing across the table at Mom, a glance which I noticed and wondered about. "He's got that big house out there in California to keep him busy, and, since Aunt Millie passed away, I guess he gets a little lonely sometimes."
"He ought to come back East to live," I volunteered, deciding I was too hungry to wait for Russ to join us and digging into my half-grapefruit as T spoke.
"Well, Marty's got a lot of things to keep him in California. His business, his real estate holdings, his duties with the Country Club and all. He's so successful, in fact, that he embarrasses me. After all, he is my younger brother. Younger brothers should never be allowed to be more successful than their older brothers."
"You do okay," I said.
The Old Man grinned, and I was pleased as hell that I had pleased him.
Russ came in. "What's this about younger brothers being more successful than their older brothers?"
"We were talking about Uncle Martin," Mother said.
"I knew you didn't mean Matt," Russ said.
"You'd have to accomplish something before I could even try to be better than you," I said to Russ, grinning.
"If it weren't your birthday, I'd sock you for that," Russ said, taking his place at the table.
Breakfast began and proceeded in silence until, at last, the Old Man leaned back in his chair, the only one with arms, and smiled his contented, proud, pleased, head-of-the-family smile. "A fine breakfast, darling," he said to his wife.
"Well, wait until this evening when we have our dinner and the big cake I'm going to bake for our birthday boy."
I wriggled in my chair, embarrassed, wishing Mother would stop using the phrase "birthday boy" now that I was sixteen.
"Well, don't serve him too much food. He'll need to be alert and active for all the packing he'll have to be doing," the Old Man said.
"Packing?" I asked.
"Well you can't take a trip without packing a few things."
"Trip?"
"It's not like that day when you were just a little kid and got mad at your mother and me and packed some things in a handkerchief and set out to live with Uncle Martin and Aunt Millie."
"But I'm not going anywhere," I said.
Then the Old Man reached into his coat pocket and took out an airline ticket. "It would be a pity to waste this reservation, and Uncle Martin would be awfully disappointed."
The three faces around me broke into wide grins as I looked at my father, mother and brother. "You mean I'm going to California?"
"For the summer," my father said.
"To stay with Uncle Martin," mother added.
"You always did get all the good birthday presents," Russ smiled.
"But what about my going to camp?"
"You're too old for camp," the Old Man said. "We can't afford to take you to Europe with us, and besides, we don't want you along since this is a second honeymoon for your mother and me. So, I called Martin and asked him if he'd take you."
"I don't know which one of them should be warned," Russ chimed in, "but one of them is bound to be a bad influence on the other."
"Do you approve of the idea?" Mother asked me.
"Do I?" I replied. "When do I leave."
"How's tomorrow sound."
"Fantastic," I grinned.
"We want you to keep in touch with Russell, however," Mother said. "Your Father and I will be phoning him occasionally during our trip and we'll want him to report to us on how you are."
"I'll expect you to write me long and detailed letters," Russ said, winking at me. "I'll want to know all about your adventures."
I smiled, hoping desperately that there would be adventures to write about.
TWO
So that's how I got to be in California and to have the wildest summer anybody could possibly want.
My Uncle Martin's house stands on this cliff and looks down on the Pacific Ocean not far from the town of Serra. It is a fantastic house, the kind you'd see in a movie or some magazine, and even more fantastic is the fact that Martin-he immediately told me that I was to drop the Uncle business-designed and built the house himself. I was given my own room and it was about twice the size of the one I shared with old Russ back in our New York apartment. There was a fantastic double bed that I figured would be great for rolling around in with someone like Heather Wright.
The best thing about Martin's house was its private beach. It looked as if it had been created by a huge ice cream scoop that had come down from the sky, cut into the towering rocks, and spooned away enough of the cliffs to leave room for a small crescent of white sandy beach at the water's edge. A steep winding wooden stairway ran down the cliff-side from the house to the beach.
"It was this little beach that convinced me to buy this property," Martin explained as we headed for the beach. "That was before I even met your Aunt Millie. She loved this place as much as I did."
I said nothing because I didn't want to talk about the death of my Aunt, a pretty woman whom I had known mostly through pictures and an occasional visit she made to the East with Uncle Martin. I guess that was the last time Uncle Martin mentioned Aunt Millie that summer, and I suppose he sensed that I didn't want to really talk about her.
Anyway, my first day at Uncle Martin's was spent on that beach. We swam and surfed and then finally sprawled on the sand and talked for a long time, the conversation finally getting around to one particular subject. Uncle Martin brought it up. "What about girls?" he asked. "I guess you'll be bringing 'em back to the house by the truckload?"
"I'm not very good on that score," I confessed. "Russ is the guy who makes out all the time."
"You must have had one or two by now," he said.
"Not really," I said. I winced at the thought of the great lack in my life.
"Well," said Uncle Martin, "there are lots of girls around here. I'm sure you'll do okay. I can help you a little. I'm the Director of the Country Club, and I can arrange to have you meet the daughters of Club members."
"That'd be terrific," I said with a smile of genuine pleasure. Then I paused a moment and brought up a subject that had been on my mind ever since I'd arrived in California. "I was thinking I ought to get a job or something for the summer," I said.
Uncle Martin was a little surprised. "Job? Why?"
"Pocket money and that kind of stuff," I said. "Don't worry about money," he said. "Hell, I don't want to sponge off you all summer."
"You're not sponging. It's great having you here," he argued.
But I can be pretty hard-headed when I want to be, so after kicking around the subject for a time he agreed to let me talk to the golf pro at the country club to see if I could do a little part-time caddying.
"His name is Woody Robbins," Uncle Martin explained. "He's a nice guy."
"When do you think I could meet him?" I asked.
"Well, you could walk over to the club in the morning," Uncle Martin said. "I'll give Woody a call and tell him you're coming."
"That," I said, "is just terrific."
So, the next day, I trudged off across country toward the Serra Country Club. It was not a very far walk because Uncle Martin's house practically sat on the ninth green, but it was a walk through very rough terrain along the edge of the high cliffs by the ocean. The sun was up and warm, so I pulled off my shirt and walked bare-chested, hoping to get a start on a suntan. I was really enjoying myself on that walk, smelling the ocean, hearing the screams of the seagulls darting around between sky and water, and feeling the sun warm on my skin. I whistled a little, even sang a little bit. I guess I was damned happy, to tell you the truth. Far ahead of me I could see the low rooftops of the country club buildings showing through gaps in the cypress trees that grew almost everywhere. Then, as I cut across the ninth fairway and into the line of bushes and trees at one side of it, I heard some sounds that were, to put it mildly, distracting.
The sounds were human, but not voices. More like grunts and groans, as if someone were in very great pain. They were not loud, but low and muffled and coming from a clump of trees off to my right. I stopped for a moment and listened, and pretty soon I was able to decipher the sounds enough to know that some of them were being made by a man and the others by a woman. Naturally, I had an inkling as to what was happening in those bushes and trees.
Of course, being a red-blooded American boy, I decided to have a look.
Right away, I was disappointed. The couple together under a low tree were fully dressed, and T resigned myself to seeing just another session of heavy petting between some kid and his girl friend. From my vantage point a few yards away and hidden by a clump of bushes I saw them clearly. He was a boy-a teenager, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Kneeling on the ground with his back to me, he wore a pair of tight-fitting blue dungarees and a tee shirt that hugged his torso like a second skin. He was really built, this kid. Muscles rippled all over him. His dark hair was cut short, almost crew-cut. The female with him I could barely see because the kid was between me and her, but I could make out that she was wearing a dark green skirt. Her legs, which were spread apart so that the kid could kneel between them, were gorgeous. Long and perfectly shaped, they were not, I realized, the legs of some giddy teen-age girl. They were a woman's legs. Her arms were wrapped around the kid's back and were hugging him tightly as her hands ran up and down his back, caressing him through his tee shirt. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a golf bag propped against the tree they were sitting under, and I figured that the boy was a caddy for the female who was making roadmaps all over his back with her hands. A little diversion before starting the last nine holes of the course, I figured. Little more than some soul-kissing and a few gropes. Disgusted and disappointed, I was prepared to move away once more. Then, I heard her voice very clearly.
"Shove it all the way in me, Gus," she said, gasping the words, actually moaning them.
The kid responded with a grunt and a quick shove forward with his blue-clad hips.
Immediately, I asked myself, can they actually be doing it? Screwing fully-clothed and right off the ninth fairway?
"Oh, Gus, yes. like that. I can feel all of your big thick cock in me," said the woman in breathy gasps.
Which left little doubt that the kid in the dungarees was giving it to her right there before me. Taking a closer, harder look at the kid, I saw his hips rocking back and forth as he slammed his unseen prick into the open and welcoming portal of the woman's unseen cunt. By this time she had slipped her hands under the kid's tee shirt, pulling it up his back and showing the smooth hard ridges of muscles that swelled outward from the deep curving valley of his backbone. That was the only skin that I saw for a long time as I watched from my secret vantage point.
Her babbling like that was just about driving me out of my mind as I watched.
Then, the couple moved. The kid-Gus, his name was, apparently-moved away and stood up, turning half-way so I could get a look at him. He was a damned good-looking boy, actually. He rippled with muscles in front as much as in back. Sticking long and hard from the tight folds of his dungarees was a really enormous cock that was all wet and shiny with moisture from where it had just been. But I only glanced at the kid, because my hungry eyes were turning fast down to where the woman still sat on the ground. Her green skirt was pulled up and back so her long luscious legs were bared. Thrust out in a wide V, they were like fleshy arrows pointing to a dark hairy target between them. She was too far away for me to get a really good look at her cunt, but from the looks of the rest of her I knew that it had to be warm and wet and tight and too delicious to describe. Then, suddenly, she got up from the ground, too, and I figured she and the kid had finished.
But I was wrong, of course. She stepped close to the kid again and dropped a hand onto the long thick shaft of his prick and began stroking it while she pressed her mouth against his lips and kissed him. Still kissing him, she moved her hands to the waist of his dungarees and began tugging at his wide black belt, unbuckling it. Then she snapped the button and the kid's dungarees sprang open. Still kissing him and, I assumed, doing a real job on his mouth with her tongue, she started pushing the dungarees down from his hips until they were at half-mast around his knees. Then she pulled away from him.
"Take everything off," she said very crisply like a woman who's not used to being disobeyed.
The kid did a little dance getting out of the stove-pipe pants and then he yanked off his tee shirt. There he was, utterly naked in the little clearing in the trees with the ninth fairway barely more than two or three yards away with its early-morning golfers trudging by in hot pursuit of their sport and blissfully unaware of the much nicer sport going on in the trees.
I shifted my eyes again to the woman, and she, too, was stripping. The body that came into view was fantastic. A far better body than Heather Wright's and the most beautiful female form I'd ever seen-not that I'd seen many. Actually, the ones I'd seen had been in books and magazines and on a deck of playing cards that my brother Russ owned. This woman had long rich brown hair that came down to her shoulders. Her face was oval and smooth and dominated by a wide red mouth and large long-lashed eyes. Her neck was long and creamy. And her breasts were huge firm ripe melons topped with strawberries. Her hips swerved out in wide roundness and between her marvelous legs grew a tuft of the same rich dark hair. As I stared at that feast of a woman my own hard and aching cock, trapped in the confines of my pants, could almost feel the soft and feathery touch of her pubic hair, and with very little imagination I could feel my cock slipping into the tight pussy just south of her growth of inviting hair.
The kid named Gus, his huge cock spanning out in front of him like some half-finished suspension bridge, was moving in on this woman whom I was dying to embrace and kiss and eat and fuck as I looked on from my hiding place. As he neared her, the woman dropped to her knees and opened her mouth. The kid moved in on her with the certainty of a radar-controlled ground-approach by some airplane. Right on target, Gus slipped the thick mushroom head of his cock into the waiting hangar of this lovely woman's open and succulent mouth. Right in, it went. All the way to the hilt. That whole long piece of cock right down her gullet. There it stayed for what seemed like hours. Neither of them moved, as far as I could see. But I could tell from the look on the kid's face that inside her mouth the woman was doing divine things to his cock. I couldn't see, but I knew that her tongue was lavishing all sorts of licks and tickles on every inch of the big thing that filled her mouth. Then, slowly, she drew back and let the cock come sliding out of her mouth while her ruby lips clung to it, sucking it, letting it go only reluctantly, until only the head remained, its big thick roundness pushing her mouth open wide and causing her lips to turn back like the lips of some angry animal. I could tell that she was whirling and swirling her tongue all over the tip of the kid's lucky cock because he opened his mouth and groaned and ran his tongue all over his lips and then threw his head back, shut his eyes, and trembled rather violently. I wondered if he was coming in her mouth. But apparently not, because when she let the rest of the kid's prick out of her mouth it was still hard and throbbing and showing no signs of giving up the ghost. Then she bent her head under him and ran the tip of her tongue down the underside of his cock until she reached his balls. These she began licking and sucking, too, but she kept moving until she was between his legs and coming up from under and behind him with her tongue blazing a trail toward the kid's small tight hard ass. And then she was into the crack with her tongue and doing a job on him there. As she plunged her tongue into his ass she reached between his legs with one of her beautiful hands and grabbed his cock by the head. She stroked it for a while as she licked his ass, and then she retraced her route until she was kneeling in front of him again and eating his cock once more. By this time the kid was just about out of his mind, I guess, from the way he was twisting and moaning and shaking. Finally, he threw himself onto her and pushed her onto her back.
Her legs flew out almost horizontally as she went down onto her back. The kid dropped down upon her, his big cock zeroing in on its target with the same deadly accuracy that had found her mouth. They were turned heads-away from me again, so what I saw was from the vantage point of their crotches, and what I saw was the kid's aching cock sliding all the way into the wide open red V of her cunt until he was so far into her that it was impossible to tell from my vantage point which one of them owned the balls that were jogging and jiggling with such obvious glee between them.
For a long time the kid fucked her with movements that hardly showed. He was just sort of twisting his cock around inside her cunt, but when she started bouncing up and down beneath him, he began working harder, too. Pretty soon the whole shaft of his cock was coming out of her, then ramming hard and deep into her cunt again. Every downward slam was met by her equally hard thrust up from the ground. They fucked long and hard before their movements became short and shallow and jerky again.
"Soon. Soon. Soooon," the woman sighed.
The kid grunted a little. He was obviously working hard. He drove violently in and out with short hard strokes that had very little regular rhythm. He was obviously close to coming. His body made sharp slapping sounds as it pounded upon her. She was really crazy by now, reaching around him and grabbing the hard, flexing globes of his buttocks as if she were trying to shove them into her, too. Then she lifted her lovely legs into the air and curled them back above them, turning the sweet curve of her ass up to him and cradling him upon her crotch as his big cock went in and out, in and out, in and out. It was as if he were in a saddle now, riding hard. Her body shook beneath him. Her hands had gone up his back to hug him around the shoulders. The kid's bare feet dug into the ground as he strained to keep up his incessant pounding into the well of her cunt. His whole body was glistening with sweat and his face, which he turned now and then so I could see it in profile, was all twisted and contorted with the pleasure-pain of what he was doing and feeling.
"Darling, now," came the woman's voice.
"Yeah," the kid grunted.
He slammed hard once, then twice, then a third time, the last lunge sending his cock all the way into her again, and I knew he was shooting his load into her.
"Ahhhhh. Unnnhhhhh," he moaned.
"Oh, I feel it," she giggled. "I feel it shooting up into me. Oh, I can feel. ... now. ... yes ....me too. ... Ohhhhhhhhhh."
They lay together for a few minutes while the woman stroked the kid's naked back with her fingers. Then, very politely, they got up and put on their clothes. The kid with a smile like some saint's on his lips went over to the tree, hoisted the golf bag, slung it over his shoulder, and followed the woman toward the fairway.
"Well, now, Mrs. Grayson," he said as they walked, "you've got a lot more work to do on that slice of yours. I know you can do it. You're basically a very good golfer, and..."
And by that time they were out of sight and earshot.
I lingered in the leafy hiding place from where I'd watched the two of them screwing only long enough to jerk off. I came in a huge spouting geyser of come, that, as usual, had no tight warm cunt to find a home in.
Five minutes later I was in the locker room of the Serra Country Club caddy house. The place smelled like all locker rooms as I sat on a green wooden bench waiting for Sherwood Robbins, the club golf pro to make an appearance. It was still early and I yawned a good deal while I waited. I tried not to think about the scene on the ninth fairway because I knew it would just make me horny again and I didn't want Woody Robbins barging into the locker room to find me beating my meat. I waited almost an hour and could have jerked off a dozen times because no one interrupted me in my long lonely wait.
At last, the door opened and I looked up expecting to see Woody Robbins, but a boy came in. Short, built, with dark hair cut short, he wore a tee shirt and blue dungarees. He stopped for a moment in the doorway as if he were surprised or startled to see me sitting there. Then he relaxed and smiled as he came into the room and closed the door.
"Are you the new caddy?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
"My name's Gus," he said.
Only then did I recognize him as the kid who'd been screwing on the ninth fairway.
"Gus Barker is the name," he went on, extending his hand to me. I shook the hand and thought as I shook it about the places that hand had been that morning. The kid was still talking. "Woody
Robbins is on his way here now. You're Martin Branson's nephew, eh."
"Yes," I said.
"Mr. Branson's a cool guy."
"Yes, he is," I said.
"You staying with him in that groovy house on the cliffs."
"Yes."
"What a pad," Gus said with a grin. He sat on a bench, then stretched out on it on his back. Lying flat, his arms stretched out above his head, his tee shirt drawn up over his flat hard belly, Gus' body was drawn taut like a trap about to snap. I could almost see that woman from the Ninth Fairway bent over him and sucking on his cock or maybe lowering herself onto it and riding him while his cock was buried up inside her. I wondered what Gus would say if I told him that I'd seen him screwing that morning.
Instead, I said, "Have you been to my uncle's house?"
"Once or twice," he said, sitting up again. He looked me in the eye and asked, "You ever caddy before?"
I shook my head. "Nope."
"You don't talk much, do you?" he asked.
"I guess I'm a little uptight today," I said.
"No need to be. Everybody around here is very friendly," he said.
"Are there many women golfers at this club?" I asked. It wasn't asked with any ulterior motives. The question just came out.
"Quite a few," Gus said. "And most of them are pieces of ass, too, but you'll find that out soon enough. A guy with your looks ought to be very popular."
"I hope they tip well," I said.
Gus laughed. "There are better ways to be paid for your service."
"Oh?"
He stood up and fished in the pockets of his tight dungarees, producing, at last, a package of rubbers. He flipped them across the locker room. "I always carry some of these, and they are not for keeping golf balls dry, if you get what I mean." He guffawed a laugh. Then the door flew open again.
Woody Robbins exploded into the locker room.
Tall, slender, solidly muscled, blonde, and extremely handsome, Woody Robbins was the picture of a professional athlete. He moved with a quick easy grace, like a cat, and his flawless skin, rippling over his clearly-etched muscles, was golden-brown from the California sun. His smile, wide and white, could have been a toothpaste ad. His voice, deep and mellow, might have been a radio announcer's. Woody Robbins seemed perfect. He carried a golf club under his right arm, a small canvas bag in the other hand. He wore a white sweater with short sleeves and pale blue slacks. Smiling at the two of us, he said, "You must be Matthew Branson. You've met Gus, I see." I nodded in reply and watched as Woody began peeling off his clothes to change into his golfing shorts. Naked, he was even more the image of the perfectly-made young man. His sun-tan was total, also, and the thatch of blonde hair around his huge, swinging, heavy sex organs was as sun-bleached as the shock of short blonde hair on his head. "You'll be sticking close to Gus for a while until you learn the ropes of the club and the course," Woody said, pulling on a jock strap and tucking his ample sexual paraphernalia into it. He finished putting on the jock and let the elastic snap against his hard belly and buttocks.
Looking at the considerable bulge of the jock strap encasing Woody's cock, I decided that, hard, Woody's prick must surely reach the dimensions of Russ' dildo. Perhaps surpassing it. And I wondered, remembering Gus' demonstration of the sexual desires of the women players, if Woody had been made the club pro by virtue of his prowess as a golfer or by virtue of the size of his prick.
THREE
I didn't actually start caddying until the next day. Woody Robbins thought my first day ought to be spent with Gus going around the course and learning it. This we did with a foursome of old guys, so I paid attention to learning caddying since there was no distraction of any sort like the one that had waylaid Gus on the ninth fairway. "Be here early tomorrow," Gus said at the end of my education to the ways of the Serra golf course, "and we'll get you going on your own."
Next morning, bright and early, I was waiting in the caddy house. I'd put on a pair of tight-fitting khaki pants and wore a light knitted tee shirt that hugged my torso almost as tightly as the tee shirt that Gus had been wearing the previous day. The shirt and the tight pants left little to the imagination as far as what I had beneath them was concerned, which was the idea, after all. I waited about half-an-hour before Gus arrived dressed as the day before. Smiling, he said, "Ready to go to work?"
"Sure," I said.
"Then come outside and meet Mrs. Grayson," he said.
I followed him out of the locker room and across a small putting green to the main part of the clubhouse. The first tee was pretty crowded, mostly with men, I noted sadly. But as we went into the clubhouse I saw her, that fantastic woman who'd been screwing Gus the day before. She wore the same green skirt and a pale green sweater-blouse that hugged her huge round breasts enticingly. As I stepped closer to her I saw the sharp points of her nipples jutting up from those big fat globes and nudging their way against the sweater. She was smiling at me with rows of dazzling white teeth behind the pale rose color of her lipstick. Gus introduced us.
"This is Mrs. Bret Grayson," he said formally, "and Mrs. Grayson, this is Matt Branson. He'll be your caddy this morning."
Mrs. Grayson turned her big gray eyes to Gus and pouted. "You're not going out on the course with me today, Gus?"
Gus shrugged and jammed his hands into his pockets. "Afraid I'm booked by Erika Bovary," he said. He grinned. "It's Saturday, you know, and Erika plays here every Saturday."
"That's what you call it," Mrs. Grayson said sharply.
"Have a good day," Gus said with a smile.
Mrs. Grayson then turned her big gray eyes to me and let them travel very slowly over my geography. They lingered, I noticed, at the bulge of my crotch, and I started thinking how smart I had been to wear those tight pants that morning.
"Your name is Matthew," she said, never lifting her eyes from their fixation on the bulge in my pants.
"Yes," I said dryly, feeling her eyes peeling away the pants and then enveloping my imagined penis.
"Well," she said with a shrug and a smile, lifting her eyes finally to mine, "Let's get started."
I needed no such invitation. I picked up her golf bag, slung it over my shoulder, and walked with her toward the first tee. We chattered about silly things which I couldn't begin to recall now because my mind was whirling crazily back one day to my vision of this grand woman lying naked under Gus Barker's plundering body in the trees off the ninth fairway. How long, I wondered, would it take us to reach the ninth? If she took a good look at me as we approached the first tee I'm sure she saw my eyes practically brimming with come.
Bret Grayson, it turned out, was a fantastic golfer. She went off the first tee straight as an arrow. Her iron shot took her onto the Green, and her putt was smooth, straight, swift, and deadly-accurate. "Par," she said with a smile as she watched me scratch her score onto her score card. She patted me on the shoulder as she spoke and almost made me make a mistake on the card by jotting her par down for the second hole instead of the first. "I think this is going to be a wonderful day," she said. "I can feel it in my bones."
like a puppy dog hungry for affection, I followed her to the second tee.
She was off it as cleanly as the first and on the green in two more shots. She double-putted and had another par.
"You're fantastic, Mrs. Grayson," I said.
"Do you think so?" she asked.
My mouth went dry as cotton. "Y ... Yes," I said.
"How sweet of you," she said with a smile and a pat with her warm hand on the hard round curve of my backside. I felt the touch of her hand all the way through me and for a second I thought I was actually going to come in my pants. "You are a dear boy and a very good caddy," she added, giving me another pat on the rump but this time stroking it just a little.
I thought, Dear God, get us to the ninth in a hurry.
"By the way," she said as she parred the third hole, "call me Bret. I'll call you Matt. Is that okay?"
She could have called me Shitface, frankly, and I would have agreed to it.
On the fourth hole she sliced into a sand trap, and I remembered Gus telling her the day before that she had to work on correcting her slice. "I've got to work on that slice," she said as if she were reading my mind. "Yesterday I sliced right into the trees on the ninth. It took forever to get out of there."
For the second time I thought I was going to drop everything right in my jockey shorts. Then, she was on the green on four. She putted nicely and came off four with one over par. Five lay ahead, and she cleared it with a one-under. Six was a birdie. Seven, Par. Eight, two under, and there we were on the ninth tee.
As swiftly and as beautifully as a bird in flight her shot off the tee curved and arched and dropped into the trees. And without a doubt, that little old shot Went right where she wanted it to. "Oh, dear," she sighed, "into the trees again."
I practically ran toward them.
"Shall I help you look for it?" she asked.
Of course, I tried to be cool. "If you want to," I said. My voice was dry as the Sahara and crackled like leaves under a deer's foot. Together, we waded into the rough, then into the underbrush, and, at last, into the trees until we were standing in the same clearing where the day before Gus had repeatedly plumbed the depths of Bret Grayson's sweet and tight and dripping cunt. I glanced around the clearing and saw no sign of the lost ball, but my mind was not truly on the work of being a caddy. Far from it. Again and again a little inner voice was saying, "Is it really going to happen? Is this going to be the day? Is this fantastic woman in the green skirt going to be the one to soak my famished peter in her womanly juices? Is this the hour of my deliverance?"
Thanks be to all the good luck charms in the world, it was.
"Isn't this a pretty place?" she asked from somewhere behind me.
"Yes, it is," I managed to say through the gobs of cotton and dunes of desert sand that clogged my mouth.
"So quiet and peaceful," she was saying, her voice getting louder as she approached me from the rear. "Almost as if we were Adam and Eve all alone in the Garden of Eden."
"Where are the fig leaves?" I asked, dryly, trying to be cool and funny.
Her arms came around me from behind and settled across my shoulders while her hands opened flat against my chest and then curled around the thick round saucers of my pectorals. "I wonder what Adam and Eve did in the Autumn when all the leaves were falling?" she asked, laughing her words into the shell of my ear.
I shrugged. "Dunno," I said.
"Your body is very hard, like an athlete's," she said, squeezing my chest muscles and finding my nipples with her fingertips through my knitted shirt. "You must be very beautiful in the nude," she added.
"Well," I grunted, "I don't know..."
She turned me around very firmly so I stood in the circle of her arms, almost pressing against her own body. "Show me," she said.
"Here?"
"Here."
She had the same tone of expected obedience that she had used with Gus the previous day. Then, without waiting, she lowered her hands to my waist and started pulling my shirt up over my head. In a twinkling, it was off and I was standing there naked to the waist while she feasted her eyes on me.
"Lovely," she said with a smile. "As lovely as a statue. Matthew the statue." She laughed.
There was no hiding the effect all this was having on me. Down there in the tight confines of my khakis my penis was struggling to assert itself, the effects of that struggle becoming very obvious as the lengthening shaft plowed a tunnel beneath the fabric and created a bulge that looked like I was carrying an iron pipe in my pocket. Meanwhile, Mrs. Grayson was exploring my chest with her nimble fingertips. She concentrated on my chest, cupping the flat-round pectorals in her hands, gently squeezing my nipples between her fingers, and generally stroking and petting me. Then she lowered her head and brought her mouth against my chest, kissing one of my breasts and swirling the tip of her tongue in tight little circles around the nipple. Her hands she slid down my sides to my waist, holding me there as if I were some china doll that she was about to lift up to the light for a better examination. She moved her mouth from one breast to the other and did that same swirling thing with her tongue on the rather hot and itchy skin of my chest and my nipple. At last, she raised her face to mine and her hands from my waist to my head. Holding my face in her hands, she leaned to me again and planted her wide red mouth squarely on my dry and crackly lips. Her tongue slithered out of her mouth, tasted my lips, pushed between them, and crept into my mouth. My tongue, with a mind of its own, dashed forward like the cavalry riding to the rescue and swiped against hers. It tasted wet and warm and kind of slimy, actually, but the feel of it there in my mouth sent an electric jolt running down my spine and turning that iron pipe in my pants into a flaming sword that was ready to challenge her Gordian knot by slicing into it like a hot knife in butter. We swayed together and my hard-on rubbed against her thigh. "Ummm," I groaned into her clasping, delving mouth. Her hands dropped from my face to my chest again, stroking and squeezing there for a moment, then moved down my tense and flip-flopping belly to my waist once more, and, finally, over the narrow expanse of trousers to the long hard bulge of my cock beneath. Her fingers coiled around it as much as possible and I thought I was going to drop my load right away. I groaned again and stepped back from her, not wanting to have everything go to waste just when it was at last possible for me to send that patient and long-starved fellow in my jeans to the home it so rightly deserved.
"You are a very handsome boy," Mrs. Grayson said to me.
"Mmmmmm," I sighed.
"Take off your pants," she said.
My hands jumped to my belt and tugged open the buckle. Then with trembling fingers I fiddled with the snap and zipper, freeing them both and letting my pants spread open in a long deep V with the whiteness of my jockey shorts showing beneath.
"Quickly," she said.
No Dalmatian dog hearing a fire-alarm ever sprang into action faster. In an instant I had my pants off and was standing stark naked in that little clearing while Mrs. Bret Grayson, her cool gray eyes drinking in every inch of me, smiled-still fully dressed. "Now you," I said.
"Presently," she said with a smile. "Turn around. Let me see your behind."
As I turned I was painfully aware of my hard-on jutting out in front of me like the limb of a tree. The cool air, wet with the spray from the nearby ocean, washed over me and I had a fleeting understanding of how Adam really must have felt running around bare-assed in the Garden of Eden. I also felt more than a little stupid doing a slow turn like some dumb fashion model or something, but as I turned my back to Mrs. Grayson I again felt the tingling, scratchy touch of her fingertips, this time running down my spine to my backside and then creeping into the crack and finally farther down into my crotch and reaching for my balls from under and behind. She let them nestle like birds in her palm as she pressed against my back and kissed me on the nape of my neck. Next thing, her arms were circling my waist and her hands were enfolding my cock, stroking it, toying with the head, squeezing, caressing, tantalizing.
"Please, Mrs. Grayson," I begged.
"Please what?" she asked.
I tried to turn fully around but managed only to turn my head part-way. "I want to ... I want...."
"To fuck me?" she asked.
"Oh, Jesus, yes," I groaned.
"Lie down," she said.
I dropped like a shot deer and knelt on the ground with her still standing behind me. "Please, Mrs. Grayson. Hurry," I begged.
"On your back," she said in that same insistent voice as before, and I obeyed.
Lying on my back, the dried leaves and pine needles and pebbles of the ground prickling into my bare skin, I looked up at her rising above me like a huge living Statue of Liberty or something in her green clothes. She smiled down at me, first at my eyes, then at the long straight upward reach of my aching prick. She moved toward me, at last, and stood above me with her legs astride my hips. Then, still fully clothed, she lowered herself toward me, coming down onto her knees, her billowing green skirt flaring out to drape me from the belly down as she aimed her descending hips and crotch toward the waiting skewer of my cock. I shut my eyes, swallowed hard, and felt the hammering of my heart as it raced around inside my chest. At the same time I felt a lost, disappointed, sinking feeling in my stomach because she was still dressed and apparently going to go on teasing me before she really shed her clothes and let me get into her body. I lay there, a mixture of anger and frustration and need.
Then I felt a soft moist kiss on the tip of my cock, and I figured she was about to do a number with her mouth, but when I opened my eyes and looked up at her I saw her still looming above me, her mouth several light-years away from the tight hot wet embrace that had suddenly surrounded my cock in a long wet sliding suck. Her eyes were clamped shut and she was chewing on her lip as if she were in pain or very deep thought. My cock, meanwhile, was being lusciously sucked by something, and then I realized what it was.
I was in her cunt. She was sitting on my hips with my goddamned delirious cock shoved right up her pussy. Frankly, I couldn't believe it. That it was really there, inside her cunt, all warm and wet and snug and happy after so long a wait. I stared down my body to see, but her damned green skirt had us covered up, so the only way I had to verify the delicious suspicion that I was truly IN HER was to give her a jab. So I lunged up hard and deep with my hips, sending an electric jolt backward from the tip of my cock to the tips of my toes, and causing her eyes to pop open in surprise.
"Yes," she hissed. "Fuck me, Matthew the Statue."
I jabbed again, jolting her eyes open once more and causing, this time, her mouth to loll open and her tongue to come out and lick at her lips. Another jab, another reaction in her face. All leaving no doubt whatsoever that deep down beneath the folds of her damned green skirt my young cock was at last, finally, sweetly, deliciously, happily, devotedly, and gratefully where it was born to be.
Now she was jogging up and down herself, screwing herself on my cock and loosing wave after wave of the greatest feeling I'd ever felt, as if some waterfall of sweet warm honey had somehow decided to cascade down upon my prick.
But it wasn't the way I wanted it.
I wanted to be naked on top of her with my cock buried down inside her and with her legs wrapped around my hips and her breasts crushed against my chest and our lips tangled up in a kiss. I wanted it the classic way, with me on top and her beneath.
"Mrs. Grayson," I blurted, "Let me be on top."
Her eyes popped open and she smiled.
"Dear sweet boy," she sighed.
"Please, let me be on top."
She still smiled, but she did a rotation thing with her hips that nearly blew my gaskets. "Ahhhhhhhhh," I groaned.
"Fuck me, Matthew the Statue," she said forcefully.
I jabbed upward. "Mrs. Grayson," I grunted, letting my hips come down again. "I want..." Pushing up and jabbing her. " ... to be..." Coming down and part-way out. "On..." Shoving it up again into that lava flow of honey-hot juice that cascaded inside her cunt. ". . .TOP."
She fell forward onto me, her green blouse feeling smooth and cool upon the skin of my chest and belly, and kissed me in the mouth.
"Please!" I groaned. "Let me...."
"Be on top," she whispered.
"Yes."
"With your naked body lying on top of mine," she sighed into the shell of my ear. "Yes."
"And your long sweet cock shoved up my cunt."
"Ohhhhhhh."
"And your lovely body slamming it into me."
"Ummmmmm."
"Will you suck my tits?"
"Yes. Yes."
"And eat my cunt?"
"Yes."
"Eat it as long as I want you to."
"Oh, God, yes. Forever."
"Just to get on top of me."
"Anything. ANYTHING."
"Close your eyes."
"Close my...? "
"You said you'd do anything. Close your eyes."
I closed them, and then she moved away. All of that lovely lava flow of her juices was gone as my abandoned cock stood upright in the suddenly cold and clammy ocean air. I heard her moving around in the clearing, and then she spoke.
"Open your eyes."
I opened them to see her naked body lying next to mine. She looked like a ridge of pink mountains and hills. Her breasts, huge and round and tending to flatten a little as she lay on her back, were grand Himalayas topped by pyramids of pinkish-brown nipples. Her rib cage curved and dropped sharply to the flat sweep of belly running like sun-washed plains toward a lower mound overgrown with brown hair and then dropping away to form a deep canyon or gorge between the long sloping ridges of her thighs. I sat up and looked at her, turning my eyes to the ridge above that Grand Canyon where I hungered to send an eager exploring party to plumb the vast and warm and wet cavern that I knew lurked in her canyon, there to find that strange lava flow of hot honey once more.
"Do what you said you would," she said to me in her you'd-better-obey-me-boy voice.
"What?" I asked.
"Suck my tits."
I pounced on them, to tell you the truth. I buried my face between them, feeling the upward round sweep of them brushing warmly against my cheeks as I opened my mouth and let my tongue slither out to lick the flat valley of flesh between the huge globes towering above it and tickling at my ears. Then I licked the sides of those towering mountains until my tongue crested one of them. Reaching the strawberry peak, I popped it into my mouth as if it were a real strawberry from atop a banana split or something. I sucked it a long time, knowing from the sounds and the writhing that came from her that I was really turning her on, so to speak. Then I jumped from one strawberry nipple to the other, sucking just as ardently upon it until she started pushing on the top of my head with her hands and moaning, "Now, do the other. Suck my cunt. Suck me down there."
I scurried down her belly with a darting tongue, briefly cruised the furry low mound that hovered above her canyon, then dove down into it like Ponce de Leon in search of the Fountain of Youth. What I found was another mouth waiting to kiss mine. The soft lips crushed beneath the onslaught of mine, then parted as my tongue came out of its lair in search of her juicy flesh. The moment my tongue slipped in she almost screamed. Her smooth thick powerful thighs coiled around me like a boa constrictor, locking my face firmly against her cunt while my tongue darted forward like some mad exploring party seeking a way of escape. Except that I didn't want to escape from this. It was too deliciously exciting to want to be let loose. My tongue dipped into the bowl of brimming warmth and wetness where only a moment or two before my cock had been exploring and into which my cock was surely going to go again, there to remain until it achieved the one and only thing for which that swollen, aching, blessed amount of flesh was born to endow with its own emissions. All the hands and fists and occasional mouths that had done it service and which it had serviced in return had been pitiful stand-ins for the chalice that it was destined to fill. But first I had to prime the pump, so to speak, and the priming, I was discovering, was not a bad state of affairs in and of itself.
"Ooooooo," moaned Mrs. Grayson, "that's lovely. Oh, golly, but your tongue feels good. Oh, Matthew, do it."
Gasping, seeking, I lavished my tongue on her and in her, whipping her to a steaming-hot readiness for the positively aching prick that stood at impatient attention waiting for the moment of its destiny.
"Ooooooooooo," sighed Mrs. Grayson, "I think I'm going to..."
I shot my tongue as deeply into her as it would go without taking the rest of me along.
" ... come!" she groaned.
And then I was swamped by her.
"Drink," she groaned.
I nuzzled my face hard against her and lapped her up.
Then she flung her legs away from around me and kept them raised upright into the air with my face buried in the crotch of those twin spires and my tongue deep-diving in search of this well-spring of juice and words that in another instant was going to get what I had been saving, willingly or not, for sixteen long years
"Now fuck me, Matthew," she sighed.
Which were the words I had waited a lifetime to hear.
I scrambled to get into place above her, resting my weight on my hands and knees and feeling the brush of her thighs against my hips as she lowered her legs and thrust them out almost straight from her hips. The tips of her nipples brushed against my chest. Then I settled down, reaching with one hand down between us to guide my cock toward its destiny while supporting myself, a bit unsteadily, on one hand and two knees. Mrs. Grayson reached down, too, and when she took over the guidance chores I gave myself a little more stability by leaning on two hands once more.
I felt the first softly wet kiss on the tip of my cock as Mrs. Grayson guided me home, and then it just slipped into place, lubricated by the fountain of juices I'd churned up in her cunt with my tongue. And I thought as my cock slid deeper and deeper and deeper into its destiny, it is better, better, better than I ever could have dreamed possible and Jesus God but I am glad that I waited this long because all that waiting has made it sooo much better. And then it was all the way in. Bret Grayson sighed a sigh of what only could be called contentment while I, deliriously happy that at last I had my cock buried all the way into a cunt, let myself down upon her and lay with my whole body pressed against the warmth of her soft smooth skin. It was as if I were complete for the first time in my life. I was in no hurry to end the experience. My eyes stayed shut for a long time, and when I opened them and looked down into Bret Grayson's gray eyes, she smiled at me.
"Is this your first time?" she whispered.
"Yes," I said hoarsely.
"How lovely," she sighed.
"Urn."
"I will make it so good for you, Matthew," she whispered into my ear, "that you will never have another time quite like it."
"Urn," I muttered, closing my eyes again.
She moved a little beneath me and rubbed her thighs together, clamping her flesh around my buried cock like a velvet vise, and then she began contracting God knows how many muscles deep inside her there until she was sucking on my cock with her cunt. "You will remember this," she said, "and with kindness."
Then the rhythm began. Slowly at first, I rocked my hips back and forth, not moving my cock in and out, but sort of twisting it around in circles inside her and feeling the velvety-wet interior of her cunt lapping at my prick like a million little tongues. She began rocking her hips back and forth, and then I got in step with her rhythms and we settled down to fucking. My strokes became deep and long and slow and sure, each one subjecting my cock to tongues of fire and lips of sweet wetness as Bret rocked back and forth beneath me, her wide hips lunging up to slap against my rather narrow ones. Looking down at the connection between us I saw my fluffy blonde pubic hair tangling and crushing in in the wild growth of her brown hair as the wide, long, thick white shaft of my cock moved in and out, in and out, in and out in a pistoning, wet, burning, tightening, knotting, flaming needle of of pleasure that surged through my whole body, even making my toes tingle. Slicing into her, my cock slid forward and down through the slippery soft lubrication of her juices only to be clung-to, lapped-at, sucked-on, and reluctantly let-loose as I withdrew it never all the way, the head of my cock always staying in the sucking-hot portal to the inner depths where all that lava-flow of juices waited to soak every millimeter of my hungry flesh poking its way into her inner chambers. It was an event, every plunging, plumbing, plundering descent into that flowing, spilling, sopping wellspring.
Bret was a writhing, twisting, moaning, gushing thing under me. Her arms wrapped around me. Her hands flattened against my back and her nails bit into my skin. Her face twisted and contorted. Her eyes rolled back. She bit her lower lip. She thrust her hips up at me, meeting my every movement with as much force and passion as I was putting into my own movements. She wrapped her legs around me, twisting her ankles around mine and rubbing her toes against the soles of my feet. Her hands slipped down my back and cradled my buttocks, the tips of her long fingers curving over and around and down into the crack and poking at my ass-hole. Our bellies slapped together with little fleshy noises and as I pressed my face hotly against hers with my ear close to her lips she began whispering to me. "Ooo, Matthhyoooooooo. It's marvelous. I can feel it in me. There. like that. Rub me there. Harder. Fuck me harder. Screw me, Matthew. Shove it. Shove it into me. Ohhhhhh. Yes. Yessssss." Every word was like a bolt of lightning in my ear. It surged through me, down my back, and up the length of my cock where I gave her the only answer I could. I was in no mood to talk. I just slammed harder, plunged deeper, shoved it farther and farther in. My strokes were shorter, harder. My cock, embedded in her fleshy wetness barely moved now, except in short hot strokes that slowly formed a tightening knot somewhere deep down inside my balls and flashed an aching, wanting-to-explode feeling from the tips of my toes to the roots of the hair on my head. Over and over, tighter and tighter, drew unseen cords, lashing me into a cramped, bundled, aching, wanting-to-burst knot. Steadily, painfully, achingly, the pent-up stores Of my own burning juices were bubbling to a boil and I knew that soon there would be an awful explosion of thick creamy white gobs of my come surging through the long hot shaft of my cock and then into the waiting hot welcoming tunnel of this fantastic woman's dripping, squirming, educated vagina. I was going to come, come like I'd never come before, and I was sure as I felt the leading edge of that flood-tide rising in my balls and seeping into the coils and tangles of tubing and channeling that would send it gushing out my cock that I was going to come by the buckets full. "Oh, Matthew," cried Bret Grayson, "you fuck so well. Oh, so damned well." Which added another bucket full of come that would explode in a geyser of agony, I was sure. As my hips moved steadily, slowly, deeply, rubbing my cock against the insides of her cunt, Mrs. Grayson clamped her hands at the sides of my face again and held me against her mouth while her tongue plunged between my lips and deep into my mouth, licking and caressing my teeth and tongue and lips. My brain was on fire with thoughts of what was now going to happen ... yes, now, so very soon, so very nearly ready to happen. "Oh, God, I love it," I groaned. "I love you," I sighed. "I love my cock in you. Oh, Jesus but I am going to come." She hugged me hard against her, never ceasing her exploration of my mouth with her tongue, never ceasing the steady lunging toward me with her hips, the hips that brought to me the lovely, wet, sucking, grasping, voracious cunt that swilled my cock in pleasure-pain wetness, drenching it with hot lava-honey, soaking it with foamy cunt juices, liquefying it with moist-hot walls of fleshy vagina. "Oh, God, Oh, God, Oh, God," I groaned. Then I felt every muscle in my body snap tight like a trap. As if I had gotten cramps everywhere. The pain of the burning juices welling up inside my balls and my belly was almost too much to bear, yet I did not want to lose a single drop of it. I wanted to hold it in, to keep it inside me, to let it simmer in me for a while longer as I let my cock kiss the inside of her cunt one more time, while she sucked at my cock with her pussy one more time, while I slammed my hips against hers one more time, while I fucked her one more stroke. But then it broke loose and gurgled hotly through all those coiled channels of flesh between my balls and my cock, gathering up all the ingredients, putting together that incredible potion, mixing the components, adding a dash of this, a dash of that, heating everything a few more degrees, and then squeezing it all together under pressure so that, yes, in a blinding, lost, swirling, aching, quivering, spitting, spouting, jetting, explosive ejaculation, it surged through the long shaft, elbowing its way through the narrow channel rushing toward the opening, screaming its way toward exit and unity with the swimming juices of the cunt that would swallow it all up and mix it and make something of it or not. I reared up from Bret Grayson's body and held myself propped above her on my straining arms as my hips slammed my cock home, burying it right up to my balls. Through sweat-blinded eyes I peered down to the linking of our lions as the last inch of my cock sank into her with all the ferocity in me. I stared at our intermixed hair, felt her body writhing beneath me, saw the moisture of sweat and sex juices glistening on our thighs, and heard Bret moaning, "Oh, Matthew I can feel you coming." My cock, swollen like a huge balloon inside her, throbbed and jerked and then squirted out the fluids that had coursed upward and through it, the pent-up gobs of liquid love, jetting in needle-sharp hot streams ... splattering ... shooting ... flowing ... spurting ... slamming into the soft wet interior of her cunt, filling her, splashing her, warming her. "Ohhh," she groaned. "Yes. Me too, Matt." And then even as my cock spat out the last agonizing gobs of my come, she too, shuddered and shook and moaned and doused me again and again with the endless supply of juices that flowed and soaked and sopped and squished around my burning, aching, gasping cock.
I fell forward onto her, spent.
She stroked my back with her fingertips. "Lovely," she sighed.
I said nothing.
She kissed me on the ear and stroked her hand down my back to my buttocks, reaching under me and just barely touching my balls with a fingertip.
At last, I stirred and lifted myself off her, letting my cock, still large and swollen but no longer really hard, slip out of her. As it plopped out, she sat up, reached for it, squeezed its wet, soft shaft in her palm, and then scrambled between my legs as I knelt on the hard ground. She took the softening cock into her mouth and licked it softly, tenderly. Then she let it slide from her mouth and looked up at me with a smile. "Someday," she said, "I will suck it for you, too, but now we'd better get dressed and go on with the game."
I stammered a moment for lack of words, then gathered Mrs. Grayson into my arms and kissed her on the lips. "Thanks," I said.
"How sweet of you," she said.
"I will never forget it," I said earnestly.
"Dear boy," she laughed.
I looked down at my cock which was getting hard again, then I looked up with a frown at Mrs. Grayson. "Bret?" I asked.
She smiled. "You needn't ask," she said.
I smiled.
"I'll suck it for you now. That is what you want?"
I nodded.
Then I settled back on my haunches with my cock standing up hard between my legs as Bret Grayson bent over me and took it into her mouth, sucking it long and gently and sweetly before drinking every drop of come that I soon poured into her mouth.
"Now," she said as we dressed, "Let's find that goddamned golf ball and see if I can get onto the ninth green at par."
She switched from sex to golf with an astonishing ease. Even though I was still thinking about what we'd just done in the trees off the ninth fairway, Mrs. Grayson was swinging away with her iron shots and putting nicely on the ninth green apparently with no further thought to the fact that we had just been screwing and that in the tight confines of my khakis my blissfully appreciative cock was still dewy wet and delirious with joy at having, at last, tasted the nectar of nectars. Trudging with her over the course, my mind kept reeling back to that pleasant little clearing in the trees where I saw again her lovely naked body lying on the ground waiting for me, her long smooth legs spread wide to reveal the soft and fleshy portals that I'd been wanting all my life to pass through, the lovely canoe-like lips laced with a fine covering of curling hairs-I could still feel them bristling and tickling my nose-and the deep musky aroma, the velvet touch and the fleshy taste. All of those sensations flooding back to me in my memory reached deep down inside me to stir me again and to lift that happy piece of male flesh between my legs to another aching, longing, stretching, reaching hardness.
If Bret Grayson noticed the new state of my arousal, she gave no sign. "I think I need a three iron here, Matthew," she would say, and I would hand it to her with trembling hands hoping against hope that her fingers might brush against mine and somehow feel the turgid desire bubbling and boiling inside me. But, alas, no. She was playing golf!
Watching her at her game, which was a very good game, and seeing her body encased again in those green garments, I hoped desperately that she'd slice into the trees again for more screwing, but time and again her shots were straight as arrows and sure as sunrises. There was no doubt that if she wanted to slice into the trees again for another bout of screwing with Matthew the Statue she could put that little old golf ball where ever she wanted it. Naturally, I wanted to screw her again, but as she concentrated on her golf game and expected me to actually caddy for her, I knew that, for this day at least, I'd had all the goodies that Bret Grayson intended to give. I wondered with a smile if she would give me a tip for being her caddy or if the roll in the underbrush was her way of tipping. Then, as we approached the eighteenth hole, it dawned on me that I had actually done it. I'd screwed a woman. Not some girl like Heather Wright, but an honest-to-god woman. Forever after my life would be measured by this day. B.F. and A.F. Before Fucking and After Fucking. Things could never be the same again. And all because of Bret Grayson.
She finished the course at two under par, a hell of an achievement in and of itself, and as we sauntered across the lawn toward the clubhouse, she was smiling. "It was a wonderful day, Matthew," she said. My chest swelled with pride as I thought that she was referring to the screwing we'd done in the trees. But, no. "That is the first time I've come in under par on this course," she added.
So there it was. Bret Grayson was happy because she'd beaten the Serra Country Club golf course and I, kid that I was, had a stupid grin on my face because I'd gotten laid for the first time. A memorable day for both of us.
The rest of the day, frankly, paled in comparison to the morning. My customers for the remainder of that Saturday were paunchy old business men. By evening, I was tired and hungry and longing for a swim from the beach below the cliffs of Uncle Martin's house. The water was warm and cleansing and as I came dragging myself out of the water, the cooling night air wrapping itself around my naked body (I was skinny-dipping, of course), I was still thinking about Bret Grayson or the fact that I'd gotten my ashes hauled that day for the first time. I was tired and happy, the kind of happiness that you feel in your bones after you've accomplished something important. And I was famished. Uncle Martin made me a thick ham-and-cheese sandwich which I ate while sitting on the sun deck of his house watching the sun slide down the sky into the distant rim of the Pacific. Except for a towel around my middle I was still naked, and I felt a little primeval. I guess I felt the way Adam might have felt after he first screwed Eve full of awe and pleasure and wonder and pride and a little sad at knowing that I would no longer be able to dream about having it for the first time. There is a certain sadness when a dream becomes a memory, isn't there?
FOUR
I awoke the next morning, naked-I always slept naked-and with my arms and legs spread-eagled as I lay on my back in the big soft bed in my room in my uncle's house, a morning-hard-on poking up to greet the warming sunlight streaming in through the windows, that happy prick standing up and crowing over its triumph of the day before. My life had been split, now, into two periods-B.F. and A.F. Before Fucking and After Fucking. B.F., my cock had been my sole possession, a toy for my hand. Now, A.F., it was no longer mine. It had been part of someone else's experience. It had given pleasure to someone else. A.F.-my cock was a part of another person's memories.
With that happy thought, my prick gave a little throb, pulsing itself to a new and even more insistent hardness, so I reached down to it tenderly, folding my hand upon it, grasping it in the familiar and happy way of so many times before-B.F.-and gently beginning to fondle it. Each man and boy has his own technique, of course, and mine was to do it slowly, building gradually to a frenzy just before the great gushing release. But on this first morning A.F., I was able to think about what it had felt like inside a woman.
I was able to remember it rather than having to dream it. It made coming a lot nicer.
Uncle Martin had breakfast waiting when I sauntered out into the kitchen dressed in blue jeans and a body-hugging white tee shirt. He looked up at me with a smile. "Good morning, stud," he said.
I stopped, startled. "Morning," I said, finally.
Scooping scrambled eggs onto my plate, Uncle Martin was still grinning. Then he said, "Mrs. Bret Grayson phoned a little while ago. She wanted to know if you were caddying today."
"Oh?" I was being very noncommittal.
Uncle Martin was still smiling. "I know all about Bret Grayson's affinity for caddies," he said matter-of-factly. Which made me blush. "I gather that you caddied for her yesterday?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, shoveling eggs into my mouth to avoid looking directly into Uncle Martin's amused eyes.
"Well," he said, "she asked if you were caddying today, and I didn't really know. It being Sunday, I didn't know if you were going over to the country club."
"I hadn't thought about it," I said, honestly.
"But now that you know Mrs. Grayson is going to be there?"
I managed a smile. "Maybe I will go over," I said.
Uncle Martin made no comment, showed no displeasure. Which was another reason to like him.
I jogged across the landscape to the club, hurried into the caddy house, changed into golf shoes, and headed toward the first tee, my jeans and tee shirt suitably tight, I hoped. There was a flock of other caddies waiting for jobs. It was still early and not that many golfers had put in an appearance. Those on hand were men, so I elected to drift away from the cluster of waiting caddies in the event that Bret Grayson would show up again. I ran into Gus Barker, also obviously hanging back in order to choose the golfers he would go out onto the course with. He was grinning lewdly as I came up to him.
"Well, how were things on the ninth fairway yesterday?" he asked.
"Oh, par for the course," I said, which sent him into gales of laughter.
"You're too much, Matt," he laughed. "Too fucking much."
We sat down on a bench from which we could see the first tee and the people gathered around waiting to start the course. Bret Grayson was still nowhere in evidence. Gus, wearing the same outfit as the day before, slumped against the bench, his legs out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. His pants were very tight and bunched around his groin in a large curving knot which, as we sat and talked about nothing in particular, he stroked or kneaded or otherwise handled tenderly until it was obvious he'd given himself a hard-on.
"Man," he said, "I can hardly wait for some broads to show up around here today so I can stick this into one of 'em."
"Do they all...? "
"Do it?"
I nodded.
"Not all," he said, stroking the mound of his groin, "but enough to make life interesting. Those that don't actually do it, do it with their eyes, and that's almost as much fun. To see them sort of lapping you up, stripping you naked with their eyes, dig?" I nodded.
"You're waiting for Mrs. Grayson, eh?"
I nodded again. "She called at my uncle's house this morning and asked if I'd be here. I wasn't planning on it, but that sounded like an invitation."
Gus grinned. Then he sat up straight and stared across the lawn toward the first tee. I turned my eyes in that direction and saw a tall and willowy young woman in white slacks, light blue blouse, and a yellow scarf. Her silky brown hair was pulled back and tied in a pony tail. She seemed a little on the scrawny side, but even from where we sat I could see the sharp, cone-like thrusts of her breasts. Gus was on his feet and moving away. "That's Doris Burton," he said.
I asked, "Does she?"
Gus stopped, turned, smiled, and stroked his crotch again. "Like there was no tomorrow. See ya." He turned and jogged to the first tee as I turned my eyes away because I didn't think I could have stood it, seeing him heading out across the course destined for god-only-knows what. The blare of a car horn caught my attention.
Turning and looking behind me, I saw a classy red convertible. Behind the wheel, Bret Grayson. She was as stunning and sexy as the day before. She waved to me, beckoning me to join her in the car. She had her clubs in the back seat as if she were really going to play a round of golf, but as I stepped up to the side of that beautiful car, she said, "Get in." I did, and we shot away from the Serra Country Club like some blazing-red spaceship bound for the moon. I sat sort of half-turned toward her in the front seat, partly because I wanted to look at her but also because I wanted her to be able to look at me and to see the way my clothes hugged every curve and angle of my body, especially where my jeans wrapped themselves around my groin. She noticed, too, and as she drove away from the club she kept turning her eyes toward me and running them all over me exactly as I'd hoped. It gave me a very painful hard-on, to tell you the truth.
"Where're we going?" I asked.
"For a drive. Okay?"
"Sure, I said, shifting again and sort of lifting my hips from the seat of the car to adjust myself again. She watched my every movement, and as I settled down again, this time with my hips thrust even closer toward her so that I was almost lying on my back across the front seat, she dropped her right hand from the steering wheel and put it very warmly on my thigh. Slowly she moved it up until she was tapping her fingers upon the hard bulge in my crotch.
"I dreamed about this last night," she said.
"About what?" I asked, stupidly.
"This," she said. "Your cock." She squeezed it through my jeans.
"Oh," I said.
Her fingertips drummed against me like rain on a tin roof. "Take it out," she said huskily, glancing at me furtively from the corners of her eyes. Her tongue peeked between her lips pinkly, enticingly.
I fumbled with the zipper on my jeans and then reached into the opening, grasping my twisted, folded, and contorted cock and pulling it long and proud and hungry into the warming sunlit morning air. It jutted like a pink flagpole from the faded-blue folds of my jeans.
Mrs. Grayson circled her hand upon it, folding her moist palm around the swollen head. I gasped a little and thought I was going to come. Then she slid her hand down its length, feeling it, squeezing it, testing it, like some woman buying tomatoes in a supermarket. "Take off your jeans," she said.
I spoke not a word but went straight to my work, and in a twinkling I had them off, feeling a little stupid, frankly, sitting there in the front seat of a speeding red convertible with nothing on but my tee shirt and my cock hanging hard and hot between my legs. Mrs. Grayson's hand returned, squeezing the head again, then sliding once more down the shaft until she was tangling her fingers in my pubic hair. Then she cupped my balls in her palm, squeezing them ever-so-gently. She pulled her hand away, grasping the steering wheel with both hands once more, and swerved the car off the road, stopping on the ocean side of the road in a little curving parking area that gave us a fantastic view of the ocean.
"Now just sit there very quietly as if you were enjoying the view," she said. With that, she threw herself down on the seat between my naked legs and began kissing me wildly on the belly and along the insides of my thighs and down into my crotch where she flicked her tongue hotly against the tight sac of my hairy balls. Then she licked the underside of my cock and finally plunged the head of it into her mouth. Lying flat before me, one hand cupping my balls, the other holding my cock at its root, she tongued the head of my cock, swirling around it in wide wet circles. Then she began moving her lips over it, back and forth, and at last she plunged the whole length of it far back into her mouth and throat where the soft warm membranes were as delightful as the inside of her cunt had been. A couple more swallows like that, I thought, and I'll be coming all day long, but she knew what she was doing. Bringing me to the very edge of coming with her tongue and lips, she would suddenly change her style and I would slide back from the brink. Just as I hovered on the tantalizing edge of spilling every last drop of my semen into her mouth, she would let go of the head and nibble at the sides or lick the underside of it or swipe with her tongue at my balls, just long enough to keep me from coming. Then back she went to the head, sucking and tonguing it once more, leading me again to the brink. At last, when I was moaning and writhing something awful, she let it happen. She clamped her lips tightly around it with only about half the length inside her so that the swollen head was there within easy reach of her tongue. She didn't move. She just held my cock immobile between her lips, licking at it with her tongue. Then, ah, I felt her mouth contract, the soft insides of her cheeks collapsing in a forceful suction so that my whole swollen cockhead was sheathed in the soft wet flesh of her mouth and tongue. She literally sucked me. There was no slippery sliding of lips and tongue over my cock. This was flesh wrapping itself hotly around flesh, the muscles of her mouth sucking and sucking and sucking and sucking at the unyielding head of my cock. If anything was going to yield to the suction it had to be something deep inside me, and in an instant I was yielding it. Almost by pure suction, it seemed, she was drawing the come out of me. It rose up, welling, surging through the shaft, pushing into the needle-narrow channel toward the slit in the tip, the pleasure unbearable as she sucked and sucked and sucked. Then, I came. My come gushed out and splattered against her tongue. She flicked it away with a swirling swipe that brushed hotly against my cockhead which was now spouting another gob of come. Still she did not relent in the suction, and still I came. Spurt after spurt of thick white come shooting into that vacuum cleaner of a mouth. Each spurt was swiped away by her tongue. But then, I really started to come. A huge load of flooding, streaming semen, and now she was bobbing her head back and forth, gulping and swallowing, letting me pour everything I had into her, filling her mouth to the brim, still shooting it in gushing streams even as she swallowed what I'd already given her. I thought, I am never going to stop coming! My prick was aching, my balls were aching, my legs were aching. I trembled violently. Sweat rolled down my sides. I chewed on my lower lip. I grunted and moaned, twisting and contorting my face, snorting like a crazed mustang, and still I came. Spurt after spurt of come. Gushing into her mouth, filling her, feeding her, giving her that exquisite nectar. All of which she devoured hungrily. Her hands gripped my hips, holding them-almost painfully. My cock bobbed and throbbed and jerked and seemed to be laughing as it spat load after load into her mouth.
"Oh, God, that was incredible," I moaned at last, the final feeble droplet of come trickling from my prick onto her tongue.
"That," she said, sitting up and grasping the steering wheel again, "was just for openers."
The wheels of that red bomb spun on the gravel and we lurched forward, speeding down the oceanside road, going who-knew-where.
I looked down at my cock. The fantastic bastard, arrogant and full of pride and sarcasm, was still hard. Defiant is what it was.
And a good thing, too, because it was about to be severely challenged.
FIVE
"Where are we going?" I asked.
Bret Grayson smiled, glanced sidelong at me from her big beautiful gray eyes, and reached over to give the head of my hard-on a gentle squeeze and tug. "To visit a dear friend of mine," she said. "Jane Fielding."
We rode for about fifteen minutes along the highway skirting the edges of high cliffs rising out of the surging, foamy blue waters of the Pacific. The sun was up and warm, the breeze slight, carrying salt and fish smells upon it. I finally pulled off my tee shirt, leaving me completely naked in the front seat as we rode along. The sun was warm on my back, but the warmth there was nothing compared to the blazing inferno raging between my legs where my cock was stiff and aching with the memory of how expertly Bret had sucked it just a few minutes before. Riding in that car with the sun and the sea all around and as naked as Adam in the Garden of Eden, I felt bold and lascivious and confident that I could screw forever without losing that arrogant hard-on jutting out between my legs.
Presently, Bret said, "That's Jane's house up ahead."
I looked in the direction to which she nodded as she spoke and saw a low sprawling stone house nestled against a cliff with a long curving driveway leading up to it. Even from where I sat in the speeding car, looking at the house, I could tell that it commanded a magnificent view of the sea. It was obvious that Jane Fielding was a wealthy woman. I wondered, quite naturally, if she was as rich in physical adornments as she apparently was in financial ones. Riding along, the Fielding house coming at us rapidly, I reached for my clothes. "Guess I'd better get dressed," I said in a husky voice.
"Not at all," laughed Bret Grayson, her hand flitting to grasp my cock again tightly. "I want to see the look on Jane's face when a naked boy steps out of my car."
I hesitated for a moment, holding my crumpled tee shirt in my hands, then I grinned. "Yeah. "I said with a grin, "that'll blow her mind."
The next instant, the car swerved into the long driveway and crept up the rather steep incline, swinging around behind the house and gliding to a stop in a carport. Bret tooted the horn twice and in a twinkling the back door opened and a very attractive and well-built woman about thirty-five or so, I guessed, stepped out of the house. "Hi, Bret," she said in a very girlish singsong voice. She gave a little wave.
"Hello, Jane," Bret replied. "I want you to meet Matthew Branson." She smiled and looked at me, her eyes dipping for a moment to my stiff prick. She whispered, "Get out now, Matthew, and walk right up to her."
I could feel a blush flooding into my face, and I hesitated a moment, but then I slowly pushed open the door and stepped out onto the smooth concrete floor of the carport. With the open door between me and Jane Fielding, she could see only that I was bare-chested and, if she looked at my feet, barefoot.
"Well," she said with a smile, "hello, Matthew."
"Hullo," I said hoarsely. Then I stepped clear of the door, revealing my whole naked body, stiff cock and swinging balls exposed for her to see. I hesitated again for an instant, then walked directly over to her. She was stunned. Her mouth hung open, her eyes were wide, her hands trembled a bit. I could see she was having a little trouble breathing. Then her mouth moved and she mumbled something, but not until I was standing right in front of her, my cock jutting out and almost touching her pale-blue dress, did I hear her.
"Magnificent," she sighed. "Magnificent."
From behind me, Bret Grayson, still in the car, said, "Isn't he absolutely delicious, Jane? So damned cute, and would you look at the size of his cock?"
Jane had by now regained some of her composure. She smiled at me, then stared over my shoulder at Bret. "You're a bitch to embarrass the poor boy this way," she said.
I managed to get some words through my parched and crackly lips to the effect that I wasn't a damned bit embarrassed and that I was rather proud to discover that someone liked the way I looked naked.
"Like the way you look naked?" Jane Fielding giggled. "My darling, I adore the way you look."
Her fingers found their way to my cock, wrapping themselves around the shaft and nestling the head against the warm pulse-beat of her wrist. She placed her other hand on my chest and squeezed one of my nipples. Then she stepped against me, still holding my cock in her hand, and kissed me on the lips.
"My God, Jane, are you going to rape the boy right here in the carport?" demanded Bret Grayson with a laugh.
"I'll bet you raped him a dozen times driving over here," Jane responded, her hand still clutching my prick but manipulating it now, ever so slightly.
"Not at all," Bret said, getting out of the car. "We stopped and I had a little breakfast, is all." She laughed obscenely.
"Let's go in the house," Jane said. Her voice was brimming with lust.
Jane Fielding was a widow. She had married a young business man with all sorts of real estate interests in San Francisco, had lived with him there for two years, had borne no children in that time, and then lost him in a plane accident. His business and his rather substantial financial holdings had left her utterly carefree for the rest of her life. She was thirty-two, not thirty-five, and she was a woman with an almost regal beauty. She wore her dark hair short, and the blue dress she wore over her ample and symmetrical body was plain and unadorned. The three of us sat and talked-the women doing most of the talking, myself doing the listening-in the kitchen while Jane served us coffee and delicious little cakes. I sat naked. The women were still dressed. A lot of the pressure was off, and my cock had softened to a kind of half-mast condition, but one touch of anyone's hand would bring it to full throttle once again. Toward the end of our little coffee-and-cake session, it was not one but two hands that touched it. Both Jane and Bret, perhaps reading each other's mind, reached for it. Their fingers touched for a moment above my crotch, then settled down locking together with my cock between them. It rose quickly with a few surging throbs and was again its full-sized arrogant self. My brain was trying to figure out which of these two women I wanted to screw first. The women had their own ideas.
"Come now," Jane said, "we'll go into the bedroom."
It was apparently to be threesies, I decided.
It was a big room, a woman's room. Frilled and imagine and smelling like perfume. The bed was extra-large, not yet made-up. The pillow was rumpled but had obviously only supported one head the night before. I wondered, vainly, if I was the first lay Jane had had since she lost her husband, but I knew immediately that that was an idle thought.
"Why don't you lie down and be comfortable while we undress?" Bret said to me.
The bed was soft and warm. I considered pulling the covers over me but my vanity wouldn't let me. I just stretched out on my back with my head cradled in the palms of my hands and my legs apart to show my crotch and balls and the upright staff of my waiting cock.
The women undressed quickly, and as they stood at the foot of the bed, I feasted my eyes on two of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen ... before then or since. Equal in height, Bret the darker and more sultry of the two, they had splendid, large, round breasts, full, wide hips, thighs of glistening smoothness and warmth. And at the meeting of their thighs, those lovely, fluffy, soft-looking, inviting growths of spidery dark hair.
They came around to the sides of the bed, each one approaching me from a different side, then knelt on the bed and finally stretched out full-length with me sandwiched between them. They worked in tandem, and I found myself wondering how many times they'd done all of this with other boys and men. They both pressed their mouths to my ears and licked at them with their fiery tongues before they moved to my cheeks, kissing them. Then they took turns kissing my lips before their mouths moved along to my chest, each taking a nipple and toying with it with lips and tongue. Still moving, they licked my sides and belly and abdomen and then placed their mouths at the base of my cock. Slowly, their tongues darting in and out of their mouths like the tongues of snakes, they ascended the long shaft until the head of my pulsing, aching, burning cock was between their mouths. They moved toward each other, bringing their lips together, kissing, but with the head of my cock between them. Their tongues, slithering out to enter their facing mouths, glided over the smooth skin of the head, licking it gently and lingeringly, and then their mouths were locked upon it, their lips pressing together, and their tongues exploring their mouths while holding my prick in the slippery-hot vise of their flesh. Lying under the archway of their bodies, my body was boiling hot as their large breasts dangled above me and brushed against the prickly skin of my hips and thighs and abdomen. At last, they ended their kissing and Jane took my cock into her mouth while Bret lowered her lips to my balls and began caressing them. By this time I was a mass of jelly, quivering and shaking and making gurgling sounds that didn't even pretend to be words.
Jane's mouth was hard at work on the tip of my cock. Nibbling, sucking, tonguing it, she slavered her caresses, soaking me with the dribblings of her saliva which coursed down the shaft of my cock and hung like dew drops in my pubic hair. Bret had managed to get my balls into her mouth a couple of times, swiping at them with her tongue, but she let them loose, finally, and moved away from them, crawling up the bed to kiss me on the lips again. Jane, meantime, had also moved so that she was kneeling between my legs while her hungry mouth took in more and more of my throbbing cock. She thrust her arms under my thighs, lifting them up and adjusting them so that they lay across her shoulders.
Bret, having had her fill of sucking my mouth, decided to straddle my head with her juicy cunt resting like some soft and furry lid upon my mouth. The weight of her upon my chest and the warmth of her backside rubbing against my skin was a provocation which I answered by sliding my tongue out of my mouth to lick the furry outer lips of her pussy. I shut my eyes for a moment as I pressed my unmoving tongue flat against the hard little nub of her clitoris, and as I lay there motionless, feeling Jane sucking away at my cock with my legs thrown casually over her shoulders like bundles of laundry or something, and with Bret's cunt shoved down upon my face, I wondered if all this was some sort of dream, wondered if it was really happening to me-Matthew Branson-the kid who little more than a day before had been practically drowning in pent-up gism for the lack of anything to pour it into. Now, here I was, straddled by two marvelous women, one of whom was eating my cock like the thing was going out of season and the other offering me a doorway to a feast of a different kind. I counted myself a lucky beast, and just to assert my luckiness, I jabbed up with my hips and shoved my cock a little deeper into Jane Fielding's gullet while I inserted my penis-hard tongue as far into Bret's vagina as it would go without taking my whole head with it. Both ladies responded with a satisfying twitch and muffled groans of pleasure. If this were a dream or madness, so be it. It felt damned good.
Bret's cunt began oozing a response to the probing of my tongue. She groaned, twisted her hips in a writhing circular movement, and ground gaping lips of her dripping cunt upon my mouth. She reached down and frantically gripped my head in her hands as my tongue darted into the slit of her cunt, pushing it open and sliding deeper and deeper into the dripping wet interior. "Oh, yes, yes," Bret moaned. "Matthew, darling, it's marvelous. Yes. Your tongue. Umm. Your tongue."
I looked up into her face and saw her head tilted down, her eyes closed, her lips parted, the dart-like tip of her tongue flashing out between her bared white teeth and licking fiercely at her lips. Her breasts rose and fell excitedly as she gulped for breath every time my tongue found a particularly sensitive part of her cunt.
"Oh, there," she moaned as I sought out and caught her clitoris in my lips and poked at it with my tongue. "There. There. Do that." She grunted and sobbed. "Ohh, how good that is."
Her babbling was driving me crazy, and I flailed her cunt with my tongue as her fingers dug into my scalp or gripped long locks of my hair. My tongue whipped in and out, stroking the silky wet lips of her pussy, licking at her clitoris, feeling the knob throbbing and yielding reluctantly to the insistent pressure of my roving, seeking, tormenting tongue. As she ground her hips against my tongue, I concentrated on massaging the clitoris, licking it with vicious circling movements and driving her into a frenzy of groaning contortions.
"I'm ... going ... to...."
She didn't have to tell me. I shoved my mouth hard against her, sucking at, tearing at, her flesh with lips and teeth and tongue, and she, in turn, drowned me in the violent response of her orgasm. She let out a high, piercing scream that cut through me like a knife, reaching all the way down to the tip of my cock which was lost in the dribbling interior of Jane Fielding's mouth.
All the while I was sucking Bret's cunt, Jane was ravishing my prick. Licking it, sucking on the swollen head, swallowing almost the whole length of it into her throat, she had performed a fantastic dance upon the tenderly sensitive glans and brought me repeatedly to the brink of coming only to let me slide back again by alternating her technique or taking away her mouth to dwell upon my balls or the insides of my thighs or the flat hard expanse of my flip-flopping belly.
"Oh, he's so delicious," she said at one point as she licked the tip of the head. Later, breathing hard, she gasped, "Oh, it's such a lovely, lovely cock."
Then, just as Bret was letting go with her ear-shattering scream, Jane took one final suck on my cock and then let it go, lifting herself above the upward thrust of my sword-like prick and then aiming her widespread cunt down toward it. She raised her hips directly above me, hovered there for a moment, then came down like a parachute to skewer herself on my prick. I slid in slowly, wetly, hotly, deeply. I would have groaned out loud, but Bret's cunt was still shoved onto my mouth like a gag. At last, Bret lifted herself off me and tumbled backward onto the bed beside me leaving only Jane still astride my body and giving me an unobstructed view of her as she lowered that splendid body upon me. I stared as the long thick white shaft of my prick was swallowed up until there was nothing left of it except the glorious tingle that throbbed through it as it stood upright in the tight clasp of Jane's cunt.
Jane was in total command of me. She sat for a long time with my cock jammed up inside her and the hair of our bodies intermingled. Then she flexed the muscles of her thighs and pushed herself upward, letting my cock slide into view the way a ship slides down the ways at launching. I stared down at it, fascinated to see it coming sliding out of her, wet and shiny with her moisture, aware of the exquisite sucking of her tissues which only reluctantly let my prick slip out of her vagina. I writhed a little and swallowed a groan as she rotated her hips upon the shaft of my prick. Beads of sweat were running down my face and from under my arms, and I had to bite down hard on my lower lip to keep from shooting everything I had into her.
Bret stirred and lifted herself to an elbow, turning to look at Jane as Jane rode me like a horse. "Isn't he terrific?" she asked.
Jane mumbled something in reply, then lowered herself upon me again, swallowing all of my prick into her once more. She opened her eyes and looked down at me, managing a tight smile. She stared at me, seeing, no doubt, how my face was twisted and contorted with the sheer effort at keeping from coming. She let her smile widen with pleasure at the agony she saw me going through and she did something with her vagina, squeezing hard upon my cock as it slid up into her.
"Oh, my, gawd," I groaned.
Jane laughed a nearly hysterical laugh and began bobbing up and down on my cock.
"Ride him, Jane," Bret laughed. "Take that lovely cock of his and squeeze it to death."
"Oh, it is so good," Jane moaned.
"Yes, yes, yes, so good," Bret moaned.
Then she sat up again, throwing her body hard against Jane's and burying her face in the valley between Jane's breasts. Jane threw her head back as she began jerking her hips wildly up and down upon me while Bret pressed her open mouth upon one of Jane's quivering breasts and sucked the nipple into her mouth.
The effect that this had on me was really very surprising. I found myself staring fascinated as this one truly beautiful woman eagerly sucked at the tits of another. Jane, apparently whipped to a new frenzy by Bret's sucking lips, went wild with passion roaring like a bucking stallion atop my hips, alternately swallowing and coughing-up my cock, in wild, frenzied, twisting jerking. She moved up and down, working her belly up and down, her hips sliding up and down the pole of my prick, her cunt gushing and spurting its lubricants all over me. She gasped and shuddered and threw her arms around Bret, holding her against her heaving breasts which Bret was eagerly licking and sucking like a starving infant. Bret, inflamed by the terrible writhing and moanings coming from Jane and me, shifted herself again, straddling my chest again and shoving her oozing cunt down toward my mouth. Astride me again, except turned away from me to face Jane so she could continue sucking her tits, Bret pressed her cunt to my lips as I slid my tongue out to greet it again, licking the still-wet lips and delving into the fiery chamber.
Far down inside me I felt my orgasm beginning, and I reached for Jane's hips, grasping them in my trembling fingers and trying to hold her still while I thrust up into her. But she was abandoned, now, and concerned only with her own pleasures. Pistoning up and down, sliding up and down, skewering her cunt upon the shaft of my prick, she was reaching her own orgasm, and in an instant, we reached them together.
I spurted long and hard, spouting like Old Faithful to soak the dripping, hot, sucking membranes of her cunt, feeling her slam down all the way until the head of my cock hit bottom, bathing the depths of her womb in the gushing white load of semen that seemed to come from the farthest corners of my body. Bret, moving her hips in a fucking motion, rubbed her streaming cunt upon my open mouth, pouring herself into me again and again.
I went suddenly limp, almost passing out, lost in the sweltering, burdensome weight of two naked women whose bodies still shook and quivered atop me.
At last, I blinked open my eyes, and saw the two of them lying on either side of me again. "Wow," I said.
"I guess we sort of raped you," said Jane softly.
"Yeah, "I said. I grinned. "Wasn't that great?"
Jane sat up and began stroking my belly with a lightly gliding fingertip. "So smooth," she said. "Your skin is so smooooth."
"Do that to my cock," I said boldly.
Jane giggled and ran her fingertip quickly down my belly to my cock which was lying limp and exhausted on my stomach. She tickled it at on the under side, teasing the ridge of flesh at the tip. It responded by wobbling a little, as if it were waking up.
Bret, watching, sighed, "There it goes again. It just never quits."
"I loved sucking it, Matthew," Jane said.
"Um," I sighed, shutting my eyes and relaxing, still lost in the awe of all that had happened to me.
"He must meet Sue and Sheila," Bret said from the pink darkness beyond my closed eyelids.
"Those cunts would devour the poor boy," Jane said.
I opened my eyes, grinning. "I'm for that. As long as they do it starting with you know what."
"You filthy-minded little kid," Jane laughed.
"Rape me again," I said, chuckling. "I think it's ready to be."
At the risk of sounding like a faggot or something, I have to say that a cock is really a beautiful thing to behold. Why, just from the aspects of functional design, it's a masterpiece. Stop and think about the chores that a prick is expected to do, and you have to admit that it is perfectly suited to them. It folds up neatly into a compact little package for ease of transportation, it's designed to fit readily into the hand, it expands to meet any requirement, and it's shaped to fit neatly into those places it's supposed to fit. From the aspects of design, a cock is about as perfect as you can get. Esthetically, as a work of art, that is, it does have a certain grace and beauty and style. Standing up to its full erection, its proud head bared and glowing with color and vitality, it's a pretty thing to see. No getting around it, and anybody who tells you that a stiff prick isn't a good thing to look at is either afraid of one or afraid to admit that his or her admiration for it may go beyond simple admiration of its beauty. A cock is a wonderful thing, and if you're healthy at all, you know it.
-likewise, for a cock's counterpart. A cunt is everything a cock is. Beautiful.
Put them together, and you have abounding beauty.
We're voyeurs, all, whether we'll all admit it or not.
Lying in bed with Bret and Jane beside me and looking down my body at my rising cock, I was damned proud of it, and, dammit, if I'd been able to, I might just have bent down and given it a kiss myself.
As it turned out, Bret had the same idea. She got on her hands and knees between my legs as Jane had done and fell to licking my balls while she tugged and toyed at my hardening cock, bringing it swiftly to a full erection. As easily as a cow lowers its head to graze, Bret lowered her mouth to the tip and took in the head in a slippery hot circle of lips. Her tongue edged out to meet it, licking the rounded tip, and then wrapping itself around the fleshy mushroom bulb as it pushed past her lips on its way to the back of her mouth. She sucked for a moment or two, then withdrew. "Stand up, Matthew," she said, "and let me do it that way!"
I scrambled from the bed and stood facing Bret as she knelt beside the bed and came toward me with her mouth dropping open to receive my cock once more. As I crossed the threshold of her lips, I pushed forward with my hips and shoved the whole length of my cock into her, shoving it, I'm sure, half-way down her throat. Meanwhile, Jane was moving off the bed, too, and dropping to her knees behind me. She put her hands on my hips, squeezing hard against the pelvic bone. I shut my eyes, lost in the delicious wet sucking of Bret's mouth upon my cock, only to open them in surprise and delight as I felt Jane's tongue slither against the muscles of my buttocks and down into the crack between them. Her hands moved away from my hips and cupped my ass cheeks, spreading them apart, making room for her mouth to push into the crack and carrying her out-thrust tongue toward my ass hole. I held my breath, waiting for the touch of her hot tongue, and when it probed the tight opening of my ass I almost yelled out loud at the pleasure of it. She touched just the tip to the puckered little hole and probed it. Then she flattened her tongue and licked my ass like a cat lapping milk from a saucer. I saw stars.
My cock, already tormented by Bret's sucking, throbbed and expanded in her mouth as I reacted to the caresses of Jane's tongue at my ass hole. "Oh, it's too much," I groaned. "I can't stand it."
Neither of the women spoke. Their mouths were too intent upon ravishing my flesh, Bret's avidly sucking on the long cylinder of cock that ballooned within her, Jane's lips and tongue slavering in the deep dark crevice of my behind.
"Please," I moaned, "I want to ... fuck someone. Please."
Jane had slipped down between my legs, now, and was licking my crotch. My balls slapped softly against her upturned face as her tongue, fresh from having tasted my ass, now explored the narrow folds of flesh between my ass and my balls. Bret was doting on the tip of my cock, just tantalizing it with the tip of her tongue. With a superhuman effort, I tore myself away from both of them.
"Bret," I said, almost shouting at her, "I want to SCREW you."
Without a word, she rose to her feet and sauntered to the bed, her big tits bouncing enticingly as she moved, and settled onto it on her back. She rubbed a hand against her cunt, then spread her legs wide and tilted her crotch up to me. "Here I am," she said.
I crawled onto the bed and up between her thighs. Placing my hands on those firm columns of creamy white flesh, I edged closer to her, pointing the tip of my prick at the target of her sex. Then, I slipped it into her slowly, mounting her with care and deliberation, not wanting to rush into her and come before I had a chance to really fuck her. I slipped it in very slowly, inching it in, until it was buried all the way. Then, supporting myself on my arms above her, I smiled down into her face. "I'm going to fuck you properly, "I said.
Bret reached her arms around me, caressing my shoulders and back with her fingertips, then burying her hands under the long locks of yellow hair at the back of my neck. Slowly, I lowered myself upon her, and as our bodies pressed together, we kissed. "Oh, how lovely you are," she sighed at last.
I began to fuck her slowly, rocking in the cradle of her crotch, feeling my cock going in and out, feeling her sheath pushing aside to let it enter, feeling the walls slip closed as it withdrew, sucking at it and wanting to hold onto it a little longer.
Jane, still kneeling by the bed, sat back on her haunches and watched us.
I fucked Bret slowly at first. I fucked her quietly. Only our breathing could be heard in the room. From time to time the sounds of our breathing were mixed with the soft wet sound of her flesh parting or closing as my cock moved steadily and gently within her. It was all softness and deliberation and gentleness and no-hurrying, the way I had always dreamed fucking should be. Our bodies pressed together. Her breasts flattened beneath the hard downward thrust of my chest. Our bellies pressed together. The hair of our groins enmeshed. Our thighs rubbed together. Her legs, curling around mine at our knees coiled about my calves and locked with mine at our ankles. Her arms curved up and around my shoulders, holding me down upon her. Our lips touched and parted, and our tongues danced upon each other. My hips, moving in a slow and lovely cadence, manipulated my cock, pushing, withdrawing, shoving into, drawing out of, filling her, pleasing her.
"Oh, Matthew," she sighed.
"Yes," I moaned. "Lovely."
Jane, resting her head upon the edge of the bed and watching, smiled and said, "It looks beautiful."
"It ... is," I said slowly, happily.
The only movement was in my hips which were moving my cock inside her slightly, letting her know it was there, giving her a steady sense of its thickness and power and beauty.
Bret sighed, "Fuck me forever, Matthew."
I moved my hips more sharply, drawing my cock farther out of her, then coming down a , little harder, a little more swiftly.
"Oh," she gasped sharply.
"I love it," I sighed.
Jane, moving onto the bed, whispered, "I want to kiss your body while you fuck her, Matthew."
I said nothing as I increased the tempo of my fucking. I began to fuck much harder and faster, and she was responding beneath me. Her hips rotated and lunged, reaching up to meet my downward thrusts. And as I fucked her harder and harder, faster and faster, deeper and deeper, ramming my cock in and out, fucking her with all my energy, Jane knelt beside me and began licking my sweating back. She ran her tongue in a wide wet trail down my spine to my undulating, savagely thrusting hips and then down into the cleft of my buttocks again to seek out my ass hole with the tip of her tongue. She moved once more, positioning herself behind me, her face buried in my ass, her tongue lapping at my hole as I lunged down toward Bret's cunt. Jane licked lower, going into my crotch again, licking my balls, and then, lying flat on the bed between my and Bret's wide-spread legs, she placed her lips and tongue at the juncture of my cock to Bret's cunt, lapping softly at our flesh, drinking the gushing moisture that welled from Bret's pussy and dribbled down her crotch.
"I'm coming," I moaned.
"Come, my dearest. Come in me," Bret sighed.
"I can't ... hold ... back."
"Yes. Fill me. Come."
With a shudder and a final lunge I emptied every drop of my semen into her and felt my vitality ebb away as the last droplet oozed from me into her. Jane was still beneath us, licking up the overflow of cunt juices and droplets of semen that had gushed from Bret's cunt as I lunged for that final flooding, exquisite time.
Finally, I lifted myself off Bret's burning body and tumbled, exhausted, onto my back beside her.
"You didn't make it," Jane said softly to Bret. "No," Bret said.
"I'm sorry," I said. "It was so good I couldn't wait."
"It's all right," Bret sighed.
Then Jane crawled again between Bret's thighs and lowered her face to the sopping-wet cunt, inching her tongue toward the gaping lips and starting to lick them. Because I'd never seen one woman suck another's cunt, I turned onto my side so I could watch Jane at her work, work which she undoubtedly knew well how to do and which Bret just as obviously loved. Jane's tongue darted wildly about the fleshy lips of Bret's cunt seeking the clitoris and finding it in a hungry lunge to clasp it in her lips and to tongue it wildly, causing Bret to arch up from the bed, a look of sheer agony on her face as she ground her hips to rub her cunt against Jane's marauding tongue.
"Oh, suck me, Jane darling," Bret sighed.
From where I lay I could see Jane exploring the recesses of Bret's cunt. Her tongue teased the clitoris mercilessly between deep, probing laps at Bret's gaping cunt. Bret was a mass of jelly under this savage attack. I'd heard once that only another woman could really know how to suck a cunt, and watching Jane lap up Bret's pussy, I was ready to agree. Her talents made my own efforts seem inept and fumbling. Bret was fast nearing the orgasm that I'd been unable to give her with my cock but which Jane's tongue was administering expertly. Bret's cunt oozed and glistened with her own fluids and the saliva from Jane's mouth, and in the next instant as I watched, Bret fairly exploded in a shuddering earthquake of a climax.
When she came, the three of us curled up together in the bed, myself between those two spectacular women.
"We'll rest a while," Jane said, "and then have some lunch. Then, after lunch, this lovely boy can screw us again."
For my part, I was ready to say, Fuck the lunch.
But I was a guest, after all. Lunch was soup and sandwiches. I was the dessert. That course lasted all afternoon.
SIX
"Where shall I drop you?" asked Bret Grayson as we headed up the coast highway again after an incredible afternoon of unrelenting sex at Jane Fielding's house.
"Better take me back to the caddy house," I said.
"I can drop you at your uncle's," Bret said.
"Nah, it wouldn't look right," I said.
Bret placed a tender hand on my thigh. It felt warm and soft through my jeans, and I put my hand down atop hers. "Such a shy boy," Bret said. Her hand slid down the curve of my crotch in search of my limp and dozing cock, curled up in the folds of my jeans.
"I'm afraid I'm about fucked out," I said wearily, amazed to discover that I was not all that indestructible and disappointed to find that my arrogant prick could be laid waste.
"It was a wonderful afternoon, Matthew," Bret said. She took her hand away and held onto the steering wheel with both hands again. Her gray eyes peered straight ahead at the winding road. She flicked the tip of her tongue out to wet her lips, then sighed. "You made Jane and me very happy, Matthew. Very happy."
I thought, It was nothing compared to what you ladies did for me, but I didn't say anything at all like that. In fact, I didn't say anything.
"Here we are," said Bret, swinging the car into the curving driveway that led to the Serra Country Club caddy house. Dusk had come and the place seemed pretty-much deserted. Off in the distance, I saw one foursome of golfers heading to the eighteenth fairway from the seventeenth and supposed that they were the last of the day's golfers. "Are you sure you don't want me to drive you home?" Bret asked again.
"No," I said. "I'm going to have a shower here at the Club and then take a nice leisurely walk along the ocean on my way home."
"To think about things?" she asked.
I nodded.
"Sweet," she said. Then she reached for me, taking my head in her hands and pulling my face to hers. She kissed me on the lips in a sweet, tender, almost motherly kiss. When she finally drove away, I stood by the caddy house and watched her, thinking to myself that I was damned lucky to have gotten my first experiences with screwing from the-likes of that elegant and appreciative woman.
The reason I wanted to shower at the club was because my uncle sort of expected me to come back to his house all showered and scrubbed after a day of work on the golf course and I wasn't sure I wanted him to know that I'd spent the day in bed with two women instead of tramping over the greens of the club. Although I liked Uncle Martin a lot and trusted him enough to confide in him, I was still his nephew and he was my father's brother, two facts that still tended to inhibit me. I figured that at some point I would probably want to sit down with Uncle Martin and talk about everything that had happened to me, but this was not the time.
The locker room, I thought, was empty when I barged in, but in a corner, I spotted the grounds-keeper of the club, a youngish man by the name of Lester Greene, a perfect name for a greens-keeper if ever there were one. He was a small man. I guessed him to be in his middle thirties. His hair was sand-colored and worn short. His skin, leathery from so much exposure to the sun. He had a thin, wirey body and was undoubtedly strong for a guy of his rather small stature. I'd seen him only from a distance in my two-day tenure at the club, and I know he had seen me. Now, as I came into the locker room, he looked up at me from the bench where he sat, apparently changing his clothes. "Hullo," he said. "You're the new caddy, hunh?"
"Yes," I said with a smile. "My name's Matthew Branson."
"A relative of Martin Branson, they say."
"He's my uncle."
"Urn."
"I was just gonna have a shower before going home," I said.
"Um," he said with a nod.
I went to my locker, opened it, and pulled out the soap and towel that I kept there. Setting them down on the bench, I peeled off my clothes and began heading for the shower stalls. I was aware of Lester Greene following me with his eyes. I felt a little uncomfortable being watched like that but I forgot all about him as I went into a stall and turned on the hot water. I was busy lathering myself from head to toe and concentrating on soaping my sexual apparatus and causing my cock to rise and thicken a little from all that attention when I sensed that I was being watched again. I looked up and saw Lester Greene standing in the doorway to the shower room and staring at me.
"You look like maybe you work out with weights or something," he said.
I stepped under the water to wash away the foamy mounds of soap that coated my body. "Nah," I said. "Whatever I have I got from Mother Nature."
"You got a lot," Lester Greene said.
I stared at him for a moment, then began lathering up again.
"Most guys have to work hard to get a good physique," Lester Greene said. "You've got a naturally good one."
"I guess so," I said. "I hadn't really thought about it."
"Well, take it from me, you do. I used to be an athletic director in a high school back east, and I know all about good builds."
"Why'd you give up that job?" I wondered.
He shrugged. "I just did."
"Well, we all should do what we like to do, eh?" I said.
Lester Greene nodded. He paused a moment, then said, "Maybe I ought to have a shower, too. I guess I stink pretty much from sweat what with all the hard work I was doing today."
"Nothing like a good hot shower," I said.
He was already peeling off his clothes, and as I stepped under the shower for a final rinse, it became obvious that Lester Greene intended to take his shower in the same stall as me. He was undressed in a flash and stepping into the stall before I even had a chance to raise an eyebrow. He came boldly in, his sun-browned body naked and rippling with tight sinewy muscles. The lower part of his abdomen was overgrown with a thatch of wiry yellow-brown hair, and at the center of it all, his cock and balls, heavy and swinging, looked like they were almost too much for such a little guy to bear. "Hope you don't mind my using the same shower," he said, "but no use in messing up the other stalls after they've been scrubbed down for the day, huh?"
"Sure. It's okay," I said.
He brushed by me, getting to the inside of the stall, but as he went by me, he put his hands on my waist and his thick pendulous cock brushed against mine.
"Pardon me," he said.
I managed a nervous, twitchy smile. The water drummed down on us as we stood there together in the shower, I facing into the streaming water, Lester Greene standing in a corner and hardly getting wet at all. His eyes stayed on me all the time.
"You really do have a fantastic body," he said. "You sure you don't work out?"
"No, I don't, really," I said.
I felt his hand go to my shoulder, squeezing the hard round muscle. "You're hard. Really hard. How old are you, kid?"
"Sixteen," I said.
"Yeah, sixteen is a great age. The human body is probably its most perfect at that age. You've got a nearly perfect body. No, I would say it's perfect. Look at that back."
His hand slid down my back, slipping through the cascading water that coursed down it, and resting on the small of my back just above my bare ass.
"Narrow hips," he muttered, both his hands clasping me on the hips as he spoke. Then his hands moved around in front of me as he stepped against me, rubbing his naked body against mine.
He raised his hands in front of me and cupped the muscles of my chest. "Great pectorals," he said.
"Hey, listen, Mr. Greene," I said. "Call me Les."
He inched against me from behind and I felt a long, hot, hard protuberance pressing against the back of my thigh. It had to be only one thing-his cock, hard as a rock and long as an oil pipeline, it seemed. His hands, leaving my chest, slid down my belly and headed directly for my own cock. His arms circling me were very strong and the floor underfoot was slippery from soapy water so that it was very hard to move away from him.
"I've been watching you," he was saying, "and noticing how much that Mrs. Grayson-likes you. I'll bet you didn't know that I was in the trees out there on the ninth fairway yesterday when you were humping her, hunh?"
"You were ... watching?"
"Sure," he laughed, never letting go of his hold on me while inching his hands closer to my groin.
I remembered vividly how I'd watched Gus Barker screwing Bret Grayson and would have laughed out loud at the disclosure that Lester Greene had watched me just as I'd spied on Gus, but Lester Greene's hands had now found their goal, and I was in no mood for laughing. "Hey, look," I said firmly, "I don't go in for this sort of thing."
"I do," he said flatly.
"Yeah, but..."
His hands grabbed my semi-firm cock and began manipulating it, causing it to get harder quicker. "Your head may say you don't dig this, but what I've got my hands on tells me something different."
It was true, of course, that my cock was inclined to accept any offering of attention and that there was no arguing the point inasmuch as it was now already a raging hard-on.
"All I want to do is suck on it a little," Lester Greene said. "Is that asking too much?"
"I'd like to accommodate," I said, "but I'm late for dinner, you see, and..."
"You can't just let this beautiful hard-on go to waste, boy," he argued.
I never was one to let a hard-on go to waste, of course, and besides, I was renewing my faith in its endurance, a faith that had been badly shaken when it had seemed to surrender totally after a full day of fucking Jane and Bret. Now, here it was hard again and just as arrogant as ever, demanding that I rekindle my faith in it.
"Well, "I said to Lester, my voice wavering on that narrow ridge between saying no but meaning yes.
"You'll like it a lot, kid" he said. "What if someone comes in?" He grunted a laugh. "You'd better have enough to go around."
"What?"
He said nothing more as he turned me around to face him. Then he sank to his knees, the hot water of the shower still streaming over us, and poised his mouth before my prick.
"Is this why you're not the athletic director of that high school any more?" I asked.
He laughed. "All those boys," he said. He stuck out his tongue and licked the head of my cock, sending a jolt of electric pleasure through me. "One day," he said, interrupting himself to take another long, swirling lick at the head, "I had a scene..." He opened his mouth and slipped my cock into it, going all the way down the long shaft and flattening his forehead against my abdomen, then withdrawing my cock slowly once more. " ... with six boys at one time..." He swiped at the head again, his tongue flitting over the tingling glans like a hummingbird sipping nectar from a flower. " ... in the shower, like we're doing now." He swallowed all of it again and did a kind of unbelievable sucking-thing with the muscles in his throat. He again let me slip out. "I'd sucked-off five and was just doing the sixth boy..." His mouth went down again all the way, doing that business in his throat and making me think I was going to faint from how good it felt. Out it slipped once more, his tongue taking another fluttering tour of the head as it came into view from between his lips. " ... when the Principal came in." He sucked on the head only, now, then licked the underside of my prick and kissed my balls. "He fired me on the spot and suspended the boys, but..." His tongue glided over my balls, licked along the under side of my prick, danced on the tip, and then guided the head into his mouth again. He descended to the roots, sucked again with his throat, toyed with my balls with one hand, squeezed my buttocks with the other and then let my cock out again. " ... I kept sucking-off that one boy until he shot his load into me with that fart of a Principal standing there watching." He sucked at the head briefly, reared back and looked at my cock with admiration glowing in his eyes. "You have a beautiful cock, kid. And now I'm going to make you shoot off in my mouth. I guarantee you've never had anything like what you're gonna feel right now." Whereupon he settled down to steady, expert, uninterrupted sucking of my cock. He was insistent and strenuous in his performance but he never hurt although he could be rough. His tongue was a kind of fleshy paint-brush spreading liquid fire and velvet and pleasure where it touched the curves and ridges of flesh and the round sides and top and bottom of my cock. He ministered to it. He kissed it. He licked it. He nibbled at it, not with his teeth but with his lips. He approached the sucking of my cock with what amounted to a gently malicious passion. His hands grasped the cheeks of my ass, squeezing them and using them like handles to rock me back and forth on my feet with the effect that my cock was pistoning in and out of his mouth while he held his head perfectly still, using just his lips and tongue and throat to dwell upon my cock's swelling, eager, burning desire to be loved, to kiss human flesh.
I put my hands on his head, liking the feel of his short hair under and around and between my fingers, and as I held his head steady with my hands I began pumping my cock into him on my own, no longer needing the encouragement of his hands on my ass. No longer needing to urge me into action, his hands began touring my whole naked body, stroking the tense, flat, working muscles of my belly and abdomen, gracefully gliding over my thighs and down my calves to my ankles, gripping them like handles, then flitting upward again until his flattened palms cupped the round saucer-muscles of my chest with their dark nipples jutting out to meet the sweaty warmth of his palms. I was working hard with my hips, pushing my cock into his mouth and meeting the tantalizing resistance of his tightly clamped lips and his waiting, twisting, rotating tongue which became a whirling vortex through which my prick had to push to get to that tender, warm, moist, soft opening of his throat at the back of his mouth where I wanted to feel that trick he did with the muscles, collapsing them around the thick round head of my cock and sucking at it as if it were some rare and dainty morsel of confection. Withdrawing, I met the stern resistance of the suction he created with mouth and lips and tongue. I was all fire and heat from the ministrations of his mouth and the steady flow of the needle-like streams of water pouring from the shower. I thought I was drowning in liquid fire, a fire that had ignited something terribly inflammable inside my belly and in the flapping, bouncing, slapping sac of my balls. The new fire kindled there grew and spread, reaching into the roots of my cock and then streaming along the shaft, burrowing through my flesh in a needle of flame, and then, yes, I was coming ... coming for the umpteenth time this day ... coming now into the hungry, voracious, tormented mouth of the man who knelt in the swirling water pooling in the basin of the shower stall. Yes, I was coming, coming, coming ... having it sucked right out of my balls, having it taken from me ... sucked up ... drawn out of me through the swelling, ballooning prick that ached and throbbed and pulsed inside Lester Greene's expert mouth. "Ohh, now," I groaned. "Yes, now." I sighed and surrendered to the shaking that had seized every part of my pleasure-racked body. I thrust hard, pushing my cock all the way into his mouth, feeling his throat contract and suck at it, just like that, yes, please, with your throat ... suck on my cock ... eat me ... take the gushing load that is about to break loose ... God ... coming ... feeling the touch of tongue ... licking, swirling, teasing ... drawing everything out of me
... like that ... yes ... yeah ... oh, Lester, yes, like that ... and you'll get a feast like you've never had ... the milk from my balls ... the sweet hot white thick fluid that you crave ... and, Jesus, you can blow me anytime, and yes, you're right, it's like nothing I ever had ... and if a girl is the only one who knows how to eat a cunt a guy is the only one who can know how to eat a cock ... my cock ... so hot ... so hard ... so painful ... so ready ... ready ... ready. "Ready!" I shouted. Ready to shoot my load ... and all you have to do is touch it ... one ... more time ... with your ... tongue ... like THAT. Oh ... Jesus ... here it is. Here it is. "Here it IS!"
My prick was a fourth of July sparkler shooting hot white thick gobs of incandescent semen-pyrotechnics. I came in a long hot gushing stream which Lester gulped away and savored and demanded more of. He took my cock into him to the hilt, squeezing my balls as they contracted and coughed and sneezed out the spurt after spurt of come as he drank ... drank ... drank ... drank . . .drank.
"Ahmuhgod," I gasped.
Lester let my prick slide out of his mouth, and it was over. He remained on his knees with my sagging cock only an inch or two from his face which, as I looked down at it, seemed serene and saintly. His eyes stared at my still-tingling prick and I noticed that as he knelt there between my legs staring at the cock which he had just drained so expertly he was jerking off, his fist wrapped around his own big cock and whipping it feverishly until, in another moment, he doubled-up, slapping his face against my thigh as his cock shot out long arcing streams of his come which spattered upon the floor of the shower stall, mixed with the coursing water, and gurgled down the drain-the drain like just another mouth hungry to devour a man's come as Lester had been eager to gobble and drink the come from a boy. "Wow," he gasped.
Which more than anything summed up my second day as a caddy at the Serra Country Club.
SEVEN
I don't think anybody could blame me for wondering if everyone I met in Serra, California was going to turn out to be interested in how long it would take them to get me undressed, in bed, my dick up, and copulation begun. Not that that was an unpleasant prospect to think about. It's just that after sixteen years of living in a world where the last thing anybody thought about was screwing Matthew Branson, it was a little unnerving to have found in the space of a few hours three people to whom making use of my penis was a happening to be ardently and swiftly achieved. My head was spinning, to tell you the truth.
And my ass was dragging.
"What the hell's the matter with you?" asked Uncle Martin as I dragged myself home after a day of screwing Jane and Bret, capped by that blow-job in the shower.
"Tired, is all," I said.
Uncle Martin, lounging in a big chair by the handsome fireplace with a log or two crackling nicely and taking the late-afternoon ocean-chill off the house, set aside the book he'd been reading, sipped a little of his martini, and then settled back with a look on his face that reminded me of the time my Old Man had had that talk with Russ and me about the birds-and-the-bees.
"Sit down, Matt," he said softly.
I sat-on a hassock near his chair. Sitting there with my arms resting on my knees and my hands sort of dangling wearily between my Legs, I guess I looked like something the dog dragged in.
"I'm not the kind of guy who sticks his nose in somebody's business," Uncle Martin went on after I'd gotten settled, "and especially, I don't meddle in the business of teen-age boys. I was one once myself and I remember how tough it was just managing to keep alive-or at least, it seemed that's what I was trying to do-without somebody butting in. So, I'm not butting in, Matt."
"Sure, Uncle Martin," I said tolerantly. "I assume you spent the day with Bret Grayson."
"Yes," I said.
He shifted a little in his chair. "Is she the first woman you've, uh, had, uh, relations with, Matt?"
I nodded my head slowly.
"She's a very attractive woman," he said, more to himself than to me, I thought. "But she is a very selfish woman, Matt."
"Selfish?"
"Yes. You're not the first boy she's shown an interest in."
I thought of Gus Barker slamming it to her in the trees and of me watching her, and then I had the chilling vision of Lester Greene watching me with her.
"What I'm trying to say is, don't be swept off your feet by her. It may seem very romantic and maybe you'll even think you're in love..."
"Oh, I'm not in love with her," I said.
"I wouldn't want to see you get hurt, because sooner or later, she'll drop you. She'll get tired of you. To her, you're new and handsome and exciting and she has to have you, but she's the kind of woman who has to have an endless supply of new boys. There are women like that."
"I'll watch out for myself," I said confidently.
"I know you can take care of yourself, Matthew," he said with a smile. Then he leaned forward and patted me on the knee. "You're a big boy now, eh?"
"Well, I'm getting there," I said with a laugh and a blush.
"Getting there's half the fun," he said with a wink. "You just bear in mind that if you need any help with any problems that come up, you can come to me."
"Ah, I don't expect any problems," I said.
"A boy with your looks," he said, "was born to have problems. I can name a dozen or so people right down there at that country club who'll be falling all over themselves to get their hands on you, Matt. Some are very nice people. Some aren't. Most will be interested in what you've got in your pants and that's all."
I chuckled at that and blushed some more.
"I hope you won't make the mistake of believing that because you've got a handsome face, a nice build and a young cock that the world is going to fall into your hands." He sat back again, lifting his martini to his lips for another sip. Then, with a smile, he concluded, "What I'm saying, Matt, is that no one ever really helped himself by expecting everything to come his way simply because he has a well-oiled zipper and a satisfying prick. There's more to life than sex."
We sat for a moment or two in silence, each of us wondering how to to break the mood. Uncle
Martin did, at last, by asking, "I guess you're pretty damned hungry, eh?"
"Yes," I said, realizing that I was hungry, "I am.
We went into the kitchen, Uncle Martin's arm around my shoulder and mine around his waist, and I was very damned glad I'd come out to California to visit him.
EIGHT
The next morning I woke up to my usual hard-on and with the expectation that I'd be meeting Bret Grayson again at the Club.
But it was raining. Sheets of cold gray rain. Slashing in off the ocean and pelting the cliffs and the trees and the house where I just lay on my back in bed and looked out the window watching it with a frown. Rain. Hell, nobody told me it rained in California. Rain! Nobody plays golf in the rain, for crissakes, I said to myself, and in an agony of disappointment and anger, I rolled over onto my belly and buried my face in the pillow and would have wept in anguish if it hadn't been for the fact that my prick was jutting up hard and hot like a sausage caught between my naked belly and the warmth of. the sheet beneath me. Shutting my eyes, clasping the pillow against me, and digging my bare feet into the mattress I began to slowly undulate my hips in a painfully dry imitation of how I'd ground them against Bret Grayson's superb body, letting my cock slide back and forth against my own flesh and the damned bedsheet. It didn't feel bad at all, truthfully, and I sprawled there on my stomach with my hips grinding away manfully, fucking the bedsheet and letting visions of womanly sugar plums dance in my head. I envisioned Bret Grayson, grand and noble woman of the ninth fairway, screwing me again in that arbored glen and to hell with whether or not that faggot Lester Greene was watching in the trees and if he was, well, let him have a damned good look at the juicy cock he coveted so much and which he had sucked-off so grandly and happily in the rushing hot waters of the shower stall in the caddy house. And if he wanted to hang around in the underbrush watching me shove my prick into Bret Grayson's cunt, let him, or better still let him come out of the damned bushes and lick my cock clean after I'd shafted Bret Grayson again and again and again. Next I dwelled a bit on how terrific Jane Fielding was, and as far as she was concerned I didn't care a damn if she did like to go down on Bret now and then as long as she didn't put any lock and chain around her pussy when I wanted into it. Next I tried to imagine ways in which I could screw Bret and Jane at the same time but that was no use so I concentrated on them in order, switching them magically in my head, letting the cunt I was screwing be Bret and then Jane with never a falter in the rhythm, but when I opened my eyes for a minute, there I was still humping the damned mattress, so I groaned and turned over on my back with my cock sticking up like an abandoned and flagless flagpole while sheets of driving rain washed against the window and announced with each splashing gust that there would be no, repeat, no, golf at the Serra Country Club today and little Matthew-the-Statue Branson would not get his ashes hauled. My cock's only response to that chilling thought was to twitch once violently and get still harder, demanding my immediate attention, so I dropped my hand to its familiar and practiced battle station, circled that trusty staff of flesh that had tasted at last the innards of womankind, and began jerking off. Oddly, the vision that popped into my head was neither Bret nor Jane and, no, not even Heather Wright who now seemed so girlish and insignificant compared to Bret and Jane, but Lester Greene. The fag grounds keeper of the club. There he was looming in my fantasy, and I thought for a chilling instant, Jesus, am I queer? But just as Lester's educated mouth closed on my prick in a fantasized blow-job, he became Bret and I settled back in my erotic imagination content in the fact that I was not queer and couldn't really be considered one if most of my sexual relations were with women and my encounters with the mouths of men and boys were few and far between. Bret took over my fantasies and I screwed her six ways on Sunday and half way to the moon before my flailing hand finally produced the gushing ejaculation that succeeded at last in getting my cock to obey my orders to stand at ease. Just as I was about to come I bent my joyful, singing cock back toward my belly and let the stuff fly over me, deciding at the last moment it would be easier to clean the mess off me than off Uncle Martin's sheets. Then I showered, shaved, put on some knock-around-in-the-rain clothes and headed for the kitchen.
A note left standing against the sugar bowl said, "Matt, Had to go up to San Francisco on business. Back tomorrow. Plenty of food in the house. Sorry about the rain. Martin."
So, left alone in the rain, I ate some toast and coffee, looked through the Serra Peninsula Morning News, turned on the TV and stared blankly at some kiddies' cartoons, and then began scrounging in Uncle Martin's bookcase for something to read, when the phone rang.
"That's not Martin Branson," said a feminine voice on the phone when I answered.
"It's his nephew," I said.
"Oh, how clever of him to have a nephew," said the woman. "And what is your name?"
"Matthew," I said.
"Urn, nice. Very manly. My name is Susanna Fast, and I'm a friend of your uncle's."
"Pleased to meet you."
"Martin is not there?"
"He went up to Frisco on business."
"Ooo, shame on you, Matthew," she said with a fluttering laugh. "Never, never say Frisco. It's San Francisco. Saying Frisco is like saying fuck. It isn't done in nice circles."
There was a long stunned silence as I sank benumbed onto the couch.
"Are you there, Matthew?"
"Uh, yes," I said.
"My goodness," said Susanna Fast in a worried tone, "how old are you, Matthew."
"Uh, eighteen," I said. "How old, really?" she asked. "Sixteen," I admitted.
"And hearing someone say fuck still leaves you speechless?"
I hesitated, swallowing a lump of dryness that had stuck in my throat, and replied, "It doesn't usually get into my conversations on the phone all that much."
"No, I guess not. But then, I always was careless with my choice of words. I'm careless about almost everything."
"Shall I tell Uncle Martin you called?" I asked, deciding I ought to try to be helpful.
"If you want to," she said matter-of-factly.
"Then I will," I said.
"I'd love to meet all of you someday," she said. "All of us?"
"You and your parents and the rest of Martin's visiting relatives."
"It's just me," I said. "You mean you are there all alone."
"Yep."
"How very interesting."
"Say," I said, seeing the opportunity, "why don't you come over and keep me company?"
"Why, Matthew, what would the neighbors say?"
"There aren't any neighbors."
"No," she giggled, "there aren't, are there?"
"It would be just you and me."
"How very interesting."
"With no place to go and nothing to do in the rain," I said, a little nervously.
"Is there a fire crackling in the fireplace?"
I cocked an eye toward its dark and ashen emptiness. "Uh, sure. Yes. A beautiful fire. I just started one."
"Delicious," she said.
"As a matter-of-fact I was just sitting here after having gotten up from bed and was wondering what I was going to do all day," I said.
"What a charming picture that evokes," Susanna Fast said softly into my ear through the phone. "A lonely little boy sitting by the fire in his pajamas and wondering how to spend a rainy day."
"Oh, I'm not wearing my pajamas," I said boldly.
"How very interesting," she said.
"I don't wear them," I said.
"Well, who does?" she laughed .
"In fact," I said, looking down at my fully-clad body, "I'm just standing here stark naked at this very moment that I'm talking to you. Good thing we don't have TV phones, eh?" I chuckled a little on that last part.
"My, you do have a naughty mind," she chuckled.
"Like uncle, like nephew," I said, figuring to try out my suspicions about Uncle Martin's widowed existence.
"Oh, that would be very, very interesting," she sighed.
"Of course, I'm just a kid and all, and I don't have the experience that Uncle Martin has," I said, wondering just how far this conversation would go.
"Experience isn't everything, darling," she said, this time very seriously and all the kidding around suddenly gone out the window. I began wondering if Susanna Fast was one of the women that my uncle had been talking about the day before, one of those dozen or so people at the Country Club who would, as he put it, "be falling all over themselves," to get their hands on me.
"Well, I'm not totally inexperienced," I said.
"How charming," she said with a smile in her voice.
A pause. I cleared my throat. Then, I asked, "You wouldn't have any suggestions about what there is to do around this place on a rainy day?"
"Sitting by the fireside sounds like a good idea," she said.
"Yeah, I guess I'll throw on some old clothes and just laze around the whole day," I said, injecting a little throb of loneliness into my voice.
"Why bother getting dressed, Matthew?" she asked.
"Well, to tell you the truth, going around naked makes me horny."
She burst into laughter. "When is Martin due back?" she asked. "Tomorrow," I said.
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," she announced, and then she hung up.
A fireplace to most people who live in New York is one of the mysteries of the world, but in tackling the problem of getting a fire going in Uncle Martin's hearth, I knew enough to throw on a log or two. Never having been a Boy Scout, I had to use my common sense from that point on. I stuffed the morning edition of the Serra Peninsula News around the log, struck a match to it, and waited. Sure enough, miracle of miracles, the fire flamed up nicely and seemed to be igniting the wood. I was standing there admiring my handy work when I heard a car pull into the driveway, and only then did I realize that I was fully-clothed and Susanna Fast, like it or not, was going to meet me face-to-face stark naked. I dashed into my bedroom, pulling at my sweat shirt and belt buckle as I dashed, slithered out of my things, and was just pulling off my sneakers when the door chimes chimed. "Be there in a minute," I yelled.
As I ran for the door my faithful partner and companion down there between my chugging legs rose dutifully and primed, reaching its splendid full length as I flung open the front door.
To be greeted by the Postman.
"Uh, uh, spuh ... spuh ... spuhshul duliv'ry," the Postman said. He held out a package, a long brown-paper-wrapped parcel, about a foot in length, three inches square, addressed to me and mailed from New York City. "Are you, uh, Mah ... Matthew Branson?" he asked. His eyes, which had done a quick tour of me in that instant when I presented myself to him one-hundred percent bare-assed, had drifted down to my hard-on and lingered there, staring.
This Postman was sort of young. In his thirties, I guessed. Short, slender, looking like some hybrid Boy Scout in his blue uniform. His hat was cocked back on his head to show his curly black hair and the face that was tilted down in stunned disbelief to stare at my stiff prick looked boyish with a slightly upturned nose. His full lips twitched and then spread wide in a grin as he lifted his face and looked me squarely in the eye.
"I've seen a lot of things when I've rung doorbells," he said, grinning "and I've known Mailmen who've dreamed of being greeted by naked broads in just the condition that you're in right now, but it's the first time I've ever had a guy come to the door with a goddamned hard-on practically sticking into my face."
"I'm sorry," I said shakily. "I was expecting someone else."
Which cracked the guy up. But even as he was laughing I noticed his eyes drifting back down to my crotch and staring again at my undaunted cock which, if it had the wherewithal, would have been laughing out loud at this stupid situation. The Postman looked up into my face again. "You've got a pretty big one for a young kid."
"It'll do," I said, smirking a little.
"It sure will," he said.
"Can I have my package now?" I asked impatiently, expecting Susanna Fast to whip into the driveway at any moment and, in addition, feeling a little chilly in the rain-wet wind that gusted against the open door and my fully exposed body.
"Oh, sure," the Postman said, his eyes drifting back down to my cock. He held out the long brown package but never moved his eyes.
I asked myself, Could it be?
"You must have about eight inches there," the Postman grunted.
"Seven's more like it, "I said, getting aggravated now at his hanging around.
His eyes came up to mine. "It almost looks good enough to ... eat," he said, dryly, his voice cracking on the word.
My cock, which I think does have ears even if it doesn't have the facilities for laughing, gave a twitch.
"Some other time," I said impatiently to the Postman.
"Just a couple of minutes?" he asked, his eyes all wet and soft and full of hunger.
"I'm expecting somebody," I said. "A woman."
"Yeah," he grunted. "They get it all."
"Sorry," I said, a little cruelly, I guess. "Could I just sort of feel it?"
"Look, what the hell do you take me for?"
"I dunno, kid," he said, snarling, "but it was you who came to the door with it sticking out like that. I figure maybe you wanted me to do it to you."
"Now how the hell would I know you're the kind that sucks cocks? We never met, for crissakes."
The Postman smiled, knowingly. "Maybe somebody told you."
"Who the hell would tell me?"
"Forget it," he said with a shrug.
"Jesus," I said, disgusted with the guy for thinking I'd come walking up to door for his benefit. However, he was still staring at my cock, and the poor guy looked so damned frustrated and disappointed that I began to feel sorry for him. I'm soft-hearted like that always, in case I didn't tell you. He looked like the last rose of summer staring at my prick, and maybe it was the humanitarianism in me, but I heard my voice saying, "Okay, for crissakes, play with it a little if that's what you want."
His hand was faster than the eye, seizing my cock around the shaft in a tight clasp and then sliding slowly back to the thick round head which he started massaging with his palm and his fingertips. "Lovely," he sighed. "A smooth hard cock. Beautiful. A beautiful big cock for a boy your age." His eyes were closed and he was talking more to himself than to me and there was a look of such an angelic radiance on his rapturous face that I weakened even further.
"C'mon in," I said.
His eyes shot open in surprise and gratitude.
"But you'll have to be quick," I said.
"You're gonna let me...? "
"Blow me," I said, pulling him inside and shoving the door closed behind us.
He fell to his knees like a sack of potatoes, his brown leather Postman's bag still slung over his shoulder but now resting beside him on the floor. His hands flew up to my hips, holding me tightly, and then he bent toward me and snapped up my cock the way a dog grabs a soup bone. All the way down to the root. Every inch, which is more like six than seven, to tell you the truth. He was not the expert that Lester Greene was, but he got passing grades.
I stood above him, my legs apart, my cock spanning between my body and his bobbing head, and I let myself go, enjoying the slick wet pulling of his lips and mouth on my straining, aching cock, feeling with delight the lickings and caressings of his twirling tongue on the head, gasping at the little nips he took upon the tip with his teeth. "Go easy on the rough stuff," I grunted. He turned slow and gentle, mouthing my cock like some sacred offering, and when it swelled up in his mouth and got ready to fling its contents into his sucking, waiting orifice, he gave my balls a little squeeze, and that was it. It felt as if I shot a cupful. He took a final few licks along the underside, one deep swallow, a quick dab with his tongue on the tip and then got to his feet, slinging his mail pouch into place on his small slender shoulder.
"Good to the last drop," he said.
And with a tip of his hat, he was gone, undaunted, a living monument to the proposition that neither rain nor snow nor gloom of night would stay him from the swift completion of his rounds, although a stiff prick to go down on was something else again.
His post office car passed Susanna Fast's nifty red convertible in the driveway while I, alas, no longer had a hard-on with which to greet my next visitor on what had become a very busy rainy day.
NINE
There was time enough to deposit the special-delivery package, unopened, on the coffee table in front of the couch in front of the fireplace and to give the nicely burning logs on the hearth a few hearty jabs with a poker before the door chimes bonged out the presence of Susanna Fast at the front door. The pealing of those bells stirred a sudden sinking feeling in my belly as I straightened up from poking around in the fireplace and, standing stark naked like that, I wondered briefly if I were not out of my mind. After all, I said to myself, you have not seen this Susanna Fast, and although she sounded creamy and seductive on the phone, she may actually look like somebody's grandmother-may even be somebody's grandmother-and here you are about to greet her at the door as bare as the day you were born. All of that verbal fencing on the phone might have been just a little meaningless game, I went on with myself, and you might be making a perfect ass of yourself by greeting her in such a condition. She might even call the police, I concluded. The chimes chimed again, and I knew they tolled for me.
My valor and daring shrinking by the minute, not to mention the rapidly shriveling dimensions of my prick, I went to a window that gave a view of the front door and peeked out.
Susanna Fast was a piece and a half! Tall, willowy, blonde, with a body like this time next Tuesday, and a miniskirt that barely covered the essentials, she stood patiently on the porch getting wet in all that driving rain, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, chewing on her lower lip in a truly seductive way, and tugging at the bottom of the blue sweater she wore, each tug on the bottom pulling it tighter against her and showing the firm, full, pointed thrust of the cones of her breasts jutting out like two exotic headlights on a groovy sports car. No grandmother, she.
The chimes chimed again and I moved stealthily toward the door, my bare feet scuffling across the deep-pile carpeting and leaving faint footprints like Robinson Crusoe's Man-Friday's in the sand. Half-way to the door I got a glimpse of myself in a distant mirror, seeing my naked body full length, almost as if it belonged to someone else. A damned good body, I admitted with pride, and utterly deserving of feasting upon the tasty morsel that stood outside the door. I stole a look at my half-masted penis and boldly gave a few quick pulls with my hand, bringing it up a little more, and then I stepped to the door, seized the knob, and opened it all the way, standing in the center of the doorway with my legs apart, one hand on my hip, the other holding open the door, my belly sucked in a little and my chest thrust out a bit, and my cock rising like a signal flag to greet Susanna Fast.
"What a pleasure to see you," she smiled.
"The pleasure's mine," I said.
She grinned. "My what big ... eyes you have."
"The better to see you," I said, my face opening wide in a grin.
"You are an utterly charming, handsome, delicious-looking, brazen boy," she said. One of her hands fluttered up to my bare shoulder, then slid down my chest and rested hotly upon my left breast. "I wondered all the way over here in the car if you would really have the nerve to be naked when I arrived."
"To be honest," I said, acutely aware of her hand against my chest, "I had some last minute doubts."
She stepped into the doorway, put her other hand at the back of my head and held me steady, and then kissed me in the mouth. "Now," she said, stepping back again, "Let's go sit in front of that fireplace."
"Don't things seem a little one-sided, Miss Fast?" I asked, running my hungry eyes over her miniskirted and sweatered body.
"Call me Sue," she said, and with that she peeled off the blue sweater revealing her breasts in all their naked glory, full and firm and rounding cones lifting themselves toward the ceiling and thrusting her nipples up and out like sensual antennae looking for god-only-knows what. She tossed the sweater onto a chair and then un-snapped the waist of her miniskirt, taking it off the way you'd unwind a bath towel that you'd wrapped around yourself after a shower. She kicked off her shoes, and there she was-as naked as I, her arms unlimbering and reaching out to me, coiling around me, drawing me toward her like some incredible Venus Fly-Trap, pulling me against her, lashing me to her blazing body with coiling arms, and then stroking me down the back until her hands cupped my backside with an insistent pressure that pushed me hard against her in the front. Then she kissed me in the mouth again and I was reduced to a whimpering, trembling mass of jelly-flesh and male sex-putty in her hands. One of her hands let go of my ass and crept around my hip to slither between us in front, taking hold of my stiff cock and guiding it between her legs. She did a little jiggling dance, adjusting her legs, letting my probing cock under the guidance of her warm and squeezing hand slip between her legs and into the soft, moist, hairy portal below. In a twinkling, it was in and she wrapped her arms around my back, hugging my chest against hers, pushing her tongue into my mouth once more, and locking me delightfully to her while my cock lay buried in the tight warm tender folds of her cunt, and all this, standing up.
My arms, which had been hanging limply, even numbly, at my sides, found life again and came up to her, my hands resting on the wide outward slopes of her hips which seemed to come to life at my touch, beginning a slow thrusting toward and away from me, moving her cunt back and forth on my cock.
"Lovely," she sighed.
"It is sort of ... nice," I grunted.
Then she backed away and my cock slipped forlornly out. A smile twinkled in her eyes as she backed away and stared at me, studying my body like an artist about to do my portrait. She made a little gesture with her hand, signaling me to do a slow turn in the fashion of a model, and when I'd made a 360 degree rotation, she was grinning. "You're beautiful," she said. "A perfectly terrific boy. I want to make ardent love to you." With that she came slinking across the room with her hands reaching out to take hold of my cock once more, and then she sank very slowly to the floor by the couch. "Sit down," she said, "because I want to blow you for a while."
I positioned myself on the couch with my legs wide apart, my ass sort of dangling on the edge of the cushion, and my cock a long and slightly upward-curving shaft standing stiff and wanting between my thighs. Sue, seated on the floor between my legs, put one hand on my knee while the other went around behind me and flattened against the small of my back. She lowered her mouth to the wide smooth muscle of my thigh and kissed it. Then she put out her tongue and began licking the inside of my thigh in wide wet circles that moved slowly but steadily and with deadly accuracy along the thigh toward my crotch where her tongue delved into the crease between my thigh and my groin and then slowly down to my balls which she licked and kissed and gently sucked into her mouth. My cock loomed above her face and she peered at it through the slits of her half-covered eyes while her tongue went on exploring, sneaking along the side of the shaft until she reached the swollen mushroom head. Her lips parted, then stretched open wide, and as she lowered her face toward my belly, my cock slipped into her mouth and pushed back toward her throat as her head moved lower and lower and lower until her warm forehead pressed flat against the hard muscles of my abdomen. She let about half of my cock slip out of her mouth before she closed her lips around it again and began licking the imprisoned head in long slow movements of her tongue. At her magic touch I felt an orgasm leap toward a beginning deep down inside me.
"I'll come soon if you keep that up," I said lowly.
Sue drew back, letting my cock slide slowly out of her mouth until it was abandoned again and standing rigidly between my legs all wet and glistening from her saliva. Without a word, she lowered her face against my crotch again and began licking my balls once more. Then she pushed lower, caressing me below my balls, deep in the valley between my thighs, and in the next instant I felt her agitating tongue slither toward my ass hole which was almost buried in the cushion of the couch. She made a few brave efforts to get her tongue at it, but only when I shifted a bit, lifting my hips higher and lowering myself onto my back on the couch, could she get to her target.
So, lying there on my back, half on the couch, half off, supported by my back on the couch and by my wide-spread feet on the floor, I let this fantastic woman slip her tongue into my ass hole with jabs and swipes of liquid fire that set me trembling all over.
She sat up, smiling at me as I stretched out on the couch, and then she pushed herself to her feet, bent, and lifted my legs onto the couch so that now I was completely on that huge soft sofa with my aching cock pointing due north. "You are everything I was told and more," she said. With that, she climbed onto the couch and straddled my body with her legs athwart my hips and her cunt poised like gaping bomb-bay doors above my prick. Slowly, she lowered herself toward me, her magnificent thighs flexing, her knees bending, her legs folding under her. Her hands were on her hips and as she bent her head to see what she was doing. Her blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders and cascaded down upon the pendulous breasts which were now rosy and tipped by hard protruding nipples.
My cock slipped into the open lips of her cunt and skewered her as she came steadily down upon it until, at last, it was buried wholly within her and her blonde-haired mound rested upon the blonde hairs of my own groin. In that position, she began moving up and down upon me. In complete control of my cock, she manipulated it with her hips and her hands, guiding it to the places inside her that its slippery-hard kiss would most satisfy. I made no moves of my own. I just lay there quietly, letting her fuck herself with my cock. "Lovely, lovely, lovely," she muttered. "Oh, how grand." And then she doused me again and again with her flowing juices and presently her body shook and trembled while her face knotted into what looked like pain but which I knew was supreme pleasure. Opening her eyes at last, she smiled down at me. "I must've come a dozen times," she said, "but poor little Matthew didn't come at all." She bent toward me, pushing her hands under my back and starting to lift me with astonishing strength toward her. "But now you will," she said. And with the strength of an Amazon, she lifted me off the couch to a sitting position, our bodies still locked together and my cock still jammed full-length into her dripping cunt. Then, she began lowering herself onto her back, while still holding me and pulling me with her, and now she was on her back, her knees bent and her legs still folded up while I was on my knees between her legs and my cock still nestled there inside her. Still moving, she thrust her legs out and down onto the couch while pulling me down on top of her. It was a fantastic feat of physical strength, the way she just lifted me up and flipped us over, completely reversing our previous position yet never once letting my cock slip out of her.
"You are something else," I groaned.
"Now, fuck me, Matthew," she sighed. "As hard and as long as you want."
Trying to smile but succeeding only in frowning, I rubbed my body against hers and then I began to fuck her, plowing my prick into her. I pushed myself up a little and looked down to watch myself going in and out of her, my mind still finding it difficult to believe that this was actually happening, that I was screwing this dish of dishes and all we knew about each other was what we'd learned on the damned telephone, and yet here she was letting me fuck her right there in the goddamned living room with the rain raining and the fire burning and my cock aching and singing, and twitching in its glory. Staring down at where we were linked I managed to smile as I saw her legs open wider to let me drive deeper into the hot chasm of her cunt which my cock was drumming into with increasing speed and force. As I slammed into her she reached for my ass again, wrapping her trembling fingers around those small round hard muscles and pulling at them as if she could push them into her also. I by now had lifted myself almost completely off her, supporting myself on my arms above her, because I wanted to watch this magnificent coupling, to see my cock plundering her, to watch the pistoning of it in and out of her, to see the lips of her cunt sucking at it as it came out and sucking-in on it as it pushed past them going into the channel, going far, far, far into her, up into her vagina, up into her belly, deeply into her body. Then I turned my eyes up and looked into her face. Her lids fluttered like hummingbirds. The eyes rolled, opened wide, then slammed shut. She nibbled on her lower lip. She rocked her head back and forth, side to side. She licked at her lips with her pink tongue. And she almost cried as she moaned my name over and over again. "Matthew. Matthew. Matthew. Matthew." Her hand came sliding up my back from my buttocks, scraping along the hard curve of my spine, flattening against my back, then coming at last to my shoulders and curling around them, her nails digging into the hard muscles bunched up to help support the weight of my body on my arms as I still supported myself at an angle above her, joined only at the groins where my cock thudded relentlessly into her soft, pliable, welcoming, flowing, dripping cunt. "Oh, my darling," she sighed. "Oh, my darling boy. Yes. Yes ... Yesss. Oh, that is so good. Oh, what a ... lover. Oh, Matthew, how you can ... fuuuuhhhlick. Oh, give it to me. Give me all of it. Come. Come in me. Shoot it into me. Come." Her words drummed into my ears and coursed down my backbone to fill my aching balls and pistoning cock with new fervor, new anguish, new glories. Rending her, tearing her, screwing her, I slammed it hard and deep. Fucking her faster, deeper, more relentlessly than before. Furiously, I plowed my cock into her sheath, and furiously she began to thrust up to meet me. She shook and writhed and gushed and I knew she was coming again and again. I wondered how many times a woman could climax and I began to want desperately to come, too. She gasped and groaned and then she lifted her legs high above us, bending them back almost to touch her head, lifting her hips and ass upward to meet my down-crushing blows. I seemed to go even deeper into her. Frantically, now, I fucked her as I felt the start of my coming, a fire flaring up inside me and knotting tightly until I knew it had to break loose. My balls seemed to vanish in a tightening fist and my cock grew heavy as a tree limb. I let myself fall from above her, crushing her body beneath mine. The cataclysmic collision of our bodies was all I needed.
"Oh, I'm going to come now," I announced softly.
"Yes, my darling," she sighed.
With a sob and throb I emptied myself into her, hot gushing streams of come splattering into her, spilling out of me into her, jetting deep, deep, deep inside while my hips plunged and rocked and jerked and pumped me into her until I lay upon her destroyed, wasted, wrecked, drained dry.
"How very good that was," she said brightly. "How very good you were."
I babbled something silly.
"How sweet," Susanna Fast said with a laugh.
The rainy day drifted by on oceans of come as Susanna and I fucked and hugged and ate some sandwiches and fucked and kissed and ate each other and fucked some more and then showered together and went into the kitchen to make some dinner, and while it was cooking, we fucked again on the hardwood floor right in front of the fireplace.
Then we dined naked in the kitchen with the rain still drumming against the windows.
"And now dessert," she said.
Getting up from her chair and coming around to my side of the table, she stood behind me, her breasts rubbing against the back of my neck, and bent over me. She flattened her hands on my chest and slid them like twin roller coasters down my belly and into my crotch gathering up my cock and balls and fondling them, stroking them, assisting my prick to a full erection once more. "It just doesn't want to quit," I observed.
She began jerking me off as I sat there at the dinner table with her standing behind me and her big tits bouncing and rubbing against the back of my neck. "I love the feel of it in my hands," she sighed.
"Um, that feels fine, what you're doing," I sighed.
"Get up on the table," she whispered. "What?"
"Get on the table. Lie down on your back on the table."
"Oh, Susanna, can't we just go into the bedroom?"
"But you're to be my dessert, darling," she said, "and I want to eat it right here at the table."
Her hands were working miracles upon my cock and I wanted to come, come quickly, and what the hell, if she wanted it on the table, then on the table it would be. So, amid the bowls and cups and with a half-finished salad tickling my ear from the salad bowl, I sprawled across the table with my legs dangling over the edge and Susanna sitting demurely on a chair between them. Nuzzling her face in my crotch, she licked me tenderly under my balls, then sucked at them, and finally ascended the shaft of my cock with little nibbling caresses until her lips parted at its tip and spread wide to envelop the head. Down she dove, devouring her dessert and drinking the geyser of hot semen that I rapidly delivered to her hungry mouth in half a dozen throbbing, pulsing, ejaculating spurts from my gleeful prick. "What about my dessert?" I asked when I was sufficiently revived and able to lift my head from amidst the lettuce leaves.
Susanna pushed back in her chair and spread her smooth warm thighs, showing me the cleft of her soppy-looking vagina. "It's brimming with goodies," she stated, underscoring her words by stroking her hand upon the slick wet rose-tinted lips.
Off the table in a flash and onto my knees with my face slamming into her pussy like a battering ram, I suddenly understood what was meant by muff diving. I plunged into her steaming cauldron the way Johnny Weissmuller used to plunge into Tarzan's private swimming hole. My tongue, as hard as a prick, I nudged into her cunt, then flattened my tongue and licked upward between the lips and brushed with twirling strokes against her clitoris, sending wave after wave of electric shocks through her scrumptious body and unloosing a torrent of her vaginal juices. Slurp, slurp, slurp, is the only way I can describe the sounds I made as I waded into her dripping cunt with my steadfast and devoted tongue. She reacted by pushing toward me with her hips and grinding her cunt into my face while she locked my head in place with her hands. Then, to double-lock my prison, she curled her legs up and around my back and shoulders, making it impossible to move anything within that human trap except my tongue, which seemed to be the thrust of her intent.
"Oooooo, suck me, Matth ... you, darling," she moaned.
I gurgled something in reply only to be practically smothered again by her thrusting, grinding, writhing pussy jammed into my face.
She must have come a hundred times, I figured, by the time she set me loose, and then we sort of sat there, she on a chair and I on my knees between her limp and exhausted legs, breathing hard but hardly able to move.
"If restaurants served desserts like that," she said presently, "I'd eat out all the time." She sat up and placed a hand on my weary head. "You've been very wonderful to me, Matthew," she said.
"That goes double for you," I said.
"I can't believe you're only sixteen. So experienced."
"I've been getting a lot of practice," I said. "Bret Grayson?"
I was startled. "Yes," I said, looking up to see Susanna smile.
"That bitch managed to get to you first, eh?" she asked.
I sat back on my haunches and stared up at her along the curving lines of her cunt and belly and breasts. "What's that supposed to mean?" I asked.
Susanna smiled and patted me on the head once more. "It doesn't matter, Matthew."
"It does to me," I said.
Susanna sighed and managed another smile, although a nervous one that sort of twitched across her lips. "There was a wager," she said.
"Wager?"
"Between some of us girls at the Country Club."
"I don't understand," I said.
"I'm not supposed to tell you," she said.
"Tell me what, for crissakes?"
"We formed a pool. You know, a pool of money, each of us putting in one hundred dollars. The first one to screw you was to be the winner."
"What?"
"See? I shouldn't have told you."
"But, how...? I mean, how was it possible?"
"We all knew you were coming out here to visit your uncle, and when we showed some of the members of the club your photo, well, you are such a delicious-looking boy, so some of us girls started wondering whether or not you could be seduced."
"That's disgusting," I said.
"It appears that Bret won."
"Disgusting."
"She did seduce you?"
"On the fucking ninth fairway."
"A little clump of woods?"
"Yeah."
"Her favorite place. It's notorious by now."
"So I gather."
"Why do you say that?"
"About the only person who doesn't know about that ninth fairway love nest is Candid Camera."
"Oh, you are angry, aren't you."
"Shit, yes," I grunted.
Hurt is more like it, actually, I thought but didn't say.
"And your pride is wounded, too, I'll bet," Susanna said with either alarming perception or ESP. "Because you think now that she and I seduced you just to win that pool money?"
"Well what the fuck am I supposed to think?"
"But, Matthew, darling, we wouldn't have gotten up this little wager if everyone of us didn't think you were just delicious. Every girl in the pool was practically coming in her panties just looking at that divine photo of you."
"What photo?"
"A snapshot of you on a beach somewhere in a very revealing bikini."
"Oh, shit," I said with further disgust, "that picture."
"You know the one?"
"Sure. It was taken two years ago. I was fourteen, for crissakes."
"I must say," she said with a seductive smile, "the picture didn't do justice to you. Now, you're so much more, uh, desirable."
"Did Bret Grayson collect her winnings?" I asked.
"That's the funny thing," Susanna said. "I talked to Bret on the phone before I called you this morning and asked her if she'd had any luck. Know what she said?"
"Gave you every sordid detail, I'll bet."
"No. She said she tried but didn't succeed. Imagine that."
"Why wouldn't she admit it?"
Susanna shrugged her lovely naked shoulders, bouncing her breasts enticingly.
"Uh, how many of you joined this little wager?" I asked.
Susanna smiled broadly. "Eight of us."
"Eight?"
"Eight."
"Was Jane Fielding one of you?"
"Why, yes," she said, surprised.
Now I smiled. "Well, that only leaves five, then, eh?"
"You mean Jane...? "
I nodded my head slowly.
"But she didn't say anything about it," Susanna said.
"It's sort of weird, isn't it?" I asked. "I mean, eight hundred dollars is eight hundred dollars."
"It isn't the money," Susanna said with a sly smile. "It's infinitely more womanish than that."
"I don't understand," I said again.
"Dear boy," she said, bending down and cupping my face in her hands, "it's a game called One-upmanship as only a catty woman could play it. The idea..." she laughed with great enjoyment, "is to let someone claim the prize, if you'll pardon that unfortunate choice of words, and know, know, mind you, that the prize isn't really hers. Don't you see?"
"Nope."
"That," said Susanna as she poked her toes gently into my crotch and toyed with my limp and disinterested cock, generating a sudden interest by that very action, "is why you are not a woman." She came off the chair and plunged her face into my crotch, kissing my cock, "Thank God for that."
"Can't we get into a bed for once?" I begged. Susanna lifted her face and smiled. "Of course, dear."
Following Susanna across the living room toward my bedroom, my eye fell on the package that the postman had brought. I'd forgotten about it, but seeing it on the coffee table, I was interested in it again and stopped to pick it up. Long and slender, wrapped in heavy brown paper, light in my hands, it had come from my brother Russ in New York. His big bold block printing of the address was unmistakable.
"What is that?" Susanna asked, stopping when she noticed I was no longer tailing behind her toward the bedroom.
"Package from my brother," I said.
"You have a brother?"
"Yeah. An older brother," I said.
"How delightful."
"Don't get all worked up," I said sarcastically. "He's in New York."
"What did he send you?" she asked, coming back across the room and standing beside me with her naked body rubbing against mine.
"Dunno," I said.
"Well, open it, darling."
I wasn't sure I wanted to open it with her right there, but she was insistent upon it, and once I had the package unwrapped, I was glad she had insisted.
"Why," she laughed excitedly, "it's a ... dildo."
TEN
It was an electrified dildo.
A long thick rubber prick, hollow, and equipped with a metal cylinder a lot like a flashlight but without the light part. The metal cylinder held two batteries and Was' equipped with a switch. Russ' letter of instructions pointed out that the cylinder was to be inserted into the dildo, the switch turned-on, and the then vibrating rubber prick could be used for whatever purpose a dirty mind could make of it.
"Oh," squealed Susanna Fast, gripping my bi-cep in a vise-like hold, "we simply must try it."
"I was thinking the same thing," I said.
"How sweet of your brother to send it."
"Yeah," I smiled, "it's his birthday present to me."
"Is it your birthday?" she asked.
"It was a few days ago, but in a way it's just never stopped being my birthday."
In the bedroom, Susanna peeled down the covers on my bed and spread herself out upon the smooth white sheet, her legs apart and her hungry cunt waiting between them for me and my dildo. I suspected she was waiting more for that vibrating dildo than for me, but I figured I'd better prime her first.
Which I did with my tongue. Long, deeply, twistingly, tantalizingly, I lapped at her pussy with my tongue, and when she was really writhing around in all sorts of wild contortions as the result of my tongue, I pulled away from her, seized the giant rubber prick, gave the switch a little twist, and set that deadly thing a humming. She was really nervous as she lay there waiting, her eyes wide open, her teeth biting down on her lower lip, her hips grinding dryly away at nothing, waiting. The prick in my hand (the artificial one-I was saving my real one for the judicious moment) was humming and tingling, and I touched it very experimentally against the smooth flesh of her inner thigh. She jerked her leg violently at its touch and moaned, "Oh, oh, oh, it tickles." Then I slid it along her thigh until just the hard rubber tip was poking at the very edges of her cunt and she went almost into hysterics. "Oh, it tickles, it tickles, it tickles." Then I edged the vibrating weapon still closer, burying the head of it in her cunt lips and pushing upward toward her clitoris. When that tingling, humming thing touched her there, well, she just went right off her head. "Oh, my god, that is too incredible," she screeched.
She clapped her hand on mine and tried to get me to push the dildo deep inside her, but I resisted and kept rubbing the thing all over the outside of her pussy, concentrating on her clit and laughing out loud at how it tormented her. Then, when she was really hysterical and getting sort of paranoid about it, I pushed the thing into her all the way and began fucking her hard with it.
"Oh, I feel like a ... like a ... milkshake," she moaned.
Humming away, sliding in and out, the vibrating dildo sang a song, almost.
"Oh, it's so beautiful. Oh, my. Oh, my. Ohhhh," Susanna moaned. In and out. In and out. Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzzzz. "Oh, Matthhhhhyouuuuuuuuu." Bzzzzzzzzzzz. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." Bzzzz. Bzzzz. "Ahh. Ohhh!" Bzzzzzuuuuuppppp. "Arrrghhhhhh." Bbbbbzzzzzzzzz "OOOOOOOOOOO!" Buzz up. Buzzz down. Buzzzzzz around. "Unh." Bzzz "Oh." Bzzzzzz. "Ummmmmm." Bzzzzzz. Snap.
I shut it off and yanked it out. "Oh, don't stop."
"It's time for the real thing," I grunted masterfully.
"But I want that buzzing," she groaned.
"And I want my prick to buzz a little," I said.
She sat up and hugged me against her. "Oh, Matthew, I want you to fuck me, but couldn't we have just a little more of that ... that thing?"
I shook my head. "I'm gonna screw you with my cock, dammit."
She was nearly crying. "But, Matthew!"
"No," I said, pushing at the lips of her cunt with my aching cock. "You get the real thing."
"Oh, Matthew, there is another way."
"What?"
"I mean, you could, oh, it is so awful to ask of you, but you could do it to me ... in the ... back way."
"You mean up your....."
"Yes," she moaned. "And that thing in my cunt?"
"Ugh," I grunted.
She was terribly excited now, and almost paranoid again. "I mean, I'll bet you could even feel it. I mean your cock, back there, it would be able to feel the buzzing, too. Oh, Matthew, I'm sure of it."
"But I don't want to screw your ass, for crissakes."
"Oh, Matthew, please. Please do it my way this once."
She was raining kisses all over me by this time.
"And think of feeling that vibrating thing while it's inside me."
"Well, damn it, I don't know. I..."
She grabbed the dildo and switched it on before I knew what was happening and then she was rubbing it all over my cock and down into my crotch and against my balls while whispering wetly into my ear, "Please, Matthew. Please. Please."
Then I caved in, surrendering totally. "Okay," I moaned.
"We'll need some vaseline or something," she said very clinically and almost making me sick with her tone.
"There's some in the bathroom," I said.
"Get it, Matthew," she commanded.
I got it and when I came back to the bedroom she was lying on her side with the vibrating prick already buried in her.
"Hurry," she said.
A gob of vaseline on my cock, a gob of it into her tight little ass hole with my finger, and as I slid my finger into her to lubricate her with the grease I felt the distant hum of the vibrator deep inside her and I said to myself, Jesus, I think this is really going to work.
"Hurry, hurry, hurry," she moaned, thrusting back at my probing finger and sending it deep into her ass.
"Roll all the way over on your belly," I said sternly.
She rolled, and there was her wonderfully wide and soft and curving ass staring up at me. Far below, muffled, I heard the buzzing of the vibrator and then her hips started pistoning up and down, screwing herself onto the dildo. I held her firmly still for a moment while I positioned the head of my cock at her tight ass hole. I hesitated a moment, still more than a little repelled by the whole idea of screwing someone in the ass, and then I just shut my eyes and plunged.
"Oh," she gasped in a startled cry of pain and pleasure. Then her hips began moving again, and mine, and there we were, going at it like we'd just invented the whole idea.
My cock almost screamed in protest against the tightness of her, but the vaseline worked well, and soon I was screwing her ass as if it were her cunt, and, goddamn her, she was right. I could feel that vibrator inside her cunt. Its buzzing seeped through the soft hot flesh of her insides and set the sheath circling my burrowed cock a-buzzing, too, and then my prick a-buzzing, and damn it, it did make you feel like a milkshake.
Quickly, because of that buzzing and the tightness of her and our frantic humping, I came in a gushing geyser of come while that incredible buzzing whipped us both into a lather until, at last, we uncoupled and all but passed out beside each other on the bed.
"Susanna," I asked dreamily, "will you stay all night?"
She kissed me tenderly on the forehead. "I'd love to stay, Matthew," she said softly, "but my husband will be home soon and I'll have to be there to greet him."
"Your husband?"
"Of course, darling," she smiled.
"Husband," I said dejectedly.
Susanna, off the bed and getting dressed, smiled and hummed a little tune, casting her eyes down to me lying limply naked on the bed from time to time. "You are a very lovely boy," she said, finally, "and I hope I'll see you again soon."
I pouted for a moment, then said, angrily, "Well, I don't know about that. There are five more women in the pool, and I wouldn't want to disappoint any of them."
Instead of being hurt, as I'd intended, Susanna was amused. "Yes. Make them all happy, Matthew. As happy as you've made me."
Then she kissed the head of my limp cock, turned, and left, leaving me alone again with nothing but the rain on the window to keep me company.
ELEVEN
It is a strange feeling knowing that you have a price on you, and although the price that Bret Grayson and her seven friends had put on me was hardly the same as having a dead-or-alive reward poster out with your picture on it, I was nonetheless wanted. The pooling of money to the amount of $800 to be won by the woman who succeeded in seducing me was, I suppose, a kind of tribute to my desirability, especially after having spent the first sixteen years of my life in an almost total lack of any intimate relationship with the opposite sex. Anyway, I woke up the next morning after Susanna Fast abandoned me to a night of sleeping alone and wondered who would be next among the women of the pool to come knocking on my door.
It was Sheila Merriam.
Sheila looked like someone named Sheila. Tall, big-boned, big-breasted, with flowing brown hair that cascaded in long straight lines down to her shoulders, she, too, drove a convertible, and it came growling into the driveway early the next morning, horn a-blaring.
Because I was still in bed and because I slept naked, when I rolled out of the hay to peer out the window to see who was blowing a car horn in what was practically the middle of the night-ten A.M., actually-I presented myself at the window without a stitch of clothing, although that part of me visible above the window sill was from the navel up. I pushed open the window. "What is it?" I shouted down at the woman in the car.
"Is Martin at home?" she asked.
I grinned, thinking, No, my uncle isn't home but it isn't my uncle you came to see, is it? I shouted down, "Nope. He went up to San Francisco. He'll be home later today."
"Why, you must be Matthew, his nephew," she shouted back.
"Yep."
"I've heard so much about you."
Not from Bret Grayson, Jane Fielding or Susanna Fast, I thought.
"I understand you've been doing some caddying over at the country club," she went on. "I'm going over there now. May I give you a ride?"
"I'm not dressed yet," I replied.
"I'll wait," she said.
Sure you will, I thought, as I pulled back into the room and started scrounging around for something to put on, even though I expected to be out of my clothes in a jiffy if Sheila Merriam were one of Bret's wagering women. I put on a pair of blue dungarees and my sneakers. I carried my knitted tee shirt over my arm, figuring I'd give this attractive woman a close-up look at my bare torso. She practically devoured me with her eyes as I sauntered out to her car.
"My name is Sheila Merriam," she said.
"Matt Branson," I nodded in reply as I climbed into the front seat. "Are you one of Mrs. Grayson's friends?" I asked, figuring I might as well cut out as much of the preliminary sparring as possible.
"Why, yes," she said, a little surprised. "I've been meeting quite a few of her friends," I said quite mysteriously. "Oh?"
"Yes," I said. "They were all very charming, but somewhat, uh, aloof."
"Aloof?" she replied with a smile and a budding realization-wrong, of course-that she might turn out to be the winner of the pool.
"I had a feeling they were trying to be friendly," I said, "but they were so, I don't know, so shy about it. I like a little more aggression in a woman."
"I can't imagine Bret Grayson being shy," she said, cattily.
I just shrugged.
"Especially," Sheila went on as she reached over and patted my thigh within scratching distance of my balls. "I can't imagine Bret being shy with such a handsome boy as you."
"Maybe I'm just not her type," I said.
With a laugh, Sheila tossed her head back, whipping her long brown hair behind her, and drove off at very high speed, but not in the direction of the country club.
"Aren't you going the wrong way?" I asked.
"No," she said with a smile. "I thought you might like to go for a swim."
"I really should get over to the club and see if there's any business on the golf course," I said.
"I'm hiring you for the day," Sheila said very insistently. Turning, she smiled and put her hand on my thigh again. "Is that okay?"
I smiled and shifted myself on the front seat so that her hand was pushed up against my crotch. "Sure," I said.
"We have a marvelous heated pool at my house," she said nervously, a lot of her self-confidence undoubtedly undermined by the fact that I'd shoved myself right into her palm, practically.
"We?"
"Well, my husband and I," she said. Then, quickly, adding, "But he's back East on business, you see."
"Oh, too bad. I'd like to meet him," I said, laughing.
"I'm afraid he's rather dull," she said sadly.
I imagined that he probably was from her tone, but I also wondered if her husband might be balling some wench in the East, although from the looks of good old Sheila I found it hard to believe that her husband would want to find sex anywhere else.
Her house was farther up the coast in an opposite direction from Jane Fielding's house, but it, too, sat on a cliff and had a fantastic ocean view. A pool in back of the house was bounded by a Plexiglas fence. Kidney shaped, it had a low diving board at one end. Behind the board were two white clapboard bath houses. "You take that one," Sheila said, pointing to one of the bath houses, "and I'll take this one."
"Hey, I don't have a suit," I said.
Her only response was a smile.
I hung my jeans and shirt on a hook in the bath house and kicked off my sneakers, then stood looking out a little porthole waiting for Sheila to emerge from her own little shack next door. She emerged, happily, stark naked, then climbed onto the low board, walking along it with her back toward me and showing me the plump round bounce of her ass and the rocking of her wide hips while her sun-tanned arms swung easily at her sides. She must have known I was watching because when she got to the end of the board she turned and faced my window, showing me the great roundness of her big breasts and the mound of brown-haired flesh at the bottom of her torso. Then she did a flawless backflip into the water.
With an Indian-like war whoop, I ran from the bath house, my hard-on wobbling frantically as I ran, leaped onto the diving board, dashed to the end, bounced and arched into the water, surfacing within arm's reach of Sheila. She swam into my arms, rubbing her water-slicked belly against mine and bringing her thighs together in a clamp upon my hard-on under the water. "Me Tarzan, you Jane," I said with a grunt and a nudge of my hips against hers, giving her the feel of my rock-hard prick against her crotch. Then we swam to the end of the pool and climbed out onto the wall. She was on me like a ton of bricks.
"Be still," she said, "because I am going to screw you like you've never been screwed before."
She began by exploring my body with her talented tongue, ending her expedition on her hands and knees between my legs with her mouth clamped upon my cock and her tongue doing a fire-dance upon it. She grasped my balls firmly in one hand and held my cock at its base in a tight circle of fingers on the other, occasionally whipping her fingers up and down the shaft as she sucked ardently on the head. At last, she withdrew.
"Now," she said, "into the water."
"The water?"
"Down there at the shallow end," she said with a nod toward the other end of the pool.
The water at that end was very shallow and very warm, so shallow in fact that when she told me to lie down on my back on the bottom of the pool, the water just covered me except for my prick sticking up like the mast of some sunken ship, and my head, of course, which I rested against the wall of the pool and thus kept it from being submerged. Sheila stood above me, waiting until I was positioned to her satisfaction, and then she sat down on my lap, taking my periscope-cock into her cunt as she descended upon me. There, "half-submerged, I got another of those upside-down screwings which women seem to like an awful lot, mainly, I suppose, because it puts them in charge so they can get the fullest use out of the cock that happens to be in them. I personally prefer it with me on top.
The tidal waves we stirred up as we screwed sent the water of the pool sloshing over the edges of the walls and I swear I even saw some white-caps whipping along the surface before we were finished. With her jiggling up and down on me and with my orgasm spurting up into her, I slowly slid all the way under the water like a ship going down after hitting an iceberg, and as I shot spurt after spurt of come up into her pistoning cunt, I lay with my head underwater, holding my breath, and feeling as if I were being swamped by her warm wet juices. Finally, I surfaced again. "I'm drowned," I sputtered.
Sheila scampered out of the water and sat on the edge of the pool with her long legs wide apart and sloping down into the water so that her feet were submerged in the shallow water, except for her toes sticking out. She leaned back, supporting herself on her elbows and with her beautiful body arched up into the warming morning sun. Beads of water glinted on her sun-browned skin and sparkled like pearls in the hair of her pussy. I rose to my hands and knees, still in the water, and crawled through the shallow water until I was between her legs, which I began licking and nibbling, working my way down her legs to those toes pointing out of the water. When I reached them I opened my mouth and took one of her big toes into it, licking and sucking at it slowly and tenderly until I heard her moaning and groaning behind me. Then I nibbled my way up her leg until I was kneeling on hands and knees between her thighs with my face only a few inches from her cunt. "This is what you want?" I asked.
"Oh, yes, Matthew," she begged.
And so, again, I dipped my tongue into the steaming flesh of a woman's vagina, realizing with a smug satisfaction, that this was my breakfast. Lapping her up like that, on my hands and knees in the shallow water, I began getting another hard-on and that diligent and loyal fellow down there between my legs stretched out manfully until its mushroom head was dipped into the still-sloshing water. The rolling of the little waves was like a giant warm tongue licking it, but by this time I was concentrating on only one thing-getting into this lovely woman's body again, so I pushed myself to my knees and crept into the V of her outstretched thighs and pushed my cock into the wide open lips of her cunt which lay waiting and warm at the very edge of the pool. As it slid into her, she sat up, wrapping her arms and legs around me, and I fucked her like that-me, kneeling in the water on my knees, she, sitting on the edge of the pool, wrapped around me like a blanket.
Later, she fed me a second breakfast, this one eggs and bacon and orange juice, in her house.
"You are a very proficient lover," she said with a smile from across the table.
"Thanks," I said, glancing at her bare breasts which, except for coloration, looked like two succulent fried eggs. "I've been getting a lot of practice."
"You must have lots of girl friends back there in New York."
"Nah," I said, wolfing down some bacon.
"Does it surprise you to find it so easy to, uh, screw, uh, a woman like me?"
"Nothing surprises me," I said. "Not anymore."
"Oh?"
I scraped the last of the breakfast onto my fork and ate it, then smiled across the table at those two other scrumptious fried eggs.
"You see, I know about the pool."
"The pool?"
"Not that one," I said, nodding toward the swimming pool just outside the huge sliding glass door that led to a patio and then the swimming pool. "The money pool. The one where you all kicked in a hundred bucks a piece." I laughed at my unintended pun.
"Oh, I see," Sheila said. "And have you had...? "
"Sex with the others?"
"Yes."
"Nope," I said.
Sheila's face burst into a smile. "Really?"
She was obviously believing everything I told her, and it was just as obvious that none of the others had claimed the money in the pool. Every one of them was keeping the seduction of Matthew Branson her own little secret.
Matthew Branson, growing wiser by the day, had made up his mind to play their game right along with them.
"So I'm the first?" Sheila asked.
"You win the money," I said with a grin.
"Matthew?"
"Um?"
"Let's play a little joke on the others."
"Joke?"
"Let's not tell anyone about this. I mean, that you and I have had, uh, sex together. Let the others think that I, uh..."
"Struck out?"
"Yes."
"But why would you want to do that."
"I don't know if you could understand it," she said.
"No," I said with a phony look of dismay, "I guess not. I always did find women puzzling."
"It's our little secret then?"
"Sure," I said, pushing myself away from the table and rising to my feet to reveal another hard-on. "Our secret. Yours, mine, and," lowering my eyes to my twitching cock, "his."
Sheila laughed with pleasure as we headed for her bedroom.
TWELVE
Late that afternoon, because Sheila had to go to some meeting or other of some league that she belonged to, I finally made it to the country club where I found Gus Barker heading for the showers in the caddy house. "Where in hell've you been?" he asked. "Haven't seen you around."
"I've been around," I grunted.
Gus smiled knowingly and tossed his towel over his broad muscular shoulders. He reached down and gave his cock a jiggle, "Bret Grayson?" he asked.
"Gentlemen never tell," I said. I slumped onto a bench, then looked up at him again, wondering if I should tell him about the pool. But I decided not to tell him. "I guess it's sort of late to pick up any jobs around here today, huh?"
"Well," he said, "it is late, but why don'tcha hang around? There are some people who get here late and want to play as many holes as possible before it gets too dark."
"Yeah," I said, "maybe I will hang around."
Still fingering his now-hardening cock, Gus gave a nod, then went to the showers.
Outside, it was all peaceful and warm with a gentle breeze off the Pacific and the sun already sliding down toward the horizon. Another fantastic sunset was in the making, and I settled down on a bench by the first tee to watch it. I was there about ten minutes when Lester Greene, the fag grounds-keeper, dashed by with a wave and a friendly smile, but he kept going, dashing into the caddy house where, faintly, I could hear the water running in Gus' shower.
The sun dipped low and darkness was coming quickly over the Serra Country Club, and it became obvious there would be no more caddying, so I decided to head back to my uncle's house, choosing to walk along the ocean road rather than hiking overland in the deepening dark. The road was longer than the walk across the fairways and oceanside cliffs, but a lot safer. There was little traffic on the road and I was enjoying the peaceful solitude.
Then a bright yellow Jaguar XKE slid past me, slowed, and stopped. The man behind the wheel looked back over his shoulder and shouted, "Want a lift?"
I'd never ridden in a Jag, so I tossed aside all' my Old Man's stern warnings to the effect that boys-especially good-looking ones-ought never accept rides from strangers, especially men. But it was a pretty car and, besides, the guy behind the wheel was a skinny runt that anybody could easily handle. I jogged over to the car and climbed in. The guy tapped his toe on the gas pedal and let the engine of that scrumptious Jag growl a little. He peered at me with a smile. "Great car," I said, figuring he was looking for a compliment.
"It gets me where I'm going," he said. "Where are you going?"
"Just down the road a way to my uncle's house."
"Oh? Perhaps I know him."
"Martin Branson," I said.
"Yes. He's an official of the country club." I nodded. "Are you a member of the club."
"Yes. My name's Douglas Flat." He held out his hand.
"Matthew Branson," I said, shaking his hand, which was damp and limp. "I'm doing some cad-dying at the club," I said, trying to be conversational and wishing he'd get that beauty of a car moving.
"Oh? I didn't see you there today."
"I was, uh, busy most of the day and got there late."
"Well," he said with a twist of a smile, "you must caddy for me someday." Then he gunned the engine and we zoomed down the road along the ocean which was reflecting the reds and oranges and yellows of the sunset. Presently, he peered at me again with a quizzical smile. "Would you care to have a drink with me?"
"Well, I'm sort of in a hurry to get home," I said, "My uncle's due back from San Francisco, and..."
"Well, he won't be there," Douglas Flat said flatly. "Oh?"
"The plane from San Francisco doesn't get in until ten tonight."
"Oh, I see."
"So, why not come to my place and have a drink and perhaps dinner?"
"That's very kind of you, but..."
He cleared his throat nervously, then said, "I was, uh, going to take a look at some new films that I've just received. You know, stag films?"
"Oh, I see," I said.
"Always much more fun to look at that sort of thing with someone," he said. "Yeah, I guess so," I replied.
"I sort of collect them, you see."
"Interesting," I said.
"I have a huge collection," he said. "Would you be interested in looking at some of the things I have?"
"Well," I said, feeling a little sorry for the guy who seemed awfully lonely, "maybe for just a little while."
"Terrific," he said exultantly, gunning the engine and whipping the Jag expertly down the ocean road to his house, which, too, sat up on a cliff above the sea. Inside, in the light, I saw that Douglas Flat was a young guy, probably in his twenties. As he set up his projector and screen in the rumpus room in the basement of his house he explained that he was a student at Harvard and was home for the summer while his parents were doing Europe. I mentioned that my parents were in Europe, too, and that I was spending the summer with my uncle. "He's a very fine man, your uncle," the young guy said. "I hope to see him often this summer."
"You know him fairly well, then?"
"I think you could say that he and I know each other rather well," he said. "There. Screen's all set. Now, let's take a look at some movies, eh?"
The first one was a rather scratchy print of a flick called "Whipped Cream Party" in which two very good-looking girls kept a hippie-type guy prisoner and did everything imaginable to him, including lathering his cock and balls with whipped cream from an aerosol can and then eating the stuff off him.
"That kid sure is hung, eh?" observed Douglas Flat as one of the girls sucked the kid's huge prick. "And he sure loves what she's doing to him, eh?"
"Looks that way," I said.
"I wonder if they pick the guys for these films by virtue of the size of their joints?"
"I couldn't say," I replied.
Then the film ended and Douglas Flat threaded a new one into the machine. It was untitled and was a picture showing a boy and a girl doing all the usual things. It started out with him finger-fucking her and then going down on her with his mouth. Then it cut to a shot of her lying down between his legs as he knelt on one knee while she gave him a really ferocious blow-job. You could tell that she knew her business, and to tell you the truth, she was making me really horny just watching her mouth and tongue dancing on the long shaft of his prick. Then, he got down on his back and she blew him that way before she mounted him in that upside-down position. After that, it was straight fucking, and it was a very good picture. When the lights went on again, both Douglas Flat and I had rather noticeable bulges in our pants.
"This next one is a Gay film," he said softly, threading it into the machine.
It was a picture with three guys, all very young and well-built, and they took turns blowing each other for about half the film before one of the guys stretched out on his stomach between one kid's legs, going down on his cock, while the third kid screwed the first guy in the ass. Then, they changed positions so that the two underneath were sixty-nining while the third boy kept slamming his giant cock into the first guy's writhing ass.
"Did you ever fuck a guy in the ass?" asked Douglas Flat out of the semidark.
"No, I never have," I said.
"Ever have a guy blow you?"
"Yes."
"Did you, uh, like it?"
"It isn't all that great," I said. "Maybe it was because the guy didn't know what he was doing."
"Maybe."
By now, of course, I knew what was happening and that it was just a matter of time until Douglas Flat's hands were groping me. "Cocksucking is an art," he said. I said nothing. "And when you have your cock sucked by a guy who really knows how to do it, well, it's just ... beautiful."
"Could be," I said in a surprisingly dry voice.
"Would you like me to do it to you?" he asked.
"Well, it's not really my bag, so to speak."
The hand came stealthily through the flickering light of the projection machine and fell softly upon my hard-on encased in my tight jeans. "I can do it while you watch the films and you can imagine it's a girl doing it to you."
I was damned horny by now and his hand stroking my cock through my jeans wasn't exactly easing my distress. Then, as his fingers fumbled with the zipper, I said with a giggle, "You're not in the pool by any chance?"
"Pool?"
"Nothing," I grunted.
Then I settled back on the couch while the film on the screen showed two of the guys licking the third guy's cock. I let Douglas Flat peel off my jeans and slither down between my legs. He put his hands on my hips and lowered his mouth to my balls, licking them very slowly and tenderly and then directing his swirling tongue all around the base of my cock and at last up the underside of the shaft until he was at the head, kissing and licking and nibbling at it. His lips parted, finally, and he took the head of my cock into his mouth, using his tongue as expertly on it as he had on my balls. Then he withdrew and sat back on his haunches. "Would you take off your shirt?"
I yanked it over my head and settled back again, completely naked.
"You have a wonderful physique," he said, "and such a big beautiful cock."
Then, with a whimper, he went down on it, plunging it all the way into his mouth and jamming it into the tight sheath of his burning throat. His hands slipped behind me and gripped my buttocks as he let my cock slide slowly out of his mouth until only the head was within. He licked it with his tongue and then descended slowly to the root where the curly yellow hair scratched against his nose and lips while he worked back and forth in short strokes that hardly moved his head at all except to constantly force his throat down on the expanding, swelling, aching head of my cock. Slowly, at last, he withdrew again, dragging his flat hot tongue along the underside of my cock as it came sliding slowly into view from between his lips. By this time I'd stopped watching the three boys on the movie screen and was watching Douglas do his thing on my thing. He let my cock out of his mouth and sat back on his haunches again, looking up at me from the floor. "Shall we go into the bedroom?" he asked.
"Why not?" I said huskily.
He got to his feet and stopped the projector, then led me down a corridor to his bedroom. It was in the front of the house and faced the ocean, darkening quickly now with the sun long-gone behind the horizon. Douglas crossed the room and closed the curtains. He snapped-on a bedside lamp and began undressing. A very slender young man, he gave the impression that with one good hug he would break in half. His cock, however, looked too strong, almost, for the scrawny body it was attached to. Standing naked in front of me, Douglas stroked his cock and smiled at me. "I could stand here and come just looking at you, Matthew," he said.
I moved toward the bed. "We'd probably be a lot more comfy in bed."
He chuckled and turned down the covers so I could crawl into the middle of the double-bed. It was then that I saw the opposite wall and about half-a-dozen paintings of beautiful young boys, all naked, all with hard cocks. Douglas saw me looking at them. "They are all portraits from life," he said. "I'm a painter by way of a hobby."
"You're very good," I said, which was true, because the paintings were very life-like. "I guess you had sex with all of them?"
"Yes."
"Why do you like boys?" I asked, which I admit was a dumb question.
"Because they're beautiful and I just love to make love to them."
With that, he crept into bed beside me and began kissing me on the chest, which, as I said before, doesn't actually turn me on, but soon he was moving South and exploring far more sensitive regions with his tongue. He truly made love to my cock, and I had an inkling of the way it is when someone worships something. Because he was doing more than sucking my cock. He was adoring it, and that is a creepy feeling, realizing that you are the object of someone's worship.
Soon, I was ready to come and Douglas sensed it. He withdrew again and whispered, "Stand up, please, Matthew. I enjoy taking it more when you stand up."
I scrambled out of bed and Douglas followed me, falling onto his knees between my legs and greedily gobbling my cock into his mouth again. A few deft strokes of his tongue and I was again teetering on the edge of an orgasm. "Now," I said softly.
Then I came, my semen coursing along the shaft of my cock which slanted down and into Douglas' mouth like a heavy pipe which he kept his thirsty mouth against as if waiting for some rare and delicious nectar. As my come began gushing into his mouth he clasped me firmly on the buttocks with his hot hands and held me motionless while his head worked furiously back and forth on my cock, draining every last drop of come from me.
"Marvelous," he sighed as my cock slipped limply out of his mouth.
"Glad you liked it," I said.
"Let me lie beside you while I jerk off," he said, "then I'll drive you to your uncle's house."
"Sure," I said patiently.
It took him about five minutes of hard pumping with his hand and when he came, pumping his load into a handkerchief, he pressed his face into my crotch and muttered, "I love you, Matthew. I love you, I love you, I love you."
And I guess in that little instant of pleasure, he did.
THIRTEEN
The Serra Country Club is a magnificent place. Its grounds are carefully manicured. Its buildings are diligently repaired and immaculately clean and always boasting a new coat of paint. There are tennis courts, handball courts, a basketball court, steam rooms, a massage parlor, a cocktail lounge, pool tables, a swimming pool, a sunroof, and, of course, one of the finest 18-hole golf courses in the world. It is, in short, not a club for the poor or even the middle-class. It is a place for the very rich, a category of which the New York branch of the Branson family definitely was not a part.
But Uncle Martin had made it, and he fit as snugly into the Serra Country Club social-set as any of the other members. They knew his was new money, but so was theirs, so there was no real snobbery the way you might find it in a similar country club in Westchester or in New England or in the hunt country of Virginia. Had the-likes of a scruffy kid like me tried to crash those bastions of high class society he would have been given the ass's rush. I, by virtue of being my uncle's nephew and by virtue of that $800 wager riding on my seductability, was welcomed as one of the group. Even though I did choose to caddy at the club, my efforts along that line were regarded as a very cute and terribly democratic exhibition of youthful eccentricity. Not to mention the fact that the women of the pool, only four of whom I had so far encountered, could waylay me in the rough as we went 'round that 18 hole course.
Only Uncle Martin seemed to be bothered by the idea of my being a caddy. "It really isn't necessary," he argued from time to time. "And the money you get from it isn't all that much, is it?"
"No," I conceded, "but there are other benefits."
"Oh?"
"All that fresh air and sun," I said, showing him my deepening suntan.
"You are turning a very lovely golden-brown," he admitted, finally, after one of these little go-arounds. We were on the beach below his house and I was bare-assed trying to get some suntan all over. "Yes," he said softly, "it is a beautiful tan." He put his hand on my shoulder and ran it down my back, slowly stroking my warm skin. Then he jumped to his feet and ran into the water. He kept away from me the rest of the afternoon after that, which I figured was kind of funny. Later, at dinner, I asked him, "Did I do something to make you angry this afternoon, Martin?"
"No," he laughed. "What makes you think that?"
"Well, you sort of avoided me down at the beach."
"Did I?"
"It seemed that way."
"Well," he said, "it's just that when I was sitting there with you and..."
"And what?"
He seemed very choked-up and was having a hard time saying anything. "I don't think I should talk about it, Matthew," he said finally.
"Were you thinking about how you'd like to have..."
"Have what?" His tone was very abrupt and oddly unbecoming to him.
"About how you'd maybe like to have a son of your own?"
He smiled at last, then laughed. "Yes, of course. That's it. How very perceptive of you. I would like to have a son. A son like you. Strong and handsome and with a golden tan. A son who could lie naked on the beach and soak up the sun."
"You could get married again and have a son," I said.
His smile flickered and faded. "No, Matthew," he said with a tone of very somber finality. "I'm afraid that is not possible."
"Well," I said, trying to smile and brighten things up a bit, "you could always adopt me."
"That would be nice, wouldn't it? Having you here all the time ... with me."
"That would be groovy," I smiled.
"Meantime, we do have this summer together, eh?"
"Yes," I said, "we do."
With a very warm and happy smile, he reached across the dinner table and patted me on the hand.
From that time on I tried to spend as much time with Uncle Martin as possible, a decision which I effected by choosing to caddy at the club only on Saturdays. This was by far the busiest day on the links and I understood from Gus Barker that a caddy could make a hundred dollars or more from the rich guys who golfed there Saturdays. So, bright and early, I'd be over at the caddy house and by noon I'd usually have a hundred or more dollars in my jeans in tips from the morning golfers. There were very few women on the course on Saturday mornings, as if there were some unwritten rule that the links were for men only then. But in the afternoon, the place was crawling with them.
Bret Grayson, who was obviously the Queen Bee, came around every Saturday afternoon leading a foursome that usually consisted of herself, Jane Fielding, Susanna Fast and Sheila Merriam. These were genuine golfing sessions, however, and left no time for Bret Grayson's dalliances in the rough of the ninth fairway. The other women were equally devoted to golf and caddying for them on Saturday afternoons was, I soon learned, more work than pleasure. I began wondering if they had settled their wager, paid the money to Bret, and now were no longer interested in me inasmuch as I was no longer the challenge that I had been. Perhaps I would have brooded about it if I hadn't met Erika Bovary.
"It's pronounced Bo-va-REE," she said with a very toothy smile as I walked with her to the first tee one bright and glorious Saturday afternoon. She was a very large girl. Large in height, that is. Her body was trim and firm with breasts that would have been gargantuan on anybody but her. Her hips were wide and round and her backside, full but firmly packed. She wore stretch pants when she golfed and a short-sleeved, V-necked blouse that barely contained her giant breasts. She had blue eyes and the yellowest natural blonde hair I've ever seen. She was a fantastic golfer, too, and went around the course quickly and expertly, moving over the fairways on her long legs at such a speed that I had to run to keep up, the result being that I ran most of the time.
"Now," she said as we finished our tour of the course together one Saturday after I'd had that serious talk with Uncle Martin, "I think you and I need a drink. A gin for me and a Coke for you."
"There's a club rule against caddies having drinks with members," I reminded her.
"Silly," she said, brushing the back of her hand against my cheek, "we're not going to have our drinks here. We're going to my place."
Her place was an apartment in an old warehouse building on Fisherman's Wharf. The warehouse had been rebuilt and refinished for apartment living and was just spectacular the way it stood right out over the water. The tops of the masts of fishing boats at anchor by the wharf bobbed just outside the windows and seagulls perched on the sills. You could hear the water lapping against pilings down below and you got the feeling that you were on some luxury liner sailing to some exotic place at the other end of the world.
While I parked myself by a window and peered out at the busy harbor of Serra, California, a Coke in my hand, Erika Bovary excused herself and went into her bedroom to change out of her golf togs. In a jiffy she came slinking back into the room in a negligee. "Like it?" she asked.
I grinned my answer.
She stood in front of me, smiling down at me as I sat in the chair by the window. Then she very nonchalantly took my hand in hers and lifted it to her breast, guiding it under the filmy pink negligee and putting it right on top of her firm, nipple-pointed tit. "Now do you like it more?" she asked.
"Yuh ... yes," I said.
"Have you ever had a woman, Matthew?" she asked.
"Well," I began, thinking over the prospect of lying to her and pretending to be a virgin. "Sure I have," I said finally and with a very convincing degree of sincerity.
Erika smiled. "Good. I like my men to have experience."
Well, after my encounters with the women of the pool, I figured I qualified with the best of them on the experience score. "Do you want me to make love to you?" I asked.
She laughed. "I don't want you to, Matthew. I demand it."
With that she parted the negligee and let it slither to the floor while I still sat there, a Coke in one hand and her right tit in the other. Still clutching those items, I leaned forward until my forehead pressed against the firm round swelling of her belly. Her cool skin was comforting to my feverish forehead but it was silky-smooth and sweet against my tongue as I pushed it forward to lick at her nearby navel. At the touch of my tongue she began rotating her hips and grinding against my face, so I lowered my aim a little and directed the tip of my tongue into the slit of her cunt which she pointed up toward me by thrusting out her hips and doing a very athletic back-bend. I slid off the chair to my knees, set the Coke bottle on the floor, and brought both my hands around behind her to grip her backside while I tilted my head back and pushed my open mouth up into her very warm and moist crotch, seeking out her cunt with my tongue again.
"Oh, you darling boy," she muttered, then fell into a silence broken only by an occasional gasp in reaction to a particularly deep delving of my tongue. Then she reached down and tugged at my shoulders until I stumbled to my feet. "Let's go to bed now," she said dreamily.
I followed like a dutiful puppy dog.
Inside the bedroom, she skillfully undressed me, peeling off my tee shirt and my jeans like banana skins, and when I was naked and primed she stood by me and stroked my hard-on until it was about ready to burst at the seams. Then she drifted down onto the bed, legs apart, her hands holding open her cunt lips, and a beatific smile on her face. "Now," she said.
I slipped into her smoothly and cleanly, going all the way in with one long downward stroke. Then her body snapped around me like a bear trap. Her arms circled my back; her legs, my hips; and her pelvis began rocking up and down like a goddamned oil drilling rig. After a couple of tries I finally got my hips in rhythm with hers and we fucked like it was going out of style.
I felt like a fucking virtuoso. It was a performance. I thought, this is fucking the way it's intended. Deep strokes that carried me all the way into her incredibly hot and wet and tight cunt, lashing her with thick hard jabs, she licking at me with the hot wet walls of her vagina. Sure and deep and tight and artful with arms around each other, pubic hair tangling, belly-buttons rubbing, chests colliding and her breasts flattening out softly under the hard crush of my own chest, mouths closing upon each other and tongues meeting, licking, darting, tickling, teasing. Eyes closed and breathing hard and deep and all our concentration on those two mashing sex organs down there between our scrambled legs. Each one of us thinking about how fucking good it felt and how goddamned hard we were working to make it feel better for each other. We each took and gave simultaneously, and it was the best damned fuck anybody ever had.
Somewhere in the middle of it, Erika began to laugh. "Oh, it's marvelous, Matthew. It's lovely. It's divine. It's FUN."
Then I started laughing too because it was fun.
And from that point on as we screwed, each of us from time to time would let out a little uninhibited laugh because everything felt so good.
"And now," she sighed, presently, "I am going to come."
I smiled and licked my lips and kept my eyes shut because I was coming, too.
And we came the way God intended, all hot and muscles tensed and legs rubbing together and bellies grinding and my cock shoved all the way into her and pressing harder to get in still deeper and she suddenly slamming her thighs together and clamping everything tight around my prick while we reached the pinnacle together and hovered there for the longest time as I pumped spurt after spurt after spurt of come into her flowing, wet, oozing cunt.
"Oh, my dear," she sighed.
"Oh yes," I replied.
Outside, a seagull screamed and somebody started up a motorboat.
It was a distant chugging sound by the time Erika and I revived enough to sit up and look at each other. We smiled. Words weren't needed. We both knew we were going to remember that fuck for a long time, and I was wishing that this had been the first time instead of that rather sordid roll on the twigs and gravel with Bret Brayson on the ninth fairway.
"Do you think we could do that again?" she asked.
I started laughing again, and so did she, and in another minute I was in her and we were going at it once more, and I'm sure that the Inventor of it all was having a damned good laugh as he looked down and saw Erika and me doing it the way it was intended.
We did it all the way into Sunday morning. So many times I lost count, and always it was just straight-forward fucking with none of the frills. No sucking, no eating, no playing around. When we were tired, we rested, and when we were rested and ready, I just rolled over onto her again and we fucked.
It was dawn when Erika drove me back to my uncle's house in her little foreign sports car. We rode in silence all the way and only when we stopped outside the house did I look at her and say, "Thank you, Erika. It was just ... well ... you know."
She kissed me on the cheek and put her hand down between my legs, stroking the gathering of flesh tucked snugly into my jeans. "Thank you," she said.
She drove away into the lightening dawn and I stood on the porch of my uncle's house wondering if an empty feeling inside me could be love. I decided I didn't know what love was and that maybe I would have to see Erika Bovary again so I could be more certain of my feelings.
A few days later I figured I'd better see Erika once more, only by that time I was wanting to see her in order to punch her in the teeth or something. Because a few days later I started dripping.
"My boy," said Uncle Martin's doctor, "you have a dose of you know what!"
"The clap?"
"The clap."
"Damn!"
"I have to ask you who the girl was," he said.
"Why?"
"She should be treated, too. So she won't give it to anyone else."
"But that's like finking on her," I said.
"Matthew," the doctor said very tolerantly, "I understand how you feel about not wanting to get anyone into trouble, but just bear in mind the fact that this girl, whoever she is, has gotten you into trouble. She's given you a disease, after all. I'm sure you don't want her infecting someone else, do you?"
"No," I said.
"Her name?"
"Erika," I said.
"Bovary," he grunted.
"Boh-vah-REE," I replied with a laugh that was really just a cover up for the fact that I wanted to cry.
A week later, I was better. Uncle Martin was very understanding through the whole sordid business. "Don't be bitter, Matt," he said, "because you're not the first boy to come down with that malady. You'll just have to be more careful and choose your sex partners a little more scrupulously." Then he grinned and winked. "Erika is quite a piece, isn't she?"
I was too stunned to say anything.
"Nobody told me," Uncle Martin explained. "Nobody had to. Erika is rather notorious, and since the only females you've been meeting since you came to visit are the ones at the club, I just deduced that Erika had finally gotten hold of you the way she gets hold of almost everyone sooner or later."
"Oh, please, don't say any more," I groaned. "Matthew, did you think you were in...? "
"Love," I grunted.
"Oh, Matthew, I am sorry."
Then I put on a brave act. "Live and learn," I said with a shrug.
"Live and learn and forget," he said.
"I don't think I can forget what it was like with her," I said.
Uncle Martin sat in silence, nodding. Then with a sigh, he patted me on the knee and said, "Well, just find yourself another girl to help you forget. There's our club's annual Summer Cotillion coming up soon. Maybe you should find a nice girl and take her to the dance."
"Well, I'll think about it," I said.
"Fine," Uncle Martin smiled. "Now, how about a swim and a little more work on that over-all suntan?"
We swam for hours, both of us naked, and for a time I forgot about Erika Bovary and her goddamned clap-giving way of fucking.
FOURTEEN
Enter, Doris Burton, Chairman of the Serra Country Club Annual Summer Cotillion. Which is very misleading because Doris Burton was anything but a man. She looked like some very regal queen, tall and poised and moving with all the grace that comes with training to most people who possess that quality but which, to Doris Burton, was inborn, a natural gift. She looked a lot like a movie star. Her sandy hair was done in a tasteful style and worn short. Her body, wrapped in a blue knit dress the first time I met her, was perfection. Yet with all that, she was just a college girl home for the summer and elected by the junior misses of the club to be in charge of arranging the Cotillion. She had designs on me as a volunteer in the decorations department.
"It won't be anything really elaborate," she said as we chatted by the bench outside the caddy-house. "Just a few streamers and some paper flowers and the like. But I'll need someone to help move the ladder and carry the boxes of decorations and things."
"I'd be delighted to help," I said.
"Good," she smiled. "Friday night, about seven, in the ballroom?"
"It's a date," I said.
Expecting to find the ballroom crawling with volunteers in the decoration operation, I was surprised to discover that Doris and I were the whole operation.
"You just hold the ladder and I'll do the put-ting-up, okay?" she asked.
"Sure," I said, wishing that Doris Burton were wearing a skirt instead of blue jeans as she went up the ladder and stood above me. Standing up there, stretching, reaching, she presented a very pretty view. Her backside flexed and jiggled teasingly in those tight jeans and every now and then she tugged at the bottom of a gray sweatshirt, pulling it snugly against her breasts. After about an hour of this, the ballroom was crisscrossed by brightly colored streamers while Doris Burton and I stood off in a corner looking at our handiwork, although she'd done most of it.
"Time for a smoke," she said.
"Cigarette smoking may be hazardous to your health," I said.
"Silly," she laughed. "I'm not going to smoke tobacco. Ugh." She then reached into her pocket and produced a marijuana joint. She looked at the crinkly little cigarette, then grinned. "Should a lady offer a gentleman a joint?"
"I guess it depends on the gentleman and the lady," I said, a little nervously and betraying the fact that I had never before smoked marijuana.
Doris put a match to the tip of the little crudely-rolled joint, sucked on it, drew in her breath with a noisy, "Fffffft," held it, then exhaled a long column of smoke. Then she handed the joint to me. "Inhale as you draw on it," she explained, "and then try to hold the smoke in as long as possible. You have to give it time to work."
I sucked at the joint and imitated the sound she had made. The smoke tasted very harsh, yet nice, as it burned all the way down my throat and into my lungs. I tried to hold it in but I coughed, and Doris laughed.
"That was a toke and a half," she said. Taking back the joint, she sucked on it again and, while she was holding in the smoke, handed me the joint again.
This time I managed to keep the smoke inside for a while.
"This is really good grass," Doris said, inhaling again, then holding it, and speaking again as she exhaled. "In fact, it's super-grass."
My third draw filled my lungs with the stinging smoke, and as I exhaled, I began to tingle and to soar the way I used to after four or five beers. I was amazed. To think that you could get high so fast. Later, Doris was to explain that the marijuana we were smoking was really of a very fine and strong quality and that it was a good thing because most people who smoke pot for the first time don't get much of a high because of their inexperience. But she said I'd done very well and thanks to the good quality of the grass I'd really gone on a colossal high. Mostly, I remember giggling a lot or sitting on the floor of the ballroom with Doris in very long and drawn out silences during which I gave a lot of thought to myself and to how really sick it was of those women to get up a pool over who would get me into bed the soonest. I guess I sat there in the ballroom smoking two or three joints of grass with Doris for about three centuries before she finally turned to me and put her hand on my thigh.
"The thing about pot," she said, "is that it makes everything look and sound and feel much more exciting than when you're not stoned. Have you ever had sex when you were high on grass?"
I shook my head. "Never smoked before, remember?"
"Um," she said.
"Could we?" I asked after a long pause. "Could we, what."
"Have sex?"
"Sure, Matthew," she said, and with that she began peeling off her sweatshirt and jeans. "Here?" I asked.
"It's beautiful here," she said. She pointed up at the ceiling. "Look at all the pretty paper streamers."
I stared up at them. "Yeah."
Then I got undressed, too, and we laid down beside each other on our backs and stared up at the streamers. Lying there naked with her, I felt my cock rising like the flag going up on Iwo Jima. It felt very long and hot and very heavy. All in all, a very satisfying hard-on.
"I've got a hard-on, Doris," I said with a giggle.
Long pause.
"Fuck me with it," she said at last. Giggles.
"I love to fuck," I said.
"I love to fuck, too," she said.
So, we did, with the streamers rippling in the dim upper reaches of the ballroom, set a-fluttering, no doubt, by the flapping of our wings as Doris and I flew higher and higher and fucked longer and slower.
"Oh, how exquisite," she sighed.
"Damned ... good ... fuck," I grunted.
When I came, it was gangbusters. As if my whole body were packed into my cock. Just a long, sweet, hot, aching, tingling, ejaculation.
"Oh, wow," I moaned. "Fucking on pot is ... is..."
"Isn't it, though?" she asked.
FIFTEEN
The country club glittered in the soft warm evening as Doris Burton and I buzzed up to the front portico in her groovy red sports car. A long line of cars preceded us, each car stopping to discharge elegantly dressed women and their men. I spotted Bret Grayson in a white sequined sheath gown with a neckline that plunged almost to her navel. A tall handsome man with gray hair and wearing a pale blue nehru coat I assumed was her husband was with her. The car directly in front of us was a hired limousine carrying Jane Fielding escorted by a very athletic-looking suntanned young man.
"I see Jane Fielding's hired a stud for the night," I commented to Doris as we waited for our turn to pull up at the door.
"Oh, no," Doris said, "that's Derek Harte. He's always Jane's escort at these affairs." Doris was whispering now although no one would have been able to hear her above the growl of the car's engine. "Jane's a lezzy, you know, and Derek is a fag. That way they don't feel threatened by each other."
"He's a fag?"
"They never look it, Matt. Never."
We left the car in the hands of a boy hired to park cars and then walked into the glittering ballroom that we had decorated. In the dim light and crowded with people and filled with music from an orchestra, the ballroom was lovely and our decorations which had seemed a bit tacky to say the least now seemed to fit and to add the right touch of color. I was very pleased with the job, and I took Doris' hand as we swept into the room proudly. For a while, however, the Cotillion was a drag, but soon Doris and I drifted out onto the terrace and smoked two joints of pot. Then things started looking and sounding better, and I danced happily with Doris, feeling her warmth and softness against me while she was feeling the hard-on that hid in my pants leg and rubbed against her thighs as we danced. "Let's go somewhere and screw," I whispered.
"Soon," she said with great promise. "Soon."
Still later, we were back on the terrace smoking a third joint when Gus Barker came barging out of the ballroom and looking suddenly very adult and handsome in a tuxedo. "Hey, Matthew," he called, "gotta talk to you."
"Talk," I said with a giggle as I handed him the joint, "but puff on this first."
He dutifully toked on the joint, then began talking fast and excitedly. "Listen, there's gonna be an orgy."
"Yeah," I said, clapping my hands.
"You want to come?"
I burst into another laugh at that.
"To the orgy," Gus said with obvious irritation.
"Sure. I've never been to an orgy. Who's giving it?" i
"Derek Harte."
"That fag?" I asked. "What's it gonna be, all boys?"
"Nah, nothing like that. You can bring Doris."
I turned and looked at her with a stupid grin on my face. "Well?"
"If you want to," she said. "I want to," I said.
"Good," Gus said, slapping me on the arm. "It'll be at Derek's house. Doris knows where it is. Right?"
Doris nodded.
"See ya there," Gus said with a wave, disappearing back into the ballroom.
"You sure you want to go ? " I asked Doris.
She put her arms around me and kissed me on the lips. "Yes," she said. "It'll be fun."
"What'll I tell my uncle?" I asked, suddenly realizing that Uncle Martin might not approve of my going to anything like an orgy. He was a groovy and tolerant guy, but I figured he might draw the line at orgies.
"Don't tell him anything," Doris said. "I'm sure he knows that after the Cotillion you'll be going off somewhere to do something, eh?"
Which made sense. "Okay," I said. "But I still think it might be more fun for you and me to go somewhere and have an orgy of our own."
"Maybe we can have our orgy after Derek's," Doris laughed
At which point Bret Grayson arrived. "My darling Matthew," she gushed, "I have been looking all over for you."
"Really?" I said.
"There is someone you really must meet. A very dear relative of mine who's visiting here from the East. New Haven."
"Well, Bret, I don't really know if I could meet anyone now," I said, looking at Doris who had a silly pot grin on her face.
Bret, turning to Doris with a smile, said, "Why, I'm sure Miss Burton would excuse you for just a few seconds, wouldn't you, dear?"
I could just see the ice come over Doris' face, but before she could say anything, Bret Grayson had me in tow and was dragging me away. "It'll only be a minute, Doris," I called out as I was led away. Then to Bret I said, very icily. "That was very damned rude of you, Bret."
"Matthew," she said, ignoring my words, "I want you to meet Miss Marsha Williams, queen of our Cotillion."
Well, having expected to meet one of Bret's aging acquaintances and being presented with a very young and very scrumptious blonde with a body that just wouldn't quit, all the anger in me faded away into nothing and I turned on my best smile. "How do you do?" I said.
"Aunt Bret has told me some very interesting things about you, Matthew," Marsha said, taking my arm, "and I simply had to meet you. Shall we dance?"
"It would be my pleasure," I said, aware of the warmth of her hand on my arm. I was a little light-headed from the pot as we stepped into each other's arms and drifted onto the dance floor to some very slow and dreamy music.
"Aunt Bret told me how handsome you were," she was saying into my ear as we pressed our faces together, "but I had no idea that any boy could be so much more than Aunt Bret could describe. And so strong."
"I've been getting a lot of ... exercise," I said, giggling unexplainably.
Marsha backed off and looked straight into my eyes. "You are stoned," she said in a whisper.
"Petrified."
"Grass?"
"Super-grass."
"Do you have any more?"
"I could get some from Doris."
"Doris Burton?"
"You know her?"
"Everyone knows Doris Burton."
"That sounded nasty."
"I intended it to sound nasty."
"You don't like Doris Burton?"
"We have some scores to settle," Marsha said, hugging me against her firm and fully-packed body and communicating a very clear message. "She once took a boy away from me."
"I would suppose you could get any boy you wanted," I said, trying to flatter her.
"I want you, Matthew," she said coolly.
"You don't even know me."
"I know all I need to know."
"This is your way of getting even with Doris ? "
"Yes. That was my intention, but now, after seeing you, I think I want you now because of you and not because of her. You are really a most delicious-looking boy."
"You want to have sex with me, is that it?"
"Matthew, that is exactly it."
I couldn't help but smile.
"Are you surprised that a girl would proposition you?" she asked.
"Marsha," I said, holding her more firmly against me and rubbing my hips against hers, "since I came out here to California, I've learned never to be surprised."
"Shall we go for a walk?" she asked.
"I do need a little ... fresh air," I said.
As we headed out toward the lawns surrounding the Club, I saw Doris Burton out of the corner of my eye. She was standing alone by the punch-table and the look in her eyes could only be described as murderous. I was beginning to know how the pawns in a chess game must feel caught between opposing queens, but valiantly and with a stiff upper lip-not to mention a stiff something else-I was fully prepared to be taken by Queen Marsha.
"Where will we go?" Marsha asked, more of herself than me.
"How about the caddy house?" I suggested. "It's probably deserted."
"Yes, fine," she said.
And it was deserted.
"Woody Robbins has a couch in his office," I pointed out, and luckily the office was unlocked. Inside, Marsha lost no time. She threw her arms around me and began kissing me in the mouth while my hands explored the shape of her body through the elegant silver ball gown she was wearing. I hooked my fingers under the top of the bodice and pushed down, forcing the dress down to her waist and exposing her lovely, pink, round, naked breasts which I then began squeezing very gently in my hands. At my first touch, Marsha dropped one hand to my crotch and started rubbing my hard-on through my trousers.
"Get undressed," she sighed. "Quickly."
By the time I wriggled out of my clothes, Marsha had shed her ball gown and was lying on her back on a big brown leather couch. Dim lights shining through the window of Woody Robbins' office cast a very soft glow on her startlingly white and smooth skin as I moved across the room and knelt above her on the couch. She reached down and fondled my cock, then guided it toward her slit as I lowered myself onto her.
"Say you love me, Matthew," she sighed.
"What?"
"Say you love me."
"I love you," I said, and then I pushed the head into the warm wet folds of her cunt, gasping at the first sudden thrill that coursed through my whole body. "I love you and I'm gonna fuck you so you'll know," I said. With a long deep thrust I sent it driving into her as I lowered my body onto her.
"Oh, it's divine. Your skin. I love your skin. So smooth. And your muscles. I love muscles. And your cock inside me. Your big thick hot hard prick. In my cunt. Your cock in my cunt," she babbled. Gasping as she rocked her hips, she said, "Talk to me, Matthew. Say things to me. Tell me the words. All the words."
"Sure, baby," I grunted. "Sure."
And then I launched into a long string of practically every dirty word I knew, underscoring every word with a thrust of my cock into her dripping, gasping, clutching cunt. She was really turned on, probably more by the words than by my cock. "Fuck you. Gonna fuck you to within an inch of your life. Slam my prick right into your cunt. Ream out your pussy with my big prick..."
On and on, word after word, thrust after thrust, sending my cock all the way into her again and again, deeper and deeper, harder and harder, faster and faster until she was a writhing, gasping, whimpering mass of pure sexual pleasure beneath me. She scratched at my back with her fingernails, wrapped her smooth hot thighs around my hips, and licked my face and neck and shoulders with her hot, dart-like tongue. Down below, my plundering prick had whipped her into a froth of juices that dribbled down her upturned buttocks and soaked the insides of my thighs and splattered upon my balls as I fucked her with all my might, all the while giving her a running play-by-play of what I was doing, my words satisfying her thing for dirty words while her cunt satisfied my cock's need for a slippery, hot, pistoning, tight, sucking vagina.
"Oh, I'm coming, Matthew," she moaned.
But I kept on going, driving into her, screwing her with all my might, reaching out for my own orgasm which was just starting to tingle deep down inside me.
"Oh, you are so good to me," she cried.
My cock, swelling up like a balloon, felt unbearably heavy and ached with the growing explosion that was about to occur, and then, in a torrent, I came. Endlessly, it seemed, I poured myself into her, coming in long thick spurts as my hips slammed my prick hard into her so that every last drop of my semen would go shooting up into her belly, and then it was over and I lay wilted and spent upon her heaving young body.
"Oh, Matthew, that was wonderful," she sighed. Then after a long pause, she added, "Now I've evened the score with that bitch Doris."
Which turned me right off.
I pushed myself off her and out of her, then stood beside the couch looking down at her pale nude form. "So now you've had me for your revenge ? "
"Oh, I didn't mean it like that, Matthew," she said. "Surely you don't think that I came out here and fucked you just to spite Doris Burton?"
I slowly nodded my head as I gathered up my clothes and started pulling them on. "I sure as hell do," I said. "And do you know what?"
She shook her head.
"I am getting damned fed up with people using me."
"That's not it at all, Matthew," she said, sitting up and holding out her arms to me again. "Come. Fuck me again. Let me make it up to you."
I shook my head very slowly. "Ever since I came to this place people have been using my body and my cock like they were some toys. Well, I'm not a plaything, and right now I'm gonna tell you something that you'll probably love to hear 'cause it's a very dirty word. Marsha, you can go fuck yourself."
SIXTEEN
"You can go fuck yourself, Matthew Branson."
"But, Doris..."
"I don't enjoy being dumped, especially when it's for a slut like Marsha Williams."
"But I came back to you."
"Unfortunately," she said with ice forming on her lovely pink lips, "I wasn't here."
"Ah, Doris, don't be like that."
"Goodbye, Matthew."
Adrift, abandoned, alone, I wended my way toward the punch bowl intending to get drunk and feeling very, very wounded and grim and wanting some pity. What I got was Gus Barker who was swilling the spiked punch like it was either something he'd just discovered and couldn't believe or the final drops of some godly nectar never to grace the earth again. "What d'ya say, sport?" he grinned.
"I say fuck the whole fucking fucked up world," I grunted.
"Wow. What's with you?"
"Women. Fucking fucked up women is what's with me. Fuck 'em all."
"Doris give you a bad time?"
"Urn."
"Well," Gus said, handing me a cup of punch, "so much the better. Always better going to an orgy alone."
"I think I'll just skip it, Gus."
"Skip it? Why, Matthew, you're being advertised as the major attraction."
"That's just it, dammit. I'm sick of being everybody's dildo."
"Drink up, boy," he said, "and we'll head for the circus maximus."
"I mean it, Gus. I'm up to here with the creeps in this club."
"Man, if I had as many people lined up waiting to tumble in bed as you do, why I'd..."
"Know what you'd do, Gus?" I interrupted. "You'd get sick of it, too. Now, excuse me."
"Where're you goin'? "
"To take a fucking piss."
"There's a line a mile long at the head. Try your luck out in the bushes." With that, he lifted another cup of punch and swilled it down.
I walked far away from the clubhouse, enjoying the sea-wet air and the smell of the salt and letting the breezes off the water surround me like a blanket. Behind me, the faint sound of dance music wafted on the air and got mixed up with the sighing of the wind in the tops of the cypress trees skirting the fairways stretching like broad highways under the sky, which was turning bright with a rising full moon. Then, out of the darkness of the trees, I heard voices.
"Oh, my dearest, I love you," said a man's voice. "I love you. I love you."
"Fuck me, darling, Fuck me," came a woman's voice in reply.
I smiled. It was Bret Grayson's voice.
"I'll fuck you like you've never been fucked before," said the man.
It was Woody Robbins, the club pro.
Turning and heading back toward the clubhouse I wondered how many couples were out there in the dark, sea-wet, moon-rising night.
The ballroom lights dazzled me for a moment as I went back in, and as my eyes became accustomed to the brightness, I saw Derek Harte, athletic and tanned and handsome, leave Gus Barker's side and come striding boldly over to me. "We haven't met," he said, extending his hand, "but I'm Derek Harte and Gus tells me you've decided not to come to my party a little later."
"That's right," I said. "I'm a little tired."
"Ah, too bad," he said.
"It's nothing personal or anything like that, Mr. Harte."
"Derek, please, and won't you please reconsider? There are so many of the same dreary old faces around here. Yours will be bright and fresh and new. It won't be a party without you."
"I really can't," I said firmly.
He turned up a small, mischievous smile. "You strike me as a boy who enjoys a good joke," he said.
"I guess so," I said, intrigued. "Well, I'd like to have some fun at the expense of my guests, but you would have to help me."
"How?"
"It would be awfully, uh, shall we say, naughty?"
"What did you have in mind?"
"I want you to be Bacchus at my party."
"Bacchus?"
"The god of wine. A beautiful god who presided over orgies," he said, his voice rising slightly with his mounting enthusiasm. "What you would do is drift through the rooms of my house carrying a bottle of wine and maybe some pills and the like.
Sort of a waiter." He almost laughed but kept control of himself to add, "And of course, you would be absolutely naked all the while."
"Naked?"
"Oh, it would be such a stunt." I shook my head. "Nah, I couldn't. I just couldn't."
"Are you shy?"
"It's not that, but what if my uncle found out?"
His hand fluttered down onto my shoulder. "Dear Matthew, I assure you, you have nothing to worry about on that score. And think of the marvelous, naughty memory it will be for you. Bacchus! Why, it's a vision to stagger the imagination, and I assure you, Matthew, there will be some very lovely people there who would succumb to your charm very happily. Bo come to the party and be my Bacchus, Matthew."
"Why, I'd never give a party without darling Doug."
"Marsha..."
"Williams? Of course."
"Mr. Harte," I said with a chin-out smile, "you have a deal."
"Mr. Branson," he said, squeezing my bicep tenderly, "I am delighted. Oh, the thrill of it. The fun. Shall I drive you?"
"I'll go with Gus Barker." His smile was his answer.
Of course, his house sat on a cliff overlooking the ocean, but its opulence made Bret Grayson's and Jane Fielding's and Douglas Flat's houses pale in comparison. Even Uncle Martin's fantastic place came in a poor second. As Gus Barker's beat-up Chevy swung into the long curving driveway and we looked up at the windows glowing with light and gaiety, Gus cocked an eye toward me and asked, "Not having any misgivings ? "
"Nah," I said.
"You figure this is a way to get back at certain people?"
"Something like that."
"By making them jealous and giving them hot pants and then turning them all down cold."
"Yep."
"Ooo, what a prick you are," he laughed.
"Let's just say I've had my college education from certain people and tonight I stage my own little graduation ceremonies."
We were both laughing uproariously as Gus parked his car amid a stunning row of high-priced autos.
Derek Harte met us at the door. He was very sotto voce. "Go around to the back, and I'll sneak you up to my bedroom so you can get ready, Matthew." His eyes fairly sparkled with his delight at his little stunt, and presently, as he led meGus had gone directly into the party-upstairs, he was chuckling and rubbing his hands together. Ushering me into his bedroom, he was muttering, "Oh, this is going to be such a fun night. Their eyes will just pop out of their heads when they see you."
I sauntered over to a chair and sat down to start pulling off my shoes.
"I've decided you won't be completely naked, Matthew," Derek said, all-aflutter. "I want you to wear these."
He held up a huge bunch of artificial grapes.
"Aren't they just too, too much? I mean, they are the perfect thing for Bacchus. I wish they were real, but it's too late to find a fruit store open, so these will have to do."
"Just how do you expect me to wear them?"
"Why, in front, of course," he winked.
"What do I hold them on with, scotch tape?"
"I have anticipated that," he giggled, holding up a spool of string. "It is very strong and thin. We'll just tie the grapes on with this. Okay?"
I was starting to think all of this was pretty funny by this time, although I was still more than a little high from the pot I'd smoked earlier and that probably helped. "It's fine," I said, chuckling as I stood up and started peeling off my clothes. "Just fine."
"Why, Matthew," Derek said solemnly as I kicked off my underwear shorts and stood stark naked in front of him, "you are magnificent. Far more beautiful than Douglas told me."
"Douglas Flat," I grunted.
"Yes, but don't be angry that he told me about the scene you had with him. He was so elated to have found such a lovely boy that he called me immediately."
"Some sort of fag grapevine?" I grunted.
The unintended pun struck Derek and me at the same time and we both burst into laughter. "Now," he said, getting control of himself again, "Let me see about dressing you into these grapes." He came across the room with the grapes and the thread and began the job of lashing me into the get-up. Kneeling in front of me, my cock just a breath away from his lips, he turned his eyes up to me with a hound-dog expression, pleading. "May I? Just once?"
"Well, I don't really dig that, Derek," I said lowly.
"Just a few licks?"
Telling him no was hardly possible by that time because my ever-ready penis was rising to the occasion.
"Splendid," Derek sighed, looking squarely at my hard-on. "I think one of these is the most beautiful sight in the world, and yours, Matthew, is one of the loveliest I have ever seen. And I have seen plenty. Please?"
"Okay," I said in a crackly voice.
Very slowly, tenderly, and lovingly, Derek administered a blow-job kneeling there before me with his head sliding back and forth on my tingling cock while he held those stupid artificial grapes in one hand and that spool of thread in the other. As he worked his lips and tongue over my prick and guided me steadily and surely to an orgasm I figured even the real Bacchus would have been pleased.
"I'm ready now," I said softly.
Deftly, he drew me to my climax and I spilled my burning semen into his thirsty, drinking, savoring mouth. When I was through, he removed my cock from his mouth and kissed me on the belly. Then he sighed and went back to work tying those ridiculous grapes onto me so that they dangled between my legs and obscured my cock.
"I think," he said in triumph, "that Bacchus is ready to attend the orgy.
SEVENTEEN
Voices floated up the stairs as I came out of Derek's bedroom wearing the bunch of artificial grapes which had a way of bouncing as I walked and rubbing against my cock, causing it to get hard again and poke through the grapes, its shining head peeking between the Concords like some rare grape itself. In one arm I carried a goatskin filled with red wine. In the other, a small basket of assorted pills and marijuana joints.
The stairs made a graceful unenclosed curve down to the living room which was crowded with men and women wearing the imagine clothes they'd donned for the Coltillion. None of them noticed me until I was halfway down the stairs. Then it was a short, dumpy woman who spotted me. She said nothing, just turned and looked up at me with a smile on her face, and I could see that her eyes were fastened on the bouncing bundle of grapes lashed to my groin.
Others began noticing me as I neared the bottom of the stairs, but as they turned and looked, they, too, fell silent. By the time I reached the last step the whole roomful of people stood in absolute silence. Finally, Derek Harte stepped out of the crowd. "This is Bacchus," he said with a smile, "and he has wine and other goodies for all you naughty people."
"The goodies," said a woman near the back of the crowd, "are behind those grapes."
That broke the ice, and the crowd burst into laughter and some applause and then chatter as I started making my way through the people, filling their wine glasses or holding out the basket so they could help themselves to pills and joints. Soon the room reeked with the smell of pot. Hands reached out to touch me as I moved through the crowd. Some just lightly touched me. Others stroked my buttocks. One man ran a finger into the crack and tried to get it into my ass-hole, but I was moving too fast for him. At last, I stood by a tall, stunningly beautiful woman old enough to be my mother.
"You must be the boy named Matthew that all the girls have been talking about," she said with a smile.
"My name's Matthew," I said, nodding to her.
"I am Hermione Grosvenor," she said. She ran a hand lightly down my chest and around behind me to rest on my backside. "You are a very handsome boy. I understand that some of the shrews who belong to our country club were vulgar enough to wager some money on which of them could get you into bed first."
"I heard something like that," I said. "Were you part of the pool?"
"My God, no," she laughed.
"You're not interested in going to bed with me?"
"I am dying to go to bed with you," she said with a wink. "Seeing you coming down those stairs just now, it was the only thought in my mind."
"That's very flattering," I said.
"When a woman gets older, she has to use flattery on young men. Or money. That's sad, isn't it?"
"I don't think you have to use either of them," I said, which was not being polite, because Her-mione Grosvenor was a very attractive woman. Then, on an impulse, I bent close to her and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
"Do you know what I want to ask you?" she said.
"I think so," I smiled.
"If I waited for you in one of the bedrooms, would you come to me?"
"Yes," I said. "As soon as I could slip away."
"I'll await you," she said, and then she glided away very regally and as I watched her I felt very good about her because she was really the first person to realize that even when you are asking someone to screw you, you can be nice about it.
Doris Burton eyed me icily from a corner and made a show of putting her arm around a tall, skinny young man as if she really cared for the guy. While she was looking, I reached down and adjusted the bunch of grapes, lifting them a little and making sure she saw my hard-on. Then I put back the grapes as if they were an apron and began making the rounds of the living room again.
"Matthew," said Derek Harte as I circled by him and a group of other men, "you simply must meet Myles Smith and Orville Denton."
The two men were young, heavily-muscled and wearing very tight-fitting shirts and pants to show off their physiques. "Hullo," I said to them. I held out the basket of pills and joints. "Want to turn on?"
"With you, of course," said one of them, grinning.
"Don't be raunchy, Myles," the second one said. "Be careful of this one, Matthew. She'll rape you the minute your back is turned."
"Why turn your back?" Myles Smith said, laughing. "I can do you very well from the front."
"I'll bet," I said.
"You wouldn't have the nerve," said Orville Denton, "in front of all these people."
"Oh, wouldn't I?" Myles Smith snarled, showing his perfect teeth.
Derek Harte's eyes met mine. He smiled. "Matthew?"
"That wasn't part of the deal, Derek," I said.
"No, it's true," he said. "But..."
"Matthew," said Myles Smith, "you have an obligation when you are as magnificent as you are. You become, well, what ... a public trust."
"I don't think so," I said.
"You don't dig sex?"
"I dig sex, sure, but lately I've been sexing it more but digging it less."
"But my honor has been challenged, Matthew," Myles Smith said. "Orville and Derek doubt that I would actually go down on you right here in this room with all these people around."
"I don't doubt it, Myles. Not at all," I said, grinning.
"Then won't you let me prove myself to these others?"
"The grapes would only get in the way," I joked.
But Myles Smith wasn't joking. "I want to blow you, Matthew. Here and now. Please. For the sake of my honor."
"And what about my honor?"
"A boy who looks like you need never worry about his honor, Matthew. The world will change its rules to suit you."
I grunted a laugh and began moving away.
"There you are, queenie," said Orville Denton to Myles Smith. "You've been turned down flat." And then he burst into laughter.
Looking back, I saw Myles Smith's face. Hurt and humiliation showed in it, and suddenly I felt very sorry for him. So, I set down my basket of pills and joints and that almost-empty goatskin of wine and sauntered back to that tiresome threesome. As I approached, Orville Denton's laughter stopped and the three of them stared at me with their mouths and eyes wide open. I slipped my thumb under the little thread that held the grapes and pulled on the thread until it snapped and the grapes dropped to the floor. In all its naked glory my hard-on jutted out in front of me. "Redeem your honor, Myles," I said.
With a sob, he threw himself to his knees and plunged my cock into his mouth, sucking eagerly and hungrily at it while Derek and Orville still stood with mouths slack and unbelieving eyes wide and unblinking.
"Oh, how marvelous," Orville gasped, at last and he threw himself to his knees and began licking my thighs and balls while Myles pumped back and forth on my prick.
"What about you, Derek?" I said.
"Why not?" he laughed.
He sank to his knees behind me and began licking my ass-hole with a long, hot, probing tongue. Naturally, we drew an audience.
That really broke the ice, and the orgy began in earnest. By the time Derek, Orville and Myles had gotten their fill of me, the whole party had paired off and settled down to sex. The living room was almost empty except for three or four couples lying on couches or the floor. Screwing, eating, doing everything possible, they lay in naked and blissful pleasure oblivious to me as I sauntered among them, watching, staring, smiling, wondering.
Then I remembered Hermione Grosvenor and went upstairs to find her still dressed and sitting regally-in a chair in a bedroom. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting," I said.
She smiled, showing no sign of surprise to see me come into the room naked and with my cock half-hard and still damp from the three mouths that had been tantalizing it downstairs. "How very sweet of you to remember at all," she said, holding out her arms to me.
I fucked her gently and slowly and with a great deal of tenderness.
"I think we will remember each other, Matthew," she said as I left her.
"I'm sure of it," I said. Then I did something I'd never done before. I blew a kiss. It just seemed right.
Going barefoot down the hallway, passing closed doors, I heard all the muttered, swallowed, gasped, cried, moaned, and sobbed sounds of human beings making love. I thought about myself standing in the trees of the ninth fairway and spying on Gus Barker as he screwed Bret Grayson. And I thought about Lester Greene spying on me with Bret. Now, here I was walking down a hallway lined with closed doors behind which faceless people were locked in the dance of sex, and I began wondering why it had to be so secret and sordid and something done in the bushes or behind closed doors and with the lights out. Here were all these people with all the money anybody could ever need, yet they were poor in other ways, needing orgies and wagers on who can screw the caddy and God knows what else to make their lives interesting. It was sad thinking about it, and I made up my mind going down that hallway to find my clothes, get dressed and go back to my uncle's house.
I found the door to Derek's bedroom, listened a moment outside it, then pushed it open and went in thinking no one was there.
Out of the semi-dark came a woman's voice. "Welcome to the party," it said drunkenly.
Hands came back out of the dark and pushed the door closed behind me.
"Who's in here?" I asked.
"What does it matter?" came a reply in a husky male voice.
Then a hand closed upon my cock, tugging at it and squeezing, raising it to a hard-on. "Oh, it's a big one," said the woman's voice from below and in front of me.
Other hands moved down my back and squeezed my ass. "Oh, what a divine body," said another female voice. "Anyone know who it is?"
"Who cares?" said a man.
Two more hands touched me, and now there six hands stroking and petting and pulling and squeezing me. "Get this divine thing onto the bed," said the woman from below and in front.
"Yes, yes," said a man.
"Oh, quickly," said the second female voice.
Then the hands pushed me and tugged at me and in the darkness I tumbled onto a bed. No one touched me as I fell onto my back and lay staring up into the pitch blackness. I could hear the others who had tossed me onto the bed hovering in the dark nearby and then I sensed another presence in the bed with me. "Who's there?" I asked.
I heard only breathing and then I felt a very gentle hand fall upon my chest and work its way slowly, strokingly down my chest and belly to my crotch where it enfolded my cock and began manipulating it, raising to a full hard-on that poor over-worked piece of flesh that had suddenly sagged as all those hands had pushed me into bed. Now, under this tender caressing by these hands out of the dark, it rose proudly, eagerly.
The familiar circle of hot wet lips closed upon the head of my tingling cock, and as that tight circle slipped down the shaft, the head plowed into the soft warmth of the back of the mouth of this person who was going stealthily down on it. I shut my eyes and tried to remember the mouths of the others who had touched me. I remembered Lester Green in the caddy house showers, Douglas Flat in his groovy seaside house, Myles Smith and Orville Denton and Derek Harte. And the women whose mouths had ensheathed my cock. They had all been good at it, but this unknown mouth in the darkness was inspired. It performed upon my cock. And with deliberation and expertise it urged my swelling, burning, throbbing cock to a frenzy of fire. I lunged with my hips to meet the insistent downward plunge of the mouth. I writhed, hoping to get even more pleasure from the wide wet swirling twists and licks of this educated tongue. "Oh, God, that is good," I groaned. I heard the others in the darkness murmur but in an instant they were blotted out of my consciousness as this superb cocksucker swept me to a blinding, star-flashing, sun-blinding explosion of come that shot in needle-sharp hot streams, bestowing the only gift I had to give to this superb performer of fellatio. "Oh, God," I groaned. "Oh! Ahhhh! Alh dihh! Unhhhhhhh. Oh, stop, it's too good. Phhhhhhew! AAAAAhhhhhhhhhhh!"
And as the last spurt of my semen splattered upon the tongue of this cocksucker-in-the-dark, the lights went on.
"Oh, my God," I gasped. "Uncle Martin!"
EIGHTEEN
"We missed you, Matthew."
"Very much."
"Yeah, kid brother. How was the Golden State?"
Dad, Mom and Russ met me at JFK airport as the big silver jet deposited me there at the end of the summer. Russ was sun-browned and robust after his summer at camp with all those snot-nosed kids. Mom glowed with health and happiness after her summer alone with the man she loved. And Dad-I stopped calling him the Old Man, for some reason-looked like a man who was proud of his family and in love with all its members.
"It was a very nice summer," I said.
"And how was Uncle Martin?" my Mom asked.
"Just fine," I said.
"He's been so lonely since Millie died," Dad said sadly. "Does he seem to have gotten over it, Matt?"
"Oh, I think so," I said.
"He's a fine man. I know he's had a great success in his business and has a lot of money, but somehow I've always felt that he was sad, deep down inside. That's why I wanted you to go out there for the summer. Martin always liked you, Matt. I hoped you'd cheer him up."
"I think maybe I did," I said.
"Yes, he's a fine man, your Uncle Martin," Mom said.
"Did you have a lot of fun and do a lot of interesting things?" Russ asked, which in our private language meant, did I get laid.
"I did some caddying," I said.
"Caddying?" Russ asked, surprised.
"Sure."
"That sounds like a drag."
"Not at all," I said. "You can have a lot of fun on an 18-hole course."
"I'm surprised that Martin would let you take a job," Dad said.
"Well," I said, putting an arm around my Dad and my Mom as we headed for the baggage pickup, "Uncle Martin turned out to be a very surprising guy."
