Cindy looked over the top of her book. I felt her eyes on me, the way you do when a person stares at you, and looked up. I couldn't actually define the expression on her face, in her eyes, but then she said, "You had the strangest smile on your face. I've never seen you look like that in the six years of our marriage."
I scoffed at her, of course, but at the same time I realized that it might be true. After all, I hadn't seen my sister, Marge, in those six years, and this afternoon I'd gotten a call telling me that she was coming for a visit. The call had awakened many memories, and those memories conceivably could have brought a smile saved for such special occasions.
I couldn't tell Cindy about it. How could a man say to his wife, "Well, you know, Marge was my first real love, and I guess your first love never fully dies." I couldn't tell her how, when I was thirteen and fourteen years old, I used to hide in Marge's closet and beat my meat while I watched her undress. Nor could I tell her that my first complete sexual experience had been with my own sister. An unforgettable time.
Marge was a year older than me. Our mother died when she was nine and I was eight, and she sort of took over the house. Dad kept going, but he seemed to have lost interest in life; he moved by habit, routine, but things would surely have fallen apart if Marge hadn't taken over. She became more mother than sister to me, and-at least in some things-more wife than daughter to Dad.
Little wonder I fell in love with her (without actually knowing that was what it was). Probably the first inkling was, as I mentioned, when I started feeling sexual urges and found myself thinking about her; it would get so strong that I couldn't help myself, I had to hide where I could watch her undress. Seeing her own ripely developing body, I took slow strokes while I imagined myself nuzzling her pear-shaped breasts, licking and sucking on the cute little nipples that jutted out. As she would step out of her panties and I'd see that lovely mound between her legs, the hair on it soft and velvety-looking, I'd start stroking faster. Each of my climaxes, caught in a handkerchief, was a sort of secret love-offering to her.
T I was fifteen when I got sick. They weren't sure at first what it was, but the doctor finally labeled it rheumatic fever and one of the medical requirements was to get a lot of rest. Marge took
;on the extra load unflinchingly, becoming my nurse along with all of her other duties. So it was that one afternoon, when I was beginning to feel better, I felt myself getting a hard-on as I lay on my stomach while she gave me a sponge bath. How could I help it, the way she washed my back and shoulders, moved down over my buttocks, and even went between my legs to where she was gently brushing against my balls. When she told me to roll over I felt my face turn red. "I ... I can't!"
"Why not, silly? You're not that tired."
"It ... it ain't that. I just can't turn over."
She moved so fast that I didn't realize she was doing it. I was suddenly flopped over onto my back and my ramrod was sticking up like a dead tree growing out of the dark brush below. Marge's eyes widened, and before she even realized what she was saying she said, "Heavens, Davie, you're bigger down there than boys a lot older than you!"
I tried to cover it, but she grabbed my wrists, then she smiled up into my face and said, "Davie, don't be embarrassed! Heck, I've known all the time you had one, so why shouldn't I see it, especially when I'm your nurse?'
"But ... but it's ... it's hard!"
She giggled a little. "Want to know the truth? I like it that way. Here, I'll prove it!" She leaned over and kissed it right on the head, a brief kiss. "Now," she said, "Let's get on with your bath."
She washed my face and neck, my shoulders and chest. Rinsing the cloth out from time to time; she moved lower. Finally she was "down there," and she gently lathered and then rinsed both my cock and my balls; I wasn't sure if she did it deliberately or not, but there was a certain amount of stroking to it, and if she had kept going much longer she'd have had an extra clean-up job.
After she had dried me, she took the washbasin and other equipment into the bathroom. I pulled the sheet up over me, but it didn't help much; my rod still stuck up like a pole, and the sheet was like a tent stretched out from it. Marge saw it when she came back. She sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out, put her hand over it. "Gee, Davie, I don't know if it's good for you to stay hard like this, but I don't know if it's good for you to ... well, you know, get rid of it." She had pushed it down against my stomach and started rubbing her hand up and down it. "Will it go down by itself, or do you have to...? "
I swallowed, because I had already started thinking that as soon as she left the room I'd pretend I was hiding in her closet, draw up visions of her taking her clothes off and beat it off.
She looked deep into my eyes. "Davie," she finally said, her voice weaker than I had ever heard it, "do you want me ... do you want me to take care of it for you?"
I swallowed again, heart pounding against my chest. God, yes, I wanted her to! "D'ya want to?"
She looked into my eyes a few moments longer then nodded her head. "Yes," she finally answered, "I want to. I guess I've really wanted to for a long time, I just didn't know it until now."
She slid her hand under the sheet and wrapped her fingers around my shaft, stroking it gently. "I wish we could ... well, you know, but we can't, not with you like you are. The doctor said you're not to exert yourself. So we mustn't-you know..."
I didn't know, but I didn't have time right then to speculate on what she had meant. She pulled the sheet down with her free hand, and then holding my rod by the base with her other hand, she leaned over. Her hair fell against my stomach and legs, and I felt her lips slide over the head. Her tongue slid all the way around it and I almost turned inside out; she tickled the head with her tongue, even pressing the tip a little ways into the opening, then she compressed her lips and started moving up and down the full length of my shaft. She grabbed up my balls with her other hand, gently fondling them as she kept moving her mouth up and down, and I could feel her tits brush against my legs with each stroke. I was almost going out of my mind. Finally I had to yell out, "Geez, Marge, you better stop, I'm gonna shoot!"
She didn't stop; she just started moving her head faster, and I couldn't help myself. My hips started moving up and down, driving my cock into her mouth as it slid down to receive it, pulling it away and then sending it back. My hands crept down and grasped her head, then I was romping like mad. I started gasping and grunting, and I couldn't hold back. It spurted, and spurted, and spurted. Marge didn't quit; she swallowed each spurt, and when it had finally stopped she milked it dry with her lips. "Geez," I half-whispered, "I'm sorry I shot in your mouth that way."
"Silly," she said, smiling as she raised her head, letting my gone-limp cock drop down over my balls, "you were supposed to! And hmmmmmm, it tasted like honey!"
A moment later she leaned down and planted a kiss on my cock, then pushed herself up, straightening her dress. Looking up at her, I thought, 'Tomorrow I'm going to ask if I can play with her tits a little."
'This is just our secret, Davie, don't you dare tell a soul we did this, okay?"
"Scout's honor!" I answered, and then conflicting feelings seemed to surge through me. First, looking at her well-developed body and remembering what she had just done, I felt the first concrete realization of what I would later define as love. Secondly, I felt a horrible jealousy. I had to ask her. "Marge, have you ... ever done that to any other boy?"
She swallowed, her face going almost expressionless, then she said, "Will you keep another secret, Davie?"
I nodded that I would.
"Well, one night Daddy got awful drunk and he forgot who I was. He thought I was Mama, he was all mixed up. I didn't know what to do, so I just pretended I was Mama. I figured I'd get him to bed and he'd go to sleep, but ... well, after we got in bed he started making love. He wanted to ... you know, stick it between my legs, but I begged him not to. He started to get mad, and he said I either had to do it that way or ... or do ... what I just did to you."
I nodded again, because I could understand and accept that, but I knew in that moment that I didn't want her messing around with any other boys. As a matter-of-fact, I told myself that if any boy messed around with her I'd cut his damned cock right off!
"You want to know something?" she broke into my thoughts, her voice lighter, even a little playful. "You're even bigger than Daddy is! Oh, his is as long as yours, but yours is bigger around."
She went into the kitchen to start dinner and I got into my pajamas, then I lay there thinking about what had happened. Just remembering it, I got bubbling feelings inside and half a hard-on; I could feel anticipation growing, and for the first time since it had happened I was glad that I had gotten sick. Man, what she had done (and especially her doing it!) sure beat pounding it off!
I shook my head, trying to clear it, and then looked across the room again as if I were in a strange place. My eyes finally focused on my wife and I heard Cindy saying, "What on earth's wrong with you, Dave? You're sitting there like you're in a trance but smiling like a cat that just caught a mouse!"
I mustered up a chuckle. "You wouldn't understand."
"Maybe not," she answered almost petulantly, "but I hope it's me you're thinking about because, in case you haven't noticed it yourself, you've got something mighty big and hard in your pants!"
That was worth a short laugh, especially because she was right. My cock had stretched out below my shorts and hardened. I reached down and rubbed it, enjoying the sensations that went through my body, then I looked across at Cindy again and wondered if I had married her at least partially because she looked so much like Marge. Both were of medium height, which meant that now I was adult they came to my shoulders; both were well formed, with pear-shaped, firm breasts with easily aroused nipples. Both had narrow waists and flared hips, with nice, round buttocks. Despite frequent use, because I have always had a rather healthy sexual appetite, both had firm-lipped mounds under muffs of soft, almost velvety hair. Both had legs that could be used for hosiery ads and, while neither was beautiful in the Hollywood sense of the word, they had attractive faces with well-shaped features properly placed. Both, in other words, were good-looking, tempting pieces of femininity!
Still half-caught in memory, I smiled at Cindy and said, "As long as you've noticed that, why don't you be a good girl and give your ever-lovin' husband a show?"
"Oh, Lordie!" she feigned disgust. "Why can't you just be like other men? If you want to screw, why not just say so?"
I chuckled a little. "The games are fun, honey! They're like eating the cake and saving the icing for last. But then," I mustered up a pouty expression, "if you don't want to..."
"You bastard! You know I can't look at a hard-on like that and resist it!" She laid her book aside and pushed herself to her feet. "Tell me, sir, why have you come?"
It was going to be that game. "I have come, madam," I answered, "because I have always lived on a farm and as a result I have only heard things. I have never seen a real woman. I have, alas, had no means of gratification other than meat-beating and cows."
"Ugh! But then, I have only to look at your crotch to see that you, sir, would not get lost in a cow as many would! But as you know, you have paid your money and therefore I have no choice but to provide the services for which this establishment is noted!" With that she pulled her blouse up over her head and threw it aside. She reached behind and unsnapped her bra, wriggled her shoulders so that it fell, exposing her lovely breasts. She put her hands near her waist and moved them up slowly, cupping a tit in each and holding it out toward me. "These, my unsophisticated friend, are called tits. They were designed to provide milk for young babes, but older babes find another type of satisfaction-or perhaps a carry-over of the other-from using their mouths on them! Would you like a sample, sir?"
"I think I must," I answered in my role-playing, "because as they came into view and you explained them my cock did a sort of St. Vitus' dance."
She undulated toward my chair and went to her knees between my knees. I leaned forward, reaching out to cup her tits as she had; I raised one and lowered my mouth to it, kissing it and then holding my mouth open over it as my tongue flicked out to to tease the nipple before I went into actual suckling. I transferred to the other and repeated the procedure. I buried my head between them, drinking in the sweet fragrance. She grabbed my head and pushed it away.
"Sir, are you lying to me, or are you an avid student?"
"M'lady, I would not think of lying to you! Never before have I touched anything so lovely nor felt the need to do what I have just done. My mouth hungers for more!"
Pushing herself to her feet, she soliloquized. 'There is nothing that says the teacher should not also enjoy the lesson." She turned to me. "Sir, I think that the time has come when you should give that poor creature of yours some fresh air, as it does seem to be suffering from suffocation."
"Prithee, madam, would you close your eyes while I thus expose myself?" I asked. She put a hand over her eyes, fingers spread so that she could see between them. I opened my belt, loosened my trousers and slid them down over my knees to my ankles. My balls rested comfortably against the chair cushion and my rod stuck up like a stick of bologna.
She lowered her hand, stared as if it were the first time that she had seen me, and gasped. "Good heavens, sir, if you'll pardon my saying so! I worried about you getting lost in the twat of a cow, but now I worry about the poor cow! I do hope that you used vaseline or something of that nature."
"I used self-lubricating cows," I answered.
"Well, so much for that! Now, on with the lesson ... but, by the way, have you ever measured that cattle prod?"
"This?" I asked, grasping my cock in one hand. When she nodded in the affirmative I replied, "I've had no occasion to, but a friend, I must admit, so desired. It measures out to ten inches extended, and no hand, including my own, has reached around it."
"Obviously," she replied. "But now, on with our lessons. I will now remove my shoes and stockings." (She did, with great visual eloquence!) "There are some who react to such action, seeing exposed ankle and thigh, but you are obviously not one of them. That being the case, sir, I feel that we must get down to the nitty-gritty. I am now going to remove my skirt, and once it is removed you will see that between my legs there is ... what some people call a palace of pleasure, others call a pleasure spot, and on and on. It is, in truth, merely a cunt, perfectly designed so that the male organ-that thing you have sticking up from your crotch-may fit into it. You have heard of fucking, have you not?"
"Nay, fair lady, I know naught of which you speak."
"Fucking, sir, would be doing to me what you did to that poor, defenseless cow." She opened the zipper on her skirt and slid the material down, letting it drop into a puddle at her feet. She was wearing only her flimsy panties now, and I could see that they were moist at the crotchfull indication that she was enjoying the game as much as I! But, as was frequently the case, I let the game end there. I pushed myself up, kicked shoes and then pants and shorts off, and crossed the room hurriedly. Dropping to my knees, I pulled her panties down and with the same motion buried my face in her crotch. I smelled her femininity as I rubbed my nose up and down through the soft hair, pressing it between the firm lips, then I let my mouth take over. I lapped like a dog going hungrily after something tasty, my tongue going as deep as it could through the full length of her cleavage. She groaned and grasped my head, and as I sent my tongue up into her she pushed her pussy against my face, legs spread slightly apart; I found her clitoris with my tongue and gave it a thorough working over. "Oh, God!" she moaned. "Oh, God!"
I wanted to reach up for her tits, but a man can do only so much. Instead, I grasped her firm buttocks, fingertips meeting in the cleavage, and pulled her twat hard against my face. I gave her a thorough tonguing, then pulled way. Sitting back on my haunches, I looked up at her. "Tell me what you want," I demanded, and an observer would never have believed that we had screwed maybe a thousand or more times before.
"I want you to fuck me!" she half-gasped. "Oh, God, I want that big whang of yours up me. Please, Dave, please. Please fuck me royally!"
I pushed myself to my feet, swept her into my arms and carried her into the bedroom. I laid her down on the bed and in the same motion straddled her. My mouth found hers, kissed her greedily, and I reached down between us. I pushed my big, pulsating cock straight, got it positioned, sent it home.
I sent my tongue down her throat at the same time, then moved my mouth down to those luscious tits as I started a smooth in-and-out motion. Everything, even Marge, was forgotten; I merely fucked until we reached a fantastically beautiful climax. "Oh, God," she moaned when it was over, when I lay on top of her, still embedded in her although I had gone limp, "with that big prick of yours it's always the same. It hurts so much it feels so good! God, Dave, no man could ever satisfy me after you!"
I nuzzled my mouth against her cheek. "You better never even let another man try to satisfy you!" I kissed her tits again, then pulled my limp cock out as I moved my mouth down over her stomach. My tongue was a darting snake, and despite her orgasm of but a few moments before, she writhed; I got my mouth to her just as she spent for a second time. I lapped it all up, adding to her frenzy by circulating my tongue over and around her, then rolled over onto my back and stared up at the ceiling. I knew that, if I wanted, I could get hard again and either roll back over onto her or take her head and push it down in that direction, but the thoughts were pushing in on me again. The game of the moment was over, I was moving back into the past again.
Marge had blown me that afternoon, my first sexual experience other than pounding my pud. Even then I had seen it as more than just sex-she hadn't just done that to get my rocks off, to make my cock go soft, she had done it because ... well, because it made us close. It made us as close as two people can get. As brother and sister, especially after my mother died, we had been drawn together; the next step was to see each other as human beings, forgetting blood relationship. As such, love grew. The ultimate of love was physical contact, the merging of bodies after souls had met. That first blowing had been not only the beginning but only what it could be under the circumstances-after all, I was supposed to get as much rest as possible but I was stuck there with a hard-on! We had not seen each other as anything other than brother and sister. And I honestly think that's true. Even as I hid in the closet, beating my meat while I watched her undress, she was still my sister on the one hand and female on the other! I left my sister outside the door, looked at the female from within). With that first encounter, then, with her going down and sucking my cock, we crossed over the line; we became male and female, not brother and sister.
It was different, even, than the situation she had described between her and Dad. Certainly she had sucked his cock, too, but he, in his drunkenness, had thought that she was our mother doing it. We knew who we were, and when she came back that evening with my dinner, Margie-sister had disappeared. Margie-lover had taken her place. The minute our eyes met we somehow knew that. I know that I did, because I immediately got another hard-on. She saw it and smiled, and she sat on the edge of the bed again and gently rubbed it while I ate dinner; she slid her hand under the sheet so that flesh could touch flesh. Most importantly, she promised to come back as soon as she could ... which meant, at that point and in unspoken language, as soon as Dad was bedded down for the night.
I knew that something was going to happen, but I wasn't totally sure what it was. At fifteen I still wasn't too well-versed. She had given me a clue, but clues can be useless. I don't know, maybe I thought she was just going to blow me again-but I did know one thing. I was going to ask her if I could play with her a little, feel those nice tits I had been looking at, fondle that lovely, fleecy-covered mound between her legs. I knew that I wanted to mouth those nice, pear-shaped titties with their cute little nipples, and at least run my hand down between her legs. I wanted it so bad that there was real temptation to beat myself off just from thinking about it; my poor old cock was straining from hardness, jerking up and down. At one point I got my hand over the head and I could feel a stickiness there; I raised the sheet and looked down, and pulling my hand away from it, there was a string of clear liquid, sticky to the touch. I knew even then that my balls, working in collusion with how I was feeling, were building up another load.
Cindy rolled over. She threw a leg over mine and her breasts were pressed against my arm and chest, her muff against my hip. She reached out and rubbed a hand across my chest, playing with first one nipple arid then the other, running her fingers through the sparse scattering of hair there. Her hand moved down over my stomach, the fingertips shoved their way through my pubic hair. "Hmmmm," she murmured, rapping her fingers around it, "I love the way you can keep getting hard over and over again."
I shoved an arm under her head and pulled her to me, "With a hot little number like you," I half-lied, "who could help it!'
"It really is great, isn't it?" she asked. "I mean, it's great how after six years of marriage we can still enjoy each other as much as we do." She ground her pussy into my hip, pressed her tits against me, and gently stroked my swollen whang. Her lips against my cheek, she murmured, "How do you want it this time, Davie?"
I was mixed up in past and present, so I decided to play it that way. I would live with my memories of Marge, but go through the physical with Cindy. It seemed almost right; at least I didn't feel that I was in any way cheating Cindy-she would get her pleasures, she wouldn't know that I had been partially fucking a memory.
I had been almost hurting and certainly under a strain, wanting to wait but needed relief. Almost as if she had sensed it, Marge came into my room during the evening, leaned down and put her hand over my cock as she pressed her lips against my cheek. "Daddy's having a couple of drinks," she half-whispered, a promise in that half-whisper, "he'll be going to bed in a little while."
I waited, listening to every sound, but with what she had told me that afternoon they had even more significance. They even held a fear; what if he should have enough to drink that he would forget again, think she was Mama and want her to go to bed with him? I liked my dad, he had always seemed like a great enough guy, but the thought of him lying naked with Marge-especially when that was so close for me-was almost more than I could take. The thought of him getting hard for her just about turned me upside down. But finally I heard him moving down the hallway and I could tell that he was alone; I sighed, relaxed, and waited. Every part of me relaxed, that is, but eager-beaver Junior-he was still standing strong, proud and throbbing.
Marge finally came in. She didn't turn on the light this time, but moved across the room. I guess that she had been doing some thinking (and feeling) herself. She pulled the sheet down and off me, then sat on the edge of the bed again and reached for my dong. She stuck her fingers inside my pajamas and got hold of it, pulled it out. Every movement she made was a gesture of love; I could feel it. [It was (I hated to admit it) even a greater expression of love that the way Cindy was fondling my dong at this very moment.] She put it into words, "Davie, I don't really understand it myself, I think people might say it's wrong, but I love you. When I did that this afternoon, it was ... it was beautiful!"
I reached out and put a hand on her breast, squeezed a little, then let my hand fall to her lap. I moved it down to her knee, then wrapped my fingers over her leg and moved it back up; my hand slid under her skirt, pushed up to the warm, closeness of her legs pressed together. I could feel silk panties and under it warm flesh. "Oh, Davie!" she breathed out, and pushed herself to her feet, pulling free of me. I was afraid for a moment that she was going to leave, then I realized that she was undressing. I could see her silhouette, and while I watched I didn't waste time. I slid out of my pajamas and lay naked, then she was lying naked beside me and I had her warm body in my arms. Her firm tits were pressed against my chest [as Cindy's were now], nipples already hard, her mound against my leg. Our mouths met in a deep, tongue-joining kiss. I pulled Cindy's head so that I could press my mouth over hers, send my tongue searchingly into her mouth; her own tongue responded. I felt her, as I had felt Marge that night; I played with her tits, teasing the nipples, feeling the firmness, then I slid my hand down over her smooth stomach, slid my fingertips through the fleecy hair and got a handful of twat. I massaged it gently, more demandingly, then began to finger it. I tested, sending a finger in tentatively, and she groaned a littlea groan of pleasure. I felt deeper, felt her clitoris, teased it. I added a second finger, kissing her harder as she responded both with her mouth on mine and her hand on my hard dong.
"Oh, Davie...! " Marge had gasped into my mouth, her tits moving against my chest with her hard breathing.
I wanted to fuck. In that moment, without any previous experience, I knew what it was all about. I knew that I was supposed to put my ramrod where my fingers were and let her twat do what my hand had always done for me. I tried to roll her over with that in mind, but she stopped me. "Davie, I want you to, oh, how I want you to, but I'm afraid if we do it the right way it'll hurt you. The doctor said you aren't supposed to exert yourself too much. Davie, do it my way now, we'll do it that way later, okay?"
I was feeling pussy with one hand and tits with another, and her hand was busy with my prong. I was so damned hot that I probably would have agreed to anything, just so it was some form of screwing.
So, still remembering, still living with half-memory and events-of-the-moment, I whispered to Cindy, "You get on top tonight, okay?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she slid her leg the rest of the way over me, pulling her body up over me, too. Now both tits were against my chest and she had my prong pushed down against my belly with her fleecy cunt. She started undulating and it was almost maddening. Much of that and I would have shot off between us, but she seemed to know when she'd done just enough of it, just as Marge had known. Raising her buttocks, she reached down between us; she grasped my prong in one hand and ran it up and down the full length of her twat, sending shivers of pleasures through both of us, Back and forth it went, the pliant head bent at her will, then she got it in the right place and we started working together. I felt her tight lips open, like a flower slowly coming into bloom, and the swollen head slid between. Up I went as she came down, and inch by inch it went into her, all the way to the balls.
"Ooooooooooh!" I groaned, reliving that first intrusion, and then I started to fuck. There was no stopping me now. There was no Marge to caution me, to tell me to lie still and let her do it; instead of her sliding her pussy up and down my prong, Cindy and I were belly-banging like it was going out of style. I got a tit in each hand, squeezing them firmly, and ran my tongue around her mouth, down her throat, fucking for all I was worth. She was matching me, stroke for stroke, and when I came I thrust up, pushing her clear off the bed. Fireworks went off in my head and my midsection jerked like a chicken with its head cut off. Cindy was getting her kicks, too; she was riding hard, and I could feel our mixed come ooze out around and dribble down my cock. When I fell back she fell with me, both of us completely shot down.
A little while later, lying gently in my arms, she half-whispered, "I don't know what it was, but it was even greater than ever tonight, wasn't it, Davie?"
"It was great, all right," I answered, squeezing her to me for a moment, but I couldn't say more. A guy can't tell his wife that he'd just given her the best screw in their history because he had been reliving a similar screwing session with his own sister!
Cindy giggled. "Maybe we're getting better with practice."
"That could be it," I answered, then I rubbed her twat a little, squeezed her tits, kissed her lightly on the lips and told her that she had better get some sleep.
I laid awake after she had gone to sleep, because now that the doors to pushed-aside memories had been opened there was a lot more to remember and think about. Marge would be arriving the following afternoon; I sensed that I somehow had to reckon with the events of those years before I could face her. Perhaps I was realizing even then that my marriage was actually being put on the block-without her being around, not letting myself think very much about her, I had done all right, but having her there in the flesh again might be a different matter.
I squeezed Cindy a little, not enough to wake her up, and pressed my cock against her leg. "I hope you understand," I whispered, "that there are different kinds of love."
CHAPTER TWO
I was out of school and confined to bed that entire semester. I probably could have taken care of myself days, but Marge wouldn't hear of it and Dad apparently didn't care enough to argue. Marge stayed out of school, too, taking care of me. After that first day (the day our souls merged completely, we called it), we developed a routine; we turned the house into our Garden of Eden and, of course, Adam and Eve didn't wear clothes in the Garden of Eden! I laid on the bed naked and Marge, whenever she came intc the room, stripped out of her housecoat and threw it onto a chair where it would be ha idy if anyone knocked at the door.
Needless to say, for the first few days I had a hard-on most of the time. It seemed a toss up (and she was afraid to ask the doctor about it) whether it would be worse for me to be under that kind of a strain or to go through the exertion of climaxing so that I could have at least periods of relaxation. I convinced her that the strain of a perpetual hard-on would be far worse than the climaxing, strengthening my argUments by pointing out that if she wouldn't agree to relieving me I'd have no choice but to go at it manually. But she was insistent; fucking, she said, was absolutely too strenuous for me more than once a day.
What it all adds up to is that throughout those three or four months we explored and experimented until each knew every inch of the other's body and we had used just about every position and technique imaginable for sexual gratification. At the same time, we were convinced that it was based on mutual need and love, and that we had, indeed, been blessed with a special kind of love. It was our secret, but it was there; we were a sort of Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning in reverse. We vowed an undying love for each other until death do us part.
Dad never became suspicious, but then, he had no reason to. Marge kept the house up and had meals cooked on time; she did the washing and ironing. At the same time, if he thought about it at all he probably would have thought that I was still too sick to even beat my own meat! I doubt, however, that he even thought about it. His own sexual urges, except on those rare occasions when he got too drunk, seemed to have died with our mother.
As time went on-I'd say into the second or third week-I finally got to where I could lie there without getting hard. Marge would sit in a chair beside the bed and I could look at her beautiful, still developing body as she read to me; after awhile she'd look up, smile, and I'd nod. She would lie down beside me and I'd take her into my arms, fast hardening as our bodies met. We'd kiss and fondle each other, and then go at it one way or another, and each one of those times was beautiful in itself. Each one was a reaffirmation of our love for one another. She used to say, "I only feel complete when you're in me, either down there or when I've got it in my mouth. I love it when you send your tongue in me. When we aren't like that ... well, I'm like a yo-yo!"
It was probably a good thing for us that there were weekends. With Dad around the house I wore pajamas and Marge dressed; we could do a little groping when she came into my room for something, but we didn't dare try anything more. Without that, I can see in looking back, we probably would have fucked ourselves dry!
But, as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end. One day the doctor said that I had improved immensely and should start getting up a little longer each day and gradually do more exercising; he talked to my father about it, and it was decided that Marge and I would go to summer school to catch up on at least some of the work we had missed. It was the end of a beautiful era, but it was by no means the end of our love. Our Garden of Eden atmosphere had been destroyed, we were being thrown back into the world with other people, but what had started would continue.
The first day was an example. We walked to school together (wanting to hold hands on the way but not daring to). The moment of separation was a hard one for both of us, but we had to go our own ways. The day, a short day though it was, seemed endless; I found it impossible to concentrate. I kept glancing at the clock, urging the minutes on, but at times the minute hand seemed to get stuck. Even after a summer of being away from other people, there was no pleasure in being back with them. All I wanted was for the day to end, and it finally did; I almost ran to the entry to wait for Marge and as she came toward me it was like having life poured back into my body.
Without having to put it into words, we walked home from school in about half the time it had taken us to get there. The minute the door was closed behind us we dropped our books and were in each other's arms, loving and rubbing and wanting. Running my hands up under her blouse, I pressed my hard-on against her. "Oh, Davie," she cried in a whisper, "you don't know how much I missed you today!"
'The hell I don't," I answered, moving my hands down to grasp her firm buttocks and pull her harder against me, searching for and finding her mouth with mine.
Being the sensible one, Marge finally pulled her mouth away from mine. "If we're going to do anything we'd better hurry. I've got to start dinner or Dad'll wonder..."
A, new pattern had started. We each went to our own room and undressed (not wanting to take any chances of leaving an article of clothing in the wrong place). I stretched out on the bed naked, my rod sticking up in full readiness; in those few minutes I looked down at it, and it looked to me that the summer's exercise had given it great size and sturdiness. I pushed it straight down along my leg and was further convinced, then looked up and Marge was coming through the door in all her naked beauty.
She came into my arms again and our mouths met as our hands went to work; we felt of each other as if it were the first time, exploring. Finally I pushed her back against the bed, and with one hand fondling her lovely box, I leaned over and began kissing her breasts. She reached down for my cock, stroked it gently and once in a while fingered the balls that had fallen forward. Hotter than a firecracker, I straddled her, and without having lost a hold, she guided it into position. I humped slowly, sending it in a bit at a time, giving her a little more with each stroke until finally our pubic hairs were merged and I could lie like that for a few moments with all of me in her and my balls hanging down between her legs. "Oh, Davie!" she sighed, rubbing her tits against my chest, "oh, all day I dreamed about this. Fuck me Davie, fuck me!"
I fucked her, using long, slow strokes, and it was the feeling both of us had learned to love. Gradually I increased the speed and her body began to respond; she rose each time I thrust down, taking it all the way, then withdrew as I did. We were a perfectly matched team working toward one goal, and that goal came. Gasping, panting, I quiveringly shot my spunk into her as she delivered hers to me. That moment of orgasm was, as always, the total merging of our bodies and souls; we were one, with our cum gluing us together. Our oneness lasted as, leaving myself buried in her, I put my arms around her and rolled over so that I was on my back with her on top of me. When she started to move I tightened my hold, my legs wrapped around hers. "Let's stay like this until I get hard again," I whispered, "it's been a long day without you."
"Oh, how I wish we could!" she answered, but she put strength to it and started pulling away. "We've got to be sensible, Davie. We can't ever let Daddy find out."
Not being able to argue with that, I relaxed-but I enjoyed the physical beauty of her body pulling away from mine, lovely tits swaying, and the always enjoyable sensation of her glove-tight pussy sliding free of my whang. On her feet, she leaned over and brushed her lips across mine. "You're still supposed to rest some, the doctor said, so you just lie here while I go start dinner."
With that she was gone, leaving me to lie there remembering how wonderful it had been, and to look forward to the remaining days of the summer when we would repeat the process. In those days (as I think it might be with many young people) love and fucking were one and the same thing. If you just loved, without the fucking, there was a painful emptiness. I didn't have to think about fucking without love, because I had never experienced it and had no reason to think that I would. After all, Marge and I had vowed that we would be together until death do us part.
We had only one unpleasant experience that summer, but with her usual good sense Marge was able to smooth it over. One evening I was resting when I suddenly heard a slight commotion from the living room; I pushed myself up onto my elbows to listen more carefully and was just about to swing my legs over the edge of the bed when Marge, her hair mussed and clothes twisted around, came to the door. "Don't get upset, Davie, but Dad's in another one of those moods and there's nothing I can do about it. He 'thinks I'm Mama.' so ... well, I've got to get him into bed, Davie!"
I couldn't answer, but I listened, and when they had finally reached my dad's room I pushed myself up. I tiptoed down the hall and stood at the door. Dad was drunkenly making love to Marge (or trying to), and she was working desperately to get his clothes off. Finally, trying very much to sound like an older woman, Marge said, "Henry, if you'll just be sensible and let me get you undressed, I'll let you do what you want."
Dad fumbled drunkenly, but he and Mom had apparently gone through similar situations and he wasn't taking any chances. He agreed to be cooperative if "Laura" would undress first, and so Marge, sighing, stepped back and started to undress. Dad unzipped his pants as he sat on the edge of the bed, pulled his whang out (even soft it was a big one; Marge had been right about that!), and played around with it as he watched her strip.
"Ah, Laura, like I always said, when I got you I got the prettiest woman in the whole state. Honey, you've got the nicest set of knockers in the state, y'know that? The nicest set of knockers, the best god-damned cunt ... the best god-damn ass, too."
Stripped, Marge laid down on the bed, her hands cupped behind her head. "All right, Henry, get undressed and come to bed."
Dad smiled (what looked to me like a sort of evil smile) and leaned over. He rubbed Marge's tits roughly, then put a hand over her twat and squeezed it. "You wanna get fucked, don't you, sweetie? You keep trying to play cold, but you really like gettin' fucked, don't ya? Don't ya?"
With feigned weakness, Marge answered, "Yes, I ... Yes, Henry, I want to get fucked. Now come to bed, will you?"
Dad laughed, got drunkenly to his feet. His rod was sticking out of his pants in full hardness, nine inches of steel-hard flesh. I wanted to run in and stop the whole thing, but I couldn't; I just stood there (with, whether I liked it or not, a hard-on of my own) and watched. He stumbled some, but he was finally naked, and I was surprised to see that he still had a strong, firm body, the mature version of my own. like myself, he had only a scattering of dark hair on his chest but a full growth at the crotch, and his balls hung down like a bull's. I couldn't help but wonder why he wouldn't leave Marge alone; certainly, built like that and not bad looking, he could go out and find some woman to fuck. (Marge explained later that when he was sober Dad vowed to be faithful to his love for Mom; it was only when he was drunk that he sometimes admitted to sexual urges and then, as she saw it, his mind played tricks so that he convinced himself he was actually fucking Mama instead of her).
He literally fell onto the bed, in such a position that when he rolled over his mouth was at her chest. I could only watch the back of his head as he worked hungrily on her firm young tits, a hand sliding down across her stomach and grasping her twat again. Marge patiently put a hand on his back and rubbed it. "Henry," she finally said, "why don't you roll over and let me do it with my mouth?" ("Honest," she had told me earlier, "doing it with my mouth ... well, I just feel better if he doesn't stick it in me. I just want yours there, Davie!"
"Uh-uh," he mumbled, raising up. "No, my sweetie, none of that mouth-stuff t'night. I'm gonna give you a first-class fuckin', honey, that's what you really want." He rolled onto his back. "Just feel that thing, Laurie! Just feel that hard hunk of meat you're gonna get up that sweet cooze of yours!"
Marge swallowed, then she reached out and wrapped her fingers around his turgid prick. She stroked it slowly, Dad raising his head to watch her. A smile crept over his face again, then he moved quickly. I didn't know exactly what was happening, but then I saw that Marge was on her stomach and he had straddled her, bending over her; from where I stood I could see his heavy balls hanging down, his ass, and nothing more. He grabbed her by the hips and pulled her lower body up, then he was prodding her with his dong. I knew then what he had in mind, and he did just that. He took her doggie-fashion, and Marge passively let him fuck himself into a frenzy. I finally heard him gasping and crying out, his rear-end jerking and quivering, and it was obvious that he was popping his wad. "Oh, that was good, Laurie! Oh, God, that was good. For a woman who claims she don't like it, you give one helluva fuck!"
I stumbled back down the hall to my own room feeling as if I had been having a dream. The man had been in my father's body, but he certainly wasn't the mild-mannered, soft-spoken man I had known as a father. And the thought of him using Marge that way ... well, it was almost more than I could take. But still, there I was, lying in the near-darkness with a hard-on...
Marge slipped into the room. She sat on the edge of the bed. "It's over, Davie. He's gone to sleep."
I knew then that she had seen me watching, but I couldn't answer-my thoughts were too confused. She seemed to sense that and reached out; her fingers circled my hard rod, then she lowered her head and took it into her mouth, letting her hand move down to cup my balls. She sucked me slowly to a climax; when it was over she climbed onto the bed with me and as we laid side by side, bodies touching full length, she explained again how it was with Dad. "I've got to do it when he gets that way or he might go out and get himself in trouble," she said, "but you know you're the only one I really want to do it with. You do know that, don't you, Davie?"
"Yes," I finally mumbled, "I know that." I pulled her to me, crushing her tits against my chest, and cried a little into her hair.
We looked forward to the end of summer school and the two weeks vacation we would have between then and the start of regular school. For those two weeks, we promised ourselves, we would rebuild our Garden of Eden. Once Dad left for work, we wouldn't leave the house unless it was absolutely necessary, thus being able to run around in our nothing-at-all, to thoroughly enjoy each other as we wanted. In a sense, I guess, we were thinking in terms of storing up for when the school year began again and our activities would again be limited.
It didn't work out that way. A few evenings before summer school was to end Dad announced at dinner that he had scheduled his vacation to match ours, and we were going to go away for the first time that I could remember. "The way I look at it," he said in his soft-spoken, almost apologetic manner, "it's about time we start having a little enjoyment."
Marge and I had mixed feelings, but we knew that there was nothing we could do about it. At least, we told each other, we would still be together, and if we were careful we could find times and places for the activity that had become a need for us both. Under those conditions, we packed and, when the day came, set off!
Dad registered at the office, a wooden building hidden among scraggly trees, then started down a rutted dirt-and-sand road. We passed little cottages half-hidden in the brush, then suddenly turned and the ocean lay before us. I guess that both Marge and I gasped, because we had never seen the ocean before and it was magnificent and awe-inspiring. It was beautiful the way it lapped up against the sand in frothy white, irregular lines, and smashed against the rocks further down the beach. The car had hardly stopped beside the little cottage that was to be our home for the next week and a half before Marge and I were out of it and running down to the beach. Dad, a smile of soft pleasure on his face, followed.
The cottage itself had only one bedroom, which Dad and I were to share; Marge would sleep in the living room that had windows facing onto the beach. There was a small kitchen and dining-area. There was no reason to doubt but that we were going to have a good time, what with daytime swimming and sprawling on the beach and evenings where we would build bonfires down on the sand. Marge and I forgot our disappointment, if it could be called that, at not having our two weeks alone. The new experience was already rich, and we would enrich it by those moments we had promised to find when we could get together alone.
That afternoon, clad only in our skimpy bathing-suits (which left little to the imagination for Marge and I), the three of us spent on the beach. We'd run out into the surf occasionally, swim around a little, then run back up and flop down on the soon-sandy blanket. We walked along the beach looking for seashells, and we drank in the beautiful fresh air. Finally, as the afternoon ended and the air began to chill, we walked back to the cottage. Once inside the bedroom, Dad surprised me by saying, "I suppose that we could take turns going into the bathroom to change, but as long as we know what each other has and we're going to be here awhile, we might just as well forget foolish modesty, don't you think?"
It was a long speech for him, but I nodded my head in agreement. I slid out of my trunks, and when I looked up I saw that he was looking at me. At my crotch. He raised his eyes and they met mine. "I didn't realize ... I've let time go by without knowing exactly what was going on."
I swallowed, something like fear gripping me, then relief flooded through me as he said, "That's quite a piece of meat you have there, David. Have you...? "
As if backing away, his eyes going slightly dull, he stripped his own trunks off and threw them aside. He looked down at his own equipment with something like a frown, then he shrugged it all off with, "Well, we'll have time to get better acquainted in the days ahead. Let's take a shower, boy."
"You can go first if you want," I answered.
"Might as well take one together," he surprised me by saying, "then Marge can take hers."
The shower was big enough to accommodate us both, being a homemade one that was cemented from floor to ceiling. We each had a bar of soap and were lathering, but then I felt a strong hand on my shoulder and Dad had started washing my back. Strange feelings went through me, a mixture, but basically pleasurable. Then his hand went lower and he was soaping my buttocks, even between my legs, and I couldn't help myself. My prick stretched out and swelled.
"You've got a fine body," he said. "Nice and strong, good build. Thank God that being sick didn't hurt your growth."
"You ... you want me to wash your back?" I half-gulped, feeling that I had to say something but not knowing what else to say.
"That'd be fine," he answered, and I glanced over my shoulder. When he had turned around I did, keeping far enough back that the head of my hard prick didn't touch him. I started washing his back as he had done mine, and there was a great deal of pleasure in feeling warm, firm flesh under my hands. I made a mental note that Marge and I would have to do this when we got home; there was something nice about the nakedness and the warm, spraying water. I realized in that instance, too, that because of the way our lives had been, because of his withdrawal after Mom's death, he had never really been a father in the true sense. He had just been a man who had to be around, and so who was around physically. Now, his firm body under my hands, he was a human being-and one who had seemed to offer friendship and understanding. It was a strange feeling, but I was stuck with it.
I did what he had done. Soaped his entire back, then moved down to his buttocks and soaped them, running my hand up and down the cleavage between them and then between his legs. It gave me still stranger feelings; as I ran the heel of my hand down the firm valley between his butoocks (a larger edition of a cunt, I found myself thinking), I felt a sort of tingling in my own ass. My cock moved up and down. Not understanding it, I still felt a sort of panicky feeling, so I said, "There you go!" and got quickly out of the shower. Glancing back as I reached for my towel, I saw that his prick was sticking out as long and as hard as mine, but with eyes closed he had raised his head and was letting the spray hit him full in the face.
I wondered in that moment if he ever beat his own pud. At the same time, knowing that there was no possible way for Marge and I to get together, I felt a huge need to beat my own! Little did I know (as he was to tell me later) that he was going through a similar turmoil-the only difference being that he knew what it was all about. He had been faced with the conscious desire for sexual relations and shocked to find that he could desire his own son as a substitute for a woman.
Being one of those individuals who, once hard, can't get rid of a hard-on without proper manipulation, I dressed hurriedly and put on a shirt with a long tail. Going out into the living room, I whispered to Marge, "We've got to do it tonight!"
She smiled and whispered back, "We will!" As if for proof, or maybe just to tease a little, she opened the housecoat she had put on and gave me a glimpse of her lovely, perky tits and the smooth belly, the mound between her legs that I was craving. I damned near creamed in my pants just from seeing it after getting so strangely over-heated.
Dinner finished, Dad did us a real favor by saying that he didn't want to take a walk with us. He picked up a magazine and sprawled out on the hide-away that would be Marge's bed that night. Putting on our jackets, promising not to be gone too long, we stepped out into the night, and while the air was crisp it couldn't have been more beautiful. The ocean was just a sound in the distance; a silvery moon had cast a silveriness over the entire landscape. Hand in hand, we walked down to the beach. We had never hidden anything from each other (and Marge had frequently been able to explain things to me that I couldn't grasp), so as we walked along I told her what had happened.
She listened quietly, then she said, "You honestly don't know what was going on, Davie?"
"I wouldn't be talking about it if I knew!"
"Well ... Well, it's like this. A lot of times people of the same sex like each other, or ... well, at least if ... Well, what I'm saying is, two men can have sex together and you and Dad ... well, you were probably right on the edge of it."
"You mean...? But ... how?"
She was nice enough not to laugh at my naivety. She just gently explained things that I probably should have figured out for myself: mutual masturbation, the friction method with both cocks pulled up between bellies, blow-jobs and browning. But when she was through, with a note of worry in her voice, she said, "I just hope Daddy doesn't ... well, want to use you for a substitute."
"I dunno," I answered after a few more steps, remembering some of my own earlier thoughts and feelings. "Maybe that'd at least be better than what he does to you!" It swelled over me; I stopped us dead in our tracks and pulled her to me, almost crushing her. "I don't want anyone else fucking you, Marge, not ever! Not Dad or anyone else!"
We didn't go any farther. We lay on the sand and went into each other's arms, our mouths crushed together. The jackets kept it from being free-feeling, but it was better than nothing. We kissed and our hands roamed, and finally I had gotten her skirt pulled up and her panties pulled down and she had gotten my hard whang outside my pants. I put my hands up under her blouse and got her bra loose enough that I could play with her tits; keeping them active there, I rolled her over onto her back. She guided my rigid pole to the right spot and we started our perfectly matched motions; I went deeper and deeper into her and she, as she always did, began crying out, "Oh, fuck me, Davie! Fuck me!"
Our coming was like a gigantic crash of the sea behind us. I thrust my cock deep into her and both our bodies quivered as I spurted out shot after shot, dropping it into the juicy lake that she had already created. Our bodies gave their final trembling, then I collapsed over her and felt myself going soft in her warm moistness.
"Ummm," she mumbled, "that was good, Davie, good. And it feels so good having it in me like that."
I squeezed her. "Promise me, Marge. Promise me you'll never let anyone else fuck you."
"Silly! I've already told you I'd never let anyone else."
Walking back along the silvery beach, hand in hand, Marge slowly said, "You know, Davie, it looks like Dad's coming back to life after all this time. Maybe ... we ought to try to find a woman for him. He's shy, you know, but if we..."
But when we got back to the cottage we found that Dad had been drinking, and even after Marge and I had gone to bed he sat at the dining table and kept at it. I lay awake listening and hating it, but at the same time I thought that I at least partially understood it; what had happened that afternoon had probably stirred things up in him and drink was an escape. I was convinced of that when, later, I heard him stumble to the living room. The only satisfaction, if it could be called that, was that Marge was able to talk him out of fucking her. He lay back and let his "Laurie" blow him. Later, when he had fallen asleep (or passed out), Marge and I half-carried, and half-dragged him into the bed that he and I were to share. We gathered up his clothes and put them in the bedroom. It was, we had decided, better that he didn't know what he did in those drunken moments.
In the morning-as if he sensed that something had happened-Dad had changed again. He went quiet, almost morose; the possible newfound friend had disappeared, giving way to the half-sullen man who had always been around the house. He moped around, but Marge and I didn't have to see it; we went to the beach by ourselves and spent most of the day-and then the days that followed-there. Dad and I were never naked in front of each other again, and if anything had started to germinate during that first afternoon, it had died a quick death. And, needless to say, with Marge and I able to find our moments together, I was never horny enough that even in my sleep I'd touch him.
Cindy stirred a little, making a soft, murmuring sound. She slid her hand down over my flat stomach, pushed her fingertips through my pubic hair and wrapped her hand around my half-limp dong. She held it a few moments and then, as if satisfied that it was still there, let loose and rolled away. It was just as well; if she had held oh for long I'd of gotten hard again, and at the moment (with time slipping past) I was more interested in sorting and sifting my thoughts than screwing again. I gently eased myself off the bed and went out into the other room; without turning on the lights, I mixed myself a drink and then went into the living room with it. Sprawling out, I sipped slowly as I went back into the past again.
Looking back, those days at the beach held more significance for me. For instance, I could remember a few times when Marge and I had been sitting on the sand just enjoying the surroundings and talking quietly. A shadow would fall across us and we'd look up; a teenaged boy from one of the other cottages would be standing there looking down. From that angle we would see strong legs, a crotch (and a couple of them, with tight trunks, left no doubt as to the size and shape of their cocks!), chests and above it the youthful faces. The eyes always said that they had looked Marge over and liked what they saw-it added up to one thing. They wanted to fuck her. I couldn't help but compare them to myself; they were a little older, their bodies filled out a little more than mine, and a couple were far better-looking than I. But while Marge was friendly enough about it, she not only didn't encourage their attention, she let them know that it wouldn't do them any good to try. It was very satisfying, knowing that she could look at those almost naked young males and still only want me.
Then, too, it was almost as if that were the end of our childhood and the beginning of our adulthood. I was fifteen, Marge sixteen; our fucking at home, up until that time, had been youthful. It seemed to mature down there at the beach. At least, the way things happened, once we were home again we seemed to be going into a new phase of our relationship; in talking it over later we both agreed that we felt we had left our childhood down there with the ocean and the sand. With Dad in the background (a potential sexual object so far as we both were concerned), the older boys in hot pursuit of her, and our own sexual activities on the beach and up on the cliffs that overlooked it, our love seemed to have been faced with threats and not only survived but grown stronger.
Be that as it may, time elapsed and the day came when we had to pack up and start back to the city. Our routines would be picked up again, the leisureliness of those days next to forgotten. Dad was scheduled to go back to work the following day, Marge and I would start school. It was the end of a period of our lives, but at the same time it was a semicolon rather than a period. There was more to be added, more days to be lived.
I didn't have to think too much about the next four years. They had been beautiful years; Marge and I had both finished developing physically, and even if I do say so myself (and many people said it to us!) we were a fine-looking pair. Our bodies had filled out, we were so completely happy that it showed on our faces. Of course, no one realized that part of that happiness was the deep love we felt for each other, a love reaffirmed by almost daily sexual meeting; no one realized that while they saw us as brother and sister we saw each other as a mate-for-life. It seemed to both amuse and please people that when we went out it was always on a double-date, and we did go out; we were careful not to let anyone grow suspicious. We had no idea that it couldn't last, no fear.
CHAPTER THREE
Marge had held back for a year after graduating from high school. Once I had graduated, we started junior college together. With his usual lack of interest, Dad went along with it, the only qualification being that Marge would continue to maintain the house and I would get a part-time job to help put myself through. It wasn't the money, he said, but merely the fact that it would be good training. Although it took time I would rather have put to better use, I went along with it; at the same time, I got a weekend job so that it couldn't interfere with weekday and/or night activities. (That worked out alright because, as before, Dad was at home weekends, anyway, limiting our activities!)
One evening while he was out Marge and I sat at the dining room table with our books open in front of us. It was a stormy night, the rain pelting against the windows, but it was warm and comfortable inside. After we had studied for awhile Marge closed her books and looked across at me; when I looked up she smiled, then she said, "Davie, just for fun let's write a description of each other. Let's tell each other how we look to one another."
I laughed, but when she quietly persisted I gave in and went along with it.
Remembering that incident, I set my drink aside and tip-toed into the bedroom. Not wanting to awaken Cindy, I found a flashlight and moved into the closet where I had stored an old foot-locker. Opening it, I dug through the collection of many years until I found what I wanted: the two yellowed pieces of paper.
Back in the living room, a lamp turned on, I spread the papers on my knees. Looking at the faded ink, I could visualize that night again; I could almost hear the rain pounding against the windows. Then I read:
"David is nineteen years old. He has a beautiful body, he is a physically beautiful person. Six feet two inches, he has broad shoulders and a strong chest. There's just the slightest smattering of darkish hair there, just enough to tease, then a flat, strong stomach. His hips are narrow, and below them ... From the back one sees two firm buttocks, beautifully shaped and slightly convex. If his legs are spread, one sees a suggestion of dark hair and then that sac that hangs so heavily with his almond-shaped testicles. From the front one sees, below that flat stomach, a thatch of dark hair. Growing out of it, hanging limply over his testicles, is a long, thick love-stick ... and then, if one can lower her eyes, there are strong legs, extremely shapely for a men. But if one does not lower her eyes, she might see that love-stick begin to grow, and oh, how it grows! Rising slowly but steadily, when it reaches full majesty it is at least nine inches long and big enough around that one's fingers can't quite touch while trying to grasp it.
"But that is the physical David. Of far greater importance is the soul, the personality-whatever you want to call it-that lives within that physical being. As beautiful as his body is, that inner-being is even more beautiful. He is kind and gentle, loving, faithful and true. When his body is against yours, when that majestic love-tool has entered you, it is a meeting of both body and soul. David is many things, but he is one important thing. He is my life, my love."
I laid the paper on the table beside my chair and looked off into the distance. "She meant it," I whispered. "She honest to God meant it."
But I didn't want to think beyond that just jet. Instead, I picked up the second sheet of paper and looked at my own stronger handwriting, weakened only by the passing years that had drained strength from the ink itself. I wasn't sure that I had to read it; I thought that I could remember. But just to be sure, I read:
"Marge is a dark-haired goddess put on this earth as a special gift to me. She has the most beautiful body a man could ask for. Dark-haired, sweet-faced (oh, how I love to kiss those eyelids, put my own mouth over those full lips!). Her body is perfectly shaped, shoulders broad without being too broad, narrow-waisted and then a perfect flaring of the hips, legs that would put any Beauty Queen to shame. That's the over-all picture. Getting down to details, she has the most perfect breasts a man could ask for, a pair of pear-shaped lovelies that are firm and good enough to eat, with medium-sized nipples that come to life under your tongue. Her skin is smooth and soft, you can kiss your way down to where the forest of soft, fleecy hair covers ... with other girls it would probably be a cunt, twat, pussy, or something of that nature, but on her it can only be described as a haven, a palace of pleasure. It is beautifully mounded, thus being two long mountains of soft, warm flesh; there is a perfect valley, and in the middle of .that valley the Gates to Heaven. When the doors open, when a man slides his prick into her, he knows that he is, indeed, entering the gates of Heaven.
"If I were a sculptor looking for a model for the perfect woman, I would quit looking the moment I saw her and take up chisel and mallet. The only trouble is, with her beauty I could not keep' my mind on my work, and I'm sure that my own flesh would get in the way. That, perhaps, is the best description of her; she is the most lovable, the most fuckable woman in the world!"
I put that sheet on top of the other and leaned my head back against the chair, closing my eyes. I visualized the scene again, that wintery evening; we had finished writing and then traded sheets. When we had each read what the other had written there had been no need for words; as if drawn by gigantic magnets, we had gotten to our feet and gone into my bedroom. Naked, lying on the bed together, our hands had explored each other's body as if for the first time; our mouths had met and then had to seek other body parts. At one point we had ended up end for end, my face in her crotch, my tongue exploring her as he held my balls in one hand and moved her mouth up and down my cock. Finally nearing climax, as if we had been given cues we pulled our mouths away; a moment later I was lying over her, resting on my arms so that I could feel her tits under my chest without crushing them. As my mouth found hers again she pushed my cock into position, her lips opening as much as they could to receive the swollen head. I started giving it to her inch by inch, and she started rising with each thrust to receive it and more, and finally she had it all. "Oh, fuck me, Davie, fuck me!"
I fucked her, not knowing that it would be for the last time.
I heard Cindy moving around and it was easy to visualize what she was doing. She had obviously reached out in her sleep; not finding me there, she had slowly come awake. Now I could hear her swinging her legs over the side of the bed and coming toward the door to the living room. She stood in the doorway in all her naked beauty, and she was beautiful despite sleepiness and rumpled hair. It was almost as if Marge had slid from the sheet of paper lying on the table beside me, into the bedroom and now back to the doorway.
"Hey, man," she smiled, "what're you doin'? "
Not wanting her to know what I had been doing, I went along with the game she had obviously decided to play: a repeat of what we had done frequently in the past. "Well, y'see, I was lying in bed next to a naked woman, and she was so damned desirable that I had to do one of two things. I either had to take advantage of her, fucking her while she was asleep, or come in here and beat myself off!"
"Lordie!" she faked a gasp of near-terror, "I hope that you haven't done it."
"Does it look like I have?"
"No," she admitted, letting a smile creep to the corners of her mouth, "I wouldn't say that it does, unless total rigor mortis has set in!"
Half-laughing, she walked across the room, hips swaying and breasts bouncing perkily. She put a knee on either side of me on the chair, then slowly lowered herself; my hard-on hit her between the legs so she reached down and grasped it, holding it straight. She lowered her cunt to it, moving her hips in little circles, and the head slowly disappeared through the dark hair and into the mouth of her cave.
Releasing it, she leaned her head back and let out a sigh of satisfaction as she lowered herself still more, swallowing my hard inches into her body. I reached up and took a breast in each hand, squeezed them, tweaked the nipples to rigid hardness. Leaning forward, I opened my mouth and placed it over one, flicked my tongue out so that it could play with the hardened nipple; I teased it a bit, then withdrew my tongue and started suckling.
"Hmmmm," she murmured, at the same time riding slowly up and down my cock. I moved my mouth to the other breast and repeated the procedure, then I buried my face between them. Eyes closed, feeling only a little guilty about it, I imagined that it was Marge with my cock encased, Marge's breasts I was nuzzling, Marge's buttocks that I reached out to grasp.
"Love this, honey," Cindy finally said, "but I honestly like positions where I can get the whole works!"
I chuckled softly, then said, "How about being a good girl and suck on my lollipop a little!"
Laughing, she pulled free, sliding down to the floor between my legs. Her tits hot against my legs, she grabbed my turgid cock and pulled it toward her; wrapping her lips around it, she sent her tongue sliding around the head, then her head started bobbing up and down. She really did a masterful job, taking it almost to the root at times, choking a little because of it's size. She'd let it go free then and run her tongue up and down the shaft, tickling the head before starting back down. She lifted my sac and took a ball into her mouth, laved it with her tongue and then released it to take the other. I leaned back and let myself enjoy it, satisfied for the moment to let my mind go almost blank as I enjoyed the purely physical sensations, including the feel of her warm tits against my legs. I stuck a foot between her legs, eased it up, and worked my big toe up and down her cleavage; I could feel her response, not only in the cunt but in the way she went back up on my cock and set to work on it. Finally I had to grasp her head, stopping her.
Another couple of strokes and I would have creamed.
She pulled her mouth away and then leaned down, pressing my cock between her cheek and my belly. "You feel like putting this big engine where your toe is?" she asked half-timidly.
"You want it there?"
She laughed softly. "That's a silly question! Sweetie, I keep telling you, if you could stay hard twenty-four hours a day I'd love to have you fucking me twenty-four hours a day!"
It was my turn to laugh and rumple her hair even more. "You're a sexy bitch," I said playfully, "but if you want cock, just sprawl out on the floor there, honey-child!"
She pushed herself back, gracefully lowered her back to the floor and spread her legs. Looking down at her, I could see her firm young tits like two ripe pears, the nipples standing at attention. Her legs spread, her tight cunt-lips were opened ever-so-slightly. I pushed myself to my knees and then went up between her legs; for a few moments I lapped at her cunt, sent my tongue darting in and out, then I kissed my way up her stomach, from tit to tit and then to her mouth. She wrapped her legs over my back, reached down between us to get in position, and I plunged it into her, giving her the full nine inches in one fell swoop.
"Oh, sweet Jesus!" she gasped, but it was from full pleasure. She was already self-lubricated enough that my "big engine" was slipping and sliding up and down her channel like a piston in a well-greased sleeve, just enough pressure on it to give full friction. My balls banged against her anus with each thrust, and we went our merry way to our second climax of the evening.
When it was over, when we were lying there arm in arm with my gone-limp meat still buried in her, she suddenly surprised me by asking in a slightly quivering voice, "Dave, do you really love me, or am I just a damn good fuck?"
"Now, what the hell kind of a question is that?"
"I think it's a sensible one. I mean ... Well, let me put it this way. If I didn't like sex as much as I do, if we didn't do it as often and as many different ways as we do, would you still stay married to me?"
"That's downright insulting, you know that?" I pushed myself up onto my elbows and looked down into her face. "That is downright insulting, Madame Hotpants?"
But after we were in bed again and she had gone to sleep I stayed awake looking up into the darkness. I couldn't help but wonder if she had sensed something, because she certainly had never come up with a question like that before. Not once in six years of marriage. I frowned. Was this women's intuition at work? Was it premonition?
For the first time since getting her telephone call I felt something less than elation at the prospects of seeing Marge again after the six years that had elapsed. It didn't last, but it was there, a seed of doubt.
After writing our descriptions of each other after, in essence, giving life to those descriptives through a very thorough and satisfying sexual expression-Marge gathered up her clothes and went to her own room. I stayed there in the darkness of my own room, fully contented as I generally was, and drifted off to sleep. The only thing that could have made life more perfect than it was, was something that we were working toward, that day when we could live by ourselves and so let our love (physical and emotional) be a twenty-four-hour-a day thing.
The next morning we left for school together as usual, holding hands mentally because we couldn't do it physically. Once on campus we hesitated a few moments looking deep into each other's eyes, then she smiled ever-so faintly and turned away. I watched her go and there was the growing emptiness as there always was, but knowing that we would meet again when classes had ended made it possible for me to turn on my heel and set out on my own course. She had once said that she felt like only half a yo-yo when we weren't physically attached; I felt that way when we weren't together. I'm not sure; in retrospect I have to wonder if incestual love is deeper, stronger than a normal, heterosexual love.
Perhaps it is, being grounded on so many other things (in this case, on the fact: that she had taken the place of my mother during our childhood, been my first love and then sexual object, so completely filled all my needs). I only know that no other woman (nor man, knowing about that as I did now) interested me in the least; many had tried to make in-roads, but they had finally reached the decision that I was a loner and so left me alone. I double-dated (we double-dated) only often enough to keep anyone from growing suspicious of our own relationship, but each time we were careful not to get into a difficult position.
I made it through the morning classes and then headed for the cafeteria. We always met there and had lunch together, then separated again for afternoon classes. Sometimes kids from one of our classes or another would join us, but as often as not we were left to ourselves, and that was always fine by me. I could whisper to her, half-jokingly, that I felt a hard-on coming on and didn't know if I could make it through the afternoon; I'd suggest cutting classes and she would get a pained look and tell me that I was awful for tempting her that way! Looking back on it, I'm sure that we must have been like a young married couple, and that was the way that we wanted it. But this noontime I stood outside the cafeteria and the minutes moved slowly past, and I couldn't believe that it was happening. I thought up every reason in the world for her being late, but none of them made sense. Finally a girl walked up to me, a girl from the same pre-lunch class as Marge, and handed me a note. I opened it with something like fear gnawing at my entrails.
"Dear Davie," I read, "I don't know what to say, so I won't say anything. Just don't worry about me because I'll be alright, and I'll get in touch with you and Dad as soon as I can. Remember that I'll always feel as I feel. Love, Marge."
I raised my eyes slowly and saw the girl still standing there, a sort of quizzical look on her face. "Where ... Do you know where she went?" I finally managed.
The girl cracked a half-smile and shrugged her shoulders. "I only know she and Rod MacIvers went at it pretty hot and heavy before class, then they kept sending notes back and forth during class, and when class was over they left together."
I don't know what I did. I don't remember anything until I was back home, sprawled on my bed and staring up at the ceiling, feeling like the whole world had come to an end. A picture of Rod MacIvers formed on my mind, like a picture appearing as a television set warmed up. Everyone on campus knew him; he was not only a star on the football team, but he came from one of the richest families in town. He drove a imagine convertible (a new one every year), dressed like a fashion-plate, and had a self-confidence, a self-assurance that couldn't be dented. He was tall, at least six foot, with one hell of a physique; I had seen him in the gym a couple of times, and no one, man or woman, could help but look at him. He wasn't all brawn like many football players; instead he had a god-like build, broad shoulders, tapered waist, strong legs, and a hunk of meat that could easily run me competition. He was also extremely handsome in a blonde, out-doorsy way, with a smile that could melt butter.
But it just didn't make sense! Why, I asked myself, would Marge and Rod "go at it hot and heavy" and then leave together? What had her note really meant?
There were no answers, there were just several hours of agony, then the doorbell rang, shattering the silence and my thoughts. I pushed myself up and went through the house, opened the door and found a Western Union boy standing there. Once I'd opened the envelope I stared at the words; I read and re-read them, and finally they registered. Daddy and Davie: Rod and I were married this afternoon. See you soon. Love, Marge.
I felt the whole world crumble in on me. It was as if a giant had hit me in my mental solar plexus; I doubled over, reeled, banged from wall to wall as I fought my way back to my room. Foolish as it may sound, tears were streaming down my cheeks. It couldn't have been any worse-as a matter-of-fact, it might have been more acceptable-if the telegram had said that Marge had been killed!
CHAPTER FOUR
It was a new feeling for me. With Marge the climax had not been the ending but only a new beginning. It was love expressed and then we went on with it and eventually, time and time again, expressed it through the meeting of our bodies. This time I had (admittedly) enjoyed playing with the blonde's tits and mouthing her to her own climax; I had, at that same moment, enjoyed my own climax. Nice, beautiful physical contact with the "Love" juices spewed out.
There was only one trouble, one difference; there was no love involved. It had been pure, animal sex. Without knowing anything about her, without even knowing her name, I had given her physical satisfaction while enjoying her body; Johnnie-boy's mouth, I told myself, had at least been better than my own hand.
It was a new feeling and a turning point. It was a coming-to-grips with my own philosophies, with thoughts and feelings that I had toyed with earlier. Added up, it meant one thing; I had fucked for love (or as a part of love) and it had blown up in my face. Now I knew that I could fuck for the sheer pleasure of it-and, more, I was determined that that was the way it should and would be. I would build a veneer around myself. As a song of yesteryear went, "I'll never love again..."
Back in my room, showering alone, I said, "Thanks, Johnny-boy. Thanks for showing me that!"
And so began two years of fucking for the sake of fucking, a project that I entered into with gusto! It was almost like a compulsion; I had to fuck as many as I could, as often as I could, each time pulling my dick out or away, mentally brushing my hands with a, "Well, that's that!" and walking away. And it was, I realize, almost a sickness, because after each session I'd go back to my room and write a detailed description of what had happened. And in a way, I guess, it was my own way of telling Marge (even without her knowing it) that I could survive (if fucking is surviving!) without her!
Reaching this point in the re-telling (to myself) of the story, I eased myself out of bed again, got the flashlight again, and went into the closet. I opened the footlocker and reached into it; this time I didn't have to move things, I could work by feel. I found the two thick binders and lifted them out, carried them into the living room where the lamp was still burning. Sitting down, I held them on my lap and looked at them; there was no printing on the outside, but I could put my own invisible-to-anyone-but-me letters there. THE SEX LIFE OF DAVID MILLER, AGE 18-21. Or maybe, FUCKING TO FORGET BY. Some of the people involved seem to come back to life, little midgets walking across the cover of the top book; some, of course, I had long since forgotten (some, as a matter-of-fact, I forgot almost immediately!).
I don't know why I pulled them out, I just had to. I had to hold them, feel them, and admit to what was inside them. All those people I had fucked or been fucked by in those days of running ... for that, I realized now if I hadn't realized before, was what it had been all about. Hurt, crushed, I had either to run or to stand still and die (except, of course, the broken-hearted are seldom if ever provided such an easy escape!).
I hesitated, but (again for reasons I couldn't understand) finally knew that I had to go through it. Maybe not read every descriptive, but at least read some of them. I started flipping the pages, reading at random (and if you, the reader, are interested, I was fully aware then as I am now that it was not too unlike reading case histories! As a matter-of-fact, in re-reading what I had written I must admit that I surprised even myself at times!).
It was Sunday, a free day for me. I got up late, showered and then went down for breakfast at the cafeteria on the corner. It was a beautiful day, so I decided to go to the park. I had been in the city long enough that the whole world seemed to be made of concrete and glass, but mostly concrete.
I saw a girl feeding the birds. Fifteen or sixteen at the most and enough, I thought at first, to turn any man away-but then I looked a little closer, and under the shabby coat there seemed to be a nice body, and if she'd throw her damned horn-rimmed glasses away and use a little makeup, fix her hair, she could be damned attractive. So I said to myself, as I heard someone else say, Who fucks a face, anyway?
When I spoke to her she nearly jumped out of her wits; obviously very shy and (I told myself) never been fucked. I decided on the I'm-a-lonely-boy technique. It worked. We ended up sitting on a bench talking, and she ended up admitting that she felt that she was ugly, had parents who were dominating, and so had had one hell of a lonely life. I took her hand and felt sorry for her and got her hand into my crotch without her knowing it. A couple of seconds later she had a handful of hard on, and I could tell that she felt like she should let go of it but didn't want to.
To make a long story short, we went into the bushes and I wrapped my arms around her, kissing her on the throat and face while I ground my cock against her, mumbling that two people as lonely as we were needed each other. I felt her butt and it was a nice one, then T went under her coat and started on her boobs. All the while, of course, I was still pressing my hard on against her.
Finally I said to her, "You've never been with a man before, have you?"
She blushed, admitted that years ago she had played around a little with a little boy, but no, she had never been with a man. I could tell that she was still a little afraid, so I let go of her long enough to open my fly and haul old Junior out. I lied, telling her that he had never been in a girl before, then I asked if I could..."well, you know, see what you've got, too!"
We lay down and she let me run my hand up under her skirt. Her legs were nice and warm and I had to push my way between them, but then, through her panties, I felt a lovely cunt. I squeezed it gently, rubbed it, then slid a finger up under her panties and ran it up and down her cleavage. I prodded ever so gently, found that tight little hole and started working my way into it; she gasped, grasping hold of my cock, and I was sure then that before it was over I was going to have myself a cherry. She might not have known at at that moment, but she wanted cock where that finger was!
Well, when we got down to the nitty-gritty I tried to do what I thought was best for her. I mean, I wanted a fuck, but I didn't want to hurt her any. But I had to act like a school teacher; I told her to slide her panties off and put them in her purse, which she did, then, on my back, I told her to lift her skirts and straddle me. She did. I told her to take hold of my cock and rub it up and down her. She did, and while she did that I reached up and stuck my hands under her blouse, got her bra loose and shifted it so I could get a nice little tittie in each hand (and they were slightly little, with the nipples seeming especially large because of their smallness). She was really in a tizz, loving the feel of my cock-head sliding up and down her valley; her eyes were almost glazed. I spit on my hand, rubbed it over the head, then gently told her to try to stick it inside herself. She straightened it out, pushing the head between the cunt-lips, then nature took over. Her hips started moving and she took a little more, the shaft spreading her; she grimaced a little, let out a slight groan, but I could tell from her face that she wasn't going to quit. She was going to do what I would have done had I been on top, and she did it.
Giving a thrust, she let out a slight cry of pair as my prick-head broke through her maidenhead; she took me all the way in. After that there was no stopping it. We fucked our way to a fare-thee-well, me rolling us over so I could do the final, masterful thrusting. I think that she must have cum three or four times before I finally started shooting, and oh, the fire-crackers did go off! I shot so long and hard that, coupled with her own juices, it squeezed out around my prick and soaked both our pubic hairs.
She didn't want me to take it out; she grabbed on to me desperately. I didn't argue; I left it there and rested a bit, then I started making love to her again and it hardened again. I fucked her for the second time.
She wants to meet in the park again next Sunday. I don't know whether I'll go or not.
P.S. [added later] I did, and this time I showed her what a sixty-nine is like. She did a good job, but admitted that she preferred having a big, hard hunk of meat up inside her! She wants to meet again, but that scares me ... she has found out that fucking is great, but I don't want to get any entanglements! I guess I hope that she can go out and find other boys now.
There's this woman lives in the hotel as a permanent guest. She's somewhere in her fifties or early sixties. I don't think I'd ever want to fuck her, even out of desperation, but she sent out a lot of little feelers and now we've got this arrangement: Friday nights I go to her room. She shows me some pictures she had of people screwing, and while I'm looking at them her hand creeps into my crotch. She plays with my hard on a little, then suggests that I undress. I do, and then while I look at the pictures again (she somehow comes up with new ones now and again) I beat myself off. She almost goes wild when I shoot, then sort of babies me while she wipes it up, telling me this is good, I should beat myself off rather than "sticking that beautiful thing in some awful woman." It's sort of weird, but it's five bucks she gives me, and I can use it!
P.S. [Added later| She had had a little to drink tonight. When I started working myself-I always sit in a chair, legs spread and my butt right down on the edge of it-she went down between my legs. She started by playing with my balls while I slowly worked my meat, but the first thing I knew she had taken hold of it, pulled it down and was sucking on it. When I was ready to cum she pulled away and I shot all over her face and throat. She gave me an extra five dollars. Not sure, but I think she might have some kind of a problem!
Johnnie-boy and his wife are back. He admitted right off that he had checked to be sure that I was still here. He also said that his wife wanted me to fuck her, so he wondered if I would do that while I blew him. I told him that I wouldn't mind fucking her but I was no cock-sucker. He then asked if I would consider letting him fuck me in the ass while I screwed her. Although it brought back memories of that time at the beach, I told him thanks but no thanks. The poor guy seemed almost beside himself, so I said to him, "Why don't you just let me go fuck your wife and then you come to my room later?"
He said he'd like that, but the trouble was, once he had an orgasm he couldn't get another hard-on for several hours. His wife checked him every time he left and returned; he had to be able to get a hard on. (I remembered then, of course, that he had shot off during our last scene; it turned out that he hadn't had to jack off. When he's blowing a guy, when the guy shoots, he does!)
"Well, look," I finally said, "if it'd do any good, I guess I could beat you off while I fucked her."
He shook his head. No, he wanted more than that. It looked like, as a Chinaman might say, no suckee, no fuckee. It was a bad scene; I remembered what a luscious number his wife was with those big tits and that cunt that really responded to attention. Finally I said, remembering, "Well, why can't your wife suck you off while I pour the meat to her."
Simply stated, his wife would suck off a normal man if that was what he wanted, but she wouldn't suck off a queer, and she knew that Johnnie, her husband, was a queer. A prick, obviously, is not simply a prick: it depends on whom it's hanging on!
It looked like we had met a stalemate, then Johnnie's face suddenly brightened. "You know," he said, "it's really you I want. Man, you're great, that dong of yours is great. But ... I think Liz might go for this. If I could find someone else ... well, I could blow him while you're screwin' Liz. I mean, if we're in the same bed, the four of us, then Liz shouldn't complain."
He was back ten minutes later looking like a kid who had just had his lollipop taken away from him. Liz wouldn't go for it; it had to be three way or not at all. I had been doing a little more thinking myself (a little remembering-those big tits, that sweet-tasting pussy!) so I said, "Well, look, how about this? Give me a few minutes rest, I can fire off a second time. How about ... "
I didn't have time to finish the sentence! He grabbed hold of me and practically dragged me out of the room. So there I was, a couple of minutes later, taking my clothes off while I looked down at that luscious, finger-fucking Liz! (She must have been a nympho, because I could see that she had already gotten herself off at least once; the cum had dribbled out around her finger. Johnnie's efforts and the possibilities of what he might bring back must have kept her in a constant state of sexual excitement.)
Anyway, as I slid out of my shorts, old Junior popping up to full-stature, she pulled her hand away and raised her arms to me. I went into them, getting my cock between her legs and crushing her tits with my chest as I found her mouth and started tonguing. She responded with her own tongue and was obviously hot to fuck; she slid her hands down to my hips and let it be known that she wanted me to raise up; when I did she reached under and grasped my cock, stroked it a few times admiringly, groaning into my mouth as she felt its full size.
She finally pulled her mouth away and said, "Ye gods, that's one helluva hunk of meat! Christ, pour it to me, baby, pour it to me!"
It didn't take a second invitation. I reached down between us, taking my stallion ganglia away from her, and ran it up and down her pussy a couple of times, burying the pliant giant as deep as it would go and thrilling from the sensation; finally I found the hole, sent the head in, then withdrew my hand and started pumping.
I gave it to her for all it was worth, giving her the full nine inches with every stroke, and she almost went out of her mind. Her legs went up in the air, slid over my back and she locked her ankles; in that position she matched stroke with stroke, popping our bellies together, withdrawing, popping them together again. I kissed her mouth almost cruelly, pulling her tits out from between us and mauling them as I let the full weight of my upper-body fall on her while my lower-body humped like crazy.
It was fantastic, and I finally drove it in full to the hilt and left it there, quivering and spurting, my whole lower-body jerking. She spent at the same time, screaming out obscenities into my mouth, then her legs fell off me.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," she whispered, "that was one hell of a fuck! I'd like to pickle that piston of yours and take it home with me!"
I felt hands on my hips and looked up. Johnnie was beside us, naked. He had a hard on, five or six inches at best, and a look of concern (or worry) on his face.
"Come on," he said, "roll over so you can cool off. She'll be wanting you a second time..."
"You fuckin' well know it," Liz spat out. She looked up at me. "You decide, Mr. Big-cock. You want to screw me again, or you want this little queer blowin' you?"
"Well," I half-mumbled without really thinking about it, "a promise is a promise."
She snorted. "You want to waste that beautiful hunk of meat on a man, you go ahead. 'Course, maybe you're a little queer yourself and don't want to admit it ... ! "
I looked down at her; for a minute it seemed at least a little bit like what Marge had done to me. Not bothering to give it any more definite thought, I rolled over. "Just give me a couple of minutes," I told Johnnie, "and I'll be able to go again."
Once I had noticed her, I noticed her all the more. I found out that she came into the restaurant every noontime for lunch; I could look out through the triangular window in the swinging door, and there she'd be, sitting all alone in a booth. She was of average height and built well, but nothing ... well, no one thing stood out. I mean, it was just all there, and it was right. Nice tits, nice hips, nice legs, nice face. She was dark-haired (like Marge), but had a very pale face, as if she didn't get out of doors very much. She was ... well, I think that "dignified" is probably the best word. She dressed simply but real smart. I honest to god thought she was one of the most attractive women I had ever seen, and I really wanted to get into her pants. Just standing there at the door watching her I'd get a hard on and have to go into the toilet and get rid of it. The stupid part was, of course, I thought she was untouchable; there was a whole world between us. I couldn't go out and talk to her; I couldn't send her a note saying, I'd sure like to fuck you, when can we meet!
Then we met. It was one evening when I was on my way home from work. I was walking along and there she was, standing on a streetcorner waitingto cross. I followed her. She went a few blocks and turned into an apartment house. Well, after that I tried to time it so I was there at the same time, and it proved out right, she got off work and was heading for home that time of day every day. The other day she suddenly stopped and I almost bumped into her; turning, she sort of smiled at me. She told me that she was very flattered, but she really wished I wouldn't follow her home every night! Jesus, I almost creamed just having her talk to me! Back at the hotel, thinking about her, I couldn't help myself; I imagined myself with her and beat it off.
I laid off a couple of days and then started again. Today ... miracle of miracles ... she stopped again, smiled again, and shook her head. "You're persevering, I'll have to say that," she said. "Well, come up and have a drink."
Her apartment was real nice. I plunked myself down on a sofa, legs spread, and she went onto the bedroom. When she came out she was wearing a loose-fitting housecoat, and I had the distinct feeling that she wasn't wearing anything under it. That, needless to say, caused old Junior to leap to attention.
She mixed us drinks (I didn't have the courage to tell her that I had never had a drink in my life), and after handing me mine sat across from me, crossing her legs so that I could see a lovely hip and ankle. The way her tits pushed against the housecoat, if she wasn't wearing a bra they were really great ones! She lit a cigarette, blew out the smoke and looked at me through it, half-smiling.
When the smoke cleared I saw the smile, then I saw her lower her eyes to my crotch. Finally she said, in a beautiful voice, "I had a perfect speech prepared for you, my young friend. About youth and love and how the broken-hearts of youth mend, the object of those affections soon forgotten. I was going to give you that speech and send you along your way, but ... "
I waited, looking down. I swallowed. "But what?" I finally asked.
She smiled again, fleetingly. "It was Shakespeare who said, 'llnto thine own self be true.' I'm a woman, a human being; I generally keep my appetites in hand, but ... well, that is a most interesting-looking bulge in your trousers."
The long and the short of it is that we finally went into her bedroom, a beautiful room of purples and gold, with a lot of mirrors. She let her housecoat fall off, and her body, like her face, was pale; she looked more like a statue than a human being. A beautiful statue. I had been right; she was naked under the housecoat, and she was like the Venus de Milo with both arms. I damned near tripped getting out of my pants, and by that time I could have pole-vaulted onto the bed. But she had other ideas; she came into my arms, crushing our bodies together, taking my cock between her legs and pressing her tits to my chest.
"Ummmm," she mumbled, "it does feel good, the feel of a strong, male body." I started to put my arms around her, but she quickly moved her hands to my arms and pushed them away. "Turn around," she said, "Look at the two of us in that mirror."
I turned, and there we were, both of us in our nakedness and, even if I do say so myself, we made a damned good-looking pair. She was pure femininity, luscious, and I was strong, hard-cocked, male.
"Turn slowly," she said softly, "I want to enjoy every part of your body." I turned slowly while she kept looking in the mirror. When I had made a complete circle she went to her knees in front of me; cupping my balls in one hand, she took my cock in the other and gently stroked it. She leaned forward and kissed it on the head, ran her tongue around it.
"Lovely," she half-whispered, "absolutely lovely!"
I guess that I was completely awed by her, therefore I let her run the show. Or maybe I just had the feeling that if I didn't she might back away at any time, call it all off; she certainly had me confused. It seemed that she was thoroughly enjoying herself, but it also seemed as if she could take or leave sex. I sure as hell didn't want her leaving it!
She pushed herself to her feet again, stood in front of me, so close that I could smell her soft fragrance. Looking into my eyes with a sort of half-smile in hers, she asked, "What do you like to do, my big-cocked young friend?"
"I ... Heck, anything, Anything you want to do."
"You want to fuck me?"
I nodded my head. "Yeah, I'd like that."
"Or would you rather I go down on you?"
I swallowed. "If that's what you want ... "
"What if I were to just masturbate you?"
"Well..." I answered, unable to keep the edge of disappointment from my voice, "if that's all you want to do."
She chuckled softly. "Waste a beautiful thing like that? Never! So as long as you're indecisive, why don't we try a little of each until we find what we both like best?"
The little of each was wild! Sprawled on the bed, me half on top of her, we kissed passionately while we felt of each other's bodies. I fondled her tits and rubbed her, she stroked my cock, rubbed my back and buttocks; I moved my head down and started mouthing her luscious orbs, teasing the nipples to hardness with my tongue, grasping her firm pussy in the palm of one hand. A few moments later, not knowing exactly which one of us had actually made the move, we were turning around; I buried my face in the dark forest between her legs as she slid her lips over my prong. I sent my tongue darting into her as she moved her mouth up and down, taking my balls in one hand and fondling them gently. She took me in clear to the root, I sent my tongue as deep into her as I could get it, prodding a bit and then cork-screwing it in, sloshing it around the soft, moist, velvety lining.
We groped each other's buttocks, and I thrilled her a little more by sending my finger down her dark, rear-end channel, moving it in and out with the movement of my tongue from the other side. She wiggled her hips and made little noises, but she kept working on my dong at the same time, giving it a thorough working over. I don't think that either one of us would have minded continuing on that route; we were both thoroughly enjoying what we were doing-but she had said that we were going to try a little of each, and she obviously meant it. She pulled her mouth away from my cock, rolled her pussy away from my mouth, and rolled over onto her back.
I didn't need an invitation. Turning around, I straddled her, my knees on either side of her hips. I looked down into her face, then lowered my head and touched my lips gently to hers. I wiggled my tongue out a little, teased her lips with it, and her mouth opened for me as she reached down between us and shoved my cock into place, forcing the head hard along the valley of her cleavage until it reached the opening . As I sent my tongue into her mouth I sent my cock into that pliant, glove-tight pussy-not all at once, but inch by inch until it was Finally buried deep within her.
"Oh, God," she groaned into my mouth, "oh, God, it feels good to have a big cock up there again!"
There was no question now as to what the finale would be. We kept kissing and I kept fucking, using long, even strokes, and her own body started responding more and more. She shoved her hips up off the bed with each stroke, taking it to the hilt, pulled away as I did, rose up to meet me again. Our strokes grew faster, then I felt the fireworks going off in my head again. I humped as my jism spurted out, jerky motions, and she matched them, too, then with the educated muscles of her pussy she milked me dry. I collapsed onto her and she didn't mind at all.
There was a silly little, flirtatious teen-ager walking down the sidewalk this evening. She was trying to act like a sensuous adult but only looked like a poor imitation of a prostitute, especially because she was sort of skinny and had rather poor excuses for tits. But she was trying hard and I had the urge, so when she made a crack to me I suggested that we step into a dark doorway.
Once in there I groped her a little, just to feel her buttocks and little pussy, then I told her that I couldn't mess around with a girl her age, but if she wanted to blow me that'd be all right.
She didn't hesitate, but went to her knees, pulled my cock out, and gave me not the best but at least a satisfying blow-job. She damn near choked, but she was valiant; I don't think that she missed a drop, then did a thorough job of sucking it dry.
Sort of odd-ball experience tonight, but it was fun. I am sitting in a cafeteria, having coffee, when two young women went by. They were both blondes, and even at a glance I could tell that they weren't bad. Cute but not beautiful, their young tits pushing out against tight sweaters, little asses squashed into tight skirts. They did an about-face, came back and with no qualms stood outside the window looking in at me as they carried on a heated conversation (at least it seemed heated). A couple of seconds later they turned away, then I saw them coming toward me inside. One slid into the booth opposite me, the other stood by the table.
"You a swinger?" the standing one asked openly.
I smiled. "I've been known to have fun, if that's what you mean," I answered.
She bobbed her head, accepting the answer, then blurted out, "Well, let me ask you this! She [nodding her head to the other girl] claims if a guy has long fingers it means he has a big hunk of meat. Is that true?"
I pursed my lips and shrugged my shoulders. "I never made a study of it, but ... "
"What about you? We looked in the window, and you have real long fingers."
What the hell, I thought. "Would you believe ten inches?"
Her eyes widened for a moment, then she said, "You're the man for us, wanna come along?"
They shared an apartment with a third girl, a redhead who was equally well-stacked and sort of pretty. They also obviously also shared an interest in sex and in having group activities (maybe they felt safer that way!). Anyway, I can't begin to remember the sequence of everything that happened; I just know that in nothing flat we were all naked, and I had three hot little numbers climbing all over me.
Mouths and tits and cunts were touching me all over and I was grabbing hold of them; I'd feel a mouth on my cock as a pussy got shoved into my face, another girl would take my hand and guide it to her twat so I could finger-fuck her. I'd get a mouthful of tit, a handful of cunt, and a tight twat would slide down over my cock, ride it for a little bit and then get pushed away, replaced by a mouth.
At one point one of the girls took my balls into her mouth while another was blowing me, the third straddling me with her pussy right in position for my tongue. I guess a couple of them had at least minor orgasms, because there was stickiness all over my body, but it didn't stop them.
It must have gone on for at least an hour, then suddenly they stopped, all three pulling away and leaving me lying there in the middle of the floor with my hard on sticking up like a pole. I raised my head, wondering, then saw one of the girls shake her hands together and then place three round objects on the coffee table. They drew straws, then, and the girl with the shortest straw picked the round object she wanted. She groaned once she'd turned it over. The girl with the middle straw made her selection, then squealed with pleasure.
The name of the game, it seemed, was how they decided who was going to get the final, full-blasted fuck! The blonde who had just drawn the right object spun around and literally lunged toward me. She came down over me like a plane coming in for a landing, crushing her tits against my chest and my cock up between our bellies as her arms went around my neck and she crushed her lips to mine. I responded immediately, rubbing her back and buttocks, giving a little hump motion, then I rolled her over onto her back, raised up, and when I came down I had the head of my cock caught where it belonged.
The other two girls had gone into a clinch of their own, finger-fucking and messing around, but I wasn't the least bit interested in watching two girls have their own kind of sex. I was only interested in the nice-titted, tight-cunted little number under me, and I gave her my full attention.
Warm, juicy kisses while I drove my plunger in and out of her, the feeling of her hot tits squashed between us. It was going good, but then she started maneuvering a little and I realized what she wanted; I pulled away, letting her turn over, then I grasped her hips and pulled her little ass up off the floor, driving my cock between her legs. It pushed along, a few false starts, then finally the head slid in and I went at her from that angle, a good doggie-fashion fucking that brought us both to a fantastically pleasing orgasm. I must have shot a dozen times before I was almost drained dry and we went to the floor, me on top of her and my gone-limp cock flopped down between her legs.
All that work-up had really paid off; it had been a really masterful shooting spree!
CHAPTER FIVE
After reading through those and a few other of my tales, I closed the books and stared off into space. In the reading of each entry I had relived the scene, remembering the partner of partners, and I'll have to admit that I was to full erection again.
But most importantly, I remembered the almost fanatical determination with which I had gone at it; after that first involvement with Johnnie-boy and his wife, seeing sex as a means of erasing all that had been between Marge and I, I had set about it with ardor.
If sex-partners didn't seek me out, I sought them out, and once I set out to find someone I didn't stop until I succeeded. Seldom a night went by without some sort of activity.
I wondered now (perhaps six years too late) if it had worked. Had fucking-without-love finally succeeded in erasing the pain, the error of having fucked-only-for-love?
I still couldn't answer it. The best that I could come up with was that it had been a form of escape; I had gone about screwing the way others drink. I had been a sexoholic, a man screwing as an escape mechanism. Looking back (and having the lengthy record before me), I could only surmise that if it hadn't been successful on a deep level it at least had been on the surface. At least, screwing up a storm, I had kept from dying of a broken heart, from dwelling on my loss. In the pursuit of and then doing my own fucking, I hadn't had time to think about Marge and Rod MacIvers together, a thought that could have been devastating.
But here it was! This evening of thinking had brought me to this point, and as I thought of them again, a feeling of deep pain went through me. I unthinkingly closed my eyes and envisioned them again, first Marge as I had known her so many times and then Rod as I had seen him in the gym. First Marge with her beautiful body and soul that were supposed to be all mine, then Rod with his self-confidence and almost god-like physique. It was as if they were standing in front of the mirror in that one room I had described and, as I watched, Rod developed a slow-rising hard-on, they turned to each other, and as they went into each other's arms, his big prick pressing between her legs, a groan escaped from me.
No, I hadn't escaped from it. I had run from it, kept it out of my mind, but I had not truly escaped from it. The tightness in my chest, the feeling of tears wanting to form in my eyes, the slight quivering of my cock told me that, these eight years later, I still hadn't recovered from it. The thought of Rod sending his plunger into her, fondling and mouthing her body, was almost more than I could stand. The thought of her accepting him, returning his passion-at times even going down to suck on that monster-machine of his-was agonizing.
The old wound had been opened. I felt not too unlike I had felt that day when her telegram had come telling me of her marriage. Violated, cheated, betrayed.
Then, as if to remind me of other (perhaps more important) things, Cindy stirred in the bedroom. I heard her moving around on the bed, and with something like disbelief I whispered, "But I'm married. I've been married for six years."
A few moments later, her hair mussed even more than before, she was standing in the doorway. She rubbed her eyes sleepily.
"Honey, what's the matter? What are you doing still up?"
I studied her, that well-developed body that I had seen and felt so many times. I looked at the firm, pear-shaped tits that stood out from her body a little perkily, the nipples like cute little decorations added to the tips. I let my eyes move down over her smooth stomach, her nicely rounded hips, and come to rest on the dark-haired thatch in a vee between her legs; I remembered the feel of the pliant, giving and accepting orifice hidden under that brush. A beautiful, well-built woman, sexually satisfying, willing to do anything I wanted; but more than that, my wife. Yet just a few moments before I had been thinking of, actually hungering for, Marge...
I set the books on the table, on top of the yellowed descriptions that Marge and I had written of each other.
"Cindy, will you do me a favor? Will you not ask me any questions, just come sit between my legs a few minutes?"
Her eyes asked questions, but she didn't put them into words. Moving gracefully, she crossed the room and went to her knees between my legs. As she rolled over onto her hip, I felt her tits brush against my leg; a hand came up and cupped my balls, then she pressed her cheek down against my hard cock. "Do you want me to suck it?" she asked almost timidly.
"No, just stay like that. That's nice."
And I remembered...
Close to two years in the city. I was inching up on twenty-one, the legal age. I had been fully developed when I got there, but those two years had brought a sort of physical maturity that had been lacking; I guess that they chipped off the last of childhood, of adolescence.
Two years, holding seven-hundred and thirty days. Considering that on some nights, acting almost obsessed, I had sought sex partner after sex partner, I felt safe in saying that I had, then, gone to bed with at least seven hundred different people. Men, women, groups. If there was a type of sexual activity that I hadn't been involved in, I couldn't imagine what it was. I had been the cocksman of all cocksmen!
(Funny, I thought, but it hadn't occurred to me before. Maybe I had been trying to fuck myself to death!)
One day there appeared on the street corner near the hotel where I was living a dark-haired young man in a wheelchair. He was a good-looking fellow with a cheerful smile, selling newspapers. I didn't really want one, but I couldn't resist buying it; I somehow felt that he was showing one hell of a lot of stamina and ought to be encouraged; I bought it, stuck it under my arm and carried it to work.
The next morning he was there again, and I bought another paper.
He surprised me by asking, "You live alone in that hotel?"
I nodded, and then I noticed that his eyes moved slowly down over my chest (as good as naked, I guess, in the tight tee-shirt I was wearing) and came to rest on my crotch. It bugged me throughout the day; I found myself wondering what had happened to put him in the wheelchair, and what a guy like that could do for sex life. His upper body looked strong, he was handsome; his face was bright, eyes alert. He must have sexual urges, I told myself, but how could he satisfy them? (Oddly enough, the thought of sex with a cripple seemed to hold a strange fascination for me!)
The following morning I left the hotel a few minutes earlier than usual-just in case he decided to talk a little. Again he surprised me; smiling, he commented that I was a little early. And so it went until, before the week was out, I had learned that he had been in an automobile accident; he was bent into a permanent sitting position. He lived in an apartment not far away with a sister a year younger than he (he was twenty) and a father who worked swing-shift. Their mother had died long before he could remember. Shades of Marge and I, I couldn't help but thinking.
On Sunday, my day off, I slept in (especially because I had had a busy, strenuous Saturday night!). When I finally sauntered out, in quest of breakfast, I was surprised to see him-but perhaps not surprised to see his clouded face suddenly break into a sun-shininess.
"I was afraid you weren't coming by today!" he blurted out, and almost without thinking I answered, "I didn't think you'd be here on Sundays, anyway!"
"I've just got about five papers left. If you'd wait till I sell them, maybe we could go have coffee?"
I laughed. "Tell you what! I'll buy them. Wouldn't mind having company for breakfast at all."
During breakfast we talked about many things: telling anecdotes about out childhoods, dropping little philosophical tid-bits and finally it reached the point where, with eyes lowered and fumbling with a spoon as he sat with the wheelchair pushed up to the table, he said, "Before the wreck ... well, I used to do my share of peter-dunkin'. Since the wreck ... well, even if a girl would agree, the way I'm bent I couldn't get at her. Even if she ... even if she agreed to blow me, she couldn't get any more than the head so she couldn't do any good."
"What ... what do you do, then?" I asked openly. "Masturbate?"
He looked up and our eyes met. "Just before I left the hospital, when I'd gotten into pretty good shape, there was a ward boy. A fella about twenty-three or four, a real nice guy. One night ... " He shrugged his shoulders and simplified it. "Well, he buggered me while he beat me off."
"Buggered you?" I asked, having not heard the expression.
"Yeah. You know, fucked me in the ass."
"Oh."
He lowered his eyes a moment then raised them again, searched my face. "The funny thing is," he finally said, "I liked it."
Needless to say, we went to my hotel room and, on that quiet Sunday morning, I buggered him while I beat him off. He groaned with pleasure-pain, insisting that I send my big, hard shaft on up even when I knew that the pain was terrific.
Once I'd gotten it firmly implanted, I reached around and grasped his cock-not by wrapping my fingers around it, because I couldn't get hold of it that way, but by putting my fingers over it so that the head was in the palm of my hand. As I worked my plunger in him I used the same motion on his cock, and while his lower body couldn't react, when I finally, wildly drove myself in for the kill and let my cum spurt freely I felt his cock quiver and the load of milky fluid spurt out into my hand. Still cock-quivering, he milked me dry with his ass muscles, then he whispered in a half-crying voice, "Thank you! Oh, thank you!"
I cleaned myself off, wiped his rear-end dry, and then washed the head of his cock. That done, I helped him dress and again and got dressed myself. As I was helping him into his wheelchair he said, "Do you think ... do you think we could do it again?"
I wasn't sure. "Probably," I answered.
He nodded, and the expression on his face said that he could accept whatever he got and live without what he couldn't get even when he wanted it. It made me feel a little bit like a heel, especially with the amount of screwing I'd been doing.
He could manipulate his own wheelchair, but it was easier if I pushed it. We left the hotel and started along the nearly deserted sidewalk, quietly enjoying the warm, morning air. Midway along he said, "Davie, I'll tell you a secret if you want me to."
"Sure, tell me your secret."
"Well, Cindy ... my sister ... she's really great. Sometimes, when I need it, she comes into my room and ... Well, y'know, I could tell her all about it, so she went out and bought this rubber thing. A dildo, I think they call it, like a guy's prick only made of rubber. She ties it on herself and then does what you just did."
I didn't answer. I couldn't. Different as it was, it was still the same thing: brother and sister having sexual intercourse, understanding each other's need ... loving!
Then I had to ask. "Do you ... well, reciprocate any way?"
He was quiet a moment, then he half-whispered, "Yeah, I do. It ... it helps us both. I ... use my mouth on her."
Even though I was behind him and he couldn't see me, I merely answered with a nod ... and memories flooded through me.
We reached the apartment building and Karl explained that he usually waited for someone to come along (or out of the building) and asked them to pull his chair up over the one step. As it was, I turned him around and backed him up over it, then turned him around again and we started into the building. He had taken over the wheeling of his chair, and I found myself hanging back as we neared the elevator. He seemed to sense it.
"Come on," he said. "You've got to come up and meet Cindy. I've told her all about you and promised I'd bring you home some time."
He opened the door to the apartment himself and wheeled his way in. I stood, not knowing what to expect, in the doorway; I guess that it wouldn't have surprised me to see Marge there. My thoughts had suddenly become very entangled. Instead, I saw a girl come out of another room, drawn by the noise. She was dressed in a loose sweater that hung down over blue jeans and was barefooted; her hair was tied in a bandana. All I could really see was her attractive face. "Oh, this's awful!" she cried out, reaching up to pat her bandanaed head. "I've been mopping and waxing the kitchen floor. Darn you, Karl, why didn't you tell me...? "
"I didn't know myself," the elated brother smiled, and then with eloquence in voice and gesture announced, "Cindy, this is the great guy I've been telling you about, Davie. Davie, this is the greatest sister a guy could have, Cindy!"
Sister, I wanted to ask, or ... wife or lover?
Cindy seemed to blush a little; I couldn't help but notice that as she lowered her eyes, shadows fell from the lashes onto her soft-looking skin. And I couldn't help but imagine her, the rubber cock tied to her, fucking Karl from the rear as she beat his meat-then lying with legs spread as he munched at her box-lunch. There was something almost maddening about the thought; I felt almost trapped. I wished, in that moment, that Karl hadn't told me.
Half-dazed, I could do nothing but be pulled along by them. I found myself sitting at a table in a high-ceilinged, old-fashioned dining-room, Karl across the table from me and Cindy (her odor drifting down to me) leaning over to pour coffee. But I watched, and I wondered, and I thought that I saw it. A look, a gesture, a hand touching some part of the other, a slight inflection in voice, each a little give-away (visible only to me because I understood) that spoke of the love they felt for each other.
In that moment, too, I knew what it was that was bothering me; it was not only being made to think about Marge and I again, but it was the realization that there was a "No Fucking" sign on this attractive young woman. (I could bugger her brother, without her knowing it but, remembering the expression on his face earlier, I knew that even if I wanted to, I couldn't take this love object away from him. I sensed, somehow, that he could enjoy being buggered by a man (a real prick instead of a dildo), but that it would in no way touch-upon or harm what was going between them.)
I don't remember the conversation or what happened to it, how it got off onto the direction it took, but suddenly I heard Karl saying, " ... so the three of us liking each other so much, well, I think we ought to share everything. I mean, seriously, Cindy, I know you like what I do to you, but I know you'd like to get a good fucking, too. Davie's really hung, he could really satisfy you, and I like him so I wouldn't mind. Someone I didn't like, I'd mind, but not Davie."
Cindy blushed again, swallowed, then slowly raised her eyes. She didn't have to say anything; it was all there. She would like a good fucking, a hard prick up where hard pricks are supposed to go! And I was sporting what could do the job! Notwithstanding the big load I had dumped not too long before, buggering Karl, my whang was stretched out hot and long against my leg.
"Besides that," Karl went on, "if you wouldn't care ... well, I'd get a sort of kick watching it. I mean, as long as I can't do it myself, I could do it sort of vicariously that way! 'Course, I'd probably end up beating my pud," he laughed.
A moment iater he blurted out, "Well, one of you guys say something! Do you agree or not?"
I looked into Cindy's eyes, studied her face and, in something .like a whisper, I answered, "I'd be willing."
Enthusiastic, Karl went about it as if he were planning a party. We couldn't do it that day, he said, because they had no way of knowing when their father would come home, but tomorrow night the man would be at work. "So as soon as you get off work, Dave, you come over here. We'll give it a go, then you can stay for dinner. Hell," he laughed, "if we all end up liking it, that'll give us time for a second go-round."
The thirty or so hours in between were a total loss; I wandered around as if I were in a fog the rest of that day, slept fitfully, and then worked the following day as if I were a robot. I tried to struggle away from thought of Marge, found myself uninterested in seeking out an interim sex partner, and thought of what was to come with something like disbelief. As a matter-of-fact, the following morning I probably would have thought that it had been a dream if Karl, in his usual spot on the corner, hadn't reminded me, with a broad smile and twinkling eyes, that he and Cindy would be ready and waiting!
They were, with no foolish games. I knocked on the door and Cindy opened it, leaning forward slightly so that only her face showed; as I stepped in and she closed it behind me, I saw Karl sitting in his chair. He was stark-naked and hard-pronged. Turning, I saw that Cindy was naked, too, and I almost gasped. Her loose, house-working clothes had certainly done her an injustice; I saw all her loveliness now, and it was something to behold! And it was, again, a vision of Marge. It was unbelievable (especially after the variety I had seen and used) that two women could be so similar; pear-shaped tits, perky and nice, soft and well-curved bodies. Dark hair, both on the head and between the legs. Obviously a nice pussy, mounded well but hidden under the black hair. My prong finished the job thoughts had started on the way over; it pushed out against my pants wanting to stand at full attention!
"In this nudist camp," Karl said half-jokingly, "nobody is allowed to wear clothes!"
"Who'd want to?" I answered, pulling my tee-shirt over my head. I kicked off my shoes and socks, slid out of my pants.
"See! Didn't I tell you, Cindy? Look at the cock on this guy! Man, that's one great hunk of meat!"
Cindy was already looking. Her eyes had widened slightly, her lips were slightly parted, and her breasts rose and fell evenly. She raised her eyes slowly. "I ... I don't know if I could take all that," she said honestly.
"Well, let's give it a go!" Karl chirped out cheerfully. Spinning his chair around, he headed for the bedroom.
I moved across to Cindy, took her into my arms. Pressing our bodies tightly together, I leaned down and kissed her full on the lips. "I won't hurt you," I promised softly, then swept her up into my arms and followed after Karl.
I put her on the bed, then placed one knee and both arms on it and leaned over her, my body not touching hers. I brushed my lips across hers, moved them down over her throat; I gave each tit the right kind of treatment, teasing the nipples to hardness, then moved down lower. I lapped around a little then sent my tongue in tentatively, and I knew what she had meant. She was tight, oh, so tight. Karl's tongue had apparently not been able to reach deep enough; he had not taken her maidenhead. The thought set my heart to pounding. But I didn't want to hurt her; with most women I didn't care, pain was even part of the game, but I didn't want to hurt Cindy. I raised up. "You got any K-Y or anything, Karl?"
Karl, cock in hand, nodded toward a bedside table. "There's vaseline in the drawer there. We had to use it when we started the dildo bit!"
I got the vaseline and rubbed a healthy amount over the head of my cock, down over the shaft; when it was slick I reached down and gently, lovingly massaged some of it into her tight, sweet love-box, at the same time giving her a sample with my finger of what was to come.
Straddling her, looking down into her face, I said, "When I take your cherry it'll hurt for a minute, but only for a minute. Okay?"
She swallowed and nodded. She was really quite innocent despite what she and Karl had been doing.
Kissing her tits again, giving each one equal time and attention, I reached down, got hold of my prong and ran the head of it back and forth along the long, pliant but tight valley. When I thought the time was right, I positioned it and eased just the head in; she closed her eyes, a look of expectation on her face, and I started moving my hips slowly. I withdrew it just to the tip, sent it in a little deeper. She gasped ever-so-slightly, and then again as I withdrew and on the inward thrust added a little more. I gave a few strokes that way, then decided the time was right.
"Get ready, honey, I'm gonna give it to you all at once."
She braced herself, I withdrew, then I plunged it clear to the hilt. She let out a cry, her breathing came heavy, and I knew the worse was over for her. I started fucking gently, and it was soon obvious that pain had been forgotten and pleasure was taking over. As my greasy cock slid up and down her greasy channel, as I continued to mouth her tits as best I could, her hips began to move in unison with mine. "Oh, Jesus," Karl gasped, "Jesus, look at 'em fuckin'! "
I glanced over and saw that his eyes were almost glazed as he stared at us and pounded his meat.
"Like it?" I asked, giving her long, slow strokes.
"Hmmmmmm," she mumbled, eyes closed and head rolling back and forth on the pillow. The movement of her body spoke even louder; every stroke told me that she wanted every inch of it, and I willingly gave it to her. Fuck, withdraw; fuck, withdraw ... fuck, fuck, fuck! We started humping faster; our mouths met and I crushed her tits with my chest as I sent my tongue into her mouth, then I exploded into her! She cried out and dug her fingernails into my back, thrusting herself up to me to cum as I spurted my juices into the deepest part of that tight channel.
"Oh, wow!" she finally gasped out, "Wow, I had no idea it could feel so good!"
Karl, using a towel to wipe his own cum off his belly and chest, said, "Hell, I could have told you that! Just don't get so hung up on that big cock of his you want to give up what we've been doing!" He sounded concerned.
I looked down into Cindy's eyes and she looked up into mine. It was a strange moment. Maybe we both knew in that moment, without giving it concrete thought, that that was exactly what was going to happen.
We had dinner, a tasty casserole and salad that Cindy had prepared earlier ("She's showing off," Karl joked, "snowing you what a good cook she is!"), then went into the living room. We were still in the nude, not only because we liked the freedom of it but because we enjoyed seeing each other's nudity. Even Karl's body, bent into a sitting-position though it was, had a beauty about it; he was strong chested, slim waisted and had fairly good-shaped legs. And in the living room, after I had lifted him out of the chair and set him on the sofa, you wouldn't have known that he was an invalid. You would have known that he was the leader, because a few moments later he asked us to sit one on each side of him; he rubbed a hand over Cindy's love-box and stroked my cock until it was hard-with both of us, regardless of our true feelings, letting him do it. Then he suddenly said, "I've got a good idea, if you'll do it. How about Cindy goin' down on you, Davie, and you beatin' my pud for me?"
I started to remind him that I was purely straight, but then I remembered two things. I had beat him off the morning before as I buggered him, and I did feel sort of sorry for him and wanted to give him pleasure. And, thirdly, if Cindy were to go down on me, giving me that pleasure, then it would be taking something from him. Needless to say, I made no objection. Cindy slid to the floor between my legs, took my balls in one hand and my cock in the other; as she slid her lips over the head of my cock I reached out and grasped his already rigid one. As she licked her tongue around the head and then started working up and down on it, I started pumping his.
"Go slow," he whispered, "make it last."
Up until that time I had been a one-timer, or at least a one-nighter. I either screwed somebody once (or whatever we did) and then took off, or if I happened to like them I stayed through a night so that we could do a variety of things. Once I had conquered, I guess (or let myself be conquered), I had to move on to something new. Fucking was the important thing, fucking as many different people as I possibly could. For some reason that had changed-and I thought that I knew what the reason was. It wasn't only that I liked both Cindy and Karl, that our sexual activities were pleasurable, but they had moved me back into that brother-sister-love zone without it bringing real pain. I remembered without really remembering, if that makes any sense to you.
Anyway, I accepted their invitation to return the second night and the third and the fourth, and then there was no reason for an invitation. I just went there five nights a week, finding them naked, stripped down, and we went through one kind of sexual experience or the other. Weekends were out, of course, as their father didn't work weekends and kept unpredictable hours. (Weekends had been out with Marge and I, too, for the same reason.) And I was saved from Saturday morning sex with Karl because I had to work, and from Sunday morning because I reasoned with him (falsely for me) that a guy had to have time to rebuild his love juices.
Late one evening, into the third week, there was a knock on my door late one night-or early one morning. I got groggily to my feet and, naked, stumbled across to open it. Cindy was standing there looking almost frightened. It awakened me immediately, but I still went in to wash my face with cold water once I had let her in and closed the door behind her. Coming out of the bathroom, I asked, "What's the matter?"
She shook her head, looking down at her finger-fumbling hands that squirmed in her lap.
"I just can't take it any more, Davie, that's what's the matter."
"Can't take what?"
She looked up and her eyes were filled with tears. "Davie, I love Karl and I was perfectly satisfied taking care of his sex-needs until you came along, but now..." She shook her head. "Davie, maybe I'm selfish, but I want it to be just you and me."
I swallowed. I hadn't told her about Marge and myself, and I couldn't now, but I knew that the brother-sister thing had to be considered. I mean, I figured that it was deeper with Karl than just the sex part-and I was sure that it had been with her, too, until I had showed up. Knowing how much a guy can hurt if that gets tampered with, I didn't want to be on the tampering end.
"Have you said anything to Karl?" I asked, stalling.
"No," she whispered, "I was afraid to. But every night ... well, it gets a little harder every night. I mean ... having the three of us there instead of just you and I."
Looking down at her, thoughts battled for supremacy. On the one hand I wanted to consider the possibility that Marge had felt this way, hid things from me but finally fled to (or with) Rod MacIvers. On the other, I was trying to figure out what kind of feelings I had for Cindy. Was she merely a satisfying sexual partner, part of a fun sex game that the three of us had been playing, or did she mean something deeper to me? I had to remind myself that she was the first one since Marge whom I had been able to fuck consistently; there seemed to be some significance in that. All I could come up with, however, was, "Cindy, we can't do anything to hurt Karl, you know that. Jesus, he's had a tough enough life!"
"I don't want to hurt him," she cried out, "but I want ... I want my own life. I want ... I want you and I doing those things without ... without him there."
"But how?" I blurted out. "I mean, how could we break this thing off without hurting him?"
She daubed at her eyes. "I don't know. I was hoping you'd think of a way." She looked up again, then literally lunged from the chair to her knees in front of me. She wrapped her arms around my legs and buried her face against my sex equipment. "Oh, Davie," she cried, "you do want me, don't you?"
I stared at the wall without really seeing it, then finally half-whispered, "I want you, but I don't want to hurt Karl," and I knew in that moment that that was the truth. Whether it was because she reminded me of Marge or not, I loved Cindy physically; she was as sexually satisfying as a person could be, willing to use whatever technique I felt at the moment; she had a pleasant, likable personality. If it wasn't love, it seemed to be as close to love as I could hope to get.
I reached down and pulled her to her feet.
"Why don't you take your clothes off?" I asked. "We're both too wound up to think clearly, so let's have us a little fun and then work on it later."
We didn't have to work on it later. While we were never able to know for sure, the way we put it together was this: Karl awakened during the night and went into Cindy's room. Not finding her there or any place else in the house, he put two and two together. Going back to his own room, he dressed and then left the apartment. Maybe he was coming to see us, we would never know, but while I was pounding myself off in her, Karl's wheelchair went out between two cars and into the path of an on-coming truck. He was dead on arrival at the emergency hospital.
Cindy raised her head. She looked into my eyes for a moment than leaned down and kissed my cock. "Settle things?" she asked, a hint of a smile at the corners of her lips.
I knew what she meant. This had been the first time in our history that I had gone soft without some sort of sexual activity. But I couldn't tell her, of course, why it had happened. She had no way of knowing that I had been reliving the past.
CHAPTER SIX
Karl's death (even though we could have and at times did feel-or at least suspect-some guilt in it) pulled Cindy and I closer together. Shaken, we clung together, dressed when it was necessary and naked when it could be. We didn't fuck (I couldn't have gotten a hard-on if I'd tried), but just clung together like two frightened kids. And finally, sitting with her and her father in the family room during the funeral, looking down at his still face when it was over, I found myself making a promise that I thought he would have liked.
"I'll marry Cindy, Karl," I whispered soundlessly, "and I'll always take care of her."
And then, because I thought he would have liked that, too, I added, "And once in awhile I'll dedicate a fuck to you. I won't tell her, of course, but you and I'll know."
A week later, after we had finally been able to have satisfying intercourse, I lay with my limp cock in her and looked up into her eyes.
"I think we ought to get married," I said.
It seemed the right thing to do, so I wrote to my dad telling him of the coming event, the time and place. We had decided on a simple wedding, just the two of us and her father, in the parish house of the church that they had gone to as children. When the day arrived I dressed in the new suit I'd bought for the occasion, stuck a carnation in my buttonhole, and went to meet them. As I walked up the path I saw two figures standing on the steps just outside the parish house; I froze. It was Marge and Rod MacIvers.
Even from a distance they made a handsome couple. Rod was as tall as ever, his lithe body accented by the well-tailored clothes he was wearing. His blonde hair seemed to glisten; when he smiled his teeth showed white. Marge was just as beautiful as ever but with a touch of maturity; as a matter-of-fact, it was obvious that life had been good to her. The accoutrements that Rod and his money could provide her had helped; she was dressed simply but smartly, an obviously expensive fur stole tossed casually over one arm. They looked as if they might have stepped out of a picture on the society page of a newspaper.
There was only one problem, I didn't want them there. I think that the truth of the matter is that I didn't want to move on up that walk and perhaps find that I still loved her; at the same time, I still felt a churning, repugnant sensation at the thought of seeing them together.
Perhaps it was cruel, but I turned around and walked away. Finding a telephone, I looked up the number and called the minister; when he answered I asked to speak to Cindy. "I can't explain it to you," I told her after I'd heard her voice, "but my sister and her husband are out on the porch there. I know it'll be tough on you, but I want you to go tell them that I won't come until they've gone away." I didn't say anymore.
I didn't give her time to answer. I hung up and went back to where I could watch. I saw her, obviously embarrassed and uncomfortable, go out on the porch and talk to them. A few moments later Marge and Rod turned and walked down the path. I felt a great pain, but at the same time a feeling of triumph, as I saw the clouded expressions on their faces. If I had hurt them ... well, god-damn it, it was what they deserved!
But, I'll have to admit, it was not a happy groom who stood beside Cindy and heard the words that Marge and I had repeated so often: Until death do us part. Closing my eyes, for a moment I felt as if it were Marge standing there beside me. That night, as we fucked legally for the first time, there were moments when it seemed as if it were Marge's body under me instead of Cindy. All in all, although I didn't let Cindy know, the whole thing seemed like a miserable mess to me.
That had been six years ago and I hadn't seen or heard from Marge since, not until her telephone call this afternoon. I could only wonder again, before falling asleep from sheer exhaustion, if I had made a mistake in agreeing to see her again.
I knew it was a dream and struggled to get away from it, but I was powerlessly in it's grip.
Karl sat naked in his wheel chair, resting on the crest of a hill. God only knew what was on the other side; it might taper down harmlessly, but it might also be a sheer cliff. He held newspapers on his lap, but there was a hole through them and his big-headed cock stuck up through the hole. He held another paper up as he had done on the street corner, exposing the headlines in hopes of tempting buyers. Bold headlines read: I FUCKED MY SISTER.
A tall, slender tree that stood not far away suddenly began to move. It was more than a breeze blowing through the leaves; it not only took on animation, it took on a new form. Branches lowered and became arms, shoulders rolling a little as they completed the transformation; bark fell away and there was a body. A lovely, curvaceous female body. Pear-shaped tits standing out away from the body, the nipples darker but glistening as the sunlight hit them. A nice, rounded belly, nicely swelling hips, a lovely cunt covered with dark hair. The hips undulated a little as the tree, roots still in the ground, made its way toward the wheelchair. It (a faceless "it") smiled and said, "My brother fucked me, too, Karl, but then I ran away from him."
Karl looked up, frightened. "No," he cried out. "No, I'm not going to fuck you."
"Of course not! Nobody fucks another boy's sister!"
Karl shook his head, shoulders slumping forward. Tears began to stream down his face. "Davie fucked my sister."
The tree smiled. "Ah, you see, he betrayed you! And he should have known better, knowing how he felt when Rod took me away. But we'll show them, Karl, we'll show both Rod and Davie. You and I'll fuck, and that'll ... "
"No!" Karl screamed out again, clutching his cock, "no, I'd jack off first!"
"Yes," the tree cooed seductively, "oh, yes, Karl, and it'll be a lovely fuck, I promise you. It'll be so lovely that you'll want to stay with me the rest of your life."
Still undulating, the tree moved closer to the wheelchair. Still clutching his hard cock, a look of panic on his face, Karl put his hand on the wheel of his chair and started it moving. Using only one hand that way, the chair moved crazily, then suddenly it went between cars and plummeted over the rim of the hill. His scream lasted for an eternity before it finally died slowly away.
I tried to run, wanting to save him, but someone had flattened me onto my back and I couldn't get up. I was caught in some gooey substance; every time I raised an arm or a leg the gooey substance strung out with it and then snapped it back. I tried to raise my back and the same thing happened.
"Oh, God," I cried, "oh, God, let me go catch him. I'll never fuck again as long as I live if I can only save him!"
The tree laughed. "Liar! You'll fuck every chance you'll get. You'll drop your pants for anyone who'll go down on you. You're fickle! Love! You promised love, to love until death do us part, but you couldn't keep your cock in your pants."
"No! It was you!"
The tree shook its head. "No, it was Cindy."
"No, it was Rod."
A skinny little teen-aged whore, throwing her hips from side to side, came along. She let out a squeal when she saw me and ran the distance between us. She threw herself to her knees in a darkened doorway and started mouthing my cock. I couldn't help myself, I started humping, and Johnnie-boy cried out, "Don't fuck her, Davie! Don't fuck her, let me go down on you!"
"You'll fuck anything that comes along," his big-titted, blonde-haired wife snarled. "Eat my pussy!" she commanded.
"No!" Karl screamed. "The only pussy I ever ate was Cindy's, that's the only one I'll ever, ever eat!"
A whole chorus of bitter laughter came from some distance point, growing louder, crashing against the inside of my head and then receding. Rod and Marge stood on the stone steps and turned toward me; our eyes met and Rod sneered. He opened his fly and hauled his limber cock out, worked it playfully until it started to rise. Turning to Marge, he said, "Pull up your skirt and drop your pants, honey, I'm going to fuck you."
"No," Marge shook her head. "No, Karl's the only one who can fuck me."
"But Karl is dead."
"Oh, Christ!" I cried out, trying again to get up, every muscle straining. "Please, please! I promise. If you'll let me save him I'll never fuck Marge again."
"Of course you won't," Rod laughed, bouncing his huge, half-limber cock in his hand. "This's the cock Marge wants now, she wouldn't touch yours!"
"Please, I've got to get away..."
Hands grasped my shoulders, shook me. They shook harder and I blinked my eyes open.
"Heavens, Davie, you must have been having an awful dream the way you were yelling and tossing around."
"Yeah," I answered, "I was." I closed my eyes again and breathed heavily, aware of Cindy's tits brushing against my chest as she leaned over me, her muff pressed against my hip.
"You all right now?" she asked worriedly.
"Yeah, I'm all right."
I could tell that she was still looking down into my face, probably studying my features under the dim light from the table lamp she had turned on. It seemed like time had stopped, then she said, "Davie, do you remember...? Do you remember the day we got married?"
I reached out, slipped an arm around her waist, and tried to smile. "Sure, I remember."
"No, seriously. I mean, do you remember your sister coming there and..."
I tensed, gritted my teeth. I closed out a part of her sentence, but I heard, " ... is that what's wrong? I mean, you've been acting sort of funny all evening. Is your sister's coming bothering you or something?"
I didn't want to think about it, let alone talk about it, but I knew that there was only one sure way of sidetracking Cindy.
Opening my eyes, looking into her face, I finally smiled at her and said, "Honey, you know why I had that damn dream? Because you let me get soft without doing anything about it!"
She laughed, as if relieved, and cried out, "Well, I can remedy that awful fast! What is your wish, m'lord?"
Going along with the game, especially because I had started and needed it, I answered, "Well, it seems to me that it's been a long time since I got a really good blow-job!"
I felt her tits sliding down my stomach as she pulled away from me, then she was between my legs and had my balls in one hand and the root of my cock in the other. Her mouth came down over my cock and I reached out for her.
"Suck me off, Cindy!" I whispered, thinking to myself that maybe while she was sucking me off I could forget ... and God, how I wanted to forget!
I knew then, from the dream and from this (with things from the past that hadn't really registered) that it had been far different for Karl and Cindy from what it had been with Marge and me. Had he never been hurt they would never have gone into their sex thing; with Marge and me it had been a kind of needing-each-other love that had grown from the early days of our childhood. The two situations could not be compared; and, sadly, I still could not tell my own wife about it. I tried, instead, to just lie back and enjoy the feeling of her playing with my balls as she slid her mouth up and down my now-turgid prong, her nice little titties brushing against my leg with the movement. She was doing a masterful job, taking it until the head was part way down her throat, sliding back up the full length with full suction; every once in a while she'd slide her lips off, lick her way down the pulsating shaft, go under my crotch and take first one and then the other almond-shaped ball into her mouth for a tongue-loving, then start back up. It was really great, but I suddenly knew I needed more than that. I didn't need merely to be sucked off, I needed to share!
I reached down for her, struggling until she finally got the point and started to move. Grasping her hips when they came into reach, I turned her around; she left her mouth on my cock, swiveling around, and as I buried my face in her crotch she started sucking again. I smelled the pungent odor of her entire crotch, then started licking all around it. I ran my tongue up and down the valley, then went to the bottom again and as I started up, sent it into the soft, pulpy love-hole. I ran it around in circles as she sent her tongue in circles around the ridge of my cock, then as she started working up and down again I sent my tongue searchingly into her, as if for the first time. I tasted of the soft lining, the female juices, then stiffened my tongue and began working it up and down, in and out.
In a matter of minutes we both started moving our hips, and at last as I felt my own cock go into its final swelling, quivering for a moment before spurting out its juices, I felt her inner-being doing the same kind of quivering and tasted her juices as they ran down my tongue and into my mouth. I sucked her dry and was sucked dry, then we both collapsed. This time, exhausted, we slept end to end through the rest of the night.
I woke up first, and it was fortunate. Half-stumbling out into the living room in search of a cigarette, I found the two books (my diaries or, if you would, confessions) still sitting on the table, the two pieces of yellowed paper under them. God, I told myself, if Cindy had gotten hold of them all hell could have broken loose. She had known that I was no Puritan when she married me, but I doubt that-despite her own taste for sex-she would have been pleased at knowing the extent of my activities. And I certainly didn't want her to know about the Marge thing, especially after the night just passed and with Marge winging her way in this very day. Especially because I still didn't know what the hell to expect myself.
I took the books back into the closet and buried them at the bottom of the footlocker, lit my cigarette and sat down on the edge of the bed. Cindy had kicked the blankets off, as she often did, and her naked body was in full view. I sat there taking in that view and thinking more. The dawning day had brought no solutions, no decisions with it.
I looked at her body, remembering that (despite her sexual activities with Karl) she had been virgin when I met her. I had taken that virginity, breaking her maidenhead with my overly-large prong. From that day on there had been no turning back; that was the ending of her adolescence for sure. In the intervening years she had matured both physically and psychologically. We both had. But now, looking down at her as her lips pouted a little in sleep, I had to ask myself again: Do I really love her? Or has life just been comfortable, satisfying with her?
What I was asking was whether Marge could interfere with out marriage. But then, I told myself, it was perhaps foolish to even think about it; I hadn't seen Marge for six years nor spoken to her for eight. Last night could easily have been merely the opening of old wounds, wrestling with thoughts I had kept submerged (thoughts and feelings). A lot had happened in those six years. I might be, excuse the cliche, building mountains out of molehills, the only trouble was, I wasn't sure!
The old pains hurt, I couldn't deny that. It hurt to remember how much I had loved Marge and how I had felt when she had so strangely disappeared with Rod MacIver. It hurt to remember Karl, to admit again that I might have been a cause of his death. Even now I could tell myself that I should have just buggered him that morning, a casual sexual experience, and let it go at that. I should never have gone home with him ... except that, when you really analyzed it, things seemed to happen for a purpose and as if they were part of a preordained plan. But if that were the case...
I shook my head, in total confusion, and then leaned over, ground out my cigarette, and with the end of the motion buried my face in Cindy's, crotch. I reached up for her tits, taking one in each hand and gently massaging them. I didn't want to fuck her, I just wanted to feel her; maybe I could find some answers through that It was a mistake, of course; touching Cindy like that was like putting a match to a firecracker!
She stirred a little, spreading her legs as if to give me better access, and her hands came down and pressed mine harder against her tits as she wiggled her tits into them.
"Hmmmm," she murmured, "what a lovely way to be awakened!"
What could I do? My prong started stretching out, swelling as it grew harder. Cindy reached out for it, stroked it.
"Ummm," she mumbled again, "Looks like I'm going to get my favorite high-protein breakfast!"
I tongued her gently in response, kissing all around that forest of dark hair and then getting the tip of my tongue between her pussy-lips and flicked it back and forth. She wriggled her hips a little, showing her pleasure, so I sent it deeper into her, sloshing it around the warm, moist channel. She twisted and turned, moaning, then pulled on my hard cock and cried out softly, "Oh, give it to me, Davie! Give it to me one end or the other!"
I kissed my way up over her soft belly, pulling my hands away from her tits so that I could give each of them a thorough going over, then buried my face between them. For just a moment I thought: What am I doing? I shouldn't be fucking her while I'm trying to figure this out.
Raising my head, pushing my lower-body up, I reached down and flipped her over. Taking hold of her hips, I pulled her mid-section up off the bed and ran my shaft between her legs. She groaned with pleasure from the feel of it as I ran it back and forth along her cleavage, then maneuvered so that on one stroke the head caught, hitting against the upper edge of her cunt. I wiggled just enough, slid it inward, then gave a long, slow thrust that sent it gliding smoothly up her channel. Her muscles tightened around it; I reached under to get a breast in each hand and began screwing with fervor. Everything else was forgotten!
I sprawled out in a chair in the living room, legs stretched out in front of me, and stared up at the ceiling. I was trying hard not to think.
"You're getting quieter and quieter," Cindy said.
"Yeah, I guess so."
A moment later she was on the floor between my legs, her tits brushing against my legs as they always did. She reached out and almost unthinkingly ran a finger up and down the length of my limp cock.
"You're not too sure about Marge's visit, are you?" she finally asked, voice soft and trembling slightly.
I raised my head and looked down at her, seeing her beautiful face with shadows cast on her cheeks from lowered eye-lashes, the upper portions of her tits. She raised her eyes and I saw tears glistening in them. Finally she managed a trembling smile. "I've known for a long time, Davie."
I swallowed, feeling a knot in my gut. "Known what?" I asked, afraid of her answer.
"About ... you and Marge. I think I knew ... well, not long after you and Karl and I started doing things together. I wasn't sure, but then that day at the church, the day we got married ... I was sure then."
My head was back down against the cushion, eyes closed, hands brought together with an elbow on each arm of the chair, fingers bouncing against each other. There seemed to be no sense not even any reason to deny it.
Cindy lowered her head, her cheek soft against my cock. She didn't say anything more. Finally, resting my hands on her head, I said, "Does it bother you?"
She didn't answer for a few moments; when she did, she started slowly and with a soft, almost nostalgic quality.
"I have to be honest with you. When we were growing up Karl and I were very close, then he started ... well, it wasn't fast, it was gradual, but he began to move away. He was sixteen or seventeen, I guess, when I came across him one night ... screwing a girl. I almost died. I cried and cried and even thought about suicide. I didn't know what it was, of course, but after the accident ... "
She sighed deeply, then went on. "One day after he'd gotten borne he told me that ... well, what it added up to was that even though he was hurt he still had sexual urges, but he wanted more than merely using his hand. He told me about what the fellow in the hospital had done to him. Anyway, when we started doing sexual things I thought that I was just helping him, giving him pleasures that life had cruelly denied him."
She went silent again, but I didn't prod her. She was usually happy-go-lucky; I had never seen her this feeling, this deep. She had obviously hidden a lot, and now it was coming to the surface.
"You know how we started. I mean, I got that dildo, and I'd fuck him in the ass with it while I masturbated him. That seemed to satisfy him for quite awhile, but then he started wanting more. He'd want me naked so that he could see and fondle a female body, and then he started ... using his mouth on me.
"I still knew that it was just his getting pleasure. I mean, I knew that if he hadn't been hurt he'd be out screwing other girls instead of me. I think ... looking back ... looking back, I think that I loved him but wouldn't admit to it, because I knew that he didn't really love me. When you came along..."
She went silent again, but the silence was filled with many thoughts and feelings. Finally, after raising her head enough that she could brush a kiss across my prick, she said, "I guess it does bother me a little-any woman would be jealous if her man felt strongly or did something with another woman-but ... but I've been trying to understand it."
Her eyes were filled with tears, her lips trembled. "I love you, Davie," she half-whispered.
I moved quickly, changing position so that I could lean over and bury my head on her shoulder, but I didn't I couldn't-answer. If anything, she had just added to my confusion. Finally I mumbled, "Christ, Cindy, let's not talk about it any more for awhile, okay? Let's just wait and see what happens."
"Sure," she answered, trying to smile bravely. She pushed herself up, smiled down at me and then went into the other room. She was, I knew, giving me time to be with my own thoughts now that she had at least partially expressed herself.
One thing haunted me-at least one thing in particular. She had awakened memories, and among them was the memory of them that first day in their apartment. The way they had looked at each other, briefly touched, used certain inflections in their voice. Then I knew what it was; Cindy might not have believed it, but Karl's feelings had changed. He had gone from using her as a sexual object to really loving her. He may not have known it, but I was sure of ft now. I groaned a little; it seemed a shame that they had not been able to admit to and express their mutual love as Marge and I had. Then I wondered, too ... had Cindy been able to transfer her love to me because of her suspicion that I had been one of those capable of loving his own sister? Was I, in hef subconscious, the brother she had wanted to love? The brother returning that love, fucking her as a boyfriend or a husband would?
In other words, just what the hell kind of a foundation was our marriage founded on? The answer, elusive as it was, seemed to hold the key to the whole thing ...
... or maybe the key was within the dark-haired, attractive woman who was at this very moment on a plane bringing her from my past into the present. I groaned again, pushed myself to my feet. "Fuck it!" I spat. "I'm not going to worry about it any more. I'll just play it by ear!"
Going into the kitchen where Cindy was standing at the sink doing the dishes, I rubbed a hand over her ass and said, "Madam, I know that it is improper to make a pass at the housekeeper, but as long as my wife is out...[I slid my arms around her, crossing them under her tits, and pressed my cock against her ass end.] ... do you think that I might interest you in a little of what they call bedroom sports?"
She giggled and wiggled her ass against me. "Prithee, sire, I was told by the madam..." She let out a little squeal, then, because I had moved my hand down and was feeling her pussy, teasing the lips with a finger before sending the finger Up into her.
"What were you told by the madam?" I went on with the game.
"Lor', sire, I've plumb forgotten! her words were loud, but that what's in me, and that what's pressed against my butt speaks far more loudly and drowns her out!"
"Prithee," I mimicked her, "And that is good. This what's against your butt, in case you haven't been told, is called a 'piston,' and belongs where [I wiggled it] this finger is!"
"Nay, sire, I've been told by my dear uncle, who uses it himself, to nary let another man's cock in it. But if you would like, m'lord, I've heard that there are other ways of going about it."
I kissed her smooth neck. "Such as, my little wench?"
"Well, it's been told to me-I've never done it m'self, you understand-but it's been told to me that the mouth is nice, that it fits as well; or the butt-though heaven help me, your piston does feel so big I fear to take it that way! But I've heard, too-just heard, mind, I've never done it m'self-that titty-fuckin' is nice in itself."
Moving my hands up to squeeze her tits, to tweak the hardening nipples, I said, "And, pray, what is titty-fuckin'? "
She giggled. "As I said, I've only heard. The way I heard it is that you would place that implement, that is now against my butt, up between those that you're squeezing, and..."
"Enough talk!" I cried out and, without giving her a chance to even dry her hands, I swung her off her feet and carried her into the bedroom. Tossing her onto the bed, moving quickly to straddle her, I looked down into her face for a moment and said, "Woman, like it or not, you are about to be fucked!"
She giggled, raising her arms and putting them around my neck as her legs slid over my hips. "Never would I admit that I like it, sire, but neither can I deny your masterfulness! Fuck me if that is your will!"
"And fuck thee I will!"
And fuck her I did!
Cindy didn't have to give me an explanation. She had only to say, simply and quietly, "Don't you think it would be better if you went to the airport alone?"
Getting there early, I went into the bar. Sitting at the bar with a drink in front of me, I quickly recapped what had happened in the last six yearssince that last time I had seen Marge as she and Rod stood on the church steps:
I had just crossed the line, become twenty-one (and legally on my own) when Cindy and I got married. I had been washing dishes and living in a dumpy hotel. It took no arguing on the part of her father for us to agree to move in with him, especially because he was still working swing shift-which meant that, except on weekends, we actually saw very little of him. I had been contented enough, especially with all my extra-curricular sexual escapades, but as a married man the life I was living no longer fit. I sure as hell didn't want to wash dishes the rest of my life!
Marriage, then, the assuming of responsibilities, lifted me out of the rut I'd gotten into. It not only took me off the streets, out of the sex pool that seemed to exist in the city, but gave me incentive. I went to work as an apprentice window-decorator in one of the city's larger department stores; now, six years later, I was head of the department. In those six years Cindy and I had buried her father (he died of a sudden, unexpected heart-attack), and moved into a nicer apartment. We picked one with two bedrooms, looking ahead to the beginning of a family, but when time passed and (despite our lusty sexual appetites) no child appeared, we went to a doctor for check-ups. It was a simple matter, and in a way explained what I hadn't thought of in the past-that despite all my activity I had never to my knowledge impregnated anyone. I was incapable.
I realized again that those six years had been enjoyable. During them I had as good as forgotten the past, my job was satisfying, and Cindy and I continued to thoroughly enjoy each other. All things considered, I could feel that I had actually made something of my life-perhaps even more than could have been expected. I had been contented with it. It had been like sailing on a smooth sea with nothing ahead but more of the same. But now...
It suddenly occurred to me that Marge, when she called the day before, had said nothing about Rod. It suddenly occurred to me that he might even be with her, and if he were ... A vision of them standing on the church steps crossed my mind; I closed my eyes and saw Cindy talking to them, then the two of them walking slowly down the path, their faces clouded. What would I do if he were with her again today?
I didn't want him to be.
I drained my glass and pushed it across the bar, but before the bartender could even reach for it, I heard, "United Airlines Flight 704 is now landing at Gate 22..."
I grasped the edge of the bar for a moment, then slowly pushed myself to my feet and started for Gate 22.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Marge paused for a moment as she stepped out of the plane, not unlike a celebrity giving her fans the opportunity to get a full, first view of her. She was dressed as she had been the last time I saw her, simply but smartly, with an expensive stole hanging casually from one arm. Six years had passed for her, too, but they had been good to her. She was older but still extremely attractive, her well-proportioned and shapely body catching the attention of every male around her. I felt a tight knot in my belly. But I was struck again with how similar she was to Cindy, physically; only as she drew closer did slight differences emerge.
As she came down the steps and then across the paved area toward me I felt the demanding need to turn and run, I didn't have time to give the feeling concrete form, but it was there. Beautiful as she was (and she was beautiful; my heart was pounding hard against my chest), the sight of her giving me a sort of tingling feeling in the crotch, soundless voices inside my head still cried out, "Run, Davie, run!"
Her eyes brightened as she saw me. Her full, cherry-red lips broke into a smile and she extended a smooth hand. "Davie!" she said.
Just the one word, my name, but it seemed to hold an entire volume. I couldn't answer for a moment.
Finally, half-muffled, I got out, "Hello, Marge."
We must have looked foolish. All around us people were kissing each other enthusiastically, crying out with pleasure, but we stood there with almost expressionless faces as I held her hand; with just that contact I had the strange feeling that our bodies had merged again. Time fell away, then it came back: in something like seconds I went back to those early days and then came back up to this moment in which we were standing.
"How could you do it?" I asked painfully, the words escaping from me without my actually knowing I had formed them.
Marge closed her eyes for a moment. Her firm tits, their shape well-defined by the tight-fitting dress (still pear-shaped and perky, firm and nice), rose and fell slowly. Her lips parted slightly. Finally she opened her eyes.
"Later, Davie, okay?"
"Okay." I pulled my hand away, determining that I wouldn't touch her again. "Let's get your suitcase and hit the road."
"How is Cindy?" she asked as we moved into the building and to the revolving contraption with luggage spewing onto it as if little men hiding in the floor were shoving them up and out.
"Fine," I answered, and for a moment I had the strange urge to add, "We had us a royal fuck before I left to come meet you!"
"Aren't you going to ask about Rod."
"No."
Not losing a step, she seemed to tense for a moment, but if she had lost her composure she regained it immediately. Walking a step of two behind her, I thought to myself, "All that we know about each other for the last eight years is that she's fucked Rod and I've fucked Cindy!" I was sorry she had come.
It wasn't hard to pick out her suitcase: expensive looking with a large gold MM on it. I swung it off and nodded toward the door. Following her, I formed the words, "One day I love you..." For the moment I left the sentence unfinished. Outside the building I took the lead, heading toward where I had parked my old car.
"I thought it might be less awkward if I made reservations at the Parkview Hotel," Marge said as I slid behind the wheel.
"You can cancel them," I answered. "Cindy's already fixed up the guest room for you."
I felt her hand on my arm and looked up into her face. Our eyes met and held for a long moment. Her lips trembled slightly. When she lowered her eyes it was like looking at Cindy; her lashes threw little shadows on her hair skin. "I ... I'd rather go to the hotel, Davie."
"Why?" I steeled myself; I didn't want to feel anything. But I found myself leaning forward slightly as she spoke in a voice so soft, so weak I could hardly hear it.
"I couldn't stand lying there in one room knowing that you were ... in the next room with ... someone else."
I closed my eyes for a moment, realizing that I had a full hard-on. Almost irrationally, I thought, If I take her to a hotel room I'll fuck her, and I don't want to fuck her. Finally I said, "Stalemate! But I can't let you hurt Cindy, and it would hurt her if you went to a hotel." Almost angrily, I added, "You set this up. You're the one who called and wanted to come for a visit."
Another long moment passed, then she sighed. "All right," she half-whispered.
As I drove out of the lot and nosed into traffic, Marge looked out through her own window and said, "I guess that now is as good a time as any to tell you what happened, Davie."
Showing no emotion, either physically' or in her voice, she told me what had happened. Rod Mac-Ivers had asked her time after time for a date, but she had always refused him. A couple of times he had trapped her in secluded spots on campus and made passes at her, getting angry enough that on more than one occasion he had flopped his meat out of his fly and told her that she was eventually going to take it. Being the son of a wealthy man and a big man on campus, Rod MacIvers was used to getting what he wanted! Apparently refusing him only made him more determined.
Determined and having the money for it, Rod had hired a private detective. That morning on campus when they had "gone at it hot and heavy," he had tried to talk Marge into going to a resort hotel with him for the weekend. When she continued to refuse he finally pulled out some pictures. There were a couple of Marge and I going at it with me on top of her, a couple of her sucking me off.
"So you see," she concluded, "I had no choice. I either went with him or he would have exposed us. I couldn't tell you, Davie. I was afraid of what you might do if you knew."
"But ... But, why'd you marry him?" I blurted out, feeling the pain again, remembering the agony of that day after she had gone. "Why didn't you just let him fuck you and forget it?"
'"I let him. We went to a motel and I laid there and let him. It only infuriated him more." There was a touch of pain in her own voice as she recalled it. "He pumped himself off in me. He straddled me and pumped himself off again, shooting all over me. He ... he was almost wild, and finally said that ... by God ... he'd never let you and I get together again. Either I married him or ... "
She shook her head, swallowing. Then she added, in a near-whisper, "I've never quit loving you, Davie. Rod knows that; he owns me physically, he doesn't quit trying, but he knows that I'll never love him. I let him fuck me, I go down on him when he wants, but he knows that it's only physical. I think ... I think he'd give me the divorce I want if I could ever feel anything toward him. He simply has to get what he wants or he won't give up."
"Jesus!" I spit out. "What a marriage!"
A moment later a cold thought gripped me. What does this do to my marriage? I asked myself, gasping as the thought formed. For the second time in a matter of minutes I was sorry that she had come, because I knew that I still loved her. I wanted to say, "Maybe you should go to that hotel, after all." I wanted to fuck her again to love her, to possess her.
She put her hand on my leg, the fingers curving over it; the tips feeling hard meat below, she moved them further. It didn't seem to surprise her that I had a hard-on. "Oh, God!" she whispered.
"Oh, Davie!" she gasped.
She squeezed my cock, looking out the window again. "Davie, what happened to you? What did you do when you left home?"
She rubbed her hand up and down on my cock. "I took a bus, came down here," I answered. "I moved into a dumpy hotel, got a job washing dishes, and started fucking up a storm. Somebody different every night, sometimes three or four a night. Man, woman and child, anybody who'd fuck, any way, I'd fuck! you name it, I did it. Gang-bangs, buggery, blow-jobs in elevators and rest-rooms..." I shook my head, letting the words trail off.
"How ... how did you meet Cindy?"
I stared hard at the traffic ahead of us. Stopping for a red light, I glanced at the street corner. I saw him sitting there in his wheelchair, handsome and smiling. I remembered taking him up to my room that morning, buggering him while I beat his meat. "I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind," I answered, my voice muffled.
She squeezed my cock again, but she didn't argue.
Wanting to escape it all at least for a few moments, I asked, "How's Dad getting along?"
Marge let out a short gasp. "That's right, you don't know. When you wrote ... that's why he wasn't with Rod and I at the church that day, Davie. He ... I guess it was too much, losing us both. He killed himself not long after you left."
I felt like I'd been slugged in the belly. "Shit!"
I wondered if she was remembering, as I was, those nights when he drunkenly mistook Marge for his dead wife and our mother. I remembered the time at the beach ... that moment in the shower when we had come so close to ... I shook my head.
"Jesus!" My mind was mixed up.
We rode along in silence for several blocks, then Marge asked. "Have you ever told Cindy ... about us?"
I shook my head. "No, but she figured it out for herself. I didn't know it until last night, but she had."
"Doesn't she ... Won't it be awkward for her, having me there if she knows."
"Not if we don't ... "
Another couple of blocks of silence, then she squeezed my prick again. "I want to, Davie," she finally answered honestly. "That's why I came. To see if it were possible."
"Shit!" I said again, but much milder. I felt all of the strength go out of me, the fight. If she had asked me to stop and screw her right there in traffic I would have done it. Even now I wanted to reach out and pull her to me, to kiss her smooth throat and fondle those lovely tits. To reach down and rub her legs, slide my hands up under her skirt and find that lovely mound that had given me so much pleasure for so many years.
"Maybe I shouldn't have come."
"It might have been better," I agreed.
But she was here and we had started down a path, perhaps not as either might have planned it; yet there was nothing we could do but continue on, waiting to see what would happen along the way.
I could touch her now. My hand on her shoulder, I guided her from behind as we walked across the sidewalk and entered the building. I was hoping that by the time we reached the apartment I'd have gone soft again; if not, I'd just have to keep on trying to keep it hidden. We went up in the elevator, down the hall, and I drew us to a stop in front of our door and knocked. Frowning, I knocked again. When there was still no answer I dug out my key and let us in. There was a note propped up on the coffee-table where I couldn't possibly miss it. Davie: I thought you two might want a little time alone together. Back later. Welcome, Marge.
Shaking my head, I led the way into the guest room and set her suitcase down. I turned and waited, looking deep into her eyes again.
Suddenly pale, unsmiling, Marge said, "Want to stick around while I get into something more comfortable?"
My cock pressed harder against the material of my pants.
"I'd better not," I finally answered, turned and left the room. Looking at the note again, I mumbled, "Damn you, Cindy!"
Knowing it was the only way I could get leveled off, I went into the bathroom and beat myself off. Meat in hand, I remembered how I used to hide in Marge's closet and do it as I watched her undress. I envisioned her undressing in the other room now, her luscious body coming into view. Legs stretched out, I finally gasped and felt the spurting that would eventually let me relax.
Marge had always been a skirt and blouse girl. Of course, in those days we were just ordinary people; on my dad's salary we couldn't have afforded imagine clothes if we had wanted them. When I went back out to the living room I found Mrs. Rodney MacIvers sitting in a chair. Lounging would be a better word; she sat comfortably with one leg pulled up under her. She was wearing a smartly tailored suit, chartreuse with magenta and blue trim; tiny diamonds sparkled at each ear. She was elegance personified, a far cry from the simple girl of our childhood. Only her face, though slightly older and more mature, resembled in any way that girl of the past. Her face and still-shapely body.
I went into the kitchen and mixed us drinks.
"Thank you," she smiled faintly, accepting the drink. "Tell me, Davie, what do you do? For a living, I mean."
"I'm a window decorator. Head of the department, I might add."
A smile slithered across her face. "I thought only queers were window-decorators!"
"Hardly," I answered, returning the smile. And then, as I might have done in our earlier years, I added, "Of course, there have been a few gone through the department." To give it emphasis (or implication), I reached down and rubbed my crotch momentarily.
She chuckled softly. "You still have your lusty sex appetite, is that it?"
"That's it. But tell me, what do you do?"
A sort of sadness crossed her face. "Oh, we entertain a lot, and travel. Rod has to make a pretense of working in his father's business, but it by no means ties him down. We run with a ... well, I" guess you'd call them a fun-loving crowd. We'll be having cocktails, for instance, and someone will say, 'Let's go to Paris for breakfast,' so out to the airport we go and it's breakfast in Paris."
"Sounds rather exciting."
She shrugged her shoulders. "It would be with the right person." She lowered her eyes, the lashes casting their shadows on her cheeks again. When she raised them there were unshed tears glistening in them.
"Keep your palaces," she said, "just give me a simple shanty with someone I love!"
I didn't like the way the conversation was going. I silently begged-or ordered-Cindy to get her ass back!
"You and Cindy don't have children."
"No. And you?"
"No, I've made certain of that! He can screw his heart out, but he's never going to make a baby in me! How come you haven't?"
I looked her straight in the eye. "For a reason that probably helped us a helluva lot. I'm sterile."
"Oh." A moment later, "Maybe ... maybe we did it too much that time you were sick. Maybe you started too often, too young."
"I'm not worried about it," I answered bluntly. "As a matter-of-fact, it's probably for the better."
It was a strange feeling. In some ways she was almost like a stranger-a very sophisticated stranger-but in others it was almost as if time had not really elapsed. I could, if I wanted, reach out for her; with just a couple of the right moves I could have her stripping in a moment. At the same time, we seemed to be teetering on a brink. I didn't want to admit to what was on either side of that brink, but it was obvious that the wrong (or right) word or move might throw us into it. I wished to hell that Cindy would get back.
I realized then that Marge had said something. "Sorry," I said, "I didn't hear you."
Another smile slithered across her full lips, disappearing. "I asked ... I asked if you loved
Cindy." She looked solemnly at me.
I stared at her. Did I dare tell her that I had had to ask myself that same question many time during the night just past? Did I dare admit that now, having finally faced her again, I still wasn't sure? I hedged.
"There are different kinds of love," I answered softly, looking down.
"Is she ... Is she satisfying?"
Our eyes met again, held. "Very."
She nodded. "Well ... at least you have that."
I mixed us another drink and we stumbled along through more, treading-water conversation. She hinted at things, I sparred and pulled away. She opened the aoor to reminiscing and I closed it. How long it could have gone on I don't know, but there was finally a rattling of the key in the lock and Cindy came in. She stepped in, surveyed the situation quickly (looked into my eyes to ask, silently, Have you fucked her?) and then smiled. "Hello, Marge."
"Hello, Cindy."
They measured each other; I watched it, knowing it was happening. I tried, too. I looked at the elegant, poised young woman who had been my first love, then at the simpler-dressed and more wholesome-looking woman who was my wife. It was almost like seeing twins who just happened to have ended up on different socio-economic levels; at the same time, I knew the pleasures that each of those bodies could give. And I knew that I had been right. There are different kinds of love.
I had enjoyed fucking them both. I had to honestly admit in that moment that I still wanted to fuck them both, maybe even at the same time.
Prick stiffening again, I imagined them lying side by side on a bed, naked, with me between them fondling both those sets of lovely tits. I imagined kissing first one and then the other as I played with their tight, pleasure-giving twats. Not determining which was which, I imagined screwing one while I buried my face in the other's crotch.
Cindy snapped me out of it. "Don't I get a drink, hon?"
Christ, I couldn't get up. I smiled up at her. "Thought maybe, now that you're back, you'd take over as hostess!" I drained my glass and handed it to her.
She looked into my eyes, down to my crotch, then took the glass and went into the kitchen.
"Rod was right," Marge said almost as if she were talking to herself. "Cindy does look a lot like me. Built the same..." She looked into my eyes and hers asked, "Was he right, Davie? Is that why you married her?"
I chose not to answer. At the same time, I couldn't get clear off the kick I'd started on. Looking across at Marge without totally focusing my eyes, I remembered how she and I had called our house our Garden of Eden and run around naked in it. Those had been good days, days of freedom-all kinds of freedom! We could enjoy each other's nakedness; if we wanted, we could reach out and touch, the other would respond. How nice it would be now, I thought, if the three of us could do it. My prick stretched out still longer, hardening more, and I had to cross my legs. God, yes, I knew the answer now: I wanted them both. I loved them both, each in a different way, and I wanted to love-fuck them!
"You asked me," I blurted out, "now let me ask you. Is Rod satisfying to you?"
She snorted. "I told you! He's hung ... oh, yes, Davie, he's hung quite as you are, but..." She shook her head, a look of near-loathing on her face. "I let him fuck me when he wants to, I go down on him when he wants me to, but I hate it!"
"You hate it, or you refuse to like it?"
"Does it make a difference?"
"Well ... Well, it seems to me that as long as you have to go through with it you could at least enjoy it physically! I mean, after all, you always liked cock..."
"Your cock, Davie," she interrupted me, voice almost a whisper again. And then, as if she had read my mind, "There's a big difference between fucking someone you love and doing it with someone you detest!" She looked down at her hands for a few moments. "You may not believe it," she said softly, "but I haven't had a real orgasm in eight years. Not since the last time with you."
"Jesus!" Eight years without an orgasm! That was inconceivable to me. I couldn't go eight hours without one!
She almost unconsciously reached down and rubbed her own pussy, stretching her legs out a little as she did so. Her lovely tits rose and fell.
She whispered, "I need you, Davie. I need you to give me a real good fuck!"
There it was, out in the open. Put into words. I swallowed, reaching down and rubbing my cock.
"Sometimes when he's doing it I try to pretend it's you doing it. Sometimes, sucking on his, I close my eyes and remember ... But it's never you. Pretending doesn't work." She looked up, her eyes pleading. "Cindy wouldn't have to know, Davie. Just once and then I could go back..."
"I don't know," I answered, because I really didn't. Oh, I wanted to, all right, but ... I knew then, too, that it had been a good thing that we hadn't gotten to this point earlier; had Cindy not been there I would have been on my knees by now kissing her legs, working my way up. We'd have undressed and gone into the bedroom. I'd have poured it to her like in the old days. Jesus, I thought, I'm going to have to go into the bathroom again!
Cindy came back from the kitchen. She handed me my drink and crossed over to sit on the divan with her own. If she were aware that anything had been going on she didn't give any indication. "I love your outfit, Marge!"
"Thank you."
"I'd like to get one like it, but Davie doesn't care for suits." I frowned; what the hell was she talking about? We'd never even discussed suits! Unless, of course, she was speaking for me, knowing that one of my favorite pastimes would be negated by such an outfit. After all, skirts are made for groping!
They continued with small talk and I sat there ... not really comparing, but listening and looking from one to the other, remembering the past with each. I had said until death do us part with each; with Marge in our own, informal ceremony and with Cindy in front of the minister. If Rod MacIvers had not happened along-if he had not used his filthy blackmail-the first might have held up and the second would never have happened. I looked at Marge and wondered, and remembered that she had not had a real orgasm in eight years, that she had begged me to screw her. Just once and then I could go back ... I sneaked my hand down and rubbed my still hard shaft ...
... remembering back to what she had said on the way in from the airport. Jesus, could I screw Cindy tonight knowing that Marge was lying in the next room aching for it?
. . .remembering a few times during those hectic, screw-heavy two years when I had been with two women at the same time. Fun and games and everyone satisfied! Wondering what they would say if I suggested it, and feeling pretty sure of what it would be. Marge might go for it (that would be better than nothing), but Cindy would flip. Cindy was even jealous of my hand if she caught me playing with myself a little, she certainly wouldn't agree to sharing me with another woman!
... for some stupid reason remembering the dildo that Cindy had bought as a girl, buggering Karl with it as she jerked him off (before I arrived on the scene). Wondering if she still had it, if one of them could use it. But which one?
I wanted to fuck Marge. The more I looked at her and thought about it, the more I wanted to do it. For the past, for her own need-fulfillment, and because ... because I wanted to!
All things considered, I had been fairly faithful to Cindy during the six years of our marriage. After all (I had told myself many times), I had just come off a binge of seeking out, of demanding variety; I had learned the pleasures of variety during my fuck-'em-and-leave-'em period. You don't just toss a thing like that aside, you don't change old needs and habits that easily. But I had tried, and Cindy with her enthusiasm for sex and her willingness to use any and all positions had helped. Only on rare occasions had I either sought out or accepted attentions from others (screwing an attractive salesgirl on a couch in the backroom of the display department; letting a young fairy go down on me, as I had confessed to Marge earlier; something like that). I hadn't thought about it in those cases, but this time I was thinking about it. This time I felt the need and I would deliberately be unfaithful. Or would I?
There was still the love thing. I could feel that. If I screwed Marge it would be love-fucking, but if I did it, could the different kind of love-fucking that Cindy and I had hold up? Marge had as much as told me that she still loved me; if we consummated that love again could we pull apart. Could she, as she had begged, do it once and then go back to Rod MacIvers? Could I do it to her and let her go?
I shook my head, realizing that I had drifted away. The only consolation was that my hard-on had wilted somewhat. I blinked my eyes and frowned, looking from one to the other, and listened. I frowned again as I heard Cindy, serious of face, toying with her hands in her lap, saying, " ... he still had human needs. When he asked me to fill them I did. He'd learned a technique, you see, in the hospital. A queer orderly had shown him the way!"
Marge was listening with interest even as she tried to keep her face expressionless. She was watching Cindy's face, her lips.
"I guess you wonder how I could replace a male," Cindy went on. "Well, it was simple. I bought a rubber cock and I ... I entered him from the rear while I masturbated him. Later..."
For some maddening, irrational reason I wanted to cry out, No, don't tell her! Don't tell her that you and Karl had brother-sister love, too. I wanted to, but I couldn't. I listened, too, as fascinated as Marge, as if I were hearing it for the first time.
" ... he was still human, as I said, with human needs. He needed to see a female body, to touch it. To use it." She looked up and I was surprised to see tears glistening in her eyes. I could only wonder if it were from reminiscing or from fear; had she seen something between Marge and me that disturbed her? Had my desire shown? It was discomforting, to say the least. But she went on almost doggedly. "I'd do that to him-for him-then I'd undress and he would study my body, feel it, then ... then go down on me. We were ... we were very close."
Marge glanced up at me. How did you fit in? her eyes asked. How did you enter the picture, Davie? It surprised me; I might more have expected her to ask something like, That's at least a little like it was with us, isn't it, Davie? or Is that what attracted you: that she had had sex with her own brother?
Turning back to Cindy, she asked quietly, "What happened to him, Cindy? If you don't mind my asking."
Cindy turned her eyes to me; a tear loosened itself from each eye and ran down her cheek. I decided that things had gone wrong; however the conversation had started, it wasn't supposed to have taken this direction. Not knowing how it had started, I couldn't look at her as she was and not step in.
"I think it would be a lot better if we changed the subject! As a matter-of-fact, why don't you two girls go start getting ready, because I'm going to take you out to dinner."
I pushed myself up and they followed suit, but as they headed for the bedrooms I headed for the kitchen and a stiff drink! Jeezus, things were too mixed up! Emotion was running too strong ...
... but, leaning against the drain board with glass in hand, I found myself thinking of Karl again. I remembered him happy and handsome on the street corner and, when the time arrived, my taking him to my room because I felt his need for sex and was willing to experiment with an out-of-the-way kind. I could almost feel his hard cock in my hand as I sent my own hard shaft up his brownie; I could remember the mutual orgasm. I remembered his happiness after the three of us got together ... and I remembered that fateful night when Cindy had come weeping to my room ... for us to fuck as he was crushed under the wheels of the truck. "Christ!" I spat, "why had she brought it up? Aren't things fucked up enough without bringing that up?"
... because maybe it had been our fault. Maybe Karl had sensed that I was (inadvertently) taking her away from him. Maybe his love had been deep-maybe what had started out as mere sexual relief had ended up deep brother-sister love.
... and maybe Cindy was sensing the depth of that kind of love. Maybe she was afraid.
Maybe I wouldn't fuck either of them! I looked up and the ceiling disappeared. There were blue skies with soft, billowy clouds that looked like fluffed up cotton. "I promised I'd dedicate a fucking session to you now and then, Karl," I whispered. "Well, maybe tonight I'll dedicate a no-fucking session to you!"
Even though Karl and Marge had never met, it seemed in that moment as if our four lives were confusingly intermingled.
Cindy appeared in the doorway. She was wearing only a house-coat, loosely tied. I could see the edges of her pear-shaped, firm tits, and got a glimpse of the darkhair over her full mound. She studied me for a long moment, then asked in a trembling voice, "Aren't you going to come get ready?"
She meant, of course, that she wanted it to be as it usually was. She wanted us to share the bathroom naked, to maybe even do a little fooling around. She wanted reassurance. I knew that, but I couldn't give it to her; I couldn't block out the vision of Marge in the other room.
"You go ahead," I answered. "I'm going to have another drink, then I'll get ready."
Her lips parted slightly, her eyes clouded over. Finally she swallowed, then turned and moved away. I felt like a heel, but I couldn't help it. It was like standing in the middle of a bridge and not knowing which to go.
CHAPTER EIGHT
People looked at us. I guess that they couldn't help themselves, and you could almost guess what was going through their minds: here was a tall, well-built young man (handsome enough, I have to say so myself), with a beautiful, well-built young woman on each arm. But more than that, the two women looked like twins. You could see the questioning in each pair of eyes, especially after we got to the restaurant. In many I saw the simple question: Is he fucking them both?
Under other circumstances it might have been amusing-especially if I had been able to say to them, "No, because one is my sister. The other is my wife!"
It might even have been amusing, at least from a shock value standpoint, if I had been able to say to them, "I used to fuck this one, my dear sister, but now that I'm older and married, I fuck this one, my dear wife!"
As it was, with my own turbulent indecision, it wasn't the least bit amusing-nor were we an amusing or amused threesome. Quite the contrary. Despite many feeble attempts at small talk we found ourselves drifting into silences, each of us concentrating on our thoughts.
At one point I found myself remembering the night I had gone home with the two blondes, to have the stacked redhead join in on the fun and games. We had one hell of a pre-play session, with bodies intertwining and mouths going every and anywhere they wanted. Each girl had taken her turn sucking my cock, playing with my balls, and I had handled and mouthed all three twats, all three sets of boobs. We'd gone at it hot and heavy, then they had suddenly broken it up, played the pea game to see who won the prize. I wished that it could be that simple now, that someone or thing other than I would make the decision.
I remembered my conversation with Karl, in the kitchen as the girls dressed. That changed things; that snapped me back to a paraphrase of Shakespeare: To fuck or not to fuck, that is the question...!
It had been easier to say that I wouldn't when they were out of the room. Sitting with them now, it wasn't that easy. I could look at either one and feel desire, and as a result old Junior stayed in a rigid state throughout the meal. Marge, in her simple elegance, was so damned desirable it hurt. Cindy, not so expensively dressed but still beautiful, was equally desirable. And, of course, there was the reminder that each knew how to give and receive pleasure, that each was a master at sex because of their own freedom and thorough enjoyment of it. I toyed around again with the idea of the three of us getting together ... but a look at either one reaffirmed the improbability of that. Neither wanted to share, that I knew; each, because of her own thoughts and feelings, wanted me for herself. Old cock-heavy Davie had gotten himself into one hell of a position!
Hard-on or not, before the meal was over I had to go to the rest room. I hoped that taking a leak might relieve some of the pressure. Leaving the girls alone and walking with my hands concealing my condition, I wove my way between the tables and into the John. I was standing at the urinal when the door swung open; looking up, as people seemed to automatically do at such times, I saw a young fellow coming toward me. There was a whole row of urinals, but he had to come to the one next to where I was standing. Opening his fly, he reeled out about six inches of limp cock (yes, I'll have to admit it; I had never outgrown the tendency to look at other guy's cocks and measure them against my own!).
"Say, fella," he said cheerfully (and nicely not looking at the hard-on I was still trying to keep hidden), "that's nice stuff you're with. You wouldn't be interested in sharing the wealth, would you?"
Jesus, if he only knew! But forcing a smile, I answered, "I believe in Democracy, friend, not Socialism!"
He raised an eyebrow (and at the same time unconsciously shook the hunk of meat in his hand. I'll have to admit, again, that I could imagine it at full stature, the pleasure it could give women-especially women like Marge and Cindy who frankly like cock).
"Well, hell, man," he said, "I don't doubt you could have a helluva ball and give 'em both a good time, but don't you think they ought to both get cock?"
Yes, I answered silently, my cock. Outwardly and feelinglessly, I said, "Sorry, fella!"
He shook his damned cock again, so slowly it was like a piece of rubber tubing bouncing up and down.
"Ah, come on, at least give me a chance! Why not introduce me to 'em and leave it up to them?"
Hard as I was, and with his adding to the problem, I still hadn't been able to get out even a trickle. I gave up on it. Tucking myself away as I stepped back, I said, "Can't tell you the reasons, but no chance!"
"Bastard!" he said, but there was at least a touch of a laugh in it. "Shit, you with two of 'em and I'll probably end up going home and beating myself off!"
"It does seem unfair, doesn't it?" I answered (meaning it!), turned and went out.
When I got back to the table I saw immediately that Marge's face was almost ashen and Cindy was visibly disturbed. Warning signals went off in my brain, but I decided to play it by ear. Sitting down, I looked from one to the other. Finally Marge said, her voice almost a whisper, "Cindy just told me about ... Karl."
I knew in that moment, if I hadn't known it before, that all these years Cindy had been blaming herself for Karl's death. But why, I begged silently, had she had to bring it out now?
Or had Marge pumped her?
"Jesus!" I spat quietly, pulling out my wallet. I took a big enough bill and threw it down on the table. "I've got to get out of here."
I didn't hear what either of them said as I almost lunged through the half-crowded room.
Mr. Big-cock was on the sidewalk in front of the place. He grabbed me by the arm and looked into my face. "Hey, buddy, what's up? You look like ... "
I stared hard into his eyes, then said, "Look, fella, how about you and me finding a whorehouse and fucking ourselves blind?"
He laughed, but then he said, "Lead on, pal!"
It had been a figure of speech, of course. Within a matter of minutes we had compared notes, discovered that neither had ever paid for a piece of ass and decided that now wasn't the time to begin! We'd find our pussy on the hoof and make them willing to flop into bed for the pure fun of it!
"Not only willing," he laughed again, "but eager! I've yet to find a gal who'll feel a good hard-on and not be willing to drop her pants on the spot!"
Using his car (because I had left mine for Cindy and Marge), we drove several blocks looking for a likely bar. Finding one, we parked and went in, craning our necks at photos stuck up by the door of go-go dancers with skimpy panties and big tits. Music blared out as the door swung open; the floor-show was on, so as we stepped into the half-darkened, smoke-filled room we got our first look at female semi-nakedness. The gals up on the stage weren't as pretty as the ones in the photos (or else life and photographs didn't match!) but their panties were just as flimsy and their boobs just as big and swaying and flopping around for all they were worth.
"Jesus!" my new-found friend spat, "you almost get a mouthful the minute you step in the door."
We struggled our way up to the bar and ordered drinks, then turned back toward the stage and watched the action as we sipped them. The girls obviously weren't dancers, but nobody gave a damn; the dance they were trying to do was plenty in itself. Tits flopped around, cunts were pushed forward with pussy-hair showing from under g-string panties. One girl was giving a fuck-motion that brought cat-calls from the audience, loud offers of six, eight and ten inches. The music made up in noise for what it lacked in quality, a combo that sounded as if they had never rehearsed together. But I didn't give a damn; this was escape, and escape was what I wanted. I picked out the cutest face, a set of titties I liked, and concentrated on it.
"Go, baby, go!" I cried out soundlessly, watching her almost uncoordinated gyrations and trying to imagine what it would be like to be in bed with her. I elbowed my buddy and whispered, "If you like cork-screw fuckin', take a look at that little blonde, second from the end!"
"Um-um!" he responded, smacking his lips, "I could show that little number the right kind of movements! But look at that redhead. You wouldn't have to teach her a thing! Jesus, I've got a hard-on just watching her hump!"
A moment or two later he elbowed me and nodded toward a nearby table. I glanced over and there was no mistaking it; he was trying to hide it, but a guy had his whang out and was beating himself off as, mouth agape and eyes glazed, he watched the girl who was using the fuck-movement. As I watched he started gasping and squirming; the cum spewed out of his cock, ran down over his hand. I laughed, but at the same time it wasn't really funny. A guy had to be pretty hard up to get his kicks like that!
The show ended despite cries of "More! More!" Stage lights went down, the lights in the bar rose a little. We looked around; unless the girls came out between shows this was going to be a bummer. Nothing but men and a couple here and there. The girls didn't come out.
We drove up and down several blocks just in case there was anyone walking the streets.
"I used to have pretty good luck this way when I was a kid," Peter said (we had introduced ourselves by that time; his name was Peter Levering, age twenty-five, an insurance salesman). "In my late teens, that is. Found a lot of pussy just walkin' along waiting to be plucked. Or fucked," he laughed.
We didn't have the same kind of luck; the streets were deserted except for an occasional couple or a man. We headed for another bar. It was another bummer, but we ordered a drink, anyway; while we sipped it Peter asked, "Care to tell me what happened back there?"
I was feeling the drinks a little, but not that much. "I'd rather not even think about it!"
"Fair enough," he answered, shrugging his shoulders.
But I did think about it for a few moments, wondering what Cindy and Marge were doing. They were probably back at the apartment by this time, maybe comparing notes...
Peter interrupted my thoughts. "I don't know how you feel about it, but if we don't get at least a nibble pretty soon, well, there are a couple of gay bars..."
'Thanks, but no thanks," I answered. "I don't mind a blow-job now and then, but tonight I want cunt!"
"Well, we aren't going to get it sitting here!" We drained our glasses and left. Went to another bar and zeroed out. Went to still another, and there was one girl sitting all by herself. A blonde-haired number with an almost cherubic face, bulbous tits straining against a tight, low-cut dress. Her nicely rounded little ass seemed to barely touch the bar-stool.
"Um-um," Peter elbowed me, "I can almost smell that pussy from here! How's that for a starter?"
She wasn't only a starter, she was a finisher. We took her along to a couple of other bars, but it obviously wasn't a night for women to be soloing. That being the case (and by this time, both in the car and in the bars, she had gotten both hands full of cock and seemed to like what she felt), we headed for Peter's apartment. The door had hardly closed before we were undressing, and while she got her eyes full of two strong young bodies, two lusty hard-ons, we feasted our eyes on her voluptuous, big-titted body. I was drunk enough by now that it didn't bother me to be in on a threesome; I didn't even think about it. I just looked at those titties and wanted to suck them, at the slightly gaping pussy that showed pink-lipped through the blonde hair and wanted to plug it!
We tumbled onto the bed, the blonde between us, and went at it. Arms and legs all mixed up, hands brushing, Peter and I groped her from stem to stern, mouthing almost every part of her body. We took turns with our faces in pussy-land, at her tits, on her mouth, loving her up as she wildly grasped a cock in each hand and did a combination feel-and-stroke. It got so wild that Peter and I both left sticky strands of cum across just about every part of her body. We were groping and fooling around like teen-agers getting their first chance to feel and play with a luscious female body! All else was forgotten.
Who made the move, who made the decision, I don't know, but all of a sudden Peter was straddling the blonde's tits and she was sucking away on his cock. I could see his ass and low-hanging balls as I maneuvered into place, straddling her hips. I grasped my whang and ran it up and down her cooze, and while it felt good (as any cock-tickling does!) it didn't feel as good as it did with a tighter cunt. I finally gave up on it and merely drove my way in, not using any finesse, any technique. I just buried it to the balls with one long thrust, then started fucking my heart out as I held onto Peter's hips for support. It felt good; it was a helluva lot better than jacking off!
We went at it for several minutes, then Peter seemed to suddenly fall away. He went over onto his back, pulling the blonde with him (she obviously didn't lose a stroke with her well-trained mouth). It twisted her body to a strange angle, so I pulled my cock out, grabbed her buttocks and rolled her the rest of the way over. Now she was on her belly, still sucking on his prick; I took hold of her hips, pulled her up onto her knees and slid my whang between her legs. It ran along the moist, hot lips, slidback, then went in. I started giving her lusty thrusts, and this time we kept at it until the three of us were gasping and panting and thrashing around. The cum flowed like wine! You could almost smell it, even over the sweaty odor of our now-exhausted bodies.
After we had recuperated a little we stumbled back into the living room and Peter poured drinks.
The blonde sat between us on the divan, playing with first one and then another limp cock (marveling at their size, even while limp), and we did whatever playing around we wanted to do. Her tits were red from being groped and sucked on so much, the insides of her legs looked almost sunburned, her pussy seemed to have been stretched even wider than it was (and was stretched even more at one point when Peter went finger by finger to see if he could eventually get his whole fist in it). He kept refilling the glasses ... and the last thing I remember is falling back, then feeling someone suck on my limp cock as I seemed to be drifting off into darkness.
I woke up to two distinct feelings. First, my head felt like I'd been hit by a steam-roller. Second, I had a hard-on (which wasn't unusual), and it was pressed up against something firm and warm (not unusual, either, but still not the usual feeling). I blinked my eyes and realized it was morning; I stumbled back to what had happened and realized where I was. It was Peter's ass I was pressed against. I groaningly raised my head, but the blonde was gone. For all I knew at that moment she might even have been a figment of my imagination! The way his ass had just felt, I could have used it and dreamed it was a broad! We ivere in the same bed and I couldn't divorce fact from fiction from the night that had just passed.
I was surprised that I could even remember that his name was Peter, but I did. Peter Mr. Big-cock, but what the hell did I care what kind of a cock he had. I groaned again. I said to myself, "Peter's a real buddy, and the blonde sucked his cock while you screwed her." It didn't even make a helluva lot of sense. My head just felt like a steam-roller had run over it!
Hell, I mumbled, all I've got now is a piss hard-on, nothing to write home about. Anyone can get a hard-on when they have to piss. Even a nel-lie faggot.
Fuck!
I got up and stumbled to the bathroom, relieved myself and then found and took some aspirin. I brushed my teeth, using a finger for a toothbrush, and then took a shower. When I got out Peter was standing in front of the pullman brushing his teeth; he nodded toward a couple of glasses sitting nearby. They were bloody marys; the cool juice sliding down my throat and landing in my belly helped to steady the rocking boat!
"I don't know if you fucked yourself blind the way you wanted or just passed out!" Peter half-laughed once he'd gotten the brush out of his mouth. "Or was it a combination of both?"
"Armph!" was the best answer I could manage, but it was some consolation to know that I hadn't dreamed up the blonde. She had been real and I had fucked her.
"Waste of damn talent on your part, though, old buddy," he went on cheerfully, combing his hair. "I bet you don't even remember the blow-job she gave you while I poured it into her on the living-room floor!"
We headed for the kitchen and coffee. Sitting across from me at the little table, he suddenly went serious and asked, "Well, did it help any?"
I nodded my head, fingering the cup. "Not a damned bit," I answered, because it hadn't. Cindy and Marge were in the apartment part way across town, the whole situation still waiting to be faced. I had postponed it, perhaps, but not settled it. I had escaped it for the night, but it wasn't the kind of thing you could keep running away from.
"If there's anything I can do..." Peter offered.
I looked up at him, at his handsome face and strong chest. It wasn't hard to remember the rest, the slim hips, strong legs, and the ample equipment hanging between his legs. For a moment I remembered the action of the night before and could imagine the four of us-Cindy and Marge, Peter and me,-on a bed going at it. Maybe four people as well-endowed as we were, four people who so thoroughly enjoyed sexual activity, could forget about emotions and have a ball for the sheer pleasure of it. But then I immediately remembered Marge correcting me when I had mentioned her taste for cock. "Your cock, Davie," she had said after eight years of well-hung Rod MacIvers. I shook my head; no, it wouldn't work. Neither Cindy nor Marge merely wanted cock, especially now. Nor was I merely dealing with pussy; I was being tossed betwixt particular pussies and the personalities that went with them. I was dealing with love-fucking! With love as expressed through fucking.
"Thanks," I finally answered him, "but I'm afraid there isn't anything you or anything you or anyone else could do." And then, because he was a nice guy and we had shared, I slowly told him the whole story. He got up a couple of times to refill our cups but otherwise didn't interrupt me. When I was through, with the understanding that I had obviously expected he said, "Jesus, that's a helluva bind to be in! Especially ... well, especially with both of them being as great as they seem to be." He shook his head worriedly.
A moment later he said, "Couldn't you somehow get your sister alone? You could give her the screwing she wants and maybe find out your own feelings for sure at the same .time."
"Cindy would know," I answered, because I knew that to be true. She would sense it, especially being tuned in as she was to the entire situation.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe she ought to know. I mean, it seems to me that you have to know one way or another, so maybe Cindy ought to know and be given the chance to gamble. Hell, it looks to me like she'll either only half have you if you don't find out for sure how you feel ... or either have you all to herself or lose you."
It made sense, of course-I guess it was what I had actually been trying to tell myself. But saying it and putting it into action were two different things. I could imagine Cindy's reaction if I said to her, "Honey, I've just got to fuck Marge to find out how I really feel. When we get through I'll either come back to you or..."
I groaned a little. Jesus, how much better off we all would have been if Marge had not decided to come back into my life!
Peter said, "Look, if you want to be broad-minded about it ... Well, I couldn't help but notice, we're both pretty well hung. Maybe if Cindy and I ... "
"No," I shook my head. "I thought about that, but it wouldn't work. Cindy wouldn't go for it, not all wound up like she is."
He got up to refill our cups again, and I couldn't help but notice that-intense as it had been-our conversation had not failed to have an effect on him. He was sporting half a hard-on. I found myself staring at it and it was like looking into a mirror; it was like looking at my own, and the question was whether it would wilt again or grow to full hardness. "Christ," J mumbled, "I ought to get some saltpeter. Maybe if I couldn't get a hard-on the whole problem would be settled!"
He laughed and started to answer, but the telephone rang in the other room, cutting him off. He went to answer it and I could hear a mumbling, then he yelled out, "Davie, it's the little blonde bomb-shell from last night. She and a friend would like to come over, whatd'ya say?"
The two forces pulled against each other. I knew that I should go on home, see what had happened and go on from there. At the same time, the idea of escaping again through a wild sex-capade had definite appeal. Especially knowing the blonde! She was a hot, eager-to-fuck little number, willing to play all kinds of games; certainly any friend of hers, if she were to bring her along, would be of the same mind. I was still arguing with myself when he came back, rubbing his meat and smiling. "I made up your mind for you, old buddy! They're on the way over."
He mixed bloody marys. Leaving the coffee cups behind, we carried our drinks into the living room. He was at least three-quarters hard now, and playfully working his prick he laughed and said, "That's a real compliment, y'know. When a chick wants a repeat for breakfast, you know you gave her a good screwing!"
I snorted and watched as if fascinated as my prick began to stretch out and swell. You'd have thought it was the first time I had ever seen it happen! Peter watched it, too, a smile on his face and a twinkling in his eyes.
"We ought to measure," he said, his own fully hard now. "Looks like a tie, but we ought to measure to be sure!"
Acting like a couple of teen-agers, we stood up, each shoving our cock down and straight out. Getting them side by side, the pliant heads touching each other, we agreed that it was, in fact, a tie. 'That's eighteen inches of hard cock, old buddy!" he laughed. "And, I guess you'd say, proof that birds of a feather flock together! Even our balls seem to match."
He put his hand around both our cocks and stroked a little. Coming from him, there was nothing queer about it; it simply felt good, a bit of playing around!
We were sprawled out again, Peter in a chair and me on the divan, when the doorbell rang. He hollered out that the door was unlocked and the blonde stepped in first, as luscious as she had looked the night before. Maybe even a little more so, because her light coat fell open and under it she was wearing a skimpy play-suit type of thing that consisted of a mere strip around her waist (barely covering her pussy) and another covering very little of her big-nippled tits. Her eyes widened as she saw us sitting there with hard-ons; eagerness sparkled in them. The second girl, a brunette, followed her in and stopped, gulping. She was alright, too; not the most beautiful woman in the world, tits not as big as the blonde's but still alright.
"Wow!" she gasped.
"Didn't I tell you?" the blonde demanded, throwing her purse aside and shrugging out of her coat. "Heavens to betsy, you both have such lovely dongs I just don't know what to do!"
"I can tell you what to do, honey," Peter answered, rubbing his cock. "Get those rags off and come to daddy!"
"Oh, but Davie's got such a nice one, too!" she half-joked.
"Fear naught, my little chick, you'll have them both! We'll take turns, switch partners."
And that was exactly what we did. The blonde let the "rags" fall off, completely exposing her curvaceous body, and undulated across the room to sit on Peter's lap, her arms around him and his cock stuck up between her legs. The brunette stripped and she was even better than I had hoped for. Her tits, as I said, weren't too big, but they were nice; they were like a bowl cut in half and glued to her chest, a pretty little ornament attached to each. She had curves and mounds in the right place, and it was obvious that under the dark-haired muff there was a nice pussy-nicer, even, than the blonde's; tighter. I opened my arms for her and felt her warmth as she slid onto my lap, pressing a tit against my chest and reaching down to pull my cock up between her legs as the blonde had done with Peter. "Ummm," she murmured, smiling, "that is a nice cock!"
We did a little necking and one helluva lot of groping, then Peter took the blonde and headed for the bedroom. I got the brunette stretched out on her back on the divan and straddled her. Mouthing her tits, I reached down and ran my cock up and down through her pussy-hair, pressing the head deeper and deeper into her valley. Finally she couldn't take it any more; she spread her legs, getting them out from around me, and lifted her hips, telling me without words that she wanted to be fucked. Far be it from me to disappoint her! I positioned it, then I started giving it to her. It was tight and nice; she groaned a little at first, then showed her pleasure as I donated inch after inch. Moving my mouth up to hers, sending my tongue into her mouth, we went at it hot and heavy. She was really enthusiastic about it, throwing herself up to swallow my cock every time T plunged it down to her, withdrawing until just the head was caught between the tight, moist lips, rising up to take it again. My balls smashed between her legs with each stroke, slapping against her buttocks. Finally we were going at full speed, then I sent it home and left it, my body quivering as my load spurted out.
"So, mother!" she gasped. "Oh, fuck! Oh, sweet-mother-fuck!" We could hear similar sounds from the bedroom.
We rested up, the four of us having drinks as we talked-the kind of talk that was appropriate. Sex talk. When the time was right we switched partners; the blonde joined me on the divan and the brunette went into the bedroom with Peter. This time it was different, but it was still good; she was so loose that my cock felt almost as if it were working in a vacuum, but on each withdrawal she'd tighten her pussy muscles around it and almost drive me out of my mind. Her tits being what they were, I concentrated on them, bending my neck, as I methodically poured the meat to her. We worked ourselves up to a climax and it was good, good!
Another recuperation period with drinks and talk, this time giving consideration to what Act III would be like. Both girls admitted a desire to swing on us, and neither Peter nor I were adverse to a little pussy-munching. But the blonde, being a swinger, decided that it would be much more fun if we did it together. "Group therapy," she laughingly called it. So, finally, we stretched out on the floor in a sort of circle; Peter had his face buried in the blonde's snatch, she took my cock into her mouth. The brunette positioned herself so that she could take Peter's cock, and I went after her snatch. We all had ourselves a fine meal, the climax being the milky liqueur that shot and poured out as we each made our own special kind of noises. Exhausted, the taste of cum still in our mouths, all four of us rolled over onto our backs, breathing heavily for long minutes. The blonde expressed it well. "Man, that was one helluva good bit!"
Peter laughed. "Jesus, I won't be able to get a hard-on for a week after this!"
"Hah!" the blonde answered, reaching out for his limp cock. "Honey, I'll get that for you just as soon as I regain my own strength!"
And, licking his nipples, his stomach, working on cock and balls as her tits flopped against him, she did. The brunette, seeing her success, obviously didn't want to be outdone. She rolled over and started in on me, licking my nipples and chest, licking down over my stomach. She mouthed my cock, sucked my balls, rubbed her tits all over my belly and legs, then swung around so that her pussy was in my face. As I sent my tongue into her I felt her diligence paying off; inch by inch my pecker slowly stretched out. We were finally going at it with full intensity, and eventually I felt her juices seeping down over my tongue as I spurted out at least a medium-sized load into her eager mouth. We gave and received.
But that was it! Time had passed and the afternoon was fading; Peter and I both confessed that as much as we liked it, we had to call it quits.
"Honest to God," he said. "You've got one hell of an educated mouth, one nice pussy, but I couldn't get another hard-on if my life depended on it!"
The brunette giggled. "I'll have to admit that I feel a little all-fucked-out, too, but I loved every minute of it!"
They finally dressed and left, leaving Peter and me sprawled in the living room. I looked across at him and smiled, shook my head, then closed my eyes. It had been a joyful afternoon, an afternoon of fun and games, but there was still one thing that I couldn't forget. I would have to, eventually, go back to the apartment and face whatever was there.
CHAPTER NINE
We took a shower together but there was no fooling around. Hell, we were both too fucked out to even think about it. We washed each other's back, but it was purely a friendly gesture. We dried and went back to the living room, Peter continuing on into the kitchen to mix fresh drinks. "I ought to go home," I said without conviction, accepting the drink when he had returned with them.
I looked across at him. Strange though our meeting had been, brief our association, I felt completely at ease with him. At the same time I realized that I had never had a male friend. Well, for that matter, I had never really had a friend. Just Marge as a lover during childhood and adolescence and Cindy as a wife since then. He had been the first person I had ever told the truth to-unless Marge had provided details, even Cindy had no idea of how deep our relationship had been during those early years. She might have guessed, but she didn't know the facts. Maybe it would have been better if she had known; maybe she could understand things better now.
Peter smiled across at me, rubbing his limp cock (it seemed like a favorite gesture of his, the way other people rub their noses or pull on an ear lobe). "It's up to you," he said. "At least now you probably don't have to worry about who to lay. Jesus, if you're like me it'll take hours to get any starch back in this poor, worn-out damned thing!"
I chuckled, and it was good to be able to. I decided that maybe that was why I liked him; he could take things seriously, understanding, and then turn right around and be flippant. A good mixture of seriousness and lightness.
"What d'ya think?" he asked. "If you had to be on a desert island with one or the other, which would it have been?"
I gave it only a moment's thought. "The blonde gives a damned fine blow-job, but I like tight pussy. The brunette."
"Ditto! I like a tight pussy grasping my dong when I'm screwing. But then, again, like you said, that blonde does have a damned well-educated mouth."
I had the feeling that he was making talk, keeping it light to make it easier for me. I appreciated it, but at the same time I reminded myself that I couldn't stall forever.
"Y'know," he said, "one weekend I took a real sharp little number on a trip. We checked into a hotel Friday night; not ten minutes after the door closed behind us I was screwin' her, and I didn't take my cock out until we had to get up and get ready to leave Sunday evening. I'd fuck the hell out of her and go soft, leave it there until it got hard again and we'd go at it again. When we got hungry we called room service, but I'd still leave it in and just pull a sheet over us."
"Sounds like a world's record!"
He laughed. "If it is, I think I'll try to break my own record one of these times!"
For some reason (maybe because even while we talked I was thinking about my own problem) I asked, "What's the strangest sex experience you've ever had?"
He gave it several moments thought, pursing his lips. "I dunno," he finally answered. "I guess you'd have to define the word 'strange'. "
"Well ... "
"F'r instance, not too long ago I ran into a woman who had a sort of hang up. The long and short of it was, she wanted to blow me while her German shepherd fucked her, real doggie-fashion. Maybe someone else would think that was strange, but to me it was just her way of getting the most kicks she could. She gave a helluva good blow-job, I dropped my cookies down her throat, so I had nothing to complain about.
"Another time ... a rich old guy paid me to spend a weekend with him. He never once touched me, but he just about lost his teeth every time I'd beat myself off. I mean, that was what he wanted. Maybe that was strange. He showed me movies of guys and gals fucking, urging me to 'go ahead and do whatever I wanted'-which meant, of course, to beat myself off.
"Once a gal ... a really well-built one, I might add, stacked like a brick shithouse, wouldn't take off her panties. I could do anything else I wanted ... hell, I fucked her between the tits, rammed it down her throat, beat myself off while I sat on her tits ... Maybe that was strange..."
He shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe I'm the wrong person to ask a question like that, because I happen to think that everyone should do their own thing, as long as it doesn't hurt someone else."
"And that's why it didn't shock you that I had ... fucked my own sister ... had an ... an affair with her."
He shrugged his shoulders. "Prob'ly." He smiled. "The way I've always been, as long as I ' can remember, I can only say that if I'd had a sister like yours I'd have probably tried to get into her pants, too. Or I'd of been like you, hiding in the closet and beating myself off while I watched her undress. I guess there's only one real difference
"What's that?" I asked when he didn't finish the sentence.
"I've never loved anyone. I'm strictly a fuck-for-pleasure man."
I looked long and hard at him. It was hard to believe; he was handsome, well-built, and he'd been nothing but friendly. "Never?" I asked. "You've never loved anybody?"
"Nope. I grew up in an orphanage, y'know. In there ... well, when the bigger guys couldn't get at the girls ... I guess I was about nine or ten when the first one got me. Held his hand over my mouth and screwed me in the ass. When I got bigger I was doing the same thing. I'd get at one of the girls when I could, when I couldn't I'd get at one of the little kids. Once in awhile we'd get a cock-sucker in the place, we'd all use him. Just fuckin', or gettin' blown, to get your rocks off. Or gettin' fucked so another guy could get his off." He shrugged his shoulders. "That's the way it was, and that's the way it's always been."
I nodded my head, and at the same time it seemed as if a door had been closed. In his honesty he had, unknowingly, closed it. I suddenly realized that he couldn't really help me; being a fuck-for-the-fucking man, he couldn't help me wrestle with the fucking-for-love versus the other! All he could do was help me escape, but there was no real, lasting escape. I drained off my drink and got to my feet.
"Got to go," I said. "Got to go face whatever has to be faced."
He didn't argue. He just said, "If things go rough, you know you can always come back here."
Twilight had filtered into the city-or, more properly, daylight was seeping out of it. The sky was darkening and lights were coming on all over, lack-luster but nonetheless on. Peter had offered to drive me home but I had refused the offer; I wanted more time, time alone. I walked through the streets of the city, shoulders slumped forward, almost oblivious to everything around me. Davie Miller, happy-go-lucky man of confidence, had been replaced by Davie Miller, man in confusion. The mighty cocksman didn't know what the hell to do with his damned cock!
Marge begged in a near-whisper, "Fuck me, Davie. Fuck me just once and then I can go back."
Cindy whispered, her voice a little stronger, "No, Davie, no! You're mine, I don't want you going back to her."
I thrust my weapon into Marge, felt the jizm spurting out as our bodies merged. "Oh, Davie," she gasped. "Oh, God, that felt good. Davie, promise we'll stay together until death do us part, just as if we were really married."
Cindy stood beside me, dressed in a simple white dress even though she wasn't virgin. I had taken care of that; I knew the feel of having my cock buried in her. The stern-faced but mild-voiced minister said, "Do you David Miller, take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife until death do you part?"
Karl on the street, his crushed wheelchair not far away. He was dead, but he looked up at me and said, "You took her away from me, Davie. I'd learned to love her, but you took her away from me.
Rod MacIvers laughed. "I fixed you, you little sister-fucker! I cut off your supply, didn't I? Took that so-called 'love' and twisted it like rotten metal."
"No," I said weakly, not realizing that I was speaking aloud, "No, you didn't, Rod. For awhile, at the time, yes, but now that I know..."
Now that I know, what?
There are different kinds of love. "There's the love I feel for Marge, and the love I feel for Cindy ... "
... but you can't love-fuck two women.
Peter said quietly, "I've never loved anyone. I'm strictly a fuck-for-pleasure man!"
There was a screech of brakes and the blasting of a horn. I felt the metal against my leg, barely brushing me, and realized that I had stepped out into traffic. "Sorry," I mumbled to the cursing driver, stepping back onto the curb.
Watch it, Miller, or you're going to get yourself killed.
Maybe that wouldn't be a bad idea!
But to never live, to never fuck again...!
Poor Karl.
"Jesus, what am I going to do?"
They looked up as I entered. Marge was sitting in a chair, a leg drawn up under her. She was wearing a pair of tight trousers, but over them a loose, smock-like shirt. She had drawn her dark hair back into a pony-tail that was tied with a gay ribbon. She looked young and beautiful. Cindy, wearing a pair of jeans and an old sports shirt, was sitting across from her; she was attractive in her own way, casual-looking. Neither, it was obvious, was trying to impress the other; they had dressed as they would have under any circumstances.
I looked from one to the other without acknowledging the questioning in their eyes. It was enough for the moment that they were sitting there with almost placid expressions on their faces, albeit I thought that I saw at least a momentary "Oh, God, I'm glad to see you," filter across Marge's eyes. Closing the door, I merely nodded, then started across the room.
Although I had showered not long before at Peter's apartment, I stripped down and went into the bathroom. I shaved, brushed my teeth again, then took another hot shower (my legs ached a little from the long walk). Finished, I dressed in slacks and a sports shirt and went back out.
"I'm famished," I said. "Haveyou gals eaten?"
I thought I heard them both sigh, as if they had been expecting an ordeal and were relieved that it wasn't coming. Cindy leaped to her feet. "We've eaten, but I'll fix you something," she said, heading for the kitchen.
I wanted to stop her. I wasn't ready to be alone with one or the other of them. I didn't dare. But, I told myself, I could get into some kind of middle ground. "I'll fix us all drinks," I said, and followed her into the kitchen. Taking time, making a lot of noise, I got the ice out and mixed the drinks; I put one on the drain board where Cindy could reach it and carried another in to Marge. "Thank you," she whispered as she accepted it, but I refused to look into her eyes.
In my own mind I asked for her, "Where have you been?"
I silently answered, "I went out and tried to screw myself blind! Would you believe a wild session last night, and then a really wild one today? Would you believe that I fucked two delicious broads and then got blown by one as I chewed out her nice little snatch?"
It didn't help any!
I was much too conscious of her, and equally conscious of the muted sounds coming from the kitchen. I was right back where I had started, standing between two thoroughly desirable women, each of whom I loved in a different way. All fucked out (I honestly don't think either one of them could have given me a hard-on at that moment), I still felt a strong yearning in both directions. I wanted to take Marge into my arms and kiss her, tell her I loved her; I wanted to feel her body again, to refamiliarize myself with it. I wanted to reach back and grab for what had been, for that beautiful love that we had felt for each other. At the same time I wanted to run out into the kitchen and grab Cindy, squeeze her to me and tell her how much I loved her. Maybe play one of our silly games. "Madam, it may not be proper for me to say so, but from this distance I can see that you have the nicest butt in the kingdom. I can only imagine the beauty of the little butt what rests between your thighs!"
I hated myself in that moment for having screwed the two numbers during the afternoon, thoroughly satisfying (from a physical standpoint) as those screwings had been. I guess I even felt a little guilty.
Cindy brought in a tray with a delicious smelling dinner on it. She set it on the table in front of my favorite chair, then moved back to where she had been sitting when I arrived. I sat down and started to eat; it was hard swallowing but I forced myself to.
The silence was disturbing. Finally, a forkful of food poised in mid-air, I asked without looking at either of them, "What did you girls do all day?"
"We waited for you," Cindy answered, and it was obvious that the words had slipped out without any real thought.
Marge laughed softly and briefly. "We didn't just sit here. We talked up a storm, as only two women can do."
"Yes," Cindy entered into it nervously, "Marge told me about some of the places they've been to. Imagine flying to Paris for breakfast! And they were in Hawaii once when the volcano over there erupted, and one time in Mexico City..." She was talking too quickly, a sure indication of a completely nervous state of mind. I really felt sorry for her; it told me that she was frightened. Worse yet, it reminded me of the night she had come to my hotel room and tearfully told me that she couldn't go on the way we had been going. The night we had screwed as Karl wheeled to his death. I didn't hear the rest of her high-pitched monologue; I closed my ears to it, the meaning behind it bothersome, although the words were perfectly harmless.
I finished eating and pushed the tray away. Cindy leaped up and carried it to the kitchen. She came back and I got up, taking the glasses and heading for the kitchen to mix fresh drinks. It was almost like a game of musical chairs with only Marge, seemingly in complete control of herself, sitting immovably. It seemed as if she felt as if she had the situation well in hand. Or maybe, I told myself, she had just had to learn how to exert self-control; God only knew that eight years of living with a man she really didn't like, of accepting his sexual aggressions, of putting up a front for his wealthy friends and family would teach a person to keep a noncommittal facade.
It seemed to define weakness and strength-a person who could handle a situation and one who couldn't. Marge was the strong one, of course, Cindy the weak. I told myself: if nothing happens between Marge and me, she'll go back and keep living as she has been. Maybe not totally happy, but not totally unhappy; at least she had comfort, travel, good clothes, all those things that Rod MacIvers' money could buy her. But if something did happen between us, it could destroy Cindy. Cindy was mature in many ways, but in others she was still almost totally unsophisticated. She was totally dependent on me and had been since her late teens.
There was only one trouble. I felt no strong emotion for either weakness or strength. Especially not in this situation! I had to write that off as a factor in the final decision!
Ridiculous as it was, with the three of us only too aware of what was hanging fire we simply sat there and made small talk. No one mentioned the night (and most of the day) just passed; both
Marge and Cindy seemed determined to avoid any mention of the past (of each of their past with me). I felt helpless against it, partially because I was half-exhausted; I grunted responses, offered monosyllabic ones, occasionally a short sentence, and tried to let my mind go as blank as possible. Tomorrow, I told myself, after I've rested up I'll tackle it!
The evening finally petered out, another moment of reckoning reached. We got up and stood there a little awkwardly; not wanting to hurt either, but thinking that it would hurt Cindy the least, I said, "I'm beat! I'm going to sleep on the sofa tonight."
Cindy froze for a moment, tears sprung to her eyes, but she didn't say anything.
Marge's face was totally expressionless.
"Shit!" I spat silently, because it was the shits. I loved them both and they both believed in love-fucking, in fucking for love. They both wanted me naked in bed with them, and I wanted to be naked in bed with both. For another horrible moment I groped with the thought: why couldn't the three of us go to bed together? Why couldn't I lie between them, an arm around each of them, the three of us together?
I answered myself again. Because neither of them would go for the idea!
"Let's get some sleep," I said, and headed for the linen closet and the extra blankets.
I woke up slowly, stretching, yawning ... and, finally, remembering. I opened my eyes and stared up at the ceiling. I had kicked the blankets off, so here I was lying naked with a beautiful woman in each of the two nearby rooms. Who would ever have believed that Davie Miller, cocksman from way back, would sleep by himself when there were two beautiful women nearby! But who would ever believe that Davie Miller, or anyone, for that matter, would have gotten into a position like this!
I turned my head slowly, the way you do when someone stares at you. Marge, sitting across the room, smiled faintly. She was wearing only a loose-fitting robe, slightly open at the throat so that a small portion of her still firm, pear-shaped tits showed. Her smooth throat didn't have a wrinkle in it; even without makeup her face was still youthful-looking. For a moment I felt the years fall away; for a moment we were back home and I was waking up from one of the naps I had had to take during my illness. I was tempted to smile as I would have then and reach out for her; in my mind's eye she rose slowly to her feet, let her robe drop off and came naked toward me.
Instead I said, "Hi! What time is it?"
She smiled again. "You've grown into a man, Davie, but you're still the beautiful creature you always were. All male, all beauty!"
The smile faded. She looked away for a few moments, then turned back. "I feel so cheated! Those eight years ... when you were changing from boy to man ... those should have been my years, too, Davie!"
I felt my cock starting to rise of its own volition and reached to cover it with my hand.
"No," she cried out softly, "don't hide it. Let me watch it, Davie; let me see it full-grown."
I was afraid of what it might lead to, but I couldn't deny her. Pulling my hand away, I closed my eyes as it continued to stretch out, swelling in the process and slowly rising. When it was standing at full growth, leaning slightly toward my belly, I opened my eyes again. Marge had slid a hand down between her legs; her housecoat had opened a little more and I could see the dark pubic hair coming out from under her fingers. I swallowed, remembering the number of times I had used, the satisfaction I had gotten from the love-hole she was now gently massaging.
Jesus, I thought, if Cindy comes out now...! I listened, but there were no sounds from the bedroom.
"What are we going to do, Davie?" Marge begged softly but desperately. "I need you, Davie, I need you so much. And you want me, too, don't you? Don't you, Davie?"
"God!" I spat. "You're tearing me apart."
"We should have gone to the hotel. You could have fucked me there and Cindy would never have known!"
I shook my head. "Don't you see, Marge? Don't you see that it's more than just a fuck, a roll in the hay? It's ... it's whether I..." The words didn't want to come, but I had to get them out. Getting them out quickly, I said, "It's whether I could fuck you, feeling as I do, and still go back to my wife, or whether..."
She moved with cat-like grace, crossing the room before I even realized that she had gotten to her feet. She went to her knees and buried her face against my hard cock. She rubbed her cheek into it, her lips.
"Christ, Marge!"
"Oh, Davie!" she cried softly, and I felt tears on my belly. All of the strength she had showed the night before was gone; she was a woman in desperate need now. Whether it was simply the need of a fuck, to satisfy unanswered questions, or for love itself I didn't know, but I felt her need again. At the same time I felt something akin to fear.
Straining my ears for sound, I grasped her shoulder and tried to push her away.
"Marge, if Cindy comes out ... "
"Let her!" she cried out, surprising me. "I need you, Davie, and I don't give a damn who knows it!"
I was caught again. I wanted her; God, how I wanted her! I wanted to reach down, slipping her loosened housecoat off her as I pulled her naked body up over me. I wanted to kiss those full, cherry-red lips, those luscious tits, as I pressed my hard cock against her pliant pussy before eventually rolling her over and mounting her. At the same time, I still felt the strong pull toward Cindy; in a maze of uncertainty, I didn't want to lose what I had there.
"Oh, God...! " I groaned.
Marge crawled up over me, the housecoat not slipping off but opening. I felt her tits scrape up across my belly and land on my chest, hardened nipples pressing into my skin, and as her mouth came over mine I felt that proud mound press hard against my meat.
"Oh, Davie..." she pressed against me, giving a slight fuck-motion, "oh, Davie, fuck me! Please fuck me!"
"Jesus, Marge ... ! "
Still moving impetuously, as if driven, she raised her tits as she kissed her way down my throat. Just the nipples scraping against me now as the two pear-shaped boobs hung down, she brushed her lips across my chest. Moving down between my legs, her lips ran over my stomach, touched the tip of my cock, ran down its full length and back up. She took my balls into one hand as she grasped the base with the other, then her lips slid over the big head. She moved her head up and down hungrily.
"Christ, Marge, stop! If Cindy comes out ... "
She raised up onto her knees, shoulders straight, tits standing proudly, a strange look on her face-an almost glazed look in her eyes. Still hanging onto my cock as she straddled me, she ran the head up and down her beautiful crevice, pressing it in as deep as she could get it. The soft flesh, the hair sent shivers of pleasure through me. I wanted to reach out for those perky tits, fondle them, pull her down to me again. I wanted to, but I didn't dare.
"Marge," I half-whispered, the words torn agonizingly from my throat, "give me a little time, will you? Let me work things out with Cindy."
She closed her eyes for a moment, lips slightly agape, then lowered herself slowly. My prick-head caught and bent a little; she wriggled a little and it straightened, caught in the warmth of her tight pussy. She lowered herself still more, taking inch by inch, sliding up and down on it. Jesus!
"Marge, for God's sakes!"
Using super-human strength (psychological, that is! Christ, I wanted to fuck her!), I grabbed her by the hips and shoved her off, pulling free of her and practically leaping to my feet. It threw her off balance and she fell over onto the divan, her full, luscious body exposed. Hard-cocked, I looked down at her and shook my head.
"Jesus, Jesus!" But I couldn't. Not with Cindy in the next room, not with the chance that she might come out and find us. "Marge, dammit, give me time to work it out, will you?"
She looked confused, maybe hurt. "Don't you want me?"
"Of course I want you! Christ, I want you till it hurts, but ... but I can't hurt Cindy at the same time. Just let me work it out." And I was already trying to; maybe I could tell her to set it up so that it looked like she was going home, but she could go to a hotel instead. I'd wait a day or two and then, once Cindy and I had gotten back into our usual routine, I'd take a day off from work and meet her there. We could have a full day of fucking, of loving ...
I went into the bathroom. I couldn't help myself, I had to have relief. Relief and the ability to function without desire gnawing in my guts, aching in my balls. Sitting on the John, legs stretched out, I closed my eyes and slowly started to beat myself off. No love, no love-fucking, just plain old meat-beating for one simple purpose-to climax.
The door opened and, cock in hand, I looked up at Marge. Her face had paled.
"Cindy isn't here," she half-whispered. "She ... what?"
"I went into her room. She isn't there. The bed hasn't been slept in."
"Oh, God..." I groaned, and I could feel myself going soft in my own hand. A vision of Karl crossed my mind, a person dying because he couldn't live without love. A terrible coldness went through my entire body. I saw a set of dominos, all falling because the first one had fallen, only they weren't dominos. They were naked people, and the first was a hard-pricked Karl, the second was Cindy. I groaned again.
For some reason I thought of a poem, remembered from a long-gone past:
Backward, turn backward, O Time in your flight;
Make me a child again just for tonight.
Oh, if that could be. If Marge and I could only be the youngsters we were then, naked and happy and able to enjoy each other's pleasures. If Rod MacIvers had never come on the scene to shatter that, to blackmail her into marriage and send me running so that I would eventually meet Karl, then Cindy, then arrive at this point!
"Please, dear God," I found myself whispering with closed eyes, "please don't let anything happen to her."
"What are we going to do, Davie?" Marge asked, and there was fear in her voice. All her strength had been washed away.
"I don't know," I answered. "But when we find her, or when she comes back, I have to honestly be able to tell her that we didn't do anything."
Marge nodded her head. She understood.
I'd gone completely limp, so it was no problem to walk into the bedroom and dress. But as I dressed I groped, and there were no answers; I didn't have the vaguest idea of where to begin looking. Cindy and I had been so mutually satisfying that we hadn't needed or wanted anyone else; we knew a few people, but none that you would really call friends. In the six years of our marriage we had never had company-at least not since moving into our own apartment. It had been our Garden of Eden, just as Marge and I had shared such a place. We had wanted our freedom, to be able to move about in mutually satisfying nakedness, to play one of our sex games when and where we wanted it. I couldn't think of a soul in the world whom she would go to, and that made it even worse. I realized in that moment how (without me) all alone in the world Cindy was.
Back in the living room, I found Marge fully dressed in a smart suit. She had tied a colorful bandana around her head. She had also applied a little make-up, but it didn't fully cover the paleness, the concern.
"Davie, I'm not sure, but ... Well, I think it might be wise to start at the cemetery."
I knew then that she and Cindy had talked the day before, that they had compared more notes than they had admitted to during the evening just passed.
Although we would need it, I silently hoped as we went down in the elevator that the car would be gone. It wasn't. Cindy had simply walked off into the night, leaving everything behind. Another chill went through me. I opened the door for Marge out of habit, closed it and walked around to slide under the wheel. As I backed out of the stall Marge half-whispered, more to herself than to me, "I should never have come."
I didn't know whether to agree with her or not.
We drove through the city. The most convenient route took us past Peter's apartment, but I tried not to think about what had happened there the day before. I tried not to even glance at it! It was too much like ... well, like Cindy and I screwing as Karl had gone to his death. A frightening reminder, an omen.
Once on the outskirts I accelerated, going faster than necessary but feeling the need to. We finally reached the cemetery; I braked the car, turned in, and drove slowly along the narrow lanes. It had been some time since I had been there, but I finally identified a tree not too far from Karl's grave. Looking across the wide expanse of lawn, I saw the redness of a single flower but no one was around.
CHAPTER. TEN
We sat in the living room-well, Marge sat, I sprawled-looking everywhere but at each other. The silence was almost deafening. It was as if death was with us, or at least in the next room.
Finally Marge broke the silence. "I don't know what to do. I mean ... Well, I'm beginning to give up, to ... to quit trying. Perhaps I was wrong to even think ... Maybe I should just pack up and go home. But if I go and..."
I looked up, saw the tears filling her eyes. She was, I could tell, battling between honesty, guilt, and a myriad of other emotions. One was a fear-hope thing; the fear that something had happened to Cindy, but the hope that if it had we might yet get back together again. She couldn't put it into words (maybe she wasn't fully realizing it herself), but I knew that it was there.
"I hope you're not blaming yourself," I finally answered, "because it isn't your fault. It's just ... well, the way different people act."
Closing her eyes, shaking her head, she said faintly, "I know now how Cindy felt when she realized that you ... that you had been doing it as her brother went to his death."
I winced. After all, I had been in on it.
"Maybe she was trying to tell me something then," she went on. "Maybe she was telling me that if we..."
"Stop it!" I bellowed. "For Christ's sake, Marge, can it!"
She looked up, startled. She swallowed and looked down again.
Anger seethed through me. Anger at Cindy. God-damn, she had no right pulling a fool thing like this! It seethed and boiled, like hot lava in the bowels of a volcano working itself up to the point where it could spew out, erupt. A thought went wildly through my mind; Nothing's happened to her! She's just doing this to keep Marge and I from screwing! She knows we want to, we need to...! It's a stinkin', filthy, woman's trick!
Anger and ... at least for the moment, hatred.
I pushed myself to my feet and started to undress. Took off my sports shirt, slid my tee-shirt over my head, leaned down to take off first one shoe and sock and then the other. Marge looked up.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm undressing. Once I'm undressed I'm going into the bedroom and flop down on the bed. I'm going to sit there, lie there, thinking about how much I'd like to screw, and I'm going to get a hard-on. Either you'll come in ... or I'll finish what you caught me at this morning!"
I slid out of my pants, throwing them aside, and stood naked in front of her. I studied the shape of her tits through her blouse, looked down at the mound pressing out at the crotch of her slacks. My cock started rising a little at a time, tentatively, but finally it was up toward my stomach in full tumescence. "You used to like to play with this thing, suck on it. You used to want me to get it up inside you and leave it there."
"Oh, Davie," she cried out, "what are you doing?"
"I want to fuck you. Are you going to let me or not?"
"But ... but what about ... Cindy!"
I shook my head. "She fooled us, baby, that's all. She doesn't want us fuckin', so she tried to scare us out of it."
"You mean...? "
"Games. A jealous woman's games."
I went into the bedroom-not the guest room, but the room, the bed where Cindy and I had done years of whole-hearted screwing. I was on my back with one hand behind my head and the other grasping my cock-not beating it, just holding it. I waited, and then I saw her in the doorway. She came in slowly, as if she were frightened, and started to move to sit on the edge of the bed. I held out a hand, stopping her.
"No mish-mosh," I said. "Either undress and crawl on with me or forget it!"
I was being brusque, but I had to be. I didn't dare let down an iota; I didn't dare think that I might be wrong.
Marge undressed slowly and it was like in the good old days. She took her blouse off, then loosened her bra straps; I could see them fall forward slightly, then the bra slid off and I could see them in all their glory. Perky, kissable tits, the little nipples just waiting to be sucked on, the valley between waiting to have my face buried in it! She took off her shoes and socks and slid her slacks down, revealing the skimpy silk panties that were almost transparent. I could see her nice hips, her rounded buttocks, then she turned slightly and I could see the dark hair and full mound. She slid them off, letting them fall to the floor, and I opened my arms to her. She came into them and our bodies were pressed together full-length, her tits crushed against my chest and my whang against her love-box.
"Oh, Davie," she sighed, and we had drawn a drape between us and the rest of the world.
We kissed hungrily, almost as if we were trying to make up for all of the years when our lips had not been able to meet. I sent my tongue into her mouth and she eagerly received it, twisting her own around it. Still kissing, I pushed her body gently away from me, feeling first her tits and then sliding down to gently massage her lovely cunt. I felt her hand slide down over my cock, the fingers wrap slowly around it.
"Oh, Davie," she breathed into my mouth again, and her desire, her willingness to open up for me was fully expressed in those simple words.
I pushed on her shoulder and moved so that I could get at her tits. I mouthed them hungrily, nibbling a little, circling the nipples with my tongue and then suckling; after I'd treated each of them, I buried my face between them and slowly sent a finger up into her cunt. It felt the warmth, the moistness, and she undulated her hips as she groaned with pleasure and desire. Moving more, I kissed my way down her stomach, turning around at the same time. As I started lapping her sweet pussy I felt her grasp my tool at the base, slosh her tongue around the head, tickle it with the tip of her tongue, then tighten her lips and slide them down over it. She worked her head up and down as
I lapped a few more times and then sent my tongue into her until my nose was crushed against her pubic hair. I sloshed it around, teasing that deep, inner lining, causing her to writhe, then I slowly but methodically began to give her a good tongue-fucking. She continued working on my rod, spreading her legs wider for me, and it was all I could do to finally pull away from her.
I turned around again and took her into my arms, pulling her over on top of me. I reached down to pull my cock up between us, then slid my hands up her warm, smooth sides so that I could finger her tits as our mouths met again. She moved her hips up and down, compressing my meat between us, and I knew that I couldn't take much of that, either. I grasped her buttocks for a few moments, kneading the flesh, then held onto them as I rolled us both over. On top, my legs between hers, I began prodding with my meat; it reached the entry and I slowly inched it in, hearing her groan into my mouth again as it went deeper and deeper. It was finally buried to the balls; I left it there a few moments, enjoying the feeling of her tight pussy around it, then I started slowly fucking her. It was lovely, lovely, and she finally groaned out, "Oh, fuck me, Davie! Fuck me!"
The years fell away. We were kids again, back on my bed and with Dad at work. This was our world, a world that no one else could enter because we wouldn't let them.
"I love you, Marge," I whispered into her ear. "God, how I love you!" I fucked her royally to prove it, giving her my full nine inches and, in a final jerking and quivering, my love-juices to prove it. She spewed out her own juices, almost going wild, and I was hit in the face with the reminder that she had not had an orgasm in some eight years. I laughed as I kept spurting; I laughed because I was doing to her, for her, what that sonofabitch Rod MacIvers had been unable to do. And because she was giving to me what she had withheld from him. This was love-fucking at its best!
She grabbed my firm buttocks and pulled me tight against her, making sure that I wouldn't try to pull out. She wrapped her legs around mine.
"Oh, Davie, that was so wonderful, so great! Will you leave it in there until it gets hard again?"
"Sure, but let's roll over so I don't squash you." This time I held onto her buttocks and rolled us over, sliding my arms up so I could hold her in them. Her cheek was against mine, her tits against my chest, her legs between mine-and Junior, taking a nap, resting comfortably in her warmth. I closed my eyes and in my mind stepped back through the years again-there had been no Rod MacIvers, no hundreds of now faceless sex partners, no Karl or Cindy. There was just Marge and me, our bodies merged, love-fucking as proof that we would be together until death do us part.
How long we were there I don't know (perhaps we even dozed), but I suddenly felt her cunt muscles contracting. She was wordlessly bringing me up to hardness again, and I willingly let her. It was a good feeling, my meat stretching out and swelling as it moved to fill more fully that warm, moist channel. Finally, when it was fully hard again, she pushed herself up onto her elbows and looked down into my face. "Davie, remember that year you were sick? Remember how we used to worry that too much fucking might be too much of a strain on you? "
I smiled. "I remember."
"Remember what we used to do so you wouldn't strain yourself?"
"I remember what you used to do."
"Now?" she asked. I nodded, letting my body relax, and she raised her hips slowly, slowly unsheathing my hard prong. Sort of jack-knifing her body, she brushed her lips across my chest and down my belly as she moved to get between my legs. Taking my balls gently in one hand, she wrapped the other around the base of my cock and lowered her mouth to it. She slowly, gently, lovingly sucked me to a fantastically thrilling climax, swallowing every drop of the love-juices that I spilled out for her.
She moved back up and I took her into my arms. We rested gently now, her lying on her side but touching me full length; her tits were on my chest, her muff against my leg, and a hand rested over my limp cock. I stared up at the ceiling, and I thought, "I do still love her. I've never quit loving her. So where do we go from here?"
A soundless voice asked, what about Cindy?
Marge murmured, "I don't know if this was a good idea, after all. Oh, Davie, I thought we could do it just once, but ... " She pressed harder against me, squeezed my prick. "I do love you, Davie, with all my heart. I love you body and soul."
"I love you, too," I answered softly.
A soundless voice asked, what about Cindy?
I squeezed her shoulder. "Let's take a shower together, the way we used to, then get up and have a drink."
"Anything you say, master!" she answered half-laughingly.
We took the shower together, and it was the way we used to. I soaped her body, every inch of it, fondling her tits lovingly as I lathered them; I went to my knees and thoroughly cleansed her pussy, inside and out, giving it far more attention than necessary. I washed her back, her buttocks. When it was her turn she lathered my chest and belly, went to her knees and gently washed my balls, my cock-spending more time than was really necessary! She washed my back and buttocks. We rinsed off and then stepped out onto the tile floor, taking turns drying each other and giving special attention to the right spots. Before it was over I was half-hard again, but once we had put robes on I walked determinedly past the bed and back into the living room.
We were back to where we had been earlier, waiting. Waiting and wondering. There was only one difference; our love for each other, physical and psychological, had not been reawakened but reaffirmed. The doubt of the future had not only to do with Cindy and her physical condition, but with what we had yet to put into words.
As time dragged by doubt grew, gnawing at my belly. It was probably even worse because I couldn't put it into words, but I had to ask myself if my anger had been justifiable (if, for that matter, it had even been real) or if I had just used it, built it up, as a rationalization that would let me get in the sack with Marge. Fear grew again; Jesus, what if emotionalism, instability were hereditary? What if Cindy was lying dead somewhere out there in the city?
Then, assuring myself that she wouldn't do anything foolish, anger would grow again. Damn her, if she was only playing games...
The memory of the lone red flower at the cemetery haunted me. She had been there-she had gone to all the trouble (Jesus, she would have had to have walked miles, unless someone had given her a ride) to go out to Karl's grave. What had she asked him? What answers had she tried to find there? Or had she told him that, finally she understood what he had done, why he had done it?
Every once in awhile Marge would ask, "Are you sure we shouldn't check the hospitals, or maybe call the police?"
"No," I would answer, "we'll wait a little longer."
But how long was a little longer?
Marge fixed us a snack in early afternoon. We sipped a few drinks (just how many I don't know) and evening seemed to suddenly be upon us. Marge said again, "Maybe we should call someone."
I shook my head. "She has identification. If anything had happened, someone would have called." I wanted to believe it.
I told myself, she's just playing games. This is her way of trying to keep us from screwing, or from enjoying it if we did! In retrospect she had. The pleasures of the morning were next to forgotten with the worries of evening. I started getting angry again, and I told myself that if she weren't back by the time we decided to go to bed I was going to sleep with Marge. She could come home and find us naked in bed together!
Marge was showing the strain. Her face was drawn and every once in awhile she'd get up and pace the room. "I shouldn't have come! If anything has happened to her, I'll never forgive myself," she exclaimed.
"Will you knock it off?" I'd say, not kindly. "Hell, who should know better than us the games that life-or fate, if you'd rather call it that-plays?"
It sounded good. I tried to believe it myself.
Trying to break the tension, I said, "Hey, I was with a fella the other day, and you know what he told me? He took a slick chick to a hotel and for a solid weekend, from Friday night until Sunday evening, he didn't take his dong out of her once. Screwed her, left it there until it got hard again, screwed her again. Even left it in while they were eating!"
She gave me a weak, almost sickening smile. "How about you and me doing that some time."
"Davie, please!"
"God-damn it," I spat, "people shouldn't get so damned emotional! Fuck and be happy, fuck and let fuck. Fuck!"
Hell, at that point I didn't know what I felt.
Shortly after eight there was a knock on the door.
We looked at each other for a long moment, then I pushed myself slowly to my feet and crossed the room. A uniformed policeman stood there, framed in the doorway.
"David Miller?"
"Yes."
No fear, nothing. A complete absence of feeling.
"Is your wife Cynthia Miller?"
Cynthia Miller? No, my wife was Cindy. Cindy Miller. But then I heard the minister's words, "Do you, Cynthia, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband..."
"Yes," I managed. I felt Marge move up behind me. I waited fearfully for his words.
He bobbed his head. "I don't know of any easy way to tell you this, Mr. Miller, but ... your wife is dead."
"Dead," I repeated woodenly.
He bobbed his head again. "No one seems to know for sure how it happened. The driver just said that all of a sudden her wheelchair shot out from between two cars. He tried to stop, but it was too late."
"Her wheelchair," I repeated stupidly.
And then I remembered someone saying, in some long distant past, ... the human mind is a tricky mechanism. A very sensitive mechanism. Moreover, the line between sanity and insanity is very fine. Very fine, indeed.
I heard the policeman say, "I'm sorry, Mr. Miller, but we'd like to have you come down and make positive identification."
I looked at him. They wanted me to make a positive identification. A wheelchair and a positive identification. There was hope. Besides that, my wife's name wasn't really Cynthia, it was Cindy. I laughed.
"There's no need for that. It couldn't possibly be my wife."
I felt Marge's hand on my arm. "I'll go with you, Davie."
"But there's no reason to go..."
"Please, Davie."
Sitting in the back seat of the police car as we moved through traffic, I reached out and took Marge's hand, grasped it firmly. Perhaps I even hurt her a little.
"She wouldn't do it that way, would she?" I asked. "Symbolic?"
Marge didn't answer.
"She didn't want us to fuck, Marge."
"Davie, please."
"She shouldn't have been jealous. There are different kinds of love. You can love-fuck for different reasons."
"Davie, the man will hear you."
I looked at the back of the officer's head. He was a fairly young man, not bad-looking. I wondered if he were married or just what kind of fucking he did. I wondered if he sometimes beat his own meat.
"Y'know," I turned back to Marge, "Karl had no business doing that. Hell, I wouldn't have taken her away from him. I wouldn't have taken it away from him. Even if we'd gotten married before that, I wouldn't have cut him off. God-damn it, Marge, why didn't he give me a chance to tell him that?"
"Davie, please, I know this is an awful strain
"I wouldn't have," I insisted, and I was suddenly crying. Tears were running down my cheeks. "Hell, I would even of jacked him off if that was what he needed!"
"I hope you know," Marge raised her voice, "I hope you know that he's under a great strain."
"Don't worry about it, lady," the officer threw over his shoulder.
We reached a big, foreboding-looking building. The officer got out and opened the door; Marge crawled out and I followed her. She slid her arm through mine, squeezing mine tightly as we followed the man into the building. We seemed to go down endless, hollow-sounding hallways before we finally reached an elevator; once in it, it seemed to hang in space, then suddenly the doors were opening. We followed him down more endless, hollow hallways, through a set of swinging doors. I vaguely remember a strange-looking wall, a dour-faced man in a white lab-coat leading us along it, stopping, reaching out, pulling a drawer-like contraption out. I looked down as he pulled a sheet back, then the floor came up and hit me in the face.
I woke up feeling as if my head had been hit by a steam-roller. I was pressed up against something warm and firm, had my arm around a warm body, but there was a strange feeling to it. I blinked my eyes, then I realized what it was. I had my arm around Peter and my cock, in an unusual state of limpness for that moment of the day, was pressed up against his ass end. I looked around; the blonde wasn't there, but the room itself was strangely confusing. I was confused. Then I laughed, relief flooding through me. I reached out and shook Peter's shoulder; he finally rolled over and was awake. "Jesus," I said, "am I glad to see you. I had the damnedest dream..."
He looked into my eyes unsmilingly. "Sorry, old buddy," he said, "but it wasn't a dream."
I frowned. "Then what am I doing here?"
"You're not 'here,' I am," he answered. And then he told me, talking softly and slowly. On the way back from the morgue, after Marge had identified Cindy because I had passed out, I had called him. He had high-tailed it over, a couple of bottles of booze in hand. He spared me the details of the evening, but the sum and substance was that I had finally passed out. Marge was sleeping now on the divan, and he and I were in the guestroom. Marge had insisted on that arrangement.
The bed that Cindy and I had loved and fucked in had been left empty.
Marge, because of her deep love, her deep feelings (and maybe from some guilt) had not taken advantage of the situation.
Peter, the only friend I had ever had, was going to see me through.
It was obvious now what had happened, and the human mind is, indeed, a sensitive mechanism. The line between sanity and insanity is, indeed, a fine one. Sure that she had lost me (not waiting to find out, maybe because she knew deep within her how deep a first love can really be-or, perhaps, a brother-sister love), Cindy had taken the single flower to the cemetery. A red rose, symbol of love. From there she had made her way back into town (how she got to and from the cemetery nobody knew), bought a wheelchair ... and the policeman had said the rest.
I wept silently, convulsively, and Peter pulled me to him. He took me into his arms and our male bodies were pressed together, but there was only human compassion there. He rubbed my back soothingly.
"Just give it time, Davie, just give it time." His strong hand went down to my buttocks, rubbed them.
But one thing was important to me.
"Do they know," I struggled, "do they know what time she died?"
"Four o'clock," Peter answered. "Give or take a few minutes."
'Thank God," I whispered.
At least she hadn't died while Marge and I were screwing.
Marge was almost beside herself. Not only were her eyes red from crying, but every once in awhile she started crying again. A quiet, painful crying. Finally I said, "Peter, tell her. Make her see that it wasn't her fault."
He took her hand, holding it very gently, and looked deep into her eyes.
"You have to know that," he said simply. "As Shakespeare said, 'There is a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will.' It had to happen that way, Marge, and now she is at rest. It was no one's fault, just the way life is."
"If I hadn't come ... "
"If I hadn't let you come," I interrupted her. "If you want to figure it that way, I'm the one at fault. Maybe even more so because, frankly, after I talked to you I did a lot of arguing with myself. I asked what you-which meant you and me together-might do to my marriage. I still let you come."
Peter nodded. "I've never thought much about incest-at least not before Davie and I talked yesterday-but if I ever saw a love that was born in Heaven, it seems to me like it's you two."
"Oh!" Marge cried out in anguish. "How can you even talk about love!"
"Because," I answered for him, "I love you. I might not be able to fuck you for a few days, but I know that for sure now. I love you, until death do us part."
We did the things that day that had to be done. Picked out the right clothes and took them to the mortuary, and while there made all the funeral arrangements. Went to the cemetery (damn that lone red rose, and yet it was beautiful) and made the necessary arrangements there. All of that taken care of, we went back to the apartment. Peter went into the kitchen to mix drinks. It seemed like part of it; it made the whole thing more acceptable and believeable. Why else, I asked myself, would I have met Peter, found a friend, just when I did?
Back in the living room, the three of us sitting there, I looked from one to the other. These were the two people I loved, the only two people in the world who meant anything to me. I wanted it to be right; I wanted it to be something special, the kind of thing that people like us could share. I broke into a conversation they were having.
"Let's shuck," I blurted out. "No sex, but let's shuck our clothes and be just the three of us beautiful people on an island."
Marge wanted to hold back, but Peter seemed to sense my need. He got up as I did and started undressing. Finally Marge, as if she were half-dazed, pushed herself to her feet and followed suit. We sat back down again, each in the chair we had been occupying but totally naked. I lifted my glass.
'To us! To us beautiful people and life!"
I couldn't help but notice that Peter studied her naked body. After all, regardless of the circumstances what male could keep from looking at such a beautifully shaped person? He let his eyes move from her face down across her tits, down to her crotch, down over her legs and then back up. But he didn't get a hard-on.
"It's so strange," Marge finally said, as if from out of her deepest thoughts. "The other evening people took ... Cindy" [it was hard for her to say the name] "and I for twins, and now ... for your coloring ... you two could be twins."
'Two good studs, huh?" I asked, trying to lighten things up. It wasn't that I was being flippant. It was just that I sincerely believed that things happened as they must, and that life had to go on. I was sorry as hell about Cindy's death and all (maybe even later it would hit me harder), but I had to somehow take it in my stride.
That night, after we had gone to bed, I said to Peter, "I noticed you giving Marge the once over. What's the verdict?"
"Hell, man, I told you that the night I met you."
"You'd like to get at her, huh."
"No."
"No!" I gasped. "But ... how come? Man, I mean, a cocks man like you..."
"Sometimes you see something beautiful," he interrupted me softly, "and you wouldn't touch it for anything. I'm strictly a fuck-for-pleasure man, like I told you, but I'd never touch someone who ... loved and was loved."
A moment later he added, "I'll have to admit that I envy you. Screwin' is great, but it must be even greater when ... when you feel something ... deep for a person."
I rolled over and impetuously grabbed his cock. I squeezed it. "You will some day, Peter. Honest to God, I have the feeling you will!"
"Maybe so," he answered, "now that I've seen what it's like."
The following morning Cindy was laid to rest next to Karl and her father. I'll have to admit that as they lowered her casket into the ground I had the feeling that a lot of answers to unasked questions were going with her-a lot of memories seemed to be gathered painfully in my chest-but once it was over I looked up into the blue sky and said to myself, "Another chapter finished, with more yet to be lived."
Jesus, the chapters I had already lived!
We rode back to the mortuary in the limousine, then Peter drove us to the apartment. He didn't kill the engine, though, and as I stood waiting for Marge to get out I looked down at him quizzically.
"Aren't you coming up?"
"No," he answered simply. "You two need to be alone."
I nodded, silently thanking him, then took Marge's arm and led her into the building. Standing in front of the door to the apartment I turned to her. "Are you going back home?"
She looked deep into my eyes, then finally in a near-whisper she answered, "I think I've finally come home."
I nodded again. "When I open this door we're going to forget the past, okay? I mean, the last eight years and ... and Rod and ... Cindy."
"Yes, let's forget them. At least, let's try."
I opened the door then and let her go in, following her. I closed the door and turned around, opening my arms to her. She came into them and I crushed her tightly against me. I was not sorry for what had happened-it seemed as if it all had had to happen-but I was more than willing to try to forget it all. There was only one thing that was important. Kissing her on an earlobe, I whispered huskily, "Once you promised that we would be together until death do us part. Promise me now that you'll never let anything get in the way again!"
"Oh, I promise!" she cried out against me, "I promise."
"Then why don't we start it out right? Why don't you get those god-damned clothes off!"
She laughed. "If you'll let go of me, lover, I will!"
Still not releasing her, I said, "Want to know why I want you to get them off?"
She giggled. "I think I know why, but tell me, anyway!"
I rubbed my cheek against hers. "Because I want to love-fuck you, baby! I want to love-fuck you like you've never been love-fucked before!"
