Clara lay on her back in the classic missionary position: knees flexed, thighs spread wide apart to receive him. She couldn't see his face but she knew it wasn't Harry. She could feel that. Whoever he was, he had it in, had bottomed out on his first stroke, and now he knelt poised between her thrumming thighs, the tip of his hot throbbing hammer barely parting her nether lips.
She heard him take a breath as he gathered forces for his first full-depth, uninterrupted plunge into the tunnel of love. It was going to be good. She knew it. Already her belly was twisting, passion winding up her insides like the rubber bands in a toy airplane, twisting her up slowly so she could let go with a joyous gut-wrenching whirrrr! Then without warning there was a sudden WHIRRRR! like the end of the world.
Clara gave a little shriek and jumped. She reached for the alarm and managed to knock the clock over. Muttering like an angry Druid, she finally got the incessant whirring to stop. She sighed and got up. Her cunt was sopping. She was putting on her shower cap when she realized it was Saturday. She didn't have to keep her. hair nice for the office. Today, she remembered, she was going to clean out the trailer.
She showered and shampooed her not-yet-graying auburn hair. Towelling off, she could not resist the temptation to wipe steam from the full-length mirror on the door. She was only thirty-nine, with a bust to match. Her waist was still small, her gently rounding belly unblemished by stretch marks. Why?
To hell with him. It had been nearly a year since he'd bugged off with another woman -- a woman with the same straight auburn hair, a woman no younger than Clara, and not half as good-looking!
She stood on tiptoe, studying the line of her legs and ass. Men still turned to look when she walked down the street. Everyone except that louse of a Harry. Why?
Actually, she reminded herself, after twelve years Harry had turned into something of a pain in the ass. He'd been passed over for promotion, was slowly turning into an alcoholic, and she had sadly come to the conclusion that she no longer loved him, that she would have to leave him -- and then without warning the son of a bitch had gone and left her! Why?
Why think about it? She didn't really want him back. She found an old, paint-stained pair of shorts and a halter and began making coffee. Which was another pain in the ass but Harry had had such a thing about hating instant coffee that even now she found herself making a potful of the real thing to go with her genuine margarine and plastic English muffin.
She looked out the back door. Somewhere the lawn mower was buried in all that grass. One of these days ... Christ! She needed a man around the place. She wondered what had ever happened to that card she had thumb tacked to the bulletin board in the friendly neighbourhood supermarket. Didn't boys cut grass for spending money any more? Stop complaining, she told herself. Sighing, she began ploughing a wake through the grass toward the trailer on the back of the lot. Her garage faced the street and Clara didn't get out into the backyard more than once a month. She wondered if the tires were still any good.
Actually, if she remembered right -- and how could she forget -- she and Harry had been out for a long weekend only a few days before she had come home from work one night and found a note instead of a husband. She had left it fairly clean. Shouldn't take more than a dusting and she could advertise it and maybe use the proceeds to go on a cruise and meet an unattached man and --
Well damn! Had Harry forgotten to lock it? Had it been open back here facing the alley for over a year? Why, anybody could have gotten into --
She was inside and had closed the door behind her before she realized it was not exactly a question of somebody could have gotten in. There were brimming ashtrays. The blankets had been taken from the closet and were on the bed. There were dirty dishes in the sink and empty cans in the trash bin.
With a growing sense of outrage, Clara gradually realized that this was not a one-night stand. Somebody had moved in and was living here-living in her backyard and in her trailer! She supposed she ought to have been frightened. After all, she might have come blundering in here and caught him -- caught him naked. She might have caught him doing anything.
There was an unmistakable male smell about the place. She opened the closet and found an often-washed shirt on a hanger. Crumpled in the bottom of the closet was a clean pair of Levis. She held them up to her waist. Not a very big man, she guessed. Hardly more than a boy.
She looked around for more evidence. Common sense could tell a great many things from a few clues. She already knew that if he had a girl, she had not been here for a long time. Pecker tracks on the sheet suggested that any young man who was having wet dreams was not being visited by any girl --perfumed or otherwise. Some drop-out, she supposed. She checked the butts in the overflowing ashtrays. Some were hand rolled, but Clara knew tobacco when she smelled it. He must be straight. If he was rolling his own out of tobacco, he had to be broke. She gave a grim laugh. Why else would he. be living this way?
Picking away at the back of her mind was another reason why a man might be living this way. He might be in hiding. He might be from the road camp a few miles out of town. He might be from the funny farm in the opposite direction. He might be ... He might be hiding in the bathroom waiting to grab me and rape me.
But Clara was not the kind of woman who turns to jelly at the thought of trouble. She got the butcher knife from next to the sink and opened the bathroom. Feeling foolish as she looked into the tiny cubicle, she turned and put the knife away. Had he gone for good?
The soup and bean cans were not all that old. There was half a loaf of bread not more than a day old. He'll be back, she knew. To hell with him. She was plowing through the tall grass, heading back toward the house and the phone to call the police when she changed her mind. Instead, she went back and found paper. With a back slanting feminine hand she wrote, "Clean everything up before you leave. The police will be around soon."
And then she went back once more toward the house. The son of a bitch had dirtied it up. Let's see if he cleaned up or if he just took off and left her to clean up the mess, like Harry. Halfway back to the house she stumbled over the lawn mower. Nursing a bruised shin, she snarled, "If I get my hands on him, he's going to mow the lawn too!"
Back in the house she sat and poured a second cup of coffee and tried to think calmly. Out this way on the edge of town she had neighbours, but they weren't all that close. The house on one side was a hundred yards away. The one on the opposite side was even farther. If he turned out to be big ... she remembered the size of the frayed Levis. If he turned out to be mean -- or strong, or if he had a gun or knife ...
Damn Harry! If it hadn't been for his crazy idea about raising chickens she'd have been living in a condominium somewhere in town, or at least somewhere closer to the base. She half smiled at the memory of how the chicken-raising venture had come to an abrupt end the day she had killed, scalded, plucked and gutted a chicken, then explained to Harry that from now on that was what he was going to do to every goddam chicken that didn't come from the supermarket wrapped in plastic.
But Harry had left her a few useful things when he bugged out with that other bitch. Somehow that didn't sound quite right. Anyway, Harry had left her some hardware. She went to her bedroom and took out the .45. It was loaded. Harry had taught her to use it. He had also explained to her that the nearly half-inch piece of lead had been designed especially to knock hard-to-stop men on their asses.
She would keep an eye on the trailer from here. Give whoever was in there an hour to clean up and if he wasn't out by then she'd see if a 1911 model Colt .45 calibre automatic pistol's noise was not sufficient to speed him on his way.
She rummaged through Harry's closet and sure enough, his binoculars were still there. She spread the slats on the venetian blind and checked the trailer. There was no sign of life.
I'll catch him and I'll make him undress and I'll be wearing my best shorts and halter and his thing'll come up and he'll be so embarrassed and I'll humiliate him and I'll let him get so close to me and I'll, lead him on and make him think I'm going to let him do it and just when he's helpless I'll --
Abruptly Clara snapped out of her reverie. What was wrong with her? Whoever that was out there in the trailer, it wasn't Harry. It had to be some poor luckless bum. Make him clean it up and send him on his way. She checked the trailer with binoculars again. Nothing.
She had lived in this house for almost three years and still knew nothing about her neighbours. It was not a healthy way of life for a single woman, she realized. She ought to get to know them. There might be a time when she would need a friendly hand. She turned the binoculars toward the nearest house a hundred yards away. From the kitchen window she could only see a comer. There were shadows in the only window she could see.
She finished her lukewarm coffee and padded off to her bedroom, still carrying the binoculars. Suddenly she realized she could see the whole house from this window. She worked the glasses between a couple of slats and focussed.
Well, how about that!
Had she managed to live here three years without discovering that her nearest neighbours were nudists? Even if she was gone all day working and often half the night too, she should have guessed something was odd -- that high fence and all.
Her split-level house was just high enough for her to see over the fence from her bedroom window. There was a young man and a young woman. They were naked. Then abruptly as the girl lay down on the bed Clara realized they were not necessarily nudists. No more than everyone was in his bedroom or under his clothes. But the girl was stretching out on the bed and the nude man was planning to do what nude men in bedrooms usually do to nude women -- when they have magnificently life sized erections.
Damn! she thought, is that stud ever hung! He moved past her field of vision and all she could see was a pair of hairy legs. Then abruptly a pair of slim, depilated legs flew skyward, waved joyously for a moment or two, and wrapped around the other legs. Clara sighed and went back to the kitchen. What business of hers was it what other people did in their bedrooms? But they might at least have sense enough to draw the blinds. ...
She checked the trailer again and -- Something was different! She squinted, trying to focus the binoculars better, trying to divine just what it was that was different. Was he there? She wondered if she ought to go out and check. Better not. She had told him to clean up and get out. Give him a chance first.
Squinting through the binoculars, she could not guess what it was that was different about the trailer. The windows were still partly opened as she had left them, to ventilate the male smell. The curtains were unchanged. The roof vent was open. What was it? After a minute she put down the glasses and studied the trailer in its proper perspective. Now what was different about it?
It was nearly a minute before she realized what was right there in plain sight for her to se. A shirt and a pair of Levis were spread out to dry on the bramble next to the trailer.
He's there! I can go out and give him hell, make him scrub every spot and speck away. Make him mow the grass. Make him take his clothes of and ... She put the binoculars down and suddenly realized she hadn't actually checked out the pistol for months. Remembering how the trailer door had been left open, she wondered how many other Freudian slips were lying about this house like banana peels, waiting for her to step on. It would be just like her to chase out there with an empty gun and create a scene and then find herself up against a man with a loaded gun a loaded gun a loaded gun a --
The Colt was clean, still well oiled when she squinted down the barrel, and the clip was full. She put it back together and, after a moment's hesitation, pulled back the slide and let it snap forward. Now all she had to do was thumb down the safety, pull the trigger, and she could put several pieces of lead into a man before he could fire a single burst from his -- what in Christ's name was wrong with her? Couldn't she think of any thing else today?
Then Clara realized what had set her off. She'd come awake halfway through that recurrent dream. It was natural, she supposed, that any healthy, well-built thirty-nine-year-old woman would dream about doing it -- about fucking, she mentally amended. Why mince words? And then she'd seen the couple next door getting ready to tear off a piece. She hadn't had a cock inside her since nearly a year ago, since that louse of a Harry had run off with another bitch -- damn it! Why did she have to keep saying it that way? Oh well, she philosophized. Once she sold the trailer she could go off on a cruise and find some widower or ...
There was a knock on the back door.
Chapter Two
He's here! He's going to get down on his knees and beg me to let him stay. And I've got my best shorts and halter on and he hasn't got a girl and I'll let him in the kitchen and I'll give him a cup of coffee and he'll look at my legs and ...
Abruptly Clara realized she did not have on her best shorts and halter. She was wearing paint-stained shorts at least a half inch too small and a halter which barely managed to contain her firm, upstanding thirty-nines. Her straight auburn hair was wrapped in a turban. She was a sight. She came down to earth and stopped playing childish fantasies. Taking a firm grip on the pistol, she went to the kitchen door and opened it. "Got it all cleaned up?" she demanded.
The man at the back door wore some kind of a uniform of forest green and looked vaguely like a ranger. He held a clipboard and a pencil. "That's what I was about to ask you," he said.
Clara didn't know what to say.
"Fire season's nearly here," the man said. "I came to warn you that grass'll have to be cut and the brush trimmed or else the county will be around to do it and you'll get a whopping bill at civil-service rates laid on top of your taxes." He paused and scratched his head. "If I was you I'd see about hiring a boy or something." Abruptly he saw the pistol she had been trying to hide behind her. "You having trouble?" he asked.
Clara was about to tell him about the stranger in the trailer when she changed her mind. "A woman alone has to be careful," she said. "I'm sorry if I startled you. Would you like some coffee?" He was middle-aged and not bad looking.
He was also smart enough not to step into a house where a woman in too tight shorts was holding a pistol. He thanked her and was gone. Alone in the kitchen, Clara stood with the Colt in her hand. For an instant she was tempted to stuff it between her legs and pull the trigger. Then she realized what a mess it would leave to clean up.
Cleaning up reminded her of the man who'd been living in the trailer. She needed a man about the place. If he was really a bad one he'd have ripped her off and been gone by now. He had to be some poor drifter down on his luck. She wondered if he would clean up the yard and cut the grass too. Maybe if she offered to pay him ...
What kind of man was he? Young? Old? Remembering the not unpleasant male smell that had pervaded the tiny space, she knew he was not old. Nor was there an empty bottle or the gamy stink that exudes from a man addicted to cheap wine.
Who cares? she asked herself. All I'm going to do is go out there and ask him if he'd like to stay around another day or two and clean up. But a tiny tendril of worry crossed her mind. What if he was a bad one -- maybe from the honour camp or the funny farm? She couldn't very well go out there waving a pistol and frighten him away like she had the man in the green uniform. And there was no place in her slightly too tight shorts and halter to hide it.
She debated changing to something different. Something more comfortable. Then she knew she was slipping into fantasy again. Suddenly Clara knew how she would conceal the pistol. Didn't those bearded central European assassins who went around shooting arch dukes always use a bouquet? A man down on his luck living alone would not be interested in flowers but she could take him a tray -- a glass of milk and some sandwiches. She got busy.
Ten minutes later she was carrying the tray, pistol under a napkin, threading her way carefully through the tall grass. Should she knock or should she just barge in? It was her trailer; he had no business here. Besides, why warn him? She opened the door and stepped in.
He lay on the bed reading a Playboy. He was naked. He had half a hard-on. From looking at the pictures, she guessed. He looked up and saw her with a tray in her hands, dressed in a halter and too tight shorts.
They stared at each other for what seemed half an eternity. Clara had intended to be brisk and businesslike, feed him, work him, pay him, and send him on his way. She had not counted on catching him naked, with his cock halfway up. He stared. She stared.
He wasn't really a man, she guessed. He might be eighteen, maybe nineteen. Well built, with the beginnings of a moustache and a few ruddy curls on his chest. His body tapered down from broad shoulders to narrow hips. There was a bush of dense red undergrowth whence sprang that male organ that fascinated her. She tried to look him in the face. She couldn't. No matter how she struggled, Clara's eyes were drawn magnetically to the magnificent staff that rose from his pubic forest.
The boy was not circumcised. Heavy veins stood out on the shank of his phallus, their tracery continuing in a network around the taut-stretched foreskin from which peeped the angry purple tip of his glans penis.
It's going to collapse, she knew. He would be startled and embarrassed to be caught admiring the pictures in a girly magazine and his wonderful wand would wilt and then he would hasten into his pants and disappear down the alley with his tail between his legs and she would be here alone with an empty trailer and a lawn to be mowed and an empty cunt and -- What was she thinking!
It wasn't going down at all. If anything his great thumping honker was getting bigger. They stared, still unable to speak, and she suddenly realized how exposed she was in these ancient, too tight shorts and the halter she used only for painting. He was looking at her body, looking her up and down like a piece of meat or a car he might buy. And she stood there staring, unable to move, feeling his young eyes bum her, measure her, feel her, memorize each square inch of skin. Was she measuring up to his young demands? If the hardness of that thing between his legs meant anything ...
She stood mute, tray and pistol forgotten. Slowly, he sat up. Still neither of them had spoken. He got slowly to his feet, moving as if he were in the presence of some potentially dangerous beast. Moving carefully as a lion tamer, he got to his feet. They stood facing each other in the tiny confined space of the trailer.
There was an almost electric crackle to the air and still neither spoke. He was only half an inch taller than Clara. He smelled like a healthy young male animal. Clara felt the nape of her neck tingle. She still held the. tray like a suppliant before some strange god. He looked at her, studying the way those too tight shorts delineated her ass and bit into her thighs. He considered the way her halter stood out, aimed magnificently onward and upward by her braless thirty-nines.
Slowly, his hands reached toward her. If he touches me I'll scream! But he didn't. Instead, he took the tray from her nerveless hands and put it aside on the tiny table. They stood silent, facing one another, Clara feeling as naked as the boy in her shorts and halter. Then suddenly he was touching her.
Strong, muscular arms went around her, drew her and crushed her to his bare chest. She thought he was going to kiss her but instead she felt his hands behind her back, concentrating on the halter knot, fiddling with the waistband of her too-tight shorts.
This isn't happening! I'm dreaming again. Things like this never really happen. But had a dream ever been this vivid? Did she dream in color? She didn't know. But his hair was red. Red all over. Blue veins stood out on his hard, throbbing cock. The tip of his glans penis peeped wet and purple from his tight stretched foreskin. Technicolor! His hands were through behind her.
He pushed her away and her halter fell away. Nervelessly unbelieving, she felt her shorts descend like a collapsing parachute around her ankles. And she hadn't been wearing any panties! The boy looked down at her jugs.
Clara had always been proud of her firm breasts. She would only be thirty-nine for a year but her defiantly upward-pointing knockers had been that way since she had turned fourteen, turning heads in high school, on campus, in the office, on the street. Most women at thirty-nine needed a bra. Clara didn't.
The boy held her at arm's length to look down at the prominent brush of auburn ringlets on her pubic bulge. What he saw must have satisfied him. He pulled her to him again, pressing her lush curves against the hot hardness of youth. Clara thought she was going to faint. She could feel her belly knotting, nerves twisting up just as they had this morning moments before the alarm clock had torn her from a dream of fulfillment -- or fill fullment or whatever she had been dreaming about.
She wondered if he was going to kiss her. Good god, she thought, Here I am a respectable woman -- never even had a lover in all the years Harry and I -- Still they had not spoken. Behind her the tray with milk, sandwiches, and a pistol beneath the napkin lay forgotten. Lay forgotten. Will he lay me and forget me? Will I ever forget him? Will he leave me alive to forget?
She felt him twisting and turning her in the narrow space between kitchen and bed. Then he was pushing her gently backward. She felt the back of her knees touch the edge of the mattress and still he was pushing, pushing her gently backwards and down until she sat, then lay on the bed, her knees still dangling over the edge.
This isn't happening! If it were really happening it would be rape! But could I even call it rape? He didn't force me. I came in here with a pistol and he hasn't even waved a fist at me and here I am with my clothes off, flat on my back and he's going to do whatever he wants with me and -- oh damn it, won't he ever hurry up and do it?
She still lair with her knees off the edge of the bed, filled with that lassitude which had left her unable to move since the electrifying instant when she had thrown open the door and been confronted by the sight of this hard young naked body with its maleness pointing wistfully skyward.
What in hell was he doing down there? He ought to be on top of her by now, ramming that lovely rod deep into her, in and out, in and out in a rising crescendo of ram-slam, go-for-broke, neck-and-neck racing toward the orgasmic sweepstakes. What was he doing?
He ought to have grabbed her by the knees and helped her to slide up all the way on the bed. She couldn't even see him. He must be kneeling down there on the floor. The bed in this trailer was high off the floor to make room for storage and water tanks underneath. A gentleman would give a lady some help. Where the hell was he? Then she felt his hands on her ankles.
Slowly and with surprising gentleness he parted her legs and, sinuous as the serpent who started it all way back there, he was oozing up over the bottom of the bed, slowly and smoothly sliding his shoulders up between her calves, between her knees, between her smooth-skinned, tanned and well-tapered thighs. His face only inches away, he was savoring the smooth perfection of her long straight legs, memorizing her for the long lonely nights to come.
He was hard, hot, strong. She could feel the heat from his face warming her, burning her thighs. Like a branding iron, his ear lay against the soft sensitive skin of one inner thigh. She could feel his warm moist breath stir the crisp curls that covered her quivery vulval lips. It was like the dream that came at least every other night to leave her fluttery and shaken, her crotch moist with the memory of dreamy pleasure. But this couldn't be a dream. No dream had ever stretched out like this. Never had a dream been so deliciously long -- long as the wonderful wand that jutted from his red-haired crotch.
He was kissing her thigh. His lips were hot, his breath hotter. She felt a moment's indignation, He had embraced her. He had undressed her. But he had not kissed her lips. Now he was kissing her soft upper thigh, only inches from home plate. Should show you something about his sense of relative values, she thought wryly.
I'm not a person to him. I'm just a body -- a piece of meat to be used, to be eaten up and digested. She supposed she ought to feel indignation, call him a chauvinist pig but ... but all she wanted was for him to get on with it. After all, she rationalized, that's all he is to me -- a piece of hot hard meat to be used and discarded. I'll let him do it once, then I'll let him think he can do it again after he's cleaned this place out and cut the grass and ... and damn it, why doesn't he hurry up and get down to business?
It was uncomfortable to lie there that way with her feet dangling off the end of the high bed. She got her hands under her ass and began scooting up until she lay comfortably in the middle of the bed, her body sinking into the slight hollow where moments ago he had lain.
The boy scooted with her, still holding his relative position. Her legs were wide apart to accommodate his surprising shoulders. He lay, half pillowing his head on one magnificent thigh while he nuzzled and kissed the other. She wanted to grab him by the ears, pull that red head up between her firm, skyward pointing thirty-nines where it belonged, feel the first hot harness of his throbbing thumper as it sought shelter between her legs. Damn him! Was there ever a boy on this earth who could do something without dawdling and wasting time and daydreaming and pooping about until a woman was ready to go right out of her mind?
Suddenly she wondered if this boy was ... What was the male equivalent of virgin? Somehow it had never seemed right to her to speak of a virgin boy. Then she remembered the surefooted and unhesitating way he had taken the tray from her nerveless hands, had moved toward her with a total lack of concern for the hard-on that revealed what he had been thinking about. Surely no celibate boy could undress a woman with the skilled economy of movement that had her flat on her back within less than a minute. So what was he waiting on? Damn all dawdling men!
She lay naked and waiting, her belly coiling up inside with expectation. And this lazy boy half her age lay pillowing his red head atop her thigh, kissing the soft inner surface of her other thigh. She felt his hand on her knee, raising and flexing her long leg. Was he finally going to get to work and show her what he could do with that purple-headed, blue-veined thing he wore between his legs?
He couldn't unless he scooted up a little higher onto the bed. His hands were busy, caressing her throbbing pussy, spreading wide the lips of her vulva. Abruptly he was into her, not the hot hard part of him she wanted. Instead, the boy was running a warm wet tongue in supple circles around the throbbing hardness of her clit.
Chapter Three
Damn him, damn him, DAMN HIM! It felt good. It felt so good Clara could not bring herself to box his ears and pull him up, and put his face between her tits and make him put his cock in her and do it right. It felt good. But it was not what she wanted-not what she needed. She could dream this bit every night. If she were really feeling low and desperate she could fill the tub with warm water and lie there with a soothing hand in her crotch to pat away the aches, the pains, the frustrations and loneliness. She didn't need a man to do that. But oooohhh, did it ever feel good!
He was running his tongue in great lascivious circles, round and round the tiny marble-hard bulge of her clit, stroking that sensitive organ till she wanted to giggle and whinny. He was running his tongue over it, making her ass lift and thrust to meet him and draw him in deeper. His fingers were caressing her thighs, the smooth firm cheeks of her ass, lovingly counting the follicles on her prominent mons veneris.
And his tongue, oh god damn his wonderful tongue! He was licking her clit, stopping only to make darting forays up the smooth sensitive inner surface of one vulval lip and down the other. Unerringly the tip of his tongue found every itch, scratched every tingle to start a dozen new ones, driving her slowly but surely up the wall until she knew that if she didn't stop this agile tongue from probing her secrets soon, she would drop shrieking wailing and howling as she suffered a spasm and plummeted over the erotic edge of a chasm of orgasm. Oh god damn him, oh Jesus, oooooooohhhhh!
She felt her thighs close convulsively over his ears felt his ears like twin branding irons leave their burning erotic imprint in the hyper sensitized skin of her thighs. Her whole body was on fire, caught up in the toils c emotion deferred. Dimly, she realized that her health; body was extracting its vengeance for the year she had mooned about trying to figure out why old Harry ... To hell with Harry! Harry was gone. But this wonderful boy was here, right now, his head between her legs his gorgeous tongue titillating her to within an inch o sanity, tickling, tantalizing, tempting her to kick, b wiggle, to shriek and yodel her delight.
Momentarily she recalled the glimpse she had caught through binoculars of the couple next door. She wondered if they were still caught up in their own thing or ... it would be funny if they had field glasses too, if they sat idly looking out and wondering if somebody was inside here helping her to make this trailer jump up and down.
Still he licked her, running his tongue in loving circles around her fibrillating clit. Some tiny, still almost sane corner of her mind wondered. Was it normal for a healthy young stud to act this way? Clara had no had a boy since she had been a girl. She couldn't remember too well but mostly she remembered the, were all so frantic, so afraid something would comp along and spoil it or she would change her mind or ... The way she remembered them, young men were so hair triggered they couldn't wait to get it in, to manage two or three rabbit like plunges before dissolving h blurting, squirting embarrassment. Sometimes the second and third or fourth time around they had bees rather good but ... suddenly Clara realized exactly how weird it all was. He had entirely too much self possession for a young man who lived alone and managed a hard-on from the centrefold of that mindless magazine.
He should have swarmed over her like six sailors on shore leave, striving to stab her before his magnificent erection exploded and left him and teasing her, driving her out of her mind with anticipation and desire.
She had a sudden suspicion. Maybe that was exactly what had happened. Maybe in his eager haste he had managed to fire his load in the air and all this was just wallpaper to keep her happy until his youthful weapon could reload and better luck next time.
Then Clara knew she had guessed wrong. At thirty-nine she had survived enough bedroom bouts to recognize the smell of lover's elixir. If the boy had fired his load the air in this tiny trailer would have been redolent with the odd, chlorinated-water smell of fresh semen. Instead there was only the smell of virile male kissing her, licking her, squeezing her ass, caressing her, running loving hands up and down her flanks to cop an occasional feel of her colossal, firmly skyward pointing thirty-nines. The boy had not fired his load. Not yet.
If he had managed it this long without a misfire, Clara guessed the boy was competent to manage his own affairs. How many mature men could do without as long as this lonely boy must have and still manage to lie half atop her, savoring the smooth perfection of her unlined body without exploding?
One thing Clara knew for damn sure: she couldn't. She felt her belly knotting and twisting inside as a year without a man prepared to wreak vengeance upon her. It felt so good and yet it was still not what she really wanted. After a year without a man she wanted what only a man could do. She wanted his honker rammed deep into her, gouging, twisting, turning and churning her insides into a pink froth of passion. But if he kept tormenting her this way she knew it was going to happen. Inside her or not, this lovely boy was going to make her come.
What would happen if she were to grab him firmly by the ears and draw him properly up on top of her, guide his mouth down onto one of her hard, throbbing nipples and guide his splendid, heavy-veined hammer into that part of her where it could do the most good?
She didn't know. Suddenly she was frightened. Since she had burst into the trailer and surprised him naked with his cock at port arms, the boy had not uttered a word. But -- neither had she. Was it natural to act this way? She sighed and tried to still the rising crescendo in her belly. It was the most natural thing in the world, she guessed. Bright and clever people wrote brittle, Noel Coward-style dialogue about it, but then she knew which side of the bed the late Mr. Coward had gotten out of. For people with normal appetites -- for men who liked women and for women who liked firm young men, this must be the most natural thing in the world: no talk, just action.
But did it have to be this kind of action? It felt good. Oh God, did it ever feel good! But, she reflected, it was like a Chinese dinner. It felt good but there was not the satisfaction that came from a solid piece of meat and two potatoes banging against her ass. An hour from now and she knew she was going to be hungry again.
But that would be an hour from now. Right now she had a boy's tongue up her cunt. He was making little detours from her clit now, nibbling on her ass, licking the soft sensitive strip of skin between cunt and asshole, driving her right up the wall with his pitiless titillation. Each time he returned to the warmth at her pussy his agile tongue drove deep into her vagina, giving her a delicious little portent of what it would be like when he got his gun in there. If he ever did. Damn him, what was he waiting on?
She wondered if 'this boy was sophisticated enough to realize what he was doing to her. She had done it often enough back before she had settled down to twelve years of dullness with Harry. She remembered the merciless way she had tormented her young men, forcing them into positive agonies of ejaculation before she would relent and permit their reviving rods inside her. She had always said it was because they were too hair trigger to be worthwhile the first time. But that had not been the strict truth. To herself she could admit that it had been for the sheer fun of it, for the joy of watching a man suffer. And now, if she didn't watch herself, this young bastard was going to watch her suffer.
Who was he? Where did he come from? What was he doing in her trailer? Was he on the run from the road camp? Or was he from the funny farm? Damn old Harry! Why wasn't she in town in a nice comfortable condo instead of out here in the boondocks at the mercy of some stiff cocked stud who stood a good chance of being a psycho?
If he didn't stop this licking and kissing and sucking soon she knew she was going to scream. She was going to go crawling right up the erotic walls of this little bedroom-on-wheels, going to shock her nude and fun loving neighbours right out of their free-wheeling minds when she got to her feet and snatched that Colt out from under the napkin and they were treated to the sight of a naked boy stampeding through the weeds chased by a naked woman with a pistol which would be bobbing up and down as vigorously as her unconfined thirty-nines.
The mere thought brought a faint smile to her and saved her from imminent disaster. The boy had his mouth deep into cunt country and seemed to be rising toward some sort of an oral climax -- whatever that might be. To Clara it was only a tongue deep into her, twisting and turning as no man's meat could ever turn, poking and probing unexpectedly in delightful new directions and it felt so good and oh, god damn this wonderful boy! Would he never put it in?
She could feel her empty vagina contract, struggling to give a loving squeeze to a cock that wasn't there. The boy's tongue was exciting her, driving her half batty, but it could never satisfy her. Her whole body yearned, had been yearning for nearly a year for something hot, hard, and male sliding in and out, in and out, filling her with the joy that passeth all understanding.
This damned boy was just like her dreams. Hot and fast, empty calories. When this was over she was going to be riddled and exhausted -- wrung out. But unless she could get this little monster to ram his big monster into her she was going to be just as frustrated, just as emptily grumpy as she always was when she awoke hot and sweaty, cunt brimming with the juice that rises from the well of loneliness.
He was tonguing her deeper now, harder and faster. His hands were in incessant motion, exploring every contour of her ass, caressing her thighs, memorizing the swell of hip and flank, running in warm friendly circles round and round the rising mounds of her twin searchlights, stopping only long enough to twiddle her tiny nulliparous nipples into rockhard erection before returning once more to tickle her ass.
Her insides were turning to jello. She hadn't exploded in a king sized screaming and wailing orgasm but her cunt was so brimming with love's elixir that she wondered how the boy could continue his incessant muff-diving without drowning. Another tiny anticipatory quiver passed through her belly like a carnal earthquake, a precursor of the storm to come if only the son of a bitch would just stick it in her and start pumping.
And then suddenly he wasn't even licking her. God damn him! He's gone-and let himself get too excited and he's come all over the floor instead of inside me where it could do some good! The little bastard! I'll make him pay for that -- won't I just ever! Just wait till he wants to put it in and I cross my legs and say "No. Not until you clean up in here and cut the grass."
She closed her eyes, the better to visualize all the ways she was going to torment this errant stud, make him pay for the way he was tormenting her. The nerve of him! He couldn't be over eighteen. Maybe only fifteen. His beard was just getting well started. And here he was trying to dictate sexual terms to her -- to a woman in the prime of life -- only thirty-nine, with a bust to match, and the kind of experience that would put this novice to shame. The nerve of him!
I'll make him go take a shower and I'll find the dullest goddam razor blade and make him shave and then I'll make him give me a bath and paint my toenails and kiss and lick me all over until he's out of his mind and still I won't let him get it into me. I'm going to dance for him -- belly dance and drive him wild and every time he grabs I'll be just out of reach and I'll be so smooth and seductive his thing will swell and throb and his eyes will get big and he'll look at me and suddenly he'll be spurting and squirting all over the place and he'll be ashamed and he'll run into the bathroom ant then I'll come in and be kind to him and comfort him and then his thing'll start to come up again and I'll bi kind and motherly and he'll think this time I'm going to let him put it in and his thing will get just as big ant hard as the first time and he's so young and so inexperienced that he'll be gritting his teeth and even, muscle straining to keep himself from another accident and --
And none of it was true, she abruptly realized. Shi was the older woman, the one with the experience. Shi ought to be-teaching him, guiding him, initiating him u the arts of love. Instead, she had lain passive, let him kiss and lick her into sloppy insanity.
What was the son of a bitch up to now? She strainer to raise her head and see him. He wasn't licking he any more. His head wasn't even between her legs. Suddenly something rough and scratchy was in there pushing, blotting.
Abruptly she realized what was happening. Her inexperienced, na�f boy had taken over complete control, had made her come with happy little mini-orgasm so many times she couldn't remember. He had done none of the things an eager and blundering boy was supposed to do. His cock was still rock hard. He was still fully loaded. He was using her, tormenting her, titillating and tickling her, doing all the things she was supposed to do to him. The next thing she knew hi would be dancing, forcing her into still another orgasm from the mere sight of his hard young body, his blue veined tool swaying gently in time to ...
Why was she daydreaming like this? Had a yea without a man driven her round the bend? What the hell was he doing to her? Abruptly her soaring imagination came back to earth and she understood the significance of the thing between her legs. He had captured her shorts and wadded them up. He was wiping and blotting the juices of joy from her cunt, letting her know that he knew what his licking and kissing had done to her -- that he had made her come explosively, joyously, repeatedly, while his hammer was still pristine, his hard-on undamaged.
God damn him! What was he going to do now? Make her beg for it? Then she understood. He was wiping her dry so he could get his face in there again and lick her some more. If that was the only thing that turned him on she guessed -- knew she would have to endure it. Already just the thought of his agile tongue in there again was enough to turn her will to water. He was sliding, scooting back up onto the bed now. Then abruptly she realized he was sliding higher this time. His silent, expressionless face hovered over hers. She felt the heat radiating from his cock, warming her seething crotch, threatening to coax still another flutter from her. Then she felt the tip of his tool actually start to push its way past the lips of her vulva. He was finally going to put it in!
Chapter Four
Clara gasped. For a moment everything blurred and whirled and she thought she was going to faint. Then slowly the trailer stopped spinning and she could feel her firm ass solidly planted on the mattress again, the hard bodied boy poised spider like above her, supporting his weight on his knees and elbows as his throbbing thumper moved slowly, slowly as an hour hand toward her waiting pussy.
She was trembling, her whole belly twisting and contracting in joyous anticipation at the memory of what it used to be like to wrap herself around hard male meat, squeeze it, milk it, pull the swelling from it and leave its owner unmanned and gasping.
My god, was she ever turned on! He didn't even have it in yet and already she could feel her body gathering forces, preparing to explode. She wondered if she was showing it. Did the boy know the devastating effect he was having on her? Damn him! Would he ever put it in?
She gritted her teeth and tried not to squirm, struggled not to show how helpless she was beneath the faint contact of his body. He was barely touching her as he hovered, slowly moving the tip of his tool toward her ready receptacle. He was only a kid. Where did he get this kind of self-control? He should be stuffing it into her frantically, lunging and plunging as he struggled to get in at least one good stroke before he expired in blurting, spurting disgrace.
Old Harry, damn him -- he had told her once that men sometimes did mental arithmetic or recited multiplication tables to keep from coming too soon. She wondered if it would work for a woman. Damn! Women weren't supposed to have problems like this. Women were supposed to relax and let it happen, come as many times as they could before their superheated studs fired off that single round and it was all over. But what would this boy think of her if she were to come before he even got it in? What would it look like for her to let go and do all the things she really felt like doing? Now wouldn't she look fine screeching and yodeling and wiggling her ass and wrapping her legs around his hard young waist to pull him in deeper, harder, faster!
I was going to make him clean up and cut the grass and -- What was she going to do? She was going to go right out of her skull if he didn't get with it and stuff that sausage into her. She tried to remember multiplication tables. She got to two times three and was thinking about two balls plus one cock stuffed into one waiting muffin equals -- oh shit!
She was stiff, eyes closed as her whole body tensed with the effort not to come. She sensed him slowly moving closer and then -- finally, at last the hot tip of his tool was actually touching her, touching unerringly at the one spot positively guaranteed to make a love hungry woman go up the wall.
She lay on her back, knees flexed, thighs spread in missionary position while this silent, smiling boy poised over her, the red tuft of his pubic brush just beginning to tickle the hairs of her well-furred crotch. Her labia were gaping, exposing the tender and sensitive inner surfaces, exposing her marble-hard clit. She felt the hot throbbing tip of his tight-stretched foreskin just barely touch her clit. The effect was electric -- as if he were plugging a high voltage probe into her seething belly.
She clenched her teeth, closed her fists and toes and struggled not to let the boy know what this tiny contact was doing to her deprived body. Oh damn him -- won't he ever put it in? She felt the tip of his tool slide smoothly down her secret slit, skidding off the slick wet hardness of her throbbing clitoris to move gently downward toward the entrance to her tunnel of love. He gave a sudden little lunge that drove half an inch into her.
Great rockets of flaming passion shot up her spine, exploded inside her skull, melted her rigidity and turned her will power into peanut butter. She felt her body writhing, twisting, thrusting to meet him as her ass strove mightily to become airborne, to rise from the mattress to engulf that prurient prod he was so parsimoniously feeding her.
The boy -- goddam him -- did not cooperate. Instead of socking it to her like a man, instead of bottoming out with a righteous whambam and whap of flesh against flesh, he still hovered above her, not resting the weight of his hard muscled body upon her. She struggled to contain her disappointment.
It was a losing struggle. Despite all her ass-clenching, teeth-gritting efforts, she had come. Come once already and he barely had half an inch of his reluctant rod inside her! Clara didn't know whether she ought to laugh or cry. It was like all her dreams -- like her worst nightmares too. How many lonely empty nights hadn't she dreamed of a handsome, indefatigable young stud who would appear with a permanent hard-on, and preferably without any distracting small talk.
There were times, she supposed, when a woman wanted a handsome and witty man who could talk about anything -- who could make her laugh, make her feel like a woman, make her feel appreciated. But there were also times-times late at night in the narrowness of her lonely bed when she wanted not an intelligent conversationalist, but just a male body with a stiff prick: preferably a handsome, young, hard muscled male body and, given any choice in the matter, one that came with a permanently rigid ramrod that could be used as impersonally as a piece of broom handle.
And here she had it, the answer to all her lonely dreams. So why, Clara wondered, wasn't she happy? A millisecond's mature cogitation gave her the answer to that: because she didn't have it in -- didn't have it moving in and out, in and out, in and out in the gradually accelerating rhythm that could be depended on to build to a joyous crescendo of jiving. She tried to relax.
She had to get things into proportion. The boy had a hard-on. He wanted to screw. He had it part way into her. Sooner or later he was going to wake up to the feel of that wonderful hot meat poultice around hip swelling. Sooner or later he was going to drive it home and pull it out and drive it home again and ...
And when? How long had it been since she had come out here with a tray of lunch and a pistol concealed under the napkin? Everything, she abruptly realized, had been shifted into slow motion. It couldn't have been more than a minute ago. Sixty seconds ago she had come in here fully clothed -- well, shorts and halter anyhow -- with a gun and ready to drive this squatter off her property. And in less than one minute without a single word's being said. he had undressed her, spread her out on her own bed, climbed atop her, and -- and damn him -- won't he ever put it in and get to work?
There was something dreamlike about this. It reminded her of the time when she had been a teenager herself. But she had had her share of boys. They were awkward, blundering and eager as puppies with their frantic need to get it in, to get in at least one or two good licks before they exploded and fired great gouts of goo all over the bed, all over her belly. This boy was too perfect. No teenager could have this kind of self control Abruptly Clara wondered if she was dreaming the whole thing.
But in her dreams, whenever she came, the gut wrenching agony of orgasm was often even stronger than the real thing. Whenever she dreamed off she would awake drenched in sweat, tangled in the sheet: and with the slight headachy feeling that a Spaniard had once told her was prerequisite to proper enjoyment of a bullfight.
In her dreams, most important, she always woke up alone. She had come. Her cunt was sopping. And still, this dreamlike idealization -- this lovely boy with a permanent-press cock was hovering over her, the tip of his tool barely parting the lips of her vulva as he took his own sweet time getting down to business.
Still, it had to be real. She remembered how she had dreamed off that morning, come in her sleep and made a mess of the bed. Then she had seen the couple next door getting it on. Then she had come out here to chase this ...
Still he hovered over her, still wearing that bodhisatva half smile like some inscrutable oriental god. She could feel the warmth of his body. She could feel the wisps of ruddy hair on his chest tickling the nipples of her superb thirty-nines, driving her daffy as her nipples sensitized and hardened until they were as still as two miniature cocks.
She could feel the tip of his cock inside her -- just barely inside. And then finally she could feel him moving again. Slow as an hour hand, his tool was pushing into her, parting the auburn-haired lips of her vulva, spreading her cunt as he penetrated the warm and secret places of her being. She could feel the hot throbbing tip of his tool slide from its tight-stretched foreskin as it began the passage up her tunnel of love. And oh damn, did it ever feel good!
It felt so good she knew she was going to come again if she didn't watch it. Watch it! What else could she do? She had a hard bodied boy on top of her. Was she supposed to think about her hairdo or what she was going to do in the office Monday? Maybe men could think about multiplication tables but all Clara could think of was how good it felt to have a cock sliding, into her -- even if he only had it in an inch and was taking forever!
Then gradually she became aware of something else. That superhuman spiderman pose was slowly dissolving as his belly descended to touch the firm roundness of hers. She felt his chest press against the fullness of her firm thirty-nines and then suddenly inscrutability disappeared as the face with the half smile ducked down and those inscrutable lips descended to connect with a throbbing, totally scrutable nipple.
He ran a loving tongue around her pink aureole, darted it to touch her nipple in lightning forays that sent great thrumming waves of lust through her deprived body. Clara gasped, stiffened, struggled to control herself, not to come again before he even had his cock properly in.
He switched to her other tit, gradually relaxing that superhuman poise above her, and kissing and licking her nipples until she felt she was going to scream and yodel with the sheer lustful joy of it all. He finally got his hands down there too, sizing up the firm pectoral cones that could still turn heads on any street. They were turning his head now as he switched rapidly from one to another, sucking, licking, kissing, tickling and tantalizing her tender nipples until she felt a great pink wave of passion surge through her belly again.
She was blushing. Not just her face. Her whole body was glowing pink in the throes of passion: thighs, belly, tits, neck and face burning as hot blood coursed through her. Even her cunt was blushing. She could feel the surge of joy each time he moved from tit to tit, and the slight shifting made his rigid rod move just enough to remind her that he didn't even have it all the way in, that the great throbbing knob on the end of his cock was barely parting her nether lips, stretching them to their fullest. Oh Jesus, did it ever feel good! And it was going to feel better if this dawdling boy ever got off the dime and started doing what he had been engineered for.
She had tried once already to speed him up. It was no use, she realized. This teenager had more timing, more self-control than most old men. She had better accept gratefully whatever gifts chance bestowed upon her. As independent as he was, he just might decide to pull it out and go back to reading a magazine if she were to become too demanding.
It was humiliating, now that she thought about it. She was using somebody else's hard-on. He hadn't even gotten it up for her. It had already been in fighting trim, the purple tip of his tool peeping wetly from a half-peeled foreskin as he lay reading a girlie magazine. And she had walked in just in time to skim the cream -- if that was the proper expression for this kind of situation. She wondered for the first time. She was thirty-nine, with tits to match. She was still built like the proverbial brick pagoda and could pass for ten years younger. Even with her clothes off she looked good, thanks to no babies and no stretch marks.
But for a boy? She remembered how finicky teenagers were, how convinced she had been that by the time a person was twenty-five that person's sex life must consist exclusively of memories. Could she have turned this boy on if she'd walked in and caught him without a hard-on?
To hell with it. Shape up, woman, she told herself. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth or a gift man in the cock. Take it while you can get it and don't go getting bound up in philosophy. He was still kissing her tits, but not with the frantic abandon of a moment ago. Now he was starting to play telephone, with one nipple plugged into an ear while he licked and kissed the other. She wondered if he would ever manage to get it in from such an improbable position.
It felt almost as if it were coming out. She tried not to cry. It was nice to play around -- foreplay, all the sex manuals that came in plain brown wrappers called it. It was lovely to play around for hours with a man who had plenty of power and self-control, who could take his own sweet time getting around to it. But not now -- not when she had been nearly a year without the feel of firm phallus sliding in and out, in and out. Oh, would he ever put it in?
Let him please stick it in, let him pour it to her hot, hard and heavy for just one minute and then she would be willing to spend the rest of the day, the rest of the night, clear up to office time Monday morning, playing long lascivious games with him. He was such a lovely boy.
She wondered how old he was. Eighteen?-Nineteen? It was hard to tell. He was about her height but it was hard to know whether he was through growing. He had a man's build-broad-shouldered and narrow-kipped. The dense red thicket whence sprang his cock was fully manlike. The scant ruddy wisps of hair on his chest were not. He seemed to have only the downiest beginnings of a mustache. She ran a hand over his face while he kissed her tits and verified her suspicion. That cheek had never seen a razor.
But he had a cock. Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph, did he ever have a cock! And quite suddenly he was straightening up, taking his mouth away from her tits. As he put his mouth over hers and began swapping tongues Clara suddenly knew that her long wait was about to end. Surely now he would put it in.
Chapter Five
As his tongue drove deep into her, Clara felt her belly knot up and begin to twist and churn in preparation for still another cataclysmic come fest. The boy had been practically on his side as he played telephone with her tits. The tip of his marvellous wand had nearly come out. Now that he was back properly atop her in missionary position, kneeling between her widespread thighs with her knees flexed to turn her ass up ready to receive him -- now the boy seemed finally to have gotten it through his head what a man was supposed to do in this position.
She felt the knob of his cock, now well slicked with love's elixir, began once more, the long, slow, sensual slide into her throbbing pussy. He was feeding it to her slowly, oh so slowly, but not so icily as that first incomplete thrust. This time she could actually feel him moving. The tip of his cock had penetrated her vulva and was entering her vagina, forcing a rearrangement of her insides this way and that as they moved to make room for this blunt invader.
He was thrusting slowly, carefully. Suddenly she wondered. He was a boy -- so young. Had his only experience been with immature girls? Maybe he was afraid -- maybe with that magnificently king-sized wand of his he had long cocked somebody. He was pushing slowly, steadily, moving at a snail's pace as his rod slid into her come-slicked cunt. But at least he was moving. And it felt so goooood!
His mouth was still over hers and they were still swapping tongues. Slowly but surely he was entering her. She had been waiting so long she could hardly believe it. But her body believed it. Some id-portion of her mind was exulting like the genie at long last free of the bottle. My year's up. I'm going to get fucked! He. going to stick it in me; he's going to pull it out, he's going to stick it in again! Over and over the refrain ran through her mind like some jingle or song one would desperately like to forget. But her whole mind and body were thrumming and harping on one simple central theme. I'm going to fuck, I'm going to get fucked I'm going to fuck, we're going to fuck, fuck, FUCK!
What was wrong with her? She could remember when she couldn't even bring herself to say that earthy word. Not that she hadn't always enjoyed doing it. But did she have to be so vulgar? There were so many nice and elegant words. She could make love. They could have intercourse. They could copulate. They could couple, they could mate. Most of all, they could fuck. Oh Jesus, did it ever feel good to have that hot hard piece of male meat sliding into her, pushing her insides every which way. She could feel her deep vaginal muscles contracting, relaxing, squeezing again as they became accustomed once more after a year-long absence to the wonderful full feeling of a stiff prick deep inside her.
He had it over halfway in now, he was still thrusting slowly, driving it into her with the precision of a surgeon. Was he really afraid he'd hurt her? Hurt her? Hurt Clara? She almost laughed at the thought of six solid inches hurting. How could anything hurt when it felt so good?
What, she wondered, what would happen if she were to wrap her legs around his. waist, grab his ass with both hands and pull herself up onto that magic wand like a glove? Would she frighten him? She doubted it. Nothing, apparently, could frighten this strange silent boy with the incredible self-control.
It just was not natural for a boy of his age to be able to perform like this. Or not perform. He should have been swarming over her, stuffing it in frantically, lunging and plunging to get in as many strokes as possible in the second before he exploded. Suddenly a little tendril of fear shot through her. Honour camp?
No way. He wasn't old enough to be held in a men's prison and there were no juvenile road camps in this part of the state. But there was a funny farm on the other side of town. Could he have escaped? Could he have made his way clear across a crowded seaport city and ended up here on the outskirts of the opposite side of town?
He was still pushing it into her. My God, she realized, it can't have been more than two or three minutes since I came in here with lunch and a pistol. What's happened to my sense of time? It seemed to her that she had been stretched out naked beneath this naked boy for at least as long as the empty miserable year she had spent playing the nun since old Harry, damn him, had bugged out with that other bitch.
But what if he was from the funny farm? That would explain his silence, that secretive smile of some evil oriental god who's privy to the secrets of the universe and has absolute proof that virtue is not its own reward, that evil will always triumph, and that a fuck passed up is a fuck lost forever. It might, she guessed, also serve to explain the unfailing rigidity of his hard-on. How else could a boy keep it up this long unless he was grounded out somewhere between his brain and his prick?
A total lack of imagination just might do it. Men, she had learned to her annoyance, could talk themselves into coming; could think themselves into coming, could take one sidelong glance at her magnificent thirty-nines, could see she neither used nor needed a bra, and those men could come right in their pants. But if this boy was not quite right ... Suddenly she wondered if she was being fucked by an idiot.
But an idiot would not possess that technique. He would poke it to her as uninhibitedly and with as little thought of the future or of prolonging any pleasure as-as some barnyard animal. What was it with this boy?
God, was he ever hung! It was more than halfway in now and she could feel not exactly paip, but a fullness, a tightness that bordered on the delicious edge of discomfort. Oh damn, was it ever nice to feel a hot hard prick sliding into her again after all these months!
She could feel her belly twisting, churning as her insides wound up tighter and tighter like some child's toy with a spring that was being twisted and pulled and strained until suddenly it was going to break and all that tension, all that stored-up energy was going to be released in one magnificent whirrrrrrr!
And he still didn't even have it all the way in on his first stroke! My God, she thought, I haven't been this desperate since ... But she didn't even like to think about that time when she had been fifteen and totally inexperienced. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about the smooth skinned, hard muscled perfection of this stiff pricked stud who was feeding it to her so slowly, so carefully, almost as if he were giving his all in one single endlessly prolonged stroke.
Now wouldn't that be something! It would be about her luck, Clara guessed, after a year of doing without. But golly jesus, she'd already come more times than she could remember. She'd better not worry about the future. Relax, woman, take it, enjoy it, savour it and if there's more ...
His red pubic tuft was blended now, grinding into the auburn ringlets of her mons veneris. He had it nearly all the way in. And wow, did it ever feel good! He had not hesitated for one instant since he had straightened up from playing telephone and begun dedicating himself to what comes naturally. Another inch and he would bottom out.
She waited, trying not to think too hard about the lovely smooth firmness of his body. She wondered if he was enjoying her body as much as she was turned on by him. He seemed to be breathing ever so slightly faster than when they had started, but apart from that there was no sign of uncontrollable passion in that serenely smiling face.
Suddenly she knew what that face reminded her of. An oriental god -- yes. But from the near east and not the far east. The smile was not of a buddha or a bodhisatva. It was the smile on a kouros from the pre-classical period, before the Greeks knew they were westerners and precursors of rationalism. It was the smile on some oriental god all right -- out of pre-Grecian Smyrna, a god from the days when Diana still had tits all up and down the front of her body like a bitch with pups.
It was also, Clara suddenly realized, the smile that dated from the days before the Christians had come along and invented sin -- a smile from an era when men had yet to discover that there was anything wrong or unnatural about fucking. She opened her eyes and tried to focus on his face. He was too close for her to see more than a blur. "Can you speak English?" she asked in sudden desperate inspiration. It was the first time she had spoken since she came in here with lunch and a pistol and he had calmly undressed her.
The boy's smile remained unchanged. But finally his cock was in her, in deep, in all the way. The smile became slightly broader. After a long pregnant moment the boy said, "Aaaaahhhhl" And then he began pulling it out.
When he bottomed out and his pelvis ground momentarily against hers the pleasure was suddenly so exquisitely intense that Clara gave a little involuntary gasp. Immediately the boy froze.
Suddenly she knew he was no idiot. He might be from the funny farm. She remembered jokes about people who were willing to admit that they were crazy, but not stupid. But this boy, she knew now with the certainty of intuition, was not stupid or uncaring. He had fed it to her slowly on the first stroke as if he were afraid to hurt her. Even now, bottomed out, he was still afraid. She wondered if he had had any experience with mature, full-grown and full-cunted women. Maybe he'd only fooled around with girls. ...
She had him deep inside her now. He had been kissing up a storm on her tits. Surely a boy who cared, who worried about hurting her, would not go pulling out now. She straightened her legs, flung her shapely calves skyward, and wrapped them round his waist in a loving, lascivious scissors. She grabbed his ass with both hands and pulled him into her hot, deep, hard.
"Aaaaahhhh!" the boy exploded. And suddenly he was galloping, pouring his cock to her with the rambunctious eagerness of any horny young man struggling to get in his licks before he exploded and flooded this lovely fleshy tunnel with gallons of come.
He was ram slamming, rocking and rolling, pouring it to her with all his strength, now that he understood there was no danger of hurting her. He's going to come, Clara told herself. Just like that his self-control is over, ended, and now he's going to fire his load and then it'll be all over and ...
And abruptly the boy stopped, leaving her high and dry on a plateau of pleasure as he rested, not tense and straining, but actually rested, relaxed above her, resting the weight of his pelvis lightly on her belly, his cock comfortably deep inside her but not pushing and straining for that final silly millimeter of penetration. And even now that he had stopped his ram slam thrusting, it felt so good!
It took Clara a moment to realize that in spite of his joyous wham bamming, the boy was still in control. Sensing his approaching climax, this wonderful hard bodied boy had known how to stop long before the danger point. At the moment he was relaxed atop her, just letting his lovely lance soak inside her. And the realization that it was not all over, that this capable boy might go on for hours yet, was suddenly enough to send a delicious little shiver through Clara's belly.
She wondered if the boy felt it, if he sensed the slight extra flow of love's elixir around his hammer. Could he know what he was doing to her?
He had to know. This lovely, 'inexperienced' boy was playing her like a cello, running lovely lascivious chromatic scales up and down her vibrating body, striking every erotic note in the repertoire of her willing flesh. Where had he learned to pleasure a woman this way?
Clara suspected she knew. In the endless dreary years slowly watching Harry turn into an alcoholic she had taken refuge in reading. Not surprisingly, she read about things that interested her: fucking. Civilization and literacy are the enemies of fucking. Or to put it an other way, they are substitutes. The boy who grows up in a village where nobody knows how to read, where the storyteller may appear once a year ... if there are girls in the village he finds a way to pass his time. With no electricity, and kerosene an expensive import, people can find other older pastimes which can be played without lights.
American men, Clara realized, could be super studs too if they were to burn all the books, bomb all the newspapers, destroy all the TVs, and dedicate every moment of their lives not spent working or sleeping to that oldest and greatest of all pastimes. How old was this boy now? How old had he been when he started out with the village girls? How long had he been perfecting his technique?
Suddenly Clara didn't care about the answers to any of these questions. The boy had started thrusting again. This time he was not going for any wham bam, ram slam conclusion. He was feeding her long, slow, steady strokes, driving his cock deep, deep into her, until his red-tufted pelvis ground against hers, then slowly pulling out so far she held her breath, afraid it would come out all the way.
But the boy's control was unbelievable. Each time the tip of his magic wand was barely parting the full flushed lips of her vulva he stopped at the exact moment, hesitated a heart-stopping moment, then drove it back half an inch in a feint, and then pulled in and out a couple of times, forcing the thick knobby head of his cock back and forth past the most sensitive portions of her thrumming cunt before once more beginning his long slow drive up the tunnel of love. Oh, Jesus, did it ever feel gooood!
He was driving slow, steady strokes into her, seemingly as indefatigable as a steam engine -- as one of those oil rigs that always took her mind off the traffic when she drove up the California coast. That same steady up and down, in and out, was not just making her daydream on the freeway. This was a live human male and he had it in her and he was pumping and pumping and it felt so good and his cock was so hard and yet so wonderfully throbbing, thumping and alive with hot maleness and he was pushing and bottoming out, driving it deep, deep into her with each stroke and then coming out to hover delightfully over the lips of her pussy until she wanted to giggle and squeal and pull him down and then just when she knew she couldn't stand it another second he was finally driving his drill rod deep into her, pumping away slowly, steadily, tirelessly as one of those damned oil rigs along the coast, and there he went putting it in again and again and it felt so good and there he was pouring it to her still again and again and she had lost all count of. time but it seemed like she had been here forever and she hoped she could stay here for two and a half more forevers and there he went ramming it into her again just like an oil rig and ooooohhhhhhh, there it went again. Suddenly Clara knew this wonderful hard bodied boy was going to strike oil.
Chapter Six
When Clara had been younger she had a little brother who was freaked on model airplanes. Clara was a loving sister who did not regard her kid brother as the sort of pest which such organisms often are. She bought him toys, mostly model airplane kits, and often helped him play with them. She never told him though about the secret thoughts that came to her every time they spent five minutes twisting a propeller, winding up a rubber band, putting more and more tension into that elastic instrument until it approached the breaking point.
Nor did she ever tell her little brother how, when that little stick and paper airplane was released, when its propeller let go all that tension with one long, magnificent whirrrrr that sent the little airplane soaring above the treetops --
How could she ever have explained such feelings to anyone else when she didn't clearly understand them herself? For years her mind had hovered around the edges of this analogy like some bloodhound who knew there was a trail but couldn't quite find it. Now, with this lovely hard bodied boy with the kouros smile and the permanent-press cock she knew her instincts had been right. He had been winding her up ever since she had come barging into the trailer with a tray and a pistol.
Occasionally his finger, or perhaps it was her finger -- once in a while something slipped and that propeller inside her belly would whirr deliciously for a second or two and some of the tension would be gone but always somehow this master cocksman would recapture the propeller before her rubber bands were completely run down. Each time he would begin slowly winding up her motor again until she was stretched aver tighter, her belly knotted and straining with the effort to come, not to come, to come ... She didn't know what she wanted.
Except for one thing. She wanted this to go on forever. The boy was pouring it to her indefatigably, steady as a pile driver, hesitating at the pull-out to feint deliciously two or three times before going in deep, deep, to drive her past the edge of delirium. She could feel his marvellously young, hard muscled body driving her slowly but steadily toward the edge of a chasm -- a chasm of orgasm where sooner or later he would push her over the edge and she would go falling, spinning, whirling, soaring and sinking into erotic satiation. Oh Jesus, did it ever feel good to have this lovely boy pouring it to her after all those long empty nights and days. Had it been a whole year since she had last had a cock inside her?
It had. Worse than that, she had not had a really good and satisfying fuck for months before old Harry had finally bugged off with another bitch-damn! She was going to have to learn not to put it that way.
To hell with Harry! Even when they had been first married, twelve years ago when he had been a handsome young stud with all his hair and no problem with the bottle, Harry had never been ten percent of the stud that hovered over her now, pushing it in and out, in and out, driving her slowly toward an erotic crescendo of fleshy delight.
Relax. Accept. Enjoy. But the human mind being the perverse and self destructive instrument that it is, Clara found her attention wandering again. Could it be for real? This boy was just too perfect, too much the embodiment of every lonely and deprived dream she had suffered during the long empty nights on her narrow bed. I've got to be dreaming again, she decided. Soon I'll wake up wiggling and squirming, with my viscera all knotted in frustrated passion and then I'll go take a cold shower and promise myself it won't happen again and then I'll go to sleep and I'll start dreaming again and oh Jesus, here it comes!
It feels so good the way he keeps sliding it in and out I just know I'm going to come and then I'll wake up and it'll be all over and I'll be all alone again and OOOOOHHHH!
Suddenly great erotic rockets of delight were coursing round her belly, bursting off in wild caroms to ricochet up her spine and blow her mind. She felt her cunt contracting and relaxing, squeezing and milking at the boy's plunging cock in a perfect frenzy of lascivious delight. Her insides were twisting, churning, moving this way and that as they made room for the hard headed invader, caressing him, squeezing him, milking him with the smooth contractile muscles of her deep vagina.
The boy's rhythm did not change. Clara's ass was bobbing frantically as she rose to meet his thrust, then she was two-timing, ramming her ass up twice for each of his slow, steady plunges. The boy still wore that superhuman smile, still poured it to her with the tireless tenacity of some superhuman machine.
She felt those rubber bands inside her belly whir and unwind as somewhere deep in her cunt a tiny propeller spun and her whole body thrummed in unison. For a tiny moment it felt as if the boy had somehow managed to stuff a tiny erotic eggbeater up her r ass. But most of all, it felt so goooood!
And still the boy was pumping tirelessly, his rhythm unchanged. How long could it go on, she wondered. In her thirty-nine years Clara could not remember once ever being actually fucked-out.
Oh, there had been a few times when she had been pretty happy, fairly well satisfied. But not once in her drab and wretched life could she remember ever having had so much cock that she didn't want more. Not once had a man ever worn her down. She wondered if there was a first time for everything.
This boy was unbelievable. She had come copiously and voluminously. Her cunt was sopping and still the boy plunged his tireless tool deep into her with an unchanging rhythm.
Really, they ought to get up and go shower or something but ... But it felt too good to stop now. The boy's smile never changed as he reached out and captured her halter where he had tossed it moments ago. He got it between their straining asses and wiped away the juices of joy -- without once missing a stroke.
She felt so goooood! She had finally managed to come -- really come, and not just those sputtery little mini-orgasms that were precursors to the real thing. She knew it spoiled her in a way, relaxed her and made every muscle loosen up -- made her pussy flaccid with satiation. Did the boy notice?
If he did, apparently he didn't care, for he still wore the same kouros smile, still poured it to her with the same steady waltz beat: in deep, out, two quick jabs, and back in deep again. To Clara's intense surprise she felt herself winding up again, all those rubber bands inside her twisting and tightening in preparation for still another erotic cataclysm.
This time it was happening quicker. It was as if, once she had gotten back into the habit, everything went faster, smoother, almost backward from the way it should have been. She caught herself wishing she had worn a watch. How long had it been since she had burst into this tiny trailer with a tray and a pistol?
Reason told her it couldn't have been more than five or ten minutes. The boy had not wasted a minute in preliminaries. He had stood up and undressed her the instant she walked in. And she, lucky fool that she was, had stood there nervelessly and let him do it. She knew that if he had taken out a butcher knife and started to dismember her she would still have stared at him, unmoving, with the same fascination for his lovely hard young body and his rigid ramrod.
And here he was still pouring it to her long after most boys should have come and withered in gasping deflation. His cock was hard as ever, the thick knob still pulling her vagina in and out with it, puckering her pouting vulval lips inward with each long thrust, threatening to turn her blushing pussy inside out each time he withdrew.
How long could it go on? She could feel her belly gathering forces for another big one. Would the boy ever come? It was lovely to lie here and be fucked by a tireless machine but it would be nice too to know that she could still really turn on a boy, that at thirty-nine she was not too old to make a boy come.
He was unbelievable: smooth skinned, just starting a wisp of a moustache, no bristle at all on his cheeks. Abundant red pubis and a few ringlets on his chest. Apart from that he was all youth, smooth skin and muscle -- and cock! Oh what a cock! She tried to remember what it had looked like when she came into the trailer and caught her first glimpse of him naked on the bed reading a girlie magazine with his hammer in full rampant erection, heavy-veined, uncircumcised, his angry purple cock head peeping wetly from a tight-stretched foreskin. He had been ready for her. Boy, had he ever been ready.
Almost as ready, she realized ruefully, as she had been for him. She wondered at the mysteries of the human psyche, knowing enough of herself to realize she had been building all day for this moment. It was almost as if she had known she was going to get it today. First she had woken up with that recurrent dream. Then she had inadvertently turned her binoculars on the couple next door getting it on in their bedroom. And then she had come traipsing out here in shorts and halter and -- like a sacrificial lamb she had stood while he undressed her and worked his will.
She wondered if perhaps her subconscious had been giving her clues. Had she known with some part of her mind already that some man had holed up out here in the trailer? Holed up! Well, she decided ruefully, he'd certainly done that. And even now while she dawdled and daydreamed and mentally masturbated in futile Freudianism he was up her hole firmly, steadily, repeatedly, stuffing her full of cock, leaving her replete with the joy that passeth all understanding.
So why couldn't she keep her mind on her fucking? In the moment that she had lapsed into analyzing, all those rubber bands in her belly had somehow slowly unwound. Now she was relaxed again. Not that it seemed to make any difference to the pile driver who poised above her, pouring it to her with that steady one-two waltz beat.
Now that she was not on the verge of coming she could relax and savor the full joy of a tireless cock sliding in and out of her. Jesus! She remembered when her dainty-lady attitudes would not let her even think vulgarities like that. But what other words were there for the joys of fucking? Jesus, but that boy's lovely hard cock felt goooood!
It felt so good that suddenly she was back up on that plateau of pleasure again, rising, soaring once more toward a rubber-band-powered flight. He was still pouring it to her with the same tireless rhythm that reminded her of some kind of machine, an oil pump, a piledriver, something or other that pushed and prodded endlessly, tirelessly hour after hour. But how could any machine ever feel that good?
She caught herself wondering about electric vibrators. Clara had never owned one, even though lately they seemed to be for sale in every drugstore-or by parcel post in plain brown wrappers. She wondered ... maybe she ought to have one around the house to take up the slack on those long empty nights when this boy would not be here. But could anything made out of rubber, no matter how powerful the battery-could anything ever erase the memory of this wonderful cock sliding in and out as steadily as a metronome?
Since that first brief flurry the boy had not once changed the pace of his prodding. He was still feeding her that steady waltz beat no faster, no slower than when he had started a minute or an hour ago, whichever it was. Clara didn't know. It seemed to her that she had been here hours being pleasured by this tireless boy but reason told her it couldn't be more than fifteen minute -- a half hour? An hour maybe? Jesus, it felt so good she had lost all track of time.
Another delicious tremor passed through her bowels as a mini-orgasm peeled a little fluttery whir and released the tension on those mythical rubber bands a couple of turns. And then his unbroken rhythm was winding her up again. Soon, she knew, she would explode with another big one. How long could she keen it up before she became so come-raddled and soppy that his tool started falling out? Jesus, what a humiliation that would be!
She prayed she could outlast this tireless boy. Please, don't make me come too many times before he does. Even if it has to end now, let him come once just to let me know he's human. Oh God but he's lovely. He's too good to be true. I'd pinch myself if I had the strength but it feels so good I can't even get my legs around him anymore.
She could feel her nipples, still rock hard and sensitized by the rubbing of his hard muscled chest. Her clit was even harder, titillated each time he feinted with that short prod before driving back deep into her seething pussy. She was so turned-on that even the pressure of his crisp red pubic hair . was enough to make her clitoris flutter and tremble and make her want to wail, to moan and yodel her unbounded joy.
If only she could just stop being intellectual. Enjoy, she told herself. Don't analyze. If she'd been just a little more tolerant, a trifle less ready to pick everything apart ... She wondered why old Harry had gone and bugged off with another woman no younger, no better looking than she was? It didn't make any difference that she had been getting ready to leave him. The son of a bitch had gone and done it to her first. Damn him!
And damn her! Why couldn't she just concentrate on this lovely hard bodied boy with the hard cock that was still waltzing in and out of her with that metonymic one-two beat? Jesus, he was lovely! His cock was hard. Wouldn't he ever get tired of pouring it to her? She didn't know whether she wanted him to stop or not. It would be humiliating for her to get so satiated, so fucked-out that she went all loose and sloppy and his cock started falling out. But it felt so nice just to lie here and feel that firm phallus sliding in and out.
Then abruptly she sensed a subtle change in his rhythm. At first she could not imagine what it was-or if she was imagining it. She tried to concentrate and pay attention to her fucking. Finally she was convinced. He was moving a little faster, pushing just a tiny bit harder. And then suddenly he was no longer waltzing with that one-two feint in between his thrusts. Now it was tango rhythm, deep, hard, steady, pounding at her pussy like every boot in the Red Army Chorus.
Chapter Seven
Clara was amazed at her body's resilience. A moment ago she had thought she was finished for the day, exhausted, satiated, fucked-out. Now the boy was pounding away like some berserk riveter, pouring his all to her with frantic ram slamming, no longer timing himself or using any finesse. And suddenly she was tight again, every muscle in her lovely, round, smooth skinned belly tightening around the tip of his bobbing cock, doing her best to pull him in deeper, harder, faster.
She could feel herself losing control. My God, were those her feet way up there in the air? Were those her legs waving around? She'd be floating through the roof if he wasn't on top holding her down. But oh, what a nice job he was doing of holding her down, pinning her down, nailing her to the mattress with his bobbing spike.
She felt herself rising, floating, as if her whole body were actually levitating under the erotic assault of his unbelievable cock. Somewhere somebody was keening a shrill, high pitched moan of joy and then she realized she was the one who was doing it. The boy was pounding, gasping. "Aaaaahh!" he panted and drove it deeper into her than she had imagined possible. Deep, deep up inside the upper reaches of her secret parts, where vagina and womb come together she felt the sudden spurting like a stuttering fire hose as his healthy young body finally discharged its load, squirting gallons of joyous goo up into her, flushing her with love's elixir and filling her thrumming belly with the lotion of love.
"Aaaaaahhh!" he repeated.
Thank God he's not a conversationalist, Clara decided with one tiny, still sane corner of her mind. Her body had finally unwound with another big one, timed with the boy's explosion, and now they were both spent and empty, satiated, fucked-out. She wondered if he was as happy as she was. She wanted to move out from under his inert body but it felt so good just to lie still and do nothing. ...
When she awoke the boy was eating the lunch she had brought on the tray. The pistol was still on the tray beside the sandwiches she had fixed. The boy glanced at her, saw her consternation, glanced at the pistol, and grinned. He picked it up.
Clara nearly died before she realized what he was doing. Holding it by the barrel, the boy handed it to her. They smiled at each other again.
Suddenly she wondered why he had not paid attention to her note. She had left a note in here telling him to clean things up and be on his way. Then she understood. "You don't speak English, do you?"
The boy smiled and nodded. "You do speak English?" Still smiling, he shook his head.
Embarrassed, Clara took the pistol and put it behind her. She was a mess. She needed a shower, a douche, everything. It would take hours to get her hair back in shape. But this damned trailer had been parked out here for a year. There was no water in the tanks. She couldn't use the bath or toilet.
She remembered that she had come out here to clean it up. Instead, she needed cleaning up. She wondered ... the neighbours didn't seem to be the prying kind. But what would happen if somebody were to see her come out all dishevelled and a moment later the cause of her dishevelment came out in all his hard bodied glory? It was hard enough for a woman alone to live without something like that which would give her a reputation as fair game and have every bleary eyed boozer in this end of town hanging out waiting for a chance to fuck good old Clara.
She found her shorts and got into them. Come was streaming from her crotch but if she was careful and if she didn't meet anybody on the way to the house she could make it without disgrace. She found her halter-soaked with the juices of joy fulfilled when the boy had wiped her cunt. She decided it would not be visible from a hundred yards. After all, it was only an old halter she used for painting. But her hair!
Then she saw the solution to that problem too. The boy was wiping his mouth with the napkin she had used to hide the gun. She got it when he was finished and wrapped it round her head. What was she going to do with this boy?
"Can't you understand me at all?" she asked.
The boy smiled and nodded.
"You're a deserter from the Chinese army?"
The boy smiled and nodded again.
"And your mother eats shit?" she asked with a smile.
Once more the boy smiled and nodded. So now what was she going to do? At least it explained why he had not obeyed her instructions in the note she left. She wondered what he would do now. Would he pack up and move on now that he had been discovered? Or would he decide to settle in as resident stud? She didn't know which would be worse.
Who was he anyway? Probably he was a deserter from some Levantine freighter. She wondered if he spoke Arabic or Cypriot or Maltese, or Greek or ...? Smiling again, she pointed at herself and said, "Clara." She repeated it several times. Finally the boy's face lit in understanding. Pointing to himself he said. "Att."
Now what language was that? Clara had no idea. She sighed and finally realized that somehow they would have to communicate without words. She opened the closet and pointed at the faded Levis and shirt. Finally he understood that he was to dress. Then she managed to get it across to him that he was to step outside even if it was broad daylight. They stood in the overgrown back yard beside the trailer and she studied the neighboring houses from the corner of her eye. Nobody seemed to be watching. She led the boy to the lawnmower, then realized he might never have seen one before. She showed him how to work it and gave the grassy back yard an all-inclusive wave. Then she realized he could never make it with the lawn mower.
What the hell? If he'd wanted to kill her he'd had the pistol. She led him to the garage and gave him a scythe. This time the boy had a tool he understood and knew how to use. He was demolishing the tall grass when she went into the house and pulled off her sticky, come-smeared shorts and halter and stepped into the shower.
Now that it was over she felt -- dirty. She douched the come from her satiated cunt. She refilled the plastic bag and flushed her cunt again and again, trying to remove the last trace of that wonderfully firm bodied boy. What on earth had gotten into her to let herself go like that? My God, she was a respectable married woman -- had been at least until that louse of a Harry had run off with another woman.
She was thirty-nine, with tits to match. She could still turn men's heads on the street. What was she doing fooling around with stray boys? God! She felt dirty!
And that boy -- damn him even more than she damned Harry! She had come in there like a Christian woman to give him something to eat before she sent him on his way. What business did a boy like that have in just undressing her without so much as a by-your-leave? He hadn't even asked whether she wanted to -- just pulled her clothes off and pushed her down and poured it to her like she was some --
Like she was exactly what she was, Clara ruefully realized: a woman with a fire between her legs that only a man's hose could put out. Where did she get off with all this holier-than-thou crap? It had been stupid of her to go out there like that. He could have been a criminal maniac. She had been lucky to get off with her life and her ass in one unsliced piece. She couldn't go blaming the boy.
But still, it had been stupid. She couldn't let it happen again or the first thing she knew he would be hanging around like some permanent fixture and the next thing she knew she'd be in trouble with the police, the immigration authorities, perhaps even the Holy Office for all she knew.
She towelled off and stepped from the shower, amazed at her woman's vanity which even now at this moment of self-disgust would not let her pass a mirror without inventorying her thirty-nine-year-old body with its firm, upstanding thirty-nines, her small waist, her smooth, gently rounded belly and long tapered legs, her prominent mons veneris furred the same natural auburn as her long straight hair. She was, and she knew it wasn't bragging, something to look at. Didn't strange men prove it to her on the street every day?
But now was not the time for that. She stretched and peeped from the tiny bathroom window. Surely the boy would have abandoned the scythe and disappeared for easier pickings by now. But when she looked outside there he was in the backyard assaulting weeds with the steady stroke of a boy who had obviously handled a scythe before. Somewhere in Asia Minor, she would guess. What other parts of the world could produce that wonderful golden skinned body with red hair and pubic patch? She wondered if he was a Turk.
Thinking about him she felt a tiny thrill of anticipation race through her body. My God, you ought to be ashamed, she told herself. She went to her bedroom and looked through the closet. She had another pair of shorts and a halter even more provocatively revealing. She vetoed this arrangement, with a little pang and made herself get into a long-sleeved, high-necked blouse and an old pair of loose, floppy slacks. If that didn't send him on his way, nothing would.
Suddenly she remembered. Damn! She had gone and left the pistol in the trailer! Even if he was not the kind of boy to kill the thing he loved, he would undoubtedly love a pistol even more than a woman. She had to get out there and get it back before the boy decided to evaporate.
When she ploughed through the weed-infested backyard the boy looked up from his mowing and smiled. He had already cut a respectable swath of weeds. She remembered that she had intended to clean up the trailer this morning. She went back out to it, trying not to think about how the shirtless boy's golden body glistened in the sun as muscles rippled with each stroke of the scythe.
She got the pistol and then had to figure out how to carry it inconspicuously back to the house lest the neighbours draw all kinds of possibly too accurate conclusions. She stripped the bedding, rolled it into a ball, stuffed the automatic in, looked in the closet and realized that with an automatic washer it would cost her nothing to throw the boy's few dirty clothes in too. She lugged the bundle back to the house and put it to wash. If only she could stop thinking about the lovely way his body glowed and glistened with each movement in the sunlight. ...
She went back to the trailer with a bucket of soapy water and sponge and began scrubbing down the walls, struggling to eradicate the smell of love's fulfilment and the not unpleasant mate smell of the boy's prolonged residence. An hour passed and she was hot and sweaty and cranky, and damn it, couldn't she ever stop thinking about that lovely boy?
Damn him! She had given him every opportunity to put down that scythe and walk away. Why was he hanging around working? Then abruptly she realized she had all his clothes except the faded Levis he wore. She gave the trailer a finishing lick and a promise, decided it was clean enough to offer for sale, and went back to the house. The washer had stopped. She stuffed things into the dryer. The boy was still mowing weeds. He had the yard nearly finished.
It was amazing. Clara had done enough yard work to know just how hard it was. And she had paid enough useless teenagers in her time to know how slowly they worked and how totally useless most of them were. No wonder this boy was hard bodied. Any boy who could work that hard and that steadily ... she was tempted to call him into the house and give him something more to eat and something cool to drink, but ...
But she remembered what had happened the last time the two of them were alone together. She didn't want it to happen again-did she? Most assuredly, she did not. She had put on a long-sleeved, high necked blouse just to prevent any nonsense. She had on an ancient pair of faded slacks she had not worn since she had gone on a crash diet five years ago and taken off fifteen pounds.
She checked the trailer again, telling herself that she might have overlooked something, that she was not parading through the back yard again just for another close look at the glistening boy's rippling muscles. He glanced up from his scything and gave her a cheerful smile. She felt something inside her start to melt. Hurriedly, she pushed past him and into the trailer.
It was clean and ready to sell. She stood in the center of the tiny floor space, looking down on the bed where the boy had just fucked her to within an inch of her life and her sanity. God, she thought, what have I done?
She knew what she was now. She was the kind of hot-pantsed female that all those barroom jokes were told about. Jesus! It had happened to her! And it had all started so innocently. All she intended to do was go in here and tell him to clean up his mess and get the hell off her property and --
And it hadn't been like that at all, she realized. She remembered a medieval prayer: May the lord protect thee from the wolf, and from thy heart's desire. She had gotten her heart's desire. Her cunt's desire. It had been lovely -- so lovely she still trembled at the memory. But now that she had gotten it, what next? She had to get rid of the boy. She couldn't let him hang around. If his cock didn't destroy her the authorities would. What was she going to do?
She sighed. In thirty-nine years she had never been so turned-on by a simple fuck. He had not, she suddenly realized, even gone in for any of the fancy refinements. He had driven her out of her middle-aged skull with pure and simple fucking, driving his dong deep into her until her will power turned to come and dribbled out her ass -- until her will turned to water and her brains to peanut butter. What was she going to do? How was she going to get rid of him?
Could she?
Sighing again, she went back to the house. The boy was nearly finished with his scything. He smiled and nodded as she passed.
Clara went into the house and the dryer had stopped. She pulled out the blankets and folded them. She folded the boy's pitifully small pile of clothes separately and put it beside the door. Then she realized she couldn't just hand him his clothes and send him on his way. He didn't have any money. He had nowhere to go. He would be hungry again after all that work. She would have to feed him first. Then maybe she could give him five dollars and point him toward a road where he would be less likely to run into the immigration men out hunting wetbacks.
She was fiddling around in the kitchen, dithering over what kind of a meal to fix him, when the back door opened. The boy had put the scythe away. He was hot and sweaty. But he was smiling.
Chapter Eight
Staring at him, Clara felt a little thrill start in her crotch. It spread, radiating through her belly, up past her tiny waist, up her midriff, over the marvellous jutting curves of her jaunty jugs, up her throat, until even her ears were tingling. The boy had been out in the sun working hard, sweating. So why was Clara blushing?
They stared at each other across the barrier of language. Once more Clara sensed that the whole thing was getting out of control. Jesus! Whatever had gotten into her the way she kept using that word? Couldn't she think of something more genteel to express her feelings? She could not. The latent eroticism in this encounter was growing. Soon, she knew, in another minute or two, the boy would come over to her, would start undressing her, and sweat and all, he would be pouring it to her right on the kitchen floor. She had to do something soon!
Finally she remembered his bundle of freshly washed clothing. She pointed at it, picked it up, beckoned, and led him to the bath. She wasn't sure whether he would know about shower controls so she showed him the hot and cold faucets and waited till she was sure he understood. Then she left him alone in the bathroom. While the water was running, she sneaked in and captured the sweaty Levis. She gave them a quick rinse and stuffed them into the dryer, reminding herself that she had not once peeped into the shower stall for a final look at that lovely cock.
So you think you should, get a medal? she asked herself derisively. Big deal! What was she going to do when he came out of that shower, his golden, hard muscled young body clean and ready? If she was smart she would barricade herself in her bedroom and lock the door. Where had she left that pistol? She knew she had brought it back to the house. Where? She raced to the bedroom while he was still showering. It was there. She thought a moment, then put it up on the top shelf behind the dusty photograph albums in the closet.
So now what was she planning? She was not, definitely not going to have this boy in her bedroom, no matter how golden, how rippling-muscled, how stiff pricked. But if he were to turn ugly ...
She was playing with fire. She knew it. She had no idea where this boy came from, but she was pretty sure he came from somewhere in the middle east-somewhere in the world where the local brand of machismo made Latin lovers look henpecked. She remembered the capable, no-nonsense way he had looked up from his reading, casually stood up, undressed her, laid her down, and fucked her. This lovely boy just might not be prepared culturally or physically to take no for an answer.
Just thinking of the casual way he had used her, she felt her insides turn to jelly again. Good God! She was a civilized woman-she was an American citizen. What was she standing for this kind of rape for? If she had a brain in her head she'd call the cops or the immigration or whoever it was that took care of sailors who jumped ship. She didn't have to put up with that kind of treatment!
She certainly didn't! She hadn't put up with anything like that for a year now and she knew perfectly well that she could put a stop to it any time she wanted. She had a gun, she had a telephone. She could have the place swarming with cops within minutes -- and all to cart off one cheerful smiling boy who had scythed all the grass and weeds for her in that awful backyard. She didn't have to put up with anything unless she wanted to. Unless she wanted to, unless she wanted to --
Suddenly she realized it had been some time since she had heard the sound of running water. She turned around and the boy was behind her in the doorway. He had put on a clean pair of Levis and a frayed blue shirt. She was wearing her loose floppy slacks, her high necked, long-sleeved blouse. She faced the boy, frightened, then wondered why. There was nothing threatening about him. Now that he had worked up a sweat, had washed it off, and had worked up an appetite, he looked like any hungry boy. But what was he hungry for?
"Would you like something to eat?" she asked.
"Aaaaaahhhh," he said.
She suspected he was not talking about food. She moved toward the door, determined this time not to be hypnotized by this hard bodied young stud. All it took was will power. She walked firmly toward the bedroom door and to her surprise-to her disappointment, she suddenly realized, he stepped aside and let her pass. She went to the kitchen and once more asked him if he was hungry.
"Aaaaaahhhh!" he repeated.
She made eating and drinking motions and finally the boy understood. He smiled and nodded. She began fixing sandwiches, wondering how the boy expected her to get anything done if he was going to stand behind her and make a living bra for her firm thirty-nines with his two hot little hands.
She wanted to slap his hands away and make him sit down and be quiet but ... but she couldn't. Even now, as tired as she was after that first marathon fuck fest, after scrubbing out the trailer to rid herself of the memory of folly, even now when she was so pleasantly weary that all she really ought to want was a hot bath and a night's sleep, she could not force herself to make him take his hands off the front of her high necked, long-sleeved blouse. And a lot of good that did, she thought wryly.
Already she could feel the storm gathering in her belly. It was going to happen again. She knew it. She didn't want it to happen. It was too close to her heart's desire. Sooner or later, it would destroy her. But it felt so good to have that golden skinned boy with the firm body rubbing against her back wherever she went in the kitchen, his hands clasped firmly over her tits until her tiny nipples were rigid with anticipation ...
It was going to happen again. She didn't want it to happen but she did but she didn't but she couldn't help herself. Finally she had fixed him a plate of sandwiches. She garnished it with pickles, with hot peppers, with fritos and potato chips. Surely he would like something.
He liked it all. But he liked her body even more. He ate with one hand, caressing her ass, her tits, memorizing the gentle swell of thigh with the other as she stood beside him-stood beside him like some servant girl while he ate and fondled her and once his stomach was filled and his male ego satisfied he would get around to --
Oh shit! Why did she have to get into this male chauvinism fugue? He was a man. All men were alike. They liked to fuck women. The happiest thing about this arrangement was that women liked to fuck men, so usually, providing they can concentrate on fucking and stop playing one-upsmanship, everybody's happy. He was enjoying her food. He had cut her grass. Now he was going to fuck her. What did she want, an egg in her beer?
If only she could make up her mind what she wanted. She knew what her body wanted. It wanted six solid inches in and out until he wore a callus in her. But what about her mind? To hell with her mind, she decided. Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all. And see what too much thinking got Hamlet when he could have spent the rest of his days happily humping Ophelia?
Standing beside this lovely hard bodied boy, she wondered for the thousandth time just what it was she had done that had finally made Harry, damn him, pull the plug? She had been fed up, ready to leave him. And then he had left her. It wasn't that she was getting old or wrinkled or waffle-assed. She knew she was better looking than the woman who had replaced her. That was what hurt so much about it all. If only he'd run off with some young woman she could have shrugged. After all, can thirty-nine compete with nineteen? Could balding, hard-drinking old Harry compete with this lovely, hard bodied boy? Suddenly she felt a little better. But not enough better to ignore the fact that that other bitch -- her subconscious was trying to tell her something. That other bitch. Deep in her heart of hearts Clara knew it. She was a bitch. Harry was no prize but sure as hell she had driven him away -- driven him into the arms of a woman no younger, not half as good-looking as she was. She could tell herself she was well rid of Harry, that she had been planning on leaving him anyway. But she hadn't. Harry had been more dissatisfied than she was, and he had left first. Which meant that she had failed.
And, here she was, a thirty-nine-year-old failure standing like a suppliant in her own kitchen letting a downy-cheeked boy play with her ass! God! What had happened to her life that she needed a cock this badly?
Suddenly, even with a lovely golden skinned boy fondling her ass-and caressing her tits, Clara was sobbing. The boy looked up startled. He stood and put his arms on her shoulders. Looking into her eyes, he said, "Deezneelen."
"What?" Clara was startled and embarrassed. She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her long-sleeved blouse. God! If she didn't stop it she'd be a sight! "What did you say?" she repeated.
"Deezneelen."
Clara stared. The boy repeated it several more times and suddenly Clara understood what he was saying. My god, she thought. The mentality of a primitive! The boy was trying to comfort her. He could not imagine how there could possibly be any unhappiness in the life of an American -- in the life of anyone who lived this close to the magic kingdom of Deezneelen. "Disneyland," Clara repeated. "Yes," she added, knowing the boy could not possibly understand her. "Disneyland. Someday I'll take you there, if you don't get deported and I don't end up in jail first."
But his simple efforts had put her problems in proportion. Shit! She had problems. What about this boy? Probably he made all of twenty dollars a month on some grimy freighter-and sent all of that home to feed a half dozen brothers and sisters and parents and -- and she had the colossal self-pitying gall to complain!
She opened her arms and drew him to her, pillowing his head on her firmly upstanding thirty-nines. "Aaaaaaahhhhh!" the boy said. "Deezneelen!"
One magic kingdom, Clara decided, was as good as another. With her arms still wrapped round the boy, seh began moving slowly backwards out of the kitchen. With his face still buried in the front of her high necked blouse, she led him out of the kitchen, down the hall, led him through another door and kept on leading until she felt the backs of her knees contact the edge of her bed-the room where she had been absolutely certain that she was not going to have this hard bodied stiff pricked boy. Oh well ... it was, she reminded herself, a woman's prerogative to change her mind.
And having changed it, she sat on the edge of the bed. The boy knelt between her legs. He began working at the buttons on her blouse. Suddenly Clara wished she'd picked something with fewer than half a hundred buttons. The poor boy might be there all night.
She supposed she hadn't ought to. It wasn't ladylike. But was this any time to stand on ceremony? While the boy worked his way up from the bottom, she began unfastening buttons from the top.
"Aaaaahhhh!" he said as their hands met over her firm thirty-nines.
Clara conquered her ladylike squeamishness. If she was going to fool around with an underage boy, with an illegal immigrant, she might as well go whole hog and enjoy herself. She grabbed him by the ears, pulled him up and kissed him. The boy responded enthusiastically and soon they were swapping tongues. She felt her belly begin to churn with anticipation. Soon that wonderful muffin-stabber would be back in there again, driving deep into her, driving all her cares away as he ...
The boy was no timewaster. He had already shed his shirt-managing somehow to do it while fiddling with the buttons on her blouse and swapping tongues with her. Now he was raising her shoulders gently from the bed and peeling off her blouse. He looked down at her perfect ski jump-profiled jugs. "Aaaaahhhh!" he said "Deezneelen!"
Clara wondered if he was referring to that papiermache Matterhorn. Not that she cared. She was more interested in the businesslike way he was unfastening the waistband button of her floppy slacks. He unfastened it, lowered the zipper, grasped the cuffs and -- instant nudity. Before she quite realized how deftly he had undressed her the boy had stepped back for a moment and was shucking his Levis.
Now they faced each other as they had entered the world, with only, the minor addition of pubic hair. Stripped for action again, she realized. Would he take forever this time? Or, now that he knew he could drive it full depth without hurting her, would he perhaps make his entry not quite so exquisitely prolonged?
Clara had gotten over her outrage, over her indignation and over her sadness. There remained only a wry amusement as she saw one by one her little subterfuges stripped away until she was forced to admit to herself that there were only two reasons why she had let this naked boy into her bedroom had let him undress her: She had let it happen because she couldn't help herself. And she had let it happen because- she didn't want to help herself.
She hoped he would hurry up and get it in. Remembering the delicious firmness of that wonderful organ, remembering all the melodies he had planed on it, she felt a delightful shiver of erotic anticipation. surge through her body. Good God, she realized, my nipples are like pebbles already!
Her clit was fluttery with expectation, rock hard and already secreting the clear juice which is love's lubrication. How long would he be good for this time? She found it hard to remember and to believe that that deliciously, impossibly prolonged fuckfest in the trailer had been the first time this teenage boy had gotten it into her. He should have exploded within seconds. Wow! If the first time had nearly driven her out of her gourd with joy, what would the second time be like now that he had caught his breath and recharged his batteries and eaten and rested and bathed and gotten every little detail taken care of so he could devote the last full firm measure of devotion to her?
She could hardly wait to feel that firm rod sliding deep, deeper, deepest into her waiting pussy. Then abruptly she realized she was going to have to wait. He was putting something into her waiting cunt, but it wasn't his cock. It was his tongue!
Chapter Nine
Wow! Clara tried to remember when that had last happened. Old Harry had never been much for blow jobs. There had been one guy she knew back before Harry had come along. She didn't mind a little Hollywood carpentry, but she had always suspected that most tongue-and-groove men were that way to preserve the pristine quality of their hard-ons. Or maybe it was the tongue-in-groove work that got them so turned on that by the time they finally got around to sticking it in they were ready to explode anyhow.
But this lovely nameless hard cocked boy had already convinced her that in the staying-power category he was miles ahead of any other contender she had ever known. If he was licking her crack it was because he wanted to. This boy, she strongly suspected, would never do anything he didn't want to do.
He seemed to be enjoying himself at the moment, his head buried in her crotch as he knelt beside the bed. He was licking her clit, running his tongue in loving circles around the marble hardness of that sensitive organ, stopping from time to time to lick the sensitive inner surfaces of her pouting, auburn-haired vulval lips.
It felt so good she found her thighs opening wide against her will. Her hands went down to capture his head and draw him in deeper, harder. He stopped licking her clit and drove his agile tongue into the portals of her vagina, augering its supple length into her with lightning forays, darting at the passion-flushed membranes from unexpected angles that made her want to wiggle and giggle.
It was the, the full-fashioned, far-out turn-on she got from six solid inches ram slamming through that aperture she had in home plate. But it was a pleasing enough turn-on to have a tongue up her pussy and to know that that tongue belonged to a marvellously stiff cocked, hard bodied golden skinned boy who, sooner or later, was going to get around to doing whatever happened to be on his inscrutable mind. It would turn out, she hoped,. to be fucking. But meanwhile, an hour or two or three of this would do.
Ooooohhh, would it ever do! It had been so many years since Clara had been worked on by an expert that she had quite forgotten how luscious can be the simple foods of life. The boy was eating her with great gusto, savoring raw meat with no salt, no seasoning save that of love's elixir which was beginning to flow copiously from her suddenly vibrant and throbbing cunt.
Where on earth, she wondered, had a boy of his age ever managed to pick up all these techniques? To her surprise and delight he was giving her almost as much pleasure with that supple tongue as he had with six hot throbbing inches of hard cock. How long could he keep it up? More important, how long would he keep it up?
He still knelt beside the bed, nuzzling deep into her widespread crotch. She felt her legs moving and abruptly realized they were waving wildly, uncontrollably, as they expressed delight with all the lovely things that head between her thighs was doing to her long-deprived body. She closed her thighs over his ears and he dived in deeper, fastened his lips over her clit, sucked it, and let out his breath suddenly. The abrupt in-and-out movement of that throbbing sensitive organ between his lips nearly sent her up the wall with sheer erotic delight. He closed his lips over her marble-hard clit again and began sucking and puffing in rapid alternation, drawing it in between his teeth, pushing it out, pulling it back in again.
Suddenly Clara's bode, melted, dissolved and flowed; in great flaming sheets of passion. It was not like the great gut wrenching orgasms that his cock had given her out in the trailer. This time she actually felt like she was coming apart as that incessant movement, that sucking and puffing on her clit drove her past the limits of sanity, drove her wailing and screeching over the edge of a chasm of orgasm. "Ooooohhhh!" she moaned, "OOoooh, WOW!"
She didn't know what had happened to her. From the waist down she had completely lost control of her body. She sensed her legs waving wildly, thighs clasping and unclasping over his ears as the boy hung in there licking her cunt, suck puffing her clit, caressing the smooth hemispheres of her thrumming ass with his hands, getting a finger down there to tap on her twittering asshole until sensation after erotic sensation piled up and snowballed and she was going right out of her mind.
But oooooohh, did it ever feel goooood! It felt so good she literally didn't know what to do. Fucking, for Clara, had always been a cooperative affair, and here she had a disembodied head between her legs, giving her the most unbelievable erotic trip she could ever remember.
It was funny. She had had tongues up her pussy before and it had never been any big deal. She had allowed men to do it because she had sensed that they really wanted to. But Clara had always had a predilection for good stiff cock - until now. She realized abruptly that she was no longer disappointed that he had not come all the way atop her in missionary position to give her another hour or three of that old one-two. That tongue was heavenly. He really was a lovely and most accomplished boy.
He had accomplished several things today that nobody had accomplished for the last year. She wondered if anyone had ever made her come so many times in such a short while. By now she should be tired -- exhausted and headachy from all this pleasure. Instead, all she wanted was more.
But it was so funny just to lie here without a man atop her, with nothing but a head between her legs licking her, kissing her, sucking her, giving her the most exquisite turn-on she could ever remember.
She had let her mind wander long enough for the worst of her uncontrollable spasms to pass. Now she could lie quiet again and let him lick her without shrieking, without waving her legs in the air like some berserk chorus girl. Then as he pursed his lips over hex clit and once more began that suck puffing, she knew it was all going to happen all over again. He was going to keep working on her tender, sensitive clitoris until he drove her right out of her mind.
Oh Wow! There she went again, wailing and moaning, kicking and screaming, rocking her ass frantically back and forth until his nose plowed erotic furrows in her secret slit. She had him by the ears, she had him by the nape of his neck, pulling him in deeper, harder, faster.
He grabbed her ass with both hands and took control, once more fastening his lips securely over the thrumming, throbbing, critical mass of her passion flushed clit. Once more he began suck puffing.
She came -- not once but repeatedly, until it felt as if she were turning inside out, as if his loving tongue had dissolved her insides and turned them into an immense sloshing. pool of love's lubrication that flowed from her, spurted from her, dripped and drained from her sopping cunt as she came and came and kept right on coming while that wonderful, that awful, wonderful boy kept kissing her clit.
Finally the boy had to come up for air. He must be drowning, she thought. There was an instant's roughness, dryness as he passed a corner of the bedspread through her crotch, wiped the fruits of love fulfilled from his face, then dived back into the fray, once more licking, kissing and suckpuffing her thrumming clit.
But this time she sensed a slight change. She couldn't quite make out what it was. Then suddenly she knew. He had been licking her from the bottom up. Now he was licking from the top down. The boy had gotten up onto the bed and now crouched beside her with his feet near her head as he plunged his downy cheeked face with its faint hint of moustache back into the abundant auburn ringlets of her pubic bush.
She put out a hand to caress his smooth, golden skinned body. He moved closer. He got his hands on her ass and pushed and prodded until she lay on her side, knees slightly flexed, with his lovely red head still between her legs, his mouth still over that most devastatingly and erotically sensitive organ in her body.
It took her a moment to understand what he was up to, then as he pillowed one ear on the smooth soft skin of her tingly inner thigh she realized he had made a comfortable bed for himself alongside her, one thigh for a pillow and her other arched leg for a roof. He stopped kissing her pussy long enough to run a burning line of kisses up the inner side of one thigh and down the other. She put her hands out to caress the smooth hardness of his waist and then she finally realized what she should have worked out from the very first: that if a man lies down head to foot facing a woman, with his face in her pussy, that man's hot throbbing cock is going to be sticking straight into his partner's face.
Now why, Clara wondered, hadn't she thought of that before? She tried to focus her eyes on the magnificent wand that wavered in the air scant inches away from her eyes. Finally she could see it clearly in all its thick headed, long shanked, heavy-veined glory. His foreskin was stretched tight over the marvellous magnitude of his erection. From its straining tip she could just see the deep angry purple of his bare cock head. His cock stuck straight out from his crotch, waving gently back and forth -- up and down with reference to the boy's body, she guessed, waving gently in time to the measured beat of his heart.
To her sudden mortification, she realized that this boy -- this novice child with twenty years less experience in the amatory arts than she -- his cock was thumping in time to a heartbeat substantially slower than the racing trip hammer thumping that was pounding away beneath her matched set of mammaries. How could he be so calm? How could he be so cool when he had licked and sucked her to within a raddled inch of insanity? Was this boy human? Where on earth did he come from? Were there any more at home like him? Suddenly Clara knew what she wanted to do with the proceeds when she sold the trailer. To hell with cruises where there were a dozen predatory females for everything that had a cock. If she could just find out where this boy came from -- if there were more like him ...
What was she thinking about? More at home like him indeed! As if one wasn't enough! She wondered what kind of people her neighbours were. Would they mind their own business if she were to make a home for this poor homeless boy? Maybe she could adopt him, sell the trailer and use the money to get his immigration status straightened out. If she could become his legal guardian ...
How long would it last? Would he bug out before she went insane -- fucked right out of her poor simple mind? She didn't care. She suddenly knew that no matter how she might bind him up with legal papers, this boy would always hold the real power over her. If he were to stop right now and refuse to continue what he was doing to her thrumming, throbbing pussy, she knew that no matter how outrageous his demand, no matter what she had to do to get him to go back to doing it again and again and again and again, she would pay it.
As if he were reading her mind the boy suddenly stopped that wonderful, mind blowing suck puffing on her clit. She wondered what had happened. Was he going to hold her up for blackmail? For money? Then, staring at the hot throbbing cock that waved only inches from her face Clara knew what the boy wanted her to do if he were to continue this marvellous mind blowing lingual massage of her super sensitized clit.
So ... how long had it been, she wondered, since she had dedicated herself to that noble calling? It had been a few years. It had been more years than she liked to remember. It was time, she guessed, to get back in touch. And speaking of touching ...
She put out a hand and captured his cock, which still waved forlornly in the wind, like some fleshy flagpole. As her hand closed over its hot hardness, she felt a little throb as the boy responded. It really was a lovely cock: not excessively long or thick, but as perfectly proportioned as its golden skinned, hard muscled possessor.
Jutting from his dense nest of reddish ringlets, its shank was solid, with a no-nonsense thickness which promised stability and strength. Heavy veins like a roadmap tracing crisscrossed the shank and prepuce, stretched to its ultimate by that round, almost golf-ball sized head which peeped angrily from the tight stretched tip of his foreskin. She gave the shank an affectionate squeeze and suddenly, like an emerging batholiths, the slick shiny purple head of his hammer erupted all the way from his tight-stretched foreskin. It was lovely, with a tremendously flared glans penis which, she knew from happy experience, could dig into the tender fibrillating walls of a passion flushed vagina like the barbs on a whaler's harpoon, dig in solidly and threaten to turn her inside out with the most delicious pain-pleasure sensation she could ever remember.
It was a positive paragon of pricks. Clara wondered if she had ever seen a more perfect specimen. She knew she had never felt anything one half so nice as the firm phallic fiddlestick this boy had used to play her violin.
It was an instrument, she realized, that merited tender loving care. This phallus had been hand reared, no doubt. But there is a time when a boy becomes a man and puts away a child's things. The most tender and loving hand could not give this magic wand the, loving attention it would require if its owner were to remain happy, contented, and willing to reciprocate.
Reciprocate -- what a lovely word. It brought to mind mental pictures of reciprocating engines with great phallic rods thrashing back and forth, back and forth as pistons went in and out, in and out with the tireless immutable rhythm of well-oiled machines.
This rod was oiling itself. As she studied it Clara saw a tiny clear drop of love's lubrication form at the tip of that prodigious prod. This rod, she realized, was a precision instrument, deserving of even greater care than a fine Swiss watch. Homely, handy measures were not sufficient for its care and well-being.
There was only one proper way to shield that wonderful round head now so cruelly exposed by its peeled-back foreskin. Only one way to save this lovely boy from the slings and arrows of the cold cruel world.
Clara pursed her lips. Moving her head forward with the care and precision of an astronaut in a docking manoeuvre, she came close, blew her warm, loving breath over the tip of his tool. She saw the spurt of fresh secretion and knew she had the boy's undivided attention. She came a millimeter closer and kissed the angry purple head of his hammer. Then she took a deep breath, prepared herself mentally and spiritually, opened her mouth and completed the docking manoeuvre.
CHAPTER TEN
The thing that surprised Clara the most was that she had never expected it to be this much fun. It never had been before. But this time, as her mouth opened and her head moved forward to engulf that marvellous passion prod, she felt her lips, her tongue, her whole face suddenly as filled with lusting desire as her cant.
And abruptly he was busy again down there, licking, kissing, suck puffing her slit, sending her to new heights of ecstasy as his work-toughened hands caressed, squeezed and memorized the firm roundness of her ass. She felt a rising storm center in her belly, knew that if she didn't watch it she was going to be wailing, waving her legs, kicking and shrieking again. And she had duties of her own to perform!
She had taken custody of that essentially male organ -- firm and upstanding in its element, yet so pitiably vulnerable. She had it in her mouth and she intended to keep it there for a while, but not too long --not so long as to waste a round of erotic ammunition.
The boy was licking lustily away, running a loving tongue up the tender inner surface of one labium and down the other, stopping occasionally for a delightful and unexpected foray into her passion flushed vagina, darting his tongue from some unexpected angle to titillate some tiny fold never touched by cock. Whenever he tired of these erotic exercises, he returned to his delightful licking, kissing and suck puffing of her clit. Clara wondered if she had died and gone to heaven. If she had, it most assuredly was not a Christian heaven where people got their pallid and bloodless turn-ons from playing harps.
She tried to get her mind back on her business, back onto that luscious lump of meat that throbbed between her teeth. She closed her jaws gently until her teeth were digging ever so faintly into the rumpled folds where his peeled-back foreskin gathered about his cock shank. She could feel the throbbing passion of his naked cock head pulsating against her tongue, its tip penetrating nearly to her palate.
She began running her tongue around the head of his cock in loving; laving circles. The boy redoubled his efforts on her clit and for the first time Clara was truly convinced that it is, really, more blessed to give than to receive. The boy's pelvis began rocking gently. It was, she suspected, an involuntary movement. She wondered if he even knew he was doing it.
She began moving her head in unison, lest he pull it out into the cold cruel world again-or drive it deeper than she could take. She tried to synchronize the movements of her head with his gentle thrusting, but the match was not perfect, and as his cock head moved up and, down, round and round in the warm wet confines of her mouth, she could feel it swell harder, feel the steady thump of his heartbeat accelerate until he must be pounding away almost as fast as the uncontrollable trip hammer thumping behind her splendid set of matched thirty-nines.
His hands drifted from her ass and began cupping the smooth perfection of that other pair of half globes. His finger began, lazily to twiddle her aureoles and nipples until their tiny pinkness was swollen to the firm hard pink of a pair of pie cherries. She had never realized before what a delicious turn-on could be achieved from such a simple manoeuvre. Meanwhile he was kissing her clit, licking her labia, driving a supple tongue deep, deep into her vagina.
She got her hands into his crotch and began memorizing the shape of his scrotum. Beneath the crinkly red curls she could feel the firm skin of a tight bag, feel the twin reservoirs of masculinity that squirmed within when they felt the touch of her gentle hand. The boy dived deeper into her pussy and redoubled his efforts at licking and kissing her one step beyond insanity.
His pelvis was rocking more violently now and her head was bobbing back and forth in time to his pushing as she struggled to keep her teeth locked loosely into that crumpled foreskin. to keep her tongue busy doing nice things to his throbbing knob.
It was funny. She had done this before -- years ago, before twelve years of Harry had soured her on just about every aspect of conjugality. Why had it never been so delightfully mind blowing before?
For that matter, why had none of the dozen or so men she had fucked in her uneventful life -- damn! Think of it: thirty-nine years old and out of all the billions of cocks in the world I've only sampled a dozen or so! What a waste! And reflecting back on it with all the calm she could muster with a mouthful of cock and a cuntful of mouth, Clara was inclined to believe that none of them had ever come close to the wonderful sustained turn-on this golden-skinned boy was giving her.
My God, she couldn't let him go now. If she were to know with absolute certainty that this lovely boy would never ever stick it into her again, Clara suddenly knew life would no longer be worth living. She would kill herself. What could she do to keep him with her, beside her, underneath her, on top of her, end-to-end or any goddamn way she had to do it if only she could keep him here in her house, in her bedroom, in her bed.
He wouldn't eat much. He'd need a few new clothes. She could teach him a little English -- enough to get by. But not too much ... She didn't want him trying his wings. But damn! She couldn't keep him locked up forever. She'd have to find a lawyer and see what could be done about getting him into this country legally. Where was he from? Maybe he could claim political asylum or call himself a refugee or ...
Maybe he could stop rocking his pelvis quite so enthusiastically. She was doing her mind blowing, neck breaking best to keep her mouth over the end of his cock but the boy was moving faster and faster, pushing harder, his hot cock throbbing faster in time with the beat of his accelerating heart.
It was nice, she realized with one tiny sane corner of her mind, to know that she could turn him on too. It was poetic justice of a sort for the way he had nearly sent her floating and shrieking up through the ceiling of that trailer out in the backyard. Not bad, she guessed, for a thirty-nine-year-old woman. But how long could she keep him happy? How long before he began straying, looking for somebody younger?
He was rocking harder, faster. His hot, throbbing cock was nearly coming out past her tight pursed lips now, driving back in past her jaws. She had given up trying to hold on with her teeth and was holding her jaws opened wide lest she hurt him. His cock was sliding in and out of her mouth with each stroke, pulling out so far she was afraid it would escape and come back blindly to stab her in the eye or nose -- and that would hurt this lovely boy much worse than it would her and she didn't want anything to happen that would slow the lovely rhythm of his licking, of his kissing, of the lovely sucking and puffing on her fibrillating clitoris.
Each time his cock came back in, it went farther, faster than she was prepared for. She was rocking her head back to take the worst of his thrust but he was pounding like a pile driver. She realized suddenly to her intense delight that the boy had lost control almost as much as he had made her go bananas a while ago. Not bad for an old woman, she preened herself.
But that cock was driving deep past her jaws, past her tongue, jamming against her soft palate until, no matter how nice it was, her body was rebelling. Involuntarily, she was starting to gag from this tremendous thumping piece of raw meat thrust past her mouth and into the beginning of her throat. She struggled to control herself, not to do anything that would spoil the boy's pleasure. She had given up on stopping short of explosion. After all the boy had done for her, she guessed she could let him fire one load where it pleased him. There would be other times.
Wouldn't there?
If there weren't Clara knew she was ready to die.
If she couldn't do something about this rampaging cock trying to choke her, she just might die anyway. But to die with that lovely boy's mouth over her clit was not a bad way to go.
He was ram slamming now, totally out of control .as he wham bammed his red-ringleted pelvis against her chin with all the eager abandon of six sailors on shore leave.
He was going to choke her to death if he didn't come soon. She marvelled. On those other rare occasions when she had blown some eager man, she had barely managed to get a lipstick mark on a thrumming foreskin before she had, hastily, to withdraw from a drenching fire hose-sized spurt of uncontrollable joy. And this boy had been pouring his cock to her tongue and lips for-for how long now?
It was useless to guess, she knew. She remembered the seemingly hours-long affair in the trailer this morning which, now that she thought about it and checked out times and so on, could not have lasted in its totality more than thirty thrashing minutes from her entry with tray and pistol to her exit with mussed hair, come smeared halter and brimful cunt. Had this boy been pouring his wonderful cock to her face for a minute or an hour?
She didn't know. She didn't care as long as he kept up that wonderful licking, kissing, suck puffing down there in the lovely spot where two legs became one ass. But damn! He was going to choke her to death if he drove it in any deeper. And she was going to gag, to puke or do something equally cock softening if she couldn't get a grip on herself -- get a grip on his wildly plunging ass before long. She risked a one-handed grip and captured his balls. They squirmed beneath her caressing touch and her warm soft hand drove the boy to new efforts. Damn! What was she going to do? Make him come as soon as possible, she guessed. She couldn't stop now -- not now that the boy was in full gallop. It would be cruel and unusual punishment -- and he would take his vengeance on her, she knew. She had to do something to keep him happy, keep him plunging, keep that lovely hot, throbbing cock in her mouth long enough for him to spill his load. Only then could she risk rearing back out of the way at the last moment, lest she get a faceful of semen.
She extended a finger from the land that cupped his squirming balls and began running it in a loving tickle up and down his perineum. The boy gave a sudden thumping thrust that almost caught her unprepared. "Aaaaaahhh!" he moaned.
The vibrant hum of his prolonged 'aaaahhh' drove her fibrillating clit into a new erotic frenzy. This, she suddenly realized, is what one of those electric vibrator things must feel like.
She continued running that loving finger up and down his perineum and as her fingertip titillated that tender strip of skin between anus and scrotum the boy suddenly emitted another heartfelt "Aaaaaahhhh!"
It was too much for Clara's tormented clit. She felt herself dissolving, flowing, knew she had finally done it; melted down into a tiny puddle of passion and her whole body would soak right down through the mattress and dribble onto the floor. But ooohhh, it felt so gooooood!
He was still licking her, kissing her, sucking her, valiantly swimming through the ocean of love's elixir that her tormented body had released in a scalding flood. His face came out of her crotch for an instant, and the rough fabric of the bedspread passed through her seething slit, and then he was back in there again licking, kissing, suck puffing, drawing the last tiny drop of joy from her erotic culmination.
And his ass was bobbing uncontrollably, driving his dong deep past lips and tongue, deep into her mouth until the hot throbbing head of his knob was pushing at her palate, threatening to go right down her throat. She was struggling not to gag. It was so good. It felt so nice to have him lick, her pussy, so nice to have his cock in her mouth. It restored her sense of self-esteem to know that, after the humiliating way he had made her come repeatedly in the trailer, she was now evening the score and giving him as great a turn-on as he had given her. But damn! If only she could keep her body from rebelling each time that great thumping lump of meat came slamming into her mouth and threatened to go right down her throat. ...
How, she wondered, had the star of that movie everybody talked about ...? There was even a new verb in the language, she realized. Clara caught herself wondering how long it would take her to learn how to love lace. But even more, she wondered if her licking and sucking, the frenetic bobbing of her head over his cock, her hair-by-hair count of the follicles on his scrotum, her tender loving tickles of his perineum -- how long could this incredible boy hold out under this multi-prolonged assault?
Once more he had made her come. And still she had not returned the favour. Suddenly she was overcome with self-doubt. Maybe she wasn't quite so appealing to his young eyes as she thought. Maybe she was just some old bag to be fucked until a young and better-looking girl came along.
But he was still licking and kissing her pussy. He still had his cock in her mouth. He was still rocking, pushing, wham bamming harder and faster than she ever remembered from that memorable morning session in the trailer. Could she ever make him come? Maybe she shouldn't even try. What if she were to pull back, spit out his cock and drag him around and make him stick it into her cunt? Would he enjoy that? Or would he be outraged -- perhaps so angry he would put on his Levis and stalk silently away into the night, never to return?
It was too great a risk. Clara knew she was afraid to try it. If this lovely boy were to leave her now, life quite literally would not be worth a fuck. Nor would she. She'd kill herself. She just knew she would.
But how long could she keep up this frantic bobbing before something gave? Her neck was starting to hurt. It still felt lovely to have all that hot thumping maleness in her mouth, to feel the sense of power it gave her over him but ... but would he ever stop that frantic pelvic rocking, that wham bam driving that was poking him deeper and deeper into her mouth, damn near down her throat?
Suddenly the boy gave another soul-felt "Aaaaahh!" He captured her ears and twin handsful of straight auburn hair. Then he transferred his grip to the back of her neck and suddenly he was not just pushing at the portals of her throat. Like it or not, Clara abruptly realized she was going to learn how Miss Lovelace managed to do the bit that had given that movie its title. This wonderful nameless boy was driving it deep past her palate, past her mouth and driving his fluttering phallus deep down her throat. She felt the crisp red curls of his pelvis grind against her lips.
Chapter Eleven
It was crazy. She was turned-on completely, her cunt all aflutter from the boy's incessant ministrations with his mouth. And it was nice to have his wonderful wand in her mouth. Suddenly her arms flew around his hard young ass, pulling him tight to her as she struggled to swallow that firm phallus that was already halfway down her throat. It felt so good, and yet ...
Yet her body felt invaded -- outraged by his tremendous lump of hot male meat that went part way down her throat, then refused to go the rest of the way. Involuntarily she swallowed, swallowed again and again as her body struggled to dislodge this purple thumping invader and sent it the rest of the way down.
She felt the boy's cock respond to those smooth throat muscles as her swallowing pulled and squeezed at the head of his cock, enfolding him in a total erotic embrace. He was no longer rocking and rolling now. He had driven it deep into her and he had stiffened, his whole body quivering as if he had just grabbed a live wire. She felt the head of his cock deep down her throat suddenly grow even harder, felt his body gathering forces for the approaching cataclysm, and then -- and then everything went wrong.
It was exactly what she had been afraid of. Finally her body had rebelled. After trying repeatedly to swallow the boy's cock with no success, her throat and stomach decided it would not go down it had to go up. She retched. A deep, gut wrenching tearing muscular spasm came surging up out of her belly as every muscle went into reverse, clenching and squeezing, doing its retching best to expel the boy's cock from her throat. Tears came to Clara's eyes -- tears not of pain, but of outrage that her treacherous body could so betray her and ruin this joyous moment of fulfillment. Now the boy would go away mad. He would go away. He would go. And she would stay, stay here alone and -- and she would die.
Still her body rebelled against the cock that lodged deep down her throat. Still her arms were wrapped, squeezing convulsively around his ass as she struggled not to release him. Then abruptly her throat was full of hot, spurting liquid.
Oh Jesus, she thought, I've gone and vomited all over him! I'll kill myself. Then vaguely she realized that the liquid had not come from her. "Aaaaahhhh!" the boy was roaring, "Aaaaahhhh, Deezneelen!' He was coming.
Dazedly, she realized that she had done it after all. After all her best efforts she had finally made the boy spill his load only when her throat had clasped in spastic abandon about the thumping head of his hammer. Already she could feel the great rock hardness of his hammer diminishing as he fired great gouts of semen down her throat. She was swallowing again as her throat sensed the relaxation of pressure, swallowing and pulling the last joyous drop of love from the boy's pulsating prick. "Aaaaahhhh!" he repeated, "Aaaaaaaaahhhh, Deezneelen!"
Weak from effort and weak from relief, Clara realized she had finally taken the boy into the magic kingdom.
Taken him into the magic kingdom for the second time, she amended when she had time to think. He had managed to come inside her this morning in the trailer. This time, she suspected, he had come more explosively, had truly wrenched himself empty of all passion for the moment. She wondered if he would feel like another bout.
His cock was still halfway in her mouth. He gave a long happy sigh and it fell out the rest of the way. Clara lay satiated and happy, her cunt sore and tender but oh, it hurt so good! The boy still pillowed his downy cheeked face on her thigh. She was happy, for the moment, Clara realized. And he hadn't even stuck it into her!
So how about that! Truly, this boy was a treasure -- pearl beyond price. And truly, he would grow used to her, would tire, would move on to greener pastures and -- and, oh shit!
Why couldn't she accept what fate gave her and be happy? Here she had just come more times and more violently than she could ever remember. Why couldn't she relax and enjoy it instead of worrying about the next time, when right now she was so sore down there that she suspected she would walk spraddle-legged for several days.
Or not at all. Why couldn't she call in sick at the office? There was tomorrow, Sunday. Shit! There she went making plans again -- as if the boy would still be here after tomorrow. He might put on that seraphic, oriental-god smile along with his shirt and Levis and walk out of her life right now., She had no lever over him. What could she do to bind this lovely boy to her bed, to her cunt?
She had to do something. But what? Unless they could find some common language she could never begin to find out how his mind worked, what strings could be pulled to make him react. She was reduced to dealing with him on the same level as a puppy or a kitten. Did he speak any civilized language?
He gave a happy sigh and rolled away from her a half turn until they could see each other's faces. He gave her a radiant smile. "Parlez vous francais?" she asked. She didn't know what she would do if he could, for that was her entire repertoire in French.
The boy smiled and nodded. Which meant nothing.
"Habla espanol?" she inquired.
Another smile and nod. "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"
It was no use. The boy would smile and nod no matter what she said. And Clara was not a linguist. She didn't even know if she had pronounced the German correctly. It made no difference. This boy would turn out to speak something like Albanian or Turkish some language totally out of the mainstream of western culture. It would probably be impossible even to find an interpreter. She would have to teach him English. She pointed to herself and said, "Clara."
The boy smiled and said "Att," with a gesture toward the reddish ringlets on his well-muscled chest. At least they had gotten that far. "Are you hungry?" she asked.
The boy gave an inquiring look.
"Hungry?" She repeated the word several times while rubbing her belly and making eating motions.
Finally the boy's eyes lit up in understanding. "Hungry," he repeated, not mispronouncing it too badly. He made a playful dive at her crotch. They laughed. For the first time Clara began to believe that someday they would actually be able to communicate by some means other than a simple plug-in-socket connection.
"Bath?" she asked.
"Bass?"
She- tried again, showing the boy how to put his tongue between his teeth. He couldn't be Greek, she suddenly realized. She didn't know any Greek but she had belonged to a sorority that had a theta in its name.
After a few tries the boy managed to say bath. She got to her feet, caught his hand and led him to the shower. Pointing at the tub and shower head, she repeated the word. The boy got in and began fiddling with the faucets.
Her hair was a mess, crinkly with hair spray and stray drops of come. She climbed in naked beside the boy. Immediately he stopped soaping himself and began soaping her. Feeling his soap slicked hands running up and down the firm contours of her body, Clara discovered that suddenly she was getting turned on again.
Jesus, she thought, not already! She stood to one side of the shower jet and let the boy play with her body and the soap. Finally he had inventoried her completely, running his hands up and down every square inch of both legs and thighs, had shampooed every hair in her crotch, had soaped belly and ass, navel and waistline, tits and throat. He handed her the soap.
She began soaping his body. God, what a lovely smooth hard body this boy had! She washed his head, neck and shoulders, soaped down the smooth muscled vee of his torso, captured his flaccid cock and began soaping it, devoting the tender loving care due that marvellous muffin stabber.
Suddenly the boy's cock began growing in her hand. His hand went into her crotch and then she had a firm muscular finger up her cunt and oh Jesus, it felt so good she was going to go right out of her mind!
Some tiny, still sane portion of her mind took over. She broke away and pulled the boy's finger from her pussy. They finished their bath in relative calm until suddenly she remembered that she hadn't douched.
She felt some silly Victorian reservation about doing this in front of the boy but -- what the hell? Did she have any secrets from him? He'd had his cock in her cunt and in her mouth. What was she doing getting all fluttery and ladylike now for? She stretched out past the shower curtain and captured the douche bag from the shelf.
The boy's eyes went round with curiosity and abruptly she realized he had probably never seen this possibly first invention of civilized western man. She filled the bag with water, pantomimed with the spurting water until finally his eyes lit up in understanding. He frowned and put the apparatus firmly away. Now what? Clara wondered.
An instant later she found out when the boy turned up his face beneath the shower head. Before she quite realized what was happening the boy had squatted and forced his upturned face between her thighs. She felt the sudden gush of warm water from his mouth spurting up into her, deep into the uttermost fold and recesses of her cunt.
She gave a laugh of startled delight and enlightenment. Trust a primitive to turn anything into a game, no matter how necessary or disagreeable the task. As the boy stood and filled his mouth, then squatted again to flush her cunt repeatedly with mouthfuls of warm water Clara had to admit that it felt a lot nicer and was sure to turn out to be more fun in the long run than stuffing black hard rubber up her come filled twat. But where on earth did this boy learn all these tricks? Any tribe of primitives that spent that much time fucking would ... suddenly she was reminded of a story by Puerto Rican comic she had listened to in the Village.
"Once," he had begun "There were two Puerto Ricans." (Pregnant pause before he continued.) "And now there are millions of us."
Finally they were through. The boy had watched interestedly while she shampooed and had allowed her to pour a -dollop of shampoo into his red hair. They were squeaky clean. Now they stood outside the tub drying each other off with towels.
And finally they could find no more excuses to blot each other's bodies with towels. They stood, still naked The boy smiled. "Hungry," he said.
Before she could rush off to the kitchen he got his arms around her neck and kissed her. As his tongue went deep into her Clara understood what he was hungry for. She wondered if she had ever been this happy before.
In spite of the inauspicious beginning when she had awakened drenched in sweat, her belly in an- uproar from still another dream of love, it had turned out to be one of the nicest days in her life. One of the nicest, hell! Clara knew she had never ever experienced this much sustained pleasure before. How long, she wondered, could she take it before it killed her?
But if it killed her, what a way to go! She found a peignoir and the boy got into his Levis and they wandered back into the kitchen. She glanced at the clock, and -- surprise! It was only a quarter after one. The day was scarcely half over. Ahead of her loomed the rest of the afternoon, the evening, tonight, all day long tomorrow ... And then?
And then what was she going to do? Already she felt responsible for this boy. Even if he were to tire of her she couldn't just leave him to be picked up by the police or the immigration people. In the last few hours he had given her more sheer joy than she had ever imagined could be experienced by one frail human body. Even if he never fucked again she knew she owed him something for the lessons he had taught her.
"Hungry?" she asked again.
The boy nodded and this time it was not just the meaningless nod and smile he gave to anything. He had understood her. She opened the refrigerator and indicated that he should pick out what he wanted. The boy's eyes widened in unbelief at the sad selection of leftovers that always seem to accumulate whenever a woman lives alone. She wanted to apologize when abruptly she understood.
What, she wondered, did they eat on those foreign freighters? The boy was looking at the sad remains of lettuce and cottage cheese, shrivelling olives and bits of this and that she had been meaning to throw out as if she had suddenly led him into another magic kingdom of Deezneelem
She wondered. Clara had noshed about enough in ethnic restaurants years ago to realize that all people do not necessarily enjoy the same tastes and flavors. The boy would eat anything she put before him, she suspected. But what would he like? Finally she gave up, took everything she could imagine out of the refrigerator, prepared a platter with bread, sliced cheese and cold cuts and signaled the boy to help himself.
He sampled foods cautiously, seemed overjoyed at the lettuce and tomatoes, the single apple and the peach. He devoured the shriveling olives, spread bread with butter and mayonnaise, with cheese and pressed ham. He looked at the milk but did not touch it. She wondered if he liked any kind of soda pop and suddenly it occurred to her that she could narrow down his origins somewhat by a simple test. She rummaged through the cupboards and found a half empty bottle of wine. The boy poured a small drink.
So he was not Moslem -- not from one of the Arab countries where religion prohibited alcohol. That eliminated part of the world. Unfortunately, Clara realized, there was still a lot of it left.
She watched him eat and when he relaxed for a moment she pointed and said, "Bread."
The boy repeated it several times. He didn't seem to have much trouble getting the hang of English words. She pointed at the bottle and said, "Wine."
"Wine," the boy said with a smile. Pointing at her crotch he said, "Bread. Hungry."
Clara suddenly realized she was dealing with a very intelligent young man. She smiled and said, "I'm hungry too."
Chapter Twelve
The hell of it was, it was true. Even in the shower, only minutes after the most colossally devastating series of orgiastic cataclysms she had ever known, she had felt the rebirth of desire as she washed the boy's cock, as he flushed the fruits of love fulfilled from her cunt with his repeated mouthfuls of water. Good god, she thought, can't I even-let him finish eating?
She glanced at the clock. It was a quarter of two. They still had long hours of daylight ahead of them -- and then the night and then tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. ... She was going to destroy herself with this incessant fucking. Worse still, she was going to tire the boy until he fled to get a moment's peace. Surely he couldn't really be hot to trot already. He was just being gallant. And doing a damn good job of it, she realized, considering that he knew all of three words of English. He had managed to pay her the ultimate compliment, using only two thirds of his vocabulary.
But Clara knew herself -- even if she didn't know the boy. If they hung around the house this way just looking at one another, sooner or later he would put a hand on her here and she would put a hand on him there and then he would undress her and she would undress him and the first thing you knew they would be doing whatever it is a man and a woman do after they've finished undressing one another.
Suddenly Clara knew she had just found the answer to several other prayers. It was hell for a woman alone to keep up a house. She waited till the boy had finished eating, then said, "And now I'm going to teach you another English word -- one I've often wished I didn't know the meaning of myself. The word is work." She repeated it several times until the boy could repeat it. Then, abruptly realizing she was still wearing only a peignoir, she rushed into the bedroom and found another pair of shorts and a halter. She had them halfway on before she realized they were the same pair she had worn this morning -- old, stained, for painting. Since she had just washed them, they were on the top of the pile.
When she returned, the boy's eyes lit up at the sight of her superb body displayed at its best, but Clara was having none of it. She didn't want him to get bored. If she wanted to keep the boy interested, she had to ration it, keep him hungry. "Work," she repeated. Mystified, the boy followed her outside. She introduced him to the lawnmower, which could still hack it with the slightly shorter grass in the front yard. While the boy clattered back and forth and coaxed sweat from his rippling muscles she dug at flowers and pruned and did all the things women do in yards while the men are doing the heavy work.
"Work?" the boy asked.
"This is work," she explained, and pantomimed swinging a scythe, pushing a lawnmower, digging.
"Aaaahhh," the boy said. To her surprise he actually managed a smile. But as he pushed the lawnmower off to hack another swath through ankle-deep grass he gave her a sly grin. "Hungry," he said.
It was crazy. Outside in the bright afternoon sunlight she could admire the boy's smooth, glistening golden-skinned body. But outside she still had some sense of proportion -- not like when he got her onto a bed and she felt her brains turn to peanut butter and ...
What was she - going to do? Was it really possible? Could a thirty-nine-year-old woman get away with keeping a boy this young around the place? She didn't know. She remembered an occasional newspaper story -- some scandal about a middle-aged woman and a teenaged stud. But usually the organic matter hit the fan because the boy's parents were all bent out of shape. This boy's parents -- if he had any -- would be thousands of miles from here, and even if they could voice an opinion, they would probably evince nothing but delight at their son's good fortune in managing to hook up with a wealthy foreign woman.
Her real problem, she guessed, was going to be with immigration. Maybe she could get the boy admitted and she could sponsor him. Then abruptly another solution came to mind. She had gotten a final decree three months ago. She was a single woman. Was the boy old enough to marry her?
Would he?
Damn! If only she could find an interpreter. But what language did he speak? If only she could explain that if he were to sign a legal promise to love, honor and cherish her for all the days of her life he could stay in this country without having to hide out. ... If only she could talk him into marrying her, she -- smiled at a sudden thought. Disneyland was only a couple of hundred miles away. If she could just get him to marry her she would even take him to Disneyland. Now wouldn't that be a kick in the -- what was wrong with her? She was starting to think and talk like a drunken sailor. Whatever happened to that ladylike upbringing her parents had paid through the nose for? She was a sorority girl -- as they had never let her forget. She guessed it came from hanging out with sailors. From fucking sailors. God, what a lovely boy!
Slowly the afternoon sun angled over the roof of the house until the front yard was in shade. She caught herself wondering if the couple next door -- that happy pair she had caught tearing off a piece with her binoculars -- were still too involved with each other's bodies to have noticed the lovely piece of male meat that was pushing a lawn mower for her? If they noticed, did they care? What about the neighbor on the other side? The ones across the street? She had never been home enough to pay any attention to their lives. Perhaps they all led busy and interesting lives of their own and were too occupied to go about supervising her personal affairs. She sincerely hoped so.
The boy had finished mowing the lawn. She thought a moment. Should she try to get more work out of him? She realized suddenly that he had put in nearly seven cheerful hours of hard labor -- and then put in a few more hours doing push ups over her thrilling body.
The boy put the lawnmower back into the garage. He came to where she stood with pruning. shears. "Work?" he asked.
Clara shook her head. Then she realized that even gestures do not always mean the same thing in different countries. "No work," she said, and pantomimed putting the tools away.
"Aaaaaaahhhhh!" the boy said. Smiling quizzically at her he asked, "Hungry?"
Sooner or later, Clara knew, she was going to have to teach him a few more words of English. But for the time being, she understood his meaning perfectly. She had been fucked and sucked well into the sillies. Then she had scrubbed out the trailer and pruned all the flowers and shrubbery in the front yard. She ached in every bone -- which didn't mean that she wouldn't mind having a bone up her pussy. When the boy had smiled and asked if she was "hungry," she had responded with an instant twinge as an erotic thrill raced through her. My God, she thought, once you find the right man it's an addiction -- worse than any kind of narcotic.
She made sure things were put away and the garage door locked. Then she made her weary way back into the house, followed by the boy. It was going to happen again, she knew. She would stall and put it off as long as she could but sooner or later he was going to be undressing her, and - and - and --
They were back inside the house. The boy closed the door and surprised her by knowing how to throw the deadbolt. Must've learned that on board ship, she guessed. They faced each other in the living room. "Hungry?" the boy asked.
Clara gave a wan smile. "Don't you ever get tired?" she asked. "Tired," she repeated and pantomimed weariness until the boy understood what she meant.
"Bath?" he asked.
Considering all the other ideas this lovely boy had had today, Clara couldn't say it was the best idea he'd come up with all day. But for the time being it would do. She went in and began filling the tub.
She saw the boy's slight surprise when the tub began filling instead of merely serving as a catch basin for the shower. He would have had his first showers aboard some grimy freighter, she supposed -- salt water and no soap. But Clara knew from her reading that bathtubs had been invented somewhere in his part of the world thousands of years before her English ancestors had gotten around to inventing separate words for cooking, for a bath, and for a whorehouse; all of which had once been stews.
The boy began shucking his clothes. Clara tried not to burn the golden skin off that beautiful body with her eyes. The boy was totally unselfconscious as he undressed and stepped into the water. Then -he turned and saw she was not joining him. "Bath?" he insisted.
It was going to happen sooner or later, she knew.. Why not now? She went into the bedroom and tossed shorts and halter into the hamper. When she came lack the boy was up to his neck in the water, his disembodied head wearing a seraphic smile. All it lacked were two wings sprouting from his jawbones to resemble one of those improbable cherubim she had puzzled over in the family bible.
He opened his eyes and saw her thirty-nines like twin headlights. "Aaaaaaahh!" he exulted, "Deezneelen!"
She stepped carefully into the tub, struggling not to slop water over the edge, and they began the complicated business of entwining legs and fitting two full-grown bodies into one tub. It was a process not without charms of its own, she realized as the boy's hands caressed and guided her legs, pushed and prodded her ass until finally and miraculously, she was actually comfortable, stretched out at her ease and up to her neck in hot water.
Fleetingly, the thought crossed her mind that once somebody in authority -- somebody with a badge -- found out about this new development in her life, she would most assuredly be up to her neck in hot water. But right now the boy's face emerged from the other end of the tub and he was massaging and kneading her feet and it felt so gooood!
They were so entwined that she hardly dared move, yet the boy had done it with a skill that left her relaxed and comfortable as they stretched out at full length, asses. rubbing gently together, feet nearly in each other's armpits. Slowly, water trickled down the over-flow, gradually uncovering more and more of the boy's golden-skinned body. She felt a tingly tickle around he nipples and saw them emerge like the twin peaks c submarine mountains.
And damn! She had thought she was relaxed, passive under the soothing feel of hot water. Yet here was the evidence in plain view of the boy's glistening eyes Her nipples were rock hard and throbbing, pink as pie cherries and more delicious.
Somehow, so subtly that there was not even a ripple of water, the boy had managed to make her suddenly and acutely aware of his hard muscled male ass rubbing against her soft female one. Now how, she wondered had he done that? Or was it all in her imagination-ii the knowledge that after a year of abstinence she was not rude. Nudity could never describe this total exposure. She was naked, in a bathtub with a naked boy -- a. wonderful, hard muscled, stiff cocked golden-skinned boy who was waiting with well-concealed impatience to do all sorts of lovely things to her lips, to her tits, to her suddenly tingling pussy.
He smiled and said, "Deezneelen!"
It was indeed, Clara decided, the most magic of all kingdoms, and as all the pop songs of the depression years had pointed out, the best things in life, are free.
But would this be free? In thirty-nine years Clan had learned that there is no free lunch. She had stayed out of circulation for a year, nursing her wounds an her grudge against old Harry -- who had only beat her to what she had been planning to do to him. Now he body was collecting its dues for a year of playing the nun. Her body had betrayed her with this lovely boy shown her how absolutely her intellect was a slave to her emotions. She could have had countless interludes -- pleasant weekends in the mountains or aboard somebody's yacht. She had ignored the invitations until finally her body had taught her that there are some invitations which will not be ignored. She was paying for a year without -- stop pussyfooting around and call it by its proper name! She had made a fool of herself with this lovely boy in payment for a year without fucking. What would the price be for this bit of foolishness?
Like many tough-minded and independent women, Clara had few female friends. he had never cared for their homely concerns about children's accomplishments, and had always preferred the company of men who, if at times boring about their cars, their guns, their bunting and fishing, could at least talk about something besides clothes and children.
So ... she had no women friends to betray her secrets. And since Harry had bugged out with that other bitch -- why call her that? The other woman had merely latched onto an available male -- one Clara didn't really want all that much. Wasn't Clara even worse the way she was robbing the cradle with this downy cheeked youth?
She sighed. She lived an essentially private live and, providing they left her alone, she couldn't care less what her neighbours might say or think of her. But would they leave her alone? Somewhere, she knew, there would have to be one frustrated old bitch, not necessarily of female gender, who had never gotten a moment of pleasure out of life and in compensation would make sure nobody else did either.
Could she adopt this boy? Could she marry him? Could she even talk to him? She didn't know. But as he smiled and rubbed the tiredness from her feet and ground his ass gently against hers she knew that, for a while at least, there was one thing they could do together. They could fuck.
The boy let go of her feet and began leaning forward, keeping a careful lookout lest he slop water onto the floor. Clara lay quiescent, knowing that whatever the boy did, chances were she was going to like it. He was moving so slowly, so carefully that it hardly seemed he was moving at all, yet she could feel the interplay of muscles as his hard male ass rocked against hers. He stretched out his arms as he came forward and finally was able to cup the full undersides of her magnificent thirty-nines.
It was such a simple, homely gesture that Clara could not understand the sudden thrill of erotic joy that surged through her. The hot water had relaxed her, soaked away the strains and tensions from two strenuous indoor track meets and a spate of gardening. She was tired still, but soothed and relaxed-until this lovely boy reached out and put his hands on her tits.
He continued leaning forward, bowing his head, and she knew with a sinful sense of rising joy that he was going to kiss her nipples, suck her tits, do all sorts of lovely things to her. But she was totally unprepared for what did happen next.
Down there underwater where their asses rubbed companionably together his great throbbing cock was sliding smoothly into her.
Chapter Thirteen
As the great swollen head of the boy's cock parted her nether lips and began its journey up the long dark passage, she suddenly felt the hot water touching her sensitive inner membranes. It felt scalding.
It was not actually scalding, she knew -- only comfortably hot, but in there where hot water had no business being, the effect was devastating. Suddenly the long slow build-up of eroticism as they had lain naked in the tub facing one another, playing casually with one another's legs while building delightful mental images of what wonderful things were about to happen -- suddenly it all came together in a deliciously prolonged, shuddery spasm of erotic delight. She felt her belly knot up, unknot, twist up in the opposite direction, flutter and fibrillate in a sudden uncontrollable seizure of joy that brought a sharp gasp from her.
There was worry in the boy's eyes. She controlled the shuddering and jerking that was drawing still more of a yearlong tension from her body. She smiled and put her hands over his cupping her tits. The boy finished straightening up and she found herself sitting on his lap, facing him, straddling him, her superb body spiked on his arrogant masculinity.
The boy reached behind him and tripped the lever that released the water. Now where did he learn that, she wondered? But who cared? She was sitting atop him, legs around his waist, her firm thirty-nines jutting into his face, and be was licking them and sucking her tiny nulliparous nipples into adamantine hardness while his arms were around her pulling her to him, pulling
his face deeper into her tits while he began slow!, rocking, and as they rocked back and forth his grea thumping cock began sliding in and out of her-ii each time he rocked back, out each time he went for ward.
Their asses were still under water and his swollen cock head seemed to be working like some sort of flesh! pump, capturing an ounce of water with each stroke and pushing it up deep, deep into her until she felt as she were ready to burst, but his cock felt so good she didn't want to make him stop because it was hard and swollen and the great round thumping head of his hammer sliding into her felt even hotter than the water and it felt so good and she guessed it was because the hot water was washing away all of love's lubrication before it could smooth and slicken those membranes but his cock was not exactly hurting but yet it was and it felt like he had wrapped it in sandpaper and still il was going in and out of her swollen, water-filled cum and it felt so funny and it felt so good and she wanted him to stop but she didn't and oooohhh, there she went again!
It felt so good she couldn't stop even though the steady pumping of his cock underwater was filling her until she suddenly realized this must be what the last few months of pregnancy are like. He was licking and sucking her tits, breaking away each time he rocked back, coming back down onto her nipples each time his glistening body came forward and she rocked back and his cock came out and scalding water came in and then he pulled her forward as he rocked back and the great living plunger of his pump pushed another dollop of scalding water up into her stretched and thrumming pussy.
The bathtub drain was gurgling lustily away like some Russian pop singer, slowly spilling the water out of the tub, but they were rocking with an accelerated rhythm now, rocking and rolling, and the water was sloshing and spilling all over the floor and she was going to have to mop it up and who gave a damn! It felt so funny -- so drum tight stretched and straining, so hot. And still they rocked back and forth and with each stroke his mouth came down first over one nipple, then over the other, licking, kissing and sucking them both into ruby-red rock hardness. With each rock-and-roll movement his cock pulled nearly all the way out and water rushed into the gap and oooohhh, it felt so , funny! But it felt so good!
The water was down around their asses now, still sloshing but mostly gone. What would happen when it was all gone, she wondered. Would she remain stuffed full of hot water? Of course not. She knew more about anatomy than that. Hadn't she douched come out of her cunt countless times? She wondered if the boy knew what he was doing to her. Maybe if she made him stop, pull it out for a minute ...
But it felt so good she knew she didn't want to stop -- not even if it was hurting and stretching and all that hot water inside her was making her tingle and glow and her pussy was fluttering and sputtering and she could feel that fuse in her spine start to burn again and then suddenly great erotic rockets of joy were firing, filling her with the joy that passeth all understanding and she was coming and she was coming and she was coming!
It seemed endless and in spite of being filled with hot water-perhaps because of it, she was experiencing a totally new kind of turn on. As the lovely boy continued his rock and roll, his joyous licking and kissing of her tits, Clara suddenly realized that this prolonged orgasm bad not been the gut wrenching, soul-destroying ordeal she had experienced earlier this morning in the trailer, then later in her bedroom with a lovely red-haired bead between her legs.
It was a more gentle turn on but it lasted and lasted and lasted until it felt like she was coming sweetly, joyously, steadily for hours and hours and it felt so good she prayed the boy would never tire of this lascivious licking, this lovely erotic rock and roll that joined two bodies into one and opened the one true channel of communication between them.
She caressed the nape of his neck, she kissed his ears, she ran loving hands up and down his back, memorizing the hard-muscled contours of this lovely young body. And slowly the water gurgled out of the tub, slowly, an ounce at a time, his great swollen plunger pumped it into her until with each stroke she knew she couldn't contain another drop and yet with each plunge of that magnificent rod into her pussy he was driving still more hot water up in there to stretch her, to lave every crinkle and fold, to give her the most prolongedly satisfying turn-on she had experienced since -- since when? Since the last time he had worked his magic on her, she knew. She had never found any male of any age who was half the man this downy-cheeked boy with the first wispy hint of moustache was turning out to be.
The water gurgled and she felt a million tiny trickles as each crisp pubic hair sprang free and recoiled. Then there was only a tiny tingling trickle around their enjoined asses at the bottom of the tub. The boy stopped kissing her tits. He straightened up to fasten his mouth over hers. They kissed, then his tongue invaded her and she reciprocated and they swapped tongues with gay abandon until they were both gasping for air.
The boy reared back until their eyes could focus on one another. "Deezneelen?" he asked.
"Mmmmmmmmm!" Clara agreed.
Abruptly the boy pulled his cock out of her. Clara gasped. Like a broken fire hydrant her cunt gushed water, spewing and spilling as it emptied the accumulation the boy's cock had pumped into her. And suddenly as all that pressure emptied she felt her belly twist, knot, untwist, wind up in another direction as great erotic gusts of joy swept through her, racking her body until she was wailing and gasping in the deepest, most cataclysmic come she had ever experienced.
It went on and on, wrenching her, tearing her, driving her up the wall with uncontrollable, inexpressible joy as her cunt contracted, relaxed, squeezed again -- coming, coming COMING!
Still water gushed and gushed from her and she realized dimly that somehow this kingsized grandmother of all orgasms was connected with the sudden release of pressure, the gush of hot water from her vaginal canal. How, she wondered, could anything so simple feel so goooood?
She was still coming, great surges of erotic joy spurting in time to the tiny spurts of water that still remained inside her. She would empty completely, she knew, once she stood up. But for now she was still unable to stand, still fluttering and flitting from one orgasmic peak to the next, still purging herself of all the joy that lovely boy had pumped into her.
Finally she slumped, satiated. Wonder Boy had done it again: he had gone and driven her right out of her mind -- and just when she had thought all that gut wrenching soul tearing was over-just when she had been setting down to the lovely little turn-on of that low-keyed non-stop orgasm.
She looked blearily at the boy. He was bright-eyed and alert. He had not, she suddenly realized -- had not come! But she had. Had she ever!
And slowly it dawned on her what he had done. Why that little bastard! The boy had known all the time what he was doing to her, pumping her full of. hot water with his ineffable injector, slowly and carefully carpentering this situation until she had exploded in the most unexpected -- the most devastatingly delightfully prolonged spasm of joy she had ever experienced. That little bastard! Where, she asked herself, where had he ever learned a trick like that?
Some hot spring where the village boys and girls used to spend their spare time? Who could say. Someday if she could ever teach him to speak English maybe he could tell her. Meanwhile, what was more important was -- could he do it again?
What was she thinking? Not again! Not now -- not already, please. Tomorrow, the next day, a week from now maybe -- but not right now, please! But ooooohhh, had it ever felt good!
She still lay nerveless and exhausted in the bottom of the tub. Suddenly everything was going fuzzy around the edges and it seemed as if she was seeing the boy through two long pieces of pipe. She felt him lifting her to her feet and draping her over his shoulders until her superb thirty-nines were mashed into the hard muscles of his back. He was bending over, fiddling with something. Suddenly the full force of the cold water shower hit her without a single mitigating drop of hot. The boy pushed and prodded her until her entire body had been laved, shocked and tightened by the blast, then abruptly he turned it off and she was standing wide awake in the middle of the bathroom floor while he wiped her dry with a rough towel.
He led her into the bedroom and stretched her out. She was alert again, remembered that he had not come, knew that within seconds he would be atop her pouring it to her again. Oh Jesus! He disappeared into the bathroom again and then she realized after a moment that he was sponging up the spilled water, getting the remains of their underwater orgy down to manageable proportions. He really was a nice boy. Suddenly she was asleep.
When she awoke with a start minutes or possibly hours later she was alone. The boy had thrown a coverlet over her. Suddenly she was, sure it was over. He'd gotten all he wanted, all he needed. Now he had packed up and gone on his way toward new worlds, toward ever younger and tighter runts. Abruptly she felt the weight of her thirty-nine years.
And the most galling part of it, she suddenly realized, was that he had done that whole bathtub bit just for her benefit. The boy had not even come! Now she knew what it felt like to receive charity. She was suddenly ashamed. The boy had fucked the living daylights out of her in the trailer. And she had handed him a scythe and put him to work. He had licked, kissed and sucked her pussy into a raddled satiation she had never known before -- and she had introduced him to a lawnmower.
Jesus, she, thought in sudden understanding, no wonder he disappeared! He was too tired for any more work.
So it was over. Finished. She was alone in the world again, perhaps with her reputation none the worse, unless the neighbours had nothing to do. Tomorrow she would rest, fix her hair. And Monday she would go back to the office just as if nothing had ever happened. But people would know. For weeks, months maybe she would radiate the sleek satisfaction of a well-fucked woman. For weeks she would smile and be tolerant in. stead of snapping at the stupid, bungling girls who worked under her. They would know.
So to hell with them! But, she resolved, the next time some halfway acceptable male invited her to a weekend at his chalet or on his yacht she wouldn't be so snappish in her refusal. She might refuse but she would always leave an opening -- a little room for hope. For the first time she realized that for this last year since old Harry had disappeared, she had been so snappish, so standoffish that people who knew no better ... she wondered if some of those stupid, bungling girls were calling her a bull dyke behind her back. If ;they only knew ... and if she could only know, convince herself that they were not stupid, bungling girls. They were just young, still learning their way around life. She was going to try to be nicer to the poor kids.
But who was going to be nice to her? How long could she live on a memory? Already just thinking about that wonderful cock and all the things it had done to her she felt a little tendril of titillation deep in her belly -- deep up inside where vagina and womb join together, where the blunt knob on the end of his knocker had been pounding at the portals of her baby factory.
She sighed and got up and put on a peignoir and began checking the house. He was a man and therefore constitutionally incapable of housekeeping, but the boy had done a surprisingly good job of picking up and tidying. She went around putting things back in their proper places. undoing his well-meaning efforts at stowing household goods. To her surprise he had found the mop and, even more surprisingly, he had cleaned it and put it away again. God, if only she could keep this kind of a boy -- this kind of a man around the house indefinitely!
She remembered her lovely fine-spun fantasies, about marrying him or adopting him or whatever. He would be miles away by now. She wondered if once he had settled down and was rich and spoke good English and had greased a judge somewhere to make him a citizen -- would young Att remember her, his first piece of American cunt?
And she had thought they were communicating. He had learned a few words of English. She knew he was intelligent. Why hadn't he been smart enough to see what a good thing it would have been for him to stay here with her? Then she remembered how she had fucked him and worked him, fucked him and worked him. No wonder the boy had bugged out. He was intelligent. He had seen the pattern before she had.
Sadder but wiser, Clara made the rounds of the house checking doors and windows. The boy had been considerate enough to set the spring latch behind him even though he could not throw the deadbolt from outside without a key. He had been in civilization long enough to understand the need for locks.
She glanced out the kitchen window toward the trailer, across the newly mown backyard, realizing guiltily that now that he had scythed it, she had been planning on having him mow it tomorrow. Damn! She would mow it herself even if it killed her. Do it as penance for driving him away. Do it to exercise the tingling tickle that fluttered in her belly every time she thought about that lovely, golden-skinned boy.
Then, glancing out again -she saw what was funny, what had caught her attention the first time. The curtains on the trailer were all drawn but the little roof ventilator was open. Light was coming out of it.
Chapter Fourteen
Clara's heart leaped wildly, but then she realized she must have left the light on when she was in there scrubbing. The boy would have no reason to go back out there and sleep. Had she done anything to hint that he was not welcome in her house, in her bed, in her ass?
Then, thinking hard, she knew she had not left any light on. It had been broad daylight and with all the windows open she had had plenty of light in the trailer to-do whatever it was she had to do. She had cleaned up without any artificial light. She had managed to see every red hair of his pubic mound -- every blue vein on his hard, throbbing cock. ...
Somebody was out there in the trailer. Hadn't she locked it? Then she realized it had always been locked but that hadn't stopped the boy from getting in. Probably some simple trick with a piece of wire or plastic ... But the boy would be gone. Some other bum -- some other transient had moved in. Shit! She would have to sell that trailer. Probably the grapevine had already spread. Maybe every impecunious traveler for miles around knew about the free lodging in Clara's backyard. ...
But she'd had enough events in her life for one day. And she had worked her well-fucked ass off getting that trailer clean. She wasn't going to stand for somebody dirtying it up again before she could get it sold. She vent to her bedroom, to the closet, to the top shelf and rot the forty-five from where she had hidden it from he boy.
Then, remembering how she'd gone traipsing out there this morning in shorts and halter -- asking for it, she knew that beginner's luck would not last forever. This time she had better be prepared. She slipped out of her chenille peignoir, put on a pair of slacks and a no-nonsense blouse that fit loosely enough not to make her fine, firmly upstanding thirty-nines too provocative. She was going out there to chase an intruder off her property -- not to get fucked like the last time.
Pistol in hand and heart in mouth, she opened the back door and stepped out into the darkness. This time, at least, the grass and weeds were not so high that she was going to stumble over the lawn mower. She made her cautious way to the trailer. Would the door be bolted from the inside? What should she try first? Fling the door open and send his ass flying down the alley with her pistol? Or should she knock?
Finally, after several eternities she was there, poised before the trailer door with the heavy automatic in her right hand. She, was reaching for the latch when she heard low voices inside. She waited, listened, and they were speaking some foreign language. Shit! It wasn't enough to have one intruder. This town was not all that far from the border. She had herself a trailerful of wetbacks!
What to do? If she had a brain in her head she'd go back to the house and call the cops or the sheriff or whoever the law was this far out of town. But she was annoyed. All the work she'd put into cleaning that trailer and now a bunch of dirty sweaty men would be stinking it up with cigarette smoke and garlic and booze and come and ... how many were there?
She poised beside the door listening and finally decided there were only two voices engaged in low, earnest conversation. Then she suddenly realized something else. Clara didn't speak Spanish but she heard it every day on the radio and this didn't sound like Spanish. It didn't sound like any language she had ever heard.
She took the latch in her left hand, the pistol in her right, her courage in her teeth, and jerked the door open.
Inside, two men bare to the waist sat talking on the edge of the bed. They looked up, startled, then one's face relaxed as he saw who it was. "Clara," he said. "Deezneelen?"
It was the boy. What was his name -- Att? Sitting beside him was another boy with perhaps a year's head start on a moustache. Suddenly and instinctively Clara knew this was a shipmate. Instead of one, she now had two sailors on her hands who had jumped ship, who were in this country illegally, who would freeload on her as long as they could, who would expect her to cook and wash and slave for them and ... and bullshit!
She had no cause to complain. The boy had given value for money in plain hard work, not counting all those delightful fringe benefits. But Clara also knew that, though two's company, even in houses much larger than this trailer, larger than her bedroom, three usually tends to be a crowd.
They faced each other indecisively. "You Clara?" the strange older boy asked. "You Clara he say?"
She sighed and lowered the pistol. Something would have to be worked out. This strange boy was older. Maybe she could give him a meal, some money and send him on his way. Maybe he would -- could he be convinced to leave the younger boy behind with her? Out here in the backyard was no place to negotiate -- not where every neighbour with an open window could get an earful. She beckoned and said, "Come on into the house."
Silently, the boys turned out the light in the trailer and followed her. Inside her kitchen the trio stood again in that same awkward silence. "So you speak English," Clara finally said.
"Little bit," the older boy admitted.
"Have you eaten?"
The boy didn't understand.
"Are you hungry?"
"Hungry!" Att exclaimed. "Aaaaaaahhhh!"
"Oh, shut up!" Clara snapped. She saw it all stretch ahead of her: all the pitfalls, all the humiliations and embarrassments as her young stud shot off his mouth at the wrong times. Within two weeks, if she was not already in jail, she would be the laughing stock of the neighborhood. She firmly resolved that the next time she let a man younger than herself dip his wick in her, it was going to be a deaf-mute.
"Yess," the older boy admitted. "One day no food. Hungry."
It was the sort of appeal she could not deny. Clara got to her feet and began rummaging through the refrigerator for whatever the younger boy had left. She was going to have to visit a supermarket soon if this kept on.
Finally she scraped together an excuse for a meal and put it before the boy with the remainder of the bottle of wine. When he had slowed down to one mouthful at a time she asked, "Where are you boys from?"
They studied her with polite incomprehension.
"What country?" she asked. Still nothing but blank looks. She pointed to herself and said, "America." She pointed interrogatively at the boys.
"Aaaaahhh," her stud repeated, but this time she knew it was a sound of understanding. "Turku," he said.
So she was right: they were Turkish. But how come they were both red haired? The older boy was not quite so golden-colored but, she realized, that golden hue of her boy's skin was not from some dark-skinned southern race. He was a well-tanned northerner of some kind. A tiny suspicion passed through her mind. She left the kitchen and found an atlas. She flipped pages, found Turku and a cryptic page number. She flipped more pages and -- well, how about that! She took the atlas into the kitchen where Att still sat watching the older boy eat. She showed him the map. He nodded vigorously. So there it was: a hundred miles west of Helsinki, two hundred east of Stockholm. Turku was in Finland! No wonder the boy knew all those marvelous tricks with hot water and saunas and ... and now that she knew, what was she going to do about it? So her savage, primitive lover came from one of the more modern and industrialized countries of Europe! At least it wasn't a communist country. She wondered how hard it would be to fix him up legally. Then she realized he might not want to. Finland was not that bad a country. Probably the boys were off adventuring. Maybe they hadn't even jumped ship. Maybe they were hitchhiking students seeing the country. They could be anything.
But what was she? Apart from a fool, that is? A pretty full and complete fool, she guessed. And two boys that age -- she'd just bet the younger one had been filling the older one on all the juicy details of the prodigiously passive American lady who stood still while he undressed her, while he laid her down and fucked her ... Clara wondered if it were possible to die of shame.
The boys were still looking at her politely. The younger one was moving his lips, muttering to himself. Finally she realized what he was doing. He was rehearsing. "May I sleep tonight there in the caravan?" he asked. Given time to compose a sentence, his pronunciation was not bad at all.
Clara guessed she might as well surrender gracefully. She had been taken. And it wasn't the boys' fault. She had been ripe for plucking and the boy had been "hungry" and the chemistry had been just right and-and it was over now so she might as well play lady bountiful, play housemother and feed them and send them on their merry way toward new conquests. My, what stories of America they would be able to tell!
"Bath?" It was the boy who had screwed her. Saying it, he pointed at the older boy. "Bath Toivo?" be asked. She guessed that would be the other boy's name. She nodded and went to the bathroom to make sure there were towels and soap. The older boy nodded his thanks and went into the bathroom. He closed the door and a moment later she heard the shower. The younger boy stood up from where he had been watching the other boy eat. He followed her when she went into the' bedroom, watching as she changed her mind about hiding the pistol. She put it in a drawer of her nightstand.
"Hungry," he said. "Deezneelen!"
"No!" Clara snapped. "Not now. You'll have to wait until the other boy's moved on -- if he ever does."
It didn't do her a bit of good. Even if the younger boy had understood English, by now he was too busy undressing her.
Clara was amazed. She had put on heavy slacks and a no-nonsense blouse to go out there and chase away the intruder. And what good had it done her? She ought to slap his hands away, treat him like the horny adolescent he was, but instead she was just standing here while this golden-skinned boy, this 'savage' was undressing her. It was just like the first time out in the trailer when she had burst in on his nakedness, on his magnificent erection and he had put down the girlie magazine, gotten to his feet and calmly undressed her -- just as if there were not a strange boy taking a shower less than ten feet away!
My God, she thought, what's happening to me? They won't put me in jail when they find out what I've been doing. They'll come with white coats and nets!
Nervelessly, she put out her hands to fend him off. The boy didn't push her hands away or overpower her or hold her or anything. What he did was far more humiliating. He ignored her. Calmly, he continued unbuttoning her blouse. This one buttoned up the back so he had to do it with his arms around her. She could have put her hands on his chest and pushed him away. Like hell she could! She was as helpless as any pigeon facing a snake.
And her cunt was twittering and fluttering already with the knowledge that soon that snake, that great blunt headed, one-eyed worm in his crotch was going to split, her quiff again -- and again -- and it was going to be so good, and oh Jesus, the other boy was still in the bathroom, and what was he going to think?
If she knew anything about boys, they bragged so much, lied so constantly to each other that when the younger one -- when Att had told Toivo of his conquest the older boy had probably not believed him. But it would take a pretty torpid imagination not to guess there was some element of truth in the boy's stories if Toivo were to come out of the shower and find them both gone, the door to her bedroom bolted, the bed squeaking ... he was still fiddling with her blouse and Clara knew this was that absolute end. She couldn't help herself. Every time that wonderful boy touched her, her resolve and her will power turned to lovejuice and dribbled right out of her crotch. What was she going to do? If only she could sink through the floor and just die!
Maybe she ought to let him. Get out of her pants quick and let Att stick it in, shake, rattle and roll until he came and send the boy off happy. She supposed she owed him something after the lovely way he had worked her over -- pumped her full of hot water this afternoon. But of all the times! Could she risk a quick one before Toivo finished his shower?
She knew perfectly well she could not. Not with any boy who had the staying power of this stiff cocked Finnish phenomenon. He would pour it to her for an hour while Toivo sat politely in the other room waiting and then later they could compare notes and, yes, all those stories about American women are true. Sure they are.
He finally managed the last button of her blouse and peeled it forward off her shoulders to unveil her never-seen-a-bra thirty-nines. As he began kissing and nuzzling her lovely jugs, his hands went behind her again to seek out the waistband button of her slacks. In a moment she would be naked again. Once more she had dressed hurriedly -- only for a moment to chase somebody out of the trailer and when he got those no-nonsense slacks off she would be clad only in her flawless skin and the tight auburn ringlets of her pubic patch. And could she help it? Could she do anything about it?
No. She could not. Even now listening to the slightly changing sounds as the other boy moved about beneath the shower she knew that even if he were to come in here and watch, she might die of shame but she would die, she hoped, with this boy's wonderful, indefatigable erection sliding in and out of her suddenly thrumming, throbbing, passionflushed pussy. What a way to go!
She felt the sudden release of tension around her waist as he finally undid the button. His hand pulled down the zipper, then the slacks down over the smooth roundness of her ass with one fluid movement. Undoing his Levis with a quick flip of the wrist, he danced before her pulling them off while she knew this was her chance to push him while he was off balance -- her only chance to grab a robe and run screaming rape from the house before she sank hopelessly into this web of eroticism.
And of course she didn't do it. She couldn't. Wouldn't if she could -- not to a boy who had treated her as nicely as this lovely-cocked young stud. He stood before her naked, his golden-skinned body glistening in the dim light of her nightstand. His cock stood out from his body at a jaunty angle, swaying gently in time to his heart beat. He moved forward, embraced her, kissed her, poked his tongue deep into her mouth as he pushed her gently backwards down onto the bed. He climbed up on top of her. This time, she understood, he was going to do it strictly missionary position -- strictly poke and probe with that wonderfully indefatigable phallus that had driven her right out of her mind this morning in the trailer.
She felt the hot throbbing tip of his tool part the lips of her vulva. She heard the water in the shower stop running.
Chapter Fifteen
I'm going to die, she thought. I f he comes in here and catches me naked with this boy on top of me, doing over me I'll just die! How much time did she have? Time enough to buck off this stud and hasten into a robe? Time enough for him to finish? No such luck. This leisurely boy cocks man would take an hour or longer, by which time she would be so come-raddled she wouldn't know which end was up.
And she couldn't buck him off -- not even if she had the strength. She didn't have the will power. All her brains, all her will, all her strength of character turned into come and flowed right down her spine and out her pussy whenever this boy got within touching distance of her. And he was closer than that now. He had it halfway in.
He wasn't exactly ramming it but he was moving considerably faster than he had that first time when he had sent her through ten thousand heavens and hells before he even got it all the way in.
This time Att was going at it in a businesslike manner, pushing steadily and firmly as he drove his dong deep into her fluttery receptacle. Each time her labia puckered and tried to turn inside out and follow the dry shank of his shaft into her he would hesitate, pull it out a magic heart stopping millimetre, then slowly begin pushing again until once more her dry cunt lips clasped and folded over this blunt headed invader.
"Aaaaahhh!" the boy sighed, "Deezneelen!"
It was almost enough for Clara to hump her back and throw him out of bed. But what the boy lacked in vocabulary he made up for in cock. She felt his hammer still pushing, slowly penetrating her on its first stroke. For an instant, savoring the fine hot hard maleness that was filling her, she almost managed to forget about the shower that was no longer running.
But Clara was a woman -- something that every man who gazed upon those firm thirty-nines could not fail to notice. Being a woman, she could never, not even in the deepest throes of passion nor in the midst of orgasm-never could she forget to wonder at least momentarily what she looked like. What would people think? Which is why fucking has never really made it as a spectator sport, the fun being in the doing, and not in the watching. Clara, though perfectly willing to do it with this lovely boy, could not endure the thought of somebody watching.
Where was the other boy -- Toivo -- whatever his name was? He had finished showering. By now he must have towelled off. By now he must have had time to dress. Where was he? Was he in the kitchen politely waiting until they would make their reappearance? Was he prowling the house looking for them? Was he poised at a keyhole watching her every move -- memorizing the shape of her firm femininity? Where was the son of a bitch? What was he doing?
Att -- there was no mystery about what he was doing. He had finally driven his dong all the way into her, ground his crisp red ringlets against her auburn pubic patch, rested a moment, and now he was pulling out. Halfway out he hesitated, drove it back in again, did a tremendous grind that twisted the tip of his tool in a great circle that dragged her cunt with it, pushed all her insides this way and that and stretched her in delightfully unexpected ways. Now how could she stay mad at a boy who could. do a thing like that?
But where was Toivo? Where was that son of a bitch? Was he at the keyhole watching? He didn't have to. With any imagination he could pretty well work out what happened when a man and a woman went into a bedroom and locked the door. But ... maybe he thought they were changing clothes ... She almost laughed. Somewhere in the back of her mind was something she had read about American men taking their first sauna in Finland and being startled when a muscular woman stalked in, paying no attention to their nudity as she began to massage them.
Really massage, she meant -- not massage-parlor hanky-panky like they did in this country. Att still poised over her in missionary position, pouring his cock enthusiastically to her. This time there was no long slow torment. This time he was not taking forever just to get it in. This time he was giving her a solid, workmanlike job of straight fucking. And, even with her mind split several ways by the agony of wondering where the other boy was, she could not help being turned on by that round headed, heavy-veined hard thumping cock that was plunging into her, out of her, back in again with the comforting predictability of a metronome. If only she could stop worrying and wondering -- if only they were alone, she knew she would be able to relax and give this royal hosing she was receiving the close attention it deserved. But how could any woman pay attention to her fucking when another boy was prowling the house, maybe peeping through the keyhole or God only knew what?
How did whores get used to it, she wondered. How long would it take for a woman to be able to relax and not think about the next man waiting out in the hall? My God, what am I thinking? But as she thought about it, Clara suddenly knew with a sinking certainty that finally she had figured it out. She had also figured something else out too: whores didn't even pretend to themselves that they enjoy it. For a professional, fucking is just the line of work she happens to be in.
But Clara knew now what the boys had been talking about. Att had stumbled onto a sure thing; had caught her at her weakest moment after a year of hugging pillows. He had gotten it into her and he had hooked her just as securely as if his marvellous cock had been a hypo full of horse. And boys being even more inclined to share secrets than girls, of course Toivo knew. Of course Toivo knew what they were up to in the bedroom right now. And of course Toivo had taken a bath so as to diplomatically get himself out of the way long enough for the younger boy to get things started. And of course Toivo had taken a bath for another obvious reason. He wanted to be clean and fresh when he came in one door ready to stick it into her before the boy so energetically sounding out her well at the moment could even get well out of the other door.
Jesus, she thought, if just one boy has worn me silly, what will two of them do? Will Toivo turn out to be the same kind of super stud this lovely boy is? Will they give me time in between to get up and douche? My God, how did I ever get myself into this? Twelve hours ago I was a respectable woman!
She still was, she guessed -- until somebody found out. So she might as well enjoy it. The boy was really doing a first rate job, long, slow, steady strokes with the faithful regularity of an oil-well pump. She tried not to think, to blank out her mind to everything but the joyful nonintellectuality of flesh contacting flesh, sliding into flesh, poking and probing as his sock pushed her insides apart and filled her with delightful little shivers of the joy that does not require analysis or explanation. Truly, she knew, this was the only joy that passeth al understanding.
Slowly and imperceptibly Att was shifting position on her, still pouring his lovely blunt instrument to her but oozing off to one side, cramping himself into what must be a horribly uncomfortable position. Finally he grabbed her ass and shifted her and at last Clara understood what he was up to. There was an awkward moment of twisting, turning and rearranging and then they lay on their sides, facing one another, with Att kissing her firm thirty-nines, licking her nipples back into joyous erection. And he had managed it all with out breaking the vital connection between cock and cunt.
He was still feeding her long, deep, steady strokes kissing her tits on their tender undersides, licking he nipples, caressing her ass, her tits, poking a playful finger at her twittery anus until she could feel her body building slowly but surely toward the first plateau on that mountain of pleasure that he was piling up inside her willing body.
It felt so good she had almost managed to forge about the other boy. But not quite. He was wandering alone somewhere in this house and his mere presence kept boring little holes in the fragile barque of he pleasure until finally she was forced to admit to herself that it was just no good. Att's lovely cock and his hard muscled, golden-skinned body were as delightful a ever -- as this morning in the trailer. But no matter how deeply she might be entwined in the coils of lust, Clara just could not forget about that other boy who might be doing literally anything. She knew that, though it was nice to lie here and be fucked, Att could hump himself blue in the face, could pound himself into dry bagged idiot and she was never going to come again until she found out where Toivo was -- what he was dog.
Could he have gone back to the trailer and to sleep? Fat chance. No stiff pricked young man was going to go off to a lonely bed when there was cunt around. And that was what she was, Clara knew -- just cunt. She might as well admit it to herself. What difference did it make? There was nothing chauvinistic about it, she realized with a sudden flash of insight. After all, what was this lovely golden-skinned boy -- without that lovely permanent press-cock what would he be to her? He was cock and she was cunt and why couldn't she turn off her mind and enjoy it?
Because that son of a bitch of a Toivo had appeared like a snake in her Eden -- making her totally aware of the difference between a couple and a crowd. She had to find out where he was-had to do something to neutralize him If only she could send him off back out to the trailer with some vague hint of a promise of tomorrow, or next week -- or next year. If only she knew where he was. She hadn't even locked the bedroom door. What chance had she had with Att pushing her backwards through it, undressing her, kissing her, caressing her with his hot little hands and turning her brains into peanut butter?
He was still pouring it to her. He was kissing her tits, licking and sucking her nipples into pink glowing cherries. He was caressing every inch of her body, running a tickling finger into her crotch and tapping her asshole. It would all be so good if only she could flip a switch and disconnect the worrying portion of her mind. Where was Toivo?
Was the son of a bitch peeking through a keyhole? Or was he doing something totally innocent like watching TV or thumbing through a magazine looking at the pictures and trying to puzzle out the captions? If only she knew she would be able to stop worrying, stop dividing her attention, devote her heart, her soul, her cunt to the lovely golden-skinned boy who was pouring his magnificent prod so gallantly to her.
Att seemed vaguely puzzled and she could guess why. Always before, by this time he would have provoked her into a series of orgasms and she would have been wailing, shrieking and yodeling her joy unconfined. Now she was just resting quietly on her side, getting fucked, letting him work his will with her but the boy could sense that her heart was not in it, no matter how deep he got into her. For the first time he seemed suddenly no older than he probably was. The supreme and godly self-confidence had disappeared and he was just another firm bodied boy, doubtful of his powers, praying he would be able to satisfy the goddess who had deigned to accept his humble offering.
Good, she thought with half of her mind. Let him suffer a while for what he did to me., But she knew there was no joy in this kind of revenge. The name of the game was pleasure, not one-upsmanship. If only she could find out what Toivo was up to, maybe she could put him out of her mind and devote her whole attention to this lovely pastime. It was such a waste -- all that lovely hard maleness passing through her, in and out, in and out, and she had to waste her time worrying about a boy she couldn't even see.
What was she going to do? This could go on all night. Or could it? Maybe the younger boy's magnificent hard-on would disappear along with his confidence, both deflating like a pricked balloon. It would be a tragedy. It shouldn't happen to this lovely boy -- no matter how he had made her suffer. She knew she didn't want to see him humiliated or defeated. She wanted to see him go through life triumphant, cock ever stiff as he stuffed it into one happy woman after another. The boy was too valuable to waste. He should be declared a national resource.
But she was wasting him. Clara was on her side, letting him do what he wanted to her superb body. But she was not putting her heart and soul into it. It was a sin not to use that lovely cock to its fine firm fullest. But what was she going to do?
She felt like crying. Here she had all the ingredients for a long friendly fuck -- not one of those orgiastic sweepstakes like out in the trailer. She knew now that the boy had plenty of reserve power, that he could nurse his hard-on along for hours. She should be nursing it, enjoying it, milking it, making him drive into her harder, deeper. Instead, she was just taking it and giving him about as much pleasure as some uninspired handmaiden.
Maybe she ought to buck him off, switch ends and start gobbling him. Even if she didn't really feel able to give him her undivided attention, Clara was sure she could take that lovely lance in her mouth and lick it, suck it, swallow it until the boy would be relieved of his burden and go away happy, perhaps even fooled by a convincing simulacrum of unbridled passion.
Damn! This could go on forever. And she wasn't getting one bit of enjoyment out of it. No matter how lustily he was pouring it to her, she couldn't stop thinking, worrying. Where was Toivo? Of all the crazy predicaments! This morning she had awakened drenched in sweat and the wasted juices of love. For a year she had mooned about alone, unable to bring herself to make the tiny effort that would have brought some willing stud to share her loneliness.
It was feast or famine, like everything else in life -- some sort of erotic Parkinson's Law, she guessed. First she had had nothing. Then for an unmercifully brief interval she had had one lovely cock. And now, before she had time to get used to her sudden good fortune, she had two -- too many cocks. What was she going to do?
Att was still pouring it to her, accelerating his beat as his confidence evaporated. He could not understand why she was not responding to the same poking, the same licking and kissing that had reduced her to a puddle of melted passion earlier today. Abruptly, his face came off her tits and he stretched up to kiss her. Clara kissed back, trying to show enthusiasm. She let the boy's tongue invade her. She had to do something to satisfy him.
If only she knew where Toivo was. She didn't really give a damn where he was any more. By now he could hardly kelp guessing what his young companion was doing to her in a closed bedroom. But she would not be able to rest until she knew where he was. Where was the son of a bitch?
Att was still pouring his lovely stiff prick to her, kissing her and swapping tongues, doing his level best to turn her into a pool of passion. Where was the other boy? She felt hands cupping her tits as he kissed her and poured his cock to her. Now how did he manage to twist his arms that way? The hands were playing with her tiny nipples, twiddling them into rock hardness. But Att had his arms around her, was hanging on for dear life as he wham bammed his cock into her.
Suddenly Clara knew where the extra hands had come from. Now she knew where Toivo was.
Chapter Sixteen
I'm going to die! If I don't just fall right through the mattress and through the floor I'll kill myself! It was even worse than she had expected. If they had any feelings, any respect at all for her the boys would at least have preserved appearances. One of them should have diplomatically stayed out of sight until the other had finished. Give her time at least for a douche, maybe a quick shower before the next came sidling into her bedroom. She had thought the ultimate in horror, the most unthinkable thing she had ever been able to imagine would be one boy coming in one door to stick his thing in her while the other boy was going out the other door.
But this ... she was in bed on her side facing a boy. He was kissing her, had his cock in her pussy, his tongue in her mouth, his arms round her waist. And now Toivo had managed to sneak into the room-into her bed without her even knowing it. She felt his hard muscled arms encircle her from behind, felt his hands clasp over her tits and suddenly -- it was better.
At least she knew now. At least there was no more uncertainty or wondering. He wasn't sneaking around peeping through keyholes. He was right here. She couldn't do anything about it now. She might as well accept it, live with it, try to learn how to enjoy it. What could he do, apart from fondle whatever part of her the younger boy didn't happen to be handling at the moment?
She guessed she might as well get used to seeing him as a substitute player -- a reserve of some sort. This, she supposed, was his warm-up.
As he snuggled closer she felt herself sandwiched between two hard young bodies. Momentarily -- fatuously, she realized -- she wondered if Toivo was properly suited up for this sport. As he snuggled closer she felt the firm muscles of his chest and belly against her back. Then as his cock began thumping against her ass Clara's last doubt was removed. Toivo was ready to take over the instant Att faltered.
Att did. Without warning he pulled his prodigious prod out of her with an audible 'thuck' like a champagne cork. Abruptly he was gone. Before Clara quite realized what was happening Toivo had turned her over on her back in missionary position again and was pushing his prod into the space recently vacated by his friend.
This isn't really happening, Clara told herself. It's just one of those awful dreams I've been having ever since old Harry bugged out. Soon I'll wake up with a mess between my legs and a headache and it'll be Monday and my hair will be a mess and I'll have to use up three cans of spray and the girls in the office will be giving each other those looks all day and -- oh shit!
Slowly, as she felt the weight of the older boy atop her, felt his first enthusiastic full-depth plunge as his cock made easy going down a trail broken by his younger companion -- slowly Clara decided it was for real. No dream could be this sustainedly dismal. And the crazy thing about it was, suddenly she was turfing on-now that she knew where the other boy was -- now that the worst had happened, her body was asserting some older, prelogical wisdom and living for the moment.
And now that she thought about it that way, what was wrong with the moment? Toivo was a year or two older than Att, with the wispy beginnings of a moustache. His body was slightly more mature, his muscles more corded and rocklike. He was an inch or two taller, and to her sudden delight she realized his cock, now bottoming out on that first joyous plunge, had gone into her at least an inch deeper than the first boy's. She wondered if he would have the same phenomenal staying power.
He was in so deep that, even with Att's careful preparation, she could feel Toivo's tool pushing deep, deep into her, stretching her vagina to its utter limits, poking at the portals of her womb as the boy bottomed out, held for a teeth clenching, cliffhanging moment while his cock fluttered 'and thrilled, teetering on the edge of orgasm. The boy's whole body was rigid, like a bull which has just sensed la estoca slipping past its shoulder blade and the first imitations of mortality.
They held together, clenched in a moment of frozen ecstasy as the boy's body struggled to survive, struggled not to fire its precious load prematurely.
Finally Clara felt the first tiny hint of relaxation and an instant later the crisis had passed. Toivo would manage one more stroke at least -- one more soul stirring plunge into her tunnel of love before he lost control and love's elixir came gushing forth in great blurting, spurting, hurting jets of joy undeferred.
They held together, not knowing, for another minute and as her mind and body rested from the incessant erotic assault Clara found time to wonder what had happened to her first lover. He hadn't come. He had pulled out of her with his cock still in full fighting trim. Now how many boys of his age would break off in the midst of the rites of love?
Toivo gave a long, heartfelt sigh of relief as his spasm passed. He risked moving, cautiously pulling his rod halfway out of her. When the joy was not unbearable in its intensity he pulled out the rest of the way until his cock was barely in her, its joyously throbbing and thumping head giving a happy little tingle to the parted lips of her vulva.
Having accepted the worst, Clara guessed she might as well be happy. Another inch was bound to be a new experience. She wondered if it would be possible for her to scale the dizzying slopes of Passion Peak with Toivo -- if with his extra inch he would be able to do anything the younger boy had not been able to do.
I'm getting tired, she realized. This morning I'd've melted at the thought of a hard young boy getting into me. And now I've had two of them and it's nice -- nobody will ever be able to say a bad word about fucking-but it's not mind blowing nice. Just comfortable. Somewhere with the back of her mind she heard water start running in the shower.
So that was where the younger boy with the still unreduced local swelling was-pouring water over it. Why had he pulled out so suddenly? Had it been politeness -- knowing his friend had gone without far longer than the few hours since Att had last had it in her? Greater love hath no man, she guessed.
Toivo, after his first spasm and near disaster, was settling down and doing a creditable job of poking. She relaxed -- what was the use getting all uptight about it? She had been fucked by one boy. Now she was getting fucked by the other. Or, to put it another way, she had used one boy and was now using the other. It depended on which way the chauvin ismed.
It made no difference at all to her pussy, she realized. That happy little passion pocket was wrapping itself around Toivo's super length prod with a sudden joyous enthusiasm just as if she hadn't been screwed to within an inch of her sanity only hours ago. She lay back with mild surprise, knees flexed, thighs wide apart to accommodate the lusty, lunging male above her.
The waltz, she guessed, had made its way from the Danube to the Baltic, for the older boy was also giving her that old one-two rhythm: a deep thrust, two short quick jabs, and then another full deep one that sounded the depths of her being, stretched her vagina to its thrumming utmost, and was slowly but surely sending her climbing up the by now familiar trail toward the summit peak.
It felt good. It felt so good that before she could stop herself she felt her insides do a lovely little flip-flop. Her smooth cunt muscles contracted spasmodically, squeezing and milking at Toivo's tool. He gasped, gritted his teeth, and for a moment stopped the steady waltz beat of his one-two feints and plunges.
And Clara's happy little orgasm went on and on -- low keyed but mellow. It was as if finally all the slowly built-up tensions and unresolved strains from these marathon fuck fests were finally fusing, melting and flowing out of her. My God, she thought, if I keep on just coming and flowing and coming and flowing this way I'll be so sloppy -- so loose that even Toivo won't want me.
But the older boy was still on the first lap of his orgiastic marathon and if he was unhappy with crotch conditions he gave no sign. He seemed happier, if anything. Clara guessed the boy had done without so long that he was hairtriggered and grateful for anything that would lessen the erotic impact of firm female flesh surrounding the hot throbbing tip of his tool.
If he was happy she was happy. It was nice, she decided, to surrender and not worry and just let things happen -- as long as they were nice things like the extra inch that was plowing erotic furrows across the dark fields of Venus. To hell with wondering about tomorrow, about what the neighbours would think! To hell with making silly plans about marriage or adoption or whatever! She was going to lie back and close her mind to everything except the wonderful smooth feel of flesh -- hot hard male flesh sliding in and out of her cunt.
It felt so good -- even better, now that she had been thoroughly and completely fucked for the first time in her life. She realized suddenly that in her thirty-nine years she had never felt this way before. This, she finally understood, was gourmet fucking. Always before, even at the best periods in her life, she had been half starved, and people on a subsistence diet do not pick and choose. They devour anything that comes along, not stopping to taste or chew. She was -- had been in the same fix, so desperate for fulfillment that whenever a cock had gone into her she had ached and strained, struggling to come as many times as possible before that cock's owner expired in embarrassment and ejaculation -- unable to control his load when -confronted with the sight and feel of her firmly onward and upward pointing thirty-nines.
Now Clara didn't care whether she came or not. She had had so many orgasms in the last few hours -- great gut wrenching cataclysms, happy little shivers -- every possible change had been rung on the chimes of her passion-hungry body. And now that she was fucked out, satiated, didn't really care whether she ever came or not, she could lie back, relax, do nothing at all but just close her eyes and savor the dessert -- the fine firm feel of yet another boy, harder muscled, longer cocked, giving her his youthful all. She didn't care if Toivo took all night. She could take it. Oh my, could she ever take it! Toivo, she decided, with his boyish eagerness and his fine hard body was gourmet fucking at its finest.
But what had ever happened to the meat and potatoes? She remembered how abruptly Att had pulled out the meat -- how suddenly those two potatoes were no longer swinging happily, banging her ass with each stroke like the clappers of some great erotic gong. To hell with him. She closed her mind, determined to savor to its fullest the fine firm pushing that Toivo was giving her. Somewhere in the back of her mind she sensed, through a glass darkly, that the water in the shower was no longer running.
Stop worrying, she told herself. No matter where he is or what he's doing, it doesn't make a bit of difference. There were no more secrets. To hell with it! Let's fuck! No more pretty words or fancy euphemisms. When a woman had her belly wrapped around a man's erection, that was not coition or copulation. It was not intercourse or making love -- what did love have to do with it? It was not coupling nor was it performing a sex act -- who the hell was acting? This was for real! And the only real word for it in the only language Clara felt at home in was: FUCKING!
It was an honourable word of ancient and noble lineage, one of the oldest words in the English language, possibly because people have been fucking together longer than they have been programming computers or going to the moon. It was a word of indestructible vitality, having survived centuries of Christian persecution, even in its more virulent forms of Protestantism and Victorianism. Despite having been denied its rightful place in the dictionaries, the word continued undiminished. Could any bluenosed censor actually pretend, even to himself, that despite all these efforts at excision from the language- quite simply, was there anywhere in the world one single English speaker above the age of four who did not know exactly what fuck meant?
The word was here to stay. So was the deed. And Toivo was doing the deed -- fucking nobly -- driving his dick deep, deeper, deepest into her delectable duff, doing his Finnish finest not to finish before her fine furburger had its full of his Finnish phallus.
It was lovely. It could go on forever. It had already, she realized, been going on for a very respectable interval. Had the boy been feeding her that old one-two rhythm for five minutes or fifty? She didn't know. She didn't care. She was in no frantic rush to scale Mount Orgasm. She would take his tool as long as the boy could or would give it. And when he was finished she would kiss him and drift off into happy dreamless sleep.
She knew that for once she would not dream, not those horrible gut wrenching dreams that always left her feeling empty anyway, not those dreams where she awoke sweaty and sheet-entangled, cunt dripping, and the fine firm feel of a phallus inside her gone with the insubstantiality of fairy gold. For once she would go to bed happy, satiated, to dream of nothing, or to dream of whatever it is happy people dream of. My God, she suddenly realized, this is the first time in my life that I've ever been happy!
Toivo was happy too. She could sense the firmness of his cock, teetering on the tender edge of disaster as the boy paced himself, still feeding her his steady one-two in the same erotic waltz beat that the younger boy had used this morning to drive her up the walls of her trailer and make her float right up off this bed. My, what a lovely pair of boys! She wondered if there were possibly some way she could keep both of them. What was their legal status? If they were tourists or some such they wouldn't be risking arrest by camping out in her trailer. They had to be on the run from something. Had they jumped ship?
She reminded herself that she was not going to think about things like this. She was going to relax and enjoy Toivo, savor him to his inch-longer fullest. If Att felt like pulling out and heading for the showers halfway through the game, that was his loss. She had a spare cock.
Then, she felt another hard muscled male body slide into bed beside her, Clara abruptly remembered that she had two.
Chapter Seventeen
In a way it seemed a dreadful waste, Clara decided. Here the world was full of worthy and deserving women who didn't even have one cock -- and she had two! Verily, it was feast or famine. But, she decided as she felt that magnificent hard body slide in beside her, at least it could be worse. She could have none at all.
But what was going to happen now? Were they going to make a relay race out of it -- each boy do a lap and pass on the flaming torch without firing his load? Good God, she thought. Taking time out to eat and sleep in between, they could turn it into a marathon! She wondered what it would be like to lie here for days, maybe even weeks, being slowly, steadily, constantly fucked by two indefatigable studs.
Her worst fears were realized when she felt Toivo begin to shift position. He grabbed her ass to keep from breaking the vital connection as he reared back from his missionary position atop her. After some complicated footwork they were still plugged in, more or less in the same rock-and-roll position she and the younger boy had enjoyed in the tub when he had pumped her full unto bursting with hot water. But this time they were farther apart, his legs beside her, one under a thigh and the other over as they lay head to foot, half crossways and still plugged in. Toivo gave a couple of experimental shoves and then he was pushing steadily away -- no longer giving her the old one-two waltz rhythm. Now he had changed to a steady no-nonsense in and out, in and out, pouring his magnificent muffin-stabber deep into a suddenly tightened pussy. Now that she was no longer split wide open to accommodate his muscular waist between her thighs nature had taken its course. Toivo gasped and strained, struggling to contain himself against this suddenly heightened and intensified pleasure surrounding his throbbing prick.
She could feel its sudden swelling to rock hardness as the head of his hammer throbbed and thumped deep inside her. For an instant she thought he was going to be out of the race, would have to surrender his position to the younger boy. But he gritted his teeth and clenched the cheeks of his ass and finally after a long tense moment Toivo was once more pouring his cock to her with long deep strokes, giving her slightly more of a tum-on in her newly tightened position than Clara really wanted. If he kept this up very long she would find herself in the middle of one of those leg-waving, wailing-and-shrieking orgasms again, and she really didn't want that -- did she?
Now what on earth was the other boy doing? He was swarming over her like seven sailors on Cinderella liberty, fondling her thirty-nines, swapping tongues, managing somehow to rub his hard, golden-skinned body against every square inch of her that was not being penetrated or otherwise carnally used by Toivo and his fine Finnish phallus.
Whatever happened to the long leisurely turn-on of a moment ago? Suddenly Clara realized she still had things to learn about the amatory arts. And imagine a woman of her age having to learn them from two boys! Att had showered and freshened up but as he approached her obliquely, missionary position and half on top of her but of necessity coming from the opposite direction so as not to interfere with Toivo, who had taken possession of her legs, her ass, her suddenly aroused pussy -- Att was coming at her from above. She felt the warmth radiating from the flat hardness of his belly as he oozed down to lick and kiss her firm thirty-nines, to suck her tiny nulliparous nipples into throbbing erection as he darted rapidly back and forth from one thrumming pink aureole to the other.
Clara felt the gathering storm inside her and knew with a mixture of relief and sadness that the fine, calm, augustan fucking of a few moments ago had been just one more illusion. She had still not experienced everything. Would there be enough time in one life to learn everything possible about the amatory -- there she went with those funny words again. Amatory arts indeed! She was talking about fucking -- the strong silent kind Toivo was feeding her, pulling out almost all the way, then slowly but surely sliding back together, his thighs intertwined with hers and her legs, her ass, her whole lower body suddenly joined in a contact several times closer and more intimate than missionary position.
It was funny. She was thirty-nine. She should be teaching these boys. She considered herself an educated woman, wise in the ways of the world. Yet, she had learned more in the last twelve hours than she had in the previous thirty-nine years. She had always thought fucking was something that involved a man sticking it into a woman and struggling to keep it in for a few minutes. She had permitted an occasional furtive blow job as a variation on the theme. How could she have known all the wonderful positions, the variations and kinks she had been missing out on all these years?
There ought to be a school, she suddenly realized. Fucking was too important, too delicate and complex an art to be learned from amateur bunglers.
But her thoughts wandered from what ought to be back to what was: one boy pouring it to her, his hands on her ass and on her belly, caressing her thighs, squeezing, tickling, rubbing every square inch he could reach. From the waist down Clara felt as if she were being felt up by seven horny little men. Had Snow White ever experienced a night like this?
Meanwhile back at the ranch, Att was swarming over her from the waist up, kissing her tits, licking her nipples and aureoles, caressing her flanks, retreating occasionally to swap tongues with her for a long heart stopping minute while his hands never stopped their roving inventory of her thrumming body, caressing, feeling, tickling and memorizing as busily as Toivo's cock was doing its utmost to churn her insides into a passionate pudding of desire.
Toivo's busy hands were everywhere his cock was not, running a loving fingertip around the marble-hard protuberance of her clit, tickling her perineum, tapping her twittery asshole until she didn't know whether to giggle or scream with hysterical delight.
And only a few moments ago she had thought she was satiated -- fucked-out and ready to relax and play a passive role, be a good fellow while the boys had their fun. Jesus! How little she knew the body she had been living in for the last thirty-nine years! Now what was Att up to?
The younger boy, trailbreaker for this titillating team, was moving farther down, kissing and licking the undersides of her firm thirty-nines. Then he was nuzzling her midriff, caressing her flanks with a tenderness that was perilously close to a tickle. He progressed down her body in lascivious peregrination until he was kissing the gentle swell of her belly, augering his tongue into her navel. Now how had she managed to live all these years without ever finding out what a man's tongue felt like in there? Oooohhh, she suddenly learned. It felt much nicer than she had expected. She was learning new things all the time.
She felt that old feeling rise in her belly, assaulted by Att's tongue from the outside and Toivo's cock from the inside. How could there be so much erotic delight in one frail body? She had never guessed the depth, the height of joys available within herself. She was going to come again. She knew it. Not just another happy little tremor, shiver and tickle like she had been having with first Att's, then Toivo's thrusting cock. She was building up for another big one. And then, belatedly, she finally understood what Att was up to.
She should have known, she guessed. After all, it was fairly obvious that, with Clara on her back and Att approaching her from the top, if his face traveled past hers, across her tits and midriff until he was almost nuzzling her pussy -- stopped short only by Toivo's cock already in there -- where was the younger boy's prodigious prod liable to end up? So now she knew why he had taken the trouble to go shower and freshen up after he had pulled it out of her so suddenly.
Toivo was out of reach. She could feel his cock in her, his ass banging against hers, but only his feet were within reach. Att filled the gap, hovering over her where she could feel his tongue licking her navel, fell his hands memorizing the contours of her firm, skyward pointing jugs, and feel the hardmuscled maleness of his belly directly above her. Then as he scooted another few inches downward she was confronted with the essence of masculinity as his freshly washed, heavy-veined, permanent-press cock pointed downward toward her face like an accusing finger.
It was not too difficult for Clara to figure out what was expected of her. I should have known it, she realized. After all, she had heard stories about orgies. She had grown up in an era when dirty stories were whispered in the parlor and in the kitchen. During the last twenty years she had seen the dirty joke achieve full emancipation and acceptance in mixed company. But she had never gotten over a childish belief that they were just that -- dirty jokes. Until this minute when Clara found herself stretched out on her own bed that same bed where she had spent a year's worth of empty, solitary nights -- until now she was plugged in, with a young man's superbly endless cock driven deep into her, pounding steadily at the portals of her womb-even then she had not really believed until now the possibility of still another cock pointed at her like Uncle Sam's finger in the I WANT YOU poster.
It was unbelievable. It was ridiculous. Suddenly she had to struggle not to erupt in endless shrieking hysterical laughter. Of all the crazy situations! Never, not in her most secret thoughts, not even in the warped, prelogical world of her dreams had she ever imagined herself with one cock up her cant and another in her mouth -- down her throat.
She was suddenly overcome with an -attack of prudery. Of all the times to go respectable, she thought. It was crazy. This was no time to go having second thoughts. She knew now that, from the moment she had walked out to that trailer with a pistol-with halter and shorts -- everything had been slowly building toward something like this. She had nobody to blame but herself. She could have sent the first boy flying down the alley. She could have shot him. She could have called the police. Instead, she had played with fire. She had gotten burned. Now she was going to get incinerated.
She had to open her mouth and accept Att's offering. No matter that Toivo could see everything. Toivo would be more interested in his own problems down there in cunt country. Toivo would be concerned with the smooth sensual feel of flesh on flesh, in flesh, sliding in and out, in and out. He would not be interested in what Att was doing -- she hoped.
Clara struggled to open her mouth, to accept the offering that dangled above her, waving gently back and forth in time to the younger boy's steady heartbeat. She could see it perfectly, make out every heavy vein on shank and foreskin. She could see the purple tip of his knob peeping angrily from inside the tight stretched prepuce, waiting for her lips, her teeth and tongue to liberate it from its dermal prison.
She was paralyzed. What, she wondered, was wrong with her? But she knew. Two's company, three's a crowd. My God, are they ever crowding over me, feeling me, caressing, squeezing, pulling, poking, kissing, licking ...
Did Snow White feel like this in that coffin in the forest waiting for a lover to come along and kiss her back into life? But Clara was already being kissed and licked, caressed, fucked and sucked past the point of no return. Why couldn't she respond to this boy's simple need? Why was she suddenly coming on like a reluctant virgin?
She had to do something soon or Att would be annoyed. And annoyed, this independent boy might withdraw from the game, taking his marvellous permanent press cock with him. She had to do something quick. Why couldn't she open her mouth, take that lovely lance through her lips, close lips and teeth oh-so-gently and force that tight-stretched prepuce back down around the shank to unveil his tremendous, purple throbbing glans penis in all its male glory? All she had to do was open her mouth, let it in, wrap lips and tongue around it and do her homely bit toward spreading a little kindness. The boy would do the rest.
Already he was augering his tongue unbelievably into her navel, caressing her flanks, her tits, twiddling her nipples into rock hardness while Toivo's cock performed in yeoman fashion, aided by his knowledgeable hands titillating her clit, tickling her anus, doing everything humanly possible to send her floating off on a cloud of pink frothed passion. So why couldn't she open her mouth?
Att's hands were on her jugs, memorizing their firm contours, tweaking her nipples until she wanted to giggle and shriek and kick her legs and ...
Suddenly his hands left her tits, progressed down midriff and spread to her ticklish flanks. Suddenly ten fingers were digging in brutally; counting ribs, she remembered they used to call it when she was a little girl.
She gave an involuntary yelp and giggle. It was her last. Att's tremendous, hard throbbing round headed cock went smoothly into her mouth, filling it as neatly as a stopper going into a bottle, and abruptly she was too busy with other things to worry about the fingers in her ribs.
Just as abruptly, the boy stopped tickling her and Clara understood then that he had done it on purpose, just to make her open her mouth. Damn him! That boy couldn't be less than twenty years younger than she was. What business did he have knowing all those tricks, always being two jumps ahead of her? It was humiliating.
But, she had to admit as she felt Toivo's lengthy lance sliding steadily in and out, as she felt her mouth suddenly filled with more rampant masculinity -- it was also fun.
She pursed her lips, closed her jaws with micrometer carefulness until her teeth were imperceptibly digging into the tight-stretched foreskin that surrounded the hot throbbing knob of Att's principal attraction. Immediately his prepuce surrendered, slid smoothly back in accordion folds and bunched round the shank of his heavy-veined hammer. She felt the sudden throb and swell as the boy reacted to the warm wet femininity surrounding him.
One more sensation until she felt as if some priapic god was piling erotic thrill atop lascivious lick atop prurient passion with a pitchfork. She felt herself slipping, inundated beneath the sheer richness of sensation as thrill after joyous, throbbing thrill coursed through her pulsating body. And she had been tired!
She wrapped her lips lovingly around Att's lance, laved its blunt head with her tongue, did her humble best to make his thumping invader feel at home in her oral regions. Then as the younger boy began slowly but steadily thrusting, she realized exactly where she was: flat on her back, the back of her head planted solidly on the mattress. There was no retreat from the mountain of maleness that was pushing ever closer to her face, ever deeper down her throat.
She remembered that movie everybody talked about but she had never seen. If Miss Lovelace could do it, Clara determined that she could. All it took was an ability to relax. She might as well relax. What else could happen after this? She struggled not to struggle. She managed to get a good deep breath, then concentrated on not tightening up. She tried to think pure thoughts, to relax, to pretend this was just a large piece of unchewed meat that she had to swallow.
It didn't work. This was live meat. She might swallow all right, but it was only going to go so far down and then it would start coming right back out but even then it would not come out in violent ejection. Att's splendidly hard headed cock was going to slide into her mouth, past her tongue, past her palate and down her throat right to the point where she could just get to swallowing.
Chapter Eighteen
Clara swallowed. Nothing happened. She swallowed again, knowing it wasn't going to work, but unable to control her body's instinctive reaction to something big halfway down her throat.
It was crazy. Here she was, dying -- half choking to death and yet she was getting a turn-on like never before as Toivo played with clit and asshole, not missing a stroke in his steady driving up her pussy. She felt herself suddenly coming, her belly knotting and twisting, strands breaking as she burst into a sudden, soulsatisfying gush of joyous ejaculation, every organ in her reproductive train dripping with an abrupt seepage of love's elixir.
But an orgasm in her belly was not reducing the swelling in her throat. There was only one way she would ever get this great thumping hunk of masculinity out of her mouth, she knew, pinned down this way on the mattress. She had to reduce the swelling and make him pull it out.
She swallowed, but instead of going down, his cock began sliding back up out of her, past her palate, past her jaws until its throbbing tip was barely touching her lips. Then suddenly it was coming back in again. Just in time Clara remembered to breathe. She felt it sliding into her and noted something oddly familiar. Finally she realized that Att and Toivo were still working on a one-two waltz beat, only now Toivo was feeding her two firm full length leisurely lunges with his cock up her pussy to every one of Att's super slow, stop-action waltz beats down her throat.
It felt so good she wanted to giggle and scream, to wave her legs like a demented octopus, to pull him in deeper, harder, faster. She didn't have to do that to Att. He already had it down her throat so deep the crisp red ringlets of his pubic patch were pressing against her chin, squeezing her lips against her teeth every time that hot, throbbing hunk of masculinity poked past her palate and down her throat.
She thought she was getting the hang of it now. She had managed to take his full length without strangling. She was still swallowing madly each time that hot hard head o� his hammer went down her throat, but the younger boy seemed to be enjoying it. Boy, was he ever enjoying it! His cock had swollen to its utmost, to an adamantine hardness that presaged the coming cataclysm. She could feel the racing beat of his heart transmitted by the hot young blood racing through his body, through his hammering hammer.
His beat was picking up, his thrusting was deeper, harder, faster as he built toward an inexorable conclusion to these kinky rites of passage. Toivo's beat was accelerating too, still holding a steady two-to-one with Att's firm phallic thrust down her throat. Then abruptly Clara's abused body rebelled, refused to take any more of this loving punishment. She retched, her throat tightening convulsively around the head of the younger boy's cock. The spasmodic contraction went deep through her body, clear down into the depths of her belly where Toivo's deep thrusting dipstick was also suddenly clasped in a death grip. He shuddered, Att shuddered.
"Aaaaahhhh!" the boys suddenly exploded in unison.
She felt the twin premonitory spurts and quivers as the boys froze, struggling to preserve their precious loads, and suddenly Clara was no longer retching. As her body clasped and contracted spasmodically around two superheated cocks she was suddenly and totally aware of the infusion of masculinity. Nausea forgotten, she felt her belly suddenly begin an uncontrollable fibrillation.
Then she felt great erotic rockets of passion shoot up her spine, ricochet off the inside of her skull and shoot around her brain in great bouncing billiards of joy. She was coming, coming from every orifice, explosively, melting, flowing, twisting, wailing and moaning her happiness as two boys simultaneously lost their erections inside her thrumming body. And then suddenly the bed, the bedroom, the whole world was spinning crazily and she was in a whirlpool and she was falling backwards and spinning and spinning and then she wasn't doing anything.
When Clara woke the two boys were still tangled up with her in a marvellous mass of arms and legs and cocks and hard male bodies. The bed was a mess. She was sticky, come smeared with gallons of goo. Some of it, she supposed, must be her own. But mostly it had come from the two boys. Even now after so many times Att was firing respectable jets of joyous jizz. And Toivo ...
It must have been the older boy's first time in months. Maybe his first time ever, she suddenly realized. The boy had come explosively inside her, liberally coating her cunt with semen, filling her until it dripped in a hot little stream down her ass and thigh. Even now, minutes or hours after the fact, it felt hot.
Clara thought a moment and realized she could not have been unconscious too long. She was come smeared and sticky, but it had not dried. The boys were groaning and starting to move. Slowly and carefully, they sorted out arms and legs. When each of the trio could find his own ass they trooped weakly and unsteadily toward the shower.
It was crowded, but even now, come-wrung and satiated as the boys were, she could sense that they wanted her, needed her in here with them. Sleepily, she soaped off Att's cock, then devoted her attentions to Toivo's. The older boy's bargepole was as thick and heavily veined as Att's, with a somewhat differently shaped head that came to a sharper point before flaring dramatically to a glans penis that had hooked into her willing flesh as securely as a harpoon. Like Att, he had never been circumcised. As she washed it, the boy's arms went around her and he drew her face into his hard belly with a sudden access of emotion. She felt his cock trying to rise already in her wet soapy hands.
To her intense surprise, Clara also got a rise out of her raddled belly as she felt this living lance respond to her soft hands. My God, she thought, won't I ever have enough? What more could the boys do to her? Could this pair of priapic prodigies have still more tricks in their bag? Att's bag ought to be pretty well emptied by now. How often had he? And then Clara was truly shocked. She had done all the coming. In the last twenty-four hours -- since he had first undressed her out in that trailer -- the younger boy had only come three times. How much more was he good for? And then there was always Toivo. This had been his first flight in months, perhaps years. Judging from the prodigious quantities of come he had injected into her pulsating pussy, it might be his first time ever.
If it had been crowded in the tub with just her and Att, it was more so with Toivo. The shower was one place where three was really a crowd. She was stretching, rubbing her firm thirty-nines across hard muscled male chest to reach her douche apparatus when the younger boy put an arm on her shoulder and shook his head. Before she quite understood he was down there again spreading her legs, putting his mouth to her cunt and jetting warm water up her pussy. When his head came out Toivo's came in. He shot a load of water into her, exited and Att's head came back. He fired his load, lingered a moment to run a loving tongue around her fresh washed clit and Clara felt a sudden little explosion of desire. Att pulled out and it was Toivo's turn. He jetted his water up her cunt, followed it with his tongue and suddenly all stations were go again.
My God, Clara thought, we can't go on like this! I'll wear the boys out. I'll wear myself out. We've got to get some rest. She could feel the water coming out clean now. There was no need for any more oral douching, no matter how lovely a turn-on those boys' tongues were. She captured Att by the ears and pulled him upright. "Hungry?" she asked.
The boy hesitated a moment, then nodded. They managed to dampen their ardor and finish bathing. Then she was standing atop the lid of the commode like some erotic statue and two boys were towelling her, wiping each millimeter of skin as carefully as if she were some millenia-old statue who might shatter with the slightest mistreatment.
I must be pretty healthy, Clara decided. She hadn't shattered yet. Finally the boys reluctantly finished with her and gave themselves hasty wipe downs. Clara considered putting on a peignoir but it was a warm night and the blinds were closed and -- and they didn't have any more secrets. She had always wanted to cook dinner in the nude like some garage calendar of her girlish days. But old Harry, poor old Harry, had been funny about, some things. Old Harry, sad to say, had been something of a pain in the ass. She hoped he was getting along better with this new woman.
Poking through the kitchen she was reminded that she had been intending to go to the supermarket to make up for the ravages caused by Att's stomach. But she hadn't. And it was late now and the nearest Seven-Eleven was miles away and she didn't feel like dressing, so ... so what the hell was she going to feed the boys?
Poking disconsolately through the cupboards, she found a package of pancake flour. Now what woman alone ever made pancakes? It had been here since the dear dead days before Harry's departure. She scrounged about and found.butter and syrup. She showed the boys the box which had a picture of pancakes on its side and made an inquiring noise. The boys, it appeared, were willing to accept quite literally anything she gave them to eat. But did they have to crowd around and rub their naked bodies against hers and play with her ass and fondle her tits while she was trying to make pancakes?
After mature consideration she decided there could only be one thing worse and that would be for them not to do it. She tried to ignore the slow steady turn-on their antics were giving her. If she didn't watch it this meal was going to disintegrate into an orgy on the floor right in front of the stove.
But it was the first time Clara had ever attempted to cook a meal for two hungry naked studs while she was not just nude, but totally barefoot and wet-haired naked herself. If housework were always this much fun she guessed she wouldn't complain. It sure beat putting up with all those willing little bungling girls in the office with their headaches and broken hearts and sudden unexplained absences and who the hell was minding the store?
Clara wondered how long she could get away with an unexplained absence herself. She could invent a dying relative, a funeral out of town, a reading of the will ... how long could she string it out?
On the other hand, how long could she string these boys along? How long before they were both exhausted, fucked out into lassitudinous dry bagged idiots who couldn't get it up no matter how she paraded her firmly upstanding thirty-nines before them. Damn that little Att! Every time she stood still long enough to lift a pancake off the griddle he would have his mouth or his finger right into her. And Toivo's cock was getting harder with each passing moment, digging into the hemispheres of her buttocks each time he came up behind her to clasp his hands over her firm, bra-less, all-American jugs.
Finally she elbowed them away long enough to transport a platter to the table. They sat down, and to Clara's surprise she too was hungry. She wondered suddenly if this-was fucking a handy way to lose weight? She didn't know. She suspected that even if she knew she were going to gain a pound each time that lovely shivery tremor passed through her belly she would not care to give it up. Fucking was here to stay, she decided, no matter what the sociologists dreamed up about the death of the family.
The boys consumed a prodigious quantity of pancakes and butter and syrup. Clara managed to put away three herself. Even while eating they couldn't keep their hands off her. Above the table or under it. She managed to finish and finally even the boys were, if not full, at least temporarily assuaged. They sat back in their chairs and looked at each other. Suddenly the silence was tense.
The boys' eyes were burning her body, memorizing the position of each pore and follicle. Suddenly she wondered if they were getting ready to leave. Oh shit! she thought. Then she guessed she might as well be philosophical about it. Already she had experienced more pleasure than she had ever dreamed possible. Did she really want more? You're damn right she did!
But if they were going, they were going. There was no use making a fool of herself and blubbering all over the place. She would be happy for the joy she had tasted. Why be greedy? Kiss them and send them on their way with a smile and happy memories.
Att was still studying the way her tiny nulliparous nipples sprouted from the pink aureoles on the tips of her firm thirty-nines. Finally he tore his gaze from her breasts and looked her in the face. "Hungry," he said.
Clara didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She looked at Toivo, remembering that he had only had it in her once, that Att was two up on the older boy. Would she hold out? What time was it? She glanced at the clock and it was only a few minutes after midnight. How about that?
She was thirty-nine. She thought a moment and realized that the boys' ages added together might not make as many years as she had passed on this prurient planet. But they were paying her the supreme compliment of looking at her body while their cocks grew bigger and harder. It was not something that could be pretended, Clara knew. This was not sociability. A hard-on was dead serious. And how long would it take for her to be dead if she kept on wasting herself in reducing the swelling on these two indefatigable male organs?
But it wasn't a waste. If she lived to be ninety she would remember this night, would nurture and cherish the memory. And if she didn't live to ninety-if this night killed her, she could not think of a lovelier way to go.
And speaking of going ...
Suddenly, without a word being spoken all three of them were on their feet again. This isn't happening, Clara told herself, and remembered how many times she had told herself that and each time she had been wrong. Each time it had not been just another of those deprived, depraved dreams that came from playing the nun for a year. Each time it had turned out to be true, with a real live flesh-and-blood, stiff cocked boy hovering over her, putting it into her, taking it out, putting it in again and again and ...
She sighed. They had rung every possible change. She was tired. She'd had it, despite all the happy fooling around while she fixed them pancakes. But maybe if they were to go to bed the boys' honorable intentions would drift off, the way boys often did, into sleep. And maybe she could sleep too.
What else could they do? She'd had it up her cunt. She'd had it in her mouth. She'd had it singly and together, two cocks at once. She'd had hard male hands on every square inch of her body. She'd been fucked and sucked, kissed and licked, tickled and tweaked. It had been fun and if the boys wanted to cuddle themselves to sleep she was willing to let them fondle the sharp and irresistible curves of her body. But she hoped they weren't counting on any great kicking wailing and screaming response. All she wanted was to sleep. She could feel Toivo's tool pressing against her ass as he followed her into the bedroom.
Chapter Nineteen
God, what a hot pair of studs! Att was beside her, crowding awkwardly through the doorway, unwilling to take his hands off her jugs even for a second. It was nice to be desired, Clara decided. Really lovely at thirty-nine to be able to coax all that phallic swelling out of two boys whose ages added together probably were still less than hers. But didn't they ever get tired?
She was. She could hardly keep her eyes open. She was sleepy, relaxed and languorous, fucked-out and totally passive. She didn't care what happened as long as they were reasonably quiet about it. She wondered if it was possible for her actually to fall asleep while a cock as thick as Att's, as elegantly long and flare headed as Toivo's, was stirring away at her pussy, doing its gallant and masculine best to churn her innards into a passionate pudding. Could she ever become that blase to the charms of eroticism?
Oh no! Suddenly she was so tired, so wrung-out, so cross with herself and the world that she felt like crying. She had been counting on being able to stretch out full length on the bed and relax, let the boys do whatever they wanted to over and around her. Let them kiss her, let them lick her, let them fondle and rub and poke and prod and let them drive their cocks as deep into her delectable pussy as they wanted. But for Christ's sake, let her rest for a moment!
Instead, the youngest boy sprang ahead of her and lay supine in the middle of the bed, staring at the ceiling. Toivo was pressing and prodding her up onto the bed. They wanted her to get on top, spindle herself on Att's rigid spike. The boy wanted to lie there and relax while she did all the work!
It wasn't fair! Not after all she'd been through. She didn't mind the boys getting their jollies by fondling her, kissing her, licking her, fucking her -- whatever it took to keep them happy. But she was tired, wrung-out and exhausted. She didn't want to climb on top of that tireless-tooled little bastard and spend four hours bouncing up and down around his cock. She wouldn't do it. No way!
Besides, what would Toivo do in the meantime? He was a lovely boy and he had still only gotten it into her once. Att was trying for his fourth forking within' less than twenty-four hours. Why couldn't he give somebody else a chance? She would lie down in the middle of the bed, push Att over to one side so a boy could lie on each side of her. That was the comfortable, the civilized way.
But when it came to fucking, these boys didn't seem to know what civilization meant. Abruptly she felt Toivo behind her compounding the felony. Instead of being all bent out of shape because he was being left out, the older boy was pushing and prodding her, urging her atop the first boy. What did they think she was -- some kind of machine?
She sighed, knowing perfectly well what they thought she was. Like young people everywhere, it never occurred to them that somebody else might be older, tireder, might need a little rest. They assumed as a matter of course that any woman with a firm fleshed body who had fucked as frantically as she had a short while ago--that woman had to be as full of vitality and as hot to trot as they were. She tried not to grumble and act like some crone of a grandmother as Att pulled and Toivo pushed until she was squatting astraddle the younger boy who lay face up, smiling seraphically as she settled slowly, tiredly, resignedly over the great thumping phallus that rose like some fleshy flagpole from the red ringlets of his crotch.
It was hard work to thread the needle this way. The boy beneath her had done it much better, she realized. She felt her thighs quiver with fatigue as she struggled to lower herself gently, to find the great throbbing knob on the end of his prick with her gaping pussy. With her thighs stretched wide to straddle him she felt split wide open. And, she supposed, she was. She could feel a breath of cool air through the damp openness of her gash. And then, just as she was about to collapse in sobbing fatigue she felt something else: the hot thumping hardness of his hammer sliding smoothly through her wide open vulva, up the smooth slickness of her vagina. She gave a sigh of relief and let herself go the rest of the way.
She came down harder and faster than she had expected and Att's lovely lance drove far deeper than usual into her, giving her an unexpected little thrill. So now what was she supposed to do? Exhaust herself playing jack-in-the-box as she slid up and down this greased pole? If only she were rested. Fresh after a night's sleep Clara knew she would find this very pleasant work indeed.
Even now, tired and cranky as she was feeling, she could not help admit that she was getting a very nice little turn-on from the feel of that great lump of masculinity throbbing away deep inside her, stretching her, pushing gently at the portals of her womb. She tried to rise a little bit. Soon she made it. She began bouncing gently, lifting her ass half a cock length off his hard body, letting it fall back down with a soul-satisfying thump that drove him deep into her.
She was beginning to like it in spite of her tiredness. Damn! she thought, I'll never learn.
Toivo was getting into the act, though she couldn't guess what he was trying to do. He was scooting up between Att's legs behind her, getting his thighs in between them. Suddenly she was bouncing higher.
Well how about that? If she could just keep from getting bucked off it promised to be a nice little canter. Somehow Toivo's knees and thighs were cradling her ass, tossing her joyfully skyward until she nearly came off the end of Att's bargepole -- but not quite.
Each time she came sliding down that maypole, Toivo's knees had miraculously spread, leaving her to settle with a soul-satisfying thuck atop Att's hard muscled pelvis. His rock hard erection was driving deep into her, filling her pussy, stretching her, turning her on in spite of her exhaustion. She struggled to remain passive. She didn't want to get involved in another fuck fest. She was tired. She couldn't do it justice. If ooh- they would let her sleep for half an hour. ...
She was bouncing -- being tossed up and down. It reminded her of childhood days when she had bounced up and down on somebody's knee -- except that in those days she had not been spindled on a hot throbbing cock. She was enjoying it, but she was so tired, so sleepy. She struggled to keep her balance as Toivo's knees kept her ass flying up and down his friend's greased pole. It felt so good. It was such a waste that she couldn't ... then she felt herself falling. She was falling asleep.
When she awoke Clara had no idea whether minutes or hours had passed but the headachy tired feeling of too much love was gone. She was alive-ready for anything. Slowly, she climbed up out of a well of oblivion, wondering if the boys had given up and abandoned her. Was she alone? She was on her side and it felt as if she had had another of those awful dreams and ended up jammed against the wall. She stirred and abruptly discovered that the wall was human flesh: hard muscled male flesh. She was on her side and a boy -- Att, she supposed, was still between her legs, his half flaccid cock still inside her.
What a lovely way to wake up, she decided. It was so different from the sweaty, cramped emptiness that came after those confusing erotic dreams that had punctuated her empty year. She took a deep breath and felt her abdominal muscles pull at her vagina, put a gentle squeeze to the head of that half flaccid cock.
Abruptly Att was wide awake. "Aaaaaahhh!" he sighed, "Deezneelen!" As his cock began swelling and once more filling the void in her belly Clara knew this was indeed the magic kingdom.
He began thrusting and Clara's last vestige of sleepiness disappeared. Oh what a lovely cock! They lay on their sides, his hard muscled ass between her legs, and he was thrusting away. He grabbed her by the rounded contours of her lovely ass and then she was once more atop him. But this time she was alive, awake, hot to trot. She began bouncing joyously up and down his rejuvenated rod. Already she could feel her belly starting to knot up as tension built in that old familiar feeling. She was climbing the mountain, approaching the slide. Soon she would be fluttering and muttering, buttering his baton with the first fruits of love fulfilled. It was such a lovely feeling. He was such a lovely boy.
She wondered how long this freshness would last. Was she really caught up and ready for another full length session? Or would she soon be tired again? Who could ever tire of this lovely exercise? She squatted atop the supine boy, her magnificent body vertical and far enough away for his eyes to focus on her treasures. Att's eyes glistened as he inventoried the smooth perfection of her firm, never-needed-a-bra thirty-nines, the smooth midriff that tapered down to a surprisingly tiny waist before swelling once more into the gentle roundness of a belly unsullied by wrinkles or stretch marks. She remembered the feel of his tongue in her navel, licking and tickling its way down the soft smooth expanse of belly to the auburn-ring letted rise of her pubic mound.
His permanent-press prick was parting the pouting lips of her vulva, stationary while her smooth thighs and knees flexed to send her bouncing sensuously up and down just the right distance to extract the final firm measure of prurient pleasure from this joyous junction of two willing bodies.
Poised vertically above his supine body like some erotic oriental goddess, she could admire the smooth hard perfection of his just-maturing masculinity. The red haired, golden-skinned boy was really something else -- the stuff that dreams and center folds are made of. And she was on top of him, had his lovely, hot, hard cock inside her, and she was in full control now, playing the aggressive role while the boy remained passive. For the first time since this marathon fuck fest had begun, Clara was in charge, moving up and down his lovely banana as fast or slow as she wanted, gauging the length and depths of stroke to her own needs. It was lovely. This, she decided, was truly women's lib. It beat the hell out of marching and getting arrested.
She felt the rising storm in her belly and knew that soon she was going to come. Let it happen She was going to ride with the tide and not fight anything any more. If her body wanted to fire off rockets of erotic joy, let it. She remembered seeing a bumper sticker somewhere: Sex relieves TENSION. Most of civilization's really valuable knowledge, she guessed, was actually passed along on bumpers or blank walls. Soon she was going to unwind and relax in the loveliest possible way. There was massage, there were hot baths, there were weekends on the beach or in the mountains. Which of them could even begin to compare with fucking?
She was sliding up and down his happy hammer while Att smiled and admired her body and caressed her ass and occasionally managed to crowd a fingertip into the opening and closing gap between them so that her rock hard little clit came down squarely onto it for an added thrill. He stretched and tired to capture her jiggling jugs but couldn't quite make it. Clara wondered if now she was wearing that same serene half smile the boy had worn yesterday morning when he had silently undressed her, stretched her out, and put his cock into her. Her smile changed briefly to a grin as she remembered Mark Twain's remark about the "calm confidence of a Christian with four aces."
She might not have four aces but she had a living breathing boy with a living throbbing and thumping cock stuffed into her. And she had him cornered between her and the mattress. Not that he seemed even remotely inclined to try to escape the tender trap that surrounded his firm fleshed phallus. Att was smiling his hard-on in some unexpected cataclysm. Reflecting on this marvellous boy's track record, Clara realized they could spend hours at this happy jack-in-the-box exercise as she straddled him, bouncing joyously up and down his dick, in complete control for a change. Aaaaahhhh, it was lovely to be alive, to be free, to be fucking a lovely boy!
Then a sudden thought came to invade this paradise. Where was Toivo? When she had dropped off to sleep she had been cradled in his lap in some kinky arrangement where he was providing the motive power for her long slide up and down this boy's bargepole. Had he despaired and gone off to sleep in a less crowded bed -- out in the trailer, perhaps? More probably, she decided, he would be flaked out on the sofa in the next room. Asleep? She hoped so. Two boys were nice but two plus one equals three, which is a crowd. It was lovely to be here all alone, devoting her full attention to Att's glistening body, to savor the fine firm phallus that was sliding steadily in and out, in and out as she rose and fell above his supine superb body.
And when Att had fired his load there would be time enough to rouse his replacement. Let Toivo get his rest. If he was still here ... Now don't start that, she told herself. Here or not, you've got one boy and so far he's been more than enough. Ooooohhhh, is he ever enough!
She wondered if Att's prodigious prod was swelling still larger or if in her rising excitement she was tightening up and shrinking. She seemed suddenly fuller of cock, fuller of joy, filled with the impending sense of something wonderful about to happen.
Att sensed it too. Maybe it was his cock. Maybe this position where they were not locked together-where they were at right angles and able to admire the full length perfection of each other's bodies while still preserving the vital plug and socket connection between them ... something unusual was happening. She could feel it in his cock, suddenly harder, suddenly transmitting to the throbbing, super sensitized walls of her pussy an urgent erotogram of higher blood pressure, increased heartbeat, rapid respiration. Att was getting ready to come!
She wanted to stop, make him rest a minute. It would be criminal to end it now just when she was getting ready to -- but she couldn't stop. Suddenly Clara was bouncing higher, harder, faster, deeper on the boy's prodigious prod. She felt a rising storm in her belly. It was coming, coming. She was coming. Ooooohhh Jesus, was she ever coming!
Great joyous waves of lust surged through her, ravaging her belly like a hurricane passing through some posh resort town. And still she was humping, thumping, bouncing up and down on Att's spindle, unable to stop herself, totally incapable of the tiny minute of self-control that would prevent this disaster and enable the boy to get a second wind.
She was crying, shrieking her outrage as she as coming and it felt so good and it was still coming and still feeling good and she was bouncing and jiggling and her flying thirty-nines were driving the poor lovely boy right out of his mind and his cock was so hot and so hard and thumping so fast that she knew he was going to slip and spill it and it would be all over and she was still bouncing and she couldn't stop and if she didn't stop but it felt so goooood.
Suddenly she felt a pair of hands on her waist -- hands from behind, holding her down, holding her still. Att gasped and held his breath, straining not to come. They weren't his hands. Now she knew what had happened to Toivo.
Chapter Twenty
It was a merciful -- a miraculous deliverance. Clara had come. The boy had not. She had come explosively, devastatingly, almost as self-destructively as that first time out in the trailer, when this boy's indefatigable instrument had pumped all the cares and woes, all the tensions from a year of playing the nun out of her thrumming cunt.
Now, just in time Toivo had appeared from wherever he had been sleeping. His firm .hands had grasped her waist, held her firmly down atop Att's pelvis while the younger boy strained and curled his toes and gritted his teeth and finally, just barely, managed to keep from wasting his precious load.
Att released a tremendous gusty shuddering sigh. "Aaaah," he wheezed. "Deezneelen."
Clara smiled and the tension was broken. Suddenly she was tired. Not bone-weary exhausted but just happy and satiated. She lay forward, mashing her jugs on Att's hard muscled chest. It felt lovely. As he put his arms around her and kissed her she felt the tiredness oozing away. Soon the boy had recovered control of his body and could give her a tiny experimental shove. When disaster did not strike immediately he began a slow gentle pushing, running his rod happily in and out of her jubilant vagina.
Suddenly Clara felt hands on her tits and was reminded of Toivo. Poor Toivo. Always he seemed to take a back seat in these three handed games, playing some sort of auxiliary role instead of getting his goad into the seat of the action.
He was snuggling up to her, cupping her firm jugs from behind, rubbing his lovely hardness against her back until suddenly she realized that she was once more out of control -- sandwiched between two hard male bodies. And then abruptly she discovered what Toivo was really up to there behind her. Oh my god! she thought. Eyes widening, Clara suddenly realized she had not thought of everything after all.
Att lay beneath her, knees flexed in missionary position and slightly spread -- as if he were a woman with a man atop him. Clara's thighs were spread even farther as she lay face down atop the younger boy, mashing her tits on his chest, mashing her lips against his as they exchanged tongues, mashing her mons veneris against the boy's bony prominence as she ground gently up and down his body, forcing his cock to slide in and out her pussy with a gentle and persistent eroticism.
She had wondered why Att spread his knees, forcing her so wide apart. Now she knew. He was making room for Toivo to kneel there. Toivo was kneeling behind her, cupping her tits in his hands, bending over her back to blow in her ear and kiss the nape of her neck. But that wasn't all he was doing. She felt the pointed, flared head of his lance push at her suddenly twittery anus.
No! she thought, not that! It's too much! But Toivo's tool was pressing and she knew that no matter what she said or did, it would keep on pushing. She reminded herself that she had resolved to relax and take whatever fate in the form of two stiff pricked boys saw fit to hand her. She hadn't expected anything like this.
The tip of Toivo's tool was pointed, not round headed and blunt like Att's or the older boy would never have achieved what little success he had already. She felt it pushing, knew the pointed head of his hammer had already made it a respectable distance into her. She tried to relax. There was no use fighting it. But her body reacted to an older instinct which said this hole was for big things to slide out of -- not into. She felt her anal sphincter contract. She tried to make it let go. As well will herself not to think about purple giraffes. Her body would not listen to reason. Toivo was pushing. Not pushing hard, but the lovely smooth skinned hard muscled boy with his hands over her tits was keeping a steady relentless pressure.
Her body struggled and tired. Momentarily she felt that sphincter falter and the head of Toivo's tire iron had pried another fraction of an inch into her. Att began fucking slowly and gently, pushing and pulling her up and down his body, raising his ass to meet her thrust. Then she felt a hand -- it had to be Toivo's, down there in the damp. A finger caressed her clit, gave her an unexpected little shiver of eroticism and that prod went deeper into her undefended rear bastion.
The invading finger moved backward, carrying with it a smear of love's lubricant which it promptly applied to her twittering rosebud. The pressure was released for a moment, then he was pushing again and she felt it go in deeper.
Att's arms around her tightened in a sudden access of joy and his tongue shot deep down her throat, giving her a ghostly reminder of what else had gone down her throat not long ago. He was squeezing and caressing her, ramming her back and forth along the smooth slickness of his sensual muffin-stabber. It felt so good, she almost forgot about that pressure against her asshole. Then the hands over her tits tightened and she felt the tremendous flaring head of Toivo's cock pass through the tight clasping musculature of her anal sphincter. Then slowly but steadily, the older boy began his erotic journey up the old dirt road.
Clara had never experienced anything like it before It felt -- different. When her heart stopped thumping and she could breathe again, she wasn't quite sure whether she liked it or not. She was already full to the brim with Att's heavy-veined cock in her cunt. She was a mature woman, but she was not a big woman. One cock with enough to stretch her to the ill-defined edge between pleasure and pain. And now she had two in her -- one up her asshole, where there had never been a cock before.
She had known that men sometimes did it to each other that way. She had also known that some women enjoyed a backdoor approach to the rites of love. But Clara had never tried it -- had never even thought of trying it. She had always been happy enough just to have something hot, hard and male stuffed up the hole nature had created for it.
She wondered whether it was worthwhile thinking about it now. It wouldn't make any difference. She knew that. She was sandwiched between two hot blooded boys and until they were both totally satiated, they might buffet her in several different directions at once. But she knew perfectly well that they would not let her slip away from in between them. She was doubly trapped, a lovely erotic harpoon in her vagina and another sliding up her asshole.
Toivo began pushing. Ooooohhh! It didn't hurt, but it felt -- funny. Each time his long, spearheaded, elegantly slim cock drove full length into her she could feel his balls bang against the cheeks of her ass, she was overcome with a sudden feeling of fullness -- as if she had to get up and run for the bathroom. Then as the boy pulled it out the feeling of weakened relief was indescribable. Each time she felt it pull partway out before beginning that long slow journey back in, she could feel her insides gurgle and squirm to make room for this hard headed invader.
Meanwhile Att's round headed rammer was working away at her cunt, filling her with the joy that passeth all understanding. She felt her belly gathering forces for another erotic cataclysm again. Was Toivo's cock up her ass helping or hindering? Suddenly, without warning, she came explosively, with a violence that made her reel. If she had not been sandwiched between two male bodies with four hands holding onto her, four legs guiding her and keeping her in place she knew she would have fallen right out of bed. But Att's happy hammer was sliding indefatigably into her, out of her, back in again.
The boys' strokes were synchronized. Both boys were going in together, filling her belly fuller than she had ever imagined possible this side of pregnancy. Each time twin cocks pulled out she was abruptly empty, bereft, but filled with a fluttery relief that was assuaged by the knowledge that within half a second she was going to be bursting with masculinity again.
Att was kissing her, caressing her back and her ass, getting an occasional finger between their straining bodies to remind her clit that she was being fucked by an expert -- by two experts.
Toivo's hands were everywhere, cupping her tits, tweaking her nipples into rock hardness, probing her navel while he kissed and nibbled the nape of her neck, blew into her ears-and steadily drove his cock up her ass, sending a great swelling surge of eroticism through her each time his throbbing tool cooperated with Att's to fill her to overflowing with hard hammering maleness. And it felt so good.
It felt so good that suddenly she dissolved again, explosively and without warning. She felt herself streaming as love's lubrication flowed from her and the boys were pumping faster now and their hands were busier and they were kissing her and licking her and feeling her and caressing her and tickling her and putting fingers into all sorts of delightfully unexpected spots until she had forgotten her explosion and was giggling and wailing and shrieking and yodeling her joy and it was going to happen all over again and it felt so good she knew she was going to die but what a way to go and who cared and ooooohh did it ever feel good to be sandwiched between two hard bodied boys with but one thought on their minds and but one body between their straining, tearing thumping hard-ons.
And it was her body and they were thumping it aid somehow their synchronization had come apart, and as the beat to this lovely three handed tango came unglued, suddenly their cocks were no longer in unison, no longer going in at once, coming out at the same time to first stuff her until she wanted to die, then leave her so empty she just knew she was going to die.
It was ever so slight a change as one boy's cock bottomed out and hesitated a fraction of a second, preparing to pull out while the other boy's was still sliding smoothly into her, filling her with that wonderful fullness that pumped away all the cares, all the troubles, all the intolerance and anger at other people's shortcomings.
These boys had no shortcomings. They were both pouring it deep, deep into her, overjoying her, stuffing her with love, filling her with pleasure, massaging away the tensions until all the little hates and petty annoyances came pouring from her in a gushing flow of love fulfilled and ooooohhhh there she went again! Ooooohh, did it ever feel good!
Was it really happening to her? She had never really believed things like this happened but how else could she be floating this high off the mattress unless there was a lovely golden-skinned boy holding her up, his fleshy spike deep into her lest she slip off his laboring body. And Toivo was on top, pouring it to her ass, filling her with pleasure through an opening she had never had opened before by any other man. My, what an education she'd been getting in these last twenty-four hours! Did any of those giggling and incompetent absentees in her office know how to do it this way? To hell with the poor dears. She could be kind to them. She could be kind and tolerant with everybody. She had all she needed.
Toivo was pouring it to her tirelessly. Att was doing his juvenile best to pass for a man. He was passing his manhood into her, out of her, flicking her thrumming slit with his finger, kissing her, swapping tongues, caressing her flanks until she wanted to whinny and giggle.
And while Att was filling her cunt more comfortably and enduringly than she had ever had it filled before, Toivo's tool continued its ceaseless patrolling up and down the old dirt road, terminating this avenue's virginity so delightfully that Clara wondered where she'd been for the last thirty-nine years.
She tried to relax, to ignore the gathering storm in her body, not to think or analyze the multi pronged assault of eroticism that was tearing her apart. She was going to come again -- and again and again! It was going to hurt when all those rubber bands these boys were so resolutely winding up in her stomach were released and that little airplane propellor somewhere between her vagina and her colon began to whirrrrr and that whirrr went on herself coming apart and coming back together again and exploding and flowing and twisting as her brains turned to peanut butter and flowed around the tip of that throbbing thumping prod that was stirring her where she had never been stirred before. If only it didn't feel so goooood! If it didn't feel so good she could stop for a minute and catch her breath.
But she couldn't. The boys couldn't either, she suddenly knew. Their rhythm was no longer together at all. It changed from moment to moment, both cocks going into her together, then one going in as the other came out.
That was happening right now, and each time Toivo's elegant slim hand went up her ass and Att's came out her pussy, everything inside' her moved forward to make room for Toivo. Then as the older boy came out and Att's round headed ramrod came ram slamming up her vagina again, everything was suddenly pushed in the opposite direction as her insides rocked and rolled under the assault of twin flagpoles. pushing her body this way and that, pushing her thrumming innards this way and that, rearranging her erotic furniture with each push of their prodigious prods. It was so lovely that she didn't know which she liked best. Was it nicer when they were both slamming into her together, first stuffing her until she wanted to scream, then leaving her achingly empty? Or was it nicer with one boy going in while the other went out until she was swishing back and forth and and, and -- ooooohhhhhh!
They were pounding recklessly now, their hard male bodies slapping against her belly, against her ass, bouncing her back and forth between them but never letting her off those twin spikes and suddenly she was coming and she felt a sudden hardness in Att's throbbing cock and then he was flooding her pussy, filling her with gallons of goo as his cock spurted and squirted and Att was moaning and Clara was groaning and Toivo was gritting his teeth and pouring his cock to her and then suddenly great gouts of come were greasing her backside and his cock was getting all slippery and he was still pushing and Att was pushing and all three of them were lunging and thrusting and plunging and coming and melting and dissolving into little puddles of joyous satiation and ...
When Clara woke Toivo had disappeared. She heard the shower running. Att stirred sleepily. He smiled at her, caressed her and kissed a tit. "Deezneelen," he said in a sleepv, happy voice.
Clara was trying to remember. It must have really happened. She was too tender behind not to have lost a second virginity after all these years. She was trying to muster energy to sit up when Toivo entered, still wiping himself with a towel. His cock was half hard again already. But he was trying to show her something. Clara squinted in the dim light. She'd be damned if she'd put on her glasses. Finally she made it out. "Student Visa. Good for one year." She saw the name of the school and realized how close it was. She pointed a finger at Att and raised her eyebrows. Toivo nodded.
Clara smiled a secret little smile. So these two boys were going, to be here for a year ... she wondered if she'd have had enough of them by the time their year was up.
