The traditional literary method used to present sexual case histories to the general public is for the "patient" to describe certain manifestations of behavior while an "observer" (1) notes the problem under a specific medical category, and (2) "explains" in pompous terms the effect upon society of such behavior.
The personality of the "patient" is described only to the degree that it satisfies a technical category. Literary emphasis is placed only on the "observer's" analysis and conclusion.
The Publisher of Erotic Exploits Of Older Women Who Seduce Teenage Boys submits that in this age of sophisticated literature people who read have the intellectual capacity to identify human motivations and the capability to draw their own conclusions as to the personal and social values of such behavior.
Significantly, those of you who have read such books as Truman Capote's In Cold Blood were introduced to a new writing style that related documentary data as fiction.
As more than one literary critic has said: "This story-telling technique allows a citizenry to get under the skin of actual persons and really learn how they tick. The advantage of this presentation, over a mere newspaper account where the concern is who did something and if they were punished for it, is that we are now told what they did (because it can happen to us too, not just to them) and see from their viewpoint why they did it.
"This lets us diagnose really why they did it, regardless of the rationalizations and excuses they present. And from this, we can project the eventual result of their behavior in the light of our own concept of what is right or wrong, good or bad, desirable or undesirable, necessary or extravagant."
This book, too, assumes a readership interested in descriptions of human behavior that (1) match a reader's personal experience or that (2) go beyond the limitations of his own life. In either case, the narrative pursues the fact that it is personal involvement that makes reading a pleasure and learning an enlightenment.
Therefore Erotic Exploits Of Older Women Who Seduce Teenage Boys avoids analysis on the part of any third person. It permits the reader to be the analyst of the "patients" who speak for themselves as characters in a drama they, themselves, create and live.
-The Editors
Don't think you are going to conceal thoughts by concealing evidence that they ever existed. Don't be afraid . . . to read every book . . . . People who hold unpopular ideas are still part of America, and even if they have ideas that are contrary to our them, and a right to have them in places where they are accessible to others. This must be unquestioned, or it is not America.
Dwight D. Eisenhower Dartmouth College June 14,1953
CHAPTER ONE
I came again, the second time inside the same hour, and Mrs. Macready patted my quivering rump and said, "That's what I like about you kids. You keep coming like a faucet."
I lay on top of her without withdrawing. It was like snuggling into a goose-feather bed. She was like a bubble of warm air, and her flesh palpitated from head to toe.
"Do you have any brothers?"
"One," I sniggered. "He's seven."
She said, "Why don't you bring him next time?"
I said, "He's only seven."
Mrs. Macready shrugged. I knew it was a shrug the way her cunt pulled up on my cock and the wiry hairs of her bush rubbed my thighs. It kept my cock hard.
"Do you know my little brother copped my cherry when I was ten?"
"And he was only seven?"
"Seventeen. But he must have had a nice little prick when he was seven. Finger-size. I bet it would be good for my rectum." She wriggled in her excitement. "Look, if you bring your brother next time, I'll get on top of you and he can get on top of me!"
Her whole body pulsed. Her fingers swept up and down the back of my thighs, and I began to circle my ass again, hoping I could come again before I had to go home.
Mrs. Macready went on dreamily. "I had three brothers and they all fucked me before I was twenty. Maybe that's why I like young studs. It brings back such sweet memories."
"You must be kidding!"
I tried to show her I didn't believe her, but the talk about her brothers all screwing her when they were my age kept my prick hard. I could feel I was over the crest and didn't have to worry about my cock going soft. Mrs. Macready was the kind of lady you really wanted to impress. She'd had so much from so many that you wanted to be sure you were on her list when she recorded it for someone else. If she would only keep talking, I could keep going.
I said, "Did your father ever fuck you?"
"Not until after my brothers did. Then I guess I was old enough to look like my mama."
"What did your mama look like?" I wanted a mental picture of Mrs. Macready when she was twenty. I wanted to be fucking a twenty-year old Mrs. Macready. A tight-assed, slim-hipped, nar-row-thighed, hot-crotched Mrs. Macready.
"What does your mama look like?" she countered.
"Like you," I blurted.
I realized Mama has the same heavy lips; always looking real red even when she doesn't wear lipstick. Her hair is golden; so golden the gray doesn't even show. She's blue-eyed, has a short, straight nose. She has wide hips, though, and a big ass. She's always patting her ass. And when she sees me watching her, she blushes.
"What's my mother got to do with this?" I felt angry; but I realized it brought my prick up harder than it ever felt before. It was a good hard. I could come right now if I wanted to; or I could wait and ride it and come whenever it suited me. I knew it.
"What's her figure like?" Mrs. Macready asked, still dreamily.
"Oh. Nice legs. A little fat maybe, in the thighs, but shaped good. Real good." I could see my mother's thighs. I could see the way they came together at the top and hugged the reddish-blonde bush between her legs. I pictured my father sliding his thick, fat cock in her juicy twat. My prick jerked and I knew Mrs. Macready felt it. She stroked my hair and brought her hands around the small planes of my back. She hugged me to her. Her twat opened wider and I sank in deeper. I still knew I could come now; but I wasn't so sure I could wait.
Mrs. Macready stuck her tongue deep in my mouth and swirled it around. "Oh, fuck, little boy," she said in a whispery voice. "Fuck me, brother." Then her voice was natural and full and loud again, even though it was still dreamy, when she said, "Don't you want to fuck your mother?"
I wanted to change the subject, but I also wanted to keep fucking Mrs. Macready. I knew I could keep fucking her as long as my prick was hard. And somehow I knew it would stay hard as long as she kept talking about my mother and I could hold her tight and picture my mother.
"Does your mother have big, pillowy tits like mine?"
"Bigger."
I buried my face between the two fleshy mounds and thrilled with the sound of Mrs. Macready's heart beating against my ear. I wondered how many other heads had been here and if Mrs. Macready kept his face buried this same way. I wondered how my father pushed his face into my mother's breast, sucked her nipples long, bit on them. I began to jag faster. I could feel my prick moving inside the slick pussy sheath and the ecstasy choked off my voice. "Hot mama!" I garbled.
Mrs. Macready lifted my face between her hands. Her eyes twinkled as she looked at me hungrily. "You would like to fuck your mother, wouldn't you?"
I dropped my eyes and looked down at the matronly swell of Mrs. Macready's belly. Rivulets of sweat coursed between our sticking bodies and the slap-slap of our flesh recorded the rhythm of our fucking.
She said, "Pretend I'm your mother. What's your mother's name?"
"Malinda," I said. "Milly."
"Milly's just like me," Mrs. Macready said. "I have a son your age. His name is Willy. I'll call you Willie and you call me Milly."
"Yes, Milly," I said, and my cock stuttered deeper into the jelly of her cunt.
"Give it to me, Willy," she said. "Fuck your mama, son. Fuck her hard. Fuck her good. Fuck, Willy. Fuck hard, hot, stiff, prick, cunt, shit, piss, cock, balls . . . "
I whipped it to her with ferocious intent.
"Your mama's just like me," Mrs. Macready repeated. "Got her rocks off in a parked car . . . titty-squeezed by sophomores . . . finger-fucked by juniors . . . pussy-licked by seniors . . . Never really got fucked until she got hung up with a stud who already knew that all girls fuck, sooner or later . . . the only question is who and when . . . either some imagine kid with money . . . or a guy with a letter in football . . . or the class president . . . somebody who impressed her with his social standing instead of his prick . . . until some guy came along who knew what a prick was for and knew it was valuable in its own right . . . like a Jewboy . . . or a hot-blooded Italian . . . that's about it-Jewboys and Dagos-the rest are a bunch of fuckin' queers who sweat out the rest of their lives going straight and don't know what's wrong with them . . . "
"I'm not a Jew," I said. "And I'm no Dago either.
"Not you, Willie. You got a Polack mother and a pansy English father and you're going to have to learn about fucking from your mother who learned how from a Jew . . . "
"Listen," I said, "why don't we just fuck and cut out all this shit?"
"Don't you like fucking me, Willie?"
"Don't call me Willie."
"Oooh! Mama's boy is angry with Mama! But it makes Mama's boy fuck harder!" She grabbed my ass and squeezed up the cheeks. My cock felt so good in the pit of her legs that I squeezed back and humped harder.
The window was just above the bed, and I watched the curtain ripple in the afternoon breeze. I could hear a streetcar clanging on a distant corner. A dog began to yelp in the passageway, and somewhere upstairs in the building, I heard my mother calling my name.
"Listen," Mrs. Macready said, "take advantage of your age. You can do anything to anybody older than you . . . fuck and suck anybody . . . me . . . your mama. . . your teacher . . . your aunt . . . your cousin . . . Like me they'll be flattered by your attention. They're safe with you. They feel superior to you, and at the same time they take advantage of you. Let them take advantage. Let them think they're getting away with something. You're a child. You're a minor. Fuck 'em and suck 'em. Fuck 'em and suck 'em. They'll never say no, even if they say no. Fuck 'em and suck 'em. I know. I can't get enough. There aren't enough Willies to go around. It's a world full of pansies, and only Jews and Dagos . . . "
"Do you want me to suck you?" I said. "I never sucked before, but I want to now. Right now. I'll suck your cunt. I'll suck your asshole. I'll suck anything you want me to suck."
"Oh, yes, suck," Mrs. Macready said. "Time to suck now. I'll suck your cock. I'll eat your bone. I'll lick your prick . . . "
I said, "Do you suck off Mr. Macready?"
"Twice a day. I suck him in the morning before he goes to work and I suck him at night to hold him off until we go to bed. Mr. Macready loves to be sucked. The only trouble is I don't know where Mr. Macready is. I haven't seen him in years."
I began to come. I knew Mrs. Macready would be disappointed, again, that I didn't get around to blowing her, but I could promise her next time, like I promised her before.
I could hear my mother calling me again, and it sounded close in my ear. It made me come real good.
CHAPTER TWO
Florence Appleby-Home Teacher . . . the other teachers call her Flo. We have to say Miss Appleby.
No matter how sleepy you are when you get to class in the morning, the sight of Miss Appleby in a miniskirt, exposing fat dimpled knees and sheathing her small, saucy ass, is enough to jerk you awake, if you don't jerk yourself off before class starts.
This morning she wore black nylon stockings or pantyhose, or something, that allowed the skirt to be shorter than usual.
She sat me in the front row, and turned toward me so that for the first hour I had a beautiful view of the diamond-stitched nylon that shaded the triangle of her vulva.
And when she caught me looking, she only smiled. In my fondest dreams, a teacher, Miss Appleby, would say, "would you like to stay after school, Joey?" and I would know I was in.
Miss Appleby's pouting lips, framed by softly-waved black hair, topped by black eyes that glistened like wet coal, said, "Joey, would you like to stay after class and help me with my study plan?"
My penis came up round and hard and made my guts ache. I had heard about fucking, and about nymphy teachers keeping kids after school, but I couldn't believe it was happening to me. All the jokes and smirky tales I had ever heard tumbled through my brain and turned my asshole to water.
I mutely nodded and buried my flaming face in the open textbook on my desk.
Discussion has been rife about sex education, but mostly this had to do with the kids in grade school. High schoolers only talk to their teachers when they're in trouble. And mostly these are girls who find themselves knocked up or whose mothers find out they masturbate or whose fathers find out they go down on guys while protesting that they are still virgins, and want someone to explain it to the kids.
But to me schoolgirls are sexless. Some put out and some don't, I hear, but it doesn't make any difference to me. I can wack my dong off myself in the John or in bed or even in the school bus, without anybody knowing what the shit's going on. And I can do it in fifteen seconds flat just by picturing my mother the way she sits on the can taking a crap. Or I can picture a movie star sucking me off. Or I can picture Miss Appleby spreading her thighs for me and begging me, me, to fuck her.
But everyone was gone now, and Miss Appleby didn't even give me a second glance. There's a step up from the classroom to her desk, and I sat down on it so I could be close to her legs, and waited. I wanted to bite on those legs. I wanted to bury my face between the nylon thighs.
She must have felt my eyes on her, because she put away her work finally, and looked down at me with a wide, generous smile. The smile didn't see n any different than the smile she gave to everybody.
"I fell," she began, "all the girls have contributed to the history plan for next semester. I think it's about time the boys had their inning, don't you?"
I didn't hear a word she said. Saliva was spilling out of my mouth and my throat felt thick as cotton. I said, "Miss Appleby, you have the prettiest legs I've ever seen in my life."
Her laughter sounded real pleased. She even blushed a little. "Do you really think so!" she said happily.
"Oh, yes." I reached out and touched her ankle.
Her foot jerked back, and she stuttered her next words.
"J-Joey, how fast do you think the class should advance?" She brought some papers out of a drawer and held them up before her face. I could still see her legs and thighs; and now I was conscious of her full-blown tits moving up and down behind the thin fabric of her blouse. The flesh of her naked arms looked delectable. I wondered if it tasted the same between her legs as it did in the crook of her arm. It creased like a cunt without hair. The pages of the papers she was holding fluttered in her fingers. I was conscious of the bright-red nail polish that glistened on her fingertips. My cock was bursting through my fly.
I noticed that she had moved her foot back to where I had first touched it. I watched it. It seemed to creep forward, even closer to me than it was before. I looked up. Miss Appleby was still keeping the papers in front of her face, but she wasn't saying anything. Nothing at all. She was just breathing real hard.
My eyes crawled back to the nylon-cased legs. The left one was almost touching my knee. I reached up and lightly stroked the shimmering calf. Miss Appleby didn't move. Only the papers rustled in her fingers.
My hand was now above the knee, almost under the high hem of her skirt. My breathing was a series of gasps. It sounded loud as thunder in my ears. If Miss Appleby moved now . . . if she suddenly stood up . . . if she looked at me with horror . . . I was prepared to bolt from the room. But there was just her breathing. And my breathing. I let my fingers go farther, feeling the soft dimples of the flesh as my hand moved higher up under the skirt. A giddy wave fluttered in my belly. I felt her thighs part docily as my palm crept into the warmth of her hugging thighs.
And then Miss Appleby's hand came down on my wrist. But it came down gently, easily. Thank God! I felt relief that she had stopped me from doing anything that would embarrass me even more. I just knew I had to try. But now I was safe, and nothing had happened, and she would talk very kindly to me.
I kept my eyes nailed to the floor. I kept my hand exactly where she had stopped it.
"Joey," I heard her tender voice say-her voice was extremely tender, extremely soft-"Joey, I'd like to ask you something."
"Yes, Miss Appleby?" My voice was hardly a whisper. I was waiting for her to lift my hand, and humiliation suffocated me like a blanket.
"Joey, you've heard the word FUCK?"
I couldn't believe I was hearing what I heard. I nodded mutely.
"Do you know what it is to FUCK-really FUCK?"
Relief was so great, I felt like a bubble of water.
I didn't know how to show my appreciation. I started to tell her I did, that I knew all about it. I pulled myself to my knees and buried my face in her lap. She hardly had any lap at all. There were just two, separate golden thighs packed tight into black nylon stockings, and I squeezed them for reassurance, and hungrily kissed along the edge in gratitude. But from somewhere a spark of genius flickered in my benumbed brain. I shook my head between her thighs.
"I know the word," I whispered to her knees. "F-U-C-K, but I don't know what it means." I spelled it out again.
"Now, Joey, you don't have to feel ashamed." She tugged my head up to her bosom and let me nestle in her arms. I felt the round, firm globes under my cheek and I felt myself beginning to tremble all over. I could feel my cock poking against her thigh, and I knew she could feel it too.
She said haltingly, "Well, that's when a boy puts his prick in a girl's cunt and comes inside her."
"I don't understand," I said. I had my hands on the soft flare of her hips, and let them come around until I could feel the crack of her ass under my fingertips. She squirmed in the chair and lifted, and I was able to get my hands right in the crack, right on the nylon next to her skin. Her buttocks held my palms firm to the cups of her ass. I could feel blood pulsing in each finger. I could feel each hair of her cunt.
She said, "I tried out those words to see if you know PRICK and CUNT and COME."
"I have a prick," I said.
She giggled. "I know, I feel it."
"And you have a cunt."
She wriggled in the chair so that my fingers worked down to the nylon-shield covering her pussy.
"But I don't know what it is to come" I said.
"Do you ever JACK OFF?'
Oh, God! She mustn't know that!
"Do you?" I asked.
"Sometimes."
I knew my face was as red as a beet, and I wondered if she was blushing too. There was enough room in the curve of her cunt for me to work my fingers between the lips.
She said, "Careful, Joey . . . or you're going to jack me off!"
I felt the nylon grow wet under my fingertips. I felt my own pants growing wet in the crotch.
She said, "I can tell if a boy jacks off just by looking at his prick."
I felt attacked. "You cannot!"
"Joey," she soothed me. "Joey, I'm on your side."
My hands kept fingering her slit through the nylon, but Miss Appleby made no attempt to get hold of my cock.
Through flaming cheeks, I said, "Do you want to look?"
Her sigh sounded like my own sigh of relief, and she placed a warm, delicate, beautiful hand on the tent of my cock. It trembled under her palm. She gasped. "My, you have a big one."
We stayed just like that for what seemed minutes. Then she began rocking ever so slightly while she gently stroked my hard-on.
The overwhelming knowledge of what we were doing was almost too much for me to bear. I would have been content to leave then and jack off by myself in the basement before going home.
But Miss Appleby said, "Do you know why I asked you to stay after school today?" I told her I didn't. "Because all the faculty have left. There's a Custodians meeting at the county seat, and the janitor is gone too. I've been entrusted with closing up the school tonight." She paused. "Do you want to help me lock the doors and windows?"
We traipsed from room to room, from window to window, from door to door. At no time could I tear my eyes away from the perky swing of her ass, from the curve of her cunt, as it showed swollen through the tight creases of her skirt. We held hands sometimes, and she rubbed her forefinger into my palm, and I nibbed back the way she showed me.
Then instead of coming back to her schoolroom, she took me down to the principal's office, where there was a leather couch in the waiting room and there was a thick carpet on the floor.
Her tongue came out red and glistening between her lips, and her teeth flashed white arid sharp. She said, "Would you like to see my cunt?"
Yes, yes! I was too befuddled and not old enough to know why she wasn't using technical terms, and why she was deliberately pronouncing the obscenities for my benefit. But they sounded dirty and exciting, and I know now it helped set her up so she could orgasm quickly with a young schoolboy who didn't have enough experience-or any experience at all-to carry her until she had the muscular contractions that comprise a female orgasm. I guess she knew I was going to come as soon as her eyes fell on my naked prick. Or as soon as she touched it. Or as soon as the leaky head made contact with the juicy skin of her cunt.
I didn't know if people take off their own clothes when they fuck, or if they take off each other's, or if they take their clothes off at all. I had to take my cue from Miss Appleby.
She sat down demurely on the couch, and with cheeks flushed in my direction, she patted the leather cushion next to her. I kneeled next to her and began kissing her mouth. The strawberry taste of her lipstick was better than popsicles or ice-cream bars or anything I had ever tasted.
She run her tongue between my lips and my skin nearly burst. I had to pull away to catch my breath. I just couldn't breathe! I hung my head between my shoulders and gasped for air.
"Why, Joey!" She patted my shoulder. "You've never fucked!" I shook my head, still fighting for breath. "Have you ever been kissed?" I nodded, and she laughed. "I mean there." She touched the round tip of my straining cock with her index finger. I shook my head again. "Have you ever kissed?" I was bewildered. "I don't think so," I said. My face must have been the color of a lobster. But the joy shining out of Miss Appleby's face told me I was giving her all the right answers. She dropped the catechism for the moment.
She spread her thighs under the short skirt and took my hand and placed it on the swell of her pubes and began to roll her hips. Her eyes tipped back in her head, and I could only see the whites staring at me. Knowing she wasn't really watching me, the blood relaxed from my face and my lungs calmed, and I was able to breathe evenly again. But fingering the thatch of pubic hair under the nylon began getting me all choked up again; especially when she kept her hand on my trembling cock and rubbed it through my pants.
Moving only her wrist, she found the buttons of my fly, and one by one freed each button for my dong and took it out into her clutching fist.
I heard her voice from far away say, "Would you like me to kiss your prick?"
"If you'll let me kiss your cunt," I said.
She smiled at that. Then her eyes rolled back down and came into focus. "It's usually said the other way around," she laughed, "but this way is better, isn't it?"
Her question was only rhetorical, because the way her eyes moved back into her head again, I knew she wasn't waiting for an answer.
I looked down at the swollen penis that not only filled her hand now, but poked out past her wrist, the head blood red and the tiny slit opening and closing with the tugging of her hand.
"Do you jack-off a lot?" she whispered.
"Just a couple times a day."
She nodded as if I had given her the correct answer to a history question.
"Do you jack-off a lot?"
She didn't answer me, and it was the same as when we asked questions in class. She was the teacher. She asked the questions. She said, "You can jack-me off if you want."
"I-I don't know how."
"Nonsense," she said. "At your age you can learn anything." She was sounding more and more like a teacher.
She lifted her ass from the couch and let go my hard-on so she could lower her nylon pantyhose. She pulled them down just to her knees. Butterflies crawled through my asshole just from the sight of the white flesh of her thighs and the view of her naked pussy. She immediately put my hand back in her crotch and hugged my prick with her fingers again. The few seconds had made it relax, and now it was like a small strip of putty in her palm. She massaged it, letting her long, red-polished fingers trail down the valley of my ass to my balls. She rubbed them with thumb and forefinger.
My own hand fondled the lips of her cunt, and I managed to get one finger inside and slide it up and down the wet hole. It made my prick come hard faster than her hand did. I began plunging in and out, like when I jack off myself, but she gasped, "No, no, no! Keep sliding up and down as you did before. That way is awful good!"
I followed instruction.
Her voice sounded from even farther away, when she said, "I want to watch you come."
Her cunt-hair was black and silky under my hand and I knew I would come without any trouble.
She pulled hard on my cock, faster and faster . . . faster than I could do it myself. Her eyes were open now, wide open, and she was bent forward, locking my hand in her muff, while she wriggled her ass around on my wrist and pumped her own hand hard on my prick. Her mouth was open, circled in an "O", and spit was shiny on her lips. I could feel my prick getting harder and harder and stiffer and stiffer, and so could she.
She squealed when I came. With me, she watched the white arc flash out and fly end over end through the air. A second glob followed, and she keened deep down in her throat and ecstatically pounded her cunt against my still working fist.
I didn't know I was moanin' until I saw all the cum ooze out of the head of my cock and watched her fingers squeeze the soft tip and drain the last drop from the silky flesh. T gasped and shivered, but Miss Appleby was through watching me.
"Do you want to see me come now?"
"Please," I said. "Oh, Miss Appleby, please!"
She patted my cheek with gism-wet fingers, and stood up in front of me. She pulled up the miniskirt so it was like a cloth hoop around her tiny waist, and bent her knees so her pelvis almost touched my face. He black pantyhose fell in dishevelment around her ankles, and she kept her toes pointed out for balance. She held the skirt up with her elbows and used her fingers to pop her cunt open in a little pink triangle.
"Now put two fingers right in there," she said. Her head was bent down, watching herself, so she wasn't looking at me, and I wasn't embarrassed anymore. I pushed my index and middle finger into her cunt, all the way to my knuckles. Then I ran my hand up and down the way she wanted me to do it before. Her box felt-greasy and hot, and I was surprised to feel my balls start to lower in my crotch and signal my prick to get hard.
When I jacked-off myself, I was through when I was through. But fingering Miss Appleby was like I hadn't even come yet.
I could hear her breath rather than her voice going "OOoooohhhh . . . " and . . AAaaaahhhh . . . " and she helped my plunging fingers by moving her hips back when I pulled them up and out and pushing forward when I shoved down and in. I didn't know whether my hand was fucking her cunt or her cunt was fucking my hand. Miss Appleby was beautiful to watch. She was beautiful to listen to.
Then she tipped her head back on her shoulders and stared with glazed eyes at the ceiling, while I could feel her cunt tighten around my fingers. I took my cue from her revolving hips, and moved fast when she moved fast and moved slow when she moved slow. I went up and down when she went up and down, and went in and out when she went in and out. I was just very careful to make each movement opposite to her movement, and the lascivious smile on her lips told me I was doing the right thing.
"I'm coming," she said. I could hardly hear her. She repeated it with a little squeal in her throat, I m coming!
Her hips were a blur against my hand and I watched for the white come to arc through the air and shower on the carpet, or at least drip out of her hole and run down the insides of her white thighs.
But the little slit only tightened like a clamp on my fingers, and if she came I only had her word for it.
CHAPTER THREE
Betty was-is-my sister. She is thirty-five years old. She started "going out" with boys when she was eleven. Mother always made the boys call at the house, and bring Betty home after a "date." She has never been married. She says she is never going to get married. She tells me I'm a jerk if I get married. She tells me she can give me anything any wife can give me. She tells me she can give it to me better.
"Even babies?"
"If you want to be a father, I can give you babies." And she laughs her high, tinkling laugh that brings my prick up like a ramrod and makes me feel I'm coming even before I start.
"I'm not going to be a father before I'm eighteen," I tell her.
"You're going to be everything else though," she says slyly. "You're going to be a first-class fucker and a red-hot cunt eater and you're going to look upon this time as the best years of your life!"
I am. I do. I believe her.
It was about five-thirty in the evening, that first time, when she came home from her office job downtown. My father has been dead six years, and my mother works as a cashier in an all-night restaurant. Her hours are from four in the afternoon to midnight.
Betty said, "Do you want to go to a movie tonight? Do you want to watch TV, read, or just go to bed?"
"What about your date?"
"No date."
Betty had a date every night. Our house was a regular lover's lane. Guys came from all over town. Even from out of town. Guys who date my mother once, come back the second time for Betty. With the guys who talk, Betty is known as a good piece of ass.
When I was maybe ten, and Betty wasn't yet thirty, I asked her what a good piece of ass was. She studied my innocence for a moment; then, like a ballerina, she stood up on tiptoes, held out her arms, and fluttered her fingers. "This is a good piece of ass," she said. Then she looked down at me from the corner of her twinkling, deep-blue eyes, and smiled sensuously. "Just about the best piece of ass you re ever going to have!" she said.
But she didn't enlighten my any further until this night.
"How old are you?" she said suddenly.
"Thirteen."
"My God, I'm over thirty!" She sounded as if she needed confirmation of my age before she could verify hers. I watched the look of consternation on her pretty face as she seemed to become aware that the future she had looked forward to was now her past.
And looking at her this way, with Betty seemingly unaware of me, was like the times I spied on her in her bedroom or in the toilet or in the shower, when she didn't know I was looking at her, and I could watch the way her fingers stroked her thighs and pumped her breasts and finger-fucked her cunt. It was like watching her on the couch with Sam Donohue; both naked, all the way naked even with Mother and me in the house; Sam's face buried between her thrashing legs; Betty's face bucking into Sam's crotch.
I could see his cock, like a baseball handle, stretched up from the flat of his writhing belly, and Betty, her face aglow with joy, slipping her lips up and back around his cock, her eyes spinning in their sockets, her fingers stroking Sam's balls, and squeezing them and bouncing them and hugging them deliciously to her cheek.
Sam had his middle finger up Betty's ass, all the way to the knuckle, and his whole mouth was pushed inside her cunt, where his tongue must have been working like fire against her clit; because she squealed and squirmed and banged her hips and freed his prick long enough to gasp, "Suck it! Suck it! Hold it in your lips and suck it!" Then she yelled, "Bite! Bite it off! BITE! I'M COMING!"
If I had been asleep instead of behind the door watching, I would have heard her. I don't know why Mother didn't hear her. The next morning Mother only said, "Sam Donohue's a nice man. He's going to make a lucky girl a good husband."
"Too old, mother," Betty said. "He's your age."
Mother shrugged. "How young do you want them to be-Jerry's age?"
That's when Betty gave me the long, low, level look. Her lips twisted, and I could see her tongue slice between them, pointed and red and wet. She hugged her knees together, with her wrist caught between her puffy thighs. I remembered how those thighs had tightened around Sam Donohue's ears last night, and I felt a tingle in my groin and sharp stabs of electricity in my asshole. I wanted Betty to wrap those thighs around my ears like that.
Betty didn't answer Mother.
Now tonight she didn't have a date. And I wouldn't have to pull my own joint in the toilet. I knew that. I knew that even before she told me what she had in mind. Maybe she didn't have it in mind until she began talking to me. Maybe. But I think she had it in mind since the day my mother compared me with Sam Donohue. Maybe she had me in mind since the day I asked her what a good piece of ass was.
Anyway, that's the way she started the night.
She said, "Jerry, have you ever had a good piece of ass?"
I studied the curves of my sister. Her tits were like swollen balloons. Her hips rolled out from her waist in a tapered sweep of hot flesh. Her ass was like a sponge-rubber pillow, creased down the middle with a line that ran between her legs and came up in front into the swell of her full-lipped cunt.
I had watched her bend her legs and open her cunt and insert a guest-sized bar of Ivory soap; then watched her cover the outer folds of her cunt around it and grind her hips against the tiled wall of the shower.
I had watched her thrash wildly in bed; then race for the door and seat herself, with knees spread wide and flat against the painted panels of the door, on the long, shiny, brass-plated doorknob she had installed herself. She rode her ass around on the slick, turning surface, and pressed her tits flat against the door, with hands upraised and palms suctioning the wood, until the metal knob parted the lips of her vagina and plopped into the juicy well of her cunt.
Then she sighed, and settled down on it, jerking up momentarily from what must have been a painful exercise, until she was at the right angle for the knob to caress her clitoris. Then her nails scratched into the wood of the door . . . scratched, scratched, scratched . . . until her whole body shuddered and her head bowed limply against the door and she sighed a sigh that came up from her toes and nestled warm and comfortable in the pit of her hard-breathing belly.
I watched the matted hairs on her cunt as each popped back up to standing position, before she could move her legs back and get her heels to support her weight and lift herself off the wet doorknob. There was a juicy whoosh as it came free, and Betty held on to the doorframe and studied herself, before she turned and went back to the bed.
She was very quiet and reposed now, slipping between the sheets with hardly a sound, and probably asleep in minutes.
Only she didn't sleep long before the thrashing started again.
"What did you have in mind?" I said like a man-of-the-world. I debated whether I wanted it like Sam Donohue or standing up in the hallway like Frank Fenton or with her pumping ass plopped on the kitchen table like Denny Harris or-I didn't have time to go through the category of choices. Anyway, with Betty it would be Heaven.
Only I was suddenly scared. I was going to fuck. I was going to fuck my sister. I was going to come by having my prick put in a real, live cunt. I was going to fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! And my sister, my sister, my sister was going to show me how!
Betty! Betty! God, gorgeous Betty! I looked at her now as if for the first time in my life. She wore a black, silk, sheath of a dress, a saucy hat still perched on the crown of her carrot-topped head, flesh-colored nylon tightly packing the goodies of her legs, right down to the square-toed, square-heeled alligator shoes that had cost her a hundred and sixty-five dollars . . . that had cost Sam Donohue a hundred and sixty-five dollars. For shoes! God, this must be the greatest pussy alive! The sweetest-tasting pussy on earth! The most delectable cunt in captivity!
She said, "Do you know your sister is a natural redhead?"
"I've seen you undress."
She had started the whole episode as calmly as if we were discussing something for breakfast. But my flip answer made her look at me with narrowed eyes.
"Do me a favor, Jerry," she said softly, almost pleadingly, "discuss it with me as if it were your first time. Look at my cunt as if you've never seen a cunt before. Give me your prick as if you've never had your prick taken by a girl before. Fuck me as if you never fucked before. Suck my ass as if you've never sucked before. Feel your prick between my teeth as if you've never felt your prick in a hot mouth before."
While she talked, one sentence following the other, each word in a monotone, with the same emphasis as another, she pulled off her hat and kicked off her shoes. She tugged the black sheath dress across her milky-white shoulders and shimmied out of the black slip that left her in a black, see-through bra and black bikini panties.
I saw her wonderful cunt, v-shaped to the contour of the bikini, and the shadow of hair as it triangled away from the slit. She brought her palms to her hips, and in a series of deft motions rolled the panties over her cunt and down her thighs. She kicked them off with the practiced flip of one foot, and stood naked in front of me, like Venus. The hair between her legs was auburn, with the same highlights of red that topped her head.
Suddenly she remembered, and stood up on tiptoe, holding her arms out and fluttering her fingers. "How would you like a good piece of ass, you virgin cock?"
Her monologue was still running around in my brain, mixing up with the heavenly view of female flesh she had exposed especially for me. Some of the things she did find would be for the first time, but some of them wouldn't be. But suddenly it was all for the first time, because my sneak looks and hidden spying was nothing like knowing somebody knows that you re watching, helps you watch, participates with you in watching.
My collar was too tight and my pants were too tight and I couldn't get my clothes off fast enough.
The shoes were easy, but I tore a button off my shirt and ripped my jockey shorts. Then I was ready.
Betty clucked, "Tsk, tsk," as I stood there, hands on hips, with my young cock angling up in front of me like a newborn flagpole.
She pointed at a chair. "Sit down." I meekly sat. She bent in front of me and pulled off the socks I had forgotten, or ignored. She patted the bottom of my feet lovingly, and for the first time in my life they didn't feel ticklish. In that position, her tits hung away from her chest, pendulum-like, shaped like mangoes or swollen pears, the tips a bright pink the size of quarters, the nipples jutting out like red fingers of meat. I tried to bow my head to suck them up, but Betty held me back at the shoulder.
"Don't get anxious," she said.
"Down Boy, huh?"
She giggled at that. "You're a real swinger, aren't you!"
"I've been around," I said, jutting my chin out. But Betty's eyes were on my cock. Her appreciation of my mouth and chin would come later.
"Have you ever fucked a girl before?" she asked.
"No." Saliva was thick in my throat and I could hardly cough the word out.
While she talked to me, her hand was tucked between her legs and I could see her fingers working inside her twat. It was amazing that while she was stimulating her jollies, her voice was even and quiet and unexcited. Calm. And when she looked at me, there was no facial evidence that her eyes saw anything but her little brother's face-not my cock, not my balls, not the twitching of my ass . . . not even an awareness of her own hand-as if it belonged to someone else-jazzing her cunt and getting her snatch ready for me.
And now she seemed to look at me for the first time. Her body shook as if she were in an epileptic fit. She seemed to try to catch onto herself, control herself; but not to stop, to keep going; with the same shuddering shakes that rippled the five-foot, seven, statue of flesh offered to me.
From then on she didn't waste any time. There was no hugging and kissing, no tongue swapping and sweet caresses. My sister had come to fuck. First time or not, I'd have to pick up the procedure on the fly or forever forget what it was all about.
I didn't know then that we were going to go on doing this about every night, whether she had a date or not. Now we fuck and suck before a guy picks her up and after he brings her home. She threatens to take me on a date with her, but I don't believe I could stand joining with a strange prick inside my sister. I still watch out the window when they do it in the car. And once T helped another guy, Maurie Bloom, put her up on the agitator of a washing machine, the way he had read about in a book; and watched the rubber-coned sleeve twist back and forth in the enlarging circle of Betty's cunt, while she screamed in ecstasy and begged us to let her suck our pricks while the machine fucked her. But that was like watching, not like joining in with a gang-fuck. I just couldn't do that with my sister. I haven't yet, anyway.
But this first time, she just sat down on my lap. She sat on my lap. She reached behind her and under her and got hold of my tiny prick and angled it up toward her cunt; then settled herself down and let it slide right in and up. She hugged me around the shoulders and pulled my head to her breast. My tongue searched for one of her nipples and found it. I hung on to it for dear life. The feel of my prick in her pussy, while the same every time with everybody, was different, is different, because it was my sister. There's an intimacy there, like jacking yourself off, when you don't have to apologize to anybody else for any sexual shortcomings or for any lack of finesse.
You are you, and you know you! This is your sister and she knows you. There's nothing to hide, nothing to excuse yourself for. She was right. She was-is-the best piece of ass I ever had.
We pumped each other furiously. I brought up my knees so that she could rest her back on the surface of my thighs. Feeling her naked back on my thighs intensified my pleasure, and the comfortableness of the position let her slide down deeper on my prick and expose inches I didn't know I had and right then desperately needed. I gave her all of it. She took all of it. The tip must have been high up somewhere in her swaying belly and the crack of my ass rubbing deliriously against the crack of her ass and we couldn't have been any closer unless I was on the inside looking out!
We came at the same time. Or, anyway, we came together, but I think Betty came like a string of firecrackers and one of the times happened to match mine.
It was the first time I had ejaculated inside a girl, any girl; and the knowledge that I was going to have this again and again and again without having to go out looking for it and without having to make any big deal about it blasted my rocks harder than they've ever been blasted since.
As I told you, my mother's supposed to work until midnight. But this night, of all nights, she had a "sick headache" and the Maitre D' let her come home.
We never heard the door open. We never heard her come into the living room. If we had gone up to Betty's bedroom or to my bedroom, we probably would have had everything straightened out and she never would have caught us, not then anyway.
But we hadn't done that. We had no need to do that.
Mother just stood there. I can see her in my mind's eye now, with one hand on her plump breast and the other squeezing the flesh of her mouth. Over Betty's still sighing shoulders, Mother was framed in my vision, the nails of her hand slicing red furrows of blood from her eye to her chin.
I felt a transference into her shoes, seeing us from where she stood-her thirty-five-year-old spinster daughter collapsed naked on the still-heaving, sweaty, cum-laden torso of her thirteen-year-old son . . . Betty's bare ass bent up to her view . . . the front half of her son's cock buried in the thick, bushy meat of her daughter's cunt, like the middle of a red-streaked, white pole, with no beginning and no end . . . the gism running down my right thigh and dripping onto the carpet. . . .
Then Betty, feeling me still and tense, lifts her head and sees my face looking over her shoulder.
She glances back, sees Mother standing there. Neither one of us says anything. Betty's afraid to move, and I can't move.
Mother silently moves past us, puts out a hand and touches Betty's knee. Her fingers linger for a moment on the snaking calf of Betty's leg, the leg still hugging my knee to her pussy. Then she goes on by.
We hear her footsteps up the stairs. We hear her bedroom door close.
Betty sighed. She sank back down on my prick. It should have gone soft with the trauma of my mother's entrance, but it had come to life again instead, had stretched out hot and hard again; and now Betty began circling her ass against my propped up thighs and my prick gloried in the promise of another come.
Betty tightened her arms around my head. Her whole body was telling me it was going to be free and open and available for us and between us, forever after, whenever we wanted it, needed it; and we had nothing to worry about and nobody to care about.
I put my arms around Betty's silky back, and drew her lips unresisting to mine. Her mouth was slightly open, and I could feel little shivers coming up from her belly and flicking her tongue.
Into her mouth, I said, "Do you think Mother fucks?"
Betty didn't answer me. Her teeth snapped down on my tongue, hard and sharp and painfully. I got her message. Betty was to fuck everybody, but I was to fuck only her.
CHAPTER FOUR
The book I was reading said, "Carl walked over to Edith and put his hands on her shoulders. He kissed her, a long, lingering lass. He said, 'Let's make it, baby.' Edith looked at him and said, I'm game.'
"Together they went into one of the bedrooms. Edith immediately lifted her dress over her head. She had nothing on underneath. Her body was like one long roll of jism-packed skin. The patch of pubic hair held a zipper that would let all the jism out. All he had to do was plug it with his prick.
"They lay on the bed fondling each other. Then Carl pushed Edith on her back, spread her legs, and mounted her to enjoy intercourse. "The next day . . "
I put down the book I had found on the bed-stand and waited for Mrs. Childs to come out of the bathroom. She had warned me not to move, to lie perfectly still, to wait for her. For a lady who was so goddam obviously hardup that spit kept rolling from her mouth and one hand clutched constantly at her crotch, she was taking a long time coming back to me.
I didn't know when Mr. Childs would be home. Evidently, like most working guys, he wasn't expected until evening. But Mr. Childs must have been more than a working guy. This home was in the best part of town-I knew that, because I had the most expensive paper route in the whole town, because this is where the people who have a buck live.
Take this room. This king-size bed, the rug-one of those Chinese things you can shove your fist into, like Mrs. Childs' muff, if I ever got to it. I fidgeted.
The trouble was I didn't have a hard-on. It wouldn't come up. When Mrs. Childs disappeared into the bathroom and coyly signalled me to take off my clothes, I whipped my bone as fast as five years of practice would let me. I tried to think of every girl in my high school that I would love to fuck if I could. Sally Blain brought it up the stiffest, but I had to cut off that daydream or I would come before Mrs. Childs ever got back. And I knew once I came, there wasn't a fucking dream in the world that would bring it hard again with her looking on.
"Let her suck it hard," I whispered to myself, and thrilled to the picture of her head bobbing up and down on my joint, her fingers curling around my thighs and sliding up to my asshole, my cock probing her tonsils . . . she could be anybody then, even Sally Blain. My cock stood up.
I tried to think of something else, and saw the book. But when I got to the line that told me they had "intercourse" and then went on to the next day, I dropped it in disgust. The fucking author expected me to do his work for him. Why the hell should I read the book if I had to make up my own scenes?
Mrs. Childs must have flushed herself down the toilet. I picked up the book again. "Sam and Edith talked for a few minutes . . . " (Now it was Sam with Edith-what the hell happened to Carl?) ". . . Sam couldn't take his eyes off the blonde's ample figure-her high, firm breasts catching his special attention. He said, "What do you say we have a ball?" . . . "Sounds good to me." He had her blouse open and her bra off before she knew what was happening. Then he picked up one breast like a baby chicken and popped the tit into his mouth like a cherry.
"They lay on the bed fondling each other. Then Sam pushed Edith on her back, spread her legs, and mounted her to enjoy intercourse.. . . "
The bathroom door clicked open, and Mrs. Childs came back in the room. She had her hair down, and it fell almost to her hips. She had oiled her face with something, and it gleamed like one of those television commercials where a naked girl has just climbed out of the shower. She had put on a thin negligee that you could watch television through. It came down to just midway between her knees and her hips. I suddenly realized she didn't look bad at all. She looked good. She looked real good. Her legs, tapered and smooth, really surprised me. The light-blonde gold of her cascading hair really took my breath away.
She lifted the hem of her gown with just her fingertips so I could see the thatch of hair between her legs. It was coal black. She laughed throatily. "Surprised?"
I was surprised at how tall and leggy she looked. I always thought of her as the old lady in the sandstone house who never had the right change for my weekly collection.
Then she dropped the negligee and calmly lighted a cigarette, now that she finally had me excited! And I noticed that her mouth wasn't drooling anymore and she didn't keep grabbing at her crotch. It was like she already had some, and we hadn't even started yet!
If she even saw my penis, I couldn't tell. But it was standing up in my line of vision, as I lay naked on my back, with my arms folded behind my head. I watched her sit down on the edge of the bed, on the other end from me, cross her legs daintily, and puff lazily on the cigarette. The brief flash of her pubes again, as her thighs parted, started me climbing the wall.
I said, "Mrs. Childs, you told me you wanted to fuck." The word nearly caught in my throat. But that's what she had said to me, and now I said it back.
"Of course, my dear boy," she said.
Before when she spoke to me, at the door when she invited me in, her face had flushed and her eyes had sparkled as with a fever, as she gripped my hand tight and asked me if I wanted to fuck. She was coming all apart like an unglued chair, and I got the feeling she had been standing at the door waiting for me all day. Although she hadn't been. I knew that.
Now she said coolly, "What position do you like?"
I told her I didn't know many positions. Whatever she liked. I mean, I just wanted it in. I wanted to come. Fast. Now. I had to.
She laughed and tickled my toes. "This is the best part, little boy." Then her eyes finally dropped to the hard-on between my legs. "But you're not so little, are you?" And her eyes began to shine up again, and the flush began climbing in her cheeks. I could see her lips moistening, and she hastily doused the cigarette. She kneed her way up on the bed and surveyed me.
This way, on hands and knees, she looked older again. Her chin muscles sagged, and the pointed tips of her breasts now flopped loose against the negligee. I could feel my cock slowing down.
"If you fuck me this way," she said, "your prick will go up all the way to my throat." She laughed again, and she seemed to regain her composure. "Of course, you could put it in my throat to begin with and save that long trip!" She suddenly flopped down beside me and hugged me in her arms. I could hardly get my breath.
"If you fuck me dog-fashion," she whispered in my ear, "your cock rubs hard on my clit. . . . " Then her voice cooled again. "That way I can have a more intense climax."
I was struggling, not to get on her-not just now-but to get free of the heavy arm she had locked across my windpipe. She used my wrestling to wriggle down behind me.
"I like it this way, with my belly soft up against your hard ass!"
"But my prick's on this side," I gasped.
She ignored me. "It's like I'm fucking you, with my cunt!" She whirled the crisp hairs against my thrusting buttocks, and I wondered how she managed to get the negligee up without ever releasing her grip on me.
"But we have to do it so I can watch your cock sliding in and out of my cunt!"
She came up on top of me, straddled my hips, lifted the tip of my cock to her cunt, and then sat down on it-just like that! I never had it that way before. Her eyes were riveted down between our legs so she could see half of my cock up her twat. She stayed in that position so she could look at the shaft tying me to her. One rigid hand on my shoulder kept me flat on the bed and I was only able to shift my ass from side to side, while my guts kept wanting to go up and down.
Then she lifted her head, but she didn't look at me. She looked at the dresser. I looked too. One wing of the mirror in the dresser was angled so she could watch her own ass. She strained the buttocks, and I could see the cheeks part and the brown hole wink. She did it again and again. Each time she did it, her cuntlips squeezed on the silky head of my cock, and I knew I was going to come even without being up her all the way.
She anticipated the imprisoned lurching of my pelvis, and lifted herself suddenly; so as my cock slipped out, it didn't rub extra-much on the greasy sides; otherwise I would have come right then, from the feeling of her going up.
She lay her head quietly next to my belly, and for moments neither one of us did anything. Didn't move a hair.
She said, "Sometimes with Mr. Childs, I keep a mirror in my hand too. That way I can see his cock coming in me while my ass spreads to take it. . . . And the lovely whiteness of it when it slides out. . . . All the time it's going in and out, I love to watch it. . . . Love to watch that big thing splitting me open!"
"You can watch me," I said. "Honest. Let me put it in and you watch it!"
Now her voice was excited again. "Well do it differently, slower!"
"Okay. Put it in for me, the way you want."
"This is the way I want," she panted. "The slow way. The excruciating way!"
She slithered around so that her face went between my knees. Then she slowly inched back so her ass came up on my face. I expected to smell the shit of her asshole, but she must have douched herself with all the perfumes of France. It was like smelling lilies. Her cunt too. I had never been this close to a cunt before. I didn't know how it really should smell. It smelled funny, but at the same time it smelled good. I mean, it smelled, but it didn't stink.
I pushed up my mouth and kissed the outside, curved plane of her pubes, as if I were kissing her on the face. Mrs. Childs raised her head, although she kept my cock wrapped in a fist and methodically worked it up and down. "Lap it," she said.
"Cunt lap it," she said. "Lap my cunt with your tongue. Lap it flat. Wet my hair. Then curl your tongue and spoon it into my slit."
I curled my tongue as if I were eating an ice cream cone, and dipped it into the tight seam of her vagina. At first it was hard and dry and wouldn't go in, but then the whole mound got squooshy and soft and I didn't have to force my tongue. The lips just seemed to part by themselves and my tongue raced in as far as my jaws would let it. I found this did wonders for the hardness of my prick. It brought it up like a tube of steel, yet it didn't make me want to come. It brought me right up to the brink where you always want to be but can't hold. Only Mrs. Child's mouth was sucking up my cock like a vacuum cleaner, and that made me want to come.
And suddenly Mrs. Child's twat began to quiver. Her big tits began to shake. Her heavy legs started thrashing around. Then her whole body seemed to settle in her cunt, seemed to want to force its way out of her cunt, seemed to want to turn her inside out. My jaws worked furiously as her big, hot, juicy cunt opened above me, and the viscous droppings were like sweet cream to my tongue.
I wanted to suck until her juices were running out of her ears, until they were running out of my ears. I felt them running between my legs, felt them oozing out my asshole and spurting out the head of my prick, as her hot mouth wrapped around my glans and her teeth nipped the head of my cock into a frenzy.
This was what I had seen from the patio. Mrs. Childs on top, sucking away like a woman deranged, only the body under her wasn't me. It wasn't even a man. That's why I was so surprised when she grabbed me by the hand and asked me if I wanted to fuck.
The woman under her was her maid, or her cleaning woman. Not a woman. A girl. A colored girl. Maybe twenty. Maybe twenty-five. A light-skinned black, with a torso like chocolate satin. I remembered the highlights bouncing off her ass as she thrust her buttocks upwards, and the gleam of cunt juice running down the inside of her thighs. Then she came up onto Mrs. Childs, grabbed her head and rubbed her face against her tits. They were small tits, but they had pouty points, and Mrs. Childs seemed in a delirium to get to them. The girl let her fingers wander over Mrs. Childs' mature body, centering her caresses on her large, melony tits.
Then she pushed her back on the oriental rug and positioned herself again between Mrs. Childs' parted legs. Then she leaned forward and cupped the big breasts in her hands and brought them up to her face and kissed them. Mrs. Childs squealed, and the girl bit down, hard. Mrs. Childs gave out with a choked scream.
I stood as if rooted.
The girl pinioned Mrs. Childs' shoulders to the floor, holding her down, and began slapping her face. Slowly, methodically; left palm, right palm. The eyes looking down at Mrs. Child's flapping head were a flat, yellow-brown. They seemed to be glazed. The girl was breathing in short, irregular gasps.
Then she lowered her head and pressed her lips hungrily to Mrs. Childs' mouth. She stopped slap ping and let her fingers wander over the solid bulges of the naked body opening to her.
I saw every muscle in Mrs. Childs' humping frame tense as the girl's fingers massaged her tits. Then her lips slid from the mouth to one tit then the other; kissing, sucking, manipulating the beautiful hills crowned with their cherry tips. Her white teeth nibbed hard on the erect nipples; her fingers constantly kneaded the blue-veined flesh.
Mrs. Childs squirmed. She moaned. She laced her fingers in the brown girl's kinky hair, and tugged. The girl stopped the sucking of the tits and moved back up again to the lips; then shifting back down again; then coming up again, her tongue trailing across neck and face, behind ears, into ears; on the eyes, the forehead, the nose; then back down to the wide belly, across the belly; down between the legs, the fat thighs parting to let the kinky head come between; the tongue slithering up and down the thighs.
Mrs. Childs' body rocked gently beneath the ministrations. Liquid dripping coated her thighs.
The dark girl greedily licked them up; studied Mrs. Childs' flushed face for a moment; then she stabbed two fingers quickly into Mrs. Childs' cunt, while she nuzzled the muff with her nose.
"I got the ball," I heard the girl grunt. "I got your little old prick ball." The hand was working hard in the beating twat. "What you need is a prick," the girl said. "A good, hard, hot prick. You need my brother's prick. He got a prick like a corncob. Man, it's a good feelin' prick!"
She was working her fingers faster and faster in the hole, and I watched the cunt suck up the hand all the way to the wrist. The girl's whole arm was pumping now. And while it pumped they both said, "Prick! Prick! Prick! Prick!" in unison.
The newspaper I was delivering was still stuck to my fingers. My nose was now pressed against the plate-glass door. If either one looked up, they'd look right into my eyes. They didn't look up. They didn't take their eyes off each other; except to open and close them now and then as if in a trance.
Their tongues kept darting in and out between their lips. As they darted their tongues, their bodies shifted. Slowly but inevitably. Coming around eventually in a sixty-nine; the colored girl bringing her own leaking cunt up to Mrs. Childs' glassy eyes. Then each set of legs straddled the other's head. The sharp contrast of black and white was exciting. Black ass, white face. White ass, black face.
They each savored the sight of the offered cunts. They each licked the delicious taste. Each set of lips spread wide in anticipation. Fingers moved up assholes while tongues stabbed into twitching twats. Their bodies seemed to crease from head to toe. They squealed together. They rolled together. First the girl was on top, then Mrs. Childs. It didn't seem to make any difference to them.
Then they came back into the position I was with Mrs. Childs now. The colored girl pushed her head upward, tried to bury it in the big wet hole. Her long, two-toned fingers dug into Mrs. Childs' soft, billowy ass for support. Her tongue unreeled as if she were licking the flap of an envelope. It disappeared into Mrs. Childs' cunt. The girl's chin followed. She greedily sucked the juices into her mouth, swallowed, probed hungrily for more, as Mrs. Childs' mouth slithered through the inner lining of the girl's scissoring legs; plunged deeply into the wet, pink pit; her fingers massaging the folds of skin hugging the black pussy, the black pussy opening wider, the legs spreading, the pink flesh inside the hole coming up and out like a giant mushroom.
I stared hypnotized into the long gash, listened to Mrs. Childs' voice keening into the hole, "Agghhh! AAgghhh!" as the colored girl echoed, "MMmmmmmmm. . . . MMMmmmmmm.. . . "
I tried to do that now. I grunted, "Agghhh!
Agghhh!" and thrashed about on the white body as the gism burst from my cock and burned a hole through Mrs. Childs' throat. She swallowed each blob as it spurted. Waves of pleasure rippled my skin.
I had been invited to fuck, but I was being sucked off, and I had sucked her off too, and my brain couldn't cope with this windfall of joy. Not anymore than it had been able to cope with seeing the two women suck each other off.
Then Mrs. Childs went rigid, like a board. The black girl sat up frightened. She shook Mrs. Childs. Mrs. Childs didn't move.
The girl absently wiped strings of mucous from her mouth and chin with the back of her hand. Then she used the hand to shake Mrs. Childs. Mrs. Childs still didn't move.
I didn't move either.
The black girl crawled away from Mrs. Childs. I saw she had dress and shoes and stockings thrown on a hassock. She climbed into them. Then she came back to Mrs. Childs, nudged her with the toe of one shoe. Mrs. Childs still didn't move.
I saw the girl lift a purse from the coffee table. She riffled through it. She put what she found inside her shoe, and then put her shoe back on. She cased the room real fast, but never once looking up. She looked back once at Mrs. Childs then came to the door.
But when she had glanced back over her shoulder, I used the moment to step out of sight. Then I raced around to the front of the house. I saw I still had the newspaper in my hand.
I turned back, and bumped into the colored girl. She was smaller than I thought. Not much taller than I was.
In a silky-smooth voice she said, "Boy, watch where you're going."
I apologized and stepped around her. I didn't want to go back with the paper, but I didn't want her to know what I had seen. I was afraid to tell her what I had seen. We stood there for some seconds just looking at each other.
Then she said. "Boy, yo' pecker's hard."
I looked down. It was. When I looked up, she was gone.
I couldn't resist going back to the patio. I tried to whistle to let Mrs. Childs know I was coming up the path; I got to the window again, but Mrs. Childs wasn't there.
Suddenly the glass-plate door slid open. The corner of a drape billowed out, and Mrs. Childs followed. Her face was flushed and wet. Spit drooled from the corners of her mouth. One hand clutched at her cunt. The other clutched at my arm. She said, "Do you want to fuck me?"
I didn't want to lose the opportunity. I absently handed her the newspaper, and she just as absently dropped it on the hassock, with her purse. She led me to the bedroom and undressed me. I didn't move a finger. I just stood there while she took everything off of me, my shoes and stockings too. Then she sat me on the edge of the bed, lifted my legs and stretched me out.
"Now you just wait there," she said, "don't move." Then she went in the bathroom. I didn't want to fuck someone who had just sucked off a girl, so I closed the black girl out of my mind.
Now I suddenly realized that I was doing what the black girl did, I was that black.
Mrs. Childs went rigid like a board, like she did with the girl. I shook her. She didn't move. I squirmed out from under her. Ribbons of sticky mucous from her cunt was contacting my face. I stumbled into the bathroom and washed it. I soaped my hands over and over again. I brushed my teeth with a whole globful of peppermint toothpaste. There was a bottle of pink mouthwash and I used up the whole bottle. Mouthful after mouthful.
I came back into the bedroom, and Mrs. Childs hadn't moved yet. I hurried into my clothes.
The plate-glass door to the patio was still open. I picked up the newspaper from the hassock and dropped it out on the patio. I slid the patio door shut behind me then kicked the paper up against it.
I felt as if my whole body was wrapped in cotton. Sounds came to me as if filtered through that cotton. I got to the front of the house, and there was the black girl.
She said, "Did you get fucked or sucked?"
I said, "Do you think she's dead?"
The girl shrugged. "I think we ought to get away from here. But take it slow, easy. You never know."
We walked arm in arm down the street to the corner. The girl said, "How would you like to marry me when you grow up?"
I said, "I'm going to marry a white lady."
She grinned. She said, "You black studs are all alike. Just like my brother. Well, fuck you all. I don't need you."
Her heels click-clacked on the concrete as she walked away. I wanted to tell her her lips were still wet from the white pussy.
CHAPTER FIVE
My brother had told me how many times a woman can come. Martha Devlin was my father's secretary and I had been dreaming of fucking her for six months. The last time I was up to my father's office, I picked up one of her gloves and stuffed it in my pocket. All the way home on the bus, I kept it cupped in the palms of my hands and sniffed all of the smell out of it. When I got off the bus, my prick was rock-hard and I could hardly walk.
And this Saturday morning she had called the house and told my father she "had the papers ready."
"I won't be here," my father told her. "I promised Mrs. Donohue a day at the races. But my son, Ralph-you know Ralph-will be here-" he looked up at me questioningly before continuing -"until movie-time, four o'clock. If you come later than that, wait for me-I don't want the papers left in the mailbox."
He listened to Miss Devlin for a moment, then said goodbye and hung up. He turned to me apologetically, and didn't even notice there wasn't even a wrinkle of disappointment on my face.
Martha Devlin arrived at the house five minutes after my mother and father left. She acted upset that she had missed him, and asked me if it was all right for her to wait, that my father had asked her to. As I told you, I was right there when my father talked to her so she must have had a different reason for waiting.
I went and got her glove, telling her I had picked it up accidentally.
"Accidentally, my ass," she said. "I saw you take it. And I know why."
For a minute, all the horrors of being discovered turned me into knots. Then Miss Devlin said, "Why waste your time just smelling my glove? Wouldn't you like to smell the real thing?"
She lifted her short skirt and showed me she wasn't wearing any pants underneath. "I never do," she said. "I'm always ready for a quick kiss or a fast prick. Which will it be?"
My body shook violently, and she became very solicitous. Her mouth opened slightly and she moved it to my face. She just touched her lips to my cheek, giving it a gentle kiss, while her fingers laced behind my neck and kept my head from rolling off my shoulders.
I stood there like a stick while she undressed me. Her hands roamed across my stomach and chest, caressed the frightened nipples of my tits and went down on my thighs and then drew up on my prick. The sensation was skull-crushing. When her hand swept up on my shaft, she rose on her toes so she was taller than I was, and she measured my cock to the bottom of her hole. I could feel the tip scrape the soft mat of her pubic hairs. My lungs stopped breathing and I felt I was going to collapse at her feet.
I put my hands on her small hips to steady myself; then of their own volition they fluttered down the inside of her thighs and came up on the rough, pimply cushions of her ass. Her breath came faster with my touching. I kneaded the buttocks gently, and she opened her legs to let my body fit in between her knees. She felt more fluid than solid. She drew in her knees so I could feel her inner thighs slide up and down on my legs. Then she lowered me to the floor with her, all the time her feet sliding up the outside of my legs so her cunt loosened and opened for me so that when my prick got there it tucked itself right into the hole.
She didn't have to put it in for me, and I didn't have to struggle to find the slit. Her hands gripped me at the hips while her elbows rested solid on the floor so that only the tip stayed in. I got her message and remained suspended that way; the rest of my prick stuttering in the open air, impatient to be rammed all the way up the tube of her cunt. But I waited.
Her fingernails traced designs on my back, while she looked up into my face. Her eyes seemed to be sucking out every memory of my features and I felt myself drowned in the depths of the blue pools. She smiled, and then opened her mouth and waved her tongue at me. I did the same, and the tips of our tongues met and pressed hard. Then we just licked each other's tongue.
It gave me a chance to bring my knees up under me so that I could keep just the head of my cock in the slightly opened pocket of her cunt, without jagging it up and back and orgasming before I had extracted the full pleasure of realizing I was actually fucking Martha Devlin.
She took her hands away from my back and brought them around to the sides of her breasts. She pushed them together and held them up for me. I lowered my face to take the ripe, full globes of flesh into my mouth. As soon as my lips closed around the distended button of one tit, I felt tremors race across her skin.
"I just came," she breathed.
Was it over? I wanted to ram my prick in hard so I could come too, before it was all over. But she held her knees so that my prick stayed submerged only to the glans. In my ecstasy, my mouth shifted to her other nipple, and her flesh rippled again. "I just came again," she informed me.
Like I said, my brother had told me a woman can keep coming all day, as long as you don't poop out on her. He told me that's why he sucked pussy. He said first he finger-fucked them until they had at least one orgasm. Then he sucked them hard until one orgasm overlapped another and they weren't even in this world with you. Then he fucked them-up the cunt and in the ass and between the tits and then right in her mouth. He said that was different, and better, than just having a girl go down on you. He said that sometimes they blew you just to get your nuts off, but managed to give you the feeling that you hadn't really fucked them. He said half the feeling of a good fuck was being able to look at the girl later -anywhere, in an office, in the street, on the arm of her husband, playing with her kids in the park, anywhere-and knowing that you fucked her and that she knows you fucked her. He says he knows guys who slip girls some kind of mickey finn or LSD or some shit like that so that they're fucked without even knowing what happened. He said that's no kick for a normal guy. He said there's no difference between fucking a girl that way and jacking-off.
Martha Devlin knew I was fucking her. She was coming because I was fucking her. And she would keep on coming as long as I could make my fuck last. I was on my own, though, to figure out when I would have to start sucking her.
Her hands were on my chest and going down into the soft flesh of my belly. Then her fingers were tight on my shaft, just above the head of my cock in her twat, and she came again. The fact that some cock was inside her while there was enough on the outside of her for her hand to hold seemed to make it a more intense come for her. Her whole body rippled. Her teeth caught my lower lip and she let my prick go and my knees collapsed and my cock raced up her cunt all the way to my balls.
I began pushing it up and back. I shuddered with the warmth and wetness soaking my prick-head. Her teeth clamped into my lip, hurting. The hurt was nothing compared to the pleasure she was giving me. Her twat fluttered frantically around my dick. I pushed my hips into her body, felt my cock sliding to hit the lower depths, my belly merging into hers.
Her body shook violently, again. She bit deeper into my hp. I tasted the saltiness of my blood. She wrapped her arms around my back, pulling my humping chest closer to her trembling body.
She spread her legs further apart. I pushed into her with all my power. She spread her legs even wider, crying out with the pleasure of my entering and withdrawing rod, digging her fingernails into my neck and back.
I buried my head in the crease of her neck, running my tongue over her ear. I placed all the weight of my body on her, moving my hands down along her sides, under her ass, pulling her hips up close, to get my cock in deeper.
She came again. Her body shook.
"Oh, my God," she muttered.
I tried to control my own building passion, as my brother told me, a task I found increasingly difficult as Martha increased her writhing beneath me, as more orgasms convulsed her body.
She pushed her belly upward to meet my thrusts, threw her legs around my pounding waist, dug her heels into my ass, locked her ankles almost around my neck. She arched her back to accept more of my prod, her body twitching in her ecstasy, her fists pounding the flesh of my back.
My hips shifted to vary the prick's angle of entry. I attempted to find new areas for my cock to penetrate within her cunt, new sensations to push her to higher levels of excitement.
She came again, grabbing my head, pulling it into her tits, covering my neck with kisses, clamping her teeth into my earlobe, biting at it, chewing it in her passion. Her hands pulled at my hair, her hips pushing frantically. I was going to come with her this time. I pumped my ass harder, my prick slurping through the vibrating slit. I felt a double explosion rip my guts.
My teeth bit into her neck while she scratched welts across his back. An ocean of hot sticky fluid shot into her quaking hole.
Our orgasm drained into each other.
She said something into my neck, muffling it against her lips. I thought I'd misheard, was really afraid to ask her to repeat what she said. It seemed impossible.
"I want you to screw me again," she repeated.
I felt my cock still erect, enormous within her body. Inside Martha Devlin's body. My fathers secretary's body. Forty-year-old Miss Devlin's body.
"I want to do it again," she said for the third time.
"Yes," I said, knowing I was ready, more than ready for the renewed onslaught of that hard prick up her guts. "Yes," I said into her ear, feeling her tits pressing into my chest. "Oh, Jesus God, yes. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. . .
My cock was again starring to move in her cunt.
And I couldn't help but marvel how my brother knew that someday I would get it without even stepping outside my house . . . that a guy didn't even have to go looking . . . that all the time while he waited somebody was looking for him.
It was good to know. What I didn't know, and wanted to find out, was how many times Miss Devlin had fucked my father.
CHAPTER SIX
She embraced me with the filial affection of an older sister-in-law. I squeezed back and felt her thighs hug my cock for an instant. Then she giggled and stepped back.
"Why not?" I said. "Dave is gone for the weekend, isn't he?"
"Oh, I'm just playing games with you," Betty said through flushed lips. "You're big enough to find your own girls."
The game she was playing with me had been going on for three weeks. It had started when I witnessed an argument between her and my brother Dave.
Dave had slammed out of the house saying, "You fuck everybody but me, and I'm your goddamned husband!"
If he saw me at the door, he ignored me. Either he was too angry, or he didn't want me to know that he knew I had heard his accusation.
I hadn't been invited to Dave and Betty's house. I had just "dropped" in as I often did after basketball practice. I made it my second home ever since Dave married Betty.
I was at the age where I thought I knew what marriage was all about. I started to give Virginia some of my learned advice.
"Oh, fuck him!" Betty snapped. Then she looked at me with the realization of what she had said and who she had said it to. I didn't bat an eye, and acted as if I had heard the word from my brother instead of her. I proceeded to tell her that stories were getting around about her and Dave splitting up, and she said, "And fuck you, too!"
The delicacy of family language was out the window. But I was proud of the fact that she was treating me as an equal. I ignored her epithet and told her that Dave was a sensitive guy. I tried to dredge up everything I had learned in my sophomore "psych" class.
"It doesn't matter that it isn't true," I said. "Dave has an inferiority complex. The only thing that turned him around was that he was lucky enough to win you. That will do a lot for a guy's ego."
The flattery, although obvious, calmed her. She patted my cheek and smiled. "There are those who appreciate the finer things in life," she said, "and those who don't. Your brother never had it so good, but he doesn't know what to do with it."
"Boy, I bet I'd know what to do with it," I said.
She stopped throwing things around for a minute and looked at me speculatively. "I bet you would at that," she said.
"You bet!"
"What would you do?"
"Whatever you wanted me to do."
She chuckled. "Maybe someday I'll tell you what I want you to do. For right now, there's chocolate cake in the frig-use the started carton of milk. The other one's for Dave."
"Fuck Dave," I said slyly.
She looked at me with mock anger, but her ej es smiled. "I'd rather fuck you," she said.
And that was the beginning of the game.
Now I said, "Why didn't you teach me this before?"
She had just taken her tongue out of my mouth, and my own was still whipping around in search of the red, rubbery tube of flesh that had stabbed my throat like a female cock. She had told me once that a woman's clitoris was like her tongue, and I was still waiting for the opportunity to try that out.
"You're a little satyr," Betty whispered back, and took a quick peek out the kitchen window to verify that we were alone. It was a hidden gesture, but I recognized it for what it was. She was playing games with me, but she was keeping one eye out for the possibility that it was going to turn into more than a game. I wasn't the one looking to see if the coast was clear-she was. She might have just been teasing me, but I knew now she was teasing for real. She expected me to go further, and I wasn't about to disappoint her.
I had heard my brother call her "a little whore," not in anger but in passion, with his arms around her small waist from behind, his hands reaching up and cupping fistfuls of breast that he kneaded like rolls of fresh dough.
I didn't dare use the phrase, even in jest, but I came up behind her as she busied herself at the sink, throwing furtive glances out the window above, and put my arms around her small waist and reached up and cupped fistfuls of breast and tried to knead them the way I saw my brother do it.
Then, Betty had leaned her buttocks back into his groin, had swirled her ass around against his cock and fluttered sweet breaths up into his face.
But she didn't do that for me.
She did something better.
Without turning around she lifted my hands from the firm orbs whose vibrancy had started to fill me with delirium. At first I thought it was the end of the game, the end of everything. But she only lowered my hands to her pubes, thrusting her pelvis back from the sink so that my wrists could fit between the rim of the porcelain and the hot rolling flesh that I recognized as her cunt under the thin cotton of her apron.
Without looking back, she said, "You'll have plenty of time to do that, and more."
For right now she wanted the maximum effect from our kitchen love-in. I managed to finger-up the hem of the apron and get my fingers on her bare, trembling thighs. From there she guided me into her twat, held my wrist and showed me right where her clit was. She showed me how to grasp it between thumb and forefinger and rub it stiff.
Neither one of us said a word. After she had me going, she kept her eyes fixed on the window straight ahead. Her own hand came around her back to my pants, tugged the zipper down, searched with waving fingers inside my shorts, and lifted my hot, stretching prick in her palm.
Then I noticed our reflections in the window. My chin was resting on Betty's shoulder and my tongue was caught in the corner of my mouth and my eyes were narrowed to slits. Betty's mouth was circled open; her tongue protruded straight and hard, and she kept rolling it around from right to left the same way I was fingering the clit between her legs.
I had the hang of it real quick, and Betty, obviously, had worked it this way lots of times before. I could see her watching the ecstatic expression on my face, and when I felt I was starting to come, when my ass stopped its roimd and round gyration and started to pump hard and fast in and out, she stopped pulling, and just held it; not too tight so that I would come, but not so loose either that the frustration of denial would make my nuts ache and my prick turn soft.
"I got to get this off," I groaned.
"You and me both," she said, "but we don't have time."
"It will just take a minute. Just a minute!"
"Come on." She led me out of the kitchen, to the John. She flipped up the toilet seat and had me thrust my pelvis over the bowl. I was trying to reach her face to kiss her, but she wouldn't even look up at me, wouldn't let her eyes meet mine. She just said, real low, "Do you want to do it or do you want me to do it for you?"
"You, you" I pleaded.
She began pumping my meat, pulling it way out over the toilet; then sliding her hand all the way back into my ass; then coming up from the base again, plowing a roll of flesh ahead of her fingers until it met the spreading purple crown of my cock. Then she did it again. And again. If she had continued in the kitchen, just a tap of her fingernail would have brought on a violent ejaculation. But now she had to build it up all over again, and it was taking a little time.
I managed to ask her why she stopped and started again, if we really weren't going to fuck the way I wanted to. Her face was still turned away from me, but bent down over my cock, watching it closely, measuring its swell and evaluating the splurge of gism that would come flying out of the tiny slit and I knew she had stopped because she wanted to see me come.
"Why don't you kiss it?" I groaned. "Why don't you give it a quick kiss?"
I felt my face flame at what I had proposed. Sure, she fucked; after all she was married to my brother. But that didn't make her a cock sucker! Sure she was jacking me off, but that didn't mean she was really going to fuck me, let alone suck my prick! She was being kind, maybe, to her teenage brother-in-law, and she had an argument going with my brother, and maybe wanted to teach the whole fucking family a lesson, but that didn't mean she would give me a blowjob!
But all she said was, "There's no time. Next time well do everything. Right now come real fast or you're going to have to finish the job yourself!"
I realized then she was expecting somebody, but wanted to get in as much goodie as she could before we had to stop playing our game.
That's when I came.
It was the best jack off I ever had in my life. It arced up high over the toilet bowl and plopped into the middle of the water, glob after glob, like whipped cream islands floating in the John, while she squeezed the tube dry behind her agitating fist.
Then she patted my balls and gave me a handful of toilet paper, while I supported my drooping body on the tiled wall facing me.
She hummed as she washed and dried her hands. Then she slapped me smartly on the ass. "Put it away for now, stud, or close the door behind you. Your mother's coming up the path."
"Ma? What the hell's she doing here?"
Betty shrugged, and tongued her newly lip-sticked mouth. "She wants to straighten things about between her son and me."
"Which one?" I leered.
"Don't be a wise guy." Now she turned her face to me for a little sister-in-law lecture, and for the first time I realized how beautiful she was. The innocence of her blue eyes as she told me not to act any differently in front of the family denied that they had been feasting themselves on my prick while I came in her hand. My God, you can't tell what a girl will do just by looking at her, I thought. Who would believe-who on God's green earth would believe-
"I've got a lot of personal and family things to get straightened out," Betty was saying, "and we don't want to complicate the issue, do we, with something that had nothing to do with the argument between Dave and me?"
"Oh, shit, no," I said. "The argument didn't have anything to do with me!"
"Then let's keep it that way." Betty smiled and planted a sisterly kiss on my forehead. "Come on, straighten up," she said. "Go on and raid the frig while I talk to your mother."
And that's when the doorbell pealed, even thought the front door was always open and anybody could walk right in. But my ma never did when she called on Dave and Betty. She always rang the bell.
And now her youngest son rang the bell, I smirked, and tucked my satisfied cock back in my pants and went hunting for some chocolate cake and milk.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I arrived at the restaurant before Mrs. Talbot got there. But I didn't have long to wait. She really had kept her promise. I don't think I really believed until right now that she meant what she said.
The headwaiter ushered her to the booth where I was sitting. I stood up for her, glad I had seen enough movies so that I knew what to do, like waiting for her to sit down before I sat, and fighting a cigarette for her as if I were a dutiful son.
She was really something to admire. Her mink coat was open at the throat to display a deep-cut lace blouse, and the roundness of her orbs peeked through to verify the promise of what was yet to come.
Then even while the waiter was still standing there, she leaned to me for a lass. I tried to make it like a mother-son greeting, but she stuck her swollen tongue deep into my mouth and I felt my cock warm the crotch of my pants. I looked up, flushed, at the waiter, but he smiled as if it was the expected family greeting.
I should tell you that Mrs. Talbot is the mother of my roommate, Virg, at college. I should tell you that she came up there one day to see Virg, and found me fucking his girl who had also come up there to see Virg.
Mrs. Talbot skipped ordering a martini for herself, because she knew she couldn't order one for me, and didn't want to embarrass me. She's a real sharp lady. Instead she ordered a bottle of wine. "Pouilly Fusse," she told me to tell the waiter. "1959-a full bottle, not a half. I love wine," and she winked.
The waiter winked too. If she wanted to split a bottle of wine with her son, that was her private affair. He had served her.
I couldn't wait for the waiter to leave so that I could start exploring her legs and thighs. I was shocked to discover that all she wore under that mink was the white lace blouse. The rest of her body, except for black stockings hooked to a garter belt that fastened just above her fat cunt, was naked.
"Are you shocked, little man?" Mrs. Talbot wanted to know. She leaned her expensively coiffed head against mine. "That's so we can fuck in the car even before we get home," she whispered. "And you can finger me during dinner the way I saw you finger Virg's girl."
My voice was thick in my throat as I answered, "You're going to get all the nooky you want tonight, Mrs. Talbot-"
"Call me Ginny."
"-Ginny, because I haven't had a girl for three days, waiting for you."
"That's what I like to hear, my little man." She patted my cheek. "Now how does a thick sirloin steak with baked potato sound?"
"Sounds great."
"How does cunt sound? And boobs? And cock and prick and fuck?"
"They sound good too, but I like tits better than boobs."
"You college boys are all alike," she whooped. "But a rose is a rose is a rose."
There was no doubt she went to college long before I did.
"Shhhh," I admonished. Older people have no sense of decorum.
"Oh, fuck you!" she said hoarsely. Her face was shiny with a patina of perspiration and her hands were cold and clammy. The one holding the cigarette was visibly shaking. God knows how long she had waited for a chance like this. And it probably never would have happened, not with me anyway, if she hadn't caught me as she caught me, and one thing just sort of naturally led to another.
Virg's girl was okay; I mean, probably better fucking than this old lady, but she didn't have any scratch. She was going through State on a scholarship and had latched onto Virg, because she learned he had loot. Of course I knew that too; that's why I had him for my roommate. It didn't take us long-Sylvia and me-to agree that bread was what we were after. So being she wasn't fucking Virg for love and I wasn't palsey-walsey with Virg because of any manly friendship, we fucked whenever Virg had a basketball game somewhere or bounced to other campuses to represent the anti-riot faction of the very-well-established. You see, fucking Virg's mother had more compensations than just a good fuck. Of course, I didn't know yet how good a fuck she was.
"Mrs. Talbot, you don't have to go through with it if you're afraid," I said. "I'll take you home and just forget about it. I promise Virg won't know."
Then she really began sweating and her thick, ring-laden fingers beat against her wine glass like a castanet.
"Don't chicken out on me, little man," she said archly, "I can do anything you can do! Anyway," she gigged suddenly, "I bet I can do it longer!" Her face flamed and I thought she was going to come apart at the table.
We were halfway through our steak, my left hand buried in the middle of her naked thighs, my finger buried in the middle of her pulsating cunt, when she whispered, "Why don't you crawl under the table and eat my cunt right now!"
I looked up quickly, and looked around. Nobody was in the booths next to us, and nobody had heard. I breathed a sigh of relief, but Mrs. Talbot was persistent.
"I'll eat you while you're eating me," I compromised, and tried to get back to the one-handed eating of my steak.
"I'll give you a hundred dollars," she said. Before I could answer, she added, "I'll give you five-hundred dollars!" The piece of steak I had in my mouth wouldn't pass down my throat.
"I'm not just teasing you," she whispered earnestly. Her thighs rubbed frantically on my wrist, grinding my finger deeper inside the wet cavern of her twat. "I have a colored boy who drives a Continental just like mine and my husband's. You can have one too."
"Why did you tell me that?" I said, not that I really cared, but because I wanted to switch her from her crazy idea, and I was afraid she didn't think it was crazy.
"Because it might excite you. Doesn't it thrill you to know I prefer you to a black jock and they're supposed to be the best!"
"Aren't they?" I asked.
"Yes, but my son's roommate-" She left the sentence unfinished. I was supposed to know how erotic this made her feel. "Suck me," she repeated hoarsely. I paid no attention. "Suck me, NOW!" she cried louder.
"I'll be right back," I said, without looking at her. I started to get up, but her fingers locked like a vise around my wrist in her cunt.
Her voice was ice cold. "If you don't, I'm going to shove this table out and let everyone see you with your hand up my cunt. Then I'm going to scream like no woman's ever screamed before."
The added threat was unnecessary. I nodded mutely, dabbed at my lips with the restaurant-monogrammed linen napkin, and still clutching it in my hand, slowly sank beneath the table, hidden by the white tablecloth that shrouded it on all sides.
I was on my knees, getting between her spasmodic legs, when I heard the waiter above me say, "Is the gentleman ready for coffee?"
"He'll be back in a moment," Mrs. Talbot trilled. "But I'll have some, Waiter, thank you."
Then her knees softly parted and she left my hand free and my face crawled between the flesh of her thighs and I heard her sigh above me.
All the time my tongue lapped at the clump of hair between her legs, she spoke to the waiter. They discussed the election, long-haired youth, inflation, the stock market, and what looked good in the Daily Double at Hialeah.
I could hear Mrs. Talbot's voice getting tighter and tighter and higher and higher as she answered. Suddenly she must have just ignored the waiter, because I heard his voice asking questions, and when he received no answer, he left. As soon as he departed, Mrs. Talbot's cunt filled with juice. She spread her legs farther, and my whole face sank into her aged cunt and I really had to dig with my tongue to find the clit behind the folds of inner fat that blended her thighs with her cunt.
I dug my fingers into the leather of the booth to get her ass up in my palms so that I could reach the clit and pump it with my lips so she could get her jollies quick and I could get up and get out of there. The heat under the table in combination with the heat from Mrs. Talbot's loins was suffocating me. Above me, she was breathing with a whistling noise. She began whining. I kept tugging at her ass and pushing between her thighs. My finger found her asshole and I shoved it past the ring of her anus, up to the middle joint, and I heard her gasp; then she went rigid.
The stink-smell of her cunt evaporated, and all I could smell was the odor of ripe pussy, the way Sylvia smelled. My prick came up hard, and I released one hand to fumble at my fly. My prick came out bigger and thicker and wider and longer than I could believe. I weighed it in one hand while my tongue snaked out and traveled its own path up Mrs. Talbot's cunt; and the farther it stretched the stiffer my prick got.
And then I realized it had gone as far as it had gone, because Mrs. Talbot was sliding down in her seat, sliding beneath the tablecloth, sliding beneath the table, her arms stretched out so that the mink slipped from her shoulders to remain in the booth as if she had melted into the earth leaving only worldly possessions behind.
She was down in my arms, naked in my arms except for the silk of her stockings which were lacing themselves around my neck. The lace blouse was like a yoke around her neck while her mouth yawned for my prick, found it, sucked on it; sixty-nined with me, while above we could hear one waiter ask another for the party in the booth while I wanted to scream out that the party was going on under the table.
Her thigh muscles stood out, her belly puffed away from her hips, her tits swinging like pendulums. I ran my hands over her silky-smooth flesh. Her muscles spasmed with my caresses. My cock ached to be plunged up the twitching channel of her cunt. I fell across her body, smothering her with kisses and tickling her clit with my fingers. She bucked beneath me, shaking like a dog on a leash. She panted heavily. Her legs came up, clamping about my waist. I thrust my fingers back into the wet folds guarding her cunt. She responded with a series of pig-like grunts. I pushed my fingers deeper, wiggled them inside the satiny interior, listened to Mrs. Talbot's sighs of pleasure.
"Put it in, little man," she said. "Oh, please, put it in, put it in." She groped for my cock. Finding it, she squeezed it ruthlessly, trying desperately to guide the prong to her leaking cunt. "Please. Oh God, do it NOW!"
Spasms convulsed her body, shaking the table above us. I withdrew my fingers, letting Mrs. Talbot's death-grip on my cock pull me to the slot. I leaned into her, feeling my penis enter the hole, then sink into the shaft. She sprawled beneath me, thrashing in rhythm to my frantic heaves. I slowed down, listening to her gasps as I squeezed her tits, Mrs. Talbot moaned low listening for voices from other booths. I moved my hand back to her cunt, thrusting three fingers up the wide hole to join my prick.
I kissed her, our mouths pressing together, her tongue squirming in my mouth.
Fire swelled my groin, flamed to the rest of my body. My hands shifted over her ass. I tried my finger in her asshole again. Once inside, I could feel the fingers of my other hand as well as my cock through the membranes separating her cunt from her ass. The feeling drove me to new heights of passion.
"My boobs," she said. "Oh God, suck my boobs." She corrected herself. "My tits," she amended, for my sake.
My lips found one breast, working the nipple against the roof of my mouth, squeezing it there with the back of my tongue.
My cunt-submerged fingers took hold of her clitoris, carefully teasing it. Mrs. Talbot replied with sobbing gasps, her hips tossing like a boat.
I pushed my cock in deeper, letting her ass squash upon the floor under the force of my pile-driving. She flung her hips upward, locking my cock at the hilt. My breath came in choking gasps as our two bodies matched thrust with thrust.
Seemingly from nowhere my cock ballooned larger, extending deeper yet up her twat with each succeeding drive. We both gulped for air. Mrs. Talbot bit my neck, her tits pancaking against my sweaty suit jacket.
I pulled my finger from her ass, to pull her tightly up my prick. Her vulva milked my cock, like a thing apart from the seat of our fucking.
Her body stiffened against me as she jabbed her crotch upward. I thrust again and again while Mrs. Talbot's ass pounded me.
The restaurant was empty when we left. Only the busboy and our waiter were at the exit to the lounge. The busboy kept his head down and fiddled with his jacket. The waiter stared straight ahead like a guard at Buckingham Palace. As Mrs. Talbot passed him, she palmed a crisp bill into his extended hand. She imperceptibly nodded to include the busboy; then swept out in front of me while I followed.
The waiter said, "Thank you, Sir. Come back again."
I don't remember saying anything.
CHAPTER EIGHT
She was always sending me on errands, giving me a dime or a quarter or a half a buck each time. Naturally I hung around. My mother didn't like it at all. She couldn't get me to go out on the stoop and pick up the evening paper; but there I was always at the ready to chase things for Mrs. Johnson.
Well, to begin with, Mrs. Johnson didn't look like my mother. I can tell you exactly what Mrs. Johnson was like, because I saw an advertisement she sent to one of those Introduction magazines. Yeah.
Of course that was later, I mean after Mrs. Johnson and I were swinging. The ad carried a picture of her and a reply number. She described herself as a sexy model, 39-26-39. She wasn't a model. She was just a housewife. But the dimensions were true. She had platinum blonde hair on top of her head, and a big, thick, wiry black bush between her legs.
I didn't know that at first, of course. I learned it the morning she waved me down on my bike. Then in the middle of telling me what she wanted picked up at the drugstore, her phone rang. She thought I was still waiting in the yard, but I followed her into her kitchen to tell her she had to hurry it up or my ma would beat the shit out of me. Of course I wasn't going to tell it to her that way then. Now I would. But then I just wanted to get my hands on a fifty-cent piece, because I didn't know what a real piece really was.
She was in the hall, talking on the phone, and if I didn't know her voice, I wouldn't know it was the same lady.
She was saying, "Oh, yes, Naomi, I'm really flattered-I got fifteen responses. Well that column did it. . . . I tell you I think your column is really the grooviest. I mean sexy. I mean shit! Your advice is great: if it feels good, do it! If you like it, do it some more.
"Do I? Listen, I just love turning guys on-that's almost as good as having an orgasm myself! And then I like doing it all kinds of ways with all kinds of guys. This crap about only one guy can turn you on is really for kids! What? A kid?
Yeah, I tried it-but I haven't hit one old enough to turn on!"
She laughed, a high, tinkling laugh. My whole body seemed to melt, and I felt it leaking into the head of my pecker. I felt just like at night when I lay down naked on the cool sheets of my bed and slide my body back and forth on the crisp cotton. And when I can't hold it back anymore, when I go faster and faster until the release crashes over me, making me feel bad but at the same time making me feel warm and pleasurable, is exactly how I felt now.
Mrs. Johnson's laugh tinkled again. "My husband? He's six feet, four, and weighs a ton, except his prick-a fourteen year old kid who lives next door's got a bigger one! . . . Yeah, I'll have to-I'll give him one of my famous, wild soul kisses so he'll know right away what I want to do to him. He'll come on when I get down to the business at hand-wet my lips, pucker up and blow him kisses right on the old red target!"
My eyes stayed fixed looking back out the open kitchen door. I felt I should leave, but I didn't want to go. Then Mrs. Johnson's voice behind me wouldn't let me go. I mean, she wasn't on the phone anymore. She was right there in the kitchen with me, right behind me, and I knew she knew I had heard her. She went on talking as if she was still on the phone.
"Herby, have you ever had tongue-tingling juicy kisses? Real succulent kisses?" She liked the word. She said it again: succulent.
"Herby, what would you do if I got down on my knees for you? I like it that way, Herby. I'm enthusiastic about it."
I stood rooted to the square-foot of linoleum, while she put her arms around me from the back. Her hands massaged my sport-shirted stomach; then the fingers crawled down to my levis. My hard-on was way below my crotch so she just stroked the top of my pelvis while her thumbs dug into just the base of my cock.
"Listen, Herby, have you ever fucked? Have you ever been sucked off? Have you ever sucked a cunt? Hey, Herby, it tastes like Coca Cola with honey."
"Mrs. Johnson-" -
"Herby, I have a broad-minded husband who not only approves, but encourages me to indulge in the French art-that's cock sucking-and he even arranges dates for me. Would you let me suck you off so he can watch? It's real yummy, Herby."
I knew Mr. Johnson wasn't home. He drives a fruit and vegetable truck. He's out of the house at four in the morning and he comes home exactly at the stroke of noon. It was just nine-thirty now.
The kitchen and the whole outdoors was swimming around in front of my eyes, and I had to close them when Mrs. Johnson's hands began opening my belt buckle. Then she let her fingers snap each Dutton open one at a time. I heard her draw in her breath when she found I didn't wear shorts under the levis. Her cool fingers were on my naked skin, skittering around the loins to my small, hard ass, where she worked her palms on the cheeks before pulling my pants over my hips. Once they were past the bones they just dropped to my ankles. I automatically stepped out of them, and I heard Mrs. Johnson release her breath, like a sigh. Then she turned me around. And, like she said, she went down on her knees and gripped my thighs and put her cheek against my hard cock. She had her eyes closed, but her mouth was open and wet.
I said, "For Chrissakes, Mrs. Johnson, the door's open behind me and my ass is out in the yard!"
I had to pull away from her to get back to the door, and she sort of fell forward and stretched out on the linoleum. I slammed shut the door and then nervously pulled down the flowered shade that fit inside the little window of the door. I gave one last peek under it to make sure nobody saw me there, but I knew even then that a lot of people around knew she had called me, and saw me go into her house.
But by this time Mrs. Johnson was slapping her palms on the floor and bucking her ass and swinging her legs wide and saying, "You know what a sixty-nine is, Herby? A sixty-nine is when we French each other. Let's French. Let's suck each other off, Herby."
The seams of her blouse, tight across her big tits, looked as if they were about to burst. I wasn't bewildered or shocked or embarrassed or anything anymore. I felt angry. Just goddam angry. I tore off her blouse, and then ripped away the brassiere under it. Her tits flew out, popped out, puffed out. The nipples were swollen like long dark red grapes. Behind them were the two enormous white delicately veined mounds. I grabbed at them. They were as tight as a drum. While I fumbled with them, stuffing them into my mouth, Mrs. Johnson was pulling the zipper on her skirt. It unpeeled like skin from a banana. She had on black bikini stepins underneath that were slit right in the middle of her pussy so a guy could grab a quickie in the back seat of a car without even having to take them off. But she took them off for me. It released her full, hand-wide cunt that was topped by a hill of black hair. Maybe that's what made me angry too.
I tried to pick her up, but she half-lifted herself into my arms, because she knew what a hefty bundle she was, and I was just a kid.
Downstairs was the kitchen, the hall, and a living room, so I climbed the stairs to the bedrooms. All the time she was wriggling naked in my arms, trying to make herself lighter while she whispered obscenities in my ear: fuck . . . suck . . . prick . . . cock . . . cunt-a big cunt, Herby. . . . Suck my cunt, Herby. . . . Dig your tongue into my wet pussy, Herby. . . . Give me your big cock in my mouth, Herby. . . . Let's have a grand fuck-suck, Herby. . . .
Like I said, she was heavy but I felt I was walking on air. I noticed the bed was still unmade, with two sticky, wet spots still in the middle of it, but I didn't care. I dropped her down on it roughly and began tearing off the silk stockings that still encased her legs. I didn't realize until then what beautiful legs she had, for a woman who was so big and all.
Then I just stood there, admiring that magnificent hunk of flesh and hair. My cock was standing out in front of me bigger than it had ever been in its life. Maybe bigger than it will ever be again.
I was still staring at her when her eyes filled with tears. But she smiled, even while the trickle of saltwater ran down her voluptuous cheeks. I know they were real tears, because I drank them up one minute later. But right then she said, "What are you waiting for, baby? Come and do things to me-anything you feel like doing." And she spread her legs wide.
I dropped down on top of her. I had never felt the whole of a woman's body naked under me and my mind blacked out. I started licking her hungrily, running my tongue rapidly over her legs from toes to cunt. Every time I stuck my tongue into that cavity, Mrs. Johnson squealed with delight. Then I sucked her nipples, gradually applying more and more force. She began mixing her dirty words with short cries of joy.
I lifted her legs high in the air and stuck my tongue right into her asshole. I let it sink down as deep as I could. Then I swiveled myself around so that my cock was over her face, banging against her lips, and began to lap her cunt as if I had been doing it all my life.
I felt her meaty lips clamp soft and moist over the head of my cock. I heard her sucking on it hungrily, while she caressed my balls and the shaft of my prick with her hands, trying to drive every last drop of gism into that turgid organ. I tried to prolong the pleasure as long as I could, but I had waited too many years for this. And when I came, I let it keep going into her mouth. The moment the semen hit her tongue she orgasmed as violently as I did. I had to pull my mouth up from her cunt for air, but she kept an unrelenting pressure on my glans while her tongue scooped up each creamy drop until I was empty.
And then she did something I had never heard about before or even read about. She flipped me over onto my back and brought her face down to lass me; my lips glistening wet from her pussy, her lips glistening wet from my come. She kissed me hard and forced my mouth open; then she opened her lips and forced my own gism from her mouth into mine.
"Hey, hey, what do you think of me now?" she asked. I could hardly answer from the sticky, chalk-like substance pasting my tongue to the roof of my mouth. I swallowed my own come and that seemed to bring on a new ecstasy with Mrs. Johnson. She squirmed up on top of me and settled her big, wet cunt on the flaccid meat of my orgasmed cock.
All I could think of was to ask her if she was going to tell my ma. "I won't if you won't."
"But I sucked your cunt!"
"I teased you into it, Herby. I've been trying to get you excited for weeks, and I just had to take matter into my own hands!"
She kept rolling her ass around my cock, finally locking it between her still-hot thighs while she slid up and down on it, like I do when I'm in bed jacking-off. Her breathing sounded labored, and suddenly she was bucking up and down, holding my prick between her thighs with her hand, while in her glazed eyes I could tell she was having another orgasm. She'd squinch them shut; then open them; then close them tight again. In-between she talked.
"Don't worry about your ma," Mrs. Johnson said. "I know what she does every afternoon in her bedroom."
"What?" I felt a terrible excitement mounting in me.
"She jerks herself off by the hour, that's what she does every afternoon."
My mouth was dry. "How do you know?"
"Ask Mr. Johnson. We lay here fucking while we listen to your ma next door masturbating."
"I don't believe you I"
"She makes the same sound I do-I can tell."
And while she talked I watched her nipples extend to the size of my thumb. I slipped one into my mouth and listened to her delicious description of my mother jacking off. But then she was crawling off me again, turning and straddling me with her ass up to my face. She looked back coquettishly over her shoulder. "Herby, how would you like to fuck me up the ass?"
"I-I'm not sure I know how to do it."
"You didn't know how to sixty-nine either, but you did. Come on, I'll show you."
She shuffled forward on hands and knees so I could get out from under. "Get a tube of vaseline from the bathroom," she said. "You'll find it on the top shelf of the medicine chest."
I was so used to doing errands for Mrs. Johnson that it was really no effort to find the tube of vaseline. When I came back with it, Mrs. Johnson was on her knees in front of the bed, her tits resting on the bed itself, and her knees spread so far that the cheeks of her ass were like quarter moons on either side of her fur-lined brown hole.
I squeezed a part of the tube up her ass and she squirmed with delight. Then I smeared the salve all around the asshole and up on her buttocks and rubbed it into her skin. Mrs. Johnson started on a new string of obscenities. Then she screamed, "Ram it in! Shove your prick up my ass! Fuck my ass with your cock!"
I forced my prick between the marshmallow layers of her thighs. It looked like it would go in easy, but even with the vaseline I was afraid it was going to tear her in two. The tightness, I guess, is what thrilled her, but it was hurting my prick even if the pain was a little bit like coming.
"Fuck harder!" Mrs. Johnson grunted. "AAAaaa-iiii!" she bellowed as the glans pushed past the button of her ass and jammed up her anal canal. "AAAaaaiiii!"
"My God!" I screamed back, "I have to piss!"
"Piss then, you mother fuckin' sonofabitch! Piss! Piss! PISS! Piss in me, you cocksucker! Piss all over me! Piss up me! Shit on me! Shit in my shit! Shit in my mouth! Piss in my ass! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!"
I pissed. Mrs. Johnson keened. I felt the urine streaming all the way up into her guts; then washing back down and leaking out her asshole and running along the shaft of my prick and running out on the side of the bed and dripping down on the floor.
The spastic constrictions of her anal muscles pushed my prick out of the hole; but before I could stop pissing, she was around on me, grabbing for my cock and poking it into her mouth. But by the time the looping stream hit her thighs and belly and neck and face, I was all out of piss when it got to her mouth. She sucked my cock dry anyway, murmuring her disappointment to my balls, but seeming to enjoy the hot urine running all over her body and seeping out her asshole.
She said, "Stay like this . . . stay just like this until my husband comes home."
I had no intention to, but something told me not to argue with her either. I said, "Tell me more about my mother." And while Mrs. Johnson talked I went into the bathroom and took a shower.
I looked down at my cock as I washed it. I couldn't believe this is what married people did to each other. I couldn't believe that my mother and father did it too; not this way, I couldn't believe that.
I didn't even believe that I had done it. My prick didn't look any different. But my mouth felt funny and my tongue ached.
CHAPTER NINE
I was in love with Dora Dokker because of her arms. I know Mr. Dokker himself always kept his eyes on her legs, and let his tongue hang out of his mouth when her boobs bounced by, and kept his hands on his jock when her ass sashayed in front of him. But I like arms. Plump arms. I like to see hair tugging out from under the armpits too, and Mrs. Dokker had lots of hair there. I think what makes it so good is that it's like looking at a cunt that the women leave open and naked for you. They're not even aware that they're showing off their pussy to you. But what really makes it good is when their husbands-like horny Mr. Dokker don't know either that you're looking at and seeing their wives' vulvas when you peek under their arms.
I help out in their store, see. I sweep behind the counter and put the stock away, and now and then I deliver orders, just like in the old days when people used to phone in for their groceries and have them delivered. Chain and discount stores fucked that up so you don't get too many tips anymore, and you don't get to visit too many houses and see those bare arms anymore.
Winter is a miserable time, because the women go around all dressed up, but summer is beautiful. I think I'll move to California or Florida where I can see naked arms all year around.
But working in the store is good, because Mrs. Dokker's arms are always naked all year around.
Listen, my whole life has been like that. I'm hooked. I pretend I'm putting canned goods away or straightening up the gum rack or breaking out paper bags, and all the time I'm keeping one hand in my pocket while I look at Mrs. Dokker's arms. My little prick swells and stiffens, and I can come without even stopping doing what I'm doing.
Funny, sometimes young kids come in, girls I mean, and they're willing-I guess all girls are now-and they squeeze up against me. They give me hints. One, with schoolbooks under her arm-her arm!-showed me a piece of paper and asked me what it spelled. It spelled fuck. She asked me if I fucked. I told her Mrs. Dokker didn't allow me.
Sometimes I fall in love, bang, just like that; if her arms is bare and I can see a shadow of hair starting to grow. But why waste my time when I got Dora Dokker all the time?
My big advantage is that Mr. Dokker pays no attention to me at all. As long as I keep busy that is. As long as I'm doing something, as long as I'm moving, he ignores me.
I'm always in their house too, because they live right back of the store. There are three rooms there, a kitchen, a bedroom, and a toilet. You get to the toilet through the bedroom. I go to the toilet a lot, but that's okay with Mr. Dokker as long as I don't stay long when I go. I shit fast, but sometimes playing around with my dong eats up time, and Mr. Dokker kicks at the door with his shoe and asks me what I'm doing in there.
I'm pulling my prick I told him once, and he said that don't make no never mind he don't want me playing with my joint on his time. That's why the only time he watches me close is when those young girls come into the store. He doesn't know I'm watching Mrs. Dokker all the time and jacking off whenever I see an arm lift. And, boy, she's lifting her arms all the time.
I don't see how Mrs. Dokker lets him fuck her though. He's one of those Spanish Harlem types of grease balls. I mean, he ain't black and he ain't white. He ain't Puerto Rican and he ain't U.S.A. He's just a lump. He's like the transmission on the bottom of a car after it's climbed Pike's Peak.
But as I say, he don't really bug me. And Dora Dokker wasn't really bugging me, until she caught me staring at her arms while she was bent over picking up a box. I didn't know she was looking back through her legs, and I got a little careless with my hand. Instead of just keeping it in my pocket and pressing my cock, I was really pounding it, and even debating about unzipping my fly and pulling it out before she turned around.
But I guess she thought I was looking up under her dress or something, and she stayed just that way. I was suddenly conscious of the fact that she wasn't moving, wasn't picking up anything, just staying bent over that way, her arms outstretched for the box, her face upside down staring back at me.
I guess I got hypnotized for a moment at the shape of her mouth, the funny way it looks upside down, like a dead fish or something. And then she opened her mouth and her tongue came out. Upside down it really looked like a prick sliding between her lips, and that's when I got the idea of putting my dong right there, between her lips, in her mouth, while I kept my eyes on the creases of her arms and the wires of her hair.
Her voice came from under her body. She said, "Go back in the kitchen."
I felt the heat of a blush. I looked up frantically for Mr. Dokker, but he was outside washing the big plate glass window. I beat a hasty retreat for the kitchen, and Mrs. Dokker was right behind me. I stopped there, but she grabbed my hand and pulled me through to the bedroom. I figured she was really going to tan my ass.
She whirled me around. I noticed her face was aflame like mine. She said, "Aren't you ashamed of yourself! A grown boy like you! Still playing with yourself like an infant!"
She walked back to the kitchen and looked out at the store; then she came back to me. I didn't know what to do. My cock had long gone soft, and my hands hung limply at my sides. Mrs. Dokker pointed a finger at me and began shaking it. I was looking past the wagging finger to the armpit behind it.
"Mr. Dokker would throw you out on the street this minute, if I told him what you were doing in front of me!"
That he would. He told me not to do it on his time.
We heard the front doorbell jangle, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "For your sake I'm not going to tell him. But you need a good talking to. Today, when he goes to the market, I'll talk to you. But it'll be the only time and the last time. Is that clear?"
I nodded dumbly and scuffed the floor with my shoe.
"Stop that! Act the grown up boy you are!"
Mr. Dokker called from the store. "So? How come nobody's working?"
Mr. Dokker goes to the market three times a week. On those nights I sleep on a cot in the kitchen, because Mr. Dokker goes at midnight and he don't like to leave Mrs. Dokker all alone. He pays me two dollars a week extra for staying, and my dinner is thrown in. That helps my old man who claims I eat more than I bring home for the kitty. Since there's only him and me I don't know what the shit he's so uptight about, but that's life until you're twenty-one, I guess. At least that's what he tells me.
So I went home when the store closed at nine, as I'm supposed to. I made dinner for the old man, stopped by at the corner bar to tell him it was ready, as I usually do, then went back to the store to do my homework until Mr. Dokker left. Then I'd go to sleep on the cot and he'd get me up in the morning when he came back from the market. He'd let me take an orange on the way to school, and life wasn't bad at all. Not as bad as some kids I know.
Anyway, this night I hated coming back. I wasn't so worried about Mrs. Dokker's lecture as I was worried that she had something on me now. That's one thing I learned even before my mother died: don't let anybody get anything on you.
So I was a little late, and Mr. Dokker was crawling out of his skin. He didn't like leaving Mrs. Dokker alone in back of the store.
"I'm going to get a dog," he said. "At least that son of a bitch will always be here. And I won't have to give him two dollars a week extra either."
I wondered why he didn't have a dog to begin with, but that's before I learned how friendly a lady and her dog can become. Mr. Dokker was no fool. He was dumb, but he wasn't a fool.
I expected Mrs. Dokker to start in swinging, but she was just as sweet and kind as she could be. It was almost like being home with my mother before she died. I felt a warm, good feeling in the pit of my stomach, and didn't gripe about wiping the dishes after eating.
"You shouldn't eat so late," Mrs. Dokker said. "From now on, you will eat before you go home. You can have a little snack when you come back, before going to bed."
There's no place to sit in those rooms, except at the kitchen table, in the toilet, or on the edge of the bed. Mrs. Dokker usually sat on the bed and read before going to sleep. She got the bulldog edition of the morning paper, as usual, and headed for the bed, as usual. Not as usual, she said, "Come sit down with me."
She spread the newspaper out on our knees. Her bare arm was right next to my face, and I let my cheek touch it. She shoved herself even closer so I could see the other end of the paper. I had to put my hand around her waist to brace myself. For a moment she leaned her head on mine.
"You don't do that often, do you?"
I knew what she was talking about. "No, ma'am." I pretended more confusion that I felt, because there was no reproach in her voice. She read my thoughts.
"That isn't the way to have sex," she said. I knew the ways, but could I help what jiggling arms did to me? "Playing with yourself!"
Her emphasis was on the yourself, not the playing.
"I understand everybody does that," I said. "Even women."
"Not grown up women-girls."
I reddened, but she didn't. I said, "What do grown up women do?"
The newspaper rustled on our knees.
"Grown up women are the same as grown up men."
She didn't give me a chance to push that any farther. She pushed it for me. "They fuck," she said.
Her arm was flat against the side of my face now, or my face was flat against her arm. I could smell the sweaty hair from the fat-creased pit, and I smelled her bottom wafting up between us. I squirmed.
Mrs. Dokker said, "Are you uncomfortable?" I looked at her from under my brows, and her dark eyes were sparkling.
"Would you put your arm around my shoulders?"
The request was innocent enough. The arm lifted. I saw the black cave, the hairs spidery in the enlarged pores of her underarm. My prick tingled and strained against my pants. I guess we both looked down at it together. It was like I was carrying a doorknob in my pants.
"I can't help it if it gets hard," I muttered.
"Of course not. That's natural."
"Pulling it's natural too," I said with jutting jaw. "And if I don't, what am I supposed to do with it?"
"Fuck."
"Who?"
Mrs. Dokker licked her lips. "There are certain girls. And there are-are-houses . . . "
"I don't want to get in trouble with girls, and I know you don't want me to get in trouble with girls. And even though you say I'm grown up, I can't get into those houses." I could hear her breath deep and heavy in my ear. The side of her head was down hard on the top of mine. "Besides, where are those houses-do you know?"
"I could ask Mr. Dokker."
I had to laugh. Mrs. Dokker pulled away, but I held onto her waist, which kept her arm close to my face. "If you let him know I was a fucker, I wouldn't be around here long. And if he admitted to you he knew where there are such places, pretty soon he'd be thinking that you think he goes there. And maybe you would. And maybe he does." (That last was a brilliant stroke!) "And pretty soon you'd have a whole big fight on account of me."
She nodded sagely. "That's why I'm talking to you in private, Henry."
"But all you're telling me is that I should fuck instead of jack-off. But I still say who and where and when?"
Dora Dokker's answer came right back. "If you did a little hugging and kissing it would take the pressure off your sex needs and you wouldn't have to jack-off."
I said, "Doesn't that make me want to do it even more?"
She had to admit I had something there. "I don't really know," she said. "But I know there must be ways for cooling oneself off, otherwise everybody would be going around jacking-off in the streets."
"Maybe they do," I said. "Some of them really walk like it."
"This is no time for humor, Henry. There's nothing funny about this subject."
"No, ma'am."
She had brought her head back to me and was resting it on my skull again. Her hand around my shoulder tightened, so I tightened my hand around her waist. The smell from her armpit was overpowering. I said again, "What do you do?"
She said, "I'm married. I have Mr. Dokker."
"But you don't fuck him all the time. Most of the time he's in the store. When he's back here, you're out there. The rest of the time he's at the market. What do you do for your fucking when you need it now?"
"I told you. We kiss and hug a lot."
"And that really helps?"
"It works for us."
"And you think it'll work for me?"
"You can try it."
She raised her head, and I raised mine too. Our lips were a pinhead apart. So we kissed.
My hand fell gently on her knee. Her hand came not so gently on mine. I could feel her wrist brushing the head of my jutting cock. I ran my hand up her thigh and back down to her knee. She didn't do anything. I let it work under her skirt and came to rest on the live flesh above her stocking. A shudder rippled her body.
I took my mouth away from her lips. Her head followed until she caught her balance. "See?" she said. "Doesn't that help?"
I looked down at my joint that was ready to bust through my pants. "Feel it," I said. "You'll see it's harder."
"Why, of course, if you feel it!" she said. "You're making it hard when you feel it."
I didn't say anything. But I moved my hand farther up her thigh. My fingertips came in contact with a rubberized stepin. Not a girdle exactly, but Mrs. Dokker had enough middle age fat to pooch out into a pot that she didn't yet want.
Mrs. Dokker licked her lips and continued in a voice that was getting throatier. "It's all right if you hug me, but you mustn't touch that.
"What?"
"Your thing."
"My prick?"
She nodded with blinking eyes. She whispered, "Yes, your prick."
"My cock?"
"Your cock," she said huskily.
I kissed her again, harder than before. Her lips returned the pressure. I risked pushing my tongue a little way into her mouth. Her mouth yawned open like a canyon. I stuck my tongue as far as I could reach down her throat. She thrust her own back, then she pulled away.
"We mustn't French kiss," she gasped.
"That's called soul kissing now," I said. 'Trenching is something different."
"I only do that with Mr. Dokker, when we-we . . .
"Fuck?"
"Yes, when we fuck."
"Does it make you want to fuck?" Her eyes were flashing prisms of light. Her lips were sopping wet. Her tongue was like a thick, red rubber tube in her mouth. And her hand, her goddam hand was on the crown of my cock, her wrist circling, and her palm rubbing it. I didn't want to call her attention to it. I just sort of inhaled so that if she wanted to she could reach my fly easy and take it out. But she didn't seem to know what she was doing.
"Not exactly," she finally said.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She felt a compulsion to explain herself. "It doesn't make me want to do it-I want to fuck before I do it-I mean, it's because I want to fuck that I do that. If I didn't want to fuck, I wouldn't be doing that." She couldn't explain it enough, and she couldn't say fuck enough.
"But you're doing it now so you must want to fuck now."
She was sort of melting apart. Her eyes were running down her face and her mouth was running down her chin and the smell from under her arm made it almost impossible for me to breathe.
"No, of course not," she said. I wondered how Mr. Dokker put up with her.
"Then there's no harm in doing it, is there?" I asked.
"No harm in doing what?"
I mean soul kissing, but I told her what she wanted to hear. "No harm in fucking."
"We can't."
"Why not?"
"You-you're too young."
"You just told me I was too old to jack-off."
"You're too young for me."
"If I'm too young then why are you taking all this trouble explaining?" I kissed her again and stuck my tongue in her mouth and let it explore every grain of gum and every tooth and every hollow. Her tongue sucked back, and then our two tongues went at it for the next five minutes. Every now and then I tried to get my fingers under the damn rubber-tight panties. I couldn't do it without help, and she wasn't ready yet to help me. Yet the way she was doing it, she was letting me know that she was denying me her cunt, but she was letting me free to do anything else. I tried her tits and pumped them for awhile, but she wouldn't let me get my hand inside her bra either.
"Why are you doing this to me?" I breathed.
"Why are you?"
"You invited me."
"I certainly did not! I'm just trying to show you that you don't have to jack off to get relief."
And that's when I had my second brilliant thought. "I guess it's because you're so attractive," I said. "I can't keep my hands off of you." The musky odor from between her thighs and the pungent reek of her armpits helped too, but I didn't know how to explain that to her.
"Oh, do you really think so?" she said coquettishly. "You never even noticed me as a woman-so busy sticking yourself."
"That's why I was sticking myself," I said.
"You're silly," she said. "You were only looking at my legs because I was bent over."
"Haven't you ever noticed how much I look at you?" It was her arms I meant.
"Well, maybe that will do it," she said. "Maybe just looking will help, and I don't see anything wrong in that."
Almost eagerly she bounded up from the bed and began peeling her dress over her head. My eyes drank in the full excitement of her silk-stockinged legs, the tight fit of the rubber pants, the balloon of her bra, the cups separated by deep cleavage that created the same kind of shadow she had under her arms. And then she lifted her arms and pirouetted in front of me. I nearly came in my pants.
At my command she turned so I could admire her fore and after and from the sides. She had a broad ass, but it was tucked in nicely by the pants, and in the crotch I could see a spray of red hair straggled under the edges.
"Hot damn!" I said. This made Mrs. Dokker giggle, and she threw herself full-length cross wise on the bed, putting her hands across her face and peeking at me through her fingers. Her giggle turned into a laugh, and her voice behind it kept going higher and higher.
I threw myself forward so my face was on one broad, fat thigh. I began kissing her leg. She felt safe, I guess, with the rubber panties so she spread her thighs so my head could fit between and I could kiss the flesh of both legs. Meanwhile I was reaching up to her bra, poking my fingers in the valley of her tits and generally going out of my mind.
She went limp, but suddenly tried to get up. "We mustn't do this!"
I pushed her back easily. There was no more pretense. We were down to the nitty-gritty, and that was good.
"You're a foolish woman," I told her. "Don't you know I've wanted to fuck you ever since I came to work here? Don't you see me look at your legs, your arms, and faint with desire?"
"My arms?"
"Every time I catch a glimpse of your flesh, I masturbate for hours. Don't you know that if you let me stick my prick into your juicy cunt just once, I'll be in heaven-otherwise I'm going to die! We can't stop now! You know that!"
She started to cry. Big, fat tears squeezed out from her under eyes, and mountains of flesh began to shake like jello.
"Don't you know I'm burning up inside from wanting you? Don't you know I jack-off too-imagining us together, fucking . . . fucking . . . fucking . . . " she pleaded with me.
I thought I could climb right on top, unsnap that bra and roll down that rubber and get her legs around my ass and get between them and shove my hot prick up her cunt and come like a fire hydrant. But she still was resisting through every inch of her fuckin' mind.
I was trying to roll those rubber pants down, when she gave out an unearthly scream. She grabbed my head and pulled it inside her thighs. I tried to eat it, but that made no sense through that rubber.
"Jack-off on me," she yelled. "Just jack-off on me!
I fumbled for my zipper, but I didn't stop trying to roll her panties down. When she saw I was really going after my cock, she quieted a bit and arched her hips and let me pull on the girdle. She was sobbing and, I think, praying, but she flipped her ass from cheek to cheek so I could get the garment down to her knees. It kept rolling up smaller and smaller and tighter and tighter and she had to overlap her legs so I could get it down over her ankles.
To show her I was getting ready to masturbate on her, I pulled off all my clothes too. In the meantime I watched her writhe in the bed. It was the first time I had seen anybody all naked. It made the whole room swim in front of my eyes.
Then I grabbed her by the ankles and spread her legs.
"No, no!" One knee came up and in and I knew my prick would never make it so I threw my shoulders in-between; then slid down, opening her thighs, and finding my face in her bush. She liked that. She didn't fight that. She just lifted her ass and used her fingers to spread her cunt, and before I could think, my tongue was inside her twat. Burning inside her twat. In her cunt. Sucking her cunt.
She screeched and whined and gasped and screamed and I kept my tongue inside the pulsating slit while I shifted my ass to come up on her. But the game-playing was over. She pushed my head aside and pleaded, "Fuck me! Fuck my cunt! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Damn you, FUCK!"
As long as I had her going so good with my tongue, I didn't want to stop. It gave me a hard-on like I never had before in my life, and at the same time I didn't have to come right away and it was like being in heaven.
She kept whirling her ass around, and I kept sucking like a drunken sailor. She bounced off the bed and onto the floor, and I followed. I hung on without missing a lick. I lapped and lapped until my tongue ached. She kept jerking under my mouth, and feeling her react to my lips was the greatest thing I ever felt. Finally I rolled off her to catch my breath and free my nostrils of the stench that was choking me. It does stink, my mind said, but I knew it was a stink I liked and wanted and I only stopped because I couldn't breathe.
"Fuck me," she begged. "Please fuck me!"
I complied. I sprang on her. When I did, she covered her face with her hands, as if I couldn't see her, as if that made her someone else. And that was a good idea. Making her someone else was like starting all over again and my body nearly burst at the seams.
I looked ecstatically for a long moment at the quivering thighs and hips, at the black hairy triangle . . . I spread her cunt with my fingers until it seemed to go from wall to wall; and then I rammed my prick into her as hard as I could.
She gave out with another one of those unearthly screams. But it didn't bother me this time. I knew she wasn't hurt, and I knew she wasn't screaming for help. My prick went into that bottomless pit like a hot knife through butter. Then I tore her fingers from her face. She looked at me with horror-her stricken eyes as big as saucers.
"You're going to watch me fuck you," I grunted. "You're going to watch me fuck your hot hole. I'm going to fuck you like you've never been fucked before!"
"Yes, yes!" she whispered back.
I started pumping feverishly. She threw her heavy legs around my waist, squeezed me so tight that I could hardly breathe. She kept screaming a string of fucks and cocks and pricks and cunts and piss and shit and balls and assholes and cock-suckers and mother-fuckers and bastards and sonofabitches and cunt-lappers, while all the time tears were streaming down her cheeks and she yelled, "Do it, do it, do it, do it!"
We came together, both at the same time as if we had been fucking together for five years; and I had to clap my hand over her mouth, because I knew they would hear her in the next county and all the way down to the market where Mr. Dokker was buying bell peppers and eggplant and tomatoes and rutabagas.
When she, and I, finally recovered our senses, we lay in a pool of jism that dripped out of her fat cunt and ran down her thighs and coated my hair, gooey and sticky, all the way up to my navel.
She continued to cry, but quietly and pleasurably, while I nibbed her arms; and dipped my head into the pits of her arms. I didn't even want her tits. They were like big, soft hills of quicksand; but her arms were as hard as my prick.
I was still in her, still throbbing inside her hot, wet cunt, and in spite of the enormous force of our come, I know I could come again, if she'd only let me. I still moved in a gentle fucking rhythm, begging her to please, please let me fuck her again, fearful that this was the only time and the last time, and she would tell Mr. Dokker what she did and deny me her pussy, all pussy, for the rest of my life.
But instead what I heard were words of love, of how much she loved me and how much she needed me. "I'm yours. I'm yours. You can do anything you want to me. Torture me. Eat me. Kill me. Make a whore out of me. Make me fuck a dog. Make me fuck a horse. Anything you want. ANYTHING! Only never stop fucking me. I love you."
And I was glad I was as old as I was-not a day younger. Only the night was young, and I mentally calculated how much time we had left and how many more times I could come.
CHAPTER TEN
I tried to remember why it happened. But I didn't care how it happened, or why. It had happened, goddammit!
She was my sister's piano teacher. My mother had insisted that I take Betty-that's my sister for her lesson, because there were too many rough boys in the neighborhood to allow her to go alone.
Sure there were boys, but they were just my age, or a little order. They catcalled and whistled and made obscene gestures, but it wasn't anything different than I did to other girls who walked alone in our neighborhood. I mean, if a girl wanted to get it, she could. But if she didn't want it, all she had to do was ignore the shit, and nobody was going to mug her. For that, we went out of our neighborhood. So did these guys. All we had to watch for was that there was no guy from a different neighborhood.
In fact, I stopped and yacked with a couple of the guys, because they were just like me, guys I know who are getting their first piece of ass and looking for girls who want to experiment with them.
There's nothing wrong with that.
Anyway Betty introduced me to her teacher, Miss Fry. She was an old bag, about thirty-two or thirty-three, and her eyes, wet behind thick glasses, kept casing the street while she let us in.
"Are those nasty boys bothering you, honey?" she asked Betty, but she never waited for an answer. "This neighborhood is really something else," she said to me.
I got my back up at that, because I live in this neighborhood.
"Just guys," I said.
"Filthy guys," Miss Fry said, but I noticed her face didn't express any distaste, and she was actually smiling when she said it.
I noticed the smile particularly, because although all of her looked like an older lady, her teeth were exceptionally white and glistening, like wet, like young, and her tongue was small and pointed and red as blood.
I sat in the living room, in an overstuffed, prickly, mohair chair, while Betty had her lesson in the
"studio," really a converted bedroom. I listened absently to Miss Fry's verbal instructions as she explained to Betty the feeling that music is supposed to give. When I heard her say, "It's like having an orgasm, Betty," I nearly fell off the chair. "Have you ever had an orgasm, Betty?"
I didn't hear my sister's reply. I heard her voice, muted and soft, and then the piano started playing again and the rest got drowned out. Then I heard Betty's voice loud and clear saying she had to go to the bathroom. It wasn't until later that I learned she was just following Miss Fry's instruction. "Say it loud so your brother can hear," she told her. "Then stay in the toilet until I tell you to come out. I want to talk to your brother for a minute."
After Betty passed through on the way to the John-with a sidelong look at me as she passed-Miss Fry came into the living room. "Do you have a few minutes, Roger? I want to talk to you about Betty."
Jesus Christ, she was going to tell me that Betty admitted she had been fucked, and maybe she had even told her that she had been fucked by me!
I know my face was crimson, but Miss Fry smiled again and I saw those wet teeth and that hot tongue and I didn't feel worried anymore.
I noticed too that her waist was slim, her breasts perfectly shaped, behind her smock I mean, which had seemed to have shrunk two sizes smaller than I remembered it. Or maybe her tits just got bigger from listening to the piano music, like she said.
She beckoned me into the piano room, taking off her thick, rimless glasses at the same time. I hadn't realized how deep violet the color of her eyes were.
"Have you ever thought of taking lessons, Roger?"
I mutely shook my head as I preceded her into the room. I heard the door close behind me, and turned around to see Miss Fry unzipping her smock.
"I don't mean piano lessons, Roger," she said.
The front of the smock fell open, and she was naked under it. It was the first time I had seen a grownup cunt. I mean, I couldn't really see the cunt, but I saw the bush of hair that triangled between her legs and spread out like a mustache on the lower protrusion of her belly. Then my eyes traveled up to her tits, and was surprised to see that they stood up like my sister's. Only they were bigger. Much bigger. Like soup dishes. With a red badge on the tip of each one that was about the size of a half-dollar. A dark red. Almost purple-red.
Miss Fry acted as if she hadn't done anything, or as if I hadn't seen anything. Casually she said, "I'm extremely fond of your sister. She's quite intelligent and precocious, you know." She pulled some pins from her hair that was like a brown bun on top of her head. The hair fell down to her shoulders and around her neck, and it wasn't just brown anymore. It had a shine to it where it circled her face, like the hairs between her legs that circled her cunt.
I found I had moved back to the piano, and when I felt the bench against the back of my knees, I automatically sat down. Miss Fry came and stood above me, looking down at me. Her belly button was about even with my nose.
"Now although your sister's quite bright," Miss Fry said, "she's extremely nervous. Sometimes she's crying when she comes for her lesson. Do you have any idea why?"
"Those boys, maybe," I started to say, but Miss Fry didn't let me finish. I took a deep breath and listened.
"At your sister's age she has a-a problem. And I think you can help her with it."
"I?" I felt complete confusion; especially as I watched Miss Fry hoist herself up on the piano. She started to cross her legs, and then spread them wide instead. She kept talking matter-of-factly, and there was nothing different in her actions except a gleam in her eye.
"You see," she went on, "I can teach her the mechanics of playing a piano, but she's at the age where she must experience an emotional release before she can understand the meaning of music."
She surveyed me for a moment, and then shrugged. "You don't understand me either, do you?"
She shrugged off the smock, which fell down around her fat thighs. Maybe they weren't fat; but they looked that way spread out on the piano top. Then she stiffened her middle finger, paused, looked at it, looked at me, her eyes swimming; then she turned her hand upside down and hooked the finger right inside her twat. She had to lift her thighs from the piano to get it in right. Finally she had it where she wanted it by lifting her knees and hooking her heels on the edge of the piano top. Then she continued talking to me as if she hadn't stopped for anything.
"Now your sister simply must lose her virginity if she's going to appreciate music."
I said thickly, "She masturbates all the time."
"How do you know?"
"I do it with her."
"You jack her off?" Miss Fry's arm was a blur in front of my eyes as her hand whipped up and back and side to side in her twat.
"No, I jack-off on her."
"Why, for heaven's sake?" Miss Fry's head was rolling back on her shoulders and the violet of her eyes was swimming in circles before my face.
"Seeing her naked gives me a hard-on and I pretend she's someone else while I jack-off. But I can't fuck her, because she's my sister."
"Who told you that."
"The guys-"
"Those filthy boys," Miss Fry said between deep puffs, while her head lolled between her shoulders and her tits bounced on her belly as her hand beat out a four-four rhythm in her cunt.
"Well, let's get back to your sister." She carefully wiped it with the edge of her discarded smock. "It's up to you to make her realize her full potential." She eyed my crotch. There was an edge on her voice as she said, "I thought seeing a naked girl gives you a hard-on."
I looked down. There was a spot of wet on my pants, but the prick under it was soft. I said in wonder, "I guess I came without getting hard."
"That's a pre-ejaculation," Miss Fry said like a nurse. "That's very bad."
"I didn't even feel it," I said defensively.
"But it can get you in a bad habit and you'll never be able to satisfy a woman."
I felt a chill race down my back. Never to be able to fuck!
"Maybe the problem isn't your sister's at all. Maybe it's yours."
She leaned down conspiratorially, "It's all right to jack-off, Roger, in spite of what they teach you in that school of yours. But what's really bad about it is that it keeps you from fucking. Pretty soon, all you can do is jack-off and you'll never learn the pleasure of fucking. You won't be able to fuck, Roger, and you'll never have a girl!"
Then somehow, while I was in some kind of trauma or something, she had hopped off the piano, stood me up from the piano bench, unzipped my jeans and had my cock in her hand, trying to pump it stiff.
"Let's catch it," she breathed silkily, "before it catches that bad habit. Let's teach it how to fuck so you'll never have premature ejaculations again."
I touched her wiry mound of pubic hair. I felt the curling strands within my fingers. I touched her thigh, running my hand up and down the smooth skin. She trembled slightly, her body shaking as if it were taking a chill.
She moaned, taking my hand in her own, pulling it back to her twat, pushing my fingers into the hair of her cunt. I put a finger to the slit, feeling the moisture seeping out. I plunged my finger into the warmth. She gasped audibly at the feel of my finger gliding against her clitoris.
I moved my lips to her large tits, the erect nipples looking like ripe cherries. I pushed my lips down over one, lapping at it, biting the nub between my teeth. It rose larger, higher under my tongue's bite. I opened my mouth wide, sucking up more of the delicious breast flesh between my teeth.
She sighed. Her hand caressed my chest, slid down to my stomach. She pushed her hand further down toward my crotch, touching the veined expanse of my dick. A drop of liquid popped out. She found it with her thumb, spreading it over the top of my cock. It was my turn to moan. I sucked harder on her tit, biting the flesh tenderly, suctioning the meat into my mouth.
Now she just played with my cock, coaxing more fluid out between her fingers, spreading it across the head, down over the shank. She pulled my prick to rub it against her leg, hoisting her one knee up along my body, positioning the tip of my penis to the lips of her cunt. She didn't push it in, just pulled it along the entrance to her crack, running it through her pubic bush.
I kissed her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks. I found her mouth, licked past it over her shoulder and breasts, went further down, pausing at her belly to lap at the umbilical crease. I watched the indent filling with my spit, a small lake of saliva centering on her belly. I swooped my tongue, lapping at the pool, draining it dry of the liquid. While her hands played with the hair on my head, I pushed my lips through the line of hair on her lower belly, feeling the hair scratching at my face. I licked at the curls-plucked a loose hair from my mouth-went back to the cuntlips that were waiting. They glowed wet before my eyes, waiting for the touch of my lips. They quivered slightly at my touch. I ran my tongue along the outer edge, tasting of the juices which drained to meet my flicking tongue. They tasted slightly oily, slightly salty. I licked again at the fluids, inhaled the smell of her womb.
I pushed open her slit, searched out the clit with my tongue. It was hanging like a stalactite from the roof of the cunt. I felt her body stiffen as my tongue played with the budding clitoris. It grew erect, hard beneath my licking. I pushed my face equally hard into the gash, trying to rub my teeth across the tender swelling. She shuddered, pulling my hair violently. When her tugging finally raised my face, she immediately pushed my head back into her muff.
I finished with her cunt, noting with satisfaction that I had convulsed her body with several minor orgasms. I trailed my tongue up over her belly, pausing again at her belly button before moving upward across her stomach to the valley between her tits. It was sweaty in the valley. I pushed apart the two fleshy hillocks, licking at the thin veneer of moisture. My thigh felt the juices still running freely between her legs.
"Let's sixty-nine," she breathed through partially parted lips Her eyes were mere slits beneath closed lids.
I turned to comply, straddling her tits with my ass. I kissed her thighs, moving my lips upward toward her cunt, at the same time bringing my cock into alignment with her mouth. I kissed at her twat, again. Her lips found my swollen dick. I shuddered, feeling her warm lips circling my cock. She sucked its head into her lips, burying it in the sweet depths of her throat. Splaying my legs, I pushed my crotch into her face. I felt more inches creeping into her hugging lips. Her tongue was maddening as it worked rapidly over my rigid flesh. She licked at my pre-seminal juices, tasting them as they mixed with her own saliva to leak down her throat.
I ran my tongue again along her pink slash. Her response was electric. As my tongue teased her twat, she wrapped her hands around my ass, pulling my cheeks downward to bury my cock full depth into her throat. I kept my tongue running along her moist slit; she sucking all the juices out of my cock. I felt my balls moving, felt the tingling in my prick. Wanting to prolong the pleasure, I lifted my hips to pull my cock from her lips.
She grabbed for it frantically, not wanting it to i leave, wanting to suck at it until it bled its pearly slime into her mouth, pushing down her throat, leaving its taste on her tongue and lips.
"Don't go," she spoke to it, sobbing.
But I didn't want it to come in her mouth. I wanted to come in between her legs, in her cunty. I ignored her pleas and crawled between her legs.
"Put it in," she said, resigned. Her hands were i fumbling for my cock, grabbing for it. She found it, tried to thrust it into her hole. She sobbed almost hysterically at my cock skidding along her thigh, bouncing against her belly, "Dammit!" she said, trying to grab at his tube again. "What in the hell are you waiting for? I'm crawling the walls now."
"Play it cool, baby," I said. "You're going to get it shoved into you plenty soon." The supreme power I felt was as good as coming.
She moaned out her frustration. I kissed her on the mouth. She threw her arms around my neck, pulling my body down tightly to her body, scratching the flesh of my back, determined that I should pay for depriving her of the cock her twat was leaking for.
"I can't wait, baby," she moaned raking a slash across my shoulder. "Put it in, or you're going to be bleeding all over this room."
With one hand I fed my swollen cock to her cunt. She went stiff. The cock was hardly pressing up the crack before her belly was thrusting violently up into mine I let the cock slide into her hole, felt my balls bang against her ass.
"Push," she said. "Push."
I felt her body shudder with another orgasm, her body moving beneath him, shifting, almost convulsing. I felt confident that I could control my own ejaculation. I'd show this babe just what the hell a good fuck was.
I lay hard against her, pushing all of my weight into her tits and belly, pressing my cock deep into her guts. Her mounds of flesh were soft and clinging against the muscles of my pressing chest. Her nipples were hard. They bored into me like nails. I let her wrap her long legs around my hips. I lifted her body slightly so I could rub the top of my dick across the erect protrusion of her clit. She locked her ankles together, pushed her hips frantically, dragged her cunt along the shaft. "Fuck," she said. "Fuck."
I had to concentrate hard to be sure that her gyrations didn't bounce out my cock.
"Fuck me, baby. God, oh God, fuck me hard. Make it hurt. Please. Please." She punctuated her pleas with mad thrusts of her hips.
I couldn't hold off anymore. The muscles of her vagina were clutching frantically at my cock, vibrating against my plunging prick like a thousand little fingers. Her body shook in a series of spasms. She groaned. Her head thrashed. Her eyes rolling like ball bearings. She opened her mouth, drooling saliva from the corner of her lips, over her cheeks. I pounded my cock hard, deep, hearing her groans growing louder.
"Baby?" I pushed my cock home, hard, burying it up the hole. She groaned. "Baby?" I repeated.
"Fuck me. Oh God, you're good."
"Baby? Baby?"
"Screw me, honey. Push it hard. Oh God I" Her body trembled. "Baby?"
"What baby? God what?"
"Shall I fuck you, baby? Shall I screw you? Shall I hump you dry? Huh, baby, huh?"
"I'm going to blow," she said. "I'm going to blow." Her fingers gripped at my shoulders.
"Shall I plug your guts with my meat, baby? Shall I drown your guts with my cum?"
"God, yes," she said. "Plug it. Drown me. Oceans and oceans of thick cum."
She pushed her loins upward, slamming them hard into my crotch.
She grabbed great handfuls of the flesh and muscle on my shoulders.
"Agggghhhhh!" she said, her hips rocking ecstatically from side to side.
I felt her body shudder, felt her juices pour from the walls of her cunt, submerging my cock in milky thickness.
I pumped harder, taking short powerful strokes, while her cunt walls vibrated around my meat. My own climax began to build. I felt the sensations beginning in my asshole, feeling them pass the point of return. My balls sizzled as they bounced from the resilient flesh of her ass.
Later, when I left with my sister, Miss Fry said, "Why don't you bring her again next week, Roger? Having a lesson can be a very good thing."
"It sure is," I said slyly. "And I'll see to it that my sister practices a lot."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"I can tell you," Marty said, "that older women dig young boys, especially if they're just ordinary, middle-class women. This is the group that's at their best for fucking-no sexual hang-ups anymore, no virginal shit . . . they know what a cunt is and they know what it's for. The trouble is just in the prime of life when they really dig it they can't get it like they used to be able to get it when they turned it down!"
"Bullshit," Bill said. "A woman can get fucked just by asking to get fucked. And maybe middle-aged bucks ain't giving it to their wives anymore because it's too goddammed familiar, but you can be goddammed sure they'll fuck any other woman who comes and asks for it."
"Of course," Marty agreed, pained, "but I'm talking about older women, not older men. They're embarrassed with older men. If they fuck their own generation it brings back all the hang-ups they had as kids. Besides it's too much like cheating on their husbands. It's like they're being disloyal. It's like hiding from their husbands the fact that they don't love them anymore, that they love some other guy. Because when they were kids they were taught they had to be in love before they fucked. So they can't fuck another middle-aged guy just for fucking's sake. But a young stud is only for fucking. There's no danger that they're in love."
I said to both of them, "Neither one of you guys made it through high school and all of a sudden you're big-time psychiatrists. You don't know shit." That's how these town kids are, always showing off in front of farm boys.
It was Sunday, and I walked back home through the fields. Most of the wheat around our place was cut, and I was able to make my way across the stubble that led to the Miller barn. From there I could follow the creek all the way home.
I had just come around the back of the barn, when I heard a cry as if someone was in pain. I figured one of Miller's sheep got hung on the barbed wire or something so I went around the other way in order not to frighten it. But what I saw wasn't Miller's sheep.
I knew I shouldn't have gone into town today, because talking with the guys would make me horny all week. I had promised myself not to jack-off more than once a month, and I had already done that the first day after I made the promise. And I shouldn't have cut across the fields, because being alone with the flowers and everything and being hidden from everybody, except maybe a lonesome cow or something, sure made me want to jack-off. And the sight I saw now sure made me want to jack-off real bad.
I know my mouth fell open and my eyes popped out. In the space between the barn and the first row of stubble I saw a woman's naked legs sticking up in the air, bare and spread. Her petticoat and skirt was pushed up on her naked belly. The white bubbles of her tits spilled over the top of a torn linen blouse.
There was a man kneeling between her swaying thighs. His jeans were pulled down over his knees, and I could see his pisser sticking out like the handle of a hayfork.
I looked closer. It wasn't a man at all. It was a boy younger than me. It was the kid from the orphanage who had been hired out to the Millers to do summer chores. The woman on her back with her legs up in the air was Mrs. Miller.
At first I was going to run up behind the boy and jump on him, but just then Mrs. Miller laughed and grabbed the red top of his pisser and pulled him right down on top of her. It stopped me in my tracks.
I saw the pisser go into the red-haired crevice between her thighs. And then, son of a bitch, she brought her legs all the way up around his shoulders so she had his neck locked between her knees. I could see her asshole winking at me. And then I didn't see it anymore, because the boy put his thumb there and sank it in just like his pisser was sinking into her cunt.
He drove real hard, pounding like a son of a bitch, and all the time his thumb was pounding too and Mrs. Miller cried out as if she was in big pain. But she was laughing too. Laughing and bouncing her ass and working her knees and grabbing the boy's hands and putting them on her bubbles and making him squeeze them as if she was a cow being milked.
This seemed to really make her happy, because she raised her broad bare ass even higher and began beating at the boy with her naked belly.
The boy dug his pisser in deeper and deeper and his balls flapping against the cheeks of her ass sounded like Mr. Miller when he swats flies in the barn. Mrs. Miller's hands let go the back of the boy and she pounding them on the ground like she had suddenly gone insane.
I was just about ready to do something, when they suddenly stopped. The boy just twitched his ass a couple of times, the narrow cheeks contracting as if he was squirting out some last drops of piss, and Mrs. Miller just lay there with the sweetest look I ever did see.
They were so quiet now, I didn't dare move. The dry wheat stubble under my boots would sound like an express train. I held my breath. Sweat trickled from under my arms and my balls were like rocks between my legs.
Then the boy raised himself and Mrs. Miller let her legs slide off his shoulders and plop into the dirt. She sighed as the boy withdrew his pisser. It made a slopping sound when it came out of her cunt, and I could see it hanging down now; no longer hard, but sort of droopy and curved, although it was still long.
The crown was a dull red now, and glistened in the sunlight, with white stuff dribbling out of it like the stalk of a goldenrod when it's been popped open. His balls hung low and loose behind his pisser, and I watched Mrs. Miller reach up and fondle them. Then her tongue came out from between her lips and she snaked off the hanging blob of gizz. Her hand had moved from the balls to coax the shaft stiff again. She began pulling on it and rubbing it and the boy just kind of waited for it to get hard I guess.
Then Mrs. Miller brought the pisser head up to her mouth and brushed the end with her tongue. That's the first time I heard the boy laugh. I can't tell you what it was doing to my own pisser. I felt myself beginning to shiver and shake. I had heard about fucking with a pisser, but licking it was cock-sucking! I had listened to Mr. Miller enough times to know what he thought about cock-sucking!
Mrs. Miller was now sucking the crimson head, which bloomed like a plum. The boy said, "Come on, suck me to another come!"
But Mrs. Miller was guiding it back to her crack, and the boy seemed to resign himself to the fact that he was going to get fucked again and sucking would have to wait for some other time.
This time I could see the pink sides of her slit set deep in the maroon hairiness of her mound. But it was only for quick as a wink, because the kid blocked out my view with his stick-bigger than mine!-and all I could see when he rammed deep into her were his balls hanging in the bag of skin between his legs. Then he kept rapping them like a ball-bearing blackjack on the rim of her ass. It made that slapping sound again, dammit, and I watched entranced. He had a neat way of holding the pisser almost still while his nuts richocheted against her pimple-ass flesh. The louder and faster he bounced them, the more Mrs. Miller squirmed.
She didn't cry out like she did the first time, I guess because her cunt had been stretched wide by the first fuck. Now he slowed down a little bit, took it gentle and easy and sort of dug his shaft up her slot with just the weight of his hips.
I didn't even know I had my pants open and my own pisser out. Every time the foster boy lurched forward, I pulled my foreskin back. When he drew up, slow and easy like, almost getting up on his knees, I pulled down on my shaft. The head of my pisser was beginning to turn pink just like his, only I wished I could have Mrs. Miller's hot mouth around it to get it wet so that it would slide easier.
At home I use sour-cream or buttermilk and get my dumb dog to lap it off so that it's nice and slick in my hand before I begin jacking it. But now my palm started to sweat, and it was almost as good; especially when I could watch Mrs. Miller's hefty legs slicing the air in front of me and hear her grunt, "OOoof . . . OOoof . . . " each time that pisser rammed home.
And then, son of a bitch, I heard a horse clip-clop in the barn behind me! I knew the only way an animal could get in the barn this time of day was if someone led him in there. And the only one who could lead him in there now, with both Mrs. Miller and the hired boy fucking up a storm in front of me, was Mr. Miller himself!
I hesitated for a split second, my pecker squashed tight in my fist, the little red head peeking out over the white curves of my fingers. The two on the ground didn't look up. Mrs. Miller had the palms of her big hands spread wide on the kid's bucking ass, pulling him in tighter and tighter while her throat rasped for him to fuck her . . . fuck her . . . fuck my cunt, you sweet, dear, motherless child!
I knew whoever was in the barn had to hear. I bounced back out of view and cut down to the creek. Only when I climbed across my own stile and stood with my flushed face up against the cold metal of the water pump, did I stop to catch my breath. I noticed that my fly was still open, but my pisser had long since disappeared inside my pants. I hurriedly buttoned up; then sauntered into the house. The advantage of Sunday was I didn't have any chores, and nobody asked me where I had been or what I was doing.
I climbed up to my bed and stretched out with my arms under my head. That room was as lonely as hell. I pictured me with Mrs. Miller in place of that foster boy, trying to pretend I was as brave as him, to get Mrs. Miller to fuck me. How the shit had he done it! How?
But there I'd be, running my fingers across her lower belly, passing them gently back and forth through the clump of soft hair at her crotch. My other hand was going around and around on her tits. Mrs. Miller was asking me to bury my face in her muff and promising to take my pisser in her mouth.
"I want to bite your cock," was the way she put it. The smoothness of her inner thighs were being rubbed against my ears. Suddenly my mouth was searching for her twat, my tongue entering the tangle of her pubic hair, my lips massaging her moist mound in preparation for sliding in and finding that clit that the guys tell me is a little prick that never comes, but will make Mrs. Miller keep coming forever as long as I suck on it.
But now she's saying she wants to fuck. She wants me to fuck her . . . fuck her . . . fuck my cunt, you sweet, dear, motherless child!
She splays her legs to let me slip my fingers deep into her cunt. I work on the thick, fat lips, easing my fingers in and out, in and out. She opens her legs wider. I get my whole thumb in. My long nail finds her clit and scratches it. Mrs. Miller begins to quiver. She looks at me with love dripping out of her eyes, out of her mouth, out of her twat that's opening and closing against my hand. She wriggles and pushes against my hand. She pleads for my cock. My cock! She gets her hand on it. "Fuck me with this young cock," she says. "Shove your prick up my cunt and come in my guts and make me young again."
My cock is getting hard, but not hard enough to get pushed into that yawning hole. It's afraid to go into that big, old hole. But her hand is pulling it hard. Now is when I ask her to suck it hard. I push it up to her chin where she hugs it with her tits, one big sausagy balloon on each side pumping it stiff, making its tumescent tip reach out for her lips, making it stretch until it touches her lips; making it lengthen until it's between her lips, making it reach until it's in her jaws, making it spread until it's down her throat . . . her cheeks bulging with my balls, her eyes rolling like marbles in the white sockets of her skull.
Now she's pulling me down from the hips so that my cock slides back between her tits and across her belly and on top of the hairs of her swollen vulva, desperately trying to find the slit of her cunt. I try to shove my prick into the wet portals. I know it isn't hard enough, big enough, like that foster boy's. But I push hard, push . . . push . . . push. . . . My pecker bends under the strain. I almost want to cry. Then Mrs. Miller smiles at me like a cat getting its back rubbed. She brings her hand under and cups my cock in her palm, and then just with her thumb flips it into the cunt crease she stretched wide and open. It lurches up and catches a foothold and it's in. It's in! It feels warm and juicy. Hot. Good hot. Wet hot. Gism hot.
I begin to stroke a smooth, even rhythm, as if I've been doing this all my life. Mrs. Miller presses up her body to meet my thrusts, throwing her legs around me and bringing them all the way up to my shoulders so that her whole cunt and her whole ass is open to my cock and to me to crawl in there and have a fucking good time.
She arches her back, moaning and thrashing in ecstasy, and pounding her fists on my back and scratching my skin with her nails. My lips wet her face, neck, and tits with their kissing. I'm gobbling up a nipple, like a big, ripe cherry between my lips; clamping my teeth on it and sucking it, wishing I was sucking her cunt.
My cock begins to pound harder and faster, harder and faster, deeper and deeper, higher and higher, up, up, in, in. She writhes, screams, prays to God, begs me to shoot my wad, groans, moans, wails, murmurs, mutters, whimpers, howls, yowls, balls, bitches . . . all the time undulating, undulating, twisting, turning, heaving, pushing, squirming . . . trembling . . . fluttering, twitching, jerking . . . panting, throbbing . . . come . . . come . . . Come . . . Come . . . COME COME COME COME!
On my way home from school, I went by the Miller place. He was out on the back forty, cutting hay; the team of horses plodding along and him sitting slumped over behind them. He was too far away to make out his face. I waved to see if he saw me. But he must have been looking the other way, because he didn't wave back.
The foster boy hadn't been in school today, and I didn't know what had happened to him. I continued down the road to Miller's house. There were some chickens pecking corn in the front yard. A cat was licking its ass on the front porch. Mrs. Miller was usually out there at this hour, shelling peas or stuffing canning jars with cucumbers or whatever else she had picked out of the garden today. But the garden was empty. It didn't look as if anybody had been in it.
I went around back and knocked on the screen door. I didn't know what the hell I was doing, but I knew all day I had planned to do it. What I had planned to do, I didn't know. But I had to see Mrs. Miller. I had to see her face and look into her eyes and try to picture her cunt behind her skirt and under her petticoat; the same skirt and petticoat that was up around her navel yesterday when the foster boy was fucking the shit out of her.
No one answered my knock, and I went inside. I had done that before. We don't have cows like the Miller's, and sometimes we run short of milk. So it's okay for us to pick up a couple of quarts out of the iced pail that sets in the sink. My mother straightens it out with Mrs. Miller later.
There was no milk in the sink.
I went through the dining room and into the living room. Their bedroom is off the living room. The other bedrooms are upstairs. The foster boy stayed in one of them. I didn't think he was there now.
I stopped just outside the bedroom door. I heard someone breathing inside. Fluttering breaths, like after you've been crying. I peeked through the jamb of the door.
Mrs. Miller was stretched out on the bed, uncovered, naked. Her whole body was covered with black and blue marks that were turning yellow and green. Her nose was swollen all over her face. Her lips seemed to spread from her chin to her eyebrows. She was a sight.
But I only had eyes for her cunt. The red-haired pussy looked untouched.
Her hands were gripping her inner thighs and sort of massaging them. Then her fingers would come around on her vulva and stroke the hair. Each time she did, she whimpered.
I wanted to kiss her thighs, right there where she was holding her hands. I wanted to kiss her ass, where the black and blue marks glared out at me. I wanted to jack-off in front of her and let her see my semen arc up and fly out on the bed. I pictured her sitting up and bending forward to spoon it up from the bedsheet with her tongue. While she was bent over that way, I'd crawl up behind her. I wanted to put my prick in her ass. I wanted to feel those big pancakes fold on either side of my cock and ride it while I looked over her shoulder and watched us both in the mirror that faced her bed.
My eyes went to that mirror. I saw Mrs. Miller's eyes looking back at me. She could see me right through the fucking crack of the door. She could see me, because my face was pressed right into the jamb, with my lips and nose stuck into the opening, and it must have shocked the shit out of her. It did me.
Mrs. Miller didn't move her body. She just lifted one hand from the wrist and crooked a finger at me. I came out from behind the door and walked into the bedroom.
You got to believe that I don't remember who said anything first or what she said first or what I answered. I just know she fired a string of questions, most of which I couldn't make out through her bruised lips. She beckoned me closer.
"Did you see Mr. Miller?"
I nodded and motioned way back, to the back forty. Mrs. Miller sighed and went back to stroking her twat again. It was as if I wasn't even in the room. But I couldn't tell if her face was angry or pained. I was terrified that somehow I was going to be blamed for what happened, because she could claim anything, I guess, and here I was in her room where she was naked and all beaten
Her lips suddenly curved, and although it made her look even uglier, I knew she was smiling. I knew she was smiling, because she gave out with a laugh behind it.
She said, "You wondering what happened to me?"
I shook my head. She was surprised.
"You see me all black and blue, laying her naked, and you don't wonder what happened to me?"
I shook my head again. "I know," I said. "What?"
"I know what happened to you."
She gave a funny kind of laugh then. "What?"
I fidgeted. I scraped my shoe on the floor. I looked out the window. Then my eyes came back to her. Not to her face. To her pussy. My cock got just as hard as it did yesterday. Not my pisser; my cock.
I told her that Mr. Miller must have caught her with the foster boy. "Caught me doing what?"
I knew we were both nervous. I knew if someone came in right then and saw this thirty, maybe thirty-five year old woman naked with a thirteen year old boy at her bedside, whatever had already happened would be nothing compared to what would happen.
I had to tell her what Mr. Miller had caught her doing. I had to tell her how I knew. The telling made my face beet red, and it made me want to come in my pants while I described the double fucking and the little sucking and how I began jacking off while watching. Until I heard Mr. Miller.
Mrs. Miller didn't seem at all interested in the part about Mr. Miller catching her. I guess she knew that part.
She changed the subject. That is, she didn't really change the subject; she changed the way we were talking about it. She asked me if I had ever been caught fucking.
I told her I had never fucked. She told me I knew an awful lot about something I had never done. And all the time she was talking, her fingers kept massaging her inner thighs and brushing through the crest of cunt hair. Just watching her made my nuts ache. And if I hadn't come twice yesterday afternoon and had a wet dream on top of it during the night, I would have come again, just watching her, without even jacking-off.
For some reason, she was telling me I shouldn't get any ideas. She was naked, because she couldn't stand the touch of cloth on her bruised flesh. Besides, she said, the foster boy, Harry, even though he was younger than I was, had fucked maybe ten or twenty women before he got to Mrs. Miller.
"I wasn't seducing an innocent boy, the way Mr. Miller said. Harry had learned how to make his way through foster homes a long time before he came here. Besides I caught him trying to put his pecker into one of our sheep-that's how we got around to it. Do you fuck sheep?" she asked, without pausing for breath.
I shook my head. I told her I jack-off a lot, but I couldn't tell her about the dog licking off the cream before I spunk.
She asked me about the girls in school and about my teacher. I denied ever doing anything with them, because I was afraid. She kept probing, though, because, boy, she could smell a lie a mile off. I finally admitted that I had kissed Matilda Frankel's pussy, but that was only on a dare.
"Whose dare?"
"Hers."
"Do you always take dares."
"Only double-dares."
"Did she double-dare you?" I nodded, my face flaming. "What did it feel like."
"She wouldn't tell me."
"I mean to yo."
"Warm and soft."
"Show me."
"What?"
"Show me how you kissed her." She paused. "I double-dare you."
Without thinking, I bent right down and planted a kiss on the stiff hairs of her cunt. They looked soft, but they were like wires. I was holding my breath when I did it so I don't know whether she smelled or not. Matilda Frankel really smelled.
She seemed upset about the way I kissed her. She fidgeted her legs. I noticed the wet, pink opening when she did that, and I couldn't breathe if I wanted to.
She said, "That's just a kiss. How can you tell if it's warm and soft that way?" She didn't wait for any answer. She went on to tell me that I had to put my lips right on it, rest my head on her thighs, dig my chin into the v of her crotch and roll my tongue and come up with it inside the slit and hook the clit.
"Part the lips with your tongue. Lick right inside and suck at the same time. It will do wonderful things for me, and you too."
I should have been doing it while she was telling me, then I wouldn't have had to worry about how to begin. Now I didn't know how to get started again.
Mrs. Miller said, "Are you excited, Wilbur?"
I couldn't explain to her how all those black and blue marks got me excited. And she didn't tell me that those black and blue marks got her excited too; that's why Mr. Miller inflicted them. He had tossed Harry aside as a thirteen-year old punk who had gotten his wife ready for him; giving him an excuse to beat the shit out of her so he could get his pecker up hard and long. If he didn't wallop Mrs. Miller a few times, he didn't have anything to fuck with. And if he didn't have a good reason for walloping her, he couldn't get angry about it. And if he didn't get angry, he couldn't get it up. Boy, what Marty and Bill could explain about that!
Arid the beauty part of it was, Mrs. Miller carefully told me, that she just had to have the shit beaten out of her. It turned her on. She told me that she irritates Mr. Miller purposely and gets him so goddam angry with her that he begins socking her all over the place. That gets him hard, and he can come like a bull.
Then somebody like the kid Harry comes along, and it's all set up for Mr. Miller. "Of course," Mrs. Miller said, winking with the one eye she could still flutter, "I get a lot of bonus jazzing before Mr. Miller ever gets in the act!" She laughed then, in spite of the pain that laced her face.
I went to the window and peered out. I couldn't see the back forty from here. I was no homeless waif like Harry, and I wasn't taking any chances that half of Mr. Miller's kick was taking me by the ear back to my parents.
"Shit, he'd watch first," Mrs. Miller said. "But anyway he won't come in until chore-time."
She waited for me to get started, and I suddenly realized I didn't have a cock anymore; just a pisser. And all my dreams and all my fantasies went down the drain. I didn't know what to do. I was scared to do anything.
"Why don't you feel my tits first?" Mrs. Miller invited me. "You'll be surprised how fast that can bring you up."
She pushed up her tits, exactly the way I had seen her do in my fantasy. "Does Matilda Frankel have big ones like this?"
"No, little ones," I said weakly. " 'Bout as big as my fists."
"Want to feel mine?"
I started to lean forward, but like a flash she scooted crosswise on the bed so her legs were toward me. She opened her knees. "Get in the right position first-between my legs. Take off your clothes first," she added, "so you'll be ready." She didn't know what she wanted me to do first. I had walked into her room out of nowhere and she wasn't sure of me yet.
I was almost whimpering as I shucked my jeans and slipover sweater. I was glad I was wearing jockey shorts, because it made me show a lump between my legs as if I had a really big prick.
"Now lay your head on my belly and reach up for my tits."
I didn't remember her putting Harry through the paces this way; but then Harry was a real stud, and I felt like a bag of water.
At first my hands were weak with nervousness. "Harder," Mrs. Miller said; then she said, "Ouch."
I apologized and relaxed my fingers, surprised that the tits were firm and bouncy when they looked so soft and mushy. After my palms had run across the silken slopes for awhile, I began kneading the nipples and watched them grow like gooseberries.
"Rub them gently but firmly between your fingers," Mrs. Miller instructed, "and watch how big and hard they get."
Then she took my head in her hands and brought it up on the pillows of her breasts. She fed one into my mouth, like a baby, and watched me nuzzle it with my lips. She told me to suck as hard as I could, real hard. She showed me how to use the back of my tongue to rub down on them while the top of my tongue rubbed up. All the look of pain seemed to wash away from her face.
While I sucked one breast, I kept fondling the other. I could feel Mrs. Miller's pubic hair rubbing against my belly, and she kept rolling her hips so that her cunt opened and closed against the top of my thigh. I felt myself gradually slipping down off her breasts, my shoulders coming between her knees, and then my lips facing her cunt.
Mrs. Miller watched my eyes focus into her crotch. She bent out one leg at a time to make the view more exciting. I didn't know how I could stand more excitement.
Mrs. Miller couldn't stand anymore either.
"Are you ready to do it?" she asked.
"Oh, yes."
"Remember, now, how I told you to kiss-suck and eat."
"Oh, yes, yes!"
All this time she didn't even touch my prick. She didn't even look at it. But the surprising thing was I didn't think of it either. All my feeling was in my mouth. Saliva drooled like a waterfall from the corners of my lips and I couldn't wait to suck it back with the flesh of her cunt.
I remember reflecting on how dirty it was supposed to be to fuck somebody, especially an older, married woman, somebody you knew, a neighbor; especially when you knew her husband, and maybe even he knew.
But we weren't even thinking about fucking, yet. Suck, suck was all I heard in my brain, and all I wanted to do. I felt myself crying inside with a desire I never knew I had. To my eyes, Mrs. Miller's legs were getting shapelier and shapelier, and I could hardly wait to dig my face in the pulsating crack between them.
If I had ever thought of Matilda Frankel, I forgot all about her when I saw Mrs. Miller's vulva open and beckon. I pressed my hand against the mature, moist flesh, and trembled at the touch. In all my dreams it had never felt like this. I couldn't stop feeling it, and Mrs. Miller shook violently at my every touch.
"Now," she said in anguish, "now, now!"
"Tell me how again," I begged, "Tell me how!"
"Oh, shit!" Mrs. Miller gasped, and sat up quick and dragged me up on the bed as if I were a little boy. She pushed me over on my back so I was staring up at the ceiling. Then her body came over me, as she squatted above my face. Her ass and her cunt were one long bushy line just inches from my face. Now I could smell her. I could smell the shit and the piss and something else I could only identify as cunt. I felt my prick lurch up between my legs. Oh, God, I couldn't wait for her to sit down on my face!
"Now remember what I told you," Mrs. Miller panted. "And do it good!" Then she began lowering her fevered crotch down to my reaching face. I put up my hands to catch her thighs so her weight wouldn't suffocate me. Then for the first time I really tasted her pussy and I didn't care whether I suffocated or not.
A tremor ran across her haunches, and she gave a little cry as my tongue jabbed up her slit. And there, magic of magic, was her clit, pushing out from hidden folds of skin to meet my lips and delve between my teeth.
I began sucking wildly, and Mrs. Miller had to remind me that I was losing her clit. "Hang on to it, boy!" she yelled. "Hang on to it!"
My tongue sliced up and down in the hot, long box, as it probed for her clit and found it again. It caused her to cry out again, and I felt a thrill race through me as I realized what my mouth did to her.
My hands clutched at the swaying roll of her ass, my fingers digging into the soft flesh excitedly, as my tongue lapped greedily at the fleshy treasure that was not Mr. Miller's or Harry's but mine, mine, mine!
And somewhere in the middle of my sucking, somewhere at a point of ecstasy, Mrs. Miller turned under my lapping tongue so that it was like a spindle in her cunt, and came down the other way so that her lips slid right down and over my prick-down and over, all the way to the base of my cock so that her teeth were right in my pubic hairs and the tip of my cock tickled her tonsils. Her fingers dug under my ass and she poked one up my rectum and I suddenly couldn't push my face into her cunt far enough. I wanted to get my face all the way in, my head all the way in, up to my neck, my shoulders, my belly, my prick!
She had just flicked once or twice at Harry's cock, but here she was devouring my pisser as if she never wanted anybody ever to suck it again.
When I was coming, when I was coming in her mouth so that it shot down her throat and into the belly that was grinding above me, I realized it was the first time I had ever come in a woman, any woman, and I hadn't even been fucked yet!
I have a hazy memory about thinking of Mr. Miller and knowing Mr. Miller knew, somehow, that I was fucking his wife while he was on the back forty, even if I wasn't really fucking her yet.
And I remember being puzzled about how Mr. Miller could accept his wife sucking off and being sucked off by a teenage boy, when I remembered what Marty said and Bill said but I was going to be goddamned if I was going to enlighten them.
And I wondered why everybody got so shook up about sex and talked about it so much and worried about it so much when it was over so damn quick and it was such a short time before he wanted to go again and were willing to risk anything-anything-Mr. Miller or anybody-to go again and do it again and come again, which wasn't like killing somebody and not give him a chance to do anything again. And yet everybody was talking about killing all the time, and you weren't supposed to talk about fucking.
But Mrs. Miller didn't give a shit about anything like that. I really liked Mrs. Miller. I think Mrs. Miller liked me. I think Mrs. Miller liked everybody. And she was good to kids. What's wrong with that?
At least now I don't have to lay in my bed anymore and stare at the ceiling while I jack off in my hand. And I don't have to worry about hurting Matilda Frankel either. Mrs. Miller taught me how to show the young girls a real good time.
