Message-ID: <5931eli$9711281620@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/Year97/5931.txt> From: losgud <lushgod@hotnomail.com> Subject: <*>NEW STORY--On the Houseboat [1/2] Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Reply-To: see@iglou.com, end@iglou.com, note@iglou.com X-Nntp-Posting-User: [unauthenticated] Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Original-Message-ID: <347DCEC9.72@hotnomail.com> ========================= The following is total fiction. Any resemblance etc. is a product of your imagination. This work is meant as ADULT entertainment. If the laws where you sit say you're too young to read this, go away and turn yourself in to the thought police. Even thinking about sex is dirty and nasty and will warp your mind forever. Go watch a movie or play a game that ends with a body count in the high four figures. Death and destruction are good clean fun. ©1997 losgud. Personal use just fine. Archiving okay. Absolutely NO for-profit use permitted. Reposting without notice is frowned upon. Tampering with the text (rewriting) is illegal. Copyright violations will fall under the jurisdiction of my principality, where the punishment is to discourage repeat offenders. We cut your fucking hands off! ========================= m/F con hum 1st NOTE: Once again, hit the halfway point if you want to go straight to the party. This is not a sex story, this is a story that has sex. Remember: fiction is not fact, nor need it pretend to be. If your first time was this good, I don't want to hear about it! Enjoy! ON THE HOUSEBOAT [1/2] Every July for as far back as I could remember my parents and a group of their friends had set aside an extended weekend to drive to a huge man-made lake down at the other side of the state, where they had the long-standing reservations of a large cottage and a houseboat. I'd been included once when I was seven and had had a blast even though there hadn't been any other kids to play with. These vacations, I came to understand, weren't meant to include the children. Mrs. Milner came _highly recommended_ by one of their sets of friends, so my parents never made that error in judgment again. Mrs. Milner became like my third grandmother. I saw her just once a year when she came to stay in July. She was great fun to be with, cooked all my favorite foods, and though she had her few hard- and-fast rules and was not one to be crossed I basically had free rein the four or five days my folks were gone. A bit of problem arose the summer I turned fifteen. Mrs. Milner had passed away the winter before. My parents began making noises about engaging Madame Crutcher. _NO WAY!!_ was my immediate response. She was the bane of my childhood. She made even the most evil baby-sitters I'd known angels by comparison. The woman would just as soon knock you against the wall as look at you. _Madame Crutcher_ was how she insisted on being addressed, by me _and_ my parents. She was two-hundred years old but kept her hair raven with bootblack, pulled back so severely I thought it should peel off her scalp. She was as strong as a bull, and twice as mean. I'd always secretly called her Old Crow Breath. The first third of my summer vacation was ruined by the tension and anticipation. Days then weeks crept by without a suitable replacement being found. I begged them to leave me by myself, have a neighbor check in on me, check me into Juvenile Hall, _anything_. "Just not Old Crow Breath!" I begged. "Old What What?" they asked in unison. I'd never breathed her secret name in public before. "Old Crow Breath, because that's exactly what she is. A big scary nasty black bird that eats dead things by the side of the road." They both roared. If anything, they liked her even less than I did. Imagine the feeling of being an adult, and still being intimidated by her. "I swear, if she sets foot in this house, I will not be here when you get back." I was deadly serious. And they knew it. "If nothing else, take me with you. Ask the others. I'm not really a kid anymore. I'll stay out of the way. I'll do exactly what I'm told. Go out for steak and lobster and leave me with a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. I won't complain about a thing. I'll sleep in the car! If I get thirsty, I'll boil up a little lake water. It'll be okay, everything'll be fine. No one will even know I'm there." I was desperate. They knew this as well. The first night they had the first big bash aboard the houseboat. I nearly instantly endeared myself to all the other grown ups. I became the resident Omega male so all the guys could feel great. For the women I was a cross between the perfectly well-mannered boy they wished they had, and the cute little houseboy they wished they could have. I was fetching beers left and right, and with a quick little coaching from Mrs. Ewing mixing up suitably stiff versions of any cocktail anyone cared to order. When it finally came time for something to eat to really be ready, I was already well at the tasks. So no drunk had to burn the boat down trying to light the charcoal. I made sure the meat was properly cooked when they'd all resigned themselves to the usual fare of crunchy black on the outside and squishy red inside. I managed the roasted corn and baked potatoes with alacrity. The tossed salad was problematic because I was never a salad eater and had no clue how to cut things up. Once again, Mrs. Ewing stepped over to lend me a discreet hand. Her hands on my hands. Standing behind me at the cutting board. The sweet hot tang of her alcohol breath on the back of my neck. The nearly insistent nudgings of her breasts against my shoulders. That was when I fully realized that my inclusion on the trip had been a dreadful mistake, that I was in for a long weekend more torturous than any I would have suffered at the hands Old Crow Breath. I knew perfectly well that Mrs. Ewing was just a little unsteady with drink, and that she was simply leaning in with full attention to showing me how to cut perfect radish flowers. That wasn't the problem. The problem wasn't behind, the problem was in front of me. Mrs. Ewing was old enough to be my mother, though in fact she was quite a few years younger. She was old enough to be my mother, but her youngest child was half a dozen years older than me. Doing the math confused me. The best I could figure was that she'd had her oldest child when she was older than me but younger than her youngest. None of that really mattered. All that mattered to me was that I thought she was the most beautiful woman in all the world. And that most of my primary erotic fantasies revolved around her. I mean, it seemed as if my cock needed no reason to instantly spring erect, declaring _yes sir, here I am sir, ready for action sir_. I could be dozing off in Algebra class when _whoa, wake up, get those books in your lap_. In private I would sometimes think of a few girls I knew from class, but only in the most desultory manner. It's not as if any of them ever even spoke to me. I was around Mrs. Ewing fairly often, and she always stopped to address some smiling words my way. She had such a pretty face and she really was about the sweetest person I'd ever met. Once I hit puberty I could do little but stammer in front of her. If she was facing me, I had to stare at her face to avoid the fact that she had the most incredible _breasts_. She could be wearing chain mail and still they'd just be the armor behind my wet dreams. Mostly, of course, she took to tops that screamed _cleavage!_ Turned around, well, her ass was the picture in the dictionary illustrating the meaning of the word _luscious_. It was sort of better that her husband wasn't on board, but in fact that made it worse. The dumb prick had lighted off with his floozy secretary a year before. The divorce had devastated Mrs. Ewing. I'd always clung to the secret opinion that it was all for the best. She'd obviously married the stupidest man in America. The weekend would make me a wreck. I'd forgotten that Mrs. Ewing would be there. There was no way I could walk around in my swimsuit when she was around in hers. To make matters worse, I'd miscalculated the sleeping arrangements. I knew that my parents always slept on the boat, loving the rocking lull of the water, which left the third berth for me. It wasn't until the opening party broke up and the three other couples climbed into the motorboat--towed to the lake by one of them-- that I understood that the cabin held three single beds, that my bed was actually Mrs. Ewing's, and that I was to sleep on the cushioned bench in the galley. I of course had promised not to complain, and how could I possibly explain that my complaint had nothing to do with the discomfort of my bed? Generally a bed of nails couldn't keep me awake. But the plushest feather mattress couldn't lull me to sleep when the woman of my waking dreams lay nearly naked on a narrow bed barely six feet away. For a bunch of hungovered adults, they were all up early, even the launch out from the pier. I gathered my bedding and left them to make an inedible mess of breakfast as I crawled off to find an empty bunk. In my sleepy stupor I jumped into the closest one, which was of course Mrs. Ewing's. The warmth was gone, but god could I still smell her! I drifted off to pleasant dreams, interrupted by shouts and the clatter of cookware, people going in and out of the lavatory across the aisle. My mother leaned in to whisper what I remembered from the previous night's discussions: they were all planning to hop in the big motorboat to the far end of the lake. Replenish the booze, have a late lunch, ski and all sorts of stuff. I mumbled that was fine with me, turning back to sleep. As I sunk down deep I swear I heard Mrs. Ewing mention in passing, "Oh look! How sweet, all bundled up asleep. Isn't he the original cutie." I woke back up soon after. I had my plans for the day. I feasted on the leftover breakfasts, then put on my cutoffs, grabbing a soda and a book before heading for the back of the houseboat, where a little ladder let up onto the roof. I'd go up there, scan around, then clamber back down and beat off like crazy. Then go back up and relax awhile, reading and sunning and sipping, keeping an eye on the water until it was time for me to go back inside to beat off again. I knew I'd need both hands free to hoist myself up. Before I got to the top of the ladder I tossed my book up on the roof. _Slam_. Then I stretched and set my can up there. _Thunk_. When I got to the top I nearly fell of the ladder in surprise. The pair of legs were foreshortened into stumps, ending in the twin globes of a delicious looking rump. The tightly stretched band of bright orange fabric told me it was Mrs. Ewing, but I really didn't need the hint. I stood there on the ladder hypnotized. She was lying on her stomach, and from that angle I could just see between her thighs all the way up to the thin strip of material hiding the treasure of so many countless fantasies. "Hi Jimmy, come on up and join me. Fantastic view!" I was scowling and frowning and blushing, not that she was turned to see. "Hi, Mrs. Ewing," I mumbled a grumble. "I'm _sorry_." I had no idea what she was talking about. "What?" "You're a young man now, and your name is James. My mistake, and I'll never repeat it." She curled onto her side to look at me. I could see two things. I couldn't see her eyes, because she was wearing sunglasses. And the way she was holding the cups of her top I knew she'd undone the catch in the back. What truly amazed me was how gracefully she'd corrected her faux pas, without adding any air of condescension. And how did she know? I hadn't even told my parents about that personal change. I climbed up "Forgive me?" she asked in a teasing little voice. "Oh sure, Mrs. Ewing." "Now it's _your_ turn to say you're sorry!" she scolded. "We're both adults, and my name is Marilyn! Got it?" "Ye-e-es. I'm sorry, M-m-marilyn." _I was speaking the holy name!_ "That's better," she replied primly. "Okay. Um, I didn't mean to intrude. I was just coming up here to read a little. I didn't know you were up here." I backed up to the ladder. "Oh James!" she cried softly. "Sweetheart, no need to be so shy around me. I don't bite. Well, not most of the time," she grinned. "Remember, I invited you to join me. I'd _love_ your company. Why, you're my absolute favorite young man in all the world. Besides, you're just the man I need. Here," she nodded at the bottle, "be a love and do my back before I turn into a pork rind." Marilyn turned away leaving me to the decision. I took a deep breath, then retrieved the lotion. I knelt beside her and started working it across her back. Feeling stupidly silent, I stuttered into conversation, "I thought, you see, everyone else, and, I didn't know." She gave a little laugh. "Oh, racing off for more fun. I tell you James, I had more than my share of fun last night. You mix a mean drink." I was aghast! "Are you . . . sick? Is there anything I can do to help." She tittered again. "Well, the first hour things were a little iffy, but I'm fine now. Hale and hearty, but not quite raring for more. Just keep on doing what you're doing. It feels _divine_. Go ahead and get the backs of my legs and arms too if you will." As if I wouldn't! Doing her arms kept me close to where I was on her upper back. God, I could see the entire side of one of her breasts! As I spread the lotion over the curve of her ribs I could actually feel the first softness of their swelling. I had to hop over her to get to the other arm. Then I worked down towards her hips. The bottom of her suit was low cut. I knew not to dare sliding under the fabric, contenting myself by running my fingers along the elastic edge. Then Marilyn moved her hands to the back of the waistband and started pushing them even lower. I was having a heart attack! She stopped after just an inch, calling back, "Can you see the tan line yet? These darn things are always riding up. Make sure you cover to it." I didn't think to fib. I couldn't think of anything. I was mesmerized by that line where her skin turned from amber to alabaster. And the first half-inch hint of the declivity between her cheeks. I finally managed to remind myself that I was supposed to be doing something, though not the something that I wanted to be doing. To do her legs I decided I'd better start down at her feet, to get as far away from the sexiest part of her body and give myself some time to calm down. From the knees on down I decided it made more sense not to differentiate between front and back. I sat back on my heels, bent her knee, and rested her shin and foot in the crevasse between my thighs. I'd barely begun when Marilyn began rotating her ankle around and around while curling her toes in and out. Even the leg I wasn't working on was lifted a little, repeating the same motions. I was struck dumb by the intense eroticism of the movements. I felt as if I was watching her having sex. When she stretched her foot out it nearly touched my crotch! "O-oh James, you have talented hands. I don't want to keep you from your book, but as long as your hands are all oily anywhere, would you terribly mind giving me a little massage? Work my legs than come back up to my back? I don't want to complain about my bed since you slept on flotation cushions, but my muscles are a little stiff and sore from the night." Would I mind?! "Sure, Marilyn." What a conversational wizard I was! I couldn't really reach all of her calf from where I was, so I moved to the side. That made it easy to turn and work on the other lower leg. It wasn't until I advanced to the thighs that I realized exactly what my position was. I was working up her thighs, kneeling _between_ her thighs. And she kept spreading her thighs! "I understand you almost got stuck with the wicked witch of the west. That woman is so-o evil. Somebody really should burn her at the stake! I'm glad you didn't have to run away from home. Much nicer that you could run away with us. Isn't this wonderful? Enough to make a common woman such as myself feel like a queen. Here I lay on the roof of my yacht in the gorgeous sun, with a handsome young man to attend to my every desire." She gave a little laugh, "Yes indeed, heaven on earth." The globes of her ass jiggled as she giggled. I could scarcely concentrate on what Marilyn was saying. I knew that underneath all the lovely padding the buttocks were a pair of large muscles. but I didn't dare start rubbing there. I went up to the elastic of the legs, my fingers just hinting at ducking under to the tan line, but when it came time to work the sides of her thighs I didn't know quite what to do. On the inside the edge of the suit went way up _there!_ And there, the thin orange strip seemed puffier than before, there seemed to be a slightly tangy aroma that wasn't cocoa butter, things that I'd heard of in the vaguest of terms. All of reality was blurring with the wildness of my imagination, and I couldn't truthfully say what was going on. I made bold and brave, touching the tips of my thumbs together and making calipers of my hands, grasping around her thighs at the circle of elastic. I worked my way quickly down, but not before I thought I felt a small twitching under the silky smooth skin of her uppermost inner thigh. I made sure to work her thighs all the way around. There wouldn't really be any muscles on the front of her torso to massage, and I couldn't chance her turning over for me to finish her legs. Luckily I was wearing cutoffs instead of my suit, but with my original plans in mind I'd thought it a bother to put on underwear. I could reach her lower back from where I was, but any further my erection would be bumping against her butt. I started to get up and move to one side when Marilyn corrected me, "No, darling. You can't do a proper job at that angle. Just straddle me. It's okay, we're all adults around here." I actually wound up just sort of sitting on her ass. I couldn't believe it! I went to work on her back with a passion. I even dared to rub along the sides of her breasts, but in a purely professional fashion. "Oh-h-h, god, James, I am so glad you are here for me right now. Pardon me for being so greedy and selfish--I know you'd rather be home spending time with your girlfriend--but this is absolutely marvelous!" My girlfriend? What girlfriend? "Oh, well, that's okay, this is great. I mean, I don't really have a girlfriend or anything anyway." "No?" "No, well, no. I mean, there's no girls, I mean, girls, I mean, no girls, like, girls don't seem to know I'm alive or anything. I mean, girls, um, they don't talk to me or anything, I mean, girls are great, but I mean, like, they don't even look at me." And with my grand social skills, no wonder. Puberty had struck me as just another one of life's cruel jokes. After several years of adjusting to my sexuality I'd come to the understanding that despite the best intentions of my fantasy life, in real life I was doomed to die a virgin. "No girlfriend, hmm. Well, don't despair. I wouldn't worry about it too much. You just need to work at overcoming your shyness. It's an endearing quality, and it won't ever truly leave you, but you can't let yourself become paralyzed by it. I bet all the girls are just panting after you. You just don't know it yet. And once you do, _lucky girls!_" Marilyn laughed. I finished off her shoulders, trailing down her arms. "Oh James, _thank you_, thank you oh so very much. That was totally delicious. Now if I could beg of you one last favor, down in that midget fridge there's a pitcher of iced tea," she prattled on as she rolled over underneath me. My heart stopped! I tried to scuttle backwards out of view but there was no time. There was no way for me to escape. There was nowhere for me to hide. Marilyn was leaning up on her elbows, holding her top with her hands. Her line of vision was directly at my crotch. Then she looked up at my face. She removed her sunglasses with one hand, resting entirely on that elbow as her other arm crossed over her chest to keep the top secured. I was mortified! Pinned to my place with petrification. Slowly her mouth came to life. "Oh my. Did I do that to you?" I couldn't move much less answer. Much of the blood in my body had rushed to my head, though none of it was in my brain. What remained had the front of my pants visibly pulsating. "Well, I suppose I should feel flattered, but then I know at your age even an ugly old lady like myself can be arousing." "You're not old!" I fairly shouted, stammering before I could stop myself, "a-a-and I think y-y-you're the m-m-most beautiful w-w-woman in the world." Exactly then some huge flying bug buzzed around her head. She instinctually shooed it away with her free hand, which left the orange twist of cloth to tumble down to the bottom of her ribcage. Marilyn's breasts were staring at me and I was staring right back, my mouth dropped wide open. She made a move as to cover herself up, but then stopped. She stopped and just studied me. She stopped and time stopped. I could see that Marilyn was thinking, thinking, thinking. I was thinking too. I was thinking how without meaning to I'd just ruined the vacation. I was thinking how I'd broken every vital promise I'd made to my parents. My parents! I was thinking how I'd brought permanent disgrace to my family name. I was thinking how they'd have to pack me into a cage like the nasty animal I was and cart me back home the minute they got back to the boat. I was thinking how they'd be so embarrassed they'd have to take off to Europe for six months to forget. I was thinking how they'd sign over my guardianship to Madame Crutcher! ========================= End Part 1 of 2 ========================= Like? Yes? No? Comments welcome: losgud@hotmail.com ========================= I am archived at DejaNews under the "Author" name of LUSHGOD@HOTNOMAIL.COM -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/> .../assm/faq.html> /