It was morning before the voluptuous young blonde finally came to again on the rumpled bed. Her long-lashed blue eyes fluttered open and fought the early morning twilight that permeated the heavy stale air of the well-furnished and beautifully decorated bedroom. She stretched lazily, like a cat, her curvaceously proportioned body swaying in all of its sultry contours. Strange odors wafted through her nostrils, causing her brow to wrinkle slightly as though deep in concentrated retrospection. Her tongue circled on the outskirts of her glossy pink lips, testing the slight pungency of the encrustations that she found on them.
Her pretty, winsomely innocent eyes adjusted quizzically to the dimness, and she looked down at her body, reflecting on the curious position she had been sleeping in. Someone had changed her into a pink negligee, which was bunched up almost around her neck, the high twin rose-capped peaks of her proud young breasts jutted upward between her eyes and the rest of her body. Her legs were spread wide apart as though in invitation, and the muscles of those legs felt very sore and overworked indeed. She brought them together with some effort and experienced small twinges of pain in her vagina. Her entire body felt dreadfully used and exhausted. That was the only term she could think of to accurately describe how she felt.
And then she remembered. The dream! The most curious dream she had had about Handsome, and the Carters, and — what was it? She couldn’t remember the rest of the dream, but then dreams were rarely remembered totally. And anyway the dull ache in her throbbing little cunt was sufficient to distract her from any deep thought.
Ellen smoothed her hands carefully up to her breasts, touching them gently in guarded exploration. Oooooh, they were tender. Her fingers explored further, coursing their way down over her tautly rounded belly to her still open legs. Then she groaned as she tenderly touched the slight bruises lining the moist pink lips of her pussy. Her outstretched middle finger probed gently at the sensitive opening, becoming moist from the sticky white liquid that was still flowing viscously from the recently deflowered aperture. The split of her buttocks felt damp with it as well.
Her thoughts rambled in myriad confusion she brushed her bright blonde hair from around her eyes and heaving breasts to let it fall in a soft golden mass around her back and shoulders. What a terrible dream she’d had, with Handsome and Mr. Carter and Dominique — their shadowy forms flitted sensuously through her teenage memory. It had all seemed so real.
But if it had all been a dream, where did this warm wet pool between her legs come from? Had she been playing with herself again, despite her best intentions? Had her own fingers produced this sticky liquid? It had to be! There could be no other explanation.
But how shameful, she thought, blushing. Her licentious dream had proven that she was not the prude she had fancied herself. She had wantonly satisfied herself with her own probing fingers.
Ellen’s thoughts were interrupted by a gentle knocking at the door. Dominique’s sophisticated voice came softly from the other side, “Oh, Ellen, dear. It’s time to wake up.”
For some unknown reason that lilting tone of Dominique’s made Ellen shiver all over like a startled sparrow. She reflected on this strange reaction, than realized again what a terrible state she was in. Oh my, she thought, stumbling to her feet, I mustn’t let her see me like this. I’ve got cum all over my loins and legs. “In a minute, Dominique. I’m just getting up.”
“That’s all right, dear,” came the reply. “Take your time. Breakfast will be ready when you are.”
Ellen sighed with relief and covered her suddenly tingling breasts with her hands. She would have a chance to clean up, then. She looked back at the rumpled bed, her eyes resting thoughtfully on the large wet round spot where her buttocks had nestled. Well, she thought, I really masturbated to beat the band. I should be ashamed of myself — yet somehow I’m not. There’s not much point in feeling guilty about something I can’t control.
And then she noticed the loose dog hairs in various part of the bed.
She picked up one of them and looked at it curiously, her eyes narrowing with puzzlement. Had Handsome gotten up on the bed some time during the night?
But one of the hairs was a lighter color — almost gray — lighter than Handsome’s fur. It was very puzzling. She shrugged and went into the bathroom to start up the shower.
The warm spray felt good cascading down over her voluptuous young body. She washed immaculately the insides of her thighs and buttocks, vaguely reluctant to wash away the white crust from her matted pussy hair. As her fingers moved up and down cleansingly within the warmth of her narrow sexual furrow, the vision she had had of Handsome in her dream returned most strongly.
She visualized the big German shepherd’s snout pushed down between her hairless young thighs, his enormous tongue lapping thirstily at the flooded outskirts of her burning young pussy, her pink vaginal folds being drawn up hotly within his mouth by his sharply adhesive tongue, then returned. Her middle finger idly duplicated the vision of that lashing tongue, batting around her tingling little clitoris until she began to tremble with joy. It was all she could do to find the strength to rip her finger out of that clinging pleasure-drugged orifice.
As she staggered gasping from the shower, feelings of guilt and shame well-nigh overwhelmed her. Since that dreadful dream, she couldn’t seem to keep her fingers out of herself for a single instant.
“I must get control of myself,” she muttered. One obscene dream and I can’t seem to stop masturbating. What’s coming over me?
She sat before the vanity mirror naked, combing out her long silken blonde hair, which seemed to have an unusual number of tangles this morning. Still, she liked the way it swept around her waist, belly and over her proudly uplifted breasts when she let it. Something like Lady Godiva in the history books! Her father had never allowed her to have it cut when he was alive, and it was her pride and glory. She couldn’t think of another girl in school who had such long beautiful hair. It went all the way down to her slender waspish waist.
She also liked the high set of her lushly ripening breasts and their warm feeling of soft resiliency. She scratched the bristles of the hairbrush across them until her nipples came up flushing and goose-bumped, fully erect and tingling. Then she rolled them between thumbs and index fingers. She watched herself in the mirror and smiled in satisfaction with her own body.
But what had come over her since yesterday? Could it be that she was merely growing up? There was a faintly lascivious, pleasant feeling in her still-tingling loins which seemed to wash up easily into her belly, buttocks and breasts. She felt relaxed enough to go right back to bed and sleep for a week. She couldn’t stop humming to herself, either, and that was another indication of how generally nice she felt.
She smiled to herself and got up, watching her sensually quivering mounds jiggle in the mirror as she moved. She couldn’t think of when she had been more pleased with herself. She felt as if she had been loved to death.
On impulse she decided not to wear a brassiere, but merely threw on a fuzzy pink wool sweater with buttons down the front which she allowed to “vee” open provocatively. Then she put on some white cotton panties and the only pair of jeans she had brought with her.
She looked at herself in the mirror continuously, quite pleased with what she saw. All that wealth of long blonde hair, firmly up-thrust breasts outlined clingingly in that snug pink sweater, tight Levi’s that showed off her smoothly rounded ass-cheeks to best advantage. She giggled silly to herself and stepped into a pair of loafers. Then she opened the door to the library.
As her eyes swept the bookshelves, couches, drapes, and Persian carpeting, it seemed to her that there was something sensuous about the room. She wondered why she had never looked upon it in this way before. There were subtle associations having something to do with what she had dreamed last night that struggled to free themselves from the cobwebs of her muddled brain.
But somehow the solution just wouldn’t come. She was drawn to the room in a way that made her warmly pulsating loins feel vibrant and alive as she tried to remember, but nothing in her memory bank seemed to focus properly.
Then she looked back at her bedroom and the huge, circular bed she had been sleeping on. There was something about that bed tickling at her memory, yet nothing seemed to materialize very clearly. And why hadn’t she been put in one of the big bedrooms upstairs? Strange how she had never noticed this bedroom off the living room before.
The thirteen year old girl shrugged and moved thoughtfully to the big doors leading from the library to the entrance hall. Opening them carefully, not quite sure of what to expect, she stepped up into the hall. She could hear some commotion coming from the direction of the kitchen and turned sharply to the left towards it.
“Ah, here she is now, the little darling,” Dominique beamed at her as she descended the steps into the breakfast room a few moments later, and this made Ellen feel wonderful and well-loved.
And then she noticed the other two visitors to the Carter household — a leering fat man with a big cigar in his mouth, and a powerful, shaggy “white” German shepherd, his coat thick with gray hairs. This other dog sat up on his haunches and began whining plaintively the second he saw her, his large pink penis coming slithering out of its fur sleek container, a spot of ooze appearing on its tip.
“Easy, Lucifer,” grinned the fat man, restraining the animal on a heavy chain leash. “We’ll get pretty to do some more for you. But let’s have some breakfast first. Don’t be so greedy, you silly satyr, you!” And then he laughed uproariously.
Ellen blushed winsomely and her thirteen year old mind struggled to comprehend. What on earth could the fat man be referring to?
She looked around the breakfast nook and at the windows showing what a lovely day it was outside, with birds singing and all of the streets in bloom, the buds fairly bursting on the trees. It was a beautiful spring day to come alive. The kitchen nook itself was decorated most tastefully in orange shades, with patterned curtains and wallpaper filled with flowers and birds. The furniture, from Welsh dresser to dining table, was all natural pine and very cheery. The scent of fresh bacon and coffee filled the air, and beyond them, in the outsized kitchen, could be heard whirring busily a built-in extractor fan above the built-in ranges.
“Sit down, Ellen,” smiled Maxwell Carter lazily, and he patted a place beside himself on the pinewood bench. He was munching a toasted bagel with butter on it and looked very elegant in a violet robe with matching paisley silk handkerchief in the upper pocket, and a white shirt with collar spread open at the throat to reveal the splendid contours of his muscular upper chest.
But she noticed also — to her bewilderment — that the bottom center of his dressing gown was also open, and that his massively throbbing penis was sticking out hard and high from it like the leaning tower of Pisa. Ellen gasped and put her hand up to her throat, taking an involuntary step backward. Her eyes met those of Handsome, who was lying lazily on his stomach and legs at one end of the table, his eyes looking very tired and sleepy — or drugged with sensuality.
And in that terrible moment of recognition, the young girl remembered.
Amy Winthrop looked at her watch. It was ten a.m. and still no sign of Ellen. She shook out her long black hair and stood up to take the dishes back to the sink.
Not that she regretted giving the child permission to visit with the Carters down the block for the weekend. They had plenty of room, and probably too much money, and they could always find interesting things to do with Ellen. As for herself, she had welcomed a free night so that she and Billy Erspamer could cavort in various positions and places about the house without worrying about who might be listening in. The curly-headed fifteen year old had come to her about seven, right after supper, after telling his mother that he was going to a dance at New Trier High School. They had fucked like minks on the dining room table, lapped hungrily at each other’s vitals all over the living room, and then finally retired to Ellen’s bedroom, where he had wildly sodomized the mother while moaning out his exciting admission that it was really the virginal, busty blonde Ellen he was thinking of fucking.
While this confession should have offended her moral dignity, Mrs. Winthrop actually had found it savagely exciting. He had raved on and on about the beauty of Ellen’s long satiny blonde hair, the passion-swollen overhang of her ripe young breasts, the delicious feel of her buttocks in his hands, the fact that she was only thirteen years old, and the wonderful way she had of sucking on his cock with her hot sultry lips. Things like, “Oh, I love to fuck your ass, baby. You got gorgeous blonde hair and you’re only thirteen years old with big tits. Love to fuck you, Ellen!”
His filthy talk just seemed to send shivers through the passionate young mother’s flesh, until finally she had cum with a force that she thought would tear her head right off her shoulders — thrashing, sobbing, weeping for mercy, her anal passage clutching his sperm-spurting column of manhood with worshipful desire.
She smiled cynically to herself and lit a cigarette. Things had certainly changed since Ellen’s father had died. Before that she had been stiff as a board where extracurricular sex was concerned, and tolerated no nonsense for a second. Least of all with teenage boys, the like of which she had never given even a passing thought to in her entire life beyond the age of eighteen. It was always older men who had interested her. Mature men with a bit of gray in their hair and experience in their eyes. It was just this taste that had led her to Ellen’s father.
Not that he had turned out to be the experienced man of the world she had expected. He had merely been prematurely gray, and this had given him character where there was not actually a great deal. Mark Winthrop had been a classic case of someone who looked different from the person he really was inside. In actuality he had turned out to be just another schoolboy, as she was just another stuck-up schoolgirl without any real understanding of life.
Making this discovery in the early months of their marriage hadn’t discomfited her very much, however, and she had remained true to her bargain and prim probably to the point of exasperation for many of those who might have been her friends. She had been a good wife to Mark, by her lights, and was appropriately broken up over his untimely death. His period of dying — from an incurable disease — had been somewhat lengthy, and in that interim she had also taken to drinking somewhat more than she should. In retrospect she wondered if she had drunk so heavily in order to aid her dramatic capabilities and the quality of her performance as the “Bereaved Wife”. Probably! But she had also been truly unhappy. One couldn’t spend fourteen years with a man and then feel no sense of loss whatever when he was gone. It was like having an enormous tumor removed. One may not have loved it while it was there, but there was nonetheless a feeling of loss, the subtle feeling of a gaping void within oneself crying out for fulfillment.
During all their years together she had not been a passionate woman by any means, but nonetheless some appreciation of sex had sprung up in her very normal loins from Mark’s frequent recourse to her voluptuous flesh, and she had been capable of feeling fleeting sensations of pleasure, even though she had come to regard the female orgasm as purely the invention of the New York editors of women’s magazines.
And then they had closed up the house in Wilmette, sold it, and used the proceeds to buy something finer in Kenilworth, but smaller. Two women alone didn’t need the space of a triplet bi-sexed family, so they had been able to afford something very nice in a better neighborhood, a neighborhood where she hoped Ellen would meet the “right” people and use her fast-blossoming voluptuousness to maximum advantage.
And Ellen hadn’t failed her. Almost immediately she had taken up with the Carters, who were said to be unbelievably wealthy, and she was meeting boys of good family in school as well. Maybe the Carters had a stray nephew somewhere or other who would turn out to be a doctor or a lawyer some day — you never could tell.
Amy smiled to herself at her foolishness and snubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. If that wasn’t silly. Matchmaking for Ellen. The dear child was only thirteen years old, even if she was somewhat advanced physically. Other girls would catch up to her very soon, although it was true she was a breathtaking natural beauty.
Matchmaking for Ellen. The poor dear probably didn’t even know the first thing about sex. Amy sighed. She had been a prude, so unfortunately she had brought Ellen up to be one, too.
She had, of course, explained sex to her daughter, but with a minimum of detail. Once she had started having her periods, there was no reason to keep the child in the dark. All that blood would have only upset her if she hadn’t been explained to.
Not that Amy had any illusions left in that respect. What parents forgot to mention, children always picked up at school from their friends. Children picked up stuff like that as though their brains were magnets.
She stood up with a sigh, pulled her gown around her voluminous breasts and walked into the dining room, then into the living room, tidying up here and there as she went. Sex was all well and good, but when it was all over and one returned to earth, there was still ashtrays to be emptied, beds to be tidied, and sheets to be changed.
She chuckled to herself as she remembered some of the things they had done. Billy Erspamer had actually seduced her, in a way. Or was it she who had seduced him?
It hadn’t taken long after Mark’s death for her to realize that there was something missing for her physically in his untimely demise, as well as psychologically. In all the years they’d been together she’d come to take sex quite for granted. Quite for granted that it was primarily man’s domain of enjoyment, and that woman repaid his care of her and their children by agreeing to cooperate in the sexual act whenever the husband so desired. She had chosen to ignore those times when her vagina twinged so unexpectedly and satisfactorily, leaving her frustrated and tingling until she could get into a cold shower and wash away the feel of it from her insides. She had totally ignored that very minor factor of pleasure that she had reaped from their love life.
And yet that seemingly minor pleasure turned out to be a very major compunction of physical need once it was no longer around. A glass of water, by analogy, was not a very important thing. It was a minor item in an entire day of consumption. Ah, but let one try to get along without it for a week, two weeks, a month, and it came to loom very major in one’s considerations indeed.
Thus it had come to be for her with sex. She hadn’t been too crazy about it when Mark was alive, and yet without its minute drip, drip, drip she had swiftly — within months — become as famished for it as a drunk crossing the Mojave Desert on his knees under a blazing sun.
And then suddenly she had come to take greater notice of young boys.
Somehow they always seemed to have so much more vitality than grown men. Continually leaping about, chewing gum, unable to sit still, veritable reservoirs of unused energy. They appeared swift, like the chattering of birds, and equally as mysterious. She came to study them with undisguised and illicit interest.
Until finally she had seen Billy Erspamer, the boy from next door.
Five months ago he had only been fourteen, yet his wiry form and smiling, curly-headed handsomeness had quite taken her breath away. He was put together like a fine china figurine, all lines, planes and angles, without a molecule of fat on his muscular young body. She had been quite fascinated, and was constantly peeping over the fence at his practice on the diving board over the Erspamer’s swimming pool next door.
And then finally she had invited him over for a Coke one afternoon when he was toweling his magnificent body. He had accepted with alacrity, as if that was the one thing he had waited for all his life.
After that she was never quite sure who had taken the first initiative. It was true, of course, that she hadn’t been able to keep her hands off him, and had found all sorts of excuses to graze his fine muscularity with her fingernails. Somehow all of her usual reserve seemed to have snapped in the instant that she had first seen Billy, and she had lost all control. True, she had probably been close to the breaking point without realizing it for some time. Billy’s beautiful presence had just served to let the cat out of the bag with total acceleration. Perhaps some other boy would have affected her the same at that precise moment. In any case, there was no denying that it was Billy who had, in fact, turned her loose from all the sticky clinging membranes of her conservative past. And she had totally lost her head.
At first she hadn’t quite realized what was happening, that she was falling in love with him. She had never had a son, and she had assumed that her tacit desire to feel the boy’s smooth, muscular young body with her hands was the natural reaction of a woman with normal motherly instincts.
But then her instincts had turned very non-motherly indeed. She had found her breath coming very hotly when he was around, and her nostrils flaring, and a strange honeyish feeling opening out like a sunflower in her love-starved loins.
She couldn’t keep her hands off him. She would stroke his shoulders, seemingly casually, as he munched a sandwich and quaffed a glass of milk, gazing fondly at the damp curls plastered wetly around his head, and the gleaming beads of water still bubbling on his glossy smooth tanned skin. She wanted with everything in her yearning young body to twist her fingers in his soft black curly hair, and pull his virile body up against hers.
And then she got to wondering what his manhood must look like. Could the sex organs of a young animal as lovely as this possibly look the same as those of Mark Winthrop? And she kept sitting down next to him on the bench in the kitchen, darting glances at the bulge in his crotch, trying to see if he was aroused at all by her sitting down next to him, trying to see anything that would indicate what his equipment was like.
And as this elaborate charade expanded, she found herself fantasizing about him, and her mouth watering, and she would lick her lips as she wondered what his genitals would look like, smell, feel — and even taste?
She knew it was obscene, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. These illicit thoughts pervaded everything she did.
Amy had read somewhere that women of her age were just reaching the height of their sexual cravings, whereas men usually went through their peaks of lust as teenagers. Certainly it might even be the most truly natural thing in the world for a mature woman her age to combine with a teenage boy. She began inventing excuses for herself. After all, she was in her early thirties, and her body was still excellent and well cared-for. She would parade before the mirror in the evenings, cupping her full firm breasts and wondering if Billy Erspamer, that young God, would want to touch them.
How curious that she had felt no shame at this, even though she had been careful to keep her feelings hidden from Ellen. It seemed as if the traumatic separation from her past life was so complete with the death of her husband and their changing from the old house they had lived in for fourteen years to this newer one in Kenilworth that the bond to her conservative girlhood training became so tenuous as to virtually evaporate in the sultry heat of her passion.
Looking back, Amy could scarcely tell where her old life had left off and the new one begun, and yet the change had been so abrupt. It was surprising to find that she could not adequately define it.
She sighed and smiled to herself, sitting down on the couch in the living room, sinking deeply into the soft cushions as she picked up a magazine from the end table and leafed through it. Ladies Home Journal was running another piece this month by Lynda Bird Johnson on what she had done on her summer vacation.
Amy’s parents were dead, of course — they had died young — and this had served to some extent to free her from the old taboos. Once no one was watching, constraints quickly fell away. She had been surprised at how fast they had gone.
Then, too, Mark had left them so well provided for, with money from the investments of a trust fund coming in regularly once a month rain or shine, that she found that she didn’t have to work if she didn’t want to. And after she saw Billy, all thought of being away from home in the afternoons left her head completely. And in recent weeks they had even taken to making love on the bear rug in front of the fireplace during his lunch hour from high school.
She chuckled. She could remember very well that first day when they had truly found each other. Ellen was out with the Carters somewhere, and Billy had come by for a Coke. She had taken, for some reason, to lamenting on her loneliness to this sweet young boy. And he had seemed so understanding.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Winthrop, you’ll do okay,” and he had put his hand down on her shoulder (she was sitting), glancing down at her excellent, high-breasted cleavage through her open robe, her twin mounds of flesh breathing irregularly in shapely unrest just from his nearness. He gulped then, and she looked knowingly up into his deep black eyes, running her tongue over her lips in order to moisten them.
Something prompted her to say, “You think I’m beautiful, don’t you, Billy?” and she put her hand coolly on his, holding it trapped there on her softly rounded shoulder. His flesh seemed unnaturally cold and shivering to her touch, and she watched his nostrils flare as he absorbed her heady female presence.
How instinctively her lips found the back of his hand, her tongue making little wet circles on it. She was taking a terrible chance, of course, but it had proven to be well worth the risk. His fingers came automatically up into her long jet black hair, plunging into all that softness with a little cry of ecstasy. As though it had a mind of its own, her hand reached for the bulge in his bathing suit, and she found her heart’s desire in an instant.
How manful he was! She really hadn’t expected him to be quite so huge in there! His penis was curled up like a discarded snake-skin, but almost immediately it became pumped full of blood. Her eyes widened as her fingers felt around the little sperm-producing factories of his balls, feeling them vibrantly throbbing with musky life, becoming full and expanding rapidly.
Her breath was coming so fast she couldn’t believe it. Wave upon wave of heated fluid was washing down from her excited vaginal walls to coat her pulsating pussy lips. Lost in a mindless murk of forbidden desire which had no beginning nor any end, she eagerly reached her hand down past the waist band of his swimming trunks and felt his virile hardness.
“Oh… you beautiful boy,” she sighed. “I’m… I’m going to kiss your penis.” She heard him gasp in excitement and felt his body quiver as she pulled his trunks down over his lean buttocks to expose his wildly pulsing cock.
A moment later, with a small ecstatic sigh, she felt its throbbing head slipping through her wetly heated lips, the musky scent of his loins as heady as the aroma of warm bread fresh from the oven. The lovely young mother closed her eyes and gurgled happily as the youth lifted his naked ass-cheeks off the chair and slid the entire length of his urgent, thrusting male hardness down into her throat. She had never done anything like this when she was married to Mark, but now the past seemed to have been forgotten. All she wanted in the world was to show her devotion to this beautiful boy. She wanted to suck on his cock and feel all of his burning hot sperm spitting upward into her mouth, and she would swallow it greedily and wallow in her newly blossoming sensuality like a passionate whore.
“Oh, Mrs. Winthrop!” his youthful voice had wailed above her as she sucked on him vampireishly as if to draw out all of his blood as well as his semen, her tongue lashing strongly at every delicious pulsating ridge of his desire-swollen cock. And then he had made it, cumming rapidly the way youngsters do, letting her starving throat gorge on the delicious hot fluid which filled her gluttonously sucking mouth. He shuddered out his desire into her throat with lusty hot spurts and then, gasping, stumbled backwards.
Then her eyes locked on his ecstatic face, the voluptuous young mother let her gown drop to the floor and used the back of her hand to wipe the smeared cum from around her lips. Amy let his eyes dwell hungrily for a moment on her gorgeously proportioned naked flesh, and then took him into the bedroom when his hands roamed voraciously over her body. She let him explore everything, let him do and ask anything.
How he had loved to suck on her melon-like breasts at first! Endlessly his mouth seemed to be at home on her large, overripe mounds of soft warm flesh and her tautly extended nipples. He would draw in as much of the surrounding tissue as he could, until it veritably gagged him. And then suck, suck, suck until she would almost orgasm for this exquisite pleasure alone. At first his breast fetish had made her giggle, but then she just wallowed in it delightedly, running lips and tongue and mouth nibbled, licked, sucked hungrily on her breasts as if he had been starved for them his whole life.
Or as if she had been starved for this wonderful suck, which she had.
Eventually delirium and hysteria were the only terms left to describe how she felt when they made love. Especially since he had discovered that she was turned on terribly by the use of filthy language. He would spew out things like, “I want to lick your beautiful cunt, Mrs. Winthrop. And fuck you in the ass, ramming my cock up into your asshole. I’m going to chew on your cunt as if it was just a big wad of chewing gum. And suck on your titties until I chew them off.” And this would really make her loins gush wildly, and she would go out of her mind for him.
She wondered sometimes if it had to do with the very illicitness of their situation. For a woman her age to be so debauched and spoken to so disrespectfully by a youth of such tender years was so demeaning and humiliating — after so many years of being a dominant type of personality, she was literally wallowing in humiliation. And loving it more than anything!
Amy Winthrop sighed and stood up, dropping the magazine to the coffee table. It was such a lovely morning, and she felt wonderful after the fifteen year old’s energetic fucking last night.
Of course, it was true that she paid him. But he was young and had no money, and she had plenty. So there was no point in their not sharing it. And he gave her so much happiness, after all.
The birds sang. The flowers bloomed. All about their little house it seemed as if all was right with the world.
If only Ellen could someday be as happy as she was. But that was a lot to ask for. It wasn’t natural for a woman to know such happiness as she had found with Billy.
But in any case there was no point in spending such a beautiful morning in the house.
Perhaps she would even stroll down the block and see what was going on down at the Carters’. They might invite her in for coffee, and that wouldn’t hurt anything. Ellen had been rather distant of late, and occasionally she wondered about that. Perhaps the Carters would have some clue as to what was bothering her.
That was it! She would visit the Carters and see how things were going and what they were all up to. It would all be cheery and casual. The Carters were the sort of people who were always good company. She would fix her hair and get herself together.
She turned on her heel and went upstairs to the bedroom. Then she began selecting appropriate apparel for her visit.
Her pretty, winsomely innocent eyes adjusted quizzically to the dimness, and she looked down at her body, reflecting on the curious position she had been sleeping in. Someone had changed her into a pink negligee, which was bunched up almost around her neck, the high twin rose-capped peaks of her proud young breasts jutted upward between her eyes and the rest of her body. Her legs were spread wide apart as though in invitation, and the muscles of those legs felt very sore and overworked indeed. She brought them together with some effort and experienced small twinges of pain in her vagina. Her entire body felt dreadfully used and exhausted. That was the only term she could think of to accurately describe how she felt.
And then she remembered. The dream! The most curious dream she had had about Handsome, and the Carters, and — what was it? She couldn’t remember the rest of the dream, but then dreams were rarely remembered totally. And anyway the dull ache in her throbbing little cunt was sufficient to distract her from any deep thought.
Ellen smoothed her hands carefully up to her breasts, touching them gently in guarded exploration. Oooooh, they were tender. Her fingers explored further, coursing their way down over her tautly rounded belly to her still open legs. Then she groaned as she tenderly touched the slight bruises lining the moist pink lips of her pussy. Her outstretched middle finger probed gently at the sensitive opening, becoming moist from the sticky white liquid that was still flowing viscously from the recently deflowered aperture. The split of her buttocks felt damp with it as well.
Her thoughts rambled in myriad confusion she brushed her bright blonde hair from around her eyes and heaving breasts to let it fall in a soft golden mass around her back and shoulders. What a terrible dream she’d had, with Handsome and Mr. Carter and Dominique — their shadowy forms flitted sensuously through her teenage memory. It had all seemed so real.
But if it had all been a dream, where did this warm wet pool between her legs come from? Had she been playing with herself again, despite her best intentions? Had her own fingers produced this sticky liquid? It had to be! There could be no other explanation.
But how shameful, she thought, blushing. Her licentious dream had proven that she was not the prude she had fancied herself. She had wantonly satisfied herself with her own probing fingers.
Ellen’s thoughts were interrupted by a gentle knocking at the door. Dominique’s sophisticated voice came softly from the other side, “Oh, Ellen, dear. It’s time to wake up.”
For some unknown reason that lilting tone of Dominique’s made Ellen shiver all over like a startled sparrow. She reflected on this strange reaction, than realized again what a terrible state she was in. Oh my, she thought, stumbling to her feet, I mustn’t let her see me like this. I’ve got cum all over my loins and legs. “In a minute, Dominique. I’m just getting up.”
“That’s all right, dear,” came the reply. “Take your time. Breakfast will be ready when you are.”
Ellen sighed with relief and covered her suddenly tingling breasts with her hands. She would have a chance to clean up, then. She looked back at the rumpled bed, her eyes resting thoughtfully on the large wet round spot where her buttocks had nestled. Well, she thought, I really masturbated to beat the band. I should be ashamed of myself — yet somehow I’m not. There’s not much point in feeling guilty about something I can’t control.
And then she noticed the loose dog hairs in various part of the bed.
She picked up one of them and looked at it curiously, her eyes narrowing with puzzlement. Had Handsome gotten up on the bed some time during the night?
But one of the hairs was a lighter color — almost gray — lighter than Handsome’s fur. It was very puzzling. She shrugged and went into the bathroom to start up the shower.
The warm spray felt good cascading down over her voluptuous young body. She washed immaculately the insides of her thighs and buttocks, vaguely reluctant to wash away the white crust from her matted pussy hair. As her fingers moved up and down cleansingly within the warmth of her narrow sexual furrow, the vision she had had of Handsome in her dream returned most strongly.
She visualized the big German shepherd’s snout pushed down between her hairless young thighs, his enormous tongue lapping thirstily at the flooded outskirts of her burning young pussy, her pink vaginal folds being drawn up hotly within his mouth by his sharply adhesive tongue, then returned. Her middle finger idly duplicated the vision of that lashing tongue, batting around her tingling little clitoris until she began to tremble with joy. It was all she could do to find the strength to rip her finger out of that clinging pleasure-drugged orifice.
As she staggered gasping from the shower, feelings of guilt and shame well-nigh overwhelmed her. Since that dreadful dream, she couldn’t seem to keep her fingers out of herself for a single instant.
“I must get control of myself,” she muttered. One obscene dream and I can’t seem to stop masturbating. What’s coming over me?
She sat before the vanity mirror naked, combing out her long silken blonde hair, which seemed to have an unusual number of tangles this morning. Still, she liked the way it swept around her waist, belly and over her proudly uplifted breasts when she let it. Something like Lady Godiva in the history books! Her father had never allowed her to have it cut when he was alive, and it was her pride and glory. She couldn’t think of another girl in school who had such long beautiful hair. It went all the way down to her slender waspish waist.
She also liked the high set of her lushly ripening breasts and their warm feeling of soft resiliency. She scratched the bristles of the hairbrush across them until her nipples came up flushing and goose-bumped, fully erect and tingling. Then she rolled them between thumbs and index fingers. She watched herself in the mirror and smiled in satisfaction with her own body.
But what had come over her since yesterday? Could it be that she was merely growing up? There was a faintly lascivious, pleasant feeling in her still-tingling loins which seemed to wash up easily into her belly, buttocks and breasts. She felt relaxed enough to go right back to bed and sleep for a week. She couldn’t stop humming to herself, either, and that was another indication of how generally nice she felt.
She smiled to herself and got up, watching her sensually quivering mounds jiggle in the mirror as she moved. She couldn’t think of when she had been more pleased with herself. She felt as if she had been loved to death.
On impulse she decided not to wear a brassiere, but merely threw on a fuzzy pink wool sweater with buttons down the front which she allowed to “vee” open provocatively. Then she put on some white cotton panties and the only pair of jeans she had brought with her.
She looked at herself in the mirror continuously, quite pleased with what she saw. All that wealth of long blonde hair, firmly up-thrust breasts outlined clingingly in that snug pink sweater, tight Levi’s that showed off her smoothly rounded ass-cheeks to best advantage. She giggled silly to herself and stepped into a pair of loafers. Then she opened the door to the library.
As her eyes swept the bookshelves, couches, drapes, and Persian carpeting, it seemed to her that there was something sensuous about the room. She wondered why she had never looked upon it in this way before. There were subtle associations having something to do with what she had dreamed last night that struggled to free themselves from the cobwebs of her muddled brain.
But somehow the solution just wouldn’t come. She was drawn to the room in a way that made her warmly pulsating loins feel vibrant and alive as she tried to remember, but nothing in her memory bank seemed to focus properly.
Then she looked back at her bedroom and the huge, circular bed she had been sleeping on. There was something about that bed tickling at her memory, yet nothing seemed to materialize very clearly. And why hadn’t she been put in one of the big bedrooms upstairs? Strange how she had never noticed this bedroom off the living room before.
The thirteen year old girl shrugged and moved thoughtfully to the big doors leading from the library to the entrance hall. Opening them carefully, not quite sure of what to expect, she stepped up into the hall. She could hear some commotion coming from the direction of the kitchen and turned sharply to the left towards it.
“Ah, here she is now, the little darling,” Dominique beamed at her as she descended the steps into the breakfast room a few moments later, and this made Ellen feel wonderful and well-loved.
And then she noticed the other two visitors to the Carter household — a leering fat man with a big cigar in his mouth, and a powerful, shaggy “white” German shepherd, his coat thick with gray hairs. This other dog sat up on his haunches and began whining plaintively the second he saw her, his large pink penis coming slithering out of its fur sleek container, a spot of ooze appearing on its tip.
“Easy, Lucifer,” grinned the fat man, restraining the animal on a heavy chain leash. “We’ll get pretty to do some more for you. But let’s have some breakfast first. Don’t be so greedy, you silly satyr, you!” And then he laughed uproariously.
Ellen blushed winsomely and her thirteen year old mind struggled to comprehend. What on earth could the fat man be referring to?
She looked around the breakfast nook and at the windows showing what a lovely day it was outside, with birds singing and all of the streets in bloom, the buds fairly bursting on the trees. It was a beautiful spring day to come alive. The kitchen nook itself was decorated most tastefully in orange shades, with patterned curtains and wallpaper filled with flowers and birds. The furniture, from Welsh dresser to dining table, was all natural pine and very cheery. The scent of fresh bacon and coffee filled the air, and beyond them, in the outsized kitchen, could be heard whirring busily a built-in extractor fan above the built-in ranges.
“Sit down, Ellen,” smiled Maxwell Carter lazily, and he patted a place beside himself on the pinewood bench. He was munching a toasted bagel with butter on it and looked very elegant in a violet robe with matching paisley silk handkerchief in the upper pocket, and a white shirt with collar spread open at the throat to reveal the splendid contours of his muscular upper chest.
But she noticed also — to her bewilderment — that the bottom center of his dressing gown was also open, and that his massively throbbing penis was sticking out hard and high from it like the leaning tower of Pisa. Ellen gasped and put her hand up to her throat, taking an involuntary step backward. Her eyes met those of Handsome, who was lying lazily on his stomach and legs at one end of the table, his eyes looking very tired and sleepy — or drugged with sensuality.
And in that terrible moment of recognition, the young girl remembered.
Amy Winthrop looked at her watch. It was ten a.m. and still no sign of Ellen. She shook out her long black hair and stood up to take the dishes back to the sink.
Not that she regretted giving the child permission to visit with the Carters down the block for the weekend. They had plenty of room, and probably too much money, and they could always find interesting things to do with Ellen. As for herself, she had welcomed a free night so that she and Billy Erspamer could cavort in various positions and places about the house without worrying about who might be listening in. The curly-headed fifteen year old had come to her about seven, right after supper, after telling his mother that he was going to a dance at New Trier High School. They had fucked like minks on the dining room table, lapped hungrily at each other’s vitals all over the living room, and then finally retired to Ellen’s bedroom, where he had wildly sodomized the mother while moaning out his exciting admission that it was really the virginal, busty blonde Ellen he was thinking of fucking.
While this confession should have offended her moral dignity, Mrs. Winthrop actually had found it savagely exciting. He had raved on and on about the beauty of Ellen’s long satiny blonde hair, the passion-swollen overhang of her ripe young breasts, the delicious feel of her buttocks in his hands, the fact that she was only thirteen years old, and the wonderful way she had of sucking on his cock with her hot sultry lips. Things like, “Oh, I love to fuck your ass, baby. You got gorgeous blonde hair and you’re only thirteen years old with big tits. Love to fuck you, Ellen!”
His filthy talk just seemed to send shivers through the passionate young mother’s flesh, until finally she had cum with a force that she thought would tear her head right off her shoulders — thrashing, sobbing, weeping for mercy, her anal passage clutching his sperm-spurting column of manhood with worshipful desire.
She smiled cynically to herself and lit a cigarette. Things had certainly changed since Ellen’s father had died. Before that she had been stiff as a board where extracurricular sex was concerned, and tolerated no nonsense for a second. Least of all with teenage boys, the like of which she had never given even a passing thought to in her entire life beyond the age of eighteen. It was always older men who had interested her. Mature men with a bit of gray in their hair and experience in their eyes. It was just this taste that had led her to Ellen’s father.
Not that he had turned out to be the experienced man of the world she had expected. He had merely been prematurely gray, and this had given him character where there was not actually a great deal. Mark Winthrop had been a classic case of someone who looked different from the person he really was inside. In actuality he had turned out to be just another schoolboy, as she was just another stuck-up schoolgirl without any real understanding of life.
Making this discovery in the early months of their marriage hadn’t discomfited her very much, however, and she had remained true to her bargain and prim probably to the point of exasperation for many of those who might have been her friends. She had been a good wife to Mark, by her lights, and was appropriately broken up over his untimely death. His period of dying — from an incurable disease — had been somewhat lengthy, and in that interim she had also taken to drinking somewhat more than she should. In retrospect she wondered if she had drunk so heavily in order to aid her dramatic capabilities and the quality of her performance as the “Bereaved Wife”. Probably! But she had also been truly unhappy. One couldn’t spend fourteen years with a man and then feel no sense of loss whatever when he was gone. It was like having an enormous tumor removed. One may not have loved it while it was there, but there was nonetheless a feeling of loss, the subtle feeling of a gaping void within oneself crying out for fulfillment.
During all their years together she had not been a passionate woman by any means, but nonetheless some appreciation of sex had sprung up in her very normal loins from Mark’s frequent recourse to her voluptuous flesh, and she had been capable of feeling fleeting sensations of pleasure, even though she had come to regard the female orgasm as purely the invention of the New York editors of women’s magazines.
And then they had closed up the house in Wilmette, sold it, and used the proceeds to buy something finer in Kenilworth, but smaller. Two women alone didn’t need the space of a triplet bi-sexed family, so they had been able to afford something very nice in a better neighborhood, a neighborhood where she hoped Ellen would meet the “right” people and use her fast-blossoming voluptuousness to maximum advantage.
And Ellen hadn’t failed her. Almost immediately she had taken up with the Carters, who were said to be unbelievably wealthy, and she was meeting boys of good family in school as well. Maybe the Carters had a stray nephew somewhere or other who would turn out to be a doctor or a lawyer some day — you never could tell.
Amy smiled to herself at her foolishness and snubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. If that wasn’t silly. Matchmaking for Ellen. The dear child was only thirteen years old, even if she was somewhat advanced physically. Other girls would catch up to her very soon, although it was true she was a breathtaking natural beauty.
Matchmaking for Ellen. The poor dear probably didn’t even know the first thing about sex. Amy sighed. She had been a prude, so unfortunately she had brought Ellen up to be one, too.
She had, of course, explained sex to her daughter, but with a minimum of detail. Once she had started having her periods, there was no reason to keep the child in the dark. All that blood would have only upset her if she hadn’t been explained to.
Not that Amy had any illusions left in that respect. What parents forgot to mention, children always picked up at school from their friends. Children picked up stuff like that as though their brains were magnets.
She stood up with a sigh, pulled her gown around her voluminous breasts and walked into the dining room, then into the living room, tidying up here and there as she went. Sex was all well and good, but when it was all over and one returned to earth, there was still ashtrays to be emptied, beds to be tidied, and sheets to be changed.
She chuckled to herself as she remembered some of the things they had done. Billy Erspamer had actually seduced her, in a way. Or was it she who had seduced him?
It hadn’t taken long after Mark’s death for her to realize that there was something missing for her physically in his untimely demise, as well as psychologically. In all the years they’d been together she’d come to take sex quite for granted. Quite for granted that it was primarily man’s domain of enjoyment, and that woman repaid his care of her and their children by agreeing to cooperate in the sexual act whenever the husband so desired. She had chosen to ignore those times when her vagina twinged so unexpectedly and satisfactorily, leaving her frustrated and tingling until she could get into a cold shower and wash away the feel of it from her insides. She had totally ignored that very minor factor of pleasure that she had reaped from their love life.
And yet that seemingly minor pleasure turned out to be a very major compunction of physical need once it was no longer around. A glass of water, by analogy, was not a very important thing. It was a minor item in an entire day of consumption. Ah, but let one try to get along without it for a week, two weeks, a month, and it came to loom very major in one’s considerations indeed.
Thus it had come to be for her with sex. She hadn’t been too crazy about it when Mark was alive, and yet without its minute drip, drip, drip she had swiftly — within months — become as famished for it as a drunk crossing the Mojave Desert on his knees under a blazing sun.
And then suddenly she had come to take greater notice of young boys.
Somehow they always seemed to have so much more vitality than grown men. Continually leaping about, chewing gum, unable to sit still, veritable reservoirs of unused energy. They appeared swift, like the chattering of birds, and equally as mysterious. She came to study them with undisguised and illicit interest.
Until finally she had seen Billy Erspamer, the boy from next door.
Five months ago he had only been fourteen, yet his wiry form and smiling, curly-headed handsomeness had quite taken her breath away. He was put together like a fine china figurine, all lines, planes and angles, without a molecule of fat on his muscular young body. She had been quite fascinated, and was constantly peeping over the fence at his practice on the diving board over the Erspamer’s swimming pool next door.
And then finally she had invited him over for a Coke one afternoon when he was toweling his magnificent body. He had accepted with alacrity, as if that was the one thing he had waited for all his life.
After that she was never quite sure who had taken the first initiative. It was true, of course, that she hadn’t been able to keep her hands off him, and had found all sorts of excuses to graze his fine muscularity with her fingernails. Somehow all of her usual reserve seemed to have snapped in the instant that she had first seen Billy, and she had lost all control. True, she had probably been close to the breaking point without realizing it for some time. Billy’s beautiful presence had just served to let the cat out of the bag with total acceleration. Perhaps some other boy would have affected her the same at that precise moment. In any case, there was no denying that it was Billy who had, in fact, turned her loose from all the sticky clinging membranes of her conservative past. And she had totally lost her head.
At first she hadn’t quite realized what was happening, that she was falling in love with him. She had never had a son, and she had assumed that her tacit desire to feel the boy’s smooth, muscular young body with her hands was the natural reaction of a woman with normal motherly instincts.
But then her instincts had turned very non-motherly indeed. She had found her breath coming very hotly when he was around, and her nostrils flaring, and a strange honeyish feeling opening out like a sunflower in her love-starved loins.
She couldn’t keep her hands off him. She would stroke his shoulders, seemingly casually, as he munched a sandwich and quaffed a glass of milk, gazing fondly at the damp curls plastered wetly around his head, and the gleaming beads of water still bubbling on his glossy smooth tanned skin. She wanted with everything in her yearning young body to twist her fingers in his soft black curly hair, and pull his virile body up against hers.
And then she got to wondering what his manhood must look like. Could the sex organs of a young animal as lovely as this possibly look the same as those of Mark Winthrop? And she kept sitting down next to him on the bench in the kitchen, darting glances at the bulge in his crotch, trying to see if he was aroused at all by her sitting down next to him, trying to see anything that would indicate what his equipment was like.
And as this elaborate charade expanded, she found herself fantasizing about him, and her mouth watering, and she would lick her lips as she wondered what his genitals would look like, smell, feel — and even taste?
She knew it was obscene, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. These illicit thoughts pervaded everything she did.
Amy had read somewhere that women of her age were just reaching the height of their sexual cravings, whereas men usually went through their peaks of lust as teenagers. Certainly it might even be the most truly natural thing in the world for a mature woman her age to combine with a teenage boy. She began inventing excuses for herself. After all, she was in her early thirties, and her body was still excellent and well cared-for. She would parade before the mirror in the evenings, cupping her full firm breasts and wondering if Billy Erspamer, that young God, would want to touch them.
How curious that she had felt no shame at this, even though she had been careful to keep her feelings hidden from Ellen. It seemed as if the traumatic separation from her past life was so complete with the death of her husband and their changing from the old house they had lived in for fourteen years to this newer one in Kenilworth that the bond to her conservative girlhood training became so tenuous as to virtually evaporate in the sultry heat of her passion.
Looking back, Amy could scarcely tell where her old life had left off and the new one begun, and yet the change had been so abrupt. It was surprising to find that she could not adequately define it.
She sighed and smiled to herself, sitting down on the couch in the living room, sinking deeply into the soft cushions as she picked up a magazine from the end table and leafed through it. Ladies Home Journal was running another piece this month by Lynda Bird Johnson on what she had done on her summer vacation.
Amy’s parents were dead, of course — they had died young — and this had served to some extent to free her from the old taboos. Once no one was watching, constraints quickly fell away. She had been surprised at how fast they had gone.
Then, too, Mark had left them so well provided for, with money from the investments of a trust fund coming in regularly once a month rain or shine, that she found that she didn’t have to work if she didn’t want to. And after she saw Billy, all thought of being away from home in the afternoons left her head completely. And in recent weeks they had even taken to making love on the bear rug in front of the fireplace during his lunch hour from high school.
She chuckled. She could remember very well that first day when they had truly found each other. Ellen was out with the Carters somewhere, and Billy had come by for a Coke. She had taken, for some reason, to lamenting on her loneliness to this sweet young boy. And he had seemed so understanding.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Winthrop, you’ll do okay,” and he had put his hand down on her shoulder (she was sitting), glancing down at her excellent, high-breasted cleavage through her open robe, her twin mounds of flesh breathing irregularly in shapely unrest just from his nearness. He gulped then, and she looked knowingly up into his deep black eyes, running her tongue over her lips in order to moisten them.
Something prompted her to say, “You think I’m beautiful, don’t you, Billy?” and she put her hand coolly on his, holding it trapped there on her softly rounded shoulder. His flesh seemed unnaturally cold and shivering to her touch, and she watched his nostrils flare as he absorbed her heady female presence.
How instinctively her lips found the back of his hand, her tongue making little wet circles on it. She was taking a terrible chance, of course, but it had proven to be well worth the risk. His fingers came automatically up into her long jet black hair, plunging into all that softness with a little cry of ecstasy. As though it had a mind of its own, her hand reached for the bulge in his bathing suit, and she found her heart’s desire in an instant.
How manful he was! She really hadn’t expected him to be quite so huge in there! His penis was curled up like a discarded snake-skin, but almost immediately it became pumped full of blood. Her eyes widened as her fingers felt around the little sperm-producing factories of his balls, feeling them vibrantly throbbing with musky life, becoming full and expanding rapidly.
Her breath was coming so fast she couldn’t believe it. Wave upon wave of heated fluid was washing down from her excited vaginal walls to coat her pulsating pussy lips. Lost in a mindless murk of forbidden desire which had no beginning nor any end, she eagerly reached her hand down past the waist band of his swimming trunks and felt his virile hardness.
“Oh… you beautiful boy,” she sighed. “I’m… I’m going to kiss your penis.” She heard him gasp in excitement and felt his body quiver as she pulled his trunks down over his lean buttocks to expose his wildly pulsing cock.
A moment later, with a small ecstatic sigh, she felt its throbbing head slipping through her wetly heated lips, the musky scent of his loins as heady as the aroma of warm bread fresh from the oven. The lovely young mother closed her eyes and gurgled happily as the youth lifted his naked ass-cheeks off the chair and slid the entire length of his urgent, thrusting male hardness down into her throat. She had never done anything like this when she was married to Mark, but now the past seemed to have been forgotten. All she wanted in the world was to show her devotion to this beautiful boy. She wanted to suck on his cock and feel all of his burning hot sperm spitting upward into her mouth, and she would swallow it greedily and wallow in her newly blossoming sensuality like a passionate whore.
“Oh, Mrs. Winthrop!” his youthful voice had wailed above her as she sucked on him vampireishly as if to draw out all of his blood as well as his semen, her tongue lashing strongly at every delicious pulsating ridge of his desire-swollen cock. And then he had made it, cumming rapidly the way youngsters do, letting her starving throat gorge on the delicious hot fluid which filled her gluttonously sucking mouth. He shuddered out his desire into her throat with lusty hot spurts and then, gasping, stumbled backwards.
Then her eyes locked on his ecstatic face, the voluptuous young mother let her gown drop to the floor and used the back of her hand to wipe the smeared cum from around her lips. Amy let his eyes dwell hungrily for a moment on her gorgeously proportioned naked flesh, and then took him into the bedroom when his hands roamed voraciously over her body. She let him explore everything, let him do and ask anything.
How he had loved to suck on her melon-like breasts at first! Endlessly his mouth seemed to be at home on her large, overripe mounds of soft warm flesh and her tautly extended nipples. He would draw in as much of the surrounding tissue as he could, until it veritably gagged him. And then suck, suck, suck until she would almost orgasm for this exquisite pleasure alone. At first his breast fetish had made her giggle, but then she just wallowed in it delightedly, running lips and tongue and mouth nibbled, licked, sucked hungrily on her breasts as if he had been starved for them his whole life.
Or as if she had been starved for this wonderful suck, which she had.
Eventually delirium and hysteria were the only terms left to describe how she felt when they made love. Especially since he had discovered that she was turned on terribly by the use of filthy language. He would spew out things like, “I want to lick your beautiful cunt, Mrs. Winthrop. And fuck you in the ass, ramming my cock up into your asshole. I’m going to chew on your cunt as if it was just a big wad of chewing gum. And suck on your titties until I chew them off.” And this would really make her loins gush wildly, and she would go out of her mind for him.
She wondered sometimes if it had to do with the very illicitness of their situation. For a woman her age to be so debauched and spoken to so disrespectfully by a youth of such tender years was so demeaning and humiliating — after so many years of being a dominant type of personality, she was literally wallowing in humiliation. And loving it more than anything!
Amy Winthrop sighed and stood up, dropping the magazine to the coffee table. It was such a lovely morning, and she felt wonderful after the fifteen year old’s energetic fucking last night.
Of course, it was true that she paid him. But he was young and had no money, and she had plenty. So there was no point in their not sharing it. And he gave her so much happiness, after all.
The birds sang. The flowers bloomed. All about their little house it seemed as if all was right with the world.
If only Ellen could someday be as happy as she was. But that was a lot to ask for. It wasn’t natural for a woman to know such happiness as she had found with Billy.
But in any case there was no point in spending such a beautiful morning in the house.
Perhaps she would even stroll down the block and see what was going on down at the Carters’. They might invite her in for coffee, and that wouldn’t hurt anything. Ellen had been rather distant of late, and occasionally she wondered about that. Perhaps the Carters would have some clue as to what was bothering her.
That was it! She would visit the Carters and see how things were going and what they were all up to. It would all be cheery and casual. The Carters were the sort of people who were always good company. She would fix her hair and get herself together.
She turned on her heel and went upstairs to the bedroom. Then she began selecting appropriate apparel for her visit.
No comments:
Post a Comment