Chapter 1

Ellen Carver folded the damp tea-towel once, hung it on the rack beside the range, and reached for her lotion on the ledge above the sink. As she massaged the creamy liquid into her hands, she gazed vacantly out the kitchen window into a hot, early July afternoon, undecided whether to run a batch of Roy's work clothes through the automatic washer, or watch an afternoon serial on television. Neither prospect interested her. Lately, after sixteen months of marriage, Ellen was beginning to realize she was bored and moody most of the time. Roy, when he came home for lunch, talked with his mouth full of food, and she resented this, as she did the things he talked about, like how well the new tractor ran, how easily the South field plowed, and how the crops would go on looking good because there was so much subsoil moisture in the ground to counteract the effects of hot, dry weather. None of this appealed to Ellen, although she realized the importance of plowing and rain and cultivation and so on, because farming was Roy's business. What she didn't like was his inability to discuss anything else. Farming was his sole interest. He couldn't discuss topical things. Just farming.

She glanced out the window again, hoping to see a car by on the country road that passed their farm. Or better yet, someone like Francine Yeager turning in. Ellen liked Francine better than she liked anyone else in the community. She was vivacious, lively, nimble-witted. Francine knew all the latest gamy stories, and was the only neighbor Ellen had who thoroughly enjoyed talking sex. She was loads of fun, Ellen thought, as she turned away from the window with a glimpse of movement on the road. Someone walking. She pushed the curtain aside, peering at the solitary figure turning in their lane and walking toward the house.

He was young, tall, and rangy. Tight white-jeans, and a faded red sweat-shirt. Letters on the front, but she couldn't see what they were. Long unruly hair, heavy thatch of brown that shaded a concerned face as he passed out of view on his way to the yard gate and the kitchen door. Hurriedly, Ellen smoothed her buttoned-front house dress and punched at her blonde hair, on her way to answer the knock she knew would come.

He couldn't talk right away. Ellen thought later he might have been expecting some fat, blowzy farm wife with sweating armpits and tangled hair. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. His tongue wet his long, full lips. He was younger than her first impression, not a bit over sixteen. Appearance-wise, youth was his biggest asset—that and size. He was angular, awkward, uncertain, all the inconveniences that happen to boys coming to manhood. But older and more experienced men than he had also stared at Ellen Carver, drawn by her wide, inviting smile and a clear, unblemished complexion that made her look even younger than twenty-two. And more than anything else, that portion of her figure visible through the partially open door which was voluptuous to the point of obscenity. Ellen's figure turned heads wherever she went, men's and women's alike. It was understandable to her why this boy, whose voice couldn't function, who had the shadow of a hair-moustache on his upper lip, could only stare with frankly admiring blue eyes.

"Hi," she said. "It's sure a hot day to be walking. What did you want?"

He decided the voice was definitely friendly, and cleared his throat to find his own. "My car got hot, boiled the water out. I wonder if I could borrow a bucket and carry some back? It's down the road about a half mile, that way." He pointed West, but this was an attempt at misdirection. He had his eyes on the outlines of Ellen's breasts. Jutting classically, they were inescapably noticeable.

Ellen opened the door and stepped outside to the small porch slab. The boy almost stumbled backing out of her way. She maintained her steady, friendly smile. "I think my husband keeps a bucket out here in the pump house."

Part of his unruly hair kept falling across his forehead, and just as frequently he pushed it back, capturing the forelock between his fingers, wiping up and over. Ellen led the way to the pump house just outside the yard fence. Above the frame enclosure was a huge, redwood storage tank, fed by a windmill that ran continually. The tank held two thousand, five-hundred gallons of water, and its cost-benefit ration was another topic Roy could discuss at some length, anytime anyone cared to listen. Alert to the saucy swing of her hips, the backs of thighs showing below an incredibly short dress, the perfection of legs supporting all the fleshly excitement, the boy followed. He waited in the doorway while Ellen stepped inside the small enclosure that housed the well and a submersible Jacuzzi pump that had cost two-hundred-eighty dollars, according to Roy. A bucket hung on an inside hydrant, to which was attached a length of green plastic hose running over the door sill and into the yard. Ellen showed him the numerals stamped in the bottom of the galvanized pail.

"It holds sixteen quarts. Will that be enough?"

When the boy leaned in to look, his arm grazed hers. He grinned nervously. "Yeah, but I'll have to drive in to finish filling the radiator. It holds more'n that."

Ellen walked out with the bucket, purposely brushing him back. "I've got the hose on the roses. It's been dry as a bone."

Inside the gate, on a lawn she evidently watered daily, the boy put the hose in the bucket, watching a flow about the size of his finger create a miniature, lazy vortex. Ellen said, "I could make it run faster."

Again, the self-conscious grin. "Naw. It's too hot to hurry. Even for water."

"Yeah!" she said encouragingly. "The water might get hot."

"And what I had was already hot," he added. He sank to his knees, impatiently pushing at the forelock that insisted on falling down. His hand looked unusually tanned under water, and the coolness impressed him. Quizzically, he looked at Ellen. "You care if I kinda slop my face in this? I got hot walkin'."

"No. It's okay. Go ahead."

Quickly, as if he needed to hurry before he changed his mind, he stripped the faded sweatshirt over his head and scooped double handfuls of cold water over face and head, then his neck and arms up to his shoulders. The water ran down to the tight waistband of his jeans. He was youthfully lean and hard, gracefully if not heavily muscled. His skin was brown, as if he went without his shirt a lot. He dried on the sweatshirt and spread it on the grass to dry and pushed his wet forelock back in place. "That felt good." Still kneeling, he tilted his head to see Ellen's face. Drawn by his refreshing candor, she'd moved closer.

"Sometimes when the nights are hot, just before bedtime, I come out here on the grass and use the hose to take a shower bath. We don't have enough pressure in the house to have a shower."

The lump of his adam's apple moved up and down as he swallowed hard. Ellen recognized the strained hopefulness in his fixed grin, knew what he was thinking, and she said it for him, very softly, "All naked, I come out here. On the grass."

His eyes remained locked with hers. "You wouldn't ... take a shower ... no other way, I guess!" he blurted uncertainly.

The attractive girl saw indecision flicker in his eyes, that while a hoped-for situation was fast materializing, he wasn't completely certain about his ability to cope with it. Deliberately, Ellen put her left foot, the one nearest him, forward. She pried her heel out of the flat she wore, moved ceremoniously closer to the upraised head above the slowly-filling bucket, and with a fine sense of balance, rested her bare foot on the rim. "Run the water on me," she murmured silkily. "I'm hot, too."

While he absorbed her true meaning, he played the sluggishly-moving stream over an instep and toes he didn't know belonged to a size 5 Double A, but it was the most beautiful foot he'd ever seen up till then. So was the tanned leg, inches in front of his eyes. The knee, too. And he had to believe the other, because it was so vividly there, and he put the bucket and hose aside hurriedly to crab forward on his knees and seize her around the thighs and press his face against the softness in her crotch because it was what he had to do or scream.

Ellen's hands were on the wet, brown hair, encouraging him. He made his passionate noises. She felt the hotness of his breath penetrating the light cotton dress. Gently, she tugged it upward, out of his way, then screamed softly at the hot, glaring afternoon, as a boy's instinct became a man's. She fell to the grass with him and inched back in the shade, even as she pulled the short dress up to her waist and with her eyes told him how very much she was ready.

The boy was hypnotized by the blonde-tufted crease of her cunt as he yanked at belt, zipper, then shoved jeans and shorts down his long, hungry hips. The erection, liberated, was to Ellen surprisingly big for such a slender fellow. The flared head glistened with smeared pre-coital fluid as he leaned eagerly in to her. Ellen's moaning, shuddering sigh lost itself in the filtering shade of the elm above them when the clumsy, abrupt penetration became reality. As she fully expected, he came only seconds later. The gushing copiousness she felt inside flooded her with a thrill of achievement, and the very perfection of her seduction created the orgasm, most of it done with a limbering penis he might have taken from her but for the legs locked around his lean young waist. When she was done, she released him. He didn't offer to move. Panting, relieved, thrilled, he wanted to relive the moment.

Somehow, his weight wasn't oppressive to Ellen. She giggled, thinking how it was going to sound. "What's your name?"

From the grass beside her ear, his hoarse reply. "Gary Bettis. I live over at Centralia."

"Was I good for you, Gary?"

"Oh, Jesus!"

"I'll bet you didn't dream there was an ugly old witch living here that rapes young boys."

Hearing it put that way thrilled him immeasurably. He giggled happily, made coital movements with the limpness still in her. "What a way to go!"

"You like it, don't you?" she breathed.

"Oh hell yes! Who wouldn't! Jesus, lady, you're really somethin'!"

"My name is Ellen, Gary, and I have what is commonly known as hot pants. Why don't we go in the house and do this right?"

He was up in an instant, on his knees, his eyes big and hopeful. "Oh Jesus! Can you really do it again?"

Ellen struggled to a sitting position, feeling flooded inside. "I think so. Can you?"

This, he was sure about. Beside himself with anticipation, a man ready for a man's pleasure, Gary busily scooped water out of the bucket with his cupped hand and washed a penis begun firming not only with his positive fondling, but from thoughts of a second intercourse with this wonderfully understanding woman Fate had led him to. "You think I can't?" he said, referring to his virility. "Some nights, when I got to or die, I jack twice before it'll stay down. Looky here!"

It was hard alright, or almost. Ellen watched as he toweled it dry with his sweat shirt. "Well, don't waste your talent out here. Help me up." When she stood, she grimaced uncomfortably. "You turn around and don't look."

Obediently, Gary looked the other way as he fingered his prick, thinking this was one damned time when a guy didn't have to lock the bathroom door. The splashing sounds stopped, and a big swish told him she'd emptied the bucket. "We'll fill it again when you leave," Ellen said, and led him into the house, her dress unbuttoned to the waist, her pubic hair soaking wet. Marching beside her grinning, Gary played with his penis to keep it hard.

Except for this, he was definitely relaxed inside, and kicked his loafers off sockless feet, then stripped the jeans and jockey shorts down and off. The hand returned to its gentle function, and he moved forward as Ellen stood undoing her bra in back. She offered her lips for his amateurish kiss, then took off her last article of clothing. Still grinning widely, Gary stepped back to take in the complete glory of her flawless body. Ellen arched her back for his benefit. "You like them, Gary?"

He pawed awkwardly at first one, then the other. "Jesus! They're whoppers!" he breathed reverently.

Ellen took his arm, piloted him to the bed and put him on his back with the erection sticking up proud and high. Skillfully, she crouched over him, ran the head up and down the genital slit, then settled down to bury the shaft in her vagina. "No lie now, Gary, have you ever done it before?" she asked, looking down fondly and moving the stubborn forelock back for him as he gripped her buttocks feverishly.

He tried to appear nonchalant about it, but he was much too tight. "Naw! I never did! But a guy's gotta start someplace!"

"We all do," Ellen agreed happily. Expertly, she worked a foot under his knee. "Easy now. Move this way. Don't take it out. Now, raise up so I can get my leg up under your waist. There! Isn't that comfy?" Ellen had them on their sides, her upper leg perched comfortably on his thigh. Gary stroked wildly at the fluid contours of her haunches and rammed as deeply as he could, hoping the afternoon would never end.

She brought the damp head to her breasts, fed a nipple to the ready-for-anything mouth, then shivered ecstatically at his eager sucking. What Gary lacked in finesse he compensated for by ambition. He wanted to know all there was to know, and widened his lore rapidly because the caress, combined with his lusty hunching, had Ellen groaning toward another orgasm, and Gary felt infinitely proud of his ability. Him, just sixteen. Screwing a grown lady and making her come.

There was much to learn. For instance, he learned that even after shooting twice, given fifteen minutes' rest, a cold beer from the refrigerator, and a heady, exciting persuasion from the smiling mouth, another erection could be had, although the blonde housewife regarded it as much hers as his when it happened, because she put it in her cunt and worked at it like it was a stick. He learned too how women will scratch a guy's back damned hard when they want to spill the soup again, only they been the route about seven or eight times already, and the times keep coming harder. And talk! Gary had never heard the kind of words she used, except from some of the girls he knew, brave enough to use them telling dirty stories. But this blonde farm lady whispered them a mile a minute, then screamed them when she wanted the thrill to happen to her; then she wilted like a wet sack until she decided it was time to again. When his numbness finally became sensitive enough, and he felt the aching longing arise in his own loins, Gary fought back at the rubber-resilient cunt like he played high school football, and there wasn't any doubt in his mind she could suck him the rest of the day and get nothing but a sore tongue. Enough was enough, and his back stung.

Part of his resentment for being used so hard had gone by the time he drove his '60 Chevrolet up near the pump house and finished filling the radiator. Ellen had heard him drive in, and came out to sit down on the porch, looking not nearly so bright as before. Because she was naked, and he thought surely it could never happen again, he went to say goodbye. Gary risked nothing, because he felt absolutely stripped of manhood.

"It's sixty miles over to Centralia," he explained. "I don't know as I could ever find this place again. What I was doin' here, this guy told me about a cut across over to Jayton and I got lost. That's how come I got on this road. If I did stop by again, I bet it wouldn't do me no good." Things like this had to be understood.

Ellen yawned, then smiled indulgently. "Don't plan on it, no. But you won't drive out here, not with what you know now. You'll give those little girls in Centralia hell, thought. Won't you?"

Gary nodded eagerly, aware as anyone there had to be a tomorrow. "There's one or two gonna catch it." He was thinking of Gala Quantrell, always ready to be played with, hesitant about going all the way, but a pushover under this new concept, especially by an expert.

Ellen lifted a finger lazily. "So long, Gary."

He grinned, pushed at the forelock that kept falling down. "So long ... Ellen."

She was hunched forward, her breasts riding on her thighs, chin resting on her knees, staring at nothing when he last saw her.