Chapter 2
Pleased by the compliment, Molly pulled the fully-erect organ out of her moist mouth and inspected it. she smiled, admiring the results of her lewd labors. Satisfactory, she thought. Satisfactory.
Now, teasingly, Molly began licking the penis she had transformed from a limp, all but useless tool, into an interesting instrument of pleasure.
"Oh, Molly, you devil," gasped Martin. With her right hand wrapped around the cock at its hairy base, to keep it almost perfectly perpendicular, Molly tongued the plum-shaped head. With maddening expertise, she licked the fleshy knob, polishing it with her swirling, stroking tongue until it gleamed.
And then, having shined the crown, she went to work on the rest of her husband's hard-on. Adjusting the angle of her head just a bit, she sent her slippery serpent of a tongue snaking down the sensitive underside of Martin's tumescent pecker, to the warm, fleshy pouch nestled between his thighs.
"Oh, Molly, you're driving me wild."
"Just relax and enjoy it, Martin. Do you want your balls sucked?"
"Yes, please."
Molly stabbed her mate's wrinkled scrotal sac with her thrusting tongue. She poked it playfully for several seconds and then, suddenly, started licking, her tongue sliding wetly all over the hairy bag of balls. The short hairs adorning Martin's scrotum, tickled her nostrils as she labored.
Before very long, the black-haired beauty was pursing her lovely lips and drawing a tasty testicle into her mouth. She sucked it carefully, gently, rolled it around on her tongue while her husband moaned his approval. After awhile, she allowed the nut to slip out of her mouth so that she could attend to its twin.
Quickly now, for her cunt was aching something fierce, Molly pushed her husband's right testicle into her mouth, and started to suck it. Without shame she munched on that hairy. ball, giving it the same going over she had given the other one, enjoying the wet, warm, furry feel of it on her tongue.
Then, bidding farewell to Martin's scrotal sac, Molly turned her attention again to his still rock-hard pecker. Her tireless tongue curled around the pole of flesh, slid up one side, over the bulbous crown, and then down the other side. Again, the tongue journeyed upward, to the well-polished, sparkling head, where tickled the tiny vertical slit in the center.
"Please, sweetheart," pleaded Martin, "put it back in your mouth."
Obediently, the raven-tressed lovely slid her lips over her husband's shiny root, her warm mouth first engulfing the knobby crown, and then, as she worked her way downward, several more inches of tasty meat.
And then she was sucking on the turgid member, her head bobbing up and down, up and down, as her tightly pursed lips slid smoothly from plump head to about two inches from his hairy base and back again.
Martin, who had propped himself on his elbows, looked down at his wife. While he intensely disliked going down on Molly, the idea itself being enough to start his stomach churning, he derived great pleasure from watching her perform on him. The wonderful feel of her fellating him aside, much of his pleasure stemmed from the thought that she was blowing him out of love, because she wanted to make him happy.
For a half minute more, Molly fellated her spouse, and then, unable to put off the pleasure of vaginal penetration a second longer, she yanked the now glistening prick from her mouth and in a husky, passion-charged voice, demanded to be fucked.
"Yes, get on your back, sweetheart," said Martin, who himself was more than ready to couple.
Even before her husband had finished his sentence, Molly was on the move, scrambling quickly up the bed, and then, as he rolled out of the way, flipping over onto her back. She drew her legs up and with wanton abandon, splayed her knees, thereby giving Martin easy access to her beckoning box.
Once he was in proper position, his body hovering over his wife's, Martin wasted no time directing his rod on target. Snaking his left arm between their bodies, his hand darting down to his well-prepared pecker, he worked the drooling head between Molly's slick, pouting pussy lips.
"Please Martin, get it in me," begged the raven-haired delight, the taste of her mate's manhood lingering on her lips. "I'm so hot for you," she said, placing her hands on Martin's smooth, hairless chest. Then she added, "Make it a good one tonight, please Martin."
The inference of course, was that there were times, perhaps many of them, when her husband's lovemaking proved less than satisfactory. But Martin, eager to achieve penetration, failed to take note of this subtle deprecating of his bedroom talents. All he could think of was getting inside Molly's hot honeypot.
This he did, efficiently and with appropriate haste, pushing his well-sucked and saliva-drenched pecker into Molly until only his wet scrotum remained outside her vagina, resting up against her warm crotch. And then, as if prodded from behind by a white hot branding iron, he started pistoning his cock rapidly in and out of his wife's syrupy womanhood.
Oh, not, not again, thought Molly. Panicking, she implored her humping husband to slow the pace. "Martin, please. You're going too-Martin, no, don't. Dammit!"
"It's so good, honey," Martin huffed, paying no attention whatsoever to his wife's protests. "Your cunt is still nice and tight."
"But you're going too fast," Molly complained, her voice a plaintive cry in the wilderness. "You'll come too soon, Martin."
But it was no good, a sheer waste of time and effort. Realizing the futility of it all, knowing that, as usual, her pleas for a slower screwing and a strong but better-paced plowing of her pussy would continue to fall on deaf ears, Molly gave up and let her husband have his way.
She had entwined her arms around his back, but now, in disgust and frustration, she dropped them onto the bed, where they rested limply at her sides. She closed her eyes and cursed the man flailing away at her vagina. For the umpteenth time, he would leave her unsatisfied.
Gasping and grunting, his chest mashing against his wife's boobs, Martin attacked the vagina he didn't like to suck. He fucked like one possessed, as if tomorrow might never come, his rapidly bobbing buttocks little more than a blur of motion as he hammered his hard-on into Molly.
Again and again he thrust into his wife's heavenly softness, his rampaging prick digging deep into that tunnel of love. The fact that Molly lay motionless under him went unnoticed. He was too busy battering her box and relishing the friction of cock against cunt to realize that only he was deriving pleasure from this coupling. And then suddenly-
"I'm coming, baby," gasped Martin. "Oh, shit-arrgh!"
Molly, fighting back tears, said nothing.
One week later, at two in the afternoon on a crisp, sunshiney Thursday in June, Molly could be found on a silvery 707 bound for London, England.
As she waited with the other passengers for the plane to take off, the somewhat nervous but otherwise happy runaway went over in her mind the more memorable events of the past six days, beginning appropriately enough with last Friday morning, when she deposited the seventy-five thousand, two-hundred and fifty dollar check she'd received into her savings account.
She smiled when she remembered how nervous she had been, and how excited. After all, it wasn't every day she put that kind of money in the bank. All had gone well, however. The teller handled the transaction with surprising nonchalance, taking the check from her, disappearing for a moment, and then returning with her receipt.
And then she went home to wait, thinking how nice it would have been, had the bank been able to issue the traveler's checks right then and there, without first having to find out if Uncle Henry had in fact died and left his lawyers a tidy bundle to disburse.
Waiting for the check to clear had not been easy, Molly remembered, her head tilted back, resting on the backrest of the large, comfortable seat, and her eyes remaining closed. Much of her time had been spent pacing either the living room, or the bedroom floor, wondering if, at the eleventh hour, some cruel twist of fate would snatch this golden opportunity from her.
The weekend had been, as usual, rather dull, with the boys going about their business and Martin disappearing for long periods of time in his workshop in the basement. What was he making this time? Another piece of furniture, no doubt. Well, at least she wouldn't have to worry about finding a place for his latest creation.
Monday. What happened Monday? Nothing of any real importance, thought Molly, answering her own question Monday was memorable only because it was the day she started drafting the note she finally finished last night and left on the coffee table this noon.
Molly tried to envision the looks of utter disbelief which would surely blanket the faces of her husband and two teen-age sons when they read her little note. She had worked hard on her farewell address, starting, stopping, and starting all over again in an earnest attempt to explain matters, to put into words her feelings and at the same time, convey to them the strength of her need to begin a new life.
The more she thought about the note, the more she wondered about the reaction to it, the more unsettled Molly became. And so she turned her thoughts elsewhere. Suddenly it was this morning again, and she was back at the bank, standing first on line and then, after a few minutes at the window of a teller who was the same one who had served her last Friday.
Molly smiled inwardly when she remembered how, after receiving her traveler's checks, she had gone off by herself to a corner of the bank, and there, like some kind of sneak thief, counted the checks, adding them up not once, not twice, but three times to make sure there had been no mistake.
Then it was back home, to shower, to dress, to pick up the one piece of luggage she had packed before leaving for the bank. Two phone calls came next. One to the airport, to confirm the reservation she had made on Tuesday, and one to a neighborhood taxi service.
And then finally, the big moment, the dramatic exit.
No, not really dramatic, thought Molly. She had left the house quietly, with mixed emotions, convinced that what she was doing was essential to her well-being, but at the same time, saddened by the thought that she might never see her family again. The front door closed, locked, she had moved quickly down the cement walk and into the waiting taxi. And she did not look back, Molly remembered, when the taxi drove off.
The sensation of motion, brought Molly back to the present. Opening her eyes, she looked out the window to discover the ground moving under her. The huge jet, having been given the green light from the control tower, was turning slowly toward the runway, down which it would race, until like some giant bird, it soared up into the bright blue sky.
Not long after take-off, with the plane flying high over the Atlantic, Molly dropped off to sleep. When she awoke, about an hour later, it was to discover a man, and a very attractive one at that, in the seat next to her. She was somewhat annoyed, for she had hoped to spend the flight in quiet contemplation of her visit to England, and not have to engage in meaningless conversation with a talkative stranger. On the other hand, he was very good looking.
"So, the sleeping beauty awakes at last," said the man with a pleasing smile.
"How long was I asleep?" asked Molly, still a little fuzzy.
"Oh, almost an hour."
Molly nodded and then, turning to the window, "Where are we, anyway?"
The man chuckled. "Hopefully, still over the Atlantic."
"Oh, of course," smiled the raven-haired beauty. "How silly of me."
"No need to apologize. Beautiful women need never say they're sorry for anything."
"And you think I'm beautiful, do you?"
"Very," answered the man. Then after a brief pause, "Let me introduce myself. My name is Eric Marlowe." He held out a hand for Molly to clasp.
"Mine is Molly. Molly Lawford." A decision would have to be made, thought Molly, taking the proffered hand, about her last name. Should she keep the one she had gotten from Martin, or since she was now a free and independent woman, go back to using her maiden name, Talbot? Not that it made a world of difference.
"Molly, huh? That's a pretty name. Somewhat unusual, too. I mean, you don't hear it all that often."
Molly smiled, and almost reluctantly, pulled her hand out of Eric's. She realized that she liked this man already. The anger that had started to well up within her when she discovered him sitting next to her had disappeared quickly. Now she was glad that he had decided to keep her company.
Of course, she knew nothing about him, not a blessed thing, except that he had a beautiful smile, and was, without question, one of the best-looking males she had ever met. Although it wasn't easy to judge, since he was seated, she put his height at about six feet two inches, and his weight at about one hundred ninety. He looked to be in his early forties.
His warm, friendly eyes were brown, and his hair, which he wore long, with sideburns that stopped a half inch below his ears, was the color of cinnamon. He was ruggedly attractive, his face seeming chiseled from a block of granite. It was a strong, no-nonsense face laced with character that hinted at the experience, sexual and otherwise, of its owner.
It was also well-tanned, making Molly leap to the conclusion that her new friend worked outdoors. In the construction field, perhaps, although he was too polished, his manner too sophisticated for an ordinary day laborer. Hence, Molly's surprise, when in the course of their conversation, he mentioned that he was a writer.
"Really? You're not putting me on?"
Eric grinned. "Why do you find it so hard to believe that I earn my living with a typewriter?"
"I guess I've just never met an honest-to-goodness author before. What do you write, Mr. Marlow?"
"Make that Eric, all right? Why use last names when first names suffice?"
Molly smiled. "All right. Eric it is. And you may call me Molly."
"Good, I'm glad," said Eric, seeming genuinely pleased.
"So now, answer the question. What kind of writing do you do?"
"I write mysteries. You know, detective stories."
"Oh, that sounds like fun. Unfortunately, I don't read too many books."
"So you probably have read nothing of mine," the attractive writer interrupted with a grin. "Well, I don't feel too bad about it. There are times when I'm convinced only my dear mother bothers to read my work."
"Go on," said Molly. "I'll bet you're very good. I mean, you have to be good to be published, right?"
Eric shrugged.
"Oh, you're being modest. Come on now, tell me the title of your latest book. First thing I'm going to do when we land is buy a copy.
"Are you serious?'.
"Of course. Now what's the name of your latest book."
"'In The Dead of Night,'" answered Eric.
"Mm, sounds spooky," smiled Molly. "Do you use a pen name?"
"So that no one can trace the work back to me," grinned the writer.
"You're awful," Molly laughed. She was s really enjoying herself, she realized. It was the strangest thing, but she felt closer to this man right now, than she had to Martin in the last ten years of her marriage. She seemed to be in tune with Eric Marlowe. And fifteen minutes ago, he was a total stranger to her.
"All right, I'll come clean, Molly. I use the name Brett Matthews when I write."
"Brett Matthews, huh? All right, Mr. Brett Matthews. It won't be very long before you have a new fan."
"Just don't burn the book," grinned Eric. "Paper is scarce, you know."
Molly laughed and with a balled fist playfully poked the too modest author. More laughs followed, and more good talk, in the course of which Molly learned among other things, that her new friend was a bachelor, and planned to stay one, and that he was headed for England to do research on a book about Scotland Yard that he was planning to write.
Molly became less animated when the conversation shifted to her. Not wanting to go into the reasons why she had left her husband and children, thinking that a discussion of her motivations would somehow, if only in a subtle way, spoil things, she brushed questions about her marital status and presence on the airplane aside. She simply stated that she was married, and was headed for England by herself only because her husband had decided separate vacations would be nice for a change.
"And also a bit dangerous," Eric noted with another of his disarming smiles.
"Dangerous?" said Molly.
"In the sense that a married person traveling without his or her mate is vulnerable. One never knows when temptation will rear its lovely head."
"You're talking about sex now, aren't you?"
"What else?"
Yes, what else indeed? The little exchange with Eric had only served to make her that much more aware of just how sexually attracted to him she was. Dare she tell him the truth? Her cunt juices, which had started oozing from her warming hole some time ago, were now gushing from her vagina to flood the crotch of her panties. That temptation had indeed reared its beautiful head and were it not for the fact that they were on this damned airplane, she would unzip his fly, drag out his prick, and give him the blow job of his life.
It was less than a minute later, after a stretch of silence, and with Molly struggling to bring herself under control, that Eric leaned close to her and whispered, "Are you horny, Molly?"
"What?" she said in a startled, loud voice. "You heard me, Molly Lawford," smiled the writer.
Molly hesitated, then, remembering to speak softly, "And what if I am? What difference does it make?"
"It makes a lot of difference."
"Why? We can't do anything here on this plane."
"Who says we can't?" asked Eric, turning in his seat and reaching for Molly's right breast, which he proceeded to knead through the thin green blouse she had on.
"Eric, what are you doing?"
The writer grinned. "Don't you like it, Molly?"
"Of course I do. But you can't-Have you gone mad?"
"Would you like to suck my cock?" asked Eric, keeping his voice low.
Molly swallowed hard. She was absolutely certain that any second now a stewardess would walk by and discover Eric fondling her breast. On the other hand, she couldn't bring herself to stop him. Meanwhile, down there between her legs, a fire raged. Soon her panties would go up in smoke.
"I asked you a question, Molly, Would you like to-"
"Yes, dammit, I would," the aroused beauty broke in. "Now, are you satisfied?"
"I won't be satisfied," said Eric, "until your mouth is on my cock."
"I can't. Not now. Not here."
"But later, when they dim the lights so that we can sleep," whispered Eric, continuing his massage of Molly's right breast. "It'll be safe then."
"No."
"Trust me."
Molly didn't know what to do. She wanted to go down on this handsome rogue in the worst way. She could almost taste his tool, feel it pulsating proudly in the warm, wet confines of. her mouth. But she didn't take to the idea of getting caught in the act. What would she say, what would she do, if she was discovered with her mouth full of prick?
As it happened, Molly had plenty of time to mull over the situation. Five full hours, to be exact. It was not until then that the lights inside the plane were dimmed. Having never been on a plane at night before, she was surprised, and pleasantly so, to discover just how dark it could get. It was almost as black inside as it was outside.
Molly had spent most of the five hours sitting almost sideways in her seat, with her left hand in Eric's lap, where he had placed it with a request that she massage him through his pants. And massage him she had, alternately rubbing and squeezing his organ until it seemed ready to burst through the front of his trousers. He, in turn, had snaked a hand up under her short, silky brown skirt to play between her legs, that hand squeezing and stroking her pantied-pussy until, at one point, she was forced to cover her mouth to stifle a moan of pleasure accompanying a delightful orgasm.
"All right, Molly, you can go down on me now," Eric informed the black-haired beauty in a low but firm voice. "It's safe."
"Are you sure?" whispered Molly.
"Yes. Everyone else is asleep."
Molly wasn't about to buy that. It did, however, seem safe enough. It was dark and quiet, and she had not seen a stewardess in some time. The seats were high, so that the persons sitting behind her and in front of her, would almost have to stand up and look over them in order to see her. And luckily, there was nobody sitting across the aisle.
"Come on, Molly. What are you waiting for?"
"Take your hand out from under my skirt," Molly ordered in a whisper.
The writer did as directed and sat back in his seat. Pushing down her skirt, which had been bunched at her thighs, Molly arranged herself so that she was sitting half on and half off the seat. It was not the most comfortable of positions, but she could think of none better.
Had there been more room, and if she could have accomplished it without a lot of awkward maneuvering, she might have tried to squeeze down on the floor, and so fellate Eric on her knees.
Using both hands, Molly fumbled with her new friend's zipper. Getting it down was no easy task. She had to work the zipper over the mighty bulge that had formed at the front of Eric's blue trousers. She pushed and tugged, muttered a few mild oaths, tugged some more, and finally succeeded in opening the fly.
"All right, now pull it out and go to work," breathed the writer. "Suck it, Molly."
A spasm of lust ripped up Molly's spine. She thought she could hear her heart pounding in her chest as she reached into Eric's slacks and fumbled for his manhood. She found it without trouble, hiding behind his boxer shorts-a warm, fat snake coiled and waiting, ready to spring into action.
Eagerly, as a whimper of lust escaped her lips, Molly worked the cock free, dragging it out from behind the shorts, through Eric's unzippered fly and into the fresh air. As if in appreciation and gratitude, the prick immediately stiffened in her hand. It rested on her palm, throbbing incessantly while waiting for the moist touch of her lips.
"Go ahead, Molly," Eric ordered, his voice framed by impatience, "suck it beautiful."
"It's gorgeous," breathed Molly. "So big and hard."
"Get it in your mouth, baby."
One last look around, a final check to see if the coast was clear, and then Molly was lowering her head into Eric's lap, her soft, supple lips opening wide to engulf the plum-shaped crown of the excited cock. Oh, but it was good, she thought happily.
Teasingly, lovingly, Molly worked her way down the throbbing pole of flesh protruding from Eric's fly, taking into her mouth as much as she could without gagging. She loved the feel of it going in, sliding over her tongue toward the back of her throat.
"Yes, that's good, baby," breathed Eric, stiffening in his seat. "Eat it good, Molly."
Forgetting the awkwardness of her position, how really uncomfortable it was to be leaning way over like this with the arm rest pushing up into her stomach, the sex-loving runaway wife slid her pursed lips up the tasty pecker, to the plump head, and then slid them down again.
Again, she lifted her head, her lips pulling on the aroused organ. Again, she engulfed the meaty member, her lips sliding slowly, smoothly down the fleshy fullness to about two inches from the hair base. Before very long, she had established a nice, easy rhythm, her beautiful head bobbing sensuously, methodically, up and down, up and down, as she worked to give pleasure to her handsome new friend.
Every so often, because he too didn't want to be embarrassed, Eric would cock his ears and maybe check the aisle to be sure all was still safe. But for most of the time, his eyes remained on Molly, or to be more precise, on the wealth of silky hair in his lap that rose and fell gracefully. He couldn't see her face, hidden as it was under all those dark tresses.
Not that he had to see her face to enjoy what she was doing. It was only necessary that he feel her down there, feel her warm, moist lips traveling up and down his bloated manhood, feel the pulling action of those wonderful lips. She was sucking him beautifully.
In due time, Molly speeded up the tempo of her obscene labors. Not much, but enough to elicit from Eric a gutteral moan of delight, which he was quick to cut short so as not to attract attention.
As she sucked on the tasty stalk of flesh, savored the pulsating fullness of it in her mouth, Molly forgot about the danger involved, the chance of being discovered, and gave thought to the orgasm Eric would most certainly have if she continued sucking his tool.
How to handle it when the time came, that was the question. Did she take her mouth off the exploding erectile and let Eric shoot all over her hand? Yes, that she could do. It would eliminate the problem of having to clean up afterwards, however, if she let him come in her mouth.
The thing was, she wanted very much to taste this handsome male's semen, to feel it gushing into her mouth. She wanted the thrill of swallowing his come, or at least as much of it as possible.
She could imagine how beautiful it was going to be, all that syrupy semen flowing into her mouth, spilling down her throat and into her stomach, there to form a tiny slimy pool of come.