Chapter 1

Tight... oh Christ was she ever tight! Some analytic corner of his mind wondered how he had ever managed to get his tired old blunderbus into such a tiny little hole. Who was she? How had it started? His mind was a blank. All he could think of was the sensuous womanly feel of flesh surrounding the hot throbbing tip of his tool. Jesus but she was tight!

He pulled out half a length and felt firm flesh cling, cunt turning inside out as it wrapped round the shank of his tool. His cock was rock hard. Damn! It had been years since he'd gotten this much feel, this much sheer erotic delight from thrusting his meat into a female. She was too good to fuck and forget. He had to get his head on straight, find out who she was. Any woman with a cunt this tight was special. Hell, if it came to that Rod knew he'd even be willing to marry her if that was what it took to get his cock back into this lovely tight pussy again.

He thrust and -- oh Jesus! She was so tight, so warm and vibrantly feminine that, ready or not, here he came! Suddenly he was spurting, firing great gobs of goo into that tiny tight snatch, hurting with the effort to get it out of the tip of his cock, so tight was that lovely little cunt squeezing him, milking him, pulling each painful drop of joy from his jock. It was hurting. But it hurt so good he didn't want it ever to stop. Damn! Why had he come so soon? This was quality cunt -- worth hours of tender loving care. Would he be able to get it up again? Would she hang around waiting? Who the hell was she anyhow?

Rod opened his eyes, blearily surveyed the tangled expanse of come-smeared sheets and knew who she was. She was his dream girl.

It was ironic. All those years ago when Rod had been just blossoming into fully functional stiffpricked manhood -- back when he could have gotten into all the young stuff he ever wanted or needed... When he had been a boy barely into his teens Rod had been freaked on Older women. There had been that that slightly chubby woman in the corner grocery who had wondered audibly why he came in a dozen times a day to buy one at a time the things he could have gotten all at once.

She must have been all of thirty-five -- with a delicious round fullness, a pair of jugs he had never seen but whose outline through a high necked dress had driven him mad with frustrated desire, sending him home with a nickel candy bar and a stiff cock which he had beaten unmercifully while dreaming, wishing, praying that his thumping fist might be the love nest between her legs, the crotch his eyes had never come closer to than the mid-calf hemline of those depression years.

And now that Rod had been thirty-five for ten years .. He sighed, rubbed his eyes, stretched and yawned and dragged the sheets off the bed. Showering, he surveyed the gray tinged hair on his chest and crotch. He was still thin and athletic, in fair shape for his age. He still had most of his hair. Now that he knew his way around in the world, now that he had parlayed a mustering-out bonus into an apartment building that gave him a modest income... Now that firm-fleshed, well-built thirty-five-year-old women practically tore his door off its hinges, why was he so lackadaisical?

Sure, he fucked them. Rod was proud of the fact that he had never turned down a woman yet. But lately it was hard to get a hard-on. Somehow that didn't sound right. But it was true. There were times when this or that lovely had come scratching on his door (after one disastrous unplanned threesome Rod had become very cagey about handing out keys.), but at times these midnight visitors so eager to share his bed had found a man who would almost rather sleep than go through the prolonged ritualized foreplay that was necessary before he could get it stiff enough to push into the most relaxed, lubricated, and willing of cunts.

So what was he doing dreaming about young tight stuff? Standing in the shower watching the warm water trickle around the peeled-back head of his hammer, Rod guessed it was just a classic case of the middle-aged blahs.

It was tragic though, the way a man who had everything -- well, not exactly everything, he guessed. But Rod had a decent income. He managed his own building which put the chill on any prolonged vacation travels, but this was a pleasant town with a good climate and the streets and beaches were adorned with females in shorts and well-filled bikinis, so he had no real need of a change of scene. It was a good life. He had three women on the string at the moment and it was not too difficult to keep them sorted out and ignorant of one another's claims on his tiring body.

It was the kind of life most men dreamed about. So why was he so bored? Young girls were fine but they were also stupid and talked too much and could bring endless legal complications. Besides, he told himself, a cunt was a cunt. They couldn't be all that good. Could they?

No girl on earth could possibly be as good as his dream girl. She didn't talk. She didn't make sudden unnerving remarks about statutory rape. She didn't do anything but fuck. But wow! If only just once he could experience awake all the joys that nameless faceless wraith could give him while he thrashed about alone in his solitary bed...

Just once. No man could ask for more. He wondered if he had ever experienced a real live girl one half so exotic, so erotic, so joyously singlemindedly devoted to fucking as his mysterious dream girl.

He shut off the water and toweled off. Shaving, he noted that the gray at his temples was spreading. Another couple of years and he would be gray all over. But he was still a handsome man -- handsome enough to attract plenty of women even if he had not been comfortably fixed. But why, a tiny little inner voice wailed, why couldn't he ever get a young one like his dream girl?

Sighing, he patted his cock and balls dry. Despite having come joyously, and explosively, he could feel a faint stirring of renewed desire. Now wasn't that something! After all the trouble he had managing to go a second round with any of his three steadies... And yet, here he was ready to have a go at a dream. For a minute he was tempted to caress the magic wand between his legs, caress it, stroke it, struggle once more to coax back that faceless vision. Who was she? His dream girl had to have some basis in reality. Was she some girl he'd known? Had he ever fucked her?

It was hard to say. At forty-five Rod had planted his seed in countless gardens. But like most men, his memory turned hazy after the first three or four. Any man can remember his first fuck. But how many can remember their tenth?

Rod could remember his first. Wow, could he ever! He went back into his bedroom and found a pullover and slacks. He put fresh sheets on the bed and went out to the kitchen to engineer some coffee. He could remember his first fuck perfectly. Just to think of her after all these years brought a sudden surge of desire to his just emptied jock.

There had been times during that summer when he had been fifteen when Rod thought that the long hot endless frustrating days would never end. It had been at the tail end of the depression when a dollar could still buy a piece of prefabricated lay, though Rod's upbringing had been too sheltered for him to know this.

In fact, he was still not quite sure at fifteen, such was the innocence of those dear dead days, he hadn't been one hundred per cent certain that people actually did fuck.

It was one of those things that everybody talked about but... People talked a lot about God too and he had never actually seen either one. Rod had, though, discovered over a year before that something very nice could happen when he applied his hand to the swelling in his cock. And being a normally healthy boy, it was not unusual that images of female figures with all their interesting bulges should come to mind.

Once on a field trip to a museum the teacher had taken a wrong turn and Rod had actually gotten one hasty glimpse of a pair of marble bulges on some improbable statue of a naked woman practicing with a bow and arrow. Since that day he had been consumed with the desire to verify his one hasty glimpse with a vision of the real thing. At times he could feel his hands tingle with the thought of what it might be like actually to touch those soft-firm globes that managed to make women's chests so delightfully and interestingly different from men's. But thirty years ago bare tits did not stare at a boy from every newspaper and magazine. Rod was fifteen and the only jugs he had ever seen, though lovely, had been of marble. He was long past due for the real thing.

And the hell of it was, the real thing was all around him. Girls his own age -- girls he had played and wrestled with were suddenly sprouting lung warts. But these girls were just as suddenly no longer wrestling. Even old Antoinette next door, a whole year older than Rod, who, when he was five, had indulged in a game of show-and-tell and proved to him that girls actually are different, that they really don't have a prick down there -- even old Antoinette was no longer showing and telling.

Nothing had actually been said, but there seemed to exist an unspoken convention that certain things just were not -- were never going to be discussed. Rod knew with sickening certainty that he would never have the courage to broach such a delicate subject with any girl. Knowing girls, he knew she would immediately scream, slap him, kick him, and worst of all -- she would tell his mother!

Which left him all alone all that long hot summer -- alone with his fist. Five -- seven -- ten times a day he managed to find a penny and another excuse to walk the block and a half to Elton's where Mr. and Mrs. Elton had after all these years taken to another clerk now that old Mrs. Elton felt poorly most of the time.

And the clerk was -- Rod never knew whether she was thirty or forty. She was somewhat more plump than the girls who appeared on billboards in one piece bathing suits. But she was cheerful, always smiling, with clear milky skin, and the most amazing pair of bulges Rod had ever seen in the front of a print dress.

But the most intriguing thing about her was not even those unbelievably jaunty jugs. It was her smile. In days when everyone wore a lean and hungry look this milky-skinned goddess wore a serene and untroubled countenance, always that same half smile as if she possessed some secret that nobody else knew about. She did know one thing Rod did not know, he reflected ruefully. She knew what was inside the front of her dress.

It had taken him a month even to learn her name. But by then Myrt seemed to be regarding him with a special amusement. Rod wondered if the lovely smooth skinned Myrt had noticed that he was finding excuses to come to the store ten times a day, to linger interminably over the penny candies while sneaking sidelong looks at her bosom.

Then one day neither Mr. nor Mrs. Elton had been in the store. It was a blazing August afternoon and even the imperturbable Myrt had worn a faint sheen of perspiration: "Hot, isn't it?" she asked.

Rod gulped and nodded.

"Wish I could go swimming," the goddess added. Suddenly Rod's stage fright was gone. "Why don't you?" he asked.

"Where?"

"Don't you know the way to the lake?"

Still wearing that quizzical and imperturbable smile, the firm-jugged goddess shook her head. "I'm a stranger here," she explained.

Rod took his courage by both ears. "You want me to show you?" Surely she would smile and shake her head and he would retreat in crimson-eared embarrassment and afterwards he would never be able to face her again. What on earth had ever gotten into him to say such a thing?.

She was shaking her head, still smiling and -- and she was nodding yes! "I'll close up an hour early," Myrt said. "There's nobody coming around today anyway. It's too hot to shop."

Rod couldn't believe his ears. She was actually agreeing to go swimming with him. She would wear a bathing suit and he would get to see her legs all the way up and the straps would be thin and he would see her arms and shoulders and maybe her bathing suit would be cut so low he could actually see the beginning of that deep groove that showed sometimes in the pictures in the movie magazines when women wore those slinky long dresses to dances and other mysterious nocturnal goings-on.

Then he sobered. She had agreed to let him show her the lake. There had been nothing said about swimming. But just to be with this lovely creature outside the store, to walk beside her and be able to squint sideways at the lovely jiggle and bounce of her bosom whenever she walked...

"Is it far?"

Rod came back down to earth. "Oh, 'bout a mile, I guess. I walk it all the time." This was going to be the end of it. No grown up woman could be expected to walk a mile. She would expect him to come up with street car-fare or worse -- maybe she thought he was old enough to have his own car.

"If you don't mind showing me, I'll be ready at four o'clock," she said, still clothed in that imperturbable smile.

"Yeaaaaaahhhh!" It slipped out before Rod could control himself. He hoped she wouldn't decide it made him sound too immature. Jesus, if she turned him down now he'd kill himself! "I'll be back," he promised, and tore out of the store before he could make more of a fool of himself.

He got home and put on his swim trunks under his Levis. It was three o'clock already. He studied his chin in the mirror and wondered if he dared risk a shave. But he had shaved only a week ago and with his luck he'd cut himself with Papa's straight-edge and go bleeding all over the place and his hands were shaking so bad that that to hell with it.

What was much worse than the way his hands were shaking was his cock. It was so hot, so stiff and hard it was pressing through the front of his worn swim trunks, pushing out the front of his , Levis until he knew he wouldn't be able to walk a mile with the lovely milk-skinned goddess who had deigned to accept him. Maybe he ought to pound it off first.