Chapter 13

Last chance, he told himself. You've still got time to slip out that door and make your phone call. But he knew he wasn't going to do it. Call it compulsion, call it compassion -- he wasn't going to send that poor lonely little girl with the volcanic jugs off to any county receiving home. "I'm out here," he called.

He was going to add, "And put on some clothes," when he realized how gross it would sound. Christ! He still didn't know the first thing about this child. She had crawled naked into his bed while he was asleep. What would have happened if she had been awake before he woke up? Would she have quietly crawled back out and returned to the couch? Or would she have started to play with his cock?

Was she an innocent child -- totally unaware of what goes on between men and women in beds? It was possible. Just barely, he supposed, but remembering his fifteen-year-old uncertainty about the rites of love he supposed it was possible. Had she grown up with a loving parent or grandparent who allowed her to climb into bed whenever she was feeling cold or lonely?

Or was she a maturing young lady who knew exactly what effect that lovely Lolita body could have on an older man? Did she want his cock or did she want to compromise him and extort something else out of him? She was, after all, from the same bloodline as his managing, take-over Rambling Rose.

The bedroom door opened a little ways and a tousled blond head emerged. He couldn't tell if she had any clothes on. She focused her eyes on his suit and tie and abruptly she was awake. "You going out?" she asked.

Rod nodded.

Disappointment crossed her face. "Oh," she said. There was an awkward silence while she still peered through the cracked door and Rod wondered whether she had put anything on. Where was the terrycloth robe he had given her? "Could you bring them?" she asked.

"Bring what?"

"My clothes. They're right behind you."

Rod looked behind the couch and sure enough. He caught up the bundle and handed it through the doorway. "You can come in if you like," she said.

"I'll wait till you're dressed," Rod said. He wondered if this girl would live long enough to realize someday the effort it had cost him to turn down that invitation. Probably she wouldn't. She was too open and trusting. Before she was twenty some dingbat would murder her -- probably with the supreme irony of raping her before she had a chance to tell her assailant that she was perfectly willing.

"It's all right," the girl insisted.

"Oh?" Rod was curious. "What makes it all right?"

"I'm a nudist."

"So am I underneath my clothes," Rod admitted. "But I don't go parading down the hallways."

Suddenly the compulsions and the terrible hang-ups all dissipated. How many murders would never happen, he mused, if killer and victim would just talk to each other instead of sitting around with silent festering emotions slowly simmering to the point of explosion?

God, even tousled with sleep she was a lovely bit of raw meat! But she walked, she talked, she was just another girl. A little younger than some, but she was just a girl. He had always gotten on well with girls. Maybe because they sensed deep inside that he really liked them and did not just use them to reduce the swelling in his skewer.

"Why did you come sneaking into my bed?" he asked.

"Because I kept falling off the couch."

As simple as that.

"But -- didn't your mother or your Aunt Rose ever explain the facts of life?"

"Aunt Rose said you were real cool and I should be nice to you."

Rod managed to control himself. It was a question of semantics or mental set. Surely the girl didn't mean it the way it had sounded. He remembered Rambling Rose's oral precautions lest Rod's rod become uncontrollable. And a lot of good it had done! "That's not exactly what I meant," Rod managed to explain.

"Oh?" She was still talking through the half opened doorway. Rod was struggling not to stare. As gradually the girl relaxed in his presence and he began to glimpse ever greater areas of unblemished young skin Rod found it increasingly difficult to go on creating Noel Coward dialogue.

Suddenly the girl's blue eyes widened in startled comprehension. "You mean you like to screw?" she asked, prolonging the screeeewwww in a slow rising tone of unbelief.

If he'd been smoking this would have been the moment to cough and choke. "Most people do," Rod finally managed. "And one of these days if you keep crawling into strange men's beds you're going to lose your most precious possession." As he said this Rod was suddenly stricken with the utter fatuity of such remarks. If it was a girl's most precious possession, why did they all get so much pleasure out of losing it? He wondered if he was sounding as fatheaded to this adolescent as every well-meaning, brimful-of-experience-and-advice oldster had seemed to him when he was this age. "I'll wait for you to get dressed," he said, and closed the door in her face.

So here he was all dressed up and no place to go. There had been a song of that title when Rod was thirty years younger. People had been singing it that long hot summer he had hung around inventing dozens of little errands that would take him back to Elton's store for another penny candy and another sidelong glance at the marvelous protrusions in the front of plump, clear skinned Myrt's flowered print dress.

After his mind blowing first-time experience of firing a hand-held load under water, and after damn near sleeping all night and ruining his first assignation, Rod had finally shinnied down the drain pipe, hoofed it a block and a half down the alley to a fenced backyard and after more adventures in the darkness had finally ended up on his side, naked, up against an equally naked Myrt on a folding canvas cot in the back yard. It was before the days of constant burglaries and remote controlled floodlights so there was, at least, one thing he didn't have to worry about.

His real worry, now that he had accomplished the impossible of actually seeing, touching, being touched -- touched off by a willing woman, was a problem that had worried Rod ever since he had begun to experience these odd yearnings in his crotch. There was, he was pretty sure, something called fucking. It took a man and a woman -- or at least a boy and a girl, to accomplish it properly. After his submarine explorations he had finally verified all the rumors and suspicions. If he could get two fingers into it, he could get his cock. But would she let him? Fucking, he had been told, was sure to create an aftermath -- which was a technical word for baby. Did Myrt want a baby? Did she want him to marry her? Would he have to quit school and get a bigger paper route?

Pondering these dire thoughts Rod found himself in a position which, hours ago -- hell -- minutes ago he would never have believed. After this adventure-filled afternoon he could believe being naked in the same bed with a naked woman pushing against him. He could believe that she had stood still and let him kiss her tits, put his hand between her legs. He could even believe that she had given his cock one friendly squeeze that drew from it a megaton blast surpassing any homegrown effort with his fist. The only thing Rod could not believe was that he lay beside Myrt, his bare body against her nakedness and his cock was not even close to exploding.

But that, of course, was before Myrt's knowledgeable hand snaked down between their pressing bodies and captured it in her soft warm fist.

Oh criminently Jesus, oh mother! It was going to happen again. He just knew it. It was going to come flying out of him like some great erotic fire hose, blurting and spurting his load all over her smooth skinned belly! Then abruptly Myrt did something else. Instead of the friendly companionable squeeze she had given him that afternoon beneath the glassy surface of the lake, Myrt's knowledgeable hand kept right on squeezing.

Ow, wow OUCH! Suddenly she let go and when the first bright flame of agony was over Rod abruptly realized that so was the crisis. His hard-on was still stiffer than a forgotten paint brush but the danger of imminent blurting, hurting disaster was temporarily postponed. He shuddered at the realization that they were right in the middle of Elton's back yard, totally exposed and unprotected, and that he had nearly yelled in his outraged surprise.

But there was no time for that. Moving carefully, Myrt was rearranging her lovely roundnesses on the narrow folding cot. It was dark and Rod didn't quite know what he wanted. He allowed himself to be pushed and prodded until suddenly he discovered himself in what years later he would come to know as missionary position, kneeling between her widespread thighs, supporting his weight on his elbows above her Junoesque body. She seemed to be waiting for him to do something.

Oh gollyjesus! Rod thought as he suddenly realized this was the position he had heard described so many times. His cock was rock hard with excitement after all the delicious little frictions and collisions involved in rearranging themselves atop the narrow cot. Poised above her, he realized she was waiting for him to make the next move. Jesus! He wondered if he would know how to do it right.

He had to think it over and plan out his moves. Stalling for time, he buried his face between her tits and began kissing. Touching her tits beneath the lake's glassy surface had been enough to drive him half mad with erotic delight. But to do it in the dark of an August night with no water -- not even air between his lips and that perky nipple in the middle of her splendid brown aureole -- that, Rod decided, was truly the cat's pajamas! He could feel his cock swelling harder, thumping, throbbing!

It was pushing at the bush between her legs. He could feel the tender, virgin tip of his tool push halfway out of its protecting foreskin and just the touch of Myrt's auburn ringletted pubic patch against its tip was enough to send him rocketing once more out on an erratic, erotic joyride through exploding stars.

Jesus! He would never be able to get it in. He knew that now. How did anybody ever? Just the thought of being this close to a naked woman, the knowledge that it was not a hopeless daydream -- that she was actually willing to let him put his great thumping lump of love muscle between her legs, between the lips of her lovely, auburn haired pussy... he clenched fists and toes, gritted his teeth and struggled to contain his load.

Oh shit, oh Jesus, oh please! Just let me get it into her. If I can just get it in, just push it in all the way before I come I don't care what happens. If I die right now -- if old Mr. Elton comes out here with his double-barreled shotgun I don't care what happens -- just let me get it in!

Only seconds ago she had squeezed the life right out of his bone, shriveled his hard-on to a travesty of its former size and firmness. Now his inexperienced, fifteen year old prick was up there again, eager as a puppy dog to deliver its load of love. He was never going to make it.

Damn! How long was a fuck supposed to last? Rod's knowledge on this subject was incomplete. He had heard stories which, he suspected even the tellers did not believe, about marathon fuckfests in which a guy got his thing into a girl and she liked it so much she let him keep it there all night, leaving it to soak and revive between explosions. But Rod's only evidence was inferential. He had watched bulls and stud horses -- magnificently endowed animals who seemed not to know how to conserve their strength. One or two plunges and it was over. He had seen dogs who seemed to suffer from the opposite symptom. Suddenly he was worried. Would he get stuck inside Myrt like a dog? Jesus! What would happen if old Mr. Elton came out with a shot gun while they were stuck?

The thought scared the fine explosive edge off his hard-on. If he could just get it in Rod thought he could keep it for a few minutes. Getting it in was the problem. If he could just get it in Rod knew what he would do: He would ram it in deep all the way and just leave it there -- let it soak for hours if he had to, but he wasn't going to go sliding it in and out and ruining it all. Maybe, he decided, that was the proper way to fuck. The trick was all in getting it in. No flesh and blood man could be expected to have the self-control to actually be able to contain his load while sliding his slammer in and out of a real live woman. It was impossible.

He began moving, trying to find out how to get it in. He had assumed from all the pictures on toilet walls that you had to put it into a woman from the front. But heck, that wasn't even where the hole was! He would have to be careful which way he poked. Which way was right? Shit! He was going to come before he ever got close to getting it in. He just knew it.

Should he take a chance? Rear back and give one magnificent blind lunge, hoping he would hit the hole, hit it at the right angle? It might be his only chance of ever getting it into her before he came and it was all over. Jiminy! If only he knew what to do!

His cock was rock hard again, teetering over the precipice of a chasm of orgasm. Suddenly he felt like just giving up and going home. Maybe he ought to tell her he just didn't feel like fucking tonight. Was that the way to get out of it? It would give him a more urbane and manly image than he would get from firing his load all over the creamy smooth skin of her lovely ass. That was what he ought to do, Rod decided. Get the hell out of here. Who needed a woman?

Who needed a woman? Well, to start at the head of the list, he did. Rod knew there was no way he was going to leave -- not until he had either gotten his dying dick inside her for half a stroke before it collapsed or he died in the attempt. He took a deep breath and moved his ass up and away from hers to prepare his charge into the arena.

Immediately Myrt's knowledgeable hand was down there between them grabbing him, squeezing him delicately to the edge of pain lest pleasure end too soon. She was pulling on his cock too. Suddenly he realized what this lovely, smooth skinned imperturable woman was doing for him. She was leading him home, guiding his cock into her waiting slit. He could feel the warm wet womanliness touching the throbbing tip of his tool. Oh Jesus, did it ever feel good!