Chapter 2

Rod came down with a jerk. Daydreaming about Myrt after all these years, for Christ's sake! The coffee was about ready. He had gotten so completely out of his forty-five-year-old self that for a minute he couldn't understand the buzzing. Had he forgotten to turn off the alarm clock? Then he realized somebody was leaning on his door bell.

Now who the hell? It was eight o'clock in the morning. Surely somebody hadn't managed to plug up a sink or get locked out already... Sighing, he opened the door and faced a trim bodied blonde in a formfitting white blouse and a moderate mini which showed off her seemingly endless legs. "Hi, honey," she said. "I spent the whole night at that switchboard and about an hour ago I realized that itch is so deep that only you can scratch it."

"Hi, Vera," Rod said. "Come on in and have some coffee."

"Is that the best you can offer a girl?"

"Hungry? I'll fix some breakfast."

"I was thinking more about some raw meat."

Rod smiled. Vera was a lovely chick, outgoing and without the slightest hint of pretense. She had not been around for nearly a month and he had begun to suspect she had found somebody younger, somebody with a little more starch in his standpipe. And the funny part was, there were times when he almost wished she had. His crotch still ached from his dream girl. Could any living breathing woman ever come up to the fine high eroticism of his dream girl?

Vera was not the kind of girl who dithered about waiting to be asked. Already she was unfastening the waist-band of her mini. It descended to collapse round her ankles like a parachute. She caught it with a toe and chorine-kicked the mini onto a coffee table. As she stood before him clad in a formfitting blouse, platform shoes, and pantyhose Rod decided she didn't really need an invitation.

Blond hair hung straight down her back, nearly to her waist. Vera began unbuttoning the blouse, fingers flying down the hundred or so buttons much faster than Rod could ever have managed it. He felt a sudden surge in his tired old cock and guessed that for this willing girl he would be able to get it up after all. She was not his dream girl but she was here, she was warm, willing, and twenty-eight. Her waist was just barely beyond the compass of his two hands.

As she took off the blouse and stood before him clad only in platform shoes, panty hose and seamless bra Rod realized suddenly that it had been almost two weeks since he had had twin handfuls of those lovely firm mounds of which hard-ons are made. He felt his rod start to rise. Thank the gods there would be no embarrassing delays this time.

He often wondered what his girls thought about those delays. Did they realize he was getting so old, so tired, so satiated that even with a lovely young chick like this who didn't even need the bra she was taking off -- even now he had to work like hell to get it up?

But any man who deals with women has learned by age forty-five how to fake it. Rod had striven valiantly and managed to convince every girl he had ever fucked that she was the greatest thing since sliced bread, that he lived and breathed and puffed and panted for her panties only, and that only superb skill and superhuman effort plus years of training in a Tibetan monastery allowed him to control himself and not explode prematurely at the mere sight of such ravishing loveliness. It seemed to make the poor darlings happier than the plain truth that he usually couldn't get it up all the way any more, that the combination of a not quite stiff cock and a slippery cunt was just not capable of coaxing a squirt from his fountain of misspent youth.

Vera kicked off her platform shoes and stood before him clad only in pantyhose. She was really something else: firm upstanding jugs that reminded him of that silly "Excelsior" poem he had memorized in school about the boy who moved only onward and upward. She was giving him a funny, slightly fishy look though. Now what had he forgotten?

Suddenly Rod realized that if he was going to impersonate an eager young stud caught up in the throes of irresistible passion he ought to be taking his own clothes off instead of just standing here watching the free show. He kicked off his loafers and began getting out of his pants while Vera did likewise, treating her pantyhose with the respect such diaphanous fabric deserved.

They finished. in a dead heat and stood nude -- naked, admiring one another's bodies. She really was built like the proverbial brick pagoda. As he studied the smooth roundness of her unmarked belly, the tiny waist and jiggling cones that pointed at him like twin searchlights Rod felt a premonitory tremor in his crotch. He was going to get it up this time, he hoped.

Vera opened her arms and flowed toward him. Their lips met and then they were swapping tongues as avidly as if it had never happened before. He felt her body mould to his, firm tits pressing against the graying hair of his chest, her belly pressing against the bulge of his half flaccid cock. She put her arms round his neck and suddenly she was hanging from him, her endless legs wrapped round his waist, her blond furred pussy gaping, the tender inner surfaces of her labia damp against the front of his dangling cock.

Damn! he thought, if only I'd been able to play it this cool that day I showed Myrt the lake...

When four o'clock approached on that long ago August afternoon it had been hot as ever. Wearing swim trunks under his Levis, Rod had headed for the store, then realized he was going to be a half hour early. His cock was throbbing so hot and hard that he wished he'd massaged it into temporary submission, but it was too late now. He was too early, but if he ran back home and performed the necessary exercise with his fist he would be too late. He dawdled in the shade of an elm and finally, four eternities later, it was four o'clock.

When he went into Elton's there was nobody behind the counter. The day would come when this attitude would be suicidal for any storekeeper, but that afternoon when Rod was fifteen it had not arrived yet. He stood in the sweltering darkness waiting, wondering if she had forgotten. Maybe an older man had come along and invited her out... maybe she had changed her mind. Maybe he just ought to go home and kill himself. He should have known better than to expect a full-grown woman as lovely, as plump, as clear skinned and firm-fitted as Myrt to actually accept an invitation from a fifteen-year-old...

Myrt emerged from the back of the store, still wearing the same print dress. "Hi," she said. "Ready to go?"

Was he ever!

Myrt carried a large brown paper shopping bag and he dared wonder if she had her bathing suit inside it. He would have to let her find some bushes out by the lake. Go in the water first and that way she could know he was not peeking. But hell, she wouldn't actually go swimming. Not with him. She would walk to the lake with him, would thank him for the information, and then someday she would go alone or with one of her gentlemen friends Finally she had finished locking up the store. They walked side by side down the sweltering street to where the pavement ended. The lake would be full today, he supposed. It was funny. Some days, even when it was as hot as today, the lake would be totally empty of people. Other days it seemed as if everybody in this end of town conspired to converge upon that body of water.

As they left the pavement the trees grew thicker and it was slightly cooler. Rod walked in a slight daze, not really believing it was happening. After admiring her all summer he was actually walking out with this jolly jugged creature. He kept studying her profile from the corner of his eye. She was dressed exactly as she had been in the store, but she didn't bounce and jiggle so delightfully. He wondered if it was the bright sunlight after the dimlit store interior. Or was it man's natural tendency to devaluate anything once he had possessed it?

She was not too tall for a girl -- about the same as his five-five. Once he had reached his full six two Rod would consider her rather small. But now, at age fifteen, she was Junoesque and as majestically inaccessible as the goddess. He wished he could think of something bright to say.

"Let's fuck?"

"You. want to swim first and then fuck?"

"Let's fuck and then swim?"

"Let's fuck and not swim at ail?"

He gave a grin of wry amusement as he wondered what would happen if he were ever insane enough to say what he was actually thinking.

"Penny for your thoughts."

"Huh?" He turned, startled, and realized abruptly that she couldn't be reading his mind.

"What were you smiling about?"

"Oh I don't know. Just hot, I guess."

"Is it much farther?"

"Right over the hill."

"Will there be many people there?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I go there and I'm the only one."

Was he imagining things or was her smile just a tiny bit more scrutable?

"Do you like to go swimming with girls?"

"Ain't never done it before." Saying it, he wished he could bite his tongue. Now she would know what an ignoramus he was. Still, the girl seemed to be smiling.

"What do you like to do with girls?"

Fuck, fuck FUCK! Jesus, what would happen if he were just once to say what he was thinking? It was hotter than ever and he was sweating and his cock was throbbing so hard he knew that if he looked once more at her tits it was going to go off. He wondered if he could make it to the lake and into the water before the come soaked through his bathing suit and spotted the crotch of his Levis. Maybe he could wait till she was off in the bushes changing and then get into the water and wash away the come before she realized what had happened.

Realized! What did girls know about that kind of thing? Here he was acting as if she could read his thoughts and knew everything that went through his mind every time he gazed on the bulge in the front of her dress. Criminy, what was wrong with him?

They topped the rise and saw the lake. It wasn't that big, but it was surrounded by trees and blackberry thickets, with a small sandy beach on the side closest to them. "Aaaaahhh!" Myrt exclaimed. She began running. Following her Rod noted that even with this violent exercise her lovely jugs did not jounce as interestingly as they always had inside the store.

This abrupt lack of bounce so intrigued Rod that the mini crisis in his crotch was momentarily mitigated. He wondered if he had just been imagining it. Then he abruptly knew the answer. The first time a friend had shown him one of those things on a clothes line and explained the use his older sister put it to Rod had been frankly unbelieving. Then the new Sears Roebuck catalog had arrived with models posed more daring than ever and, son of a gun if one them hadn't actually been wearing a brazier or however it was spelled. Sure as heck Myrt must have put one on just for this trip.

It made sense. Girls always wore the craziest, most outlandish things in the mistaken belief that these items of clothing would make them irresistible to boys. When, he wondered, would girls ever learn that the oldest and shabbiest of dresses, providing it had shrunk enough, was far more interesting than the newest fashion? When would they learn that any red-blooded boy was interested in the girl, not her clothes? Jesus, if he could just get one peek at Myrt with her clothes off Rod wouldn't care how many braziers she wore, One look at that lovely undraped body and he knew he could lie abed the rest of his life and conjure the come from his cock with just the memory of that plump perfection without once even touching his tool.

He jogged painfully along behind her, his swim trunks and Levis torturing the throbbing tip of his tool. The danger of coming in his pants was temporarily over. He was hurting too much. He slowed to a walk and Myrt gained on him. She selected a spot in the center of the vacant beach and sat down. Painfully, he walked up to join her. "Looks like we're alone," she said cheerfully.

It did indeed. It was like a dream come true, Rod realized as he looked around the deserted lake. Here he was alone with Myrt. They were going to go swimming. He wondered what possibilities there were in that. He had seen pictures in magazines of handsome young men with cookie duster mustaches holding stalwart poses with bare-legged swimsuit clad girls on their shoulders, smooth-skinned inner thighs only millimeters away from ears and cheeks. Suddenly at the thought he knew he was going to come right now right in his pants.

Jesus! How did they ever stand it? How could those men with the cookie duster mustaches stand still long enough for a photographer or a painter to... It had to be done with trick photography, he guessed. No man could have his face that close to a girl's legs without going raving mad and coming all over the camera. He sighed, realizing that he could never do it anyhow -- even if by some miracle Myrt were to permit such a liberty, he was only fifteen, still growing, and Myrt was a hundred thirty pounds of solid woman. But oooohh, was it ever nice just to think about it!

She sat on the beach in front of him and he realized this was the delicate moment. Unless he could find her a place to change where she felt secure from prying eyes he knew he was never going to get a look at those thighs.

"Well," she asked, "Shall we go in the water first?"

First? For one panic stricken minute he knew she had been reading his mind. Go in the water first! And then what? He gulped, struggled to speak and finally managed to get it out. "And then what?" he croaked.

Myrt pointed at the shopping bag. "Picnic," she said.

"Oh."

"You sound disappointed. What did you think I had in there?"

"Oh -- uh, your bathing suit and stuff like that, I guess."

Myrt shook her head. With one fluid motion she grasped the hem of her dress and whipped the print over her head. Now he knew why her tits hadn't bounced all the way out to the lake. She already had on her bathing suit.