Chapter 7
Staring at Rambling Rose who was hurriedly and without any effort at seductively peeling off her clothes in front of him, Rod was reminded of that dear dead time thirty years ago when he had first tasted the pleasure immanent in a well endowed and willing woman's body. Damn, he thought, all the times I came that day and just wasted it all... if only he could have bottled some of that youthful vigor and kept it for now when he was graying, forty-five, feeble pricked, and sorely in need of something to get his cock up.
Rose was a no nonsense woman and he supposed her 'life or death' problem had turned out to be nothing more than a sudden and frantic need to be scratched up deep inside where only the steady and indefatigable dependability of Rod's rod could be counted on to continue scratching longer than she could go on itching. She sat on the edge of his bed where Vera had sat only 'minutes ago. She kicked off her high heels, began carefully peeling pantyhose down over the opulent swell of hip and thigh.
Rod concealed a sigh. There might come a day when he was panting for a piece of Rose's ample ass. No point in being boorish. He began peeling off his pullover and slipping out of his slacks again. It had hardly paid him to get dressed, he guessed. Suddenly he realized why whores in busy jock shops wore nothing but a peignoir they could slip into and out of without all kinds of stretching and wriggling and hair combing. Maybe he ought to start wearing a robe.
Then sobering, he realized he would be able to wear whatever he wanted for the rest of his lonely life if he didn't manage to get it up soon and give his Rambling Rose an internal massage. She had taken off her bra while he struggled with pants and pullover. They were clad in regulation uniform for the sport in which they were about to engage. Rod prayed that his rod would not let him down.
Staring at the lovely onward and upward stance of Rose's full cut forties, her brown aureoles and nipples three times as large as Vera's twin cherries, he felt a faint stirring of desire. But his cock was not up. Not even half-way up. Would it come up at all?
Jesus! One woman out the door and another in! This was the kind of situation he had dreamed about when he was a young, hot-blooded stud. Now...
Rose was lovely. She was full-bodied and firm, very like the inscrutably smiling Myrt who had taught him the taste of tits thirty years ago. Thirty years ago the sight of her willing nude body sitting on the bed beside him would have driven him out of his mind. He would have wrenched his back with his haste to grab her ass, spread her thighs, and pin her to the mattress with his eager erection. But that was thirty years ago. The only thing that would ever get it up for him right now, he realized, was something the age he had been thirty years ago -- something young and tender that he had despised then and would give his immortal soul and one of his balls for the chance to stab now that he was old, tired, needed every possible bit of erotic stimulus he could get if he were to get it up and get it off with Rambling Rose.
It was funny. All those years when he had been an eager young stud -- starting right off with the ineffable Myrt, he had gone for older women. Gradually as he aged he had turned to women of his own age and only when he had been into his forties had he gradually turned to all the suddenly abundant women in their twenties and thirties who had developed a taste for forty-five-year-old cock.
Rambling Rose was just the right age for premium fucking: old enough to know the score and not have any juvenile notions of propriety, and young enough to have a firm, unmarked body. Like Vera, she had either been born sterile or blessed with enough foresight not to be caught in the baby trap. Neither woman had any of the stretch marked bellies or thighs, the elongated tits and oversized nipples that are concomitant with apple pie and motherhood. She was a cake waiting to be cut.
And he couldn't get an edge on his knife. Christ, he thought, what am I going to do? Maybe he ought to blow her. Maybe if he went in for some good old fashioned Hollywood carpentry the sensation of tongue in groove would coax some starch into his wilted wand. He was just turning to grab Rose's luscious full blown body and arrange her on the bed so that he could kiss away the hurt when capable, take-charge Rose abruptly grabbed him.
Oh shit! he thought as she began laying him out supine, face up, knees flexed and thighs spread in missionary position just as if he were the woman and she the man. She was going to mount him and spend a happy hour bouncing up and down his spike and when Rose couldn't get that piece of wet spaghetti into her ready receptacle Rose was going to be one hundred thirty pounds of very impatient woman.
Well, to hell with her! He had done every thing he could to discourage her from coming. She had cooked up some story about a matter of life and death. Let her coax some life out of his dead cock if she could. She was old enough to know her way around the world. She couldn't honestly believe she was the only woman in his increasingly frantic life. Next time she pulled that kind of shit on him he'd just have to be frank and say, "I'm sorry but I'm busy fucking somebody else right now. Could you please call for an appointment tomorrow?"
Abruptly he realized he had been underestimating good old Rambling Rose. This practical, no nonsense woman didn't need a blackboard and little arrows and diagrams to explain a dead dick. She saw and understood immediately and, rather than being all bent out of shape, Rose of the firm forties and magnificent thighs crouched over his flaccid phallus and did what she judged most calculated to bring some life into that flagging flagpole. In short, she grabbed his limber dick, peeled his foreskin away from the shriveled head of his tired tool, and replaced his shriveled prepuce with the warm wet inside of her lips. Carefully, she lowered her mouth over the bare head of his soft cock and began rubbing her tongue in loving circles.
Suddenly Rod's ennui was over. He felt virility returning in leaps and bounds as his cock rose in bounding leaps, moving like a ratchet jack a fraction of an inch firmer, harder, more rigidly erect with each beat of his accelerating heart.
God damn, he thought as his capable Rambling Rose licked his flagging phallus back into fighting trim, maybe this is just what I need at my age, a woman to Take Charge and manage my life for me. Rose with her boundless energy, her desire to manage; she could take care of all his affairs, relieve him of the need to make any decisions, collect the rents, deal with the tradesmen, the plumbers and roofers and god knew what who complicated his life. Rose could do it all and then come back. and wrap her lovely full lips around his lance and kiss and suck him back into rigidity and then she could climb up astraddle him and settle down carefully atop the knob of his revived rod and she could bounce up and down until something else came up, came up, came up...
Christ, was it ever coming up! His cock was rock hard and fluttering with a hair trigger explosivity he hadn't experienced for at least twenty years. What the hell was his Rambling Rose up to? She wasn't just coaxing a hard-on out of him. She was going to blow him to smithereens!
What had happened to her capability? Rose was no amateur. She had worn out two husbands before she decided to go free lance or more specifically, to hunt down and blunt any lance she could find free. But Rose was a woman who enjoyed her fucking. She had come here to experience the fine firm feel of Rod's permanent press prick sliding in and out of her affable ass. What was she up to with all this frantic amateurish gobbling?
She was licking the head of his cock, sucking it, swallowing it deep past her palate. She was lovelacing him deep down her throat. And once she had his full blown erection deep down her gullet she was doing her open-mouthed best to get him into her balls and all.
Oh wow, oh Jesus, did it ever feel good! It felt so good he knew he wasn't going to last. She was going to make him come right down her throat and she wasn't going to get any fucking at all. Shit! If his cock had been limp when she came in here, what would it be like after she had finally drawn the starch out of him, pulled from him the load all of Vera's sensual shenanigans had not been able to get out of him? Talk about wet spaghetti!
Rose was going to end up high and dry. And it would be her own fault. Christ almighty, not even a corpse could resist all the lovely sucking and licking and puffing and caressing and swallowing that her busy throat was lavishing on his flagging phallus. He struggled to contain himself, knowing how disappointed and how annoyed his Rambling Rose was going to be once she discovered that she had sucked herself out of a fuck.
Then abruptly Rod changed his mind. To hell with her. She managed; she Took Over. She knew her way around the world. If she wanted to do something foolish like wasting the only round of ammunition for his single shot weapon... if she wanted to be extravagant he was willing to relax, let her lick him into dry bagged idiocy. When he couldn't get it up she would have nobody to blame but herself.
One of the main reasons why Rod had never lacked for women was that he could not remember the last time he had let one blow him all the way. Oh sure, he loved a good blow job. But even more than a good blow job, he loved a happy woman who could be counted on to come back for more tomorrow and day after tomorrow and next week and next month.
And the way to accomplish this, Rod had discovered, was to always leave them hungry. But not that hungry. There are different tastes in women, just as there are in men, but Rod's observation had been that any woman who liked to blow a man liked even better to have seven solid inches slid into her, out of her, back in again and out again until her brains turned to peanut butter and flowed right out her ass. And any man who didn't have sense enough to interrupt a blow job before he came -- before he could pour his cock to her cunt in straight old-fashioned fucking until she squealed and whinnied and begged him to pull it out deeper -- that man was going to have trouble finding time in a woman's busy schedule to get his cock into her mouth or her pussy, even her ear or her hand ever again.
Rambling Rose was gobbling so frantically she was going to get a mouthful and she was going to go away mad and never come back and -- to hell with her. He had tried as diplomatically as possible to tell her not to come. If she didn't want to be fucked what was she doing here wasting his time for? A blow job? That didn't make sense.
Rod had heard of women who loved to suck cocks. He had known a few. But he had never known a woman who, deep down, wouldn't rather have that rampant rod deep into her the way god and the pope intended people to fly, making babies and fucking themselves away from the table until finally the world would be so full of hungry fuckers that...
She was swallowing him, her full lips pressed tight against his graying crotch, struggling to get his balls in too. His full grown, hot throbbing hammer was so deep down her throat that her tongue could no longer perform the rites of love around the bare thumping knob on the end of his erection. But those swallowing muscles in her throat were in constant motion, struggling to pull him in deeper, squeezing, milking, massaging him even more lasciviously than the deep muscled bitchery in Vera's blond-furred cunt.
He could feel it coining. His cock was thumping and throbbing, hard as it had been when he was a teenager still wishing and wondering. He opened his eyes and saw her ample ass. It would be friendly if he were to give her a couple of licks, he guessed. He 'wasn't going to get it into her unless she brought this frantic gobbling to a sudden abrupt halt but at least later when she was high and dry and cursing herself for being too eager, she would remember that he had given her snatch a friendly kiss or two. He reached for her ass -- had his hands on it when suddenly it was too late.
He had reached the point of no return. He was coming. He was blurting, hurting, spurting, firing his long hoarded load in great gouts of goo, driving his dong deep, deep down her swallowing throat and the more she swallowed the more he came and it felt so good that he didn't want to stop and oooohhhh WOW!
Rambling Rose was moaning and groaning her joy and suddenly he realized her tastes must have changed. Well I'll be damned, he thought confusedly, seeing everything through a pink frothed passionate wave of rut that was wrenching his crotch, milking and squeezing the last drop of joy from his fluttering jock. Rose knew her way around the world. She had known what she was doing all the time. Now he wouldn't have to apologize and there wouldn't be any unpleasantness. She had intended for him to come all the time. It was funny.
The more he thought about it the funnier it got. Had she seen some blinding light on the road to Damascus? What had gotten into capable Rambling Rose to forego her hour long session wrapped around his indefatigable flagpole? She hadn't once tried to get him to stick it up her cunt. And Rose was a woman who liked her fucking in family sized doses.
She still had his cock deep in her throat. She was still swallowing, pulling the final firm measure of devotion from him. And Rod, to his considerable surprise, was still coming. He hadn't come this long, this ballbustingly hard and soul satisfyingly for years. Growing old has its compensations in that a man's cock, once up, can stay there forever. But everything in life has its price and the price for a permanent press cock at forty-five is often very small and only half-satisfying orgasms, or often none at all. Instead a man will just fuck a woman into giggling and silly satiation and then slowly, little by little his hard-on will dwindle and he will have to do the Bugs Bunny bit with a squeal and a snort in order to fake the come that never came.
Rambling Rose had done something for him that Vera's lithe blond willingness had been unable to do -- something not even his dream girl had accomplished. Rose's educated throat had coaxed long hoarded come from him, had given him the kind of explosive and soul-shattering orgasm that most men seldom experience after forty. For some sixty seconds she had loaded him into a time machine and transported him back to the days of his youth, when he had possessed a hair trigger cock that could come a dozen times a day and still demand a mauling by his fist before he could get to sleep. Like that day at the lake with Myrt...