Chapter 2
Niles Wallach was there to meet her as she came through Gate at Kennedy Airport. When she'd cabled him from Copenhagen she'd known he would be, even though it was a weekday afternoon. She'd only known Niles three weeks but he had such an acute case of the hots for her she was sure he'd have met her plane if it had landed in Nome, Alaska. He took the under-the-seat bag from her hand.
Ts this all the luggage you've got?" he asked.
"We'll pick up the rest of it at the baggage place," she said. "Meanwhile I'd like a drink."
"It's nice you have luggage," he said, falling in behind her as she swung down the long cool corridor toward the terminal. "It'll shock the pants off them when we check into the motel. There's one less than a mile from here."
"You have a one track mind," she said.
"I'm a growing boy." Niles was around forty and several times Jackie had gotten the impression that he was getting sensitive about the stray gray at his temples. She turned to look at him.
"Why do you walk two paces behind me? You look like some kind of native gun bearer."
"I like to look at your legs."
"You're sweet," she said.
"Also your ass," he said. "Did anyone ever tell you, you have the nicest ass in the Western Hemisphere?"
"Gallant, too," she said. He took two quick steps and drew up even with her.
"Look," he said, "it's really your mind I admire, but how can we ever have a meeting of the minds if we can't even get together at the hips?"
"Niles," she said, "can't you get it through your head that I'm a respectable matron-type? I have a house in Larchmont and a son who'll be sixteen in three months."
He didn't buy any of it, she knew, but he let it go.
"You don't look much older than that yourself."
"Well, I am," she said. "I have a wrinkle."
"Where?" he said. "Where do you have a wrinkle?"
"Maybe you'll find out," she said, "sometime." She hated herself for playing this game, but it was necessary, she told herself. Absolutely necessary, this time. Niles groaned. There was nothing phony or forced about it
"The Lisbon Lounge is as good a place as any," he said, steering her by the elbow. "We can watch the airplanes."
The drive to Larchmont was as great a strain on Jackie as it was on Niles, but at least Niles had the driving to occupy him. She had nothing but her thoughts, and they were driving her wild.
She kept squirming on the low seat of the Mercedes, and the hem of her skirt rose further up every time she moved. Niles kept looking over at the glorious display of her legs, then looking back at the road, shaking his head. When they were crossing the Throg's Neck Bridge, he put his hand over her left knee, and with his fingers gently caressed the indescribably soft, warm inner swell of her thigh just above the knee. Despite the long, smooth, athletic swell of her legs, they were soft to the touch, she knew, and she wanted him to keep on stroking the smooth skin, sensitive now, as his hand moved slowly up between her thighs. For just a second she let her legs fall wide apart, wanting that hand to touch her where she needed it most, to feel the welcome probing fingers on the warm, swelling, wanting lips of her cunt, but then she clamped her legs together, squeezing his hand and stopping its progress. My God, she thought, if he feels how wet I am down there, hell fuck me on the grass right beyond the toll station.
"The Parkway Authority," she said aloud, "frowns on that sort of thing."
"What sort of thing?" Niles asked, frowning himself.
"Nothing," she told him. The man at the toll booth was looking in, grinning. She wriggled and tugged at her skirt.
"We'll be at your house in twenty minutes or so," Niles said.
"It's no good, Niles," she said, "even if I said yes. Bob is home."
"Who?"
"Bob. My son." He wasn't, of course, but she had to keep Niles from getting her alone now, the state she was in. Bob was away, visiting a friend whose folks had a summer place in Maine. And she had given the housekeeper the month off. But she was getting control of herself now. She had to, she told herself. This time, at least, she had to. She had long-range plans for Niles.
He didn't speak to her again, except to ask directions, all the way to Larchmont. When he pulled up in front of the house, he didn't even turn the ignition key, but left the engine running while he got her luggage out of the trunk and set it on the front lawn.
When he got back into the car she was still sitting there, waiting for him. She looked over at him, staring straight ahead over the wheel, and then she looked down. The left leg of his pants, halfway down to the knee, it seemed to her, was stretched taut, the tan tropical worsted lumped out where she knew the head of his cock throbbed. Oh, mother, he has a big one, she thought. How I'd love to have him slide that into me, right now. Here, in the car. On the lawn. Anywhere.
"You know something?" he said. "You give me a pain in the ass."
"No, I don't," she said. She leaned over and kissed him on the mouth, then touched his ear with the tip of her tongue. "I give you a flaming hard-on is all."
She opened the door and got out of the car quickly and ran up the walk, without even turning when she heard the car roar away down the quiet street.
After the car had turned the corner and gone out of sight, she retraced her steps and brought her bags up on the side porch, one by one. She wasn't the least bit annoyed at Niles for not carrying her bags inside. She didn't blame him. She knew he couldn't have, without looking ridiculous, with that erection. She felt guilty about that. Damp, too. God, she was damp, between her legs.
She got out her key and let herself in the side door off the porch, went into the living room, and lay back in the reclining chair near the piano in a comer of the room. She lay limp, relaxing, enjoying the cool quiet twilight of the big shaded room after the tense ride in the relentless sunlight. She could feel her excitement subsiding, her dampness drying.
She loved this room, this house. She had lived in it since Bob was six months old, when a doting, childless, widowed grand-uncle had turned it over to her and her husband after he retired and moved to Florida. The grand-uncle was long dead now, and she had gotten rid of the husband, promptly and mercifully, but she had kept the house. Her parents, her friends, everybody had told her how impractical it was for her to keep that big old house, just a girl with a baby son, but she was stubborn, and fanatically independent. Although the taxes alone amounted to more than an apartment in New York would have cost her, she never had money problems, even in the beginning. She was constantly in demand, legitimately, as a photographer's model before she was eighteen, and once had been on the cover of three national magazines in the same month, that fresh, ingenuous all-American gamin's face smiling up at people as if she wouldn't say Balls if she had a mouthful.
She had been able to afford the services of a middle-aged couple who had taken care of everything for the first ten years after her divorce, and after they'd left she'd found the housekeeper she had now. As soon as Bob was old enough, she'd sent him to a succession of private schools. Actually she saw little of him as he grew up, but he was bright, seemed to adjust well to the lack of parents, and now, approaching sixteen, he had the same defiant independence of spirit that she'd always had. She was enormously proud of him and enjoyed every hour they spent together. She didn't know him very well, she had to admit. Something about him now made her almost afraid to know him better.
Reluctantly, she slid out of the recliner and started toward the stairs. On the third step, she was suddenly aware of the sound of a shower running in one of the bathrooms on the second floor.
"Bob," she called, happily, and ran up the steps to the head of the stairs, where she called again. Then she knew he couldn't hear her, with the shower running. She opened the hall door to the bathroom between her room and Bob's, and called his name again.
The shower curtain had not been drawn and the lean wet tanned back under the shower was unfamiliar to her. So was the startled boy's face that turned toward her. The mane of hair was bright blond, even wet. Bob's hair was as black as her own.
"Mrs. Ranldn?" the boy said. She noticed that he kept his back toward her and spoke over his shoulder.
"Well, yes," she said. She hated that name, especially with the Mrs. Nobody who knew her ever used it.
"I'm a friend of Bob's," the boy said, and apparently realized he was shouting through the spray. He turned off the shower, still keeping his back to her.
"My name is Peter Dolan," the boy said, facing the wall now, not looking at her. "Bob gave me a key to your house and told me to stay here till he got back. He didn't think you'd be home so soon."
"I didn't expect to be," she said. "But that's all right. You're perfectly welcome. I'm glad to have you here." She almost said, "Any friend of Bob's is a friend of mine," but thought better of it. How square can you get? She hated the idea of kids thinking of her as a moldy fig.
"Finish your shower," she said, and the boy turned on the water again. On impulse, she walked to the far end of the big old-fashioned bathroom, put down the cover of the toilet seat, and sat down. The boy, his whole frame relaxing, started to turn toward where she sat. Seeing her sitting there, he turned away again abruptly, awkwardly, slipping and almost falling in the tub in his haste. She laughed.
"Don't be so modest," she said. "I often sit here and talk to Bob when he's taking a shower."
"Yes, ma'am," the boy said, soaping himself. He still kept his back toward her. "I just got back from a camping trip in Maine, near where Bob's staying. Hell be home in a couple of days."
"I didn't see your luggage when I came in."
"I put all my gear in Bob's room."
"Let me soap your back," she said. She stood up and took the soap from him and rubbed it in small circles down his back, running it over the bumpy ridge of his spine, the long sinewy muscles along the sides of his rib cage, and lower, around the hollows on the sides of his buttocks. The boy was tensed as if ready to spring from the tub.
Jackie was starting to feel the way she had felt in the car coming back from the airport. This is awful, she thought. The boy can't be more than seventeen. She leaned forward, careful to stay out of the spray, and put the soap back into its dish and went back and sat down again, and watched the boy rinsing himself. There was something terribly young, terribly vulnerable, in the naked sliding shoulder blades. He turned and saw her looking at him, and to cover her sudden embarrassment she leaned forward and put out her cigarette in an ashtray.
She was wearing a summer dress cut low, straight across the front, and when she leaned forward the white upper slopes of her breasts swelled into view. When she sat back and looked up, the boy was staring at her, half turned in profile, and in the split second before he turned away again she saw that he had an erection. All at once she felt at ease again.
"Don't ever be ashamed of your body," she said, and laughed. "Bodies were meant to be seen, don't you think?"
He turned part way around and looked at her again. She was sitting with her legs crossed, the hem of her skirt almost to her hips.
"I sure do," he said, with a trace of boldness, and he smiled. "I sure do, Mrs. Rankin."
She laughed again.
"Let me dry you," she said. She got up and took a bath towel from the rack as the boy stepped from the tub. Standing behind him, she dried his head first, rubbing with rough vigor. like his own mother would, she thought, but the thought was fleeting. Standing straight, the boy was a shade taller than she was in three-inch heels, and she was over five-seven. She dried his back, his buttocks, his legs.
"Turn around," she said, and sat down again, holding the damp towel.
He hesitated a second, then turned around toward her, slowly.
His cock stood out stiffly from the curly young bush of blond hair, holding a forty-five degree angle above the horizontal. It was quite long, Jackie noted, and rather slender. The rock-hard shaft looked bridal-gown white, right up to the collar of soft skin below the head. The head itself was deep pink, and larger in diameter than the long cockshaft, like a knuckle-less fist above a stiff upraised wrist.
When the boy was completely faced around toward her, his cock was pointed up directly toward her face. The tiny eye in the center of the broad shelving head seemed to wink at her.
"I can't help it, Mrs. Ranldn," the boy said.
'It's all right, Peter," she said, and reached up with the towel to dry his chest. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, you know. You should be proud of it."
When she had dried his chest and legs and belly she hesitated for a moment before touching the towel to his shaft. It was throbbing now, twitching upward every few seconds with a pulse of its own. Peter, she thought, how I'd love to have that young peter of yours pumping into me now. But she knew what would happen. The boy would be good for three or four strokes before he exploded. If he even got all the way in. Jackie knew what to do about that, though. Knew, right now, absolutely what to do.
She dried his stiff limb gently, lovingly, with the towel, and then looked up at him. He didn't move. He was looking straight at her, and his eyes showed white all around the irises, but he didn't move away. He was starting to tremble.
"Would you like me to kiss it?" she asked him, and smiled.
"Would I," he said, exhaling. Then, almost timidly, "Would you?"
She put her left hand behind his right hip and drew him closer. Tenderly, she placed her left thumb under his throbbing cock, at the base, and applied a very slight pressure so it stood almost straight up. She touched the soft wrinkling of skin at the neck of the shaft, just under the head, with the tip of her tongue, then gathered the sliding folds between her lips with tiny sucking kisses. All she could hear in the room was the drip of the shower and his breathing, fast and irregular, almost as if he were in pain. She took her thumb away from the base of his cock and let it spring straight out, then took the head into her mouth and ran her tongue down under the shaft, Belong, first back and forth, then sideways.
She put her hands behind his hips then and took the head and as much of the white shaft as would fit comfortably into her mouth and started sucking, moving her head back and forth like a feeding bird, her lips soft but tight around his shaft, her tongue licking and smothering his undercook. His hips started thrusting forward spasmodically, as if he were fucking her mouth.
Then, with a shudder, he came, trembling under her hands on his hips, his warm fluid spurting against the roof of her mouth and back into her throat. She swallowed, and swallowed again, and kept sucking, until he was sucked dry and she tasted nothing but limp young prick between her lips.
She sat back, looked up at him, and smiled.
He was looking at the ceiling.
"Why don't you lie down for a while, in Bob's room, while I take a shower?"
He left without saying a word, modestly snuggling a dry bath towel around his waist before he went out the door.
After she'd showered and dried herself she stepped back into her high-heeled mules, considered walking in on young Peter completely in the nude, and decided it would be too much of a shock to the boy's system. From a row of atomizers on a shelf over the washbasin, she selected a fragrance and delicately perfumed her pussy. You never can tell about the younger generation, she told herself. They're full of surprises.
She took a diaphanous short negligee-bed jacket from a hanger behind the door, and fastened it at the waist. The hem stopped at her upper thighs, and the thin transparent nylon concealed nothing. Her pussy-hair showed darkly through, and she noticed that the nipples of her pouting, full, still-young breasts were erect, pushing out against the light wispy cloth, each nipple showing through like a tiny stiff red cock.
She hoped Peter would be corning to life soon. She was sure he would. The seventeen-year-olds she had known as a girl, she remembered, invariably had made very fast comebacks.
She walked quietly to the open door of Bob's room. Peter lay on his back, sleeping. The bath towel lay open and his cock, shrunken now, sad and small, lay limp, cradled in the soft hammock of his balls.
Jackie walked over to the side of the bed, leaned over, and kissed him wetly on the mouth. His eyes popped open. She straightened up and smiled down at him.
"Want to sleep some more?" she asked him.
"No," he said, and struggled to an elbow to look at her. "No, I sure don't."
"Come into my room and talk to me." She led the way, letting her hips sway. In the doorway to her room she paused, and Peter bumped into her.
"Sorry," he said, then put his hand flat under the back hem of her wisp of a garment and ran his palm against the smooth white soft mounds of her ass.
"Jesus," the boy said reverently. She felt the head of his cock, stiff again, brush one cheek. He had forgotten his bath towel.
She went to the side of her queen-sized bed and placed pillows against the headboard, then sat down on the edge of the bed and lay back against the pillows. Slowly, lazily, she raised one leg, bent at the knee, and put her foot on the bed. She swung her bent knee back and forth in a short slow arc, and watched the boy's face as he stared at the furred confluence of her upper thighs.
Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the window directly on her lower body, accenting, she knew, the gleaming jet-blackness of her bush, the bright pinkness of the inner cunt-lips peeping through. Her petals, she thought, and smiled. Peter was staring hard, the whites showing again around his eyes, his cheeks bright red under his tan. His cock was pulsing and twitching upward, as if to reach a higher angle. Then Jackie saw what she hoped to see: he was licking his lips.
"Go ahead," she said. "Do anything you want. I'll like it."
He licked his lips again. She moved to the edge of the bed and lay back with her legs apart and her knees raised, her feet in the air.
"Go ahead," she said. "Kiss it."
He dropped to his knees beside the bed, his head between her thighs. The tip of his tongue touched her, tentatively, on a tender pink fold peeking out from between her pouting outer lips.
"Lick it," she said, her excitement mounting. He was so young. This had to be the first time he'd gone down on a woman.
"Put your tongue in there," she said. "Lick it, up and down. Then suck my whole cunt. Lick my cunt. Eat my cunt Gobble my cunt."
He began to lick then, licked and sucked and gobbled, and groaned in his excitement. She urged his tongue deeper, nudging him gently with her heels behind his back. Her juices were flowing, she knew, and his mouth was wet and gleaming every time he moved away to take a breath. Her cunt seemed on fire, her hips pushing the whole concentrated being in her twat forward to meet every thrust of his tongue, every sucking demand of his mouth. She could stand it no longer.
"Get into me now," she said. "Put your cock in there. Fuck me now, Peter. Please, quick, fuck me now."
She got back onto the middle of the bed with her legs spread and Peter knelt between her thighs. She took his straining cock between her thumb and forefinger, holding it at the neck, just below the swollen head, and guided it to the wet lips of her cunt. She moved it up and down in the soundlessly gasping entrance, wetting it, and guided it between the clutching outer lips, into the waiting inner lips.
Peter drove the entire length of it in with one thrust. She held him there, her ankles crossed behind him, the base of his cock jammed against the hair on her mound. She held her mound hard against him, grinding in small circles.
Then she released the pressure of her legs behind him, gradually.
"Slowly, now, Peter," she said. "Fuck me slow, slow, slow."
He drew his cock back until only the head was inside her, and she tightened the inner lips around the neck of his cock, once, twice, three times. She was even better at that now than she'd been in high school, when she was naturally tight.
"Oh, Jesus," he said again, and began to pump his cock into her, slowly, for the first few strokes, then faster and faster. He had forgotten what she'd told him about going slow, or couldn't help himself. But she was beyond caring. She met every frantic thrust of his cock with a thrust of her own, and soon they were panting and gasping in unison, while his cock whipped in and out of her with lightning strokes. She felt her climax starting deep inside her, and held him to her and screamed silently as he pumped and pounded. Then she clutched at him in the ecstasy of her orgasm, and felt him spurting inside her.
She lay still under him as the spasms subsided. Then, with the boy's weight still resting on her, she drifted off to sleep.
She dreamed of fucking Hamlet, the melancholy Dane. And making him happy.