Chapter 4
Suddenly and for no particular reason Ella came to her senses. My god, she thought, what am I doing here with a teen-age boy undressing me? I was always a decent married woman. I never once cheated on Fred. I go to church and I do all the right things" and I belong to the League of Women Voters and oooohhh shit! Why does that little bastard have to keep sticking his tongue in my bellybutton? Why can't he stick his lovely cock into me instead?
The diesel rumbled away, sending a delicious spine-tingling vibration through the narrow bunk in the suicide box. She lay face up, her tight-fitting ski pants were already off but she still had on her blouse and everything else. It was funny. A woman could walk around topless without losing too much of her dignity-especially if she had a matched set of forty-twos like Ella. But to be fully clothed from the waist up and to he here with only a pair of yellow bikini panties which barely covered her pubic triangle while a boy augered his tongue into her navel....
There was no way a woman could help but look slightly ridiculous in this position. Ella knew it. But she didn't know what she could do about it. Nothing, she guessed. She remembered some eighteenth century Englishman definition of fucking: The pleasure is fleeting, the position is ridiculous, and the expense is abominable. Ella knew Doctor Johnson was right on the first two counts. She wondered what this was going to cost her in the long run.
No matter what it cost, she knew with sad certainty that she could not stop now-not with that lovely boy licking her navel, tickling until she wanted to giggle and yodel her delight. But Ella was a practical woman. Instead of doing either she got her hands on the boy's slender waist and struggled in the narrow confines of the bunk until she got his jockey shorts sliding down over the flat hardness of his juvenile ass. Still driving his tongue deep into her navel, the boy twisted and squirmed, doing his best to help her.
Finally she had the-boy's shorts off but due to the cramped position she could still not get a glimpse of his magic wand. The boy meanwhile had finally discovered that her ski jacket could be zipped down all the way instead of playing that endless tantalizing game of running the slide up and down. She rose slightly on her elbows to help him peel the jacket down over her shoulders and in the split second before she collapsed atop a tangle of ski jacket she caught a flash of a prodigious prod that she just knew had to be bigger, firmer, harder than old Fred's had been for at least the last fifteen years.
This nameless boy, Ella knew, had the equipment. But would he know how to use it? She remembered old Fred's remarks about jackrabbit boys who could come five times a night and not even get it halfway in. She remembered how Fred had been on their wedding night eighteen years ago. But she also remembered that good old Fred of the indefatigable cock had not been exactly above board with her. He had never told her about his other wife. How many other lies had he told her?
Ella sighed and tried not to think about Fred. He was gone, dead, and the boy was here and alive. She didn't need posthumous opinions. Soon she was going to find out firsthand how good this teen-age boy's staying power was. She hoped it would be half as good as old Fred's. If it was one tenth as good, providing this smooth-skinned boy could manage to come five times a night....
The boy was still working at the sleeves of her ski jacket, trying to get it untangled from her wrists and out of the way. Finally he tossed it over the back of the seat up into the front of the cab. Now she lay face up in the narrow bunk, clad only in yellow bikini panties, a matching brassiere, and incongruously, a pair of pink ankle-length cotton socks.
But not for long. The boy's tongue finally retreated from her navel and he began working his way up in the world, sending a burning line of kisses across the firm smoothness of her waist and midriff until he was nuzzling the firm full undersides of her jugs, still confined in the yellow bra. His arms went around her.
Ella raised on her elbows so he could find the hooks of her bra. She remembered Fred's first, fumbling efforts to undress her eighteen years ago-how he had struggled in vain and she had had to show him how a bra comes apart.
This boy seemed to have done his homework better than old Fred. Without the slightest awkwardness his finger deftly unlatched her bra and then he was peeling it off her, working the straps down her arms. Ella felt a little thrill of anticipation run through her.
She was of two minds about it though. Like any woman, Ella had occasionally fantasized about educating some gorgeous and ignorant Li'l Abner into the joys of fucking. In her dreams the boy had had all the equipment and no knowledge at all of how to use it This boy seemed in no need of instruction. She wondered. In her present mood all she really wanted was to get it in. Maybe it was best this way, not to have to lead him by the hand through every simple maneuver.
"Wow! I don't believe it!"
Ella stared. The boy had reared back where he could focus his eyes on the perfection of her twin pectoral volcanoes. She realized abruptly what it was he couldn't believe. Most women endowed with a set of matched forty-twos were also endowed with a real need for a bra. Ella was not.
She wore a bra because after a long day of housework it could be tiring to carry around all that much weight and a bra could relieve her of the eternal need to walk like a drill sergeant, head up and shoulders back to balance the weight of those prodigious jugs. But even with the bra off Ella didn't sag. Flat on her back in this narrow bunk, her perfect prick-stiffening poitrine still poked piquantly skyward, aiming straight at the boy's unbelieving face like twin headlights.
"Wow!" he repeated reverently.
Ella smiled.
Slowly the boy began descending. As she saw his smooth face with its faint hint of first beard lowering toward her jugs, Ella felt them tingle with the knowledge that soon, within seconds, she was going to feel that smooth male skin against the rosy softness of her bosom.
It was too narrow down in this bunk for any fancy maneuvering. The boy crouched naked atop her, admiring the twin pectoral volcanoes that pointed unabashedly skyward, each lovely cone tipped with a pink aureole and a perky nipple hard as the cherry that surmounts a dish of ice cream. She held her breath, waiting to see whether he would choose right or left.
The boy did neither. Instead, he reared still farther back until he knelt at the very foot of the bunk. She wondered if he had trouble focusing his eyes at close distances, then realized the boy was not farsighted. Not in that sense at least. Figuratively, she guessed he would be able to see and predict well ahead for, instead of aiming for the immediate target of those twin magnets on her chest, he knelt to one side of her ankles and struggled to raise her long well-turned legs skyward.
Ignoring the pink ankle-length cotton socks, he raised the full length of her long legs vertically until her ass rose slightly from the bunk. Still grasping her ankles with one hand, he reached down with the other and deftly scooped her bikini panties from beneath the firm roundnesses of those twin globes that had been known to turn heads from two blocks away. With one fluid motion her yellow bikini panties slid from around her burgeoning butt, down the milky smoothness of her thighs, past knees and calves, past ankles still concealed with pink cotton socks, until the boy gave a triumphant flourish of filmy yellow fabric before tossing the panties over into the front seat along with the rest of their clothes.
Now they were as close to naked as would ever matter unless-she wondered if he would turn out to be some kind of a foot fetishist But the boy ignored her pink-socked feet and ankles. Instead, now that the decks had been cleared for action, he moved carefully into the middle of the foot of the narrow bunk, placing one of her legs to each side of his slender hard-muscled body. Kneeling between her legs, he stared down at unveiled female perfection, eyes glowing with the knowledge of the wonderful thing that was about to happen.
"Aaaaaaahhhhh!" the nameless boy commented.
Ella was inclined to agree. It was ironic, she realized with one tiny, still sane and satirical corner of her intellect, truly amazing how a lifetime of sober-headed self-control could go down the spout at the sight of one hard young male body eager to do its thing with her. It was almost as if she were a virgin.
In a way, she guessed she was. She had been taking old Fred's indefatigable honker into her for eighteen years, but she had been a virgin since before she married him and, apart from eighteen years of playing hide-the-weenie with old Fred, she had never felt another cock inside her. She had always been so happy with Fred's fiddlestick that she had never seriously thought about experimenting. Was he big, small, or just average? She had no standard of comparison.
Squinting between half-opened lashes, she tried to see what kind of a honker this luscious lump of maleness that hovered over her might be endowed with. She couldn't see. She remembered that one lightning glimpse she had caught moments ago when she got his shorts off. If she had been seeing clearly, the boy was as nature had created him-uncircumcised and with a full foreskin stretched tight over the huge bluntness of his cockhead.
She wondered if this was good or bad. It would be lubricated and wouldn't scrape so much going in on the first stroke, she guessed. But circumcision was a mixed blessing-a series of tradeoffs, she guessed. Any cockhead that was not protected with a foreskin was bound to be harder, tougher, thicker and less sensitive than a cockhead eternally shielded beneath a protective prepuce.
The boy would be more sensitive, capable of enjoying it more, but would he also be hair trigger? She hoped he wouldn't. Jesus, how she hoped he wouldn't! Ella wanted a man's cock in her. She didn't want any token in-and-out. She wanted a real man to pour it to her for a half-hour of straight, old-fashioned fucking. She was an old-fashioned girl. She liked old-fashioned fucking and she liked everything old-fashioned-especially if a capable bartender was mixing them.
Still the boy knelt between her long straight legs. Damn him! When was he going to get down to business? She could feel his eyes burning her body, taking inventory of her considerable charms.
Still the boy knelt between her legs. Ella wondered if she ought to flex her knees and draw herself up into classic missionary position. She felt a glimmer of satiric amusement Naked, on her back, with a naked boy between her legs and she was still worrying about being too forward-too demonstrative-as if she could scare him off now!
And still this infuriating goddam dawdling boy knelt between her legs, staring down at her. She wondered if he was having trouble getting it up. Impossible! She had caught one glimpse of his honker in fighting trim. Boys of this age might have trouble keeping it up halfway down the first thrust but they could be guaranteed to have no problem at all in getting it up.
Maybe that was what he was up to-a cortical thalamic pause while he caught his breath and did multiplication tables and thought good thoughts, struggling not to go off in the air and spray his precious fluid wastefully all over the pristine roundness of her firm, deep-naveled belly.
Through half-opened eyes, struggling not to disarrange the inviting smile on her face, Ella studied him.
The boy was excited, but so was 's he. His breathing was fast but regular. His eyes were not glazed over and he was not tense with the struggle to keep his untried cock from firing its load prematurely. Ella guessed he was just a gourmet, pausing to appreciate the firm fullness of her perfect prick-stiffening body. But damn, she thought, couldn't he do it later?
Apparently, he could not. The boy's eyes ranged over her like a scanning radar, absorbing the perfection of her calves-legs that Ella had always been rather proud of, something in their structure managing to give at all times the impression that she was in heels even when she padded about barefoot-or in pink cotton anklets.
He studied her knees, the smooth-tapered growth of her thighs, the gentle joining where two legs become one ass, full, firm, ready. The boy's eyes scanned her firm belly, admiring its roundness and the perfect symmetry of her pubic patch. She realized those ringlets were getting just a bit long. Should have snipped them off with cuticle scissors, she realized. But how could she have known anything like this was going to happen. Old Fred had always enjoyed that little chore so she had let it become a sort of ritual. Each time he came home from a long run she would be bathed and waiting, and old Fred would spend a happy half-hour trimming the excess hair from her pussy before getting around to doing what comes naturally, pouring her an old-fashioned and waiting till she finished it before giving his old-fashioned girl an uninterrupted hour of old-fashioned fucking.
The boy's eyes ranged upward from her luxuriant furburger to survey the surprisingly deep navel he had been driving his tongue into only moments before. Lovingly, he inventoried the sudden contraction of her waist, the gentle growth of smooth midriff, the abrupt rise of her Grand Tetons from the plain. "Wow!" the boy murmured reverently. Ella could barely hear him over the clatter of the fast-idling diesel.
His eyes dwelt lovingly on the rise of her firm forty-twos, and for a moment she thought the beardless boy was having trouble controlling himself. Then as he began, slow as an hour hand to bend over, to grasp her knees and pull them up into missionary position, Ella guessed her long wait was over. The boy was finally through looking and ready to start acting. He was going to fuck hex.