Chapter 2
Her full red lips closing over the throbbing head of my cock, her firm, stiff-nippled breasts brushing so very lightly and maddeningly over my thighs and her long, sharp fingernails gently grazing the shaft of my penis and the bag of my balls. These are the strongest images I have of Estelle, that beautiful creature, tall and perfectly formed, long legs, narrow waist, flaring wide hips made for an earthy kind of love, full boobs that seemed held in constant provocation by some invisible uplift bra and a face that the angels made, all framed by long blonde hair, the gold of which was reflected in her deep-green eyes.
That had been three years ago, the final summer of my stay at home, and still all memories of Estelle come back to the night of my prep-school graduation, after the big party and sometime before the dawn crashed through the baronial windows of Parker's castle.
I had been sleeping off the effects of my first drunk, groggy and fitfully sleeping, when she came in. I wasn't sure that it was she until I turned on the light by my bed when I felt the sheet being pulled back from my body. It was Estelle, but she didn't say anything to me and she didn't seem to care that the light was on. She wore some diaphanous material that outlined and revealed while it hid the secrets of her luscious body. It hung down to her ankles, fastened at the neck, for that was a point that I will remember until I die. When it spread open, I saw her for the first time, her perfect nakedness, the smooth firmness of her belly, the suggestive rise of her breasts and the strangely beautiful and, for me at that time, terrifying sight of the blonde thatch of hair triangulated at the apex of her thighs.
She was like a wet vision of my puberty, something so maddening that I could not quite comprehend, and yet there she was, her lovely body exposed, shadowed, teasing there before me. But I was groggy and I didn't know what she was then.
The best that I could do was look. And I remember looking at her, staring into her green eyes with the gold flecks and trying to mouth some kind of question. But the question could never come that night. She was upon me, her gown of such flimsy material falling away from her body.
Of course I made protest. I was drunk. I was as horny as she must have been. But protest I still had to make. It was unreal, and I wasn't certain whether it was the booze or the horror of what was happening. And yet, I can recall, there was such a tremendous pounding of my heart, a screaming desire to let her do what she seemed intent on doing, that I could find no voice to keep her from doing it. And when she did, I was filled with the liquidy pleasures of the flesh that I had only imagined before, and what I had wanted to say was lost in the delirium of her assault.
Now I can see her as she dropped the gown from her shoulders and slowly bent over my body, her warm flesh making wild contact with mine and her cool lips pressed against my chest. I felt her tongue come out and run weird patterns over what I had always thought to be just the simple nipples of a man, of no consequence what-so-ever. She taught me that there was a world of erotic insanity buried there, dormant, and ready to be surfaced by the educated mouth of a beautiful woman.
Once she raised her head and told me to be quiet and then her mouth, her beautiful face disappeared into the hard muscles of my torso, but I could feel as if I had eyes in every nerve of my body and see, too, how her tongue traced a velvety, wet path down my naked skin until her chin was pressed against the rigid flesh of my erection.
Again she shushed me, as if at this most incredible time I would have made a sound, and then her wet lips closed around my cock, sucking it into the warm hollow of her mouth.
I think that I gradually feared for my life as her head bobbed up and down over my rigid penis, her lips like rubber bands around the shaft, her tongue dancing wildly under the glans until my heart raced like a runaway engine. Sweat broke out on my forehead and I tried to ram my cock deeper into her loving, hot mouth, but her arms rested forcefully on my thighs while she blew my engorged prick.
There was a madness in me then that seemed to match her own. She was older and wiser and so beautiful that I had never thought of her as anything but something very distant and fine. And then on that wonderful night, she was sucking my cock, tearing me apart inside and out but I couldn't stop myself. And then I came in a great groggy surge of passion into the warm moistness of that marvelous mouth. That time my hips leaped from the mattress and my cock rammed itself into her throat so deep that I swear that I felt the delicate flesh of her tonsils as my sperm erupted into her.
Estelle swallowed and sucked until each drop of my virgin come was extracted from my cock. And then she lay down beside me, her thighs spread wide and the golden triangle of her pussy opened wide for my tongue. I remember how she kissed me and let me play with her tits before pushing my head down her body, over all that marvelously delicious flesh until my nose was in that golden hair. She told me to spread the hair pen and lick the tender flesh inside that wonderful flower. And I was eager to oblige her, my tongue doing the work of my fingers and suddenly finding her little clitoris. There she held my head between her sumptuous soft thighs, strangely closing out all the sounds of the night and even the sound of my pounding heart.
I licked her nub until she clamped her legs around me and pushed my face away. And by then I was hard again and Estelle held it between her fingers and guided it into the hot honeypot between her legs.
For someone who had never fucked anyone before, the experience was so fantastic that I fail to find the words to describe the way she cradled me in her silky, wet cunt, her soft pillow thighs closing around my body and taking me into the depths of her magic body. But it was a mad, tossing body and there were times during the bout that I thought the magic would break my neck. Her legs crept up my back until they were wrapped around my head and her round ass was a quivering thing smacking against my pelvis.
"Oh, fuck it, you little bastard," she cried just as I puked my sperm into her pussy. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."
Her cry alarmed me and I knew that she would surely wake someone so I pressed my mouth down over hers and felt for the first time the sweet taste of her soft lips and the excitement of her tongue in my mouth. She clamped her thighs around me tightly and held me in that warm embrace brace until her own orgasm oozed from her crotch, wet and sticky and wonderful to be in.
I don't quite remember when it was over, that first time I fucked Estelle, but I knew that it was dangerously close to dawn, dangerously close to the time when someone would be up and about. She, too, knew that it was late, but she was very cool about getting out of my bed and returning to her own room. She kissed me longingly and passionately and warned me of the horrible consequences of what would happen if I were ever to tell anyone. She needn't have bothered, if I knew, but I could not fault her for what she had done for me that night, and I knew, too, that I would have her again and again for as long as I could.
After she left I slept for a long time and woke with the typical symptoms of a hangover, but at sixteen those are passing things, for the body repairs itself quickly, like a Malta in a hostile sea, although Corwin might not like my using the phrase in this sort of confession. By noon I was repaired enough to want exercise and I knew that my sloop had not been used for a long time. I intended to use it very often that summer.
I suppose there was some fear and some urgency in wanting to get away. I wanted to see Estelle, but I was afraid to ask for her when went down to breakfast. It seemed most logical to want to go sailing.
The maid packed a couple of sandwiches for me and I stole three cans of beer when she wasn't looking. A rather pointless gesture as she knew I was the guilty culprit. But she didn't say a word about the theft, and I wasn't going to confess. I thanked her, however, and gave her a friendly peck on the cheek, a kind of patronizing gesture we rich kids can get by with. After all, she could hardly object. I'd have had her ass kicked out of the place if she had.
It was one of those marvelously warm summer days when the temperature seemed to want to remain low. There was a stiff breeze blowing, about fifteen to eighteen knots as I remember, and as I walked down to the boat house I kept feeling that funny gut-tightening sensation that comes when one sails alone. I was afraid of it and at the same time I was so eager to get underway that I could almost taste it.
Since the boat hadn't been used for almost a year, I didn't chance starting the engine in the boat house. It is one of those strange things about small sailboats with inboard mills. Somebody forgot to put in a set of blowers. I had meant to do it myself the previous year, but there were other things to worry about. However I had enough wind so that I didn't worry too much about it. The main was more than enough to get me away from the dock and into the main channel.
She must have been down in the vee-bunk waiting. I was well out in the channel before she made an appearance, surprising the hell out of me when she came popping up through the forward hatch. I had just tied off the tiller and run up the jib when she looked up and smiled.
"Can you fuck without having to steer this goddamn boat?" she said. Goddamn boat was her favorite expression for it since she didn't like it and she didn't particularly care much for the water.
After my initial surprise, I nodded and returned to the cock pit. She crawled back down into the forward berth and pretty soon she was right next to me, stark mother naked, her luscious boobs jogging like twin bowls of milky jello. The sight of her made me a little embarrassed, and I scanned the horizon for the sight of some other boat in the channel. There wasn't any around, but I was still a little unnerved by her bare body coming at me.
"I thought you didn't care for sailing," I said, trying to be casual which I was not.
"I don't. But I like fucking more than I fear the water."
I laughed and turned to make a few adjustments on the sheet lines.
"For crissakes," she said, grabbing my crotch with one hand and my head with the other, "take off your fucking pants. I want to suck your dong.
"You're in a foul-mouth mood. Are you nuts or something?"
"Drop your pants, Kevin," she said, this time the voice lowered in that special kind of secretive tone that lovers use. I noticed that her face was flushed and her breath was very hot on my neck and what she had been telling me had been the truth. She wanted it that morning and there was little I could do but oblige her. I flipped the buckle on my belt and unzipped my fly, letting my pants fall around my ankles. Then I sat down on the high side and took over the tiller.
"Very nice and very big," she said, laughing as she dropped to her knees. "You handle the stick on the boat and I'll handle your stick."
She didn't say anything for a long time, but her hot mouth was working my cock with frenzy. Her tongue lashed up and down the shaft of my cock, licking low to spit-bathe my scrotum and lower still to taste my asshole. That was something that I had never experienced before and I guess I almost jibed the boat when her hot oral appendage rammed into my anus, but she was out of there just as quickly and swallowing the fat knob of my cock again. I held the boat on an easy course, taking the wind on the far side and letting out the jib so that the damned rail would not be buried. It was not a helluva good way to sail, but there was no way to knock the entertainment.
Estelle's head moved up and down with a surprisingly close tempo to the rise and fall of the swells. I was almost ready to come when her mouth came off my cock and she looked up at me. "Can't you tie the damned tiller off and come below? I'm getting cold."
She stood up and stretched, running her hands over her body. She thumbed apart her pubes and exposed the delicious pink flesh buried between the forest of blonde hair and then hypnotized me with her hands as they came slowly up her torso to cup her breasts, her fingers gently squeezing the hard nipples and aiming them at me.
I explained to her that we had to get out of the channel before I could leave the boat to itself and pulled my pants up when she just gave me a funny look and went below. The high rising cheeks of her ass made a beautiful sight going down the couple of steps to the cabin. For a moment I was almost tempted to tie off the tiller and take a chance on not getting creamed. But I changed my mind. The water was cold and deep; Estelle's hot box would keep. Where could she go?
It took about a half hour to clear the breakwater and get underway in the open sea. I tucked in the jib a few turns, felt the boat heel over and bear neatly into the wind. After tying off the tiler, I waited for a few minutes to see if what I had done would hold together and satisfied that it would, I went below, closing the hatch behind me and unbuckling my belt at the same time.
Estelle was spread out in the vee-berth, both beautiful legs stretched wide. She wore a funny expression, and I knew just from the night before that she wanted me to eat her cunt. And I was an anxious pupil to her training. After I kicked free of my clothes, I zapped down on her, opening her thighs wider and plunging my tongue into the lot moisture of her sticky pussy. She got wild then, her legs snapping around my head and her throat making weird passion sounds. I spread her pubes wider with my thumbs, exposing the pink fold of her cunt flower.
"Shove a finger in me, Kevin," she said hoarsely. "Shove a finger in me while you eat it. Come on, baby."
I did what she had instructed me to do, ramming my middle digit deep into the hot core of her body while my tongue raked up and down over the sweet nub of her clit. I could hear her moaning cries of enjoyment and it almost bugged me, for I could feel the painful stiffness of my cock driving me insane. I was about to get my face out of her box and slam my throbbing penis into her juicy sheath when her thighs clamped around my head. I learned later that she knew that I would do something like I had thought about and her instincts, almost always accurate, told her to lock me in the fleshy embrace of her smooth-fleshed upper legs. Her ankles beat a tattoo on my back, and I tried to keep pace with my tongue, whipping her clit as hard as I could, even biting down on the sensitive little knob when I thought she was not responding adequately.
When she came, she shouted and pulled my hair, drawing me up over her body until my cunt-slimy mouth was over her nipple. I lashed down at it, sucking it in and holding it between my teeth for a long time, at least as long as it took to maneuver myself up farther and get my cock partially pressed into the hot blossom of her syrupy slit. She felt my fractional penetration and suddenly her legs went high into the air and I feel into her slippy well up to the hilt of my cock.
Our bodies rolled to the low side of the hull and I can hear now the very satisfying slush of the water racing past. We were tangled together and throbbing in classic rhythm, my ass rising and falling into her sweet saddle, my cock pulling almost out of her love pot and then sinking back slowly, quickly, slowly until my pubic hair was mashed into hers. Her legs in the meantime had coiled around my back, her knees pressed almost up to her shoulders and her hot mouth was fastened to the taut flesh of the nape of my neck. We came together, each spilling our love juice into the other and madly wallowing in the sweaty moisture of our love.
Estelle came to my room just before dawn and woke me with her mouth on my cock. It had become a favorite alarm clock that summer. I knew that when she was sucking me for the few minutes before I awoke I could not have been hard, and she said that I wasn't, but she also told me that it never took more than a couple of strokes of her hot tongue to bring my dong up hard and ready for a bout with her juicy lovepot.
Sometimes she would reverse herself, spreading her thighs over my head as I slept and lowering her cunt down to my sleeping lips as she took my dormant dong into the heat of her mouth. This, too, awoke me, although there was a time or two when I thought that I was being suffocated before I realized that it was Estelle's ass crushing my face. My hands, after the panic passed, would gently push her plump haunches up and my tongue would find its mark, sinking into the salty-sweet lubrication of her cunt.
Our days were not always spent together, however, as Estelle had usually some business to attend with father. Being sixteen at the time I never bothered to ask, and in a sense I felt some relief at not having her around so much. She was wearing me out.
We sailed a lot that summer and did our thing on deck in the heat of the bright afternoons or under the warmth of a blanket when a squall rose and the cold rain pelted down on the reefed main. I suppose because of those sailing adventures with Estelle, I have always had a hard-on whenever I got close to the ocean.
That was more than three years ago, and now I was almost home, nudging the controls of the twin Cessna to maintain the course for the private field my father had built when I became a flyer. I had used it only twice before, coming home for unexpected holidays. And both times, Estelle was away somewhere. But T.C. Parker used it with frequency.
As I swung towards home, I got the strangest feeling that I should have known my father better. So much of his last years had been away from home with his new wife that as I grew to where he might have paid attention to me, we were both strangers. Yet I got that uncomfortable sensation that he might have listened to me. He took to flying only after I had passed my solo when I was seventeen. But the business, widespread and remote from my life, was all of his life. And now, as I pulled back on the yoke of the plane to clear a ridge that I could not yet see, I wondered if I could have changed anything about him or myself.
But it was too late then, three years after the summer of Estelle and the dawning of my manhood. Theodore Curtiss Parker was dead and his son was going home to bury him. There would be much praise from the others, but not from the son. The son didn't really know him.
The wire I received in Paris said simply that he and his wife were dead and to come home. The papers carried it, along with much nonsense about his secretive financial affairs and the big question of who would be number one in Parker Industries.