Chapter 11

It was crazy. She was turned-on completely, her cunt all aflutter from the boy's incessant ministrations with his mouth. And it was nice to have his wonderful wand in her mouth. Suddenly her arms flew around his hard young ass, pulling him tight to her as she struggled to swallow that firm phallus that was already halfway down her throat. It felt so good, and yet ...

Yet her body felt invaded -- outraged by his tremendous lump of hot male meat that went part way down her throat, then refused to go the rest of the way. Involuntarily she swallowed, swallowed again and again as her body struggled to dislodge this purple thumping invader and sent it the rest of the way down.

She felt the boy's cock respond to those smooth throat muscles as her swallowing pulled and squeezed at the head of his cock, enfolding him in a total erotic embrace. He was no longer rocking and rolling now. He had driven it deep into her and he had stiffened, his whole body quivering as if he had just grabbed a live wire. She felt the head of his cock deep down her throat suddenly grow even harder, felt his body gathering forces for the approaching cataclysm, and then -- and then everything went wrong.

It was exactly what she had been afraid of. Finally her body had rebelled. After trying repeatedly to swallow the boy's cock with no success, her throat and stomach decided it would not go down it had to go up. She retched. A deep, gut wrenching tearing muscular spasm came surging up out of her belly as every muscle went into reverse, clenching and squeezing, doing its retching best to expel the boy's cock from her throat. Tears came to Clara's eyes -- tears not of pain, but of outrage that her treacherous body could so betray her and ruin this joyous moment of fulfillment. Now the boy would go away mad. He would go away. He would go. And she would stay, stay here alone and -- and she would die.

Still her body rebelled against the cock that lodged deep down her throat. Still her arms were wrapped, squeezing convulsively around his ass as she struggled not to release him. Then abruptly her throat was full of hot, spurting liquid.

Oh Jesus, she thought, I've gone and vomited all over him! I'll kill myself. Then vaguely she realized that the liquid had not come from her. "Aaaaahhhh!" the boy was roaring, "Aaaaahhhh, Deezneelen!' He was coming.

Dazedly, she realized that she had done it after all. After all her best efforts she had finally made the boy spill his load only when her throat had clasped in spastic abandon about the thumping head of his hammer. Already she could feel the great rock hardness of his hammer diminishing as he fired great gouts of semen down her throat. She was swallowing again as her throat sensed the relaxation of pressure, swallowing and pulling the last joyous drop of love from the boy's pulsating prick. "Aaaaahhhh!" he repeated, "Aaaaaaaaahhhh, Deezneelen!"

Weak from effort and weak from relief, Clara realized she had finally taken the boy into the magic kingdom.

Taken him into the magic kingdom for the second time, she amended when she had time to think. He had managed to come inside her this morning in the trailer. This time, she suspected, he had come more explosively, had truly wrenched himself empty of all passion for the moment. She wondered if he would feel like another bout.

His cock was still halfway in her mouth. He gave a long happy sigh and it fell out the rest of the way. Clara lay satiated and happy, her cunt sore and tender but oh, it hurt so good! The boy still pillowed his downy cheeked face on her thigh. She was happy, for the moment, Clara realized. And he hadn't even stuck it into her!

So how about that! Truly, this boy was a treasure -- pearl beyond price. And truly, he would grow used to her, would tire, would move on to greener pastures and -- and, oh shit!

Why couldn't she accept what fate gave her and be happy? Here she had just come more times and more violently than she could ever remember. Why couldn't she relax and enjoy it instead of worrying about the next time, when right now she was so sore down there that she suspected she would walk spraddle-legged for several days.

Or not at all. Why couldn't she call in sick at the office? There was tomorrow, Sunday. Shit! There she went making plans again -- as if the boy would still be here after tomorrow. He might put on that seraphic, oriental-god smile along with his shirt and Levis and walk out of her life right now., She had no lever over him. What could she do to bind this lovely boy to her bed, to her cunt?

She had to do something. But what? Unless they could find some common language she could never begin to find out how his mind worked, what strings could be pulled to make him react. She was reduced to dealing with him on the same level as a puppy or a kitten. Did he speak any civilized language?

He gave a happy sigh and rolled away from her a half turn until they could see each other's faces. He gave her a radiant smile. "Parlez vous francais?" she asked. She didn't know what she would do if he could, for that was her entire repertoire in French.

The boy smiled and nodded. Which meant nothing.

"Habla espanol?" she inquired.

Another smile and nod. "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"

It was no use. The boy would smile and nod no matter what she said. And Clara was not a linguist. She didn't even know if she had pronounced the German correctly. It made no difference. This boy would turn out to speak something like Albanian or Turkish some language totally out of the mainstream of western culture. It would probably be impossible even to find an interpreter. She would have to teach him English. She pointed to herself and said, "Clara."

The boy smiled and said "Att," with a gesture toward the reddish ringlets on his well-muscled chest. At least they had gotten that far. "Are you hungry?" she asked.

The boy gave an inquiring look.

"Hungry?" She repeated the word several times while rubbing her belly and making eating motions.

Finally the boy's eyes lit up in understanding. "Hungry," he repeated, not mispronouncing it too badly. He made a playful dive at her crotch. They laughed. For the first time Clara began to believe that someday they would actually be able to communicate by some means other than a simple plug-in-socket connection.

"Bath?" she asked.

"Bass?"

She- tried again, showing the boy how to put his tongue between his teeth. He couldn't be Greek, she suddenly realized. She didn't know any Greek but she had belonged to a sorority that had a theta in its name.

After a few tries the boy managed to say bath. She got to her feet, caught his hand and led him to the shower. Pointing at the tub and shower head, she repeated the word. The boy got in and began fiddling with the faucets.

Her hair was a mess, crinkly with hair spray and stray drops of come. She climbed in naked beside the boy. Immediately he stopped soaping himself and began soaping her. Feeling his soap slicked hands running up and down the firm contours of her body, Clara discovered that suddenly she was getting turned on again.

Jesus, she thought, not already! She stood to one side of the shower jet and let the boy play with her body and the soap. Finally he had inventoried her completely, running his hands up and down every square inch of both legs and thighs, had shampooed every hair in her crotch, had soaped belly and ass, navel and waistline, tits and throat. He handed her the soap.

She began soaping his body. God, what a lovely smooth hard body this boy had! She washed his head, neck and shoulders, soaped down the smooth muscled vee of his torso, captured his flaccid cock and began soaping it, devoting the tender loving care due that marvellous muffin stabber.

Suddenly the boy's cock began growing in her hand. His hand went into her crotch and then she had a firm muscular finger up her cunt and oh Jesus, it felt so good she was going to go right out of her mind!

Some tiny, still sane portion of her mind took over. She broke away and pulled the boy's finger from her pussy. They finished their bath in relative calm until suddenly she remembered that she hadn't douched.

She felt some silly Victorian reservation about doing this in front of the boy but -- what the hell? Did she have any secrets from him? He'd had his cock in her cunt and in her mouth. What was she doing getting all fluttery and ladylike now for? She stretched out past the shower curtain and captured the douche bag from the shelf.

The boy's eyes went round with curiosity and abruptly she realized he had probably never seen this possibly first invention of civilized western man. She filled the bag with water, pantomimed with the spurting water until finally his eyes lit up in understanding. He frowned and put the apparatus firmly away. Now what? Clara wondered.

An instant later she found out when the boy turned up his face beneath the shower head. Before she quite realized what was happening the boy had squatted and forced his upturned face between her thighs. She felt the sudden gush of warm water from his mouth spurting up into her, deep into the uttermost fold and recesses of her cunt.

She gave a laugh of startled delight and enlightenment. Trust a primitive to turn anything into a game, no matter how necessary or disagreeable the task. As the boy stood and filled his mouth, then squatted again to flush her cunt repeatedly with mouthfuls of warm water Clara had to admit that it felt a lot nicer and was sure to turn out to be more fun in the long run than stuffing black hard rubber up her come filled twat. But where on earth did this boy learn all these tricks? Any tribe of primitives that spent that much time fucking would ... suddenly she was reminded of a story by Puerto Rican comic she had listened to in the Village.

"Once," he had begun "There were two Puerto Ricans." (Pregnant pause before he continued.) "And now there are millions of us."

Finally they were through. The boy had watched interestedly while she shampooed and had allowed her to pour a -dollop of shampoo into his red hair. They were squeaky clean. Now they stood outside the tub drying each other off with towels.

And finally they could find no more excuses to blot each other's bodies with towels. They stood, still naked The boy smiled. "Hungry," he said.

Before she could rush off to the kitchen he got his arms around her neck and kissed her. As his tongue went deep into her Clara understood what he was hungry for. She wondered if she had ever been this happy before.

In spite of the inauspicious beginning when she had awakened drenched in sweat, her belly in an- uproar from still another dream of love, it had turned out to be one of the nicest days in her life. One of the nicest, hell! Clara knew she had never ever experienced this much sustained pleasure before. How long, she wondered, could she take it before it killed her?

But if it killed her, what a way to go! She found a peignoir and the boy got into his Levis and they wandered back into the kitchen. She glanced at the clock, and -- surprise! It was only a quarter after one. The day was scarcely half over. Ahead of her loomed the rest of the afternoon, the evening, tonight, all day long tomorrow ... And then?

And then what was she going to do? Already she felt responsible for this boy. Even if he were to tire of her she couldn't just leave him to be picked up by the police or the immigration people. In the last few hours he had given her more sheer joy than she had ever imagined could be experienced by one frail human body. Even if he never fucked again she knew she owed him something for the lessons he had taught her.

"Hungry?" she asked again.

The boy nodded and this time it was not just the meaningless nod and smile he gave to anything. He had understood her. She opened the refrigerator and indicated that he should pick out what he wanted. The boy's eyes widened in unbelief at the sad selection of leftovers that always seem to accumulate whenever a woman lives alone. She wanted to apologize when abruptly she understood.

What, she wondered, did they eat on those foreign freighters? The boy was looking at the sad remains of lettuce and cottage cheese, shrivelling olives and bits of this and that she had been meaning to throw out as if she had suddenly led him into another magic kingdom of Deezneelem

She wondered. Clara had noshed about enough in ethnic restaurants years ago to realize that all people do not necessarily enjoy the same tastes and flavors. The boy would eat anything she put before him, she suspected. But what would he like? Finally she gave up, took everything she could imagine out of the refrigerator, prepared a platter with bread, sliced cheese and cold cuts and signaled the boy to help himself.

He sampled foods cautiously, seemed overjoyed at the lettuce and tomatoes, the single apple and the peach. He devoured the shriveling olives, spread bread with butter and mayonnaise, with cheese and pressed ham. He looked at the milk but did not touch it. She wondered if he liked any kind of soda pop and suddenly it occurred to her that she could narrow down his origins somewhat by a simple test. She rummaged through the cupboards and found a half empty bottle of wine. The boy poured a small drink.

So he was not Moslem -- not from one of the Arab countries where religion prohibited alcohol. That eliminated part of the world. Unfortunately, Clara realized, there was still a lot of it left.

She watched him eat and when he relaxed for a moment she pointed and said, "Bread."

The boy repeated it several times. He didn't seem to have much trouble getting the hang of English words. She pointed at the bottle and said, "Wine."

"Wine," the boy said with a smile. Pointing at her crotch he said, "Bread. Hungry."

Clara suddenly realized she was dealing with a very intelligent young man. She smiled and said, "I'm hungry too."