Chapter 12

The hell of it was, it was true. Even in the shower, only minutes after the most colossally devastating series of orgiastic cataclysms she had ever known, she had felt the rebirth of desire as she washed the boy's cock, as he flushed the fruits of love fulfilled from her cunt with his repeated mouthfuls of water. Good god, she thought, can't I even-let him finish eating?

She glanced at the clock. It was a quarter of two. They still had long hours of daylight ahead of them -- and then the night and then tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. ... She was going to destroy herself with this incessant fucking. Worse still, she was going to tire the boy until he fled to get a moment's peace. Surely he couldn't really be hot to trot already. He was just being gallant. And doing a damn good job of it, she realized, considering that he knew all of three words of English. He had managed to pay her the ultimate compliment, using only two thirds of his vocabulary.

But Clara knew herself -- even if she didn't know the boy. If they hung around the house this way just looking at one another, sooner or later he would put a hand on her here and she would put a hand on him there and then he would undress her and she would undress him and the first thing you knew they would be doing whatever it is a man and a woman do after they've finished undressing one another.

Suddenly Clara knew she had just found the answer to several other prayers. It was hell for a woman alone to keep up a house. She waited till the boy had finished eating, then said, "And now I'm going to teach you another English word -- one I've often wished I didn't know the meaning of myself. The word is work." She repeated it several times until the boy could repeat it. Then, abruptly realizing she was still wearing only a peignoir, she rushed into the bedroom and found another pair of shorts and a halter. She had them halfway on before she realized they were the same pair she had worn this morning -- old, stained, for painting. Since she had just washed them, they were on the top of the pile.

When she returned, the boy's eyes lit up at the sight of her superb body displayed at its best, but Clara was having none of it. She didn't want him to get bored. If she wanted to keep the boy interested, she had to ration it, keep him hungry. "Work," she repeated. Mystified, the boy followed her outside. She introduced him to the lawnmower, which could still hack it with the slightly shorter grass in the front yard. While the boy clattered back and forth and coaxed sweat from his rippling muscles she dug at flowers and pruned and did all the things women do in yards while the men are doing the heavy work.

"Work?" the boy asked.

"This is work," she explained, and pantomimed swinging a scythe, pushing a lawnmower, digging.

"Aaaahhh," the boy said. To her surprise he actually managed a smile. But as he pushed the lawnmower off to hack another swath through ankle-deep grass he gave her a sly grin. "Hungry," he said.

It was crazy. Outside in the bright afternoon sunlight she could admire the boy's smooth, glistening golden-skinned body. But outside she still had some sense of proportion -- not like when he got her onto a bed and she felt her brains turn to peanut butter and ...

What was she - going to do? Was it really possible? Could a thirty-nine-year-old woman get away with keeping a boy this young around the place? She didn't know. She remembered an occasional newspaper story -- some scandal about a middle-aged woman and a teenaged stud. But usually the organic matter hit the fan because the boy's parents were all bent out of shape. This boy's parents -- if he had any -- would be thousands of miles from here, and even if they could voice an opinion, they would probably evince nothing but delight at their son's good fortune in managing to hook up with a wealthy foreign woman.

Her real problem, she guessed, was going to be with immigration. Maybe she could get the boy admitted and she could sponsor him. Then abruptly another solution came to mind. She had gotten a final decree three months ago. She was a single woman. Was the boy old enough to marry her?

Would he?

Damn! If only she could find an interpreter. But what language did he speak? If only she could explain that if he were to sign a legal promise to love, honor and cherish her for all the days of her life he could stay in this country without having to hide out. ... If only she could talk him into marrying her, she -- smiled at a sudden thought. Disneyland was only a couple of hundred miles away. If she could just get him to marry her she would even take him to Disneyland. Now wouldn't that be a kick in the -- what was wrong with her? She was starting to think and talk like a drunken sailor. Whatever happened to that ladylike upbringing her parents had paid through the nose for? She was a sorority girl -- as they had never let her forget. She guessed it came from hanging out with sailors. From fucking sailors. God, what a lovely boy!

Slowly the afternoon sun angled over the roof of the house until the front yard was in shade. She caught herself wondering if the couple next door -- that happy pair she had caught tearing off a piece with her binoculars -- were still too involved with each other's bodies to have noticed the lovely piece of male meat that was pushing a lawn mower for her? If they noticed, did they care? What about the neighbor on the other side? The ones across the street? She had never been home enough to pay any attention to their lives. Perhaps they all led busy and interesting lives of their own and were too occupied to go about supervising her personal affairs. She sincerely hoped so.

The boy had finished mowing the lawn. She thought a moment. Should she try to get more work out of him? She realized suddenly that he had put in nearly seven cheerful hours of hard labor -- and then put in a few more hours doing push ups over her thrilling body.

The boy put the lawnmower back into the garage. He came to where she stood with pruning. shears. "Work?" he asked.

Clara shook her head. Then she realized that even gestures do not always mean the same thing in different countries. "No work," she said, and pantomimed putting the tools away.

"Aaaaaaahhhhh!" the boy said. Smiling quizzically at her he asked, "Hungry?"

Sooner or later, Clara knew, she was going to have to teach him a few more words of English. But for the time being, she understood his meaning perfectly. She had been fucked and sucked well into the sillies. Then she had scrubbed out the trailer and pruned all the flowers and shrubbery in the front yard. She ached in every bone -- which didn't mean that she wouldn't mind having a bone up her pussy. When the boy had smiled and asked if she was "hungry," she had responded with an instant twinge as an erotic thrill raced through her. My God, she thought, once you find the right man it's an addiction -- worse than any kind of narcotic.

She made sure things were put away and the garage door locked. Then she made her weary way back into the house, followed by the boy. It was going to happen again, she knew. She would stall and put it off as long as she could but sooner or later he was going to be undressing her, and - and - and --

They were back inside the house. The boy closed the door and surprised her by knowing how to throw the deadbolt. Must've learned that on board ship, she guessed. They faced each other in the living room. "Hungry?" the boy asked.

Clara gave a wan smile. "Don't you ever get tired?" she asked. "Tired," she repeated and pantomimed weariness until the boy understood what she meant.

"Bath?" he asked.

Considering all the other ideas this lovely boy had had today, Clara couldn't say it was the best idea he'd come up with all day. But for the time being it would do. She went in and began filling the tub.

She saw the boy's slight surprise when the tub began filling instead of merely serving as a catch basin for the shower. He would have had his first showers aboard some grimy freighter, she supposed -- salt water and no soap. But Clara knew from her reading that bathtubs had been invented somewhere in his part of the world thousands of years before her English ancestors had gotten around to inventing separate words for cooking, for a bath, and for a whorehouse; all of which had once been stews.

The boy began shucking his clothes. Clara tried not to burn the golden skin off that beautiful body with her eyes. The boy was totally unselfconscious as he undressed and stepped into the water. Then -he turned and saw she was not joining him. "Bath?" he insisted.

It was going to happen sooner or later, she knew.. Why not now? She went into the bedroom and tossed shorts and halter into the hamper. When she came lack the boy was up to his neck in the water, his disembodied head wearing a seraphic smile. All it lacked were two wings sprouting from his jawbones to resemble one of those improbable cherubim she had puzzled over in the family bible.

He opened his eyes and saw her thirty-nines like twin headlights. "Aaaaaaahh!" he exulted, "Deezneelen!"

She stepped carefully into the tub, struggling not to slop water over the edge, and they began the complicated business of entwining legs and fitting two full-grown bodies into one tub. It was a process not without charms of its own, she realized as the boy's hands caressed and guided her legs, pushed and prodded her ass until finally and miraculously, she was actually comfortable, stretched out at her ease and up to her neck in hot water.

Fleetingly, the thought crossed her mind that once somebody in authority -- somebody with a badge -- found out about this new development in her life, she would most assuredly be up to her neck in hot water. But right now the boy's face emerged from the other end of the tub and he was massaging and kneading her feet and it felt so gooood!

They were so entwined that she hardly dared move, yet the boy had done it with a skill that left her relaxed and comfortable as they stretched out at full length, asses. rubbing gently together, feet nearly in each other's armpits. Slowly, water trickled down the over-flow, gradually uncovering more and more of the boy's golden-skinned body. She felt a tingly tickle around he nipples and saw them emerge like the twin peaks c submarine mountains.

And damn! She had thought she was relaxed, passive under the soothing feel of hot water. Yet here was the evidence in plain view of the boy's glistening eyes Her nipples were rock hard and throbbing, pink as pie cherries and more delicious.

Somehow, so subtly that there was not even a ripple of water, the boy had managed to make her suddenly and acutely aware of his hard muscled male ass rubbing against her soft female one. Now how, she wondered had he done that? Or was it all in her imagination-ii the knowledge that after a year of abstinence she was not rude. Nudity could never describe this total exposure. She was naked, in a bathtub with a naked boy -- a. wonderful, hard muscled, stiff cocked golden-skinned boy who was waiting with well-concealed impatience to do all sorts of lovely things to her lips, to her tits, to her suddenly tingling pussy.

He smiled and said, "Deezneelen!"

It was indeed, Clara decided, the most magic of all kingdoms, and as all the pop songs of the depression years had pointed out, the best things in life, are free.

But would this be free? In thirty-nine years Clan had learned that there is no free lunch. She had stayed out of circulation for a year, nursing her wounds an her grudge against old Harry -- who had only beat her to what she had been planning to do to him. Now he body was collecting its dues for a year of playing the nun. Her body had betrayed her with this lovely boy shown her how absolutely her intellect was a slave to her emotions. She could have had countless interludes -- pleasant weekends in the mountains or aboard somebody's yacht. She had ignored the invitations until finally her body had taught her that there are some invitations which will not be ignored. She was paying for a year without -- stop pussyfooting around and call it by its proper name! She had made a fool of herself with this lovely boy in payment for a year without fucking. What would the price be for this bit of foolishness?

Like many tough-minded and independent women, Clara had few female friends. he had never cared for their homely concerns about children's accomplishments, and had always preferred the company of men who, if at times boring about their cars, their guns, their bunting and fishing, could at least talk about something besides clothes and children.

So ... she had no women friends to betray her secrets. And since Harry had bugged out with that other bitch -- why call her that? The other woman had merely latched onto an available male -- one Clara didn't really want all that much. Wasn't Clara even worse the way she was robbing the cradle with this downy cheeked youth?

She sighed. She lived an essentially private live and, providing they left her alone, she couldn't care less what her neighbours might say or think of her. But would they leave her alone? Somewhere, she knew, there would have to be one frustrated old bitch, not necessarily of female gender, who had never gotten a moment of pleasure out of life and in compensation would make sure nobody else did either.

Could she adopt this boy? Could she marry him? Could she even talk to him? She didn't know. But as he smiled and rubbed the tiredness from her feet and ground his ass gently against hers she knew that, for a while at least, there was one thing they could do together. They could fuck.

The boy let go of her feet and began leaning forward, keeping a careful lookout lest he slop water onto the floor. Clara lay quiescent, knowing that whatever the boy did, chances were she was going to like it. He was moving so slowly, so carefully that it hardly seemed he was moving at all, yet she could feel the interplay of muscles as his hard male ass rocked against hers. He stretched out his arms as he came forward and finally was able to cup the full undersides of her magnificent thirty-nines.

It was such a simple, homely gesture that Clara could not understand the sudden thrill of erotic joy that surged through her. The hot water had relaxed her, soaked away the strains and tensions from two strenuous indoor track meets and a spate of gardening. She was tired still, but soothed and relaxed-until this lovely boy reached out and put his hands on her tits.

He continued leaning forward, bowing his head, and she knew with a sinful sense of rising joy that he was going to kiss her nipples, suck her tits, do all sorts of lovely things to her. But she was totally unprepared for what did happen next.

Down there underwater where their asses rubbed companionably together his great throbbing cock was sliding smoothly into her.