Chapter 14
Clara's heart leaped wildly, but then she realized she must have left the light on when she was in there scrubbing. The boy would have no reason to go back out there and sleep. Had she done anything to hint that he was not welcome in her house, in her bed, in her ass?
Then, thinking hard, she knew she had not left any light on. It had been broad daylight and with all the windows open she had had plenty of light in the trailer to-do whatever it was she had to do. She had cleaned up without any artificial light. She had managed to see every red hair of his pubic mound -- every blue vein on his hard, throbbing cock. ...
Somebody was out there in the trailer. Hadn't she locked it? Then she realized it had always been locked but that hadn't stopped the boy from getting in. Probably some simple trick with a piece of wire or plastic ... But the boy would be gone. Some other bum -- some other transient had moved in. Shit! She would have to sell that trailer. Probably the grapevine had already spread. Maybe every impecunious traveler for miles around knew about the free lodging in Clara's backyard. ...
But she'd had enough events in her life for one day. And she had worked her well-fucked ass off getting that trailer clean. She wasn't going to stand for somebody dirtying it up again before she could get it sold. She vent to her bedroom, to the closet, to the top shelf and rot the forty-five from where she had hidden it from he boy.
Then, remembering how she'd gone traipsing out there this morning in shorts and halter -- asking for it, she knew that beginner's luck would not last forever. This time she had better be prepared. She slipped out of her chenille peignoir, put on a pair of slacks and a no-nonsense blouse that fit loosely enough not to make her fine, firmly upstanding thirty-nines too provocative. She was going out there to chase an intruder off her property -- not to get fucked like the last time.
Pistol in hand and heart in mouth, she opened the back door and stepped out into the darkness. This time, at least, the grass and weeds were not so high that she was going to stumble over the lawn mower. She made her cautious way to the trailer. Would the door be bolted from the inside? What should she try first? Fling the door open and send his ass flying down the alley with her pistol? Or should she knock?
Finally, after several eternities she was there, poised before the trailer door with the heavy automatic in her right hand. She, was reaching for the latch when she heard low voices inside. She waited, listened, and they were speaking some foreign language. Shit! It wasn't enough to have one intruder. This town was not all that far from the border. She had herself a trailerful of wetbacks!
What to do? If she had a brain in her head she'd go back to the house and call the cops or the sheriff or whoever the law was this far out of town. But she was annoyed. All the work she'd put into cleaning that trailer and now a bunch of dirty sweaty men would be stinking it up with cigarette smoke and garlic and booze and come and ... how many were there?
She poised beside the door listening and finally decided there were only two voices engaged in low, earnest conversation. Then she suddenly realized something else. Clara didn't speak Spanish but she heard it every day on the radio and this didn't sound like Spanish. It didn't sound like any language she had ever heard.
She took the latch in her left hand, the pistol in her right, her courage in her teeth, and jerked the door open.
Inside, two men bare to the waist sat talking on the edge of the bed. They looked up, startled, then one's face relaxed as he saw who it was. "Clara," he said. "Deezneelen?"
It was the boy. What was his name -- Att? Sitting beside him was another boy with perhaps a year's head start on a moustache. Suddenly and instinctively Clara knew this was a shipmate. Instead of one, she now had two sailors on her hands who had jumped ship, who were in this country illegally, who would freeload on her as long as they could, who would expect her to cook and wash and slave for them and ... and bullshit!
She had no cause to complain. The boy had given value for money in plain hard work, not counting all those delightful fringe benefits. But Clara also knew that, though two's company, even in houses much larger than this trailer, larger than her bedroom, three usually tends to be a crowd.
They faced each other indecisively. "You Clara?" the strange older boy asked. "You Clara he say?"
She sighed and lowered the pistol. Something would have to be worked out. This strange boy was older. Maybe she could give him a meal, some money and send him on his way. Maybe he would -- could he be convinced to leave the younger boy behind with her? Out here in the backyard was no place to negotiate -- not where every neighbour with an open window could get an earful. She beckoned and said, "Come on into the house."
Silently, the boys turned out the light in the trailer and followed her. Inside her kitchen the trio stood again in that same awkward silence. "So you speak English," Clara finally said.
"Little bit," the older boy admitted.
"Have you eaten?"
The boy didn't understand.
"Are you hungry?"
"Hungry!" Att exclaimed. "Aaaaaaahhhh!"
"Oh, shut up!" Clara snapped. She saw it all stretch ahead of her: all the pitfalls, all the humiliations and embarrassments as her young stud shot off his mouth at the wrong times. Within two weeks, if she was not already in jail, she would be the laughing stock of the neighborhood. She firmly resolved that the next time she let a man younger than herself dip his wick in her, it was going to be a deaf-mute.
"Yess," the older boy admitted. "One day no food. Hungry."
It was the sort of appeal she could not deny. Clara got to her feet and began rummaging through the refrigerator for whatever the younger boy had left. She was going to have to visit a supermarket soon if this kept on.
Finally she scraped together an excuse for a meal and put it before the boy with the remainder of the bottle of wine. When he had slowed down to one mouthful at a time she asked, "Where are you boys from?"
They studied her with polite incomprehension.
"What country?" she asked. Still nothing but blank looks. She pointed to herself and said, "America." She pointed interrogatively at the boys.
"Aaaaahhh," her stud repeated, but this time she knew it was a sound of understanding. "Turku," he said.
So she was right: they were Turkish. But how come they were both red haired? The older boy was not quite so golden-colored but, she realized, that golden hue of her boy's skin was not from some dark-skinned southern race. He was a well-tanned northerner of some kind. A tiny suspicion passed through her mind. She left the kitchen and found an atlas. She flipped pages, found Turku and a cryptic page number. She flipped more pages and -- well, how about that! She took the atlas into the kitchen where Att still sat watching the older boy eat. She showed him the map. He nodded vigorously. So there it was: a hundred miles west of Helsinki, two hundred east of Stockholm. Turku was in Finland! No wonder the boy knew all those marvelous tricks with hot water and saunas and ... and now that she knew, what was she going to do about it? So her savage, primitive lover came from one of the more modern and industrialized countries of Europe! At least it wasn't a communist country. She wondered how hard it would be to fix him up legally. Then she realized he might not want to. Finland was not that bad a country. Probably the boys were off adventuring. Maybe they hadn't even jumped ship. Maybe they were hitchhiking students seeing the country. They could be anything.
But what was she? Apart from a fool, that is? A pretty full and complete fool, she guessed. And two boys that age -- she'd just bet the younger one had been filling the older one on all the juicy details of the prodigiously passive American lady who stood still while he undressed her, while he laid her down and fucked her ... Clara wondered if it were possible to die of shame.
The boys were still looking at her politely. The younger one was moving his lips, muttering to himself. Finally she realized what he was doing. He was rehearsing. "May I sleep tonight there in the caravan?" he asked. Given time to compose a sentence, his pronunciation was not bad at all.
Clara guessed she might as well surrender gracefully. She had been taken. And it wasn't the boys' fault. She had been ripe for plucking and the boy had been "hungry" and the chemistry had been just right and-and it was over now so she might as well play lady bountiful, play housemother and feed them and send them on their merry way toward new conquests. My, what stories of America they would be able to tell!
"Bath?" It was the boy who had screwed her. Saying it, he pointed at the older boy. "Bath Toivo?" be asked. She guessed that would be the other boy's name. She nodded and went to the bathroom to make sure there were towels and soap. The older boy nodded his thanks and went into the bathroom. He closed the door and a moment later she heard the shower. The younger boy stood up from where he had been watching the other boy eat. He followed her when she went into the' bedroom, watching as she changed her mind about hiding the pistol. She put it in a drawer of her nightstand.
"Hungry," he said. "Deezneelen!"
"No!" Clara snapped. "Not now. You'll have to wait until the other boy's moved on -- if he ever does."
It didn't do her a bit of good. Even if the younger boy had understood English, by now he was too busy undressing her.
Clara was amazed. She had put on heavy slacks and a no-nonsense blouse to go out there and chase away the intruder. And what good had it done her? She ought to slap his hands away, treat him like the horny adolescent he was, but instead she was just standing here while this golden-skinned boy, this 'savage' was undressing her. It was just like the first time out in the trailer when she had burst in on his nakedness, on his magnificent erection and he had put down the girlie magazine, gotten to his feet and calmly undressed her -- just as if there were not a strange boy taking a shower less than ten feet away!
My God, she thought, what's happening to me? They won't put me in jail when they find out what I've been doing. They'll come with white coats and nets!
Nervelessly, she put out her hands to fend him off. The boy didn't push her hands away or overpower her or hold her or anything. What he did was far more humiliating. He ignored her. Calmly, he continued unbuttoning her blouse. This one buttoned up the back so he had to do it with his arms around her. She could have put her hands on his chest and pushed him away. Like hell she could! She was as helpless as any pigeon facing a snake.
And her cunt was twittering and fluttering already with the knowledge that soon that snake, that great blunt headed, one-eyed worm in his crotch was going to split, her quiff again -- and again -- and it was going to be so good, and oh Jesus, the other boy was still in the bathroom, and what was he going to think?
If she knew anything about boys, they bragged so much, lied so constantly to each other that when the younger one -- when Att had told Toivo of his conquest the older boy had probably not believed him. But it would take a pretty torpid imagination not to guess there was some element of truth in the boy's stories if Toivo were to come out of the shower and find them both gone, the door to her bedroom bolted, the bed squeaking ... he was still fiddling with her blouse and Clara knew this was that absolute end. She couldn't help herself. Every time that wonderful boy touched her, her resolve and her will power turned to lovejuice and dribbled right out of her crotch. What was she going to do? If only she could sink through the floor and just die!
Maybe she ought to let him. Get out of her pants quick and let Att stick it in, shake, rattle and roll until he came and send the boy off happy. She supposed she owed him something after the lovely way he had worked her over -- pumped her full of hot water this afternoon. But of all the times! Could she risk a quick one before Toivo finished his shower?
She knew perfectly well she could not. Not with any boy who had the staying power of this stiff cocked Finnish phenomenon. He would pour it to her for an hour while Toivo sat politely in the other room waiting and then later they could compare notes and, yes, all those stories about American women are true. Sure they are.
He finally managed the last button of her blouse and peeled it forward off her shoulders to unveil her never-seen-a-bra thirty-nines. As he began kissing and nuzzling her lovely jugs, his hands went behind her again to seek out the waistband button of her slacks. In a moment she would be naked again. Once more she had dressed hurriedly -- only for a moment to chase somebody out of the trailer and when he got those no-nonsense slacks off she would be clad only in her flawless skin and the tight auburn ringlets of her pubic patch. And could she help it? Could she do anything about it?
No. She could not. Even now listening to the slightly changing sounds as the other boy moved about beneath the shower she knew that even if he were to come in here and watch, she might die of shame but she would die, she hoped, with this boy's wonderful, indefatigable erection sliding in and out of her suddenly thrumming, throbbing, passionflushed pussy. What a way to go!
She felt the sudden release of tension around her waist as he finally undid the button. His hand pulled down the zipper, then the slacks down over the smooth roundness of her ass with one fluid movement. Undoing his Levis with a quick flip of the wrist, he danced before her pulling them off while she knew this was her chance to push him while he was off balance -- her only chance to grab a robe and run screaming rape from the house before she sank hopelessly into this web of eroticism.
And of course she didn't do it. She couldn't. Wouldn't if she could -- not to a boy who had treated her as nicely as this lovely-cocked young stud. He stood before her naked, his golden-skinned body glistening in the dim light of her nightstand. His cock stood out from his body at a jaunty angle, swaying gently in time to his heart beat. He moved forward, embraced her, kissed her, poked his tongue deep into her mouth as he pushed her gently backwards down onto the bed. He climbed up on top of her. This time, she understood, he was going to do it strictly missionary position -- strictly poke and probe with that wonderfully indefatigable phallus that had driven her right out of her mind this morning in the trailer.
She felt the hot throbbing tip of his tool part the lips of her vulva. She heard the water in the shower stop running.