Chapter 15
I'm going to die, she thought. I f he comes in here and catches me naked with this boy on top of me, doing over me I'll just die! How much time did she have? Time enough to buck off this stud and hasten into a robe? Time enough for him to finish? No such luck. This leisurely boy cocks man would take an hour or longer, by which time she would be so come-raddled she wouldn't know which end was up.
And she couldn't buck him off -- not even if she had the strength. She didn't have the will power. All her brains, all her will, all her strength of character turned into come and flowed right down her spine and out her pussy whenever this boy got within touching distance of her. And he was closer than that now. He had it halfway in.
He wasn't exactly ramming it but he was moving considerably faster than he had that first time when he had sent her through ten thousand heavens and hells before he even got it all the way in.
This time Att was going at it in a businesslike manner, pushing steadily and firmly as he drove his dong deep into her fluttery receptacle. Each time her labia puckered and tried to turn inside out and follow the dry shank of his shaft into her he would hesitate, pull it out a magic heart stopping millimetre, then slowly begin pushing again until once more her dry cunt lips clasped and folded over this blunt headed invader.
"Aaaaahhh!" the boy sighed, "Deezneelen!"
It was almost enough for Clara to hump her back and throw him out of bed. But what the boy lacked in vocabulary he made up for in cock. She felt his hammer still pushing, slowly penetrating her on its first stroke. For an instant, savoring the fine hot hard maleness that was filling her, she almost managed to forget about the shower that was no longer running.
But Clara was a woman -- something that every man who gazed upon those firm thirty-nines could not fail to notice. Being a woman, she could never, not even in the deepest throes of passion nor in the midst of orgasm-never could she forget to wonder at least momentarily what she looked like. What would people think? Which is why fucking has never really made it as a spectator sport, the fun being in the doing, and not in the watching. Clara, though perfectly willing to do it with this lovely boy, could not endure the thought of somebody watching.
Where was the other boy -- Toivo -- whatever his name was? He had finished showering. By now he must have towelled off. By now he must have had time to dress. Where was he? Was he in the kitchen politely waiting until they would make their reappearance? Was he prowling the house looking for them? Was he poised at a keyhole watching her every move -- memorizing the shape of her firm femininity? Where was the son of a bitch? What was he doing?
Att -- there was no mystery about what he was doing. He had finally driven his dong all the way into her, ground his crisp red ringlets against her auburn pubic patch, rested a moment, and now he was pulling out. Halfway out he hesitated, drove it back in again, did a tremendous grind that twisted the tip of his tool in a great circle that dragged her cunt with it, pushed all her insides this way and that and stretched her in delightfully unexpected ways. Now how could she stay mad at a boy who could. do a thing like that?
But where was Toivo? Where was that son of a bitch? Was he at the keyhole watching? He didn't have to. With any imagination he could pretty well work out what happened when a man and a woman went into a bedroom and locked the door. But ... maybe he thought they were changing clothes ... She almost laughed. Somewhere in the back of her mind was something she had read about American men taking their first sauna in Finland and being startled when a muscular woman stalked in, paying no attention to their nudity as she began to massage them.
Really massage, she meant -- not massage-parlor hanky-panky like they did in this country. Att still poised over her in missionary position, pouring his cock enthusiastically to her. This time there was no long slow torment. This time he was not taking forever just to get it in. This time he was giving her a solid, workmanlike job of straight fucking. And, even with her mind split several ways by the agony of wondering where the other boy was, she could not help being turned on by that round headed, heavy-veined hard thumping cock that was plunging into her, out of her, back in again with the comforting predictability of a metronome. If only she could stop worrying and wondering -- if only they were alone, she knew she would be able to relax and give this royal hosing she was receiving the close attention it deserved. But how could any woman pay attention to her fucking when another boy was prowling the house, maybe peeping through the keyhole or God only knew what?
How did whores get used to it, she wondered. How long would it take for a woman to be able to relax and not think about the next man waiting out in the hall? My God, what am I thinking? But as she thought about it, Clara suddenly knew with a sinking certainty that finally she had figured it out. She had also figured something else out too: whores didn't even pretend to themselves that they enjoy it. For a professional, fucking is just the line of work she happens to be in.
But Clara knew now what the boys had been talking about. Att had stumbled onto a sure thing; had caught her at her weakest moment after a year of hugging pillows. He had gotten it into her and he had hooked her just as securely as if his marvellous cock had been a hypo full of horse. And boys being even more inclined to share secrets than girls, of course Toivo knew. Of course Toivo knew what they were up to in the bedroom right now. And of course Toivo had taken a bath so as to diplomatically get himself out of the way long enough for the younger boy to get things started. And of course Toivo had taken a bath for another obvious reason. He wanted to be clean and fresh when he came in one door ready to stick it into her before the boy so energetically sounding out her well at the moment could even get well out of the other door.
Jesus, she thought, if just one boy has worn me silly, what will two of them do? Will Toivo turn out to be the same kind of super stud this lovely boy is? Will they give me time in between to get up and douche? My God, how did I ever get myself into this? Twelve hours ago I was a respectable woman!
She still was, she guessed -- until somebody found out. So she might as well enjoy it. The boy was really doing a first rate job, long, slow, steady strokes with the faithful regularity of an oil-well pump. She tried not to think, to blank out her mind to everything but the joyful nonintellectuality of flesh contacting flesh, sliding into flesh, poking and probing as his sock pushed her insides apart and filled her with delightful little shivers of the joy that does not require analysis or explanation. Truly, she knew, this was the only joy that passeth al understanding.
Slowly and imperceptibly Att was shifting position on her, still pouring his lovely blunt instrument to her but oozing off to one side, cramping himself into what must be a horribly uncomfortable position. Finally he grabbed her ass and shifted her and at last Clara understood what he was up to. There was an awkward moment of twisting, turning and rearranging and then they lay on their sides, facing one another, with Att kissing her firm thirty-nines, licking her nipples back into joyous erection. And he had managed it all with out breaking the vital connection between cock and cunt.
He was still feeding her long, deep, steady strokes kissing her tits on their tender undersides, licking he nipples, caressing her ass, her tits, poking a playful finger at her twittery anus until she could feel her body building slowly but surely toward the first plateau on that mountain of pleasure that he was piling up inside her willing body.
It felt so good she had almost managed to forge about the other boy. But not quite. He was wandering alone somewhere in this house and his mere presence kept boring little holes in the fragile barque of he pleasure until finally she was forced to admit to herself that it was just no good. Att's lovely cock and his hard muscled, golden-skinned body were as delightful a ever -- as this morning in the trailer. But no matter how deeply she might be entwined in the coils of lust, Clara just could not forget about that other boy who might be doing literally anything. She knew that, though it was nice to lie here and be fucked, Att could hump himself blue in the face, could pound himself into dry bagged idiot and she was never going to come again until she found out where Toivo was -- what he was dog.
Could he have gone back to the trailer and to sleep? Fat chance. No stiff pricked young man was going to go off to a lonely bed when there was cunt around. And that was what she was, Clara knew -- just cunt. She might as well admit it to herself. What difference did it make? There was nothing chauvinistic about it, she realized with a sudden flash of insight. After all, what was this lovely golden-skinned boy -- without that lovely permanent press-cock what would he be to her? He was cock and she was cunt and why couldn't she turn off her mind and enjoy it?
Because that son of a bitch of a Toivo had appeared like a snake in her Eden -- making her totally aware of the difference between a couple and a crowd. She had to find out where he was-had to do something to neutralize him If only she could send him off back out to the trailer with some vague hint of a promise of tomorrow, or next week -- or next year. If only she knew where he was. She hadn't even locked the bedroom door. What chance had she had with Att pushing her backwards through it, undressing her, kissing her, caressing her with his hot little hands and turning her brains into peanut butter?
He was still pouring it to her. He was kissing her tits, licking and sucking her nipples into pink glowing cherries. He was caressing every inch of her body, running a tickling finger into her crotch and tapping her asshole. It would all be so good if only she could flip a switch and disconnect the worrying portion of her mind. Where was Toivo?
Was the son of a bitch peeking through a keyhole? Or was he doing something totally innocent like watching TV or thumbing through a magazine looking at the pictures and trying to puzzle out the captions? If only she knew she would be able to stop worrying, stop dividing her attention, devote her heart, her soul, her cunt to the lovely golden-skinned boy who was pouring his magnificent prod so gallantly to her.
Att seemed vaguely puzzled and she could guess why. Always before, by this time he would have provoked her into a series of orgasms and she would have been wailing, shrieking and yodeling her joy unconfined. Now she was just resting quietly on her side, getting fucked, letting him work his will with her but the boy could sense that her heart was not in it, no matter how deep he got into her. For the first time he seemed suddenly no older than he probably was. The supreme and godly self-confidence had disappeared and he was just another firm bodied boy, doubtful of his powers, praying he would be able to satisfy the goddess who had deigned to accept his humble offering.
Good, she thought with half of her mind. Let him suffer a while for what he did to me., But she knew there was no joy in this kind of revenge. The name of the game was pleasure, not one-upsmanship. If only she could find out what Toivo was up to, maybe she could put him out of her mind and devote her whole attention to this lovely pastime. It was such a waste -- all that lovely hard maleness passing through her, in and out, in and out, and she had to waste her time worrying about a boy she couldn't even see.
What was she going to do? This could go on all night. Or could it? Maybe the younger boy's magnificent hard-on would disappear along with his confidence, both deflating like a pricked balloon. It would be a tragedy. It shouldn't happen to this lovely boy -- no matter how he had made her suffer. She knew she didn't want to see him humiliated or defeated. She wanted to see him go through life triumphant, cock ever stiff as he stuffed it into one happy woman after another. The boy was too valuable to waste. He should be declared a national resource.
But she was wasting him. Clara was on her side, letting him do what he wanted to her superb body. But she was not putting her heart and soul into it. It was a sin not to use that lovely cock to its fine firm fullest. But what was she going to do?
She felt like crying. Here she had all the ingredients for a long friendly fuck -- not one of those orgiastic sweepstakes like out in the trailer. She knew now that the boy had plenty of reserve power, that he could nurse his hard-on along for hours. She should be nursing it, enjoying it, milking it, making him drive into her harder, deeper. Instead, she was just taking it and giving him about as much pleasure as some uninspired handmaiden.
Maybe she ought to buck him off, switch ends and start gobbling him. Even if she didn't really feel able to give him her undivided attention, Clara was sure she could take that lovely lance in her mouth and lick it, suck it, swallow it until the boy would be relieved of his burden and go away happy, perhaps even fooled by a convincing simulacrum of unbridled passion.
Damn! This could go on forever. And she wasn't getting one bit of enjoyment out of it. No matter how lustily he was pouring it to her, she couldn't stop thinking, worrying. Where was Toivo? Of all the crazy predicaments! This morning she had awakened drenched in sweat and the wasted juices of love. For a year she had mooned about alone, unable to bring herself to make the tiny effort that would have brought some willing stud to share her loneliness.
It was feast or famine, like everything else in life -- some sort of erotic Parkinson's Law, she guessed. First she had had nothing. Then for an unmercifully brief interval she had had one lovely cock. And now, before she had time to get used to her sudden good fortune, she had two -- too many cocks. What was she going to do?
Att was still pouring it to her, accelerating his beat as his confidence evaporated. He could not understand why she was not responding to the same poking, the same licking and kissing that had reduced her to a puddle of melted passion earlier today. Abruptly, his face came off her tits and he stretched up to kiss her. Clara kissed back, trying to show enthusiasm. She let the boy's tongue invade her. She had to do something to satisfy him.
If only she knew where Toivo was. She didn't really give a damn where he was any more. By now he could hardly kelp guessing what his young companion was doing to her in a closed bedroom. But she would not be able to rest until she knew where he was. Where was the son of a bitch?
Att was still pouring his lovely stiff prick to her, kissing her and swapping tongues, doing his level best to turn her into a pool of passion. Where was the other boy? She felt hands cupping her tits as he kissed her and poured his cock to her. Now how did he manage to twist his arms that way? The hands were playing with her tiny nipples, twiddling them into rock hardness. But Att had his arms around her, was hanging on for dear life as he wham bammed his cock into her.
Suddenly Clara knew where the extra hands had come from. Now she knew where Toivo was.