Chapter 2
He's here! He's going to get down on his knees and beg me to let him stay. And I've got my best shorts and halter on and he hasn't got a girl and I'll let him in the kitchen and I'll give him a cup of coffee and he'll look at my legs and ...
Abruptly Clara realized she did not have on her best shorts and halter. She was wearing paint-stained shorts at least a half inch too small and a halter which barely managed to contain her firm, upstanding thirty-nines. Her straight auburn hair was wrapped in a turban. She was a sight. She came down to earth and stopped playing childish fantasies. Taking a firm grip on the pistol, she went to the kitchen door and opened it. "Got it all cleaned up?" she demanded.
The man at the back door wore some kind of a uniform of forest green and looked vaguely like a ranger. He held a clipboard and a pencil. "That's what I was about to ask you," he said.
Clara didn't know what to say.
"Fire season's nearly here," the man said. "I came to warn you that grass'll have to be cut and the brush trimmed or else the county will be around to do it and you'll get a whopping bill at civil-service rates laid on top of your taxes." He paused and scratched his head. "If I was you I'd see about hiring a boy or something." Abruptly he saw the pistol she had been trying to hide behind her. "You having trouble?" he asked.
Clara was about to tell him about the stranger in the trailer when she changed her mind. "A woman alone has to be careful," she said. "I'm sorry if I startled you. Would you like some coffee?" He was middle-aged and not bad looking.
He was also smart enough not to step into a house where a woman in too tight shorts was holding a pistol. He thanked her and was gone. Alone in the kitchen, Clara stood with the Colt in her hand. For an instant she was tempted to stuff it between her legs and pull the trigger. Then she realized what a mess it would leave to clean up.
Cleaning up reminded her of the man who'd been living in the trailer. She needed a man about the place. If he was really a bad one he'd have ripped her off and been gone by now. He had to be some poor drifter down on his luck. She wondered if he would clean up the yard and cut the grass too. Maybe if she offered to pay him ...
What kind of man was he? Young? Old? Remembering the not unpleasant male smell that had pervaded the tiny space, she knew he was not old. Nor was there an empty bottle or the gamy stink that exudes from a man addicted to cheap wine.
Who cares? she asked herself. All I'm going to do is go out there and ask him if he'd like to stay around another day or two and clean up. But a tiny tendril of worry crossed her mind. What if he was a bad one -- maybe from the honour camp or the funny farm? She couldn't very well go out there waving a pistol and frighten him away like she had the man in the green uniform. And there was no place in her slightly too tight shorts and halter to hide it.
She debated changing to something different. Something more comfortable. Then she knew she was slipping into fantasy again. Suddenly Clara knew how she would conceal the pistol. Didn't those bearded central European assassins who went around shooting arch dukes always use a bouquet? A man down on his luck living alone would not be interested in flowers but she could take him a tray -- a glass of milk and some sandwiches. She got busy.
Ten minutes later she was carrying the tray, pistol under a napkin, threading her way carefully through the tall grass. Should she knock or should she just barge in? It was her trailer; he had no business here. Besides, why warn him? She opened the door and stepped in.
He lay on the bed reading a Playboy. He was naked. He had half a hard-on. From looking at the pictures, she guessed. He looked up and saw her with a tray in her hands, dressed in a halter and too tight shorts.
They stared at each other for what seemed half an eternity. Clara had intended to be brisk and businesslike, feed him, work him, pay him, and send him on his way. She had not counted on catching him naked, with his cock halfway up. He stared. She stared.
He wasn't really a man, she guessed. He might be eighteen, maybe nineteen. Well built, with the beginnings of a moustache and a few ruddy curls on his chest. His body tapered down from broad shoulders to narrow hips. There was a bush of dense red undergrowth whence sprang that male organ that fascinated her. She tried to look him in the face. She couldn't. No matter how she struggled, Clara's eyes were drawn magnetically to the magnificent staff that rose from his pubic forest.
The boy was not circumcised. Heavy veins stood out on the shank of his phallus, their tracery continuing in a network around the taut-stretched foreskin from which peeped the angry purple tip of his glans penis.
It's going to collapse, she knew. He would be startled and embarrassed to be caught admiring the pictures in a girly magazine and his wonderful wand would wilt and then he would hasten into his pants and disappear down the alley with his tail between his legs and she would be here alone with an empty trailer and a lawn to be mowed and an empty cunt and -- What was she thinking!
It wasn't going down at all. If anything his great thumping honker was getting bigger. They stared, still unable to speak, and she suddenly realized how exposed she was in these ancient, too tight shorts and the halter she used only for painting. He was looking at her body, looking her up and down like a piece of meat or a car he might buy. And she stood there staring, unable to move, feeling his young eyes bum her, measure her, feel her, memorize each square inch of skin. Was she measuring up to his young demands? If the hardness of that thing between his legs meant anything ...
She stood mute, tray and pistol forgotten. Slowly, he sat up. Still neither of them had spoken. He got slowly to his feet, moving as if he were in the presence of some potentially dangerous beast. Moving carefully as a lion tamer, he got to his feet. They stood facing each other in the tiny confined space of the trailer.
There was an almost electric crackle to the air and still neither spoke. He was only half an inch taller than Clara. He smelled like a healthy young male animal. Clara felt the nape of her neck tingle. She still held the. tray like a suppliant before some strange god. He looked at her, studying the way those too tight shorts delineated her ass and bit into her thighs. He considered the way her halter stood out, aimed magnificently onward and upward by her braless thirty-nines.
Slowly, his hands reached toward her. If he touches me I'll scream! But he didn't. Instead, he took the tray from her nerveless hands and put it aside on the tiny table. They stood silent, facing one another, Clara feeling as naked as the boy in her shorts and halter. Then suddenly he was touching her.
Strong, muscular arms went around her, drew her and crushed her to his bare chest. She thought he was going to kiss her but instead she felt his hands behind her back, concentrating on the halter knot, fiddling with the waistband of her too-tight shorts.
This isn't happening! I'm dreaming again. Things like this never really happen. But had a dream ever been this vivid? Did she dream in color? She didn't know. But his hair was red. Red all over. Blue veins stood out on his hard, throbbing cock. The tip of his glans penis peeped wet and purple from his tight stretched foreskin. Technicolor! His hands were through behind her.
He pushed her away and her halter fell away. Nervelessly unbelieving, she felt her shorts descend like a collapsing parachute around her ankles. And she hadn't been wearing any panties! The boy looked down at her jugs.
Clara had always been proud of her firm breasts. She would only be thirty-nine for a year but her defiantly upward-pointing knockers had been that way since she had turned fourteen, turning heads in high school, on campus, in the office, on the street. Most women at thirty-nine needed a bra. Clara didn't.
The boy held her at arm's length to look down at the prominent brush of auburn ringlets on her pubic bulge. What he saw must have satisfied him. He pulled her to him again, pressing her lush curves against the hot hardness of youth. Clara thought she was going to faint. She could feel her belly knotting, nerves twisting up just as they had this morning moments before the alarm clock had torn her from a dream of fulfillment -- or fill fullment or whatever she had been dreaming about.
She wondered if he was going to kiss her. Good god, she thought, Here I am a respectable woman -- never even had a lover in all the years Harry and I -- Still they had not spoken. Behind her the tray with milk, sandwiches, and a pistol beneath the napkin lay forgotten. Lay forgotten. Will he lay me and forget me? Will I ever forget him? Will he leave me alive to forget?
She felt him twisting and turning her in the narrow space between kitchen and bed. Then he was pushing her gently backward. She felt the back of her knees touch the edge of the mattress and still he was pushing, pushing her gently backwards and down until she sat, then lay on the bed, her knees still dangling over the edge.
This isn't happening! If it were really happening it would be rape! But could I even call it rape? He didn't force me. I came in here with a pistol and he hasn't even waved a fist at me and here I am with my clothes off, flat on my back and he's going to do whatever he wants with me and -- oh damn it, won't he ever hurry up and do it?
She still lair with her knees off the edge of the bed, filled with that lassitude which had left her unable to move since the electrifying instant when she had thrown open the door and been confronted by the sight of this hard young naked body with its maleness pointing wistfully skyward.
What in hell was he doing down there? He ought to be on top of her by now, ramming that lovely rod deep into her, in and out, in and out in a rising crescendo of ram-slam, go-for-broke, neck-and-neck racing toward the orgasmic sweepstakes. What was he doing?
He ought to have grabbed her by the knees and helped her to slide up all the way on the bed. She couldn't even see him. He must be kneeling down there on the floor. The bed in this trailer was high off the floor to make room for storage and water tanks underneath. A gentleman would give a lady some help. Where the hell was he? Then she felt his hands on her ankles.
Slowly and with surprising gentleness he parted her legs and, sinuous as the serpent who started it all way back there, he was oozing up over the bottom of the bed, slowly and smoothly sliding his shoulders up between her calves, between her knees, between her smooth-skinned, tanned and well-tapered thighs. His face only inches away, he was savoring the smooth perfection of her long straight legs, memorizing her for the long lonely nights to come.
He was hard, hot, strong. She could feel the heat from his face warming her, burning her thighs. Like a branding iron, his ear lay against the soft sensitive skin of one inner thigh. She could feel his warm moist breath stir the crisp curls that covered her quivery vulval lips. It was like the dream that came at least every other night to leave her fluttery and shaken, her crotch moist with the memory of dreamy pleasure. But this couldn't be a dream. No dream had ever stretched out like this. Never had a dream been so deliciously long -- long as the wonderful wand that jutted from his red-haired crotch.
He was kissing her thigh. His lips were hot, his breath hotter. She felt a moment's indignation, He had embraced her. He had undressed her. But he had not kissed her lips. Now he was kissing her soft upper thigh, only inches from home plate. Should show you something about his sense of relative values, she thought wryly.
I'm not a person to him. I'm just a body -- a piece of meat to be used, to be eaten up and digested. She supposed she ought to feel indignation, call him a chauvinist pig but ... but all she wanted was for him to get on with it. After all, she rationalized, that's all he is to me -- a piece of hot hard meat to be used and discarded. I'll let him do it once, then I'll let him think he can do it again after he's cleaned this place out and cut the grass and ... and damn it, why doesn't he hurry up and get down to business?
It was uncomfortable to lie there that way with her feet dangling off the end of the high bed. She got her hands under her ass and began scooting up until she lay comfortably in the middle of the bed, her body sinking into the slight hollow where moments ago he had lain.
The boy scooted with her, still holding his relative position. Her legs were wide apart to accommodate his surprising shoulders. He lay, half pillowing his head on one magnificent thigh while he nuzzled and kissed the other. She wanted to grab him by the ears, pull that red head up between her firm, skyward pointing thirty-nines where it belonged, feel the first hot harness of his throbbing thumper as it sought shelter between her legs. Damn him! Was there ever a boy on this earth who could do something without dawdling and wasting time and daydreaming and pooping about until a woman was ready to go right out of her mind?
Suddenly she wondered if this boy was ... What was the male equivalent of virgin? Somehow it had never seemed right to her to speak of a virgin boy. Then she remembered the surefooted and unhesitating way he had taken the tray from her nerveless hands, had moved toward her with a total lack of concern for the hard-on that revealed what he had been thinking about. Surely no celibate boy could undress a woman with the skilled economy of movement that had her flat on her back within less than a minute. So what was he waiting on? Damn all dawdling men!
She lay naked and waiting, her belly coiling up inside with expectation. And this lazy boy half her age lay pillowing his red head atop her thigh, kissing the soft inner surface of her other thigh. She felt his hand on her knee, raising and flexing her long leg. Was he finally going to get to work and show her what he could do with that purple-headed, blue-veined thing he wore between his legs?
He couldn't unless he scooted up a little higher onto the bed. His hands were busy, caressing her throbbing pussy, spreading wide the lips of her vulva. Abruptly he was into her, not the hot hard part of him she wanted. Instead, the boy was running a warm wet tongue in supple circles around the throbbing hardness of her clit.