Chapter 4
Clara gasped. For a moment everything blurred and whirled and she thought she was going to faint. Then slowly the trailer stopped spinning and she could feel her firm ass solidly planted on the mattress again, the hard bodied boy poised spider like above her, supporting his weight on his knees and elbows as his throbbing thumper moved slowly, slowly as an hour hand toward her waiting pussy.
She was trembling, her whole belly twisting and contracting in joyous anticipation at the memory of what it used to be like to wrap herself around hard male meat, squeeze it, milk it, pull the swelling from it and leave its owner unmanned and gasping.
My god, was she ever turned on! He didn't even have it in yet and already she could feel her body gathering forces, preparing to explode. She wondered if she was showing it. Did the boy know the devastating effect he was having on her? Damn him! Would he ever put it in?
She gritted her teeth and tried not to squirm, struggled not to show how helpless she was beneath the faint contact of his body. He was barely touching her as he hovered, slowly moving the tip of his tool toward her ready receptacle. He was only a kid. Where did he get this kind of self-control? He should be stuffing it into her frantically, lunging and plunging as he struggled to get in at least one good stroke before he expired in blurting, spurting disgrace.
Old Harry, damn him -- he had told her once that men sometimes did mental arithmetic or recited multiplication tables to keep from coming too soon. She wondered if it would work for a woman. Damn! Women weren't supposed to have problems like this. Women were supposed to relax and let it happen, come as many times as they could before their superheated studs fired off that single round and it was all over. But what would this boy think of her if she were to come before he even got it in? What would it look like for her to let go and do all the things she really felt like doing? Now wouldn't she look fine screeching and yodeling and wiggling her ass and wrapping her legs around his hard young waist to pull him in deeper, harder, faster!
I was going to make him clean up and cut the grass and -- What was she going to do? She was going to go right out of her skull if he didn't get with it and stuff that sausage into her. She tried to remember multiplication tables. She got to two times three and was thinking about two balls plus one cock stuffed into one waiting muffin equals -- oh shit!
She was stiff, eyes closed as her whole body tensed with the effort not to come. She sensed him slowly moving closer and then -- finally, at last the hot tip of his tool was actually touching her, touching unerringly at the one spot positively guaranteed to make a love hungry woman go up the wall.
She lay on her back, knees flexed, thighs spread in missionary position while this silent, smiling boy poised over her, the red tuft of his pubic brush just beginning to tickle the hairs of her well-furred crotch. Her labia were gaping, exposing the tender and sensitive inner surfaces, exposing her marble-hard clit. She felt the hot throbbing tip of his tight-stretched foreskin just barely touch her clit. The effect was electric -- as if he were plugging a high voltage probe into her seething belly.
She clenched her teeth, closed her fists and toes and struggled not to let the boy know what this tiny contact was doing to her deprived body. Oh damn him -- won't he ever put it in? She felt the tip of his tool slide smoothly down her secret slit, skidding off the slick wet hardness of her throbbing clitoris to move gently downward toward the entrance to her tunnel of love. He gave a sudden little lunge that drove half an inch into her.
Great rockets of flaming passion shot up her spine, exploded inside her skull, melted her rigidity and turned her will power into peanut butter. She felt her body writhing, twisting, thrusting to meet him as her ass strove mightily to become airborne, to rise from the mattress to engulf that prurient prod he was so parsimoniously feeding her.
The boy -- goddam him -- did not cooperate. Instead of socking it to her like a man, instead of bottoming out with a righteous whambam and whap of flesh against flesh, he still hovered above her, not resting the weight of his hard muscled body upon her. She struggled to contain her disappointment.
It was a losing struggle. Despite all her ass-clenching, teeth-gritting efforts, she had come. Come once already and he barely had half an inch of his reluctant rod inside her! Clara didn't know whether she ought to laugh or cry. It was like all her dreams -- like her worst nightmares too. How many lonely empty nights hadn't she dreamed of a handsome, indefatigable young stud who would appear with a permanent hard-on, and preferably without any distracting small talk.
There were times, she supposed, when a woman wanted a handsome and witty man who could talk about anything -- who could make her laugh, make her feel like a woman, make her feel appreciated. But there were also times-times late at night in the narrowness of her lonely bed when she wanted not an intelligent conversationalist, but just a male body with a stiff prick: preferably a handsome, young, hard muscled male body and, given any choice in the matter, one that came with a permanently rigid ramrod that could be used as impersonally as a piece of broom handle.
And here she had it, the answer to all her lonely dreams. So why, Clara wondered, wasn't she happy? A millisecond's mature cogitation gave her the answer to that: because she didn't have it in -- didn't have it moving in and out, in and out, in and out in the gradually accelerating rhythm that could be depended on to build to a joyous crescendo of jiving. She tried to relax.
She had to get things into proportion. The boy had a hard-on. He wanted to screw. He had it part way into her. Sooner or later he was going to wake up to the feel of that wonderful hot meat poultice around hip swelling. Sooner or later he was going to drive it home and pull it out and drive it home again and ...
And when? How long had it been since she had come out here with a tray of lunch and a pistol concealed under the napkin? Everything, she abruptly realized, had been shifted into slow motion. It couldn't have been more than a minute ago. Sixty seconds ago she had come in here fully clothed -- well, shorts and halter anyhow -- with a gun and ready to drive this squatter off her property. And in less than one minute without a single word's being said. he had undressed her, spread her out on her own bed, climbed atop her, and -- and damn him -- won't he ever put it in and get to work?
There was something dreamlike about this. It reminded her of the time when she had been a teenager herself. But she had had her share of boys. They were awkward, blundering and eager as puppies with their frantic need to get it in, to get in at least one or two good licks before they exploded and fired great gouts of goo all over the bed, all over her belly. This boy was too perfect. No teenager could have this kind of self control Abruptly Clara wondered if she was dreaming the whole thing.
But in her dreams, whenever she came, the gut wrenching agony of orgasm was often even stronger than the real thing. Whenever she dreamed off she would awake drenched in sweat, tangled in the sheet: and with the slight headachy feeling that a Spaniard had once told her was prerequisite to proper enjoyment of a bullfight.
In her dreams, most important, she always woke up alone. She had come. Her cunt was sopping. And still, this dreamlike idealization -- this lovely boy with a permanent-press cock was hovering over her, the tip of his tool barely parting the lips of her vulva as he took his own sweet time getting down to business.
Still, it had to be real. She remembered how she had dreamed off that morning, come in her sleep and made a mess of the bed. Then she had seen the couple next door getting it on. Then she had come out here to chase this ...
Still he hovered over her, still wearing that bodhisatva half smile like some inscrutable oriental god. She could feel the warmth of his body. She could feel the wisps of ruddy hair on his chest tickling the nipples of her superb thirty-nines, driving her daffy as her nipples sensitized and hardened until they were as still as two miniature cocks.
She could feel the tip of his cock inside her -- just barely inside. And then finally she could feel him moving again. Slow as an hour hand, his tool was pushing into her, parting the auburn-haired lips of her vulva, spreading her cunt as he penetrated the warm and secret places of her being. She could feel the hot throbbing tip of his tool slide from its tight-stretched foreskin as it began the passage up her tunnel of love. And oh damn, did it ever feel good!
It felt so good she knew she was going to come again if she didn't watch it. Watch it! What else could she do? She had a hard bodied boy on top of her. Was she supposed to think about her hairdo or what she was going to do in the office Monday? Maybe men could think about multiplication tables but all Clara could think of was how good it felt to have a cock sliding, into her -- even if he only had it in an inch and was taking forever!
Then gradually she became aware of something else. That superhuman spiderman pose was slowly dissolving as his belly descended to touch the firm roundness of hers. She felt his chest press against the fullness of her firm thirty-nines and then suddenly inscrutability disappeared as the face with the half smile ducked down and those inscrutable lips descended to connect with a throbbing, totally scrutable nipple.
He ran a loving tongue around her pink aureole, darted it to touch her nipple in lightning forays that sent great thrumming waves of lust through her deprived body. Clara gasped, stiffened, struggled to control herself, not to come again before he even had his cock properly in.
He switched to her other tit, gradually relaxing that superhuman poise above her, and kissing and licking her nipples until she felt she was going to scream and yodel with the sheer lustful joy of it all. He finally got his hands down there too, sizing up the firm pectoral cones that could still turn heads on any street. They were turning his head now as he switched rapidly from one to another, sucking, licking, kissing, tickling and tantalizing her tender nipples until she felt a great pink wave of passion surge through her belly again.
She was blushing. Not just her face. Her whole body was glowing pink in the throes of passion: thighs, belly, tits, neck and face burning as hot blood coursed through her. Even her cunt was blushing. She could feel the surge of joy each time he moved from tit to tit, and the slight shifting made his rigid rod move just enough to remind her that he didn't even have it all the way in, that the great throbbing knob on the end of his cock was barely parting her nether lips, stretching them to their fullest. Oh Jesus, did it ever feel good! And it was going to feel better if this dawdling boy ever got off the dime and started doing what he had been engineered for.
She had tried once already to speed him up. It was no use, she realized. This teenager had more timing, more self-control than most old men. She had better accept gratefully whatever gifts chance bestowed upon her. As independent as he was, he just might decide to pull it out and go back to reading a magazine if she were to become too demanding.
It was humiliating, now that she thought about it. She was using somebody else's hard-on. He hadn't even gotten it up for her. It had already been in fighting trim, the purple tip of his tool peeping wetly from a half-peeled foreskin as he lay reading a girlie magazine. And she had walked in just in time to skim the cream -- if that was the proper expression for this kind of situation. She wondered for the first time. She was thirty-nine, with tits to match. She was still built like the proverbial brick pagoda and could pass for ten years younger. Even with her clothes off she looked good, thanks to no babies and no stretch marks.
But for a boy? She remembered how finicky teenagers were, how convinced she had been that by the time a person was twenty-five that person's sex life must consist exclusively of memories. Could she have turned this boy on if she'd walked in and caught him without a hard-on?
To hell with it. Shape up, woman, she told herself. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth or a gift man in the cock. Take it while you can get it and don't go getting bound up in philosophy. He was still kissing her tits, but not with the frantic abandon of a moment ago. Now he was starting to play telephone, with one nipple plugged into an ear while he licked and kissed the other. She wondered if he would ever manage to get it in from such an improbable position.
It felt almost as if it were coming out. She tried not to cry. It was nice to play around -- foreplay, all the sex manuals that came in plain brown wrappers called it. It was lovely to play around for hours with a man who had plenty of power and self-control, who could take his own sweet time getting around to it. But not now -- not when she had been nearly a year without the feel of firm phallus sliding in and out, in and out. Oh, would he ever put it in?
Let him please stick it in, let him pour it to her hot, hard and heavy for just one minute and then she would be willing to spend the rest of the day, the rest of the night, clear up to office time Monday morning, playing long lascivious games with him. He was such a lovely boy.
She wondered how old he was. Eighteen?-Nineteen? It was hard to tell. He was about her height but it was hard to know whether he was through growing. He had a man's build-broad-shouldered and narrow-kipped. The dense red thicket whence sprang his cock was fully manlike. The scant ruddy wisps of hair on his chest were not. He seemed to have only the downiest beginnings of a mustache. She ran a hand over his face while he kissed her tits and verified her suspicion. That cheek had never seen a razor.
But he had a cock. Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph, did he ever have a cock! And quite suddenly he was straightening up, taking his mouth away from her tits. As he put his mouth over hers and began swapping tongues Clara suddenly knew that her long wait was about to end. Surely now he would put it in.