Chapter 5
As his tongue drove deep into her, Clara felt her belly knot up and begin to twist and churn in preparation for still another cataclysmic come fest. The boy had been practically on his side as he played telephone with her tits. The tip of his marvellous wand had nearly come out. Now that he was back properly atop her in missionary position, kneeling between her widespread thighs with her knees flexed to turn her ass up ready to receive him -- now the boy seemed finally to have gotten it through his head what a man was supposed to do in this position.
She felt the knob of his cock, now well slicked with love's elixir, began once more, the long, slow, sensual slide into her throbbing pussy. He was feeding it to her slowly, oh so slowly, but not so icily as that first incomplete thrust. This time she could actually feel him moving. The tip of his cock had penetrated her vulva and was entering her vagina, forcing a rearrangement of her insides this way and that as they moved to make room for this blunt invader.
He was thrusting slowly, carefully. Suddenly she wondered. He was a boy -- so young. Had his only experience been with immature girls? Maybe he was afraid -- maybe with that magnificently king-sized wand of his he had long cocked somebody. He was pushing slowly, steadily, moving at a snail's pace as his rod slid into her come-slicked cunt. But at least he was moving. And it felt so goooood!
His mouth was still over hers and they were still swapping tongues. Slowly but surely he was entering her. She had been waiting so long she could hardly believe it. But her body believed it. Some id-portion of her mind was exulting like the genie at long last free of the bottle. My year's up. I'm going to get fucked! He. going to stick it in me; he's going to pull it out, he's going to stick it in again! Over and over the refrain ran through her mind like some jingle or song one would desperately like to forget. But her whole mind and body were thrumming and harping on one simple central theme. I'm going to fuck, I'm going to get fucked I'm going to fuck, we're going to fuck, fuck, FUCK!
What was wrong with her? She could remember when she couldn't even bring herself to say that earthy word. Not that she hadn't always enjoyed doing it. But did she have to be so vulgar? There were so many nice and elegant words. She could make love. They could have intercourse. They could copulate. They could couple, they could mate. Most of all, they could fuck. Oh Jesus, did it ever feel good to have that hot hard piece of male meat sliding into her, pushing her insides every which way. She could feel her deep vaginal muscles contracting, relaxing, squeezing again as they became accustomed once more after a year-long absence to the wonderful full feeling of a stiff prick deep inside her.
He had it over halfway in now, he was still thrusting slowly, driving it into her with the precision of a surgeon. Was he really afraid he'd hurt her? Hurt her? Hurt Clara? She almost laughed at the thought of six solid inches hurting. How could anything hurt when it felt so good?
What, she wondered, what would happen if she were to wrap her legs around his. waist, grab his ass with both hands and pull herself up onto that magic wand like a glove? Would she frighten him? She doubted it. Nothing, apparently, could frighten this strange silent boy with the incredible self-control.
It just was not natural for a boy of his age to be able to perform like this. Or not perform. He should have been swarming over her, stuffing it in frantically, lunging and plunging to get in as many strokes as possible in the second before he exploded. Suddenly a little tendril of fear shot through her. Honour camp?
No way. He wasn't old enough to be held in a men's prison and there were no juvenile road camps in this part of the state. But there was a funny farm on the other side of town. Could he have escaped? Could he have made his way clear across a crowded seaport city and ended up here on the outskirts of the opposite side of town?
He was still pushing it into her. My God, she realized, it can't have been more than two or three minutes since I came in here with lunch and a pistol. What's happened to my sense of time? It seemed to her that she had been stretched out naked beneath this naked boy for at least as long as the empty miserable year she had spent playing the nun since old Harry, damn him, had bugged out with that other bitch.
But what if he was from the funny farm? That would explain his silence, that secretive smile of some evil oriental god who's privy to the secrets of the universe and has absolute proof that virtue is not its own reward, that evil will always triumph, and that a fuck passed up is a fuck lost forever. It might, she guessed, also serve to explain the unfailing rigidity of his hard-on. How else could a boy keep it up this long unless he was grounded out somewhere between his brain and his prick?
A total lack of imagination just might do it. Men, she had learned to her annoyance, could talk themselves into coming; could think themselves into coming, could take one sidelong glance at her magnificent thirty-nines, could see she neither used nor needed a bra, and those men could come right in their pants. But if this boy was not quite right ... Suddenly she wondered if she was being fucked by an idiot.
But an idiot would not possess that technique. He would poke it to her as uninhibitedly and with as little thought of the future or of prolonging any pleasure as-as some barnyard animal. What was it with this boy?
God, was he ever hung! It was more than halfway in now and she could feel not exactly paip, but a fullness, a tightness that bordered on the delicious edge of discomfort. Oh damn, was it ever nice to feel a hot hard prick sliding into her again after all these months!
She could feel her belly twisting, churning as her insides wound up tighter and tighter like some child's toy with a spring that was being twisted and pulled and strained until suddenly it was going to break and all that tension, all that stored-up energy was going to be released in one magnificent whirrrrrrr!
And he still didn't even have it all the way in on his first stroke! My God, she thought, I haven't been this desperate since ... But she didn't even like to think about that time when she had been fifteen and totally inexperienced. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about the smooth skinned, hard muscled perfection of this stiff pricked stud who was feeding it to her so slowly, so carefully, almost as if he were giving his all in one single endlessly prolonged stroke.
Now wouldn't that be something! It would be about her luck, Clara guessed, after a year of doing without. But golly jesus, she'd already come more times than she could remember. She'd better not worry about the future. Relax, woman, take it, enjoy it, savour it and if there's more ...
His red pubic tuft was blended now, grinding into the auburn ringlets of her mons veneris. He had it nearly all the way in. And wow, did it ever feel good! He had not hesitated for one instant since he had straightened up from playing telephone and begun dedicating himself to what comes naturally. Another inch and he would bottom out.
She waited, trying not to think too hard about the lovely smooth firmness of his body. She wondered if he was enjoying her body as much as she was turned on by him. He seemed to be breathing ever so slightly faster than when they had started, but apart from that there was no sign of uncontrollable passion in that serenely smiling face.
Suddenly she knew what that face reminded her of. An oriental god -- yes. But from the near east and not the far east. The smile was not of a buddha or a bodhisatva. It was the smile on a kouros from the pre-classical period, before the Greeks knew they were westerners and precursors of rationalism. It was the smile on some oriental god all right -- out of pre-Grecian Smyrna, a god from the days when Diana still had tits all up and down the front of her body like a bitch with pups.
It was also, Clara suddenly realized, the smile that dated from the days before the Christians had come along and invented sin -- a smile from an era when men had yet to discover that there was anything wrong or unnatural about fucking. She opened her eyes and tried to focus on his face. He was too close for her to see more than a blur. "Can you speak English?" she asked in sudden desperate inspiration. It was the first time she had spoken since she came in here with lunch and a pistol and he had calmly undressed her.
The boy's smile remained unchanged. But finally his cock was in her, in deep, in all the way. The smile became slightly broader. After a long pregnant moment the boy said, "Aaaaahhhhl" And then he began pulling it out.
When he bottomed out and his pelvis ground momentarily against hers the pleasure was suddenly so exquisitely intense that Clara gave a little involuntary gasp. Immediately the boy froze.
Suddenly she knew he was no idiot. He might be from the funny farm. She remembered jokes about people who were willing to admit that they were crazy, but not stupid. But this boy, she knew now with the certainty of intuition, was not stupid or uncaring. He had fed it to her slowly on the first stroke as if he were afraid to hurt her. Even now, bottomed out, he was still afraid. She wondered if he had had any experience with mature, full-grown and full-cunted women. Maybe he'd only fooled around with girls. ...
She had him deep inside her now. He had been kissing up a storm on her tits. Surely a boy who cared, who worried about hurting her, would not go pulling out now. She straightened her legs, flung her shapely calves skyward, and wrapped them round his waist in a loving, lascivious scissors. She grabbed his ass with both hands and pulled him into her hot, deep, hard.
"Aaaaahhhh!" the boy exploded. And suddenly he was galloping, pouring his cock to her with the rambunctious eagerness of any horny young man struggling to get in his licks before he exploded and flooded this lovely fleshy tunnel with gallons of come.
He was ram slamming, rocking and rolling, pouring it to her with all his strength, now that he understood there was no danger of hurting her. He's going to come, Clara told herself. Just like that his self-control is over, ended, and now he's going to fire his load and then it'll be all over and ...
And abruptly the boy stopped, leaving her high and dry on a plateau of pleasure as he rested, not tense and straining, but actually rested, relaxed above her, resting the weight of his pelvis lightly on her belly, his cock comfortably deep inside her but not pushing and straining for that final silly millimeter of penetration. And even now that he had stopped his ram slam thrusting, it felt so good!
It took Clara a moment to realize that in spite of his joyous wham bamming, the boy was still in control. Sensing his approaching climax, this wonderful hard bodied boy had known how to stop long before the danger point. At the moment he was relaxed atop her, just letting his lovely lance soak inside her. And the realization that it was not all over, that this capable boy might go on for hours yet, was suddenly enough to send a delicious little shiver through Clara's belly.
She wondered if the boy felt it, if he sensed the slight extra flow of love's elixir around his hammer. Could he know what he was doing to her?
He had to know. This lovely, 'inexperienced' boy was playing her like a cello, running lovely lascivious chromatic scales up and down her vibrating body, striking every erotic note in the repertoire of her willing flesh. Where had he learned to pleasure a woman this way?
Clara suspected she knew. In the endless dreary years slowly watching Harry turn into an alcoholic she had taken refuge in reading. Not surprisingly, she read about things that interested her: fucking. Civilization and literacy are the enemies of fucking. Or to put it an other way, they are substitutes. The boy who grows up in a village where nobody knows how to read, where the storyteller may appear once a year ... if there are girls in the village he finds a way to pass his time. With no electricity, and kerosene an expensive import, people can find other older pastimes which can be played without lights.
American men, Clara realized, could be super studs too if they were to burn all the books, bomb all the newspapers, destroy all the TVs, and dedicate every moment of their lives not spent working or sleeping to that oldest and greatest of all pastimes. How old was this boy now? How old had he been when he started out with the village girls? How long had he been perfecting his technique?
Suddenly Clara didn't care about the answers to any of these questions. The boy had started thrusting again. This time he was not going for any wham bam, ram slam conclusion. He was feeding her long, slow, steady strokes, driving his cock deep, deep into her, until his red-tufted pelvis ground against hers, then slowly pulling out so far she held her breath, afraid it would come out all the way.
But the boy's control was unbelievable. Each time the tip of his magic wand was barely parting the full flushed lips of her vulva he stopped at the exact moment, hesitated a heart-stopping moment, then drove it back half an inch in a feint, and then pulled in and out a couple of times, forcing the thick knobby head of his cock back and forth past the most sensitive portions of her thrumming cunt before once more beginning his long slow drive up the tunnel of love. Oh, Jesus, did it ever feel gooood!
He was driving slow, steady strokes into her, seemingly as indefatigable as a steam engine -- as one of those oil rigs that always took her mind off the traffic when she drove up the California coast. That same steady up and down, in and out, was not just making her daydream on the freeway. This was a live human male and he had it in her and he was pumping and pumping and it felt so good and his cock was so hard and yet so wonderfully throbbing, thumping and alive with hot maleness and he was pushing and bottoming out, driving it deep, deep into her with each stroke and then coming out to hover delightfully over the lips of her pussy until she wanted to giggle and squeal and pull him down and then just when she knew she couldn't stand it another second he was finally driving his drill rod deep into her, pumping away slowly, steadily, tirelessly as one of those damned oil rigs along the coast, and there he went putting it in again and again and it felt so good and there he was pouring it to her still again and again and she had lost all count of. time but it seemed like she had been here forever and she hoped she could stay here for two and a half more forevers and there he went ramming it into her again just like an oil rig and ooooohhhhhhh, there it went again. Suddenly Clara knew this wonderful hard bodied boy was going to strike oil.