Chapter 6

When Clara had been younger she had a little brother who was freaked on model airplanes. Clara was a loving sister who did not regard her kid brother as the sort of pest which such organisms often are. She bought him toys, mostly model airplane kits, and often helped him play with them. She never told him though about the secret thoughts that came to her every time they spent five minutes twisting a propeller, winding up a rubber band, putting more and more tension into that elastic instrument until it approached the breaking point.

Nor did she ever tell her little brother how, when that little stick and paper airplane was released, when its propeller let go all that tension with one long, magnificent whirrrrr that sent the little airplane soaring above the treetops --

How could she ever have explained such feelings to anyone else when she didn't clearly understand them herself? For years her mind had hovered around the edges of this analogy like some bloodhound who knew there was a trail but couldn't quite find it. Now, with this lovely hard bodied boy with the kouros smile and the permanent-press cock she knew her instincts had been right. He had been winding her up ever since she had come barging into the trailer with a tray and a pistol.

Occasionally his finger, or perhaps it was her finger -- once in a while something slipped and that propeller inside her belly would whirr deliciously for a second or two and some of the tension would be gone but always somehow this master cocksman would recapture the propeller before her rubber bands were completely run down. Each time he would begin slowly winding up her motor again until she was stretched aver tighter, her belly knotted and straining with the effort to come, not to come, to come ... She didn't know what she wanted.

Except for one thing. She wanted this to go on forever. The boy was pouring it to her indefatigably, steady as a pile driver, hesitating at the pull-out to feint deliciously two or three times before going in deep, deep, to drive her past the edge of delirium. She could feel his marvellously young, hard muscled body driving her slowly but steadily toward the edge of a chasm -- a chasm of orgasm where sooner or later he would push her over the edge and she would go falling, spinning, whirling, soaring and sinking into erotic satiation. Oh Jesus, did it ever feel good to have this lovely boy pouring it to her after all those long empty nights and days. Had it been a whole year since she had last had a cock inside her?

It had. Worse than that, she had not had a really good and satisfying fuck for months before old Harry had finally bugged off with another bitch-damn! She was going to have to learn not to put it that way.

To hell with Harry! Even when they had been first married, twelve years ago when he had been a handsome young stud with all his hair and no problem with the bottle, Harry had never been ten percent of the stud that hovered over her now, pushing it in and out, in and out, driving her slowly toward an erotic crescendo of fleshy delight.

Relax. Accept. Enjoy. But the human mind being the perverse and self destructive instrument that it is, Clara found her attention wandering again. Could it be for real? This boy was just too perfect, too much the embodiment of every lonely and deprived dream she had suffered during the long empty nights on her narrow bed. I've got to be dreaming again, she decided. Soon I'll wake up wiggling and squirming, with my viscera all knotted in frustrated passion and then I'll go take a cold shower and promise myself it won't happen again and then I'll go to sleep and I'll start dreaming again and oh Jesus, here it comes!

It feels so good the way he keeps sliding it in and out I just know I'm going to come and then I'll wake up and it'll be all over and I'll be all alone again and OOOOOHHHH!

Suddenly great erotic rockets of delight were coursing round her belly, bursting off in wild caroms to ricochet up her spine and blow her mind. She felt her cunt contracting and relaxing, squeezing and milking at the boy's plunging cock in a perfect frenzy of lascivious delight. Her insides were twisting, churning, moving this way and that as they made room for the hard headed invader, caressing him, squeezing him, milking him with the smooth contractile muscles of her deep vagina.

The boy's rhythm did not change. Clara's ass was bobbing frantically as she rose to meet his thrust, then she was two-timing, ramming her ass up twice for each of his slow, steady plunges. The boy still wore that superhuman smile, still poured it to her with the tireless tenacity of some superhuman machine.

She felt those rubber bands inside her belly whir and unwind as somewhere deep in her cunt a tiny propeller spun and her whole body thrummed in unison. For a tiny moment it felt as if the boy had somehow managed to stuff a tiny erotic eggbeater up her r ass. But most of all, it felt so goooood!

And still the boy was pumping tirelessly, his rhythm unchanged. How long could it go on, she wondered. In her thirty-nine years Clara could not remember once ever being actually fucked-out.

Oh, there had been a few times when she had been pretty happy, fairly well satisfied. But not once in her drab and wretched life could she remember ever having had so much cock that she didn't want more. Not once had a man ever worn her down. She wondered if there was a first time for everything.

This boy was unbelievable. She had come copiously and voluminously. Her cunt was sopping and still the boy plunged his tireless tool deep into her with an unchanging rhythm.

Really, they ought to get up and go shower or something but ... But it felt too good to stop now. The boy's smile never changed as he reached out and captured her halter where he had tossed it moments ago. He got it between their straining asses and wiped away the juices of joy -- without once missing a stroke.

She felt so goooood! She had finally managed to come -- really come, and not just those sputtery little mini-orgasms that were precursors to the real thing. She knew it spoiled her in a way, relaxed her and made every muscle loosen up -- made her pussy flaccid with satiation. Did the boy notice?

If he did, apparently he didn't care, for he still wore the same kouros smile, still poured it to her with the same steady waltz beat: in deep, out, two quick jabs, and back in deep again. To Clara's intense surprise she felt herself winding up again, all those rubber bands inside her twisting and tightening in preparation for still another erotic cataclysm.

This time it was happening quicker. It was as if, once she had gotten back into the habit, everything went faster, smoother, almost backward from the way it should have been. She caught herself wishing she had worn a watch. How long had it been since she had burst into this tiny trailer with a tray and a pistol?

Reason told her it couldn't have been more than five or ten minutes. The boy had not wasted a minute in preliminaries. He had stood up and undressed her the instant she walked in. And she, lucky fool that she was, had stood there nervelessly and let him do it. She knew that if he had taken out a butcher knife and started to dismember her she would still have stared at him, unmoving, with the same fascination for his lovely hard young body and his rigid ramrod.

And here he was still pouring it to her long after most boys should have come and withered in gasping deflation. His cock was hard as ever, the thick knob still pulling her vagina in and out with it, puckering her pouting vulval lips inward with each long thrust, threatening to turn her blushing pussy inside out each time he withdrew.

How long could it go on? She could feel her belly gathering forces for another big one. Would the boy ever come? It was lovely to lie here and be fucked by a tireless machine but it would be nice too to know that she could still really turn on a boy, that at thirty-nine she was not too old to make a boy come.

He was unbelievable: smooth skinned, just starting a wisp of a moustache, no bristle at all on his cheeks. Abundant red pubis and a few ringlets on his chest. Apart from that he was all youth, smooth skin and muscle -- and cock! Oh what a cock! She tried to remember what it had looked like when she came into the trailer and caught her first glimpse of him naked on the bed reading a girlie magazine with his hammer in full rampant erection, heavy-veined, uncircumcised, his angry purple cock head peeping wetly from a tight-stretched foreskin. He had been ready for her. Boy, had he ever been ready.

Almost as ready, she realized ruefully, as she had been for him. She wondered at the mysteries of the human psyche, knowing enough of herself to realize she had been building all day for this moment. It was almost as if she had known she was going to get it today. First she had woken up with that recurrent dream. Then she had inadvertently turned her binoculars on the couple next door getting it on in their bedroom. And then she had come traipsing out here in shorts and halter and -- like a sacrificial lamb she had stood while he undressed her and worked his will.

She wondered if perhaps her subconscious had been giving her clues. Had she known with some part of her mind already that some man had holed up out here in the trailer? Holed up! Well, she decided ruefully, he'd certainly done that. And even now while she dawdled and daydreamed and mentally masturbated in futile Freudianism he was up her hole firmly, steadily, repeatedly, stuffing her full of cock, leaving her replete with the joy that passeth all understanding.

So why couldn't she keep her mind on her fucking? In the moment that she had lapsed into analyzing, all those rubber bands in her belly had somehow slowly unwound. Now she was relaxed again. Not that it seemed to make any difference to the pile driver who poised above her, pouring it to her with that steady one-two waltz beat.

Now that she was not on the verge of coming she could relax and savor the full joy of a tireless cock sliding in and out of her. Jesus! She remembered when her dainty-lady attitudes would not let her even think vulgarities like that. But what other words were there for the joys of fucking? Jesus, but that boy's lovely hard cock felt goooood!

It felt so good that suddenly she was back up on that plateau of pleasure again, rising, soaring once more toward a rubber-band-powered flight. He was still pouring it to her with the same tireless rhythm that reminded her of some kind of machine, an oil pump, a piledriver, something or other that pushed and prodded endlessly, tirelessly hour after hour. But how could any machine ever feel that good?

She caught herself wondering about electric vibrators. Clara had never owned one, even though lately they seemed to be for sale in every drugstore-or by parcel post in plain brown wrappers. She wondered ... maybe she ought to have one around the house to take up the slack on those long empty nights when this boy would not be here. But could anything made out of rubber, no matter how powerful the battery-could anything ever erase the memory of this wonderful cock sliding in and out as steadily as a metronome?

Since that first brief flurry the boy had not once changed the pace of his prodding. He was still feeding her that steady waltz beat no faster, no slower than when he had started a minute or an hour ago, whichever it was. Clara didn't know. It seemed to her that she had been here hours being pleasured by this tireless boy but reason told her it couldn't be more than fifteen minute -- a half hour? An hour maybe? Jesus, it felt so good she had lost all track of time.

Another delicious tremor passed through her bowels as a mini-orgasm peeled a little fluttery whir and released the tension on those mythical rubber bands a couple of turns. And then his unbroken rhythm was winding her up again. Soon, she knew, she would explode with another big one. How long could she keen it up before she became so come-raddled and soppy that his tool started falling out? Jesus, what a humiliation that would be!

She prayed she could outlast this tireless boy. Please, don't make me come too many times before he does. Even if it has to end now, let him come once just to let me know he's human. Oh God but he's lovely. He's too good to be true. I'd pinch myself if I had the strength but it feels so good I can't even get my legs around him anymore.

She could feel her nipples, still rock hard and sensitized by the rubbing of his hard muscled chest. Her clit was even harder, titillated each time he feinted with that short prod before driving back deep into her seething pussy. She was so turned-on that even the pressure of his crisp red pubic hair . was enough to make her clitoris flutter and tremble and make her want to wail, to moan and yodel her unbounded joy.

If only she could just stop being intellectual. Enjoy, she told herself. Don't analyze. If she'd been just a little more tolerant, a trifle less ready to pick everything apart ... She wondered why old Harry had gone and bugged off with another woman no younger, no better looking than she was? It didn't make any difference that she had been getting ready to leave him. The son of a bitch had gone and done it to her first. Damn him!

And damn her! Why couldn't she just concentrate on this lovely hard bodied boy with the hard cock that was still waltzing in and out of her with that metonymic one-two beat? Jesus, he was lovely! His cock was hard. Wouldn't he ever get tired of pouring it to her? She didn't know whether she wanted him to stop or not. It would be humiliating for her to get so satiated, so fucked-out that she went all loose and sloppy and his cock started falling out. But it felt so nice just to lie here and feel that firm phallus sliding in and out.

Then abruptly she sensed a subtle change in his rhythm. At first she could not imagine what it was-or if she was imagining it. She tried to concentrate and pay attention to her fucking. Finally she was convinced. He was moving a little faster, pushing just a tiny bit harder. And then suddenly he was no longer waltzing with that one-two feint in between his thrusts. Now it was tango rhythm, deep, hard, steady, pounding at her pussy like every boot in the Red Army Chorus.