Chapter 7
Clara was amazed at her body's resilience. A moment ago she had thought she was finished for the day, exhausted, satiated, fucked-out. Now the boy was pounding away like some berserk riveter, pouring his all to her with frantic ram slamming, no longer timing himself or using any finesse. And suddenly she was tight again, every muscle in her lovely, round, smooth skinned belly tightening around the tip of his bobbing cock, doing her best to pull him in deeper, harder, faster.
She could feel herself losing control. My God, were those her feet way up there in the air? Were those her legs waving around? She'd be floating through the roof if he wasn't on top holding her down. But oh, what a nice job he was doing of holding her down, pinning her down, nailing her to the mattress with his bobbing spike.
She felt herself rising, floating, as if her whole body were actually levitating under the erotic assault of his unbelievable cock. Somewhere somebody was keening a shrill, high pitched moan of joy and then she realized she was the one who was doing it. The boy was pounding, gasping. "Aaaaahh!" he panted and drove it deeper into her than she had imagined possible. Deep, deep up inside the upper reaches of her secret parts, where vagina and womb come together she felt the sudden spurting like a stuttering fire hose as his healthy young body finally discharged its load, squirting gallons of joyous goo up into her, flushing her with love's elixir and filling her thrumming belly with the lotion of love.
"Aaaaaahhh!" he repeated.
Thank God he's not a conversationalist, Clara decided with one tiny, still sane corner of her mind. Her body had finally unwound with another big one, timed with the boy's explosion, and now they were both spent and empty, satiated, fucked-out. She wondered if he was as happy as she was. She wanted to move out from under his inert body but it felt so good just to lie still and do nothing. ...
When she awoke the boy was eating the lunch she had brought on the tray. The pistol was still on the tray beside the sandwiches she had fixed. The boy glanced at her, saw her consternation, glanced at the pistol, and grinned. He picked it up.
Clara nearly died before she realized what he was doing. Holding it by the barrel, the boy handed it to her. They smiled at each other again.
Suddenly she wondered why he had not paid attention to her note. She had left a note in here telling him to clean things up and be on his way. Then she understood. "You don't speak English, do you?"
The boy smiled and nodded. "You do speak English?" Still smiling, he shook his head.
Embarrassed, Clara took the pistol and put it behind her. She was a mess. She needed a shower, a douche, everything. It would take hours to get her hair back in shape. But this damned trailer had been parked out here for a year. There was no water in the tanks. She couldn't use the bath or toilet.
She remembered that she had come out here to clean it up. Instead, she needed cleaning up. She wondered ... the neighbours didn't seem to be the prying kind. But what would happen if somebody were to see her come out all dishevelled and a moment later the cause of her dishevelment came out in all his hard bodied glory? It was hard enough for a woman alone to live without something like that which would give her a reputation as fair game and have every bleary eyed boozer in this end of town hanging out waiting for a chance to fuck good old Clara.
She found her shorts and got into them. Come was streaming from her crotch but if she was careful and if she didn't meet anybody on the way to the house she could make it without disgrace. She found her halter-soaked with the juices of joy fulfilled when the boy had wiped her cunt. She decided it would not be visible from a hundred yards. After all, it was only an old halter she used for painting. But her hair!
Then she saw the solution to that problem too. The boy was wiping his mouth with the napkin she had used to hide the gun. She got it when he was finished and wrapped it round her head. What was she going to do with this boy?
"Can't you understand me at all?" she asked.
The boy smiled and nodded.
"You're a deserter from the Chinese army?"
The boy smiled and nodded again.
"And your mother eats shit?" she asked with a smile.
Once more the boy smiled and nodded. So now what was she going to do? At least it explained why he had not obeyed her instructions in the note she left. She wondered what he would do now. Would he pack up and move on now that he had been discovered? Or would he decide to settle in as resident stud? She didn't know which would be worse.
Who was he anyway? Probably he was a deserter from some Levantine freighter. She wondered if he spoke Arabic or Cypriot or Maltese, or Greek or ...? Smiling again, she pointed at herself and said, "Clara." She repeated it several times. Finally the boy's face lit in understanding. Pointing to himself he said. "Att."
Now what language was that? Clara had no idea. She sighed and finally realized that somehow they would have to communicate without words. She opened the closet and pointed at the faded Levis and shirt. Finally he understood that he was to dress. Then she managed to get it across to him that he was to step outside even if it was broad daylight. They stood in the overgrown back yard beside the trailer and she studied the neighboring houses from the corner of her eye. Nobody seemed to be watching. She led the boy to the lawnmower, then realized he might never have seen one before. She showed him how to work it and gave the grassy back yard an all-inclusive wave. Then she realized he could never make it with the lawn mower.
What the hell? If he'd wanted to kill her he'd had the pistol. She led him to the garage and gave him a scythe. This time the boy had a tool he understood and knew how to use. He was demolishing the tall grass when she went into the house and pulled off her sticky, come-smeared shorts and halter and stepped into the shower.
Now that it was over she felt -- dirty. She douched the come from her satiated cunt. She refilled the plastic bag and flushed her cunt again and again, trying to remove the last trace of that wonderfully firm bodied boy. What on earth had gotten into her to let herself go like that? My God, she was a respectable married woman -- had been at least until that louse of a Harry had run off with another woman.
She was thirty-nine, with tits to match. She could still turn men's heads on the street. What was she doing fooling around with stray boys? God! She felt dirty!
And that boy -- damn him even more than she damned Harry! She had come in there like a Christian woman to give him something to eat before she sent him on his way. What business did a boy like that have in just undressing her without so much as a by-your-leave? He hadn't even asked whether she wanted to -- just pulled her clothes off and pushed her down and poured it to her like she was some --
Like she was exactly what she was, Clara ruefully realized: a woman with a fire between her legs that only a man's hose could put out. Where did she get off with all this holier-than-thou crap? It had been stupid of her to go out there like that. He could have been a criminal maniac. She had been lucky to get off with her life and her ass in one unsliced piece. She couldn't go blaming the boy.
But still, it had been stupid. She couldn't let it happen again or the first thing she knew he would be hanging around like some permanent fixture and the next thing she knew she'd be in trouble with the police, the immigration authorities, perhaps even the Holy Office for all she knew.
She towelled off and stepped from the shower, amazed at her woman's vanity which even now at this moment of self-disgust would not let her pass a mirror without inventorying her thirty-nine-year-old body with its firm, upstanding thirty-nines, her small waist, her smooth, gently rounded belly and long tapered legs, her prominent mons veneris furred the same natural auburn as her long straight hair. She was, and she knew it wasn't bragging, something to look at. Didn't strange men prove it to her on the street every day?
But now was not the time for that. She stretched and peeped from the tiny bathroom window. Surely the boy would have abandoned the scythe and disappeared for easier pickings by now. But when she looked outside there he was in the backyard assaulting weeds with the steady stroke of a boy who had obviously handled a scythe before. Somewhere in Asia Minor, she would guess. What other parts of the world could produce that wonderful golden skinned body with red hair and pubic patch? She wondered if he was a Turk.
Thinking about him she felt a tiny thrill of anticipation race through her body. My God, you ought to be ashamed, she told herself. She went to her bedroom and looked through the closet. She had another pair of shorts and a halter even more provocatively revealing. She vetoed this arrangement, with a little pang and made herself get into a long-sleeved, high-necked blouse and an old pair of loose, floppy slacks. If that didn't send him on his way, nothing would.
Suddenly she remembered. Damn! She had gone and left the pistol in the trailer! Even if he was not the kind of boy to kill the thing he loved, he would undoubtedly love a pistol even more than a woman. She had to get out there and get it back before the boy decided to evaporate.
When she ploughed through the weed-infested backyard the boy looked up from his mowing and smiled. He had already cut a respectable swath of weeds. She remembered that she had intended to clean up the trailer this morning. She went back out to it, trying not to think about how the shirtless boy's golden body glistened in the sun as muscles rippled with each stroke of the scythe.
She got the pistol and then had to figure out how to carry it inconspicuously back to the house lest the neighbours draw all kinds of possibly too accurate conclusions. She stripped the bedding, rolled it into a ball, stuffed the automatic in, looked in the closet and realized that with an automatic washer it would cost her nothing to throw the boy's few dirty clothes in too. She lugged the bundle back to the house and put it to wash. If only she could stop thinking about the lovely way his body glowed and glistened with each movement in the sunlight. ...
She went back to the trailer with a bucket of soapy water and sponge and began scrubbing down the walls, struggling to eradicate the smell of love's fulfilment and the not unpleasant mate smell of the boy's prolonged residence. An hour passed and she was hot and sweaty and cranky, and damn it, couldn't she ever stop thinking about that lovely boy?
Damn him! She had given him every opportunity to put down that scythe and walk away. Why was he hanging around working? Then abruptly she realized she had all his clothes except the faded Levis he wore. She gave the trailer a finishing lick and a promise, decided it was clean enough to offer for sale, and went back to the house. The washer had stopped. She stuffed things into the dryer. The boy was still mowing weeds. He had the yard nearly finished.
It was amazing. Clara had done enough yard work to know just how hard it was. And she had paid enough useless teenagers in her time to know how slowly they worked and how totally useless most of them were. No wonder this boy was hard bodied. Any boy who could work that hard and that steadily ... she was tempted to call him into the house and give him something more to eat and something cool to drink, but ...
But she remembered what had happened the last time the two of them were alone together. She didn't want it to happen again-did she? Most assuredly, she did not. She had put on a long-sleeved, high necked blouse just to prevent any nonsense. She had on an ancient pair of faded slacks she had not worn since she had gone on a crash diet five years ago and taken off fifteen pounds.
She checked the trailer again, telling herself that she might have overlooked something, that she was not parading through the back yard again just for another close look at the glistening boy's rippling muscles. He glanced up from his scything and gave her a cheerful smile. She felt something inside her start to melt. Hurriedly, she pushed past him and into the trailer.
It was clean and ready to sell. She stood in the center of the tiny floor space, looking down on the bed where the boy had just fucked her to within an inch of her life and her sanity. God, she thought, what have I done?
She knew what she was now. She was the kind of hot-pantsed female that all those barroom jokes were told about. Jesus! It had happened to her! And it had all started so innocently. All she intended to do was go in here and tell him to clean up his mess and get the hell off her property and --
And it hadn't been like that at all, she realized. She remembered a medieval prayer: May the lord protect thee from the wolf, and from thy heart's desire. She had gotten her heart's desire. Her cunt's desire. It had been lovely -- so lovely she still trembled at the memory. But now that she had gotten it, what next? She had to get rid of the boy. She couldn't let him hang around. If his cock didn't destroy her the authorities would. What was she going to do?
She sighed. In thirty-nine years she had never been so turned-on by a simple fuck. He had not, she suddenly realized, even gone in for any of the fancy refinements. He had driven her out of her middle-aged skull with pure and simple fucking, driving his dong deep into her until her will power turned to come and dribbled out her ass -- until her will turned to water and her brains to peanut butter. What was she going to do? How was she going to get rid of him?
Could she?
Sighing again, she went back to the house. The boy was nearly finished with his scything. He smiled and nodded as she passed.
Clara went into the house and the dryer had stopped. She pulled out the blankets and folded them. She folded the boy's pitifully small pile of clothes separately and put it beside the door. Then she realized she couldn't just hand him his clothes and send him on his way. He didn't have any money. He had nowhere to go. He would be hungry again after all that work. She would have to feed him first. Then maybe she could give him five dollars and point him toward a road where he would be less likely to run into the immigration men out hunting wetbacks.
She was fiddling around in the kitchen, dithering over what kind of a meal to fix him, when the back door opened. The boy had put the scythe away. He was hot and sweaty. But he was smiling.