Chapter 8
Staring at him, Clara felt a little thrill start in her crotch. It spread, radiating through her belly, up past her tiny waist, up her midriff, over the marvellous jutting curves of her jaunty jugs, up her throat, until even her ears were tingling. The boy had been out in the sun working hard, sweating. So why was Clara blushing?
They stared at each other across the barrier of language. Once more Clara sensed that the whole thing was getting out of control. Jesus! Whatever had gotten into her the way she kept using that word? Couldn't she think of something more genteel to express her feelings? She could not. The latent eroticism in this encounter was growing. Soon, she knew, in another minute or two, the boy would come over to her, would start undressing her, and sweat and all, he would be pouring it to her right on the kitchen floor. She had to do something soon!
Finally she remembered his bundle of freshly washed clothing. She pointed at it, picked it up, beckoned, and led him to the bath. She wasn't sure whether he would know about shower controls so she showed him the hot and cold faucets and waited till she was sure he understood. Then she left him alone in the bathroom. While the water was running, she sneaked in and captured the sweaty Levis. She gave them a quick rinse and stuffed them into the dryer, reminding herself that she had not once peeped into the shower stall for a final look at that lovely cock.
So you think you should, get a medal? she asked herself derisively. Big deal! What was she going to do when he came out of that shower, his golden, hard muscled young body clean and ready? If she was smart she would barricade herself in her bedroom and lock the door. Where had she left that pistol? She knew she had brought it back to the house. Where? She raced to the bedroom while he was still showering. It was there. She thought a moment, then put it up on the top shelf behind the dusty photograph albums in the closet.
So now what was she planning? She was not, definitely not going to have this boy in her bedroom, no matter how golden, how rippling-muscled, how stiff pricked. But if he were to turn ugly ...
She was playing with fire. She knew it. She had no idea where this boy came from, but she was pretty sure he came from somewhere in the middle east-somewhere in the world where the local brand of machismo made Latin lovers look henpecked. She remembered the capable, no-nonsense way he had looked up from his reading, casually stood up, undressed her, laid her down, and fucked her. This lovely boy just might not be prepared culturally or physically to take no for an answer.
Just thinking of the casual way he had used her, she felt her insides turn to jelly again. Good God! She was a civilized woman-she was an American citizen. What was she standing for this kind of rape for? If she had a brain in her head she'd call the cops or the immigration or whoever it was that took care of sailors who jumped ship. She didn't have to put up with that kind of treatment!
She certainly didn't! She hadn't put up with anything like that for a year now and she knew perfectly well that she could put a stop to it any time she wanted. She had a gun, she had a telephone. She could have the place swarming with cops within minutes -- and all to cart off one cheerful smiling boy who had scythed all the grass and weeds for her in that awful backyard. She didn't have to put up with anything unless she wanted to. Unless she wanted to, unless she wanted to --
Suddenly she realized it had been some time since she had heard the sound of running water. She turned around and the boy was behind her in the doorway. He had put on a clean pair of Levis and a frayed blue shirt. She was wearing her loose floppy slacks, her high necked, long-sleeved blouse. She faced the boy, frightened, then wondered why. There was nothing threatening about him. Now that he had worked up a sweat, had washed it off, and had worked up an appetite, he looked like any hungry boy. But what was he hungry for?
"Would you like something to eat?" she asked.
"Aaaaaahhhh," he said.
She suspected he was not talking about food. She moved toward the door, determined this time not to be hypnotized by this hard bodied young stud. All it took was will power. She walked firmly toward the bedroom door and to her surprise-to her disappointment, she suddenly realized, he stepped aside and let her pass. She went to the kitchen and once more asked him if he was hungry.
"Aaaaaahhhh!" he repeated.
She made eating and drinking motions and finally the boy understood. He smiled and nodded. She began fixing sandwiches, wondering how the boy expected her to get anything done if he was going to stand behind her and make a living bra for her firm thirty-nines with his two hot little hands.
She wanted to slap his hands away and make him sit down and be quiet but ... but she couldn't. Even now, as tired as she was after that first marathon fuck fest, after scrubbing out the trailer to rid herself of the memory of folly, even now when she was so pleasantly weary that all she really ought to want was a hot bath and a night's sleep, she could not force herself to make him take his hands off the front of her high necked, long-sleeved blouse. And a lot of good that did, she thought wryly.
Already she could feel the storm gathering in her belly. It was going to happen again. She knew it. She didn't want it to happen. It was too close to her heart's desire. Sooner or later, it would destroy her. But it felt so good to have that golden skinned boy with the firm body rubbing against her back wherever she went in the kitchen, his hands clasped firmly over her tits until her tiny nipples were rigid with anticipation ...
It was going to happen again. She didn't want it to happen but she did but she didn't but she couldn't help herself. Finally she had fixed him a plate of sandwiches. She garnished it with pickles, with hot peppers, with fritos and potato chips. Surely he would like something.
He liked it all. But he liked her body even more. He ate with one hand, caressing her ass, her tits, memorizing the gentle swell of thigh with the other as she stood beside him-stood beside him like some servant girl while he ate and fondled her and once his stomach was filled and his male ego satisfied he would get around to --
Oh shit! Why did she have to get into this male chauvinism fugue? He was a man. All men were alike. They liked to fuck women. The happiest thing about this arrangement was that women liked to fuck men, so usually, providing they can concentrate on fucking and stop playing one-upsmanship, everybody's happy. He was enjoying her food. He had cut her grass. Now he was going to fuck her. What did she want, an egg in her beer?
If only she could make up her mind what she wanted. She knew what her body wanted. It wanted six solid inches in and out until he wore a callus in her. But what about her mind? To hell with her mind, she decided. Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all. And see what too much thinking got Hamlet when he could have spent the rest of his days happily humping Ophelia?
Standing beside this lovely hard bodied boy, she wondered for the thousandth time just what it was she had done that had finally made Harry, damn him, pull the plug? She had been fed up, ready to leave him. And then he had left her. It wasn't that she was getting old or wrinkled or waffle-assed. She knew she was better looking than the woman who had replaced her. That was what hurt so much about it all. If only he'd run off with some young woman she could have shrugged. After all, can thirty-nine compete with nineteen? Could balding, hard-drinking old Harry compete with this lovely, hard bodied boy? Suddenly she felt a little better. But not enough better to ignore the fact that that other bitch -- her subconscious was trying to tell her something. That other bitch. Deep in her heart of hearts Clara knew it. She was a bitch. Harry was no prize but sure as hell she had driven him away -- driven him into the arms of a woman no younger, not half as good-looking as she was. She could tell herself she was well rid of Harry, that she had been planning on leaving him anyway. But she hadn't. Harry had been more dissatisfied than she was, and he had left first. Which meant that she had failed.
And, here she was, a thirty-nine-year-old failure standing like a suppliant in her own kitchen letting a downy-cheeked boy play with her ass! God! What had happened to her life that she needed a cock this badly?
Suddenly, even with a lovely golden skinned boy fondling her ass-and caressing her tits, Clara was sobbing. The boy looked up startled. He stood and put his arms on her shoulders. Looking into her eyes, he said, "Deezneelen."
"What?" Clara was startled and embarrassed. She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her long-sleeved blouse. God! If she didn't stop it she'd be a sight! "What did you say?" she repeated.
"Deezneelen."
Clara stared. The boy repeated it several more times and suddenly Clara understood what he was saying. My god, she thought. The mentality of a primitive! The boy was trying to comfort her. He could not imagine how there could possibly be any unhappiness in the life of an American -- in the life of anyone who lived this close to the magic kingdom of Deezneelen. "Disneyland," Clara repeated. "Yes," she added, knowing the boy could not possibly understand her. "Disneyland. Someday I'll take you there, if you don't get deported and I don't end up in jail first."
But his simple efforts had put her problems in proportion. Shit! She had problems. What about this boy? Probably he made all of twenty dollars a month on some grimy freighter-and sent all of that home to feed a half dozen brothers and sisters and parents and -- and she had the colossal self-pitying gall to complain!
She opened her arms and drew him to her, pillowing his head on her firmly upstanding thirty-nines. "Aaaaaaahhhhh!" the boy said. "Deezneelen!"
One magic kingdom, Clara decided, was as good as another. With her arms still wrapped round the boy, seh began moving slowly backwards out of the kitchen. With his face still buried in the front of her high necked blouse, she led him out of the kitchen, down the hall, led him through another door and kept on leading until she felt the backs of her knees contact the edge of her bed-the room where she had been absolutely certain that she was not going to have this hard bodied stiff pricked boy. Oh well ... it was, she reminded herself, a woman's prerogative to change her mind.
And having changed it, she sat on the edge of the bed. The boy knelt between her legs. He began working at the buttons on her blouse. Suddenly Clara wished she'd picked something with fewer than half a hundred buttons. The poor boy might be there all night.
She supposed she hadn't ought to. It wasn't ladylike. But was this any time to stand on ceremony? While the boy worked his way up from the bottom, she began unfastening buttons from the top.
"Aaaaahhhh!" he said as their hands met over her firm thirty-nines.
Clara conquered her ladylike squeamishness. If she was going to fool around with an underage boy, with an illegal immigrant, she might as well go whole hog and enjoy herself. She grabbed him by the ears, pulled him up and kissed him. The boy responded enthusiastically and soon they were swapping tongues. She felt her belly begin to churn with anticipation. Soon that wonderful muffin-stabber would be back in there again, driving deep into her, driving all her cares away as he ...
The boy was no timewaster. He had already shed his shirt-managing somehow to do it while fiddling with the buttons on her blouse and swapping tongues with her. Now he was raising her shoulders gently from the bed and peeling off her blouse. He looked down at her perfect ski jump-profiled jugs. "Aaaaahhhh!" he said "Deezneelen!"
Clara wondered if he was referring to that papiermache Matterhorn. Not that she cared. She was more interested in the businesslike way he was unfastening the waistband button of her floppy slacks. He unfastened it, lowered the zipper, grasped the cuffs and -- instant nudity. Before she quite realized how deftly he had undressed her the boy had stepped back for a moment and was shucking his Levis.
Now they faced each other as they had entered the world, with only, the minor addition of pubic hair. Stripped for action again, she realized. Would he take forever this time? Or, now that he knew he could drive it full depth without hurting her, would he perhaps make his entry not quite so exquisitely prolonged?
Clara had gotten over her outrage, over her indignation and over her sadness. There remained only a wry amusement as she saw one by one her little subterfuges stripped away until she was forced to admit to herself that there were only two reasons why she had let this naked boy into her bedroom had let him undress her: She had let it happen because she couldn't help herself. And she had let it happen because- she didn't want to help herself.
She hoped he would hurry up and get it in. Remembering the delicious firmness of that wonderful organ, remembering all the melodies he had planed on it, she felt a delightful shiver of erotic anticipation. surge through her body. Good God, she realized, my nipples are like pebbles already!
Her clit was fluttery with expectation, rock hard and already secreting the clear juice which is love's lubrication. How long would he be good for this time? She found it hard to remember and to believe that that deliciously, impossibly prolonged fuckfest in the trailer had been the first time this teenage boy had gotten it into her. He should have exploded within seconds. Wow! If the first time had nearly driven her out of her gourd with joy, what would the second time be like now that he had caught his breath and recharged his batteries and eaten and rested and bathed and gotten every little detail taken care of so he could devote the last full firm measure of devotion to her?
She could hardly wait to feel that firm rod sliding deep, deeper, deepest into her waiting pussy. Then abruptly she realized she was going to have to wait. He was putting something into her waiting cunt, but it wasn't his cock. It was his tongue!