Chapter 6
Old Mrs. Simpson's idea of a love bed was a single flowered sheet draped over a daybed in the basement rec room of her summer home.
"How do you do?" she asked, shaking Rick's hand at the door as if he were a visiting salesman. She did all of her shopping at home, from clothes to groceries to automobiles. The salesmen brought their suggestions to her and she wrote out lists for them in a cramped, laborious handwriting. She shopped for men the same way. Rick's appointment had been arranged by Elizabeth Cruise, who had become such an ardent advocate for the sale of his prick that he began to think she was getting a commission.
He would have liked to have delivered the commission himself, because he was already tired of slack skin and sagging breasts. He would have appreciated even the loose firmness of Elizabeth's body again, and he remembered with fondness the way her thirty-five-year-old breasts still had a lot of life as opposed to the dry, often withered tits of some of his customers.
Mrs. Simpson led him to the rec room, holding firmly to the handrail as she negotiated the stairs. A fall at her age could easily break a hip and Mrs. Simpson knew from bitter experience that old bones mend slowly.
"Please wait," she said. She selected a sheet from the wall closet, began to spread it over the daybed. She looked at Rick again, as if studying his coloring, then back at the sheet. It was covered with fields of yellow daisies. She looked back at Rick, then calmly, taking her time, folded the sheet and returned it to the closet. She returned with one covered with wild strawberries.
She wore only a pink robe, silk, with a white-trimmed ruffle around the neck and wrists. It gathered where she had tied it in front and swept to the floor. She seemed to glide, slowly and carefully, across the floor without moving her feet.
She asked' Rick to disrobe, please. She was a shy woman, and looked away while he took off his clothes.
Nothing happened to his prick, even when he was stark, bare-ass naked.
She turned around when he was finished and studied his body. She blinked. "Would you turn around, please?"
He did so.
"Thank you. Now, please follow me." She led him into the bathroom where a steaming tub of water waited. "Sit right down in that water, young man. It's good for you."
So Rick sat down, the suds reaching to his arm pits. He felt silly as hell, but Mrs. Simpson kept a serious, almost stern, expression on her face and he resisted his impulse to laugh.
Holding a washcloth decorated with strawberries in one hand and a bar of soap in the other, Mrs. Simpson began washing, soaping, washing and soaping. Up over his back, over his shoulders, down his arms, into his arm pits, between his fingers, tickling down his ribs, into the water to wash his thighs, his legs, scrubbing his knees as if he was a recalcitrant child who did nothing but scruff his knees in the road all day. She held his feet out of the water and scrubbed them, down into the furrows between his toes.
By now Rick was enjoying the process and relaxed in the thick foam, the hot water. His body began unwinding from all the tensions of having to keep a hard dick for old ladies he did not really even like.
After his first session with Mrs. Witherdine, he had spent an entire morning with her neighbor, the widow Stone. Widow Stone grew roses as a hobby, something she had taken over from her husband when he died, along with his wealth. She had hated the roses when he was alive because he spent more time with them than with her, but after his death she had become as enamored of them as he had ever been. She enjoyed pouring rose petals over Rick's crotch from a silver vase as soon as he reached full erection and then, with Rick's head hanging over the other side of the bed so he could not watch, she would slip three or four petals into her mouth, wrap the head of his cock with another, and go down on him taking roses and cock into her mouth at the same time.
Mrs. Foley, who lived in the other direction, only liked to be fucked standing up in the kitchen, with her maid pounding on the door in a phony attempt at breaking up the union. Mrs. Foley liked to pretend that she was the maid performing illicit acts while the mistress, played by the real maid, was incensed but helpless on the other side of the door.
Mrs. Morris, as Rick slipped his vaselined cock in and out of her dry hole, kept crying, "I'm too old, I'm too old." Rick had had to close his eyes and imagine Jenny Roman's tanned legs and the wonderful white shorts she had been wearing before he could get off with that one.
He had been back at Mrs. Witherdine's several times, the fucking there increasing in pleasure as they got better acquainted. She had accepted at last the idea that he would enjoy eating her and she let him dive into her muff the last time and he was surprised at how much he really did enjoy it. Mrs. Witherdine had mouthed him as well, but she had yet to allow him to get his rocks off in her mouth. He thought she might go that far the next time, and he knew that if he could come in her mouth she would be far more generous than she already had been. And so far she had been exceedingly generous.
Just as Rick was beginning to drift off in Mrs. Simpson's tub, she instructed him to stand. "I have to wash your ass, don't I?" she asked.
He knelt, like a dutiful son, while Mrs. Simpson soaped the cloth and rubbed it over the cheeks of his ass, then, timidly but forcefully, she made a quick pass through the crack and against his ass hole.
"Now," she whispered, "I have to wash your front, too. That gets dirty, too, don't forget."
So Rick let her wash his crotch. She soaped her hands until they were covered with lather, then she wrapped both sets of fingers around his balls, sliding out to the end of his prick that was mildly excited, like a new rubber hose that was almost firm but certainly could not stand by itself.
She began mumbling, like a chant, "I have to wash this. I have to wash this fucker. It's going to fuck girls, all kinds of them. Going to get hard and stay hard and fuck girls in their cunts, their ass holes, under their arms. Between their fits. Going to get hard and fuck all those girls. Going to fuck their mouths, too. The girls are going to touch it, pet it, kiss it, suck it, going to let it go up their cunts and get all covered with their wetness. It's going to come in them, shoot all its white stuff out of these balls. . . . "
She kept chanting her litany, mumbling, as she soaped his balls and his cock, soap sliding down his thighs into the water. She slid her hand between his legs to wash his ass again, back out the length of his cock that because of her ramblings and stroking had gotten bard at last.
When Mrs. Simpson thought it was clean enough, she rinsed it with cool, glean water, helped Rick out of the tub and rubbed him dry with a towel. Afterwards she stretched him out on the daybed, on the strawberry sheet, and rubbed his body with talcum powder.
He was as clean as he had been the first day of his life, when the nurse handed him pink and crying to his mother.
His erection went away after awhile and. when he was completely dry and powdered, Mrs. Simpson handed him his clothes and fifty dollars and left the room; He let himself out of the house.
He was refreshed from his bath but not relaxed. It was dark already, and he had a date later with Mrs. Witherdine.
The old grand dame had asked for him the night before, but he had had to turn her down because he had already arranged to play rummy with Mrs. Baxter. Mrs. Baxter was willing to pay Rick $75 to play rummy in the nude. The loser had to pour tea in the sitting room.
So Rick had had two days without an orgasm. He thought there was a good possibility that he might go out of his mind. He did not really want to fuck Mrs. Witherdine, he did not even look forward to her sucking him off, if indeed she would do that. He began wondering what in hell gigolos do for holidays, vacations. Gigolos must need them even more than working people. He had already made a small fortune but he felt that he was on a treadmill and since he had already made contacts for the winter in Florida he was concerned that he would find the same treadmill there. He was not sure he could lie still while another old lady tickled his ass with a feather.
He knew that he needed to reinvigorate his body, and the only way he knew to do that was with a young girl. An old lady would not do. Not even the best of the lot, Mrs. Witherdine. He thought of dropping in on Mrs. Cruise, but he thought that even she might not be all that he needed.
He walked down the deserted roadway until he came to the junction with the road that led to the main high-way. A phone booth stood there, lighted like a beacon to a traveler lost in a sea of darkness.
He fished in his pocket for a dime but found only two fifty-dollar bills and three twenties. And two cents.
When he realized that he did not even have anything as useful as a dime, he knew he had to see Jane. She was coldly practical and could tell him if he was really being stupid or not. And she had those fine uneven tits that he wanted to feel again. He did not want to treat her as shabbily as he had treated Linda Long. He wanted to do something nice for someone, at last, and he wanted it to turn out nice for him too. If he would go to the party Jane had invited him to, which happened to be tonight, he probably could get into her again and he could feel already the tight way she pumped the muscles in her vagina. He wanted to kiss her smooth, glassy stomach and slide his fingers across her firm little ass that had not yet fallen down around her rear thighs.
He heard a car approaching around the turn. When the lights appeared, flashing through the beach brush, Rick stepped to the edge of the road and waved. The car speeded up, passed by, and kept going.
Rick then remembered that sometimes dimes were returned in pay phones and people neglected to pick them up. He hurried to the booth and checked the return slot but it was empty.
He was stuck. He had nothing to do except return to the resort, and he would have to pass Mrs. Witherdine's house and he might just as well turn in at her back door and walk dutifully up the back stairs, following Marie, and when they were alone he could plunge up to his balls into the old lady and he could make himself come by imagining it was Jenny's cunt instead. Right now, he imagined, Jenny was snuggled up to her teddy bear in some frilly bed. He thought he might be able to fuck the great-aunt if he could persuade himself in the dark that it was the grand-niece.
Just as he started walking he heard another car. He stood in the middle of the road, waving his arms. The lights picked him up, hurt his eyes, but he refused to budge and the car slowed down, braked, and stopped.
Trying to appear harmless and innocent, Rick walked to the driver's window. Inside, a woman, driving alone, looked middle-aged and frightened.
"What is it?" she asked, worried. "An accident?" Her voice was full of hope that someone else had had bad luck and she herself would not be raped.
"Not an accident," Rick said. He hoped the woman would not be startled and run over his feet trying to escape. "I only need a dime. I need to call a friend and I'm stuck without a dime."
"You need money?" she asked, still frightened.
"No, no. Just a dime. For the phone, Ma'am."
The "ma'am" seemed to win her over. It was as if she had been waiting to see if Rick had manners or not. She suddenly became alert, moved quickly, found her purse on the seat beside her and opened it up.
"A dime," she laughed. "Is that all? Just a dime?"
"That's all," he said.
The woman looked at him again. Her hands kept working around in her purse, searching for the small thin coin, but her eyes looked out at Rick, and down his frame.
"You smell nice," she said. She found the dime and closed her purse, but she did not give it to Rick.
"Thank you," Rick said, cursing Mrs. Simpson and her damn imported soap.
"Have a big date?"
"Uh, yes. A date, that's right."
She held the dime out the window finally and when Rick tried to take it she held onto it a second too long. He was afraid he would have to jerk it out of her fingers. He tugged a little, and she held on.
"Is it a date you have to make? Or do you think you could break it?"
"No," he said, knowing now what the woman's problem was. She had been alone too long, or was divorced, or her husband was sleeping too soundly after too many gin-and-tonics. She was restless, crawly down between her legs. "I have to make the date. Sorry," he added.
She released the dime, rather sadly. "I'll wait here," she said, "in case your girl is not at home."
Rick stepped into the phone booth. "Okay," he called back. "Be a good idea."
He slid the dime in the slot, heard its magical clinking of freedom, and dialed Jane's number.
Like a miracle, she answered. "Hi," he said. "What are you doing?"
"Is that you, Rick?"
"It's me."
"I don't believe it."
"It's me."
"Where?"
"Phone booth, at the junction."
"What are you doing there?"
"Calling you. You doing anything?'
"As a matter-of-fact,. I am. Why are you trying to call me up when I haven't heard from you for a month."
Rick looked out the glass window at the woman who still waited in her car. He said, "Hey, I can't kid around all night, I only had one dime and I had to beg for it. Isn't this the night of that big party you told me about when we were on the boat?"
"That's what I'm doing tonight, I'm going to it."
"Yeah, well, that's what I'm calling you about." He paused a moment, then for a second he was afraid she had hung up on him, or they had gotten disconnected somehow. Then he heard her breathing into the other end as if she was still mad. "I don't blame you for being sore, but I'm really stuck tonight, out here in the middle of nowhere, and I want to see you very much and I'd like to go to that party with you."
"You liar," she said.
"Well, if you won't talk to me, I may as well hang up."
She laughed. He liked the sound of her laughter. It was young, and full of spunk. Tinkly, joyful, the sound of a happy girl with her whole life ahead of her.
He said, "Will you pick me up? Hey, will you, I'm lonesome?"
She teased him. "Don't you have a date tonight? Couldn't you line up one of your benefactresses tonight? Having an off night? Got your period, or something?"
"I'll tell you all about it. Listen, Jane, it's not what it's cracked up to be. Come on over here and pick me up and I'll let you in on the secret."
"I'll be there in ten minutes."
Rick hung up the phone without saying anything more. He knew if he talked too long he might only make her mad and she might refuse to come for him. He walked back to the car.
The woman said, "I guess she was home."
Rick nodded. "She'll be by to pick me up right away. Maybe," he suggested, "we could make it another night?"
The woman started her car. "Sorry, buddy, tonight was your night."
She drove away. Her tail lights looked like red cat's eyes, laughing at him, diminishing in the dark.