Chapter 1
Life was a patterned thing for Martha and Joan, and had been since Joan had taken the teaching position at Franklin Elementary, She still had four years to go before acquiring tenure, but the Gilberts, mother and daughter, were happy in their small apartment, and Joan had been satisfied to seek no other school. Martha had made many friends in the Ladies Auxiliary, and Joan enjoyed a moderately limited social life among the school faculty members. They managed well on two thirds of Joan's salary and the other third was building a nice nest egg in the savings and loan at four and three-quarter percent. They lived in harmony, Joan thought, because they both were careful not to intrude upon the privacies of the other, and this was Joan's doing. Lest her mother pry too closely into her affairs, Joan did not ask Martha for constant and continual confidences. Not, she felt, that her mother had any essential confidences to share, but once or twice before their pattern had been established, she had very nearly confided in her mother during earlier intimate conversations. The reason Joan did not want to confide in her mother was because she had White Meat been telling herself since her sophomore year in Cannon Normal that she was not a Lesbian, merely a lonely girl-woman who took a small measure of sensual pleasure where she found it.
She really wanted a man, a nice, understanding man of gentle nature and positive adoration. The fact that she found her private moments of respite from loneliness with young girls who were at first flattered by her attentions, then awed by her boldness and finally entranced by what she did for them with fingers and lips was incidental.
Now she sat up in bed, checking her sobs to listen to the purr of her mother's deep sleep in the other bedroom. Joan was terrified. The noon-hour ecstasies with Bonnie Price had left her quivering and shaken, unsure of herself and doubly unsure of Bonnie. The colored girl was the first to Joan's several child-darlings who had put their secret, exciting times together on a pay-as-you-go basis. Other girls, some younger and some older than Bonnie, had been pleased with small gifts and perhaps some help through difficult lessons or tests. Bonnie had been coldly commercial, and Joan had been so eager to caress and love the lithe black body she had succumbed to Bonnie's demands.
But from their first engagement together, it had been plain to Joan that the colored girl had instantly assumed command. She blushed now as she remembered the way Bonnie had outlined the price schedule for whatever Joan wanted to do with her. She had further been instantly derisive and boldly scornful of Joan, aware of the many-faceted face of racial discontent, Joan had thought Bonnie's disdain was based upon the fact that her white teacher, a symbol of the Establishment, per se, was anxious and willing to pay money to make illicit love to a black girl. By the time Joan realized this, she was too enamoured of Bonnie's hot black cunt and her velvet soft skin to save her self-respect. And inevitably, Joan had come to the conclusion that Bonnie's attitude was for the best because it definitely prevented either one of them from becoming emotionally involved with each other.
As of noon, the entire affair had taken on the countenance of a gargoyle's lusting. Even now, Joan could feel those thin black arms around her neck and the hot wet kiss Bonnie's inflamed lips had wanted. And had been given. Up to that moment, the instant when Joan had felt Bonnie's restraint depart and her orgasrn come on with such violence, their arrangement had been satisfactory. Shudders wracked Joan's body as she remembered her own orgasm, borne skyward as Bonnie's cunt had convulsed and clung and almost gushed with sex juices. She could still feel the tight milking of Bonnie's deeply penetrated asshole and then, a moment later, had come the kiss.
It had not been the kind of kiss Joan had given other excited girls in soothing and affection. It had been a bold, open-mouthed kiss with tongues fighting and saliva mixing and they had both been reduced to tears for the fierceness of their emotions.
"I cannot be in love with a nigger girl," Joan murmured aloud. "I am not a Lesbian, not a queer, not a-a dyke! Oh, dear God, what am I going to do? " She fell back on the bed. Her chest, rising and falling under the suddenly demanding bowls of her firm tits, seemed constricted by chains. Her thighs twitched, separated, and tensed as her cunt made movements that aggravated an ache rather than subdued one. At twenty-six, no finger but her own had ever touched her vagina, no intruder, even the size of pencil had ever passed the flesh curtain of her maidenhead. A man or two, excited by the curve of her ass and the bold roundness of her tits had tried to fuck her, and one of them had almost succeeded. But for some reason, not necessarily attuned to her college-diluted morality, she had squirmed away as his fingers had sought the underseam of her panties, and if later she had regretted her resistance, there had been some irrational, peculiar satisfaction in knowing she was a fastidious virgin. What her cunt felt now was not the need of a man as much as a need.
She slid both hands down her flat belly and let them spread over the hollow of her groin, the nervous thumbs lying over the hairy pubic mound to rest within a quarter of an inch of her quaking cunt. She pressed and rubbed lightly, then as a moan of suffering escaped her throat. She moved her thumbs inward and felt the pulsing puffiness of her cunt lips. This instantly elicited a slow rolling from her perspiring ass, her backbone curled and lifted her crotch to her fingers. Not to penetrate but to excite and somehow soothe, she felt her clitoris. It sent shrieks of need throughout her tensing body. She rubbed it, and with the other thumb, the soft wet membrane of her hymen. Like rubbing between her toes, or scratching a deep itch in her thick chestnut hair. She raised her knees, forming a broad tent in the covers, and as she settled her left finger* to the tantalizing movements on her vulva, she stretched the other hand down, caressing the full rounds of her bottom, to eventually send a finger to her anus. Again, not to penetrate, but to irritate and sensitize. She longed desperately for two more hands with which to mold and squeeze her tits, but with untimely logic, accepted the fact that her cunt and asshole were more"1 responsive than her tits. Her eyes closed, trading the light of her acrid heat of Bonnie's open and emitting cunt. Her tongue rolled in her saliva flowing mouth, and Joan let her fingers depart her body and become the eager, passionate parts of some handsome, adoring man.
She was not really a Lesbian, she thought, as long as she could dream about a man with the. taste of Bonnie's cunt hardly faded in her mouth. Momentarily, she tried to picture the man and the image became a composite of many faces and shapes, tall, short, thick and thin but they all wore clothes because Joan had never seen a man more naked than those on the beach and she had never had enough courage to buy one of the interesting nudist magazines for sale on the back shelves of newsstands. For the moment, all she needed were a man's fingers; now running over her vagina, the eager tips searched in the hot wet folds, flicking her clitoris and moving down to excite the small natural orifice in her hymen. Her hips assumed a rhythmic rolling, her breath hissed softly and even the strain of pushing to her own caresses was good. The fingertip at her asshole grew and assumed a length and thickness she imagined similar to a man's penis. A man's hot insistent cock trying to enter her rectum. The thought was devastatingly exciting and Joan moaned with indulgent pleasure. She spread her knees as far as she could, throwing a new tension across the quivering muscles of her splayed crotch, and as the flesh passion became almost too great to stand, her mind let one image fade and admitted another, with the softness of a mouth and tongue and the color of the night. Behind her eyelids, she looked down and there was Bonnie's head, the kinky, oily wool bobbing, the slender, high-boned cheeks rooting and rubbing while the sweetly thick mouth burrowed and the long scarlet tongue darted and licked. Joan's head rolled from side to side as this dream became furious and her body began a rippling whip that made the bed creak. She mewled and gasped and let Bonnie's phantom fire carry her to the high, flaming peak. The orgasm burst; Joan's fingers came free of her sex and she writhed in thumping, convulsing ecstasy, legs jerking, spine threatening to snap in frenzied tension. Then as she could seldom do when discovery and disgrace were hovering outside the cloakroom door, Joan slowly coasted into lethargy, pretending her own arms, clasped tightly around her tits, with fingers petting and palpitating the trembling flesh, were Bonnie's.
Finally, the after-glow faded and she relaxed her self-hugging and let her legs straighten out and shift together. She opened her eyes and wet her very dry lips with thick saliva. Rolling to one hip, she reached and snapped out the night light, then rolled back to sigh in nervous exhaustion.
What she needed was a man, and the very next time one made the kind of mild love most men made to her, she would reach for his penis and open her legs; Joan shuddered because she knew very well she would do no such thing. But it had to be done, just to prove to herself that she was not a Lesbian.
There were three of them, including her brother. Lean, oddly clothed, flap-mouthed and harassed by their own furies. They were long-handed, making gestures of chopping, as if their pink palms were axes and the sulky air of the Price living room were really a huge lake of white throats and soft bellies. All were different but they were the same, with scraggly beards and thinner moustaches, black eyes hidden behind large dark glasses as if to mask their non-identities from the world. From where she leaned over her spelling at the dinette table, •Bonnie tried hard to think of her brother, Sam, and his two fellow cats as she had thought of them yesterday and the days before.
They had had several cans of beer apiece and were now boasting about how they were going to make "-them mutha-fuckahs hard to find when the cats come on with the real thing, man." Bonnie didn't know what the real thing was but she had seen them pop their switchblades and flourish their .22 pistols and to her, they seemed very right and very determined. They, like herself, were part of a bad scene, like being black and poor and hated by Whitey. Bonnie squirmed. Miss Gilbert was a whitey. Bonnie tried to remember what had happened and how she had felt during the lunch-money bit. She hadn't hated her teacher and she was sure Miss Gilbert hadn't hated her. It had been wild, like no tomorrow. She had kissed a white woman and been kissed in return. The words on the page of the spelling book blurred as a fire went creeping through her slender body.
"What's with the lesson, chick?" the voice of Claw Johnson demanded at her shoulder.
"Spelling," she said without looking up. She already knew what Claw looked like. He had slope shoulders, wore cheap turtle-neck sweaters and slouched, as if to always be on point to drag his shiv and cut. He smoked a lot of pot and drank a lot of beer and laid it out like it was, man, and it was generally half hard. Now his long hard fingers were on her throat, toying with gripping and pressing. He used his left hand because another nigger had cut him good, man, and he hadn't been able to straighten out the curl of his right hand in five years. The fingers ceased their threat and slid down the neck of her dress, pressing her flesh until the tips slid under the cheap brassiere and moved to pinch and roll the nubbins pouted blackly on the tips of her tits. Bonnie still didn't look up.
"She got lessons to do," her brother said from the living room.
Claw laughed. "Sure, man, like spell shit and learn to eat it from a white ass. Hey, chick," he asked in a lower tone. "You want to go?"
"No. Let me alone, Claw," she said, surprising herself.
His chuckle turned into a raucous laugh, his fingers went to work with more intent and she could feci the pulsing weight of his cock against her shoulder, grinding as he rolled his thin hips.
"Come on, cat. She don't do her lessons pa will bang her head," came Sam's second protest.
"That's on account he an old Uncle Tom, man, and ain't figgered out what a chick is for. Don't signify, man, I got a thing going."
His fingers closed hard on her left tit and Bonnie winced as he started to lift. She came up out of the chair and he turned her toward the hall door. "C-cool it, man, I'm with you," she murmured. In the living room, Sam and Snake Johnson had gone back to drinking beer and talking loud about politics, their version. Evidently satisfied that his masculinity had been too much for Bonnie, Claw released her tit and came up firmly to her back, his cock now a bulging pole in his hip-huggers. She could smell him, unwashed, musty and over all of this his breath, a mixture of pot residue and cheap beer. This was no different than other times but Bonnie suddenly wished her pa Was not across Sugartown at a lodge meeting. Like Sam, her pa was afraid of Claw, but at least, he'd try to cool the cat with talk.
She turned into her room, which wasreally a closed-in service porch. She had a cot and a battered dresser and a shelf under which her Sunday clothes %ere hung. The rest of the small area was crowded with a wdshing machine that did not work, some boxes of junk and a heap of soiled clothes.
"You grow up some, you going to be a real swinging cat, honey," Claw said, snapping open the waist of his dirty pants. "Get like some meat on them tits and that spindle ass and I know a good place where we can make bread, baby. Well, skin, chick. Claw-daddy is for cunt!"
Bonnie suddenly hated him, but when she reached under her dress to peel her threadbare panties down, there was a wet spot in the stained crotch because Claw had come for her and fuck-talk always turned her on. She reached up and back and ran the back zipper down a few inches, her eyes on Claw. He stood, his hip-huggers down around his boney shanks, his huge cock jutting out from the mass of black kinky hair at his groin like a battering ram. The head was dark red, nearly brown-purple and it was fat and sleek, almost as if it had been glued on the veined and loosely skinned shaft. He was ready, she knew, because his balls were already drawn up tightly under the thick root. She slipped her dress up and over her head. He waddled a step closer but she took a moment to unsnap her brassiere. Like her crotch, her little conical tits had come alive and the coal black nipples had pushed out in button hardness. She stared at his swaying, jerking prick and abruptly, Bonnie was for it "Come on, come on, chick," Claw hissed. "Get on it, baby!"
Bonnie giggled. She stepped closer and took his cock in her fingers, instantly thrilling at the feel of the softly layered hardness and the heat. She frigged him, not because it was fun but because the firm stripping motion would make his prick ooze if he'd hit a clapped pussy in the last week or so. The eye did not show the yellow drop, and Bonnie pulled him toward her cot, sitting down with her thin legs spread until the tendons stood out. Then she put her lips to the pulsing cock and began to suck it. Claw chuckled, pushing his cock in until she drew her head back to evade being choked. "Let it ride, Clyde," she said, working her lips over the taste of the sebaceous funk under his foreskin. "I know the gig, jig!"
The protest was automatic because Bonnie had the fever. She regained the pulsating head in her lips and curled her hands back and around the high, tensed rounds of Claw's buttocks. The feci of hard, mobile meat was good in her squeezing fingers, almost as good as the throbbing, filling flesh in her mouth. She pursed her thick, rounded lips and began the forward and back movement of her head, letting her tongue roll at will around the contours. Taking it in, she firmed her mouth and forced the foreskin back until only the naked shank formed her lips, and the drag-back raked the high coronal ridge into quivering hardness. She could feel Claw's instant reaction in the twitch of his rolling ass and Bonnie intensified her sucking, excited at the response her caress was demanding. The delightful headiness was coming on to her, the numbness to everything but the prick in her mouth and the ass cheeks in her hands. She suddenly felt better than she had felt since noon; there was nothing complicated nor frightening about Claw's dick. It was straight nigger, violent, hot and interested only in what she could do with it. No kissing, no hugging, no nothing, just prick.
She could hear Claw's breath hustling through his big wide nose, and a moment later, he pushed her off his cock. Bonnie fell back on the cot, lifting her spraddled legs, her hands remaining in a gripping shape, as if in shock over her abrupt disengagement had left her helpless. Then he was down on her, his lean hips wedging her thighs apart and down, his saliva dripping prick jabbing at her opened crotch. That was a good buy Bonnie was now impatient. She reached down between their flat, heaving bellies and seized his cock, placing the head in the oozing softness of her vulva. He just rammed it in and with a giggling squeal, Bonnie closed her arms around his shoulders and pulled herself full on to the massive intruder. Now the stink of his unwashed blackness was like perfume, the feel of his bowing back and curling belly was good. The small pain of his cock expanding and bottoming in her cunt was as sweet as the rasp and pummel of his rod against her clitoris. Ik-fucked fast and hard but she had long ago learned to ride Claw and she managed, while her body was lifted and turned and buffeted, to screw herself onto his flesh and hold it when she wanted to, or go loose and let it hammer her into gasping, squirming ecstasy. It was coming up fine; Claw looped his arms under her legs and forced them up and back until her ass was as sharp as two thinly stretched cheeks could become. She felt her asshole bug out as his weight crushed down and in and he was going in and out of her like a piston. He did not even change his grunting when he popped. All the warning Bonnie had was the quick succession of heavier lunges, then he held one hard thrust and she felt his jism strike her distended cunt like a blast from an acetylene torch. Bonnie urged, trying to catch up with Claw but she needed more than the few, quickly weakening spurts of his sperm, and when he rested, gasping with noisy harshness, she lay quietly, feeling his slackening prick abandon her disappointed cunt sleeve. He pushed up, and the black, slimy fish dragged from her cunt with a sloshing sound.
"Yeh-yeh," he husked. "You really make it for Claw-daddy!"
Bonnie lay as he had left her, eyes closed, her body torn with anguish pains and the agony of hang-up. She heard him rinse his prick in the bathroom, and when he came back, she turned her head and looked at him.
"You want Snake?" he demanded.
Bonnie said, "Yes," because she knew it wouldn't matter what she said, Snake would come. Anyway, she could get her jollies on Snake, evert when he went down on her to get Claw's load. She waited, nervous, excited but strangely confused. Something had been missing, then she decided that as bad as Claw stank, the least he could have done was kiss her or hug her some. Then she reverted back to Bonnie Prick; a twelve-year-old nigger girl couldn't expect much even if she lived in the best section of Sugartown.
Snake came, but he was too drunk to get it real hard and he wore her raw trying to cum. Bonnie got it twice before he reloaded her weary cunt. She didn't like him much because Sugartown knew he was tops, bottoms and sidepockets. He only fucked her because she was for free, like her brother's beer.
When she dressed and returned to the spelling book, the three of them were smoking reefers. She sat down and stared at the columns of difficult words. Presently, she thought of what she had wanted to think of earlier. She wondered what Miss Gilbert was doing and if they could find a minute or two together on Friday.
Through breakfast, discussing mundane matters with her mother, Joan decided that she was very well in control of her scattered emotions. Friday was always a painfully pleasant day-the last of the week and if difficult to get through, tolerable because there was Saturday and Sunday to look forward to. Joan was even glad that Friday was her day to have hurried lunch and act as one of the several yard supervisors, minding the activities of the young children, settling little disputes and seeing to general law and order within the yard fence. Today, she thought, yard duty at noon would be a blessing because it precluded any chance to repeat her foolishness with Bonnie Price. Enforced discipline was better than none at all, and Joan had succumbed to her incredible desires too often in the past to trust her will power in the matter of little girls.
She was halfway through first period before the terrible tenseness and nausea of want struck her like a consuming plague. Bonnie, like all the other children had said, "Good morning, Miss Gilbert," and Joan had returned the greeting with practiced calm. There had been the usual settling in time, and finally the class had come to some state of order. Joan's calm had quickly evaporated then, because from her desk, she could look directly down the seat row to where Bonnie sat, one half bare black leg pushed out so her foot showed in the aisle. Whenever Joan looked, Bonnie's big eyes, oddly soft and sad this morning, were raised in steady staring.
Even when Joan turned her attention to other students, she was aware of the slim body, shifting, slouching, and finding many excuses to assume tantalizing positions. Afraid to look, Joan could not help but look, and her eyes as if equipped with X-ray, saw through the checkered skirt and fluttered. Her belly tightened and her crotch perspired, and the sickness grew like a monstrous tumor in her chest.
By recess time, her head was thumping furiously and she took two aspirin with a cup of tea. She spoke with no animation to several other teachers, and after two or three minutes in a toilet booth, spent in frenzied manipulation of her breasts and vagina, Joan was reduced to a state of near hysteria. The bell signifying the end of recess caught her many seconds short of orgasm, and the shock of being hung up so was almost more than she could stand. She sat for a moment, staring down at her spread thighs and the pulsing lips nested in the chestnut hair, and sight of herself, wet and quaking, only increased the terrible tensions that seemed to knot and flex as steadily as her racing heart beat under the aching bulbs of her quivering tits. And when she was once more at her desk and the civics period had begun, she glanced at Bonnie and knew instantly that she could not stand the rest of Friday.
She selected a thin stern-faced girl as temporary class monitor, and on stumbling, half skipping feet, she ran for the administration offices. By then she was gasping, because even the friction of her thighs, rubbing softly together as she had hurried, had been further irritation. She burst straight into the Vice Principal's office, unprepared to say anything yet ready to make any excuse to leave her classroom-and Bonnie Price.
"I'm sick, Miss Addelson," she blurted. "I-I must go home! Can you arrange for a substitute, immediately?"
The portly Vice Principal came to her feet and moved around the desk, her arm quickly steadying Joan, her other hand reaching for the. desk phone. Joan wanted to sag to the floor, or turn and run, to run and run until the horrible world was far behind. With the fragment of mind still capable of understanding, she knew there would be a little more to suffer. In something of a daze, she allowed the cooing and sympathizing Miss Addelson to lead her to the school nurse's office. Joan said yes and mostly no to the quick questions and allowed her temperature, which was high, to be taken and her pulse checked. Controlling the urge to scream, she lasted through the several official minutes, and when she was finally settled in the cab the Vice Principal's secretary called, it was eleven o'clock, and Joan permitted herself a long groan of relief as she was whisked toward her apartment.
Outside the apartment door, she regained some calm. Any excuse for leaving her job would excite her mother, largely because Joan was seldom ill, even during her periods. Martha would bustle around, with tea and heat pads and concern. All Joan wanted was a small chance to be alone, to rub her cunt into gulping, trembling cum, to relieve the furious need in her string-taut body. She stood a minute longer, dredging up the strength it would take to live through the next few maternally occupied minutes. She counted the grain whorls on the varnished door and forced herself to note the hardly clean hall carpet and the undusted moldings. She breathed deeply, flooding her lungs with oxygen to help clear her brain. Finally, she unlocked the door and stepped in, certain she was back in some control of herself.
The silence of the apartment did more to calm her than all of mental gymnastics she had gone through. She tipped her head in listening; there was no whir of the spinning wheel nor was there the click-clack of the loom. Joan frowned. Her mother seldom left the apartment in the mornings, to shop or stroll in the park two blocks away. There had been nothing said that morning about a church meeting of any sort.
"Mama?" Joan called, and when no answer came back, she subdued tensions and needs of her sexuality burst forth with overwhelming demand. If her mother was out, for whatever reason, then she could go to her room and stretch out, lift her legs, drag down her panties and send her fingers to her cunt and rectum with the wild abandon they wept for. A moan of excited pleasure burst from her throat. With her feet widely spread, her lush hips undulating lewdly, Joan started for her bedroom. Small sanity made her hesitate, then to be sure she was alone in the apartment, she went on to her mother's room, walking softly to be sure she did not awaken her mother were she napping.
Already frenzied by her vibrating nerves, Joan stared in pure confusion. Fear mounted swiftly as she saw how her mother was slouched in the rocker, her head fallen to one shoulder as if all life had left her. "M-Mama?" Joan could only husk. Then she saw the rest of it. Martha's bare legs were out and slackly parted. What at first appeared to be a piece of the spinning wheel was thrust well into the secret nest amid the expansive hair of her open crotch. Then Joan moved forward and plainly saw that it was not part of the spinning wheel. It was a long round shaft, the smaller end fastened to the treadle arms with a butterfly thumbscrew. Staring down, Joan saw other things. The shaft thrust firmly into her mother's cunt was nearly two inches thick and wrapped with what had to be adhesive tape. The device was so huge it turned her mother's vulva lips well out, and the flabby outer lips lay wide, exposing the moist pink inner forms, one of which was an overly developed chtoral ridge. Joan followed the white taper of Martha's leg to where a shoeless foot lay heavily on the worn treadle. With a school teacher's mind, Joan followed the obvious mechanical action that foot could induce. A single revolution of the big wheel would turn the round shaft into a piston, and by guess, Joan measured the piston travel at five or six inches.
"Ooh, Mama!" Joan gasped. But she was not done with fear. The brutal masturbating machine was one thing; she leaned and counted the slow rise and fall of Martha's chest, then laid a feathery finger to the inside of her mother's left wrist. The pulse was without a flutter, steady, firm and reassuring. She could not tell whether her mother was napping, satiated by her monstrous fucking machine, or if she had suffered some small attack of fainting. With one hand ready to shake Martha's shoulder, Joan froze.
If she were only napping, then to awaken her with the huge dildo still in her vagina, her person revealed in all its mature splendor, would be horrible. Her embarrassment, perhaps anger, perhaps hatred, would forever destroy their mother-daughter relationship. The worn place on the attached spindle where it rubbed the spinning wheel base proved that this was not a single venture into masturbatory delights. The deliberate shape of the buried dildo could not be happenstance. Joan stood up, her breath suddenly quick and hot over her open lips, her momentarily subdued passions rising to the erotic impact of this sight.
The other possibility was that her mother had suffered some small fainting spell, or at worst a minor stroke. If she had fainted, then she would recover and lake care of herself. If she had had a little stroke, then discovery at five, Joan's normal time for returning home would be inevitable. Again she checked her mother's pulse and its strength relaxed Joan's worry, changed her concern to furiously obscene interest. She giggled softly, then with trembling fingers to the big wheel, she moved it slightly. As she had guessed, the thick dildo slid out almost an inch, pulling wetness and flesh in a way that produced instant quivering in her own cunt. Martha did not stir. Joan moved the wheel a bit more. The dildo emerged enough to show the beginning swell of its enlarged end. A shock of terror at its obvious size ran straight up through Joan's belly, then she moved the wheel to send the taped cylinder back to its original depth. Turning, she staggered to the hallway, her senses reeling with the yearning in her own belly, her nose tingling with the smell of her mother's sex.
Her plight became completely clear then. With no time to spare because her mother might awaken at any moment, she had to leave the apartment. And stay gone until five, her usual returning hour. For six hours, she had to live with her own boiling blood and screaming nerves, as well as some concern over her mother's health. And most devastating, the vivid memory of the incredibly clever and brutally effective appendage Martha had invented to sate a private lust her daughter had never suspected even existed. At that moment, a picture loomed in Joan's mind; her normally active mother, lying in the long-spraddled slouch, her foot beating the treadle with rhythm and force, her ass rolling and humping and her cunt turning in and out with the roughly wrapped dildo's coursing. Did she moan and gasp? Did she grunt and twist? Perspiration broke out on Joan's forehead and she clutched frenziedly to her crotch, pressing her clothing hard to her cunt as she moved to the outer door.
Staggering, stopping every few steps to rub herself, she went down the rear service stairs, afraid that had she used the elevator or the front stairs she might have met some one her mother could know. It seemed the most important thing in the world to Joan that Martha not know she had been in the apartment that morning.
Later, walking with her thighs squeezed tightly and her hips rolling with unusual emphasis, Joan had orgasm. It wasn't very good because she had to stand at the curb until the light changed and what could have been a sweet, all-shaking ecstasy became a dull thudding, a short jerking moment of relief rather than an ascending delight.
Martha awakened, rubbing her slightly cramped neck and enjoying the complete relaxation she always felt after a fainting spell. She touched the treadle, sending a hot sensation through her belly, then gripped the rocking chair arms and hoisted herself up and back, gasping at the thrill of dragging the six inches of dildo from her cunt. She sat for a moment, staring at the up-angled cylinder. Then she found a Kleenex and lovingly wiped her cunt juices from the ram. Humming softly, she dismantled the device and put it away in its wrapping. The urge to urinate caused her to rise and slip her shoe back on. Then she walked, rolling slightly to the hallway and the bathroom. In front of the bathroom door, she stopped, her eyes wide, her mind fighting for memory. The small throw rug in front of the apartment entry was possessed of a large, unfamiliar wrinkle. As she had made the rug, she had always been very particular about wrinkles. She was very sure she had straightened the rug after vacuuming and dusting. She hurried forward and checked the door lock. It was firmly set. Martha's eyes burned. Only one person besides herself could have unlocked the door, disturbed the rug and left. She looked at her watch. It was almost one o'clock.
"Oh, dear God!" she wailed, and ran for the bathroom, her hand holding her abruptly leaking cunt. She sat down and let her urine go, breathing heavily as the significance of the wrinkled rug hammered her brain into agonizing pulp.
Joan had for some reason made a hurried trip home at noon; forgotten papers, an accidentally soiled dress, anything. Shame flushed Martha's cheeks, crept down her throat and wrapped itself around her trembling body. Joan had come home, obviously found her mother in the coma that always followed her long, deeply delicious masturbations, and had left with no word nor sign.
Weeping now, Martha raised her head and looked completely through the ceiling to some distant world. "Frankie, Frankie, help me! Oh, what am I to do? My Joan, my sweet innocent daughter. Our daughter, Frankie! Oh God, help me, help me!" she wailed.
Later, sitting at the loom, she knew there was no help for her. Only, perhaps, in the goodness of Joan's heart. She had survived the shock of discovering her mother's evil nature, her lascivious play, and had left no sign except the disturbed rug. To Martha, this meant that her understanding daughter had no intention of revealing her ugly discovery. If by five o'clock, she could master her shame and tangled thoughts, Martha thought she might play her half of the ignorance game. The secret would always be between them, if not shared. She wept copiously and made several mistakes in the rug pattern under her quivering fingers. But presently she began to imagine and envision the reaction of her daughter. Had she been horrified or had she been sympathetic? If sympathetic, why? How could Joan at twenty-six, possibly understand the massive loneliness of mind and body that could reduce her mother to the vile, if pleasant, status of an accomplished masturbator?
The loom stopped. Martha slouched slightly, her eyes blinkless and unfocused. Joan was twenty-six. The extent of her romances had been a few mild, uncontinuing acquaintances with men Martha considered neither vital nor very masculine. She read no exciting novels, avoided exotic movies. To Martha's knowledge, her half-pretty, well-formed daughter had no sexual outlet whatever. But until today, Joan would have had to say the same about her less-than-aged and positively attractive mother. Martha quivered. Perhaps Joan had respected her mother's lewdness because it was akin to her own sexual releases.
The loom started slowly and a flush of desire pervaded Martha's body; how wonderful, she thought, if somehow they could blend their needs and enjoy together, the sexless ecstasies of the spinning wheel. She looked across at the innocent looking wheel. They could do it one for the other, or without too much mechanical trouble, make a second cock that would work in unison with Martha's. They could take turns working the treadle. With a little ingenuity, they could arrange it so she could watch the dildo work in Joan's cunt while her daughter enjoyed a similar voyeuristic privilege. Together, they could try things.
Then Martha sighed, realizing the hideous extent of her lewd dreaming. She suddenly hated the spinning wheel, the grotesquely huge cock and the insidious passions they combined to induce. Never before had she considered what she did each day as anything more than pleasant and perhaps, stimulating to her aging health. Now, she saw herself as an evil person, violating God's will in making her a. widow-a fool. A foul, degraded woman who had probably taught her daughter to hate her.
Once, she almost left her weaving to go to the sewing table and find her dildo. By stripping off the tape and making a short trip to the alley ash cans, she could forever separate herself from viciousness. But her cunt still tingled and her tits throbbed and finally Martha decided that she was faced with whatever eventuality Joan presented.
It was five minutes after five when Joan found courage enough to return to the apartment. During the long, idle afternoon, she had refused to permit herself to think about what she might find and had spent the time lamenting the onhappiness of her own life. Now she look a step inside and the familiar click-clack of the loom was like a preserver thrown to a drowning man. A small happy laugh bubbled np in her throat. She hurried to her mother's bedroom and nished to plant her usual kiss on her mother's forehead. "Hi. Morn, darling!"
Oh dear," Martha said. "I hadn't any idea it was that fate! I've made so many mistakes today I've hardly accomplished anything!"
'It's all right, Mom. There are other days. Oh, I'm glad this is Friday. The darned kids were hellions!"
Slipping off her shortie jacket, Joan turned and her eyes searched the spinning wheel: There were small abrasions where the thumbscrew had been fastened to the streadle bar and the worn place where the spindle rubbed was rkible. But suddenly, Joan did not care. Her mother had not had a stroke and the secret was secure. Suddenly freed of worry, Joan let her badly retarded excitement blossom and thev were very happy together that Friday evening.