Chapter 5
Zeke Washburn yawned and stretched, awakening. He pulled the sheet back and regarded his hard-on.
His cock was not overly long, but it was thick as a radiator hose and durable as a monkey wrench.
But Zeke took no pleasure in looking at his tool and, in fact, he sighed unhappily and looked morose, because although Zeke was warned, he had no place to put that splendid hard-on. His wife, Catherine, slept in her own bedroom.
She had not allowed Zeke to fuck her in a month.
Zeke couldn't figure out why, a woman who had been such a passionate lover in the days of their courtship should suddenly turn frigid after they were wed.
He knew for a fact that she had been a craver -- if not a nymphomaniac -- before he had met her. He knew this because he had met her at a gang-bang when, fifth in a line of nine, he had fucked her for the first time.
And after he had married her, he could find no fault with her lovemaking in the early years -- when he had been a struggling young mechanic, working day and night in order to save enough money to buy his own place of business.
They had fucked with great frequency and gusto, and she had even complained that because he worked such long hours, he didn't have enough time for screwing.
And then, after he had bought his own place and was a moderate success and had plenty of time for fucking, Catherine had abruptly turned cold as ice.
The better he treated her and the more gifts that he gave her, the colder she became. It seemed a paradox to Zeke.
In fact, it was quite the reverse. She was frigid now because Zeke was successful, not despite the fact.
For Catherine Washburn was a social climber!
Then Zeke had been a penniless young man and she had been the local harlot, everything had been fine. She had fucked everyone in town and, figuring her reputation was shot for eternity, had no hopes of social elevation. When she agreed to marry Zeke, she was certainly not marrying beneath herself, for no one could have been lower on the local social scale than Catherine, who had once balled the entire football team -- even to the water boy -- at a single locker room session.
The team had gone through her so fast that some of them didn't even trouble to take their shoulder pads off, and one -- the fullback -- even left his helmet and face guard on, so he wouldn't have to kiss her. Someone had stuffed the tapered end of a football up her cunt at one point and Catherine, by that time completely abandoned to her lust, had not even noticed the difference as she humped away with the football between her legs and the halfback's dick in her mouth.
Thus, she was grateful to Zeke for wedding her, despite her sordid history, and she had even loved him, in her fashion. She hadn't cheated on him very much.
But then Zeke, through his hard labors, had become a successful businessman.
Catherine was no longer the wife of a mechanic, no longer merely the ramp -- ,oh no! Catherine had become Mrs. Washburn, the respectable wife of a businessman. She saw herself in a new light. But it was impossible for her to see Zeke in a new light. Although Zeke was the successful businessman of whom she was the wife, he was till Zeke to her -- still no more than a common laborer who had wed the local slut. And now that she was respectable, how on earth could she be expected to fuck a man like that? She abruptly terminated their sex life. The only time she allowed him to fuck her was when she had been drinking enough so that she totally forgot her new station in life and reverted to her past ways. He bought her furs. He bought her diamonds. He took her dining at the most fashionable restaurants and joined the most upper-class clubs and organizations. And the more she was bedecked with furs and jewels, the more she lunched at the country club or the tennis club, the more she fell herself above a man who had had such low beginnings -- who had come home with grease on his hands!
Who could blame this fine, respectable woman?
She had lovers.
She was totally indiscriminate in selecting these lovers, taking them by availability rather than preference -- that is to say, she fucked at and sundry.
For seeing herself as a modern Lady Chatterly, she saw nothing out of line in taking base-born lover. It was an upper class thing to do.
It was having a base-born husband that bothered her.
Except when she was drunk.
She had not been drunk for a month and Zeke had not fucked her for a month, and that was why he regarded his admirable hard-on with disfavor.
Zeke sighed.
He contemplated jerking his cock, but the idea did not thrill him and he decided to take a piss, instead. That process served to soften his dick, although a nagging urgency remained in his overloaded balls.
Maybe Catherine would be different this morning, he thought, without much hope.
He put his bathrobe on and went to the kitchen. He made coffee for himself and tea for her.
She didn't like tea but considered it the proper thing to have in the morning.
He made her two English muffins, which he called crumpets, and he put imported marmalade on the tray.
He went to Catherine's room. The door wasn't locked, for she knew he wouldn't dare inter without knocking.
Balancing the tray on his knee, he knocked.
Catherine was playing with her pussy.
She was a handsome woman, long and angular. Her hair was jet black on both head and crotch. Her long legs were firm and muscular from all the development they'd had in her former years when she had humped so rigorously. Her tits were firm despite all the mauling they bad suffered.
She was not masturbating, at least not to the point of orgasm. She was merely petting and stroking her cunt to get it nicely wet and warm so that, as soon as her husband had gone to the garage, she would be in the proper state of arousal to go out and find herself a lover.
She had been doing this for half an hour while she heard Zeke in the kitchen -- like common servant.
She held her cuntlips open with her left hand and slowly ran her fingertips up and down her creamy gash and across her taut clit.
Each time the thrill built to a point where ensuing orgasm threatened, she stopped for few minutes and let her pussy cool down a little. Then she repeated the process.
She was just on the point of pushing he middle finger elegantly up her hole when Zeke knocked.
She withdrew her hands from her cunt but didn't bother to cover her nakedness.
"You may enter," she said.
Zeke came in, balancing the tray as he turned to close the door behind him. When turned around and found himself confronted by her bare crotch, the thick black mound bisected by a pink, creamy gash, he almost dropped the tray.
Hope sprang up in his breast.
His cock sprang out of his bathrobe and twanged into a vibrant erection. The knob bumped against the bottom of the tray, like a rod supporting it.
Catherine grimaced at this phallic display. His hopes sank, but did not vanish, for her juicy cunt was still in evidence.
"I've fetched your breakfast, darling," he said.
"Quite," she said.
He advanced to the bed, dick humming tinder the tray, tray shaking in his hands.
"Thank you, Ezekiel," she intoned. His name, in fact, was not Ezekiel. He had been christened Zeke by his low-born parents. But although she was well aware of the fact, he had taken to calling him Ezekiel at the same time that she had cut off his pussy.
He put the tray on the nightstand. She regarded his stout pecker with distaste. "You may go," she said.
"Honey..."
"You are dismissed."
"Aw, honey..."
"You may, I expect, call me darling, if you must. Honey is such a vulgar endearment, don't you know?"
"Darling... I really am sort of frustrated..."
"A common complaint amongst the common."
"Look at this!"
He wrapped his fist around the base of his base pecker and shook it at her.
"How very sordid," she said, averting her gaze.
"Aw, gee whiz... you used to like it well enough. Remember how you used to suck it for me?"
"Vile fellow," she said.
"Cathy..."
Her green eyes sparked fiercely.
"Catherine!" she corrected him.
She had been known as Carnal Cathy when he'd first met her, but there was little point in reminding her of that.
He said, "Catherine please?"
"Certainly not. It's bad enough that I married beneath myself, you surely don't expect me to fuck you, as well?"
She knew that the upper classes never had been reluctant to use direct language -- only the pitiful middle classes were guilty of euphemisms.
Zeke sat on the edge of the bed. She shifted away as if avoiding a garbage truck in an alley. His hard, thick cock stood up like a spike.
He said, "But, hon... err... darling Catherine... when we got married, it was I who married below myself, not you."
Her nostrils flared with fury. He had stroked a sore spot.
She said, "A sign of your low beginnings, you cur, that you cannot grasp change. We shall speak no more of the past."
Zeke sighed. He had an inkling of the way she rationalized and he figured he would try a new approach.
He said, "I'm going to hire another mechanic today, darling. I know you'll be pleased that the business is so successful, that we have more employees."
That did please her. She would say to the ladies at her bridge club, "Yes, we've been forced to put on another man, you know; must continue to expand."
His dick was expanding, shrinking, expanding again, like a lung pumped up by fleeting hope.
"Fine," she said. "Now run along, that's a good fellow."
Zeke said, "At least, I was going to. I guess it will have to wait, now."
"Whatever for?"
"Well, I can't go to the garage with a hard on, Catherine. Think of the disgrace! Why, we'd no doubt drop a minimum of three rungs on the ladder of social success."
Catherine was horrified.
Zeke pressed his advantage, said, "Or even worse... seeing me in an unsatisfied state, all my customers -- all the upper class ones, you know -- why, they'd be certain to think that my wife was somehow incapacitated. They would probably think, knowing the way they think, that you have a social disease!"
"Awk!" said Catherine.
Zeke shrugged. He stood up, dick bouncing. "Wait a minute," she said. "Can't you masturbate or something of that nature?"
"No," he said. "I dropped a crankcase on my hands yesterday; can't get a firm grip. So I guess I'll just have to stay home all day and wait for this hard-on to go away. Might take two days. A week, even. Seems a shame."
Catherine took a deep breath and came to a decision.
"I shall jerk you off," she stated. This was a big concession for her, but she had two very good reasons. She wanted him to go to work so that the business, and hence her social station, would increase; she wanted to go to work so that she could have another man in the house and do some social strata severing screwing.
And her offer left Zeke in two minds. He didn't want a handjob, he wanted a fuck... but a handjob was better than nothing.
He said, "Well, if that's the best I can get."
"Fetch me a glove," she said.
Zeke sighed. He went to her dresser and found a white silk glove. He brought it back to the bed. She was sitting up, sipping tea and munching on a crumpet. Her thighs word not together and her cunt looked very inviting and, he was pleased to see, her nipples were pert and stiff.
He figured that she was not really as disinterested as she pretended to be.
She licked the butter from her fingers and elegantly drew on the silken glove.
Zeke knelt beside her, thrusting his cock forward.
She folded her gloved hand around the root.
She still held the teacup in her other hand, and she was sipping tea as she began to stroke him. But her eyes slid to the side as she gazed at the big handful of dick which she was pumping.
"Try not to delay too long, Ezekiel," she said. "This really is an unpleasant task. Really, we should hire a maid to handle this sort of menial work, don't you know? Actually."
The thought of having a maid whose job was to whack him off caused his cock to bulge further, and the big knob flared out mightily as her silken hand glided up and down.
Catherine's neck arched and her face moved closer to him. Her interest in what she was doing was plain -- even more than interest, she looked quite fascinated. Just like in the old days, Zeke thought, before she got all frigid on me.
She twisted onto her flank, leaning still closer.
Zeke was tempted to slip his hand between her thighs and play with that adorable, creamy gash. But he didn't dare take a chance. He was getting his rocks off, and even though it was no more than a hand-job, it was a hell of a lot better than not getting his jollies at all. Never able to figure how his wife would react to a situation, he was afraid that if he tried to play with her pussy, she might get angry enough to terminate his hand-job before he came.
That would leave him more frustrated than ever.
He clenched his fists, struggling against the impulse to finger her cunt or to clasp those big, firm, stiff-tipped knockers that were swaying about just in front of his cockhead.
It occurred to him that in this position, his pecker head was aimed right at her face, the knob pointing upwards and her face turned down.
It occurred to him, furthermore, that he had not come in a month and that his balls were so full of stored-up spunk that he was going to squirt like a fire hose.
The logical deduction from these two facts -- the relative position of Catherine's intrigued face and his cockhead, along with the amount or cum he was ready to spill under such enormous pressure -- was that he was going to shoot right in her face!
Catherine was a hard girl to figure out, he figured.
Refusing to handle his dick with her bare hand, she had donned a glove. And yet, she was leaning right over his cock, fascinated, her countenance contorted by a look that could only be lust.
Her mouth was open! Her lower lip trembled and he could see the pink tip of her tongue slipping back and forth just inside the parted lips.
Didn't she realize how far his spunk was going to travel? Didn't she know that when a fellow has stored up his wad for a month it was damned well going to come out like a shot from a catapult, a creamy rock from a slingshot? Couldn't she predict the trajectory that his thick load would take, looping right over her thrusting, bobbling tits and spattering her mouth?
Should he warn her?
The hell he'd warn her!
A hand-job was a pretty fucking poor substitute for his proper marital rights, and if she got mad at him for dousing her face with cum, she could stuff it!
He pushed his hips forward. She made no attempt to get out of range or elude his aim.
She groped behind herself and put the teacup down on the bed. She moved her thereby emptied hand out and refilled it with a handful of swollen nut-sac, squeezing his balls as if she intended to work his dick like a bellows.
"Come..." she whimpered.
Then, remembering herself, she said, "I mean, get this nasty task over with."
But then, once again, she said, "Ummm, come..."
Her right hand was skimming up and down his stalk with rapid strokes. His balls ballooned in her left hand and his shaft gave a great lurch, expanding in preparation for the load that was going to shoot up the tube. His whole belly felt packed brimful of cum, now that relief was at hand. He began to tingle from the tips of his curled toes to the roots of his hair. Great waves of delight swooped and swept through his body and up his thighs.
It was a hardship to go a month without an orgasm, but now that it was coming it was almost worth it. For the thrill, so long dormant, was charging; him with an electric sensation greater than he'd ever experienced before -- or at least since the first time when, not knowing what he was doing but knowing only that it felt good, he had pulled himself off in the bathroom.
Now he grunted, in some last-second and wordless warning, as the thrill peaked.
If she understood what his warning grunt signified, then either she was unaware of her position or was not loath to receive seminal fire, for she merely leaned a bit closer and her lips parted a bit more and the pink tip of her tongue pushed out a bit further.
Zeke howled with joy.
His balls blew like plastic explosive and his cum shot up his shaft with such velocity and power that his hips were jammed backwards by the recoil.
His heavy cream shot from his cockhead under magnum force. The first white spurt did not seem to describe any curve whatsoever; the muzzle velocity was so great that the thick wad defied gravity and went out straight as a taut clothesline.
The geyser burst directly into her parted lips.
She gurgled with ecstasy and her mouth opened wider. Zeke saw his cum skimming over her arched tongue as it tumbled back into her throat.
His hips, obeying Newtonian law, had been thrust back, but his jism, scorning any such descriptive limitations, hosed her with a rope of creamy coils.
And she was drinking it!
Her throat worked convulsively as she swallowed his spunk, and her, hand never missed a beat, pumping furiously up and down as he shoved his cock forward again and blew a second rope of cum into her face.
He poured a third creamy rocket into her heavenly face. And yet a fourth.
He thought he was never going to stop coming. All the cum that he had stored for a month was ripping from his cock in a titantic deluge.
His fifth spurt was weaker. It left his dickhead in a parabola, splattering her tits like a quicksilver shower.
His sixth merely trickled over her fist.
He slumped, drained to the core.
Catherine kept pumping to make sure that she had milked him to the dregs.
Through glazed eyes, Zeke stared at his wife. Her whole face was dripping with cum. It was in her black hair, like globs of ivory set in jade. It was in the hollow of her throat, on the graceful slope of her neck, on the upper slopes of her plump tits, trickling down her cleavage, hanging in little congealing droplets from her nipples.
And in her mouth!
He stared, amazed at the amount of cum he had spent. He doubted that any man had ever shot such a load -- or any elephant, for that matter.
Her hand slowed.
His dick was diminishing.
She hesitated for a moment, eyeing his cock as if to make sure the job was done.
Then she did an incredible thing: she held her hand out to him. The white silk glove was soaking with spunk.
She said, "Kindly remove this soiled glove and burn it, for I shall never wear it again."
Zeke could only gape at her, his mouth hanging open.
Soaked with spunk from hairline to belly, she had asked him to remove the soiled glove as if it were too repulsive fat her to deal with.
Zeke obediently peeled the glove from her delicate hand.
Catherine held her hand up, fingers splayed, gazing into her palm studiously.
She said, "That's all right, then. I didn't get a single drop on my hand."