Chapter 10
Yvonne sat ramrod straight, in a chair in Carol's room watching the two on the bed. Carol was almost hidden beneath the large body on top of hers. They wriggled, the two of them, occasionally changing their positions, shifting just a little. When they moved, Yvonne usually saw a flash of cock or some glistening ass, a teasing patch of darkness that must be her daughter's snatch.
The two of them, Carol, and Oliver (of course), were still necking. It was incredible to Yvonne. They spent so much time teasing and provoking each other. It would have been nice to watch them lunge at each other, instantly wet and eager, shoving their hips together, slapping and sloshing as they fucked with heated need.
But they chose to kiss, to nibble, to use their tongues as instruments of exploration. Occasionally a hand flickered across the partner's genitals but mostly they caressed other parts of the body.
It made her impatient, watching them.
Why did they take so much time with it? If Carol wanted to fuck this sweet-fucking boy, well, get on with it.
Was she the only one who liked her sex hard, quick, heated, soon? She liked to climax before her body had time to tire of the game. Before she could realize what was happening, she wanted to be deeply lost in a back-snapping climax.
Were these two interested only in learning the shapes of their bodies? Didn't they realize that the two sexes were made to fit together? Did they expect that one curve, one hollow might be different-and thus they would be ill-suited, and should part? Perhaps this time, if they had fucked before, they weren't sure of their passions, and wanted to seek new positions, a new approach.
Ha! In years of fucking she had realized how unimportant position was, how unnecessary it was to try to vary, to explore, to divert the mind with kissing and variations on the regular performance of the sex act.
She would rather have, she thought, much fucking and less fiddling. Quantity is sometimes more diverting by far than quality. No mater how good, how long the fuck, if you wanted more in three days, or three hours, and were told the other was too tired, or too busy-frustration!
Well, maybe for these younger people it was different. But was fucking ever different? No matter the age, the shape, the concerns of the parties involved-no matter what year, or time of year ... what differences were there? Well, yes, minor ones.
But Yvonne was bored. Bored. Blame it on yourself, old lady, she told herself. You yourself wanted the boy to fuck you hard and hurt you to increase the pleasure. Maybe these two don't fuck like you. Maybe the pressure and the pain and the effort and the haste involved in your kind of fucking doesn't please them.
She had been young once, this Yvonne now inching past her sixties. Once it had been very important to be soft, tender, loving. Once flashes of thigh, of cock, of long hairy chests, of the lean line of throat-these things had been exciting. Touch and smell had been important, being alive to this body so close, about to penetrate your own.
Rapidly, for her, it had come to the hard, the quick, the fulfilling fuck. But suddenly she realized something. That was her daughter-her middle-aged daughter-on the bed, with the teenage boy Yvonne had fucked this afternoon. If her daughter were still seeking touch, smell, and other sensory delights at her age, well, maybe she was just different from Yvonne.
Maybe for Yvonne violence was necessary from the beginning. Violence and quick release. This was tiring. She was tired. She had reason to be tired. Yvonne decided to go to the living room and sleep on the couch. There two had invited her in with them, earlier, to talk, but the talk had faded.
Now she was tired and her mind was confused with strange images filling it. She would dream strangely, with erotic symbolisms, maybe exacting, graphic reality.
Cocks. She might dream about cocks. Although Yvonne had seen a few cunts quite closely and at length during various periods of her life, it was cocks she creamed for.
Her husband had a long one, even when limp. He was small, thin, but his cock was long. That prick hung curved over the generous sack of balls. When he stood by the bed, adjusting some malformation of the bedcovers, his movements would shift that huge sack and its long friend. Just the thought of that huge fucking instrument stirred her desires.
But as adequate and as inspiring as he was, there were others. Always others. One lover, the rich friend of her tennis instructor, was the smallest man she had ever met as far as cock size went. His prick was barely three inches long while limp. But he certainly knew how to use it. She would caress him to begin and hold his tiny instrument in her palm, licking and nibbling at it, as one might pursue a sausage. When he had expanded and lengthened his sausage prick to its limits, he would slip it into her generous cunt, pushing with the head against the soft lips of her cunt and the small mounded clit. He never slammed into her, but he pushed mightily, and evenly.
He, too, could use his nails to better advantage than any other man she knew. When he raked his carefully trimmed fingernails across her chest she would scream with the delightful pain. And the accompanying battering ram of his prick was a distraction which served to increase her lust. They usually ended with his stick in her ass-hole, as she clenched her muscles tightly and fingered herself as vigorously as she could. If they worked, and timed it right, the two of them would have a bone-clattering climax within seconds of each other.
Now, the tennis instructor. True to form, he was Scandinavian; tall, blonde, carefully in trim, he looked the picture of health as the members of her club advocated it. His prick was thick, moderately long, and a purolish-red at ease. The sack of balls was small, but very sensitive. When she touched him there, he shot off. Inevitably her hand would stray to cup and stroke his balls-or to try to hurt them, if he were hitting her.
As soon as she touched him there, the sperm in him shot out of the thick projectile and coated her ready pussy inside. The simple thought of her control over him ordinarily made him so angry he would slam a fist hard into her until the pain would transmute to the infinite pleasure of an orgasm.
Curled there on the white couch in the white living room, Yvonne felt incredibly black, evil thoughts. She tossed aside the blanket she had taken to wrap around herself. After a moment to admire her naked body, she brought her hips up toward her face.
Postured carefully, she would watch the lubrications of her pussy seep forth. Then she inserted fingers into the glistening hole. Straining, she tried to reach the wetness with her tongue, but failed.
Yvonne was quite practiced at masturbation. Watching her sweet cunt flow with sticky juice provoked even more self-lust in her body, and the lubrications increased. Within a matter of minutes she was contorted in the compelling spasms of an orgasm.