Chapter 5
Oliver sat on the living room couch, his feet on the coffee table. The television was on but he was paying it only minimal attention. Piled on his lap was a stack of magazines Carol had pointed out to him. He had flipped through all but one of them: the one he held open now.
He had seen naked women before, but these were a surprise. All of them were lovely, firm, well-shaped with high, firm, rounded tits. They all had long luxurious-looking hair, and even teeth in a lovely smile. Oliver realized the number of lovely women in the world, suddenly.
His cock stirred a little, as he looked at the long-legged women, all posed so as to carefully hide their pussies, though some of the magazines showed the tufts of hair. These weren't the usual collection of nudie magazines he had glimpsed at before. But they were certainly as exciting, maybe more so than the other, more blatant, more showy ones.
"Down boy!" he said, and laughed. Carol and Georgie had gone out, chattering happily like schoolgirls, to go shopping or something. When they left, each of them kissing him on the cheek, they had told him to save his energies for later.
Georgie had turned at the door and asked him to please try to not wake Harry, sleeping in her bedroom. Who was Harry? Oliver shrugged, and closed the magazine. He would watch television for a while. They probably wouldn't be gone long. Unless they had other plans, well, he'd just cart one of them, or both, maybe, into the bedroom.
Oliver glanced around the small airy room. It seemed much larger than it actually was. All of the furniture was small, and the color scheme was light, and white. It seemed much cooler in here than it actually was. Outside was shimmering, hot, a typical summer Los Angeles day.
This side of the house faced the hillside, away from the view of the city. Out the glassed door to the walkway leading to the garage were large, leafy plants, and the overhang of a tree.
It was odd-a white, young-seeming, almost virginal-looking room for these two older women, both with (at the very least) twenty-one years of fucking behind them. Would the juices and the sweat of loving stain this couch, or the rug?
Probably not. One or both of them must have fucked someone in this room before. Carol said they had lived together here for years; in that much time they must have been caught by passion before they could escape to the routine of their bedroom.
Routine? Well, maybe not. He smiled. It wasn't exactly the best thing to think-that he was one of a long crowd for whom the treatment was almost precisely the same. He preferred to think that he was a little different. Of course. He smiled at the thought, again.
A knock interrupted his train of thought. Looking up, he saw a thin, very pale blonde with a straw handbag which looked something like a shopping bag. When she saw him look up, her dark-painted lips broke into a smile. She opened the door and came in.
"Hello, there. Are Carol and Georgie at home? It looks like they've gone out, but you never know. They might have one of the cars at the shop, or maybe just one is out."
"No, they've both out. They may be gone for sometime."
"Maybe I could just wait." She came further into the room and looked as if she were going to sit down.
"You should probably just leave a message. Or come back later. They'll be gone for some time, they said."
"Oh, are you worried?" She smiled coyly at him. "You needn't worry. I'm a friend of theirs." A titter. "But of course, how do you believe that? I mean, I could just lie."
"I just, well, they didn't say they were expecting anyone."
"Oh, they weren't expecting me. I just decided to drop in. I live on the other side of these hills and I was driving by on some silly errands and I decided to drop by."
"Well, I don't know you. But I guess..."
"Well, I could stop back later, but I'd just as soon stay a while." She moved over and perched on a chair. "I wasn't in any particular hurry."
She crossed her legs and put the tote down. After looking a moment to make sure he was watching her, she leaned back, carefully moving the skirt higher as she went.
My god! he thought. Is she out to lay me or something? She's an old lady. Attractive in a way, but an old lady. She was watching him.
Her pale platinum hair was short, cut close to her head in a curly way. The bones in her face were very prominent, and the bones of the rest of her body seemed quite obvious in her dress. But despite her thinness to the point of absurdity, there were lines in her face, on her arms, in her hands. She looked a little hard, a little too knowing to be a younger woman.
Well, she could stay, he supposed. It didn't really matter. He looked back down to the books on his lap. Closing the one he had been flipping through he sighed; he reached for the last magazine.
This one was different from the others. The first inside page was a beaver shot. Spread shot. Her cunt, glistening up from the page, pink, moist, wide open, in color and size a replica of any cunt he had been near.
Looking back, the inside cover seemed to be as alien as a spaceman would be next to an earth-man. Lines of print. The listing of publisher and photographers and the name of the magazine. The front?
The front was a nude, like all of the other magazines had been. No preparation for this, this ... Damn! His cock was hot, pushing against the pile of magazines. He felt the sweat evaporating from the back of his neck, where it would have been caught by his collar, if he had been wearing a shirt.
Surely his blush was visible. He felt it spreading down through his neck. The woman! He shot a glance up. She had pulled a book from her tote and was curled up, reading.
Maybe she would think that ... or maybe she wouldn't even notice, thinking that his redness was simply an extension of his tan.
He couldn't get up. The minute he moved the pile of magazines his cramped cock would spring up, pushing against his pants to make its needs known.
If he sat here and just kept flipping through the magazine she would not notice a change, and he could cool himself. Lose this erection. Be able to get up and go in the other room and find something else to do.
But, God, flipping those pages wasn't easy. Each page was still another close up of another pussy. Or maybe the same one, posed a little differently. No, this one had different color hair, blonde hair. Darker than this broad across from him.
Damn, his cock was getting bigger. He kept his head bent, his eyes down. He was barely aware that she had gotten up and was walking in the direction of the kitchen. She had stopped. Maybe she would look at a painting.
If she left for a few minutes maybe he could relax, ignore everything and concentrate on the television or something.
Television! Yes, thank God. He could watch it, get engrossed in whatever passed the screen in front of him, and forget his pretty worries.
Only his petty worries were growing.
His petty worries were throbbing, pushing against the front of his pants, and the pile of magazines. Why couldn't he just get up, stretch, and walk casually into the other room? He could beat off in the shower again, or just in the John. It wouldn't take long.
Why would she even have to notice? How would she even notice unless she was really watching?
And then what difference would it make?
Except that she would probably think the erection was because of her. And she might be embarrassed, or maybe she would want to do something with his stiff cock. He couldn't imagine fucking her.
Only now she was standing to one side of his outstretched legs. When he looked up her nakedness startled him, but seemed almost what to expect.
She was standing there watching him, just watching him, and not smiling, or saying anything, or puzzled looking. He felt confused and enormously excited.
His eyes left her face and traveled the length of her body. She was thin, yes, he had known that. But her tits were full, or had been quite full once. Now they sagged a little, resting on the well-defined rib cage as if weary.
Her waist was tiny, bony, her belly a small, shrunken mound of dark tanned flesh. Her pussy hair was very pale, very sparse. She must dye it, too; surely none of that color was real, natural at all. There were no bathing suit marks.
Her legs were thin, very well-muscled, with just a small evidence of flab of age in the thighs. Oliver had never seen such bony knees.
She reached over and took the magazine from his hand. Folding it, she simply dropped it to the floor. She dropped the others, too, one or two at a time, deliberately. Very self-assured, it seemed.
Of course, he couldn't stop here. Oh, he could, but why? His cock was waiting for an easy, quick hole to slip into. He was mesmerized by her actions. What she could be thinking completely escaped him.
There was nothing in her face. Nothing. No interest, no excitement, no concealed flame of passion. She picked up the last magazine, dropped it. With careful fingers she worked on the zipper of his jeans. She opened the fly, brought out his cock.
It was such a relief to have the thing free-standing, stiff and ready in her hand. She stroked his heavy cock a minute, then let it rest on his belly as the jeans were worked down over his hips, his thighs, his knees, his calves.
He worked with her, lifting each body part as she needed to clear it. Neither of them said anything. She tossed the jeans down on top of the magazines. Then she climbed on the couch.
Kneeling, she had her cunt almost at his eye level. He could see the glistening, pink lips of her cunt, opened just a little by the spread of her legs. The heat of her came off gently, in easy spurts, as if it were breathing.
"Suck me, a little, please," she said. Very quietly.
"Come, come here," he said. Holding her skinny thighs, he positioned her cunt where he could reach it comfortably. Darting his tongue like a lizard's, he reached out to jiggle the small protrusion. She wriggled.
"I like it when you touch my clit. Do it again."
"O.K." He reached again with his tongue, bringing his head closer so he could use more pressure. "Mmmmmm."
"You like that, huh."
"Yes."
"Why don't you lie down and let me do the whole job up right?"
"No, this way. It's harder, but very ... nice."
"But I can't use my whole mouth."
"Use your fingers. Use that gorgeous tongue, Mmmmm!" He had kept up the darting, probing flit of his tongue on her cunt, pushing back from her enlarged clit. Sweet syrup dribbled out from the lips just beyond his reach.
"Like this?" He shot two fingers of one hand quickly into the opening, pushing as far as he could. Wriggling, he moved the two fingers against the damp walls of her cunt.
She had jumped and then came down as if to impale herself on those wriggling fingers.
"Oh, yes. See, if you have to be inventive to suck me, to finger me, you do think of some lovely things, don't you."
"Mmmmm." He said. He was busy, exploring the bush of her hair, nuzzling her legs, working his head back so that he could catch some of that dribbling syrup.
"Lovely," she said suddenly pulling away from him. Pushing her knees closer to the back of the couch, she began to settle down on his prick. With one hand she guided his hot stick into the warm moist crevice he had just been exploring.
He brought his hands up between them to cup her full tits, to bring them above their sagging normal line. His fingers, with a little pressure, made deep indentations in her flesh.
Think about other things, other things, he told himself. He wanted to come so badly that he was red and tight-breathed from the effort of holding it back. She had a huge, wide, well-traveled cunt, but god! she was moving up and down on him like some fucking jackhammer. And she would close her cunt, her whole cunt, around him, squeezing his prick as though with a huge hand.
"You like that?" she asked. "You think that feels good?"
He could barely breathe, let alone reply. Her face had a fine, hardly visible film of sweat on it but was otherwise calm and quiet.
"Take your hands off my tits," she said. "You're hurting me." His fingers, his nails were gripping the twin globes of flesh. "I said, let go of my boobs, you stupid boy."
Her harsh tone of voice, her coldness made him angry.
"Don't tell me what to do, hag."
"Whom are you calling a hag?"
"You, bitch, don't tell me what to do." As he said it, the words surprised him. He'd never talked that way to anyone. What was she doing that made him so mad?
She was slowly decreasing her pace, as if losing interest in fucking him.
"What are you doing?" he said.
"What do you mean? Is something wrong, boy?" Anger rose in him like mercury in a thermometer.
"You'd better watch your mouth." He took one hand away from her tit. "You'd better watch your fucking mouth."
She stopped moving for a minute, resting on him. What the fuck are you up to you funky old hag? he thought, saying, "You getting tired or something?"
"Yeah, a little tired."
"Well, you'd better get untired pretty fast. Get that ass moving."
"I don't want to," she said, making him angry again; angrier.
"You started this, bitch. Now get that ass moving."
"I don't want to," she said. "Why the fuck should I?"
"Because if you don't I'll probably knock your fucking teeth in."
She started pulling away from him.
"I don't need any teenage boy telling me what to do."
"Move, dammit."
She tossed her head, moving around all the silvered curls.
He hit her with the side of his hand, on the cheekbone, then hauled back and slapped her as hard as he could with his whole hand: her eyes were just meeting his. They went wide, then immediately narrowed.
She pulled away from him again, leaning way back.
He hit her again, with the other hand, so hard that she fell back and began to fall from the couch. Grabbing her arm, he yanked her towards him. With one hand holding her, so she wouldn't fall, he began to hit her face, again and again, until his hand began to numb from the impact.
Narrow-eyed and silent, she began to pull her arm, trying to get free of him. He took one of her tits in his hand, and brought it to his face. With all the force he could find he bit the nipple.
At that, she screamed. A torrent of words escaped her, but he couldn't make them out.
"What did you say?"
In answer, she leaned forward and tried to bite him. Again he swung at her face, determined to make her whimper. Her head snapped back as he hit her. The second time he let go of her wrist and she tumbled from the couch onto the white rug.
Again he hit her; on the mouth this time. Her face twisted into a grimace of pain. "Bastard!" she spewed. He came off the couch after her, kneeling over her sprawled body. His cock was still hard, ready to ram in her.
He knelt, straddling her. Grabbing her tits, he raked them with his nails. When she struggled under him he felt wetness.
Reaching down, he explored her cunt. She was running wet, as full as a faucet. Well, this wasn't only pain for the old lady, eh? He had heard that some people really got it on when they were hurt, but this was the first he had actually met.
Grabbing her arm again, he started to rise and pulled her with him.
"Come on, bitch. Get up. We're going to fuck again; this time you're not going to stop, or to slow down, or to call me names."
She twisted and pulled, but wasn't actually putting much effort in the action. He sat on the couch and pulled her over.
"Back in the saddle, bitch."
"What do you want, huh?" she sounded a bit submissive.
"Get back in the saddle and ride me till I come, bitch." He laughed. "Jackhammer the way you did before you stopped. You can really move that ass, and move those muscles, can't you?"
"Lots of practice." A little defiantly.
"That's all right. I don't care if you're a fucking two-bit whore. I don't care if you've balled nine men already today. You know what you're doing, so do. Do!" He smiled lopsidedly. "How old are you anyway?"
"That's none of your business, kid."
"Maybe not. But still, how old? How long you been fucking?"
"I've been fucking damn near fifty years. You figure it from there. Maybe I started fucking at 20, maybe at 8. You figure it from there."
"Holy cow!" It sounded dumb, even to his own ears, but the combination of her potential age and the fact that she had just settled over his cock again were astonishing him.
Again she started up, down, up, down, all the time moving those internal muscles so that the sides of her cunt closed on him, and massaged him the full length of his prick. He had started to dry from the air, but she wet him with her syrup the whole length of his pole as he relaxed gratefully in the grasp of her cunt.
"You..." he said, then stopped. Finished the thought in his head. You could really wipe me out, now bitch. My reflexes are probably veiy slow now.
"Say something?"
"No."
"Oh."
Her eyes were closed. She wasn't touching him anywhere except at the cock and where it was necessary for their legs to touch so that she could keep her balance. Her arms were stretched passed him, her hands keeping her level by holding the back of the sofa.
His grandmother had been a thin woman, with the skin stretched so translucently that he felt he could see the bones beneath it. She had lain on a bed in an empty house, hardly breathing at all; dying. That skin, stretched so tightly, had been a sign of the toll of age. Her pallor had been a sign of death.
This woman was as pale, as thinly skinned, as skinny. Only she wasn't lying on her deathbed. She was straddling a teenage boy, fucking him with an incredible amount of agile strength.
What made one woman die, the other flourish, or at least be capable of active movement? This bitch's boobs were bouncing crazily. Damn, she could move!
Maybe this was something all women could do. Maybe, if his grandfather had been alive, Grandmother would have fucked him silly only a couple of weeks before she took to her deathbed. The thought made him smile.
The jackhammering of this cunt twisted that smile into a grimace. For a moment, he held back, then suddenly he spurted his load into her. Helplessly he felt the squeezes continue a minute, then her cunt relaxed, and all his come poured out of her.