Chapter 6
The blonde woman with the beautiful body and the soft, warm pussy went unhurriedly back into her kitchen. From its big window, she saw the dark, handsome young boy, who had just left her, swing along the lower part of the block. Bound for home.
She saw a girl stop as he neared, saw him stop to talk to her. It wasn't Alice. It was a dark girl. Sheri Olson. What a girl! What an opulent figure for a child of her years. My God, the woman thought with a quirk of humor, is he getting set to bang every girl in the neighborhood? The thought gave her a teasing itch between the flaps of her pussy, so well covered with curly blonde hair. How nice it must have been for little Timmie, thumbing them apart, feeling the softness, the aliveness, of a grown woman's cunt.
"Pretty nice for me, too," Lola said aloud, scratching herself where that lively little itch had originated. She licked her finger, then licked her lips, and patted herself on her puss. It felt so good! If she were only a contortionist! How marvelous it would be to bring her own happily oozing cunt right to her face-or vice versa. As long as she could kiss it sweetly, suck it, lick her clit.
As she so often did, she wondered what had happened to Uncle Tommy. He would be sixty, now. When she had been in her twenties, a man of sixty would have seemed very old. Ready to hang it up. But now, approaching her own middle years, she thought that a healthy man of sixty might have a great deal to offer. "Not that I need any more instruction, dear Tommy," she whispered, his memory coming back to her in a flood of warmth. She owed him so much!
In his young mind, now sharper than ever, due to his afternoon of unexpectedly furious sex, young Timmie looked boldly at the freely flaunted charms of young Sheri Olson. For a kid with a Swede name, she sure as hell was dark. Like his idea of a French woman. And man, those French girls!
He stopped, somewhere in his mind, and thought: You jerk! You just had everything that any French woman could ever give you! What are you goggling at?
But Sheri really was something, and, now that he knew how ignorant she was-as compared with himself, that is-he suddenly felt a deep empathy for her. And so he was patient with her silliness.
"I didn't see you in the Green Room," she said archly. The "Green Room," of course, was their name for the secrecy of the ditch, with its walls of green hedge plants. "Alice and I were there." She thrust out her full, spit slicked lower lip in an exaggerated pout. "Where were you? In the bathroom, jerking off?"
He laughed easily. "How about you?" he asked. "Your nipples are sticking out like bullets. You were in the Green Room, you said. Playing stink-finger with yourself?"
The girl's lip trembled. She really liked this good looking kid. He was the only boy she knew that talked the way she wanted to hear a fellow talk-as though she knew what it was all about. Some day, she earnestly believed, he and she would get up the nerve to do it. "Do it!" How stupid that infant phrase sounded, even in her mind! Some day, they'd fuck. That's what she meant.
She dropped her eyes and her voice, her fresh young face pink. She knew her boobs looked their very best, big and firm, nipples sticking out, in this knit shirt. And she was proud that she had so much dark, curly hair on her puss, and under her arms. But she was, for some reason, not so sure of herself with Timmie, today. But she couldn't let him know it.
"Maybe I was, maybe I wasn't," she said, giving him a look from the corner of her dark eyes. "Maybe Alice and I were playing with each other. Yeah, that's what we were doing! Sixty-nining!"
The boy looked at her with interest. He knew she was lying. Both of them-and Sheri's older sister, Sandra, who was almost as old as he was, two or three months short of thirteen-were so deep into sex mentally that that was all they wanted to talk about. And they welcomed him into their circle of secret disclosures. He, also, knew that he would fuck one or the other of them, perhaps very soon. He didn't think beyond that, to the larger scene of fucking them all, of having group parties, or two-and-one daisy chains. Caught by the ancient, prisoning chains of his mother's spoken rules, he knew it would be sinful to do anything with any of the girls. But he had already sinned enough to damn him. But, if he got his young dick into one of these tender little pussies, and IF he made that girl HIS girl, in some vague way he felt it would be less sinful. Although, to be honest about it, it was very nice to think about all of them, the three of them, two dark, one blonde.
From a window in his home, a short, bountifully built woman, as naked as the day she was born, except for the wet patch of hair on her cunt, peeped through the Venetian blinds, watching her son. By glancing to her left, she could see herself in profile in her vanity mirror. She could also see the tall man, also naked, who stood beside her, his big, wonderful cock limp and sticky after their long afternoon of fucking.
She thrilled to the thought that she, at forty-two, could so completely enthrall a man twelve years younger. A guy married to a girl even younger. She reached back and took his cock in her hand, squeezing it gently.
It was horrible and 'sinful, of course. If their church only had a confessional! She hated and distrusted Catholics and their church, but at least they didn't have to carry a burden of guilt. No, all they had to do was to tell some dirty old priest, cop a plea, do a little praying, and bang! There they were, clean as an angel's drawers.
She leaned back against the warmth of the man's naked chest, turning her face up to be kissed.
"I'm sorry we've got to stop, darling," she whispered. "I'll hold my son in the kitchen while you get dressed and scoot. Take a look up and down the street before you go," she warned him. "I've got some neighbors who are just so interested in me that they might cream their chaste little old jeans if they thought you were sticking this great big, beautiful old piece of meat up me! Ohhhhh, how I love it! I never get enough! I wish you had three cocks, so you could shove them in all three places at once!"
The man laughed. Now that she had exhausted him, he wanted to get the hell out of here. That kid looked very sharp. This was murder, if he got caught. If Sue wasn't so Goddamned frigid! Having those two kids had fucked up their fucking, no doubt of it. But then, she never had liked the idea of getting it slipped into her ass. And this old broad would take it up her nose if he wanted her to. Still a damned good looking piece of stuff, too.
He looked at the two of them in the mirror, and, fucked out as he was, they made a hot sight. He put his arms around her firm, opulent little figure, and squeezed her titties until the soft flesh came out between his gripping fingers and she melted against him. Hurt 'em a little and they loved it!
They heard a noise at the door, and she put on a short robe, one that hung open to show her rounded belly, her black bush of cunt hair, the tops of her big, smooth thighs.
"This will keep the little monster interested," she joked. "And as soon as you can, go on out. If you see anyone, step back, look at the house number and then at an envelope, and shake your head. That way, they'll just think you came to the wrong address."
It was cooling off a bit, after the hot afternoon. The sea breeze was moving her kitchen curtains, and Lola Todd shivered. She looked out and saw that young Tim had disappeared. So had the girl. As she watched, a tall, young looking man appeared, strolling leisurely down Ocean Avenue toward where one of those new, bullet shaped little cars stood against the curb. Could that be Timmie's "telephone repair man?"
She shrugged and went into her bedroom, picking up a man's long tailed shirt. It covered her down to just above the knee. Mike had been a pretty big guy, and he loved fine materials. She was glad she had the shirts. They were nice as cover-ups. But they were sort of short. If she didn't stop leaking juice out of her pussy, she'd have to put on a pair of panties.
The thought of the strange man crossed her mind once more, and she shook her head. "Be pretty funny if old Ellen was cheating on Larry," she said, in a conversational tones. She chuckled. "You're being defensive, old girl. Just because you're screwing her son, you want to believe she's getting a little outside stuff, too."
In the house below, Ellen Shelton paused in her darkened dining room. She had heard Tim come in, and assumed that he would go into the kitchen for a snack. He usually did. But she did not hear him, so she had to decide, quickly and correctly, where he was, so that she could engage his attention while her friend, Frank Byrd, made a safe departure.
The terrible fist of sexual desire had loosened its grip on her vital parts. It had been a marvelously wild, tough, raunchy afternoon of sex. Worth it, to lose the few dollars she would make at Mrs. Price's little store, where she worked part time. Who needed the money, anyhow? She only did it to get away from the house.
She and Larry had had a simply wonderful sex life when they first married, eighteen years ago. They were both naive, but they were both very healthy young animals, and they had a desire to have everything that life offered. Larry had bought "one of those books," a marriage manual, of sorts, and the two of them had almost died of love, trying all the bypaths of sex which "the book" said were okay.
And then there was the sudden underground interest in mate-swapping, so brilliantly new at the time. What a ball that had been! It wasn't like fucking strangers. Every one in their little group had been a friend. All were young and horny, all of them wanted to try everything. To fuck two guys while your husband watched! What a gas! To go down on a woman while your husband fucked her in the head! Crazy, wild, funny. And harmless, they all told each other. Until Reg and Bunnie Smith, for God only knew what reason, had divorced, told everything to the judge, and he, a dirty-minded man up for re-election, had made a big public thing out of it.
All of this was a split second flash of memory. Now that her body had come back to life, after such a long numbness, she hated to think of it. She pulled the robe tightly over her belly. It showed her tits real good. Tim could sort of digest that little presentation, then she would let the robe go, giving him just a flash of her boobs and pussy. Poor little guy!
She really felt bad about that other time, but what the hell! That Frank Byrd, he had the guts of a burglar, and he had given the boy some cock-and-bull story about why he was there. And then, Tim had seen her come out of the bathroom with Frank's load running down her leg. She had been yelling at Tim about "peeping at his mother," which he hadn't been, she knew that, when Larry had come home. She had been in a panic, so she had actually kept on at poor Timmie until Larry had begun to beat him. And during that time, Frank had left.
She turned toward Timmie's room, realizing that, if he were in there, she would have to go back and steer Frank out the back. But she got a surprise that stopped her in her tracks. And made her heart start a double bump, while the tautness in her well worked pussy came flooding back.
Timmie, oblivious to anything else, was playing with his cock!
She had never believed parents ought to knock and receive permission before going into a child's room. What kind of Communist bullshit was that? Invasion of privacy? What sort of privacy would a kid need? From his parents, at that?
So, she had just opened his door without knocking. And she found out what kind of privacy a kid might need. And why.
Like most mothers, her first reactions were, in approximately this order, as follows: , First, a blinding rage against the boy for doing such a horrible, nasty thing when he'd been told five million times that it was wicked even to think of his penis, let alone to play with it.
Second, an equally wild and vengeful anger against whatever neighborhood kid had corrupted her perfect and darling son into an act so depraved, since, left alone, he wouldn't even have thought of such a thing.
Third, an unutterably melancholy sense of failure, a sickening realization that Timmie was growing up, she was growing old, and that she had lost him forever.
And fourth, a gut-ripping wave of lust, a gush of drool as she visualized how that lovely prick would taste if she could only force him down on the bed and go down on him.
Jesus Christ! What lust is as overpowering as that of a mother, abandoning herself to every animal craving buried in her psyche as she gives full rein to the carnal love she has always hidden, even from herself, the darkly sickening lust for her son?
She never heard Frank Byrd leave the house.
He had, as he always did in these matinee performances, been as tigerish, as brutishly fuck-crazy, as she was. With a frigid young wife, he had a deep need for something beyond the normal in sex. Not just because of his hunger to have his balls drained and refreshed, but to "show" his wife-even though, of course, he would never let her know, just how hot, how wanton, other women could be.
When he was rumping this chubby and salacious little housewife with the hot ass and the equally hot mind, when he had his big cock buried in her asshole and she was chewing the bed to muffle her screams, he always thought of his wife, and in his mind he said: "Wham! Bam! Up your ass, sweetheart! Right up your tender little ass, Lucy baby! And when I squirt my fuck juice up your gut, I'll shove my cock down your throat, shit and all!" Yes, indeed! Even if the frigid wife never finds out, it gives a man a deep feeling of prideful accomplishment. And, to be frank about it, he didn't like women any too well as a general thing, so just to degrade Ellen a bit gave him added pleasure in their wild fucking.
Therefore, her body was primed. Not exhausted, as some women might have been, after so much animalistic sex. She could have taken on three guys like Frank Byrd, all at once, and if it were ten, she would have been just as happy.
Ellen had been on, not a toboggan slide, but a roller-coaster.
After the little town had been shocked, amused, exhilirated, and titilated by the swapping scandal, she and Larry had returned to their church. His mother's church, a church of violent exhortation, violent repentance, violent purging of the Devil from sinners. She remembered their sweating confrontation after they had both, before the entire congregation, accepted Jesus Christ as their Savior, renounced all sin, and stood forth, presumably sin-free, on the rostrum.
"I can hardly wait to get home," Larry had confided, grim lipped, as they left the church. When she asked why, he had laughed in a strange way and said: "Now, whatever we do is okay with God, okay with Jesus, and okay with the church!"
As a matter-of-fact, he hadn't waited. There was a large, flat place behind the Arco service station at the bottom of their hill. And the station was closed for the night.
She had been spread on the ground by more than a few of her young classmates, long before the marriage to Larry. She had been in gang-bangs in dark and rocky coves along the beach, when everybody fucked everybody, and anything went. She had been fired out of a State College because she had organized a group of white female students who had done their share for social justice by publicly taking on six black students each. And, of course, she had been in the forefront of every drive for more violent and kinkier sex in the swinging group.
But never, absolutely never in the adventurous past, had she had a going over like Larry had given her in that gravelly lot back of the Arco station.
He had been like a bull, snorting and slobbering as he had held her up from the ground, jabbing his big cock into the tightness of her overly sensitive cunt. They had both been celibate from the first day of the trial until this evening of absolution by the shouting elders and congregation of their church. Part of the ritual had been for them to disrobe, and for a number of the church officials to finger them thoroughly and derisively. Some of the younger and juicier female members of the sect had given Larry a number of strange caresses as they, urged on by the gaunt preacher, had derided him as a beast, a sinner.
He had shouted and screamed at Ellen as he mauled her, jerking her blouse open, brutally plucking at her breasts, and he seemed, in some way neither of them ever understood, to have inhuman power.
By the time they lay gasping in the sandy, thorny patch of waste land, the small, voluptuous woman was smeared with semen and dirt, filled, front and rear, top and bottom, with Larry's wild discharges of cock juice, and in a hysterical condition.
It was a sick-making thing. And it made both of them sick in a very sad and pitiable way. Only, Ellen had not felt that her way was, in actuality, pitiable at all.
She knew she had a beautiful body, and she believed that it, like all her possessions, was a gift from God. And, while she no longer was turned on by Larry and his cock she kept a fire of fuck lust smoldering in her body every minute of every day.
Any housewife's life is filled with opportunities for outside sex. While papa does the work, mama does her job. Shopping at the supermarket, going to the laundromat, the post office, the service station, the hardware store, the lumberyard, the drug store.
Ellen Shelton had been fucked in every such establishment in her area. She had known times when the very sight of a cock turned her stomach, having had so much. But she had never said, in her mind: I've got enough.
Her son's cock, the sight of it, so hard, so red tipped, as he gently drew the foreskin back and pulled it forward, watching himself and his play in the mirror, almost drove the woman out of her mind. She had become convinced, in some weird twist of her mental processes, that she had been forgiven completely for all the "sins" she had committed before her and Larry's absolution by the church. Anything was all right with God. She had paid the price. That was her feeling. She assumed it was Larry's. She was, in her own thoughts, like the person who has been tried for murder and been acquitted, and who could now freely admit to the murder without being tried again. The rule of double jeopardy.
But she was smart. She did not go directly to him. Instead, since she knew he would feel the lash of guilt, the stigma of sin which she and Larry had heaped on him so many times, and would thus be unable to perform, she quietly, quickly backed out of sight.
When she was in her bedroom, where the aromas of lust still hung in the stagnant air, she smoothed the sheets just a bit, then lay on her back, letting the robe hang free. She was like a hunter waiting for her prey, and her cunt was the bait.
When she had set the bed lamp just right to play across the hotly inviting undulations of her body, when she had gently pulled her fat, soft, hairy cunt lips apart to show the wet, red gash between them, she called weakly: "Timmie! Oh, help me, Timmie! PLEASE! HELP!"
There was a moment while she knew he was putting that lovely cock back into his pants. And then, praise God! She heard his hurrying footsteps, and his voice: "Mom? Mom? Where are you?"
She did not answer, for she wanted to leave the impression that her one call for help had exhausted her frail strength, that she was truly unable to call out again.
Naturally, he came to her room first. And, naturally, he stopped dead still. "Mom," he called in a low voice. "I'm here, mom! What's the trouble?"
She did not stir, except to raise one hand an inch or so and let it fall. Oh, guile! By that feeble gesture, to signal that she was alive, but helpless. To underline that she was not dead, she moaned.
She heard him draw closer, felt him standing by her side, in easy reach of her and hers. It was not easy to keep her breathing slow and regular, as any fainted person should. Oh, God, she prayed silently, please let the little devil get on me, get his cock into me. Then I can hold him in my arms, kiss him, fuck him. FUCK HIM, the silent scream flared in the hot corridors of her lascivious mind.
He looked closely at the cunt he had never seen except in quick peeps, in which he was too startled to look more than a second or two. He leaned close. He inhaled deeply. He almost fell into it from a whirling giddiness.
His mind flamed with a quick desire. For this brief moment, this mysteriously lovely cunt, which had caused him so much trouble, could be his if he wished to take it. He had heard his dad say that, when his mom fainted, she was likely to be out for an hour. And he had more than love to make him want to penetrate this softly juicing pussy, these thick lips with their scarlet lining, running that clear juice that he had seen-and licked up-in another cunt, only an hour ago. The hair was thickly curled, massed in a puff over the top of the split, coming right down the thick lips clear to the cunt hole. It went farther, and his mother was arranged so that he saw this, too. Below the hole, there was still a thick growth. He had to imagine it, but he knew it clustered around her asshole.
He felt his cock throb, knew it was almost as hard as when he had first rammed it into his Aunt Lola's mouth. He had been peeling the foreskin back, just to enjoy that wonderful scent that had come from the blonde woman's vagina. Now, it was skinning back all by itself, and the itch in his tender cockhead was making him pant, making his blood pump faster.
His mother felt his hand even before it touched her. She was trembling, and hoped that he would be too excited to notice. The heat inside her, far up her fuck tube, seemed to be ready to flow out of her. Her clit was throbbing, a sharp, lively, beautiful feeling. She was grateful to her God for such delights.
She had to grit her teeth and exert all her will to keep from screaming in fuck-fever when he at last stroked softly between her outer lips. Let him but strike that finger into her, and she would have to give way, would have to let it cum.
She almost fainted in reality when her son spoke loud and clear: "Mama! Mama! I'm going to fuck you, mama. Do you hear that? I'm going to sin by sticking my dick into you. Into your cunt, mama. Do you understand that?"
What made this scene so fantastic was that the boy, as if he, too, were hypnotized by his boldness, inserted his finger into the hot and juice-slopped folds of his mother's cunt. Where she had been sure she would shoot her wad if he touched her, his voice had quieted her, mind and body, so that she felt his finger seek her most tender, eager spots, and did not leap screaming from the bed.
What was even more thrilling to her was that he bent his head-she knew he must now be kneeling beside her-and took such an enormous mouthful of her breast that she thought he would suck it all in.
She had a great deal of sexual fire in her boobs, any time. Now, fresh from the abandoned, long drawn out fucking with Byrd, her nipples were sore with a glorious sensitivity. His lips, his tongue seemed to stroke her and suck her into a golden mist of fuck lure.
Sonny, her baby, sucking the deeply hidden milk of human love out of mommy's big ol' tits, and sonny's tiny little hand, now with a finger like a cock, jammed into mommy's great big ol' sluicing, juicing, cock-crazy cunt!
She was cumming, now. She could let it out, freely, since she could not have stopped it. She wanted his cock, but this was better than nothing. It engaged the nerves in the vital first two inches of her vagina. His thumb was raking her clit. How could he know to do that? And the fork of his hand was wallowing in the slime-lovely folds of her inner labia. Best of all, she had not scared him off by the undulations of her strong body. Her smooth, beautiful belly was as beautiful, as young looking as Sheri Olson's. Only, because she did not go to the beach, it was milky white, and the little blue veins under her satiny skin seemed to move with her pulsing blood. Her cunt smell came up around his nose like an invisible cloud, and he was lost for long seconds, under the spell of this lush body, these titties, this cunt, all of which he had yearned for in dreams.
Ellen controlled the wildness she would ordinarily have shown. She released her breath in a low sound: "Mmmmmmmm! Mmmmmmmm!" But, since Timmie did not move, did not start back, she knew he, too, was too absorbed in the fuckiness, the deeply sexual raunchiness, of finger-fucking his own mother's swollen, deeply haired cunt.
Her pussy was chewing at his finger-was it his fingers? Did he have two in her? She closed her strong, slippery cunt muscles, their juice augmented by the long shots of rich male protein fired up her by Frank. He had bung-holed her, also, in their afternoon of fuck play, and the raw nerves in her rectum seemed to be churning as she writhed inwardly, letting out her vaginal orgasm, her clitoral delight.
Who would think a kid-my own kid-could bring me shooting out of nowhere like this? Why am I so hot for him? Oh, how can I get that lovely cock, that sweet, red-tipped, gamy smelling, blood pounding, nerve aching cock into me? And the thought fanned her cunt flame, made her throat muscles spasm in hard inner hunger to eat his jism, to swallow his cock, so that her moans grew.
"AAAAAAERRRRGGGHHH! AAAAARRRGGGHHH!"
It was still nowhere near as loud as she usually saluted her body's swelling greed for the male article, her fountaining spasms of hot-shooting lust.
In the toilet at Bendo's Service, on the highway, standing up with one foot on the toilet so that big Ole Bendo could get it in her, she had brought three men off the streets to pound on the door, calling: "What's wrong?"
And she, her hot, tight, plumply aroused pussy throbbing to the sperm floods of the big Finn, Bendo, had cried: "Go away! I only hurt my foot!" Then, grinning at the big man whose cock still beat its blood throbs and its jism blasts inside her, whispered: "Well, God damnit, Ole, it feels like a foot!"
But that was yesterday, and now was now and now was home and now was her lovely baby boy, finger-fucking his mommy. So sweet, so beautiful, so-well, so right!
She could hear his hoarse breathing, guessed that his eyes would be staring right at the sloppy-pink, juice spilling, muscle dancing cunt, and wished he knew enough to get down where his thumb was, on her hard-cumming clit, and give it a sweet little suck. How would you like that, Mister Prick-ass Larry Shelton? Who still felt it was a sin to fuck unless it was in the dark, and who wouldn't eat cunt any more, a guy who used to boast that all the lunch he wanted was Ellen's cunt in his bright blue lunch pail.
She felt as if she had cum for ten minutes. Her vagina felt tired from its writhings, her entry muscles slippery and exhausted from gripping. There had been Moose Hartmann at the hardware store on her way home. Back in the dark stock room, on quilts they used when they shipped plate glass. And Frank Byrd this afternoon. And now, her son, the sweetest and most meaningful of all.
But all good things must come to an end. She wanted to have Tim's sweet, wholesome, little-boy cock in her pussy. Or in her mouth. Yes, that would be better. So she did the wrong thing. She reached for it.
The boy had been in a dream. His finger was his cock, and it was in his mother. He was sucking on Lola Todd's titties. He had his head, his cheek, on the warm belly of dark haired Sheri Olson, and guess whose pink, eager, spit drooling, tongue filled mouth as so sweetly and gently sucking on his cock? You're right. Little Alice Bond, that angelic child with the innocence of a cherub in her elfin face, and the cock-yearning of a thousand courtesans in her slim, lovely little body. And all of them, mother, Aunt Lola, black haired Sheri, and cherubic Alice, all were a part of one enormous cunty dream of delightful love, of fuck and suck and smear-it-on-me sex, full of cum and jism and spit and shit, all a brilliant dream.
Thus, when Ellen's impatient hand reached and jerked, however gently, at his cock, it just simply blew the vision all to hell. It awoke the boy, and blasted all the sweetness out of his self-induced orgy of tender, innocent lust.
"Ma!" he screamed, leaping to his feet, his eyes popping open and really seeing what he was doing. "Ma!" using his infant name for her, before she made him afraid of her.
She was on fire, her cunt still hammering out the last, sweetest notes of this orchestration of her own improvisation in High-F, F-for-fucking, for fucking her son. She could not let go his cock, and he could not control it, having been rudely awakened from a wet dream. So wet that his fingers were pruny-tipped from soaking in mama's hot pussy for so long, waifting that cunty delight to his nostrils. He could not stop it, his shoot-off, his ball explosions, his hard jets of hot jism striking his mom in her distraught face.
She had her mouth open, trying to order him to stand still, to stick his dick in her cunt, to let her suck him with all her maternal strength and power. But she could not get out a word.
Her aim was instinctive, each long, slimy white rope of his seed splattered in her mouth, struck the back of her throat with stinging force. And all she could do was to swallow, and in a hurry, too, before another fierce spurt of rich, thick, life-bearing sperm hit her open mouth again, giving her another mouth filling splatter of the hot, thickly curdled protein from her baby boy's young balls.
It was too beautiful, too sweet. She knew defeat in her heart and in her imperfect mind. Her sin had found her out. Not the simple, church-defined sin of loving and taking cocks of every size in every way. But of being unkind. Of making this boy afraid of her. Her sin!
She watched, helpless to raise a hand or her voice as he turned blindly and staggered from the room. He had to hide. If they beat him for only looking at his mother's juicy, fat, hairy old twat, what would they do to him for finger-fucking it? For sucking on her long, heavy, dark nippled, softly radiant titty, with that feel of blood and weight in it? And, oh, boy! For shooting off all over her face and neck and tits? For she had not caught it all, by no means. He had seen the thick drops roll down her softly rounded breasts, her smooth neck, just beginning to show, crepe-like wrinkles that tell a woman her youth is going. But he was fiercely glad as he ran to his room, HO snatching up his clothing, stuffing a few things into his Boy Scout duffle bag. Clean Jockey shorts, clean T-shirts and sox, his tooth brush and such gear.
"I did it," he repeated over and over. "I did it! I had my finger in her cunt! Right up mama's cunt! Wow-eee!"
His heart was pounding as he ran out of the house. Far down the block, he thought he saw his father's small gray car as he turned to the back of the house. There was a board nailed on the back of their garage, two feet off the ground. It made a step for him to pull himself, unseen from any spot in his home, through the hedge and up into his ditch, his hiding place. He fell into it, lying on his back, blowing out his breath in a final, desperate sense of escape.