Chapter 8
Following the sex orgy with the two teenyboppers, everything in Jim Cade's life proceeded downhill. Downhill in the sense that everything went wrong.
His car broke down, necessitating a $142 transmission repair. That was the start. Then came the matter of a flunked biology exam, followed by a questionable grade on a geophysics quiz. A few more miserable showings such as these would result in a deficiency report from the dean, which could, and often did, lead to a temporary suspension from the football team.
But getting suspended from the team wasn't near as humiliating as being benched.
"And that's what's going to happen," Coach Frietag warned him during a recent Monday morning chewing-out, "unless this offense gets the lead out of their ass!" He was referring, of course, to State Tech's poor showing in their last two games: a 7-6 defeat at the hands of an inferior Southwestern eleven; and getting no better than a 14-14 tie from an underdog Mid-Central frosh.
"Too many mental lapses," he stormed on. "That's the trouble. We just don't have our mind on the game."
Jim remained silent. He was glad that this sermon was taking place in private. Frietag was hotter than a Miami sidewalk, and though he constantly employed the pronoun "we," when he was denouncing past records, the implication was clear. He meant "you." "You" did this and "you" did that, not "we."
The scorching ass-chewing, lasting nearly twenty minutes, soured him for the day. He cut classes, afternoon scrimmage, and moped about the apartment. Frietag wasn't being fair, he decided. There were forty other players that made up the squad, so why should the quarterback bear the whole brunt of the blame? And what about the good games? What about the victories? If the bald-headed sonofabitch was going to chew your ass when you lost, why didn't he throw you a pat-on-the-back when you won?
The more he thought about this and other inequities, the angrier he grew. He didn't need football; the hell with it! And this wasn't the truth, of course, for the game meant a lot to him. But his anger was vicious, swollen by an accumulation of setbacks, not the least of which was Patti's gross infidelity in a cheap, rundown motel. So it was easy to say the hell with football, and, for the moment, mean it. And it was just as easy to get drunk, puke it up, then get drunk again. Warren told him to be sensible about it, and when his handsome roommate persisted with this advice, he ended the discussion by telling Warren to mind his own business.
During this courtship with the booze, he phoned several girls, including Fay and her girlfriend Shirley, hoping to induce someone, anyone, to come up to his place. He felt a fresh piece of ass might change his run of bad luck, and it well might have, except that he never had the opportunity of finding out. The girls were busy. Busy or they had a date, or else they sensed he was drunk and simply were not interested.
He blamed aW these disappointments on "Patti. "Everything had been going well till they'd broken up, and then-then the whole world was frigged up. Well screw her! he thought bitterly. Screw her and screw the coach! And he had two more double shots of bourbon, swallowed them without a wash, and at this point, high on false courage, decided to go to the coach's house and tell him what he thought of him.
It was only a three block walk to coach Frietag's modest house on Vine Street, and he was rapping on his door within five minutes.
Myra Frietag opened the door and flashed him a look of mild surprise. She was a slim, dark-haired woman of fine New England breeding, about thirty, though she looked considerably less. They had met before-this at a football banquet earlier in the year-and the same question crossed his mind now that had crossed it then-why would a shapely, well-bred honey of a woman such as Myra marry a man twenty years her senior?
"I think we've been staring at each other for a full five minutes," she smiled. "You must be-"
"Jim Cade," he finished.
"Of course. Our star quarterback. I should've remembered."
He smiled weakly, trying to recall some of the campus scuttlebutt concerning Myra Frietag. He'd heard she drank more than her coach-husband preferred, and somebody else pressed the rumor a bit further, saying she was a big lush. There was also talk that she screwed around behind the coach's back, but this was only wishful thinking on the part of his teammates, he guessed.
"I came to see the coach," he said, straining to be articulate. "Is he in?"
"No, he's not, Jim. But I expect him any minute," she added quickly. "If you'd like to come in and wait-"
"I could come back later."
"Nonsense. You can come in now." She swung the door wide open and invited him inside.
He was led to a recreation room of sorts-paneled walls, tiled floors, leather furniture, and a portable bar equipped with brass stools. Several scatter rugs were flung about, charcoal prints adorned the walls, and a potted rubber plant stood to one side of the heavy, deep-red drapes.
"This is the only room in the house free of football trophies," she smiled.
"I take it you don't care for football."
For a brief instant her eyes darkened. But the brightness was quickly restored, and she said, "I like it. But I also like to get away from it now and then."
"So this is your asylum."
"Right." She rubbed her hands together. "Now, may I get you something to drink? Some iced tea, perhaps?"
He made no attempt to conceal his distaste for iced tea. He wore an expression of someone who has just swallowed a mouthful of castor oil.
"I think not."
"Something stronger?"
He shot her a conspiratorial grin. "Sounds good. But it's against training rules. And if your husband found out-"
It was now her turn to be conspiratorial. In a near whisper, she said, "But he won't find out, will he?"
"No, I suppose not. Not unless-"
"What would you like?" she asked, now behind the portable bar.
"Bourbon-and-ginger would be fine."
"Ice?"
"Yes, please." He straddled a bar stool, rested his elbows on the smooth, formica-topped bar. He followed her with his eyes, feeling a quick stab of pleasure when she bent across the sink to retrieve a shaker. Her crocheted lemon-colored mini-dress climbed up the back of her legs, presenting him with a titillating view of her thighs, just above her nylons, but he was immediately ashamed of the lewd feelings he experienced.
Presently she was on a stool beside him, and they sampled their drinks. "Better than iced tea?"
"Much better." He swallowed generously of the chilled highball. "But if I get caught breaking training rules-"
"Jim Cade, I think you worry too much. Has anyone ever told you that?"
He grinned. Yes, many people had told him the same thing, so it was probably true. "But the coach-your husband-he's pretty strict about training rules."
"Granted," she said, crossing one shapely leg over the other. "But isn't it fun to break a rule every now and then?"
"That depends on what rule you're talking about." His face warmed, for he suddenly realized how meaningful this must have sounded. And it had not been intended in this manner.
She took no offense, however; in fact, she smiled slyly.
"That sounds like a quarterback sneak."
He grinned broadly. She was sharp. Sharp, fast on the uptake, capable of dropping her conservative New England veneer at a moment's notice. It occurred to him, too, that maybe the rumors were correct-that she did play around.
He sipped at his drink, wondering if he should make a pass at her. He could get in one helluva barrel of trouble if things went wrong. But then how could things go wrong? She was being overly-friendly, encouraged this little conspiracy about the drinks, and she wasn't the least concerned about the rise of her dress, which, at the moment, was resting on a level with the tops of her nylons.
"Shall we talk about rules some more?" she said with a slight smirk.
"Maybe we ought to talk about something else," he suggested. "Such as what?"
And there it was, he thought. Another innuendo, that sly smile of hers, and no effort on her part to lower the scandalous rise of her dress.
"We could talk about football."
"I'd rather talk about football players." Her eyes and legs rivaled for his attention, and now he was fairly certain that his pretty hostess had had a few drinks before he arrived.
He said, "What about football players?"
She slid her stool closer to his. "Well," she began, re-crossing her curvy legs and giving him a flash look at her black panties, "What do you football players do for recreation?"
He shrugged. "Lots of things."
"like what?"
"Oh. we go out and goof around, pick up girls." "And then what?"
He cleared his throat, wondered, What do I say now? I'm getting a hard-on, I can see halfway up her ass, but what do I do?
"You didn't answer me?" she said, grinning mischievously.
"I know." He cleared his throat again. "Look, d'you suppose I could have another drink?"
"Certainly." She slid from the stool rather than stepping off of it, and her wild mini-dress climbed up her silken legs, up the creamy whiteness of her naked thighs, clear to the vee of her sexy black panties.
He nearly lost his senses. He nearly grabbed her twat and said, "Let's fuck!" And she might have answered, "Yes." But what he so easily forgot-at least, during that instant-was that her fat, slobbering, bald-head husband was due any minute.
But this threat did not hamper her in any way. Not at all. She gave him another free show when she reached into the cooler for more ice. This time he not only saw her bare thighs, but also got to peek at the scarcely-contained cheeks of her ass. She was equally careless when she climbed back on her bar stool, rewarding him with a thrilling inspection-the second-of her lacy black panties.
He realized, without looking, that there was a fat bulge in his pants, and he hoped she wouldn't notice it. She might be a mere cock-tease and he didn't want her to know she was winning the game. But even if her invitation was for real, there was nothing they could do. Not with her husband on his way home.
"I think we were talking about what football players do on their nights off," she said, swinging her crossed leg to and fro.
He fought the desire to gaze at her nyloned thighs.
"Maybe we should change the subject."
"All right. Whatever you like." She drew closer. She rested her hand on his shoulder. He twitched. She said, "Suppose we have a discussion of football players and their muscles." She trailed her fingers down his forearm, gave him a playful squeeze. "Now your muscles are big." She paused, lowered her eyes. "And I'll just bet that your muscles are big all over."
His body stiffened. He forced himself not to look at her.
"Is that true, Jim? Are all your muscles big?"
Before he could answer her, her hand was in his lap, feeling for his pecker. He froze.
"I'll just bet you've got the biggest muscle of anybody on the team." She worked his fly open, went for his shorts.
The excitement was unbearable. It reminded him of an afternoon in his youth, sitting in a darkened theater, being fondled by an elderly man who had sat next to him. But there, too, his excitement eclipsed his fear, and he allowed the smiling, white-haired old man to reach into his pants, rub his peter, make it harden, and help him toward his very first jacking-off.
But this was something else, wasn't it? It wasn't a jacking-off; it was a plea to be screwed.
"Does this feel nice?" she asked.
He gulped out a yes. And now she parted the fly of his shorts. She pulled it out. Her eyes swam over its veined hardness.
"It is big." She skinned it back. Her eyes feasted. Then she began working it back and forth, sliding the skin over the head of it, then sliding it back. And in one way or another, she managed to run her manicured nail very lightly over the surface of his balls.
He couldn't stand it He jerked his peter out of her hand.
"How much time do we have?"
"I don't know."
"Where can we do it?"
"We better do it right here," she answered.
"Where?"
"I don't know. But let me make sure the door's locked."
She disappeared, and the brief interim gave him an opportunity to grasp his senses. This was close to suicide. He was a fool to lay her in her own house and especially with her old man coming home at any time.
But then she was back, flying into his arms, giving him a quick French kiss, whispering into his ear.
"It's all right. I locked the door."
"But what if he comes?"
"We'll be able to hear his car."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure." And then she pulled her dress above her hips, killing the last of his reluctance.
She had removed her panties while she was out of the room, locking the door, and now her dark-bushed pussy waited for his seven-inch treat
"Where?" he asked again.
"I'll get on the stool," she said. "But well have to hurry."
He said okay. She boosted herself back up on the stool, spread her pretty thighs apart, lifted her dress. The thick inner lips of her hot pussy glistened with love juice. She was ready, and she pleaded softly, "Hurry up!"
He walked up to her, grasping his swollen peter. He moved between her outstretched legs. Her wet pussy twitched.
"Put it in. Quick!"
He put the head of his peter at the wet opening of her slit. A thrill ran down his spine. His toes curled and he shoved hard.
A joyous cry of ecstasy broke from her mouth. She scissored her darling legs around his waist, wrapped her arms around his neck. She pulled them hotly together and began a feverish twisting with her ass.
He dug his fingers into the soft cheeks of her rear. She squirmed like her twat was on fire, and he could hardly keep her on the stool.
Once before he'd done it this way to a girl, but that had been when he was back in junior high school. A girl in his seventh-grade homeroom, a very experienced 13 year old, had persuaded him to come home with her. She lived in a trailer and her parents were still at work. They'd kissed and played with each other for a short while, and then she had led him to the kitchen. Here she removed her panties, then sat on their kitchen table. He'd been directed to stand up, stick it in her, then go back and forth. It was his first affair with a girl, and in many ways not un-like this one.
"Can you come yet?" Myra asked suddenly.
"If you want me to, I can."
"Y'better."
He braced himself, got a firmer hold on her saucy, jiggling ass. He shoved his cock in deeper. Chills and thrills and crazy joys shot through him. He pumped faster. So did Myra.
"Fuck me, Jim! Hard! Ohhhh, y-yes! Yes-that's the way! Uh-huh-ohhhh!! !
Suddenly her legs kicked out. Her toes aimed at the ceiling, and her ass came off the stool. Her pussy snapped at his dick. She cried out.
"Ohhhh! I can feel it, darling! I can feel your juice!"
She was right. He was coming. Shooting his come up her greedy twat, unloading a ball full of love juice, squirming like a man with an epileptic seizure, giving her every last drop of his hot, creamy jizm.
"That was terrific," she said, as he wiped off the head of his prick and slipped it back in his pants.
"But too fast," he told her. "I like to take my time. And I like to do it without clothes, too."
She dropped her dress, patted his hand.
"I know. I feel the same way. But there just wasn't time."
He said, "I better go."
"I thought you wanted to see my husband."
"I did," he said, walking slowly toward the front door, "but ril come back later. Is that okay?"
She opened the door for him. Her sleepy dark eyes brimmed with sex.
"You come whenever you like."
"Inside you?" he grinned.
"Is there another place?"
"No, I guess not." He waved, then without looking back, hurried down the flagstone walk.
Except for a slight hangover, he felt on top of the world during the walk back to his apartment. His luck was changing for the better, no doubt of it. This bit about the coach, for instance, getting an unexpected piece of ass-that was something! All he'd wanted to do, of course, was to give the coach a piece of his mind for what he thought was an unfair chewing out. Instead, he gloated, he'd shoved the meat to the coach's wife, and that was a far superior bit of satisfaction.
Humming a football march, happier than he'd been in several days, he let himself into the apartment. The front room was dark, but the hallway light was on, and he could hear Warren Yanko talking to somebody in one of the back bedrooms. He started in that direction, then caught himself. If his roommate was in the middle of another of his homosexual liaisons, he would not appreciate the interruption.
He turned and moved quietly into the kitchen. Suddenly he stopped. A young blond-haired girl of no more than 13 or 14 was seated at the kitchen table, a comic book clutched in her hand. She was bare-legged, clad in a plain, white uniform-type dress, which was so short that he almost mistook it for a blouse.
"Who are you?" he asked with a start.
She looked up from her comic book. Her eyes glowed the mischief of the very young. Her lipstickless mouth curved in an uncertain smile.
"Don't you know?" she said.
He paused to wonder. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn't place her. Her youthful, little girl face bore no make-up and her childish eyes were as innocent as a baby doe's. And there was added primness in the way she sat: knees pressed tightly together, stiffly erect, her red-ribboned ponytail swishing her back. But there was no possible way for him to know her, not anybody this young.
"You give up?" she asked.
"You look familiar," he said, still puzzled, "but I'm sure I don't know you." "Well you should know me." "Why?"
"Cause of what happened in the locker room the other day. You licked me down here"-she glanced at her lap-"by my thing!"