Chapter 1
It was the same old story. Harry Harper was more interested in his own pleasure than in assuring that his lovely young wife, Helen, enjoyed their sexual activity. Every time his cock got hard (Helen was sure it stayed hard), he would climb on, shove his prick into her dry cunt, pump for a few seconds, and empty his load of come into her long before she had even started to like what he was doing.
Helen wasn't a prude; wasn't turned off by sex. She just wasn't turned on by her careless husband. In the six months they had been married, she hadn't come even one time.
Helen worked her sexy hips up and down, trying to match Harry's rhythm, thereby making the fuck more enjoyable for both of them.
"Oh, Harry, darling, please slow down a little," she begged. "You're going to come and I'm not there yet. A little slower, darling. Bring me up with you," she pleaded, wanting desperately to come.
"Don't talk while I'm fucking," Harry grunted, maintaining his rapid pace.
Helen grabbed his hips and pulled his groin to hers, attempting to hold him still. "Please, darling, be a good lover and slow down. I want to come with you."
"I'm not too fast," Harry hissed. "You're too damned slow!" He jerked his hips back, freeing himself from her clutching hands. "I've got to come! Fuck with me and you'll get there."
He resumed his fierce fucking and Helen moaned in frustration. Thinking she was moaning with pleasure, Harry increased his pace, fucking his six inch cock into her as hard as he could.
Helen felt her cunt just beginning to moisten with sexual joy. She threw her head back and gritted her teeth, willing herself to come. Above her voluptuous naked body, her husband was working like a Trojan. He had been fucking his pretty, black-haired spouse for only a few minutes, but he had been going at it so hard that the bed was squeaking in protest.
"Come on, baby, get with it! You can come if you'll just try," he panted, pumping his lean buttocks up and down over the luscious, hair-covered saddle of her loins.
She didn't answer verbally, but he could feel the vaginal muscles deep in her now-slippery pussy coiling around the shaft of his stiff prick. She had been too dry when he entered her, but now she was getting into it and he could move easier. Her cunt felt like a warm, wet fist around his prick. That erotic stimulation was driving him out of his mind with lust.
He was too hot and too horny to hold off his orgasm. Every time Helen thrust her hips up to receive his thrusting tool, he groaned with pleasure and got a little closer to dumping his load of sperm into her grasping cunt.
"Wait for me, darling!" she croaked. "I want to come, too! Wait for me, please. Make me come!"
He was sure he was trying his damnedest. But he wasn't a damned sex machine! His lovely young wife was just asking for too much from him. When he got his cock into her, he had to come! Just a few more strokes and he was going to fill her cunt to the brim with boiling sperm. It was ridiculous for her to ask him to slow down and wait for her at a time like this! There was something wrong with her if she couldn't come while being fucked so hard.
He stared down at her big, bouncing tits and sensual body. The sight of all the desirable female flesh only made matters worse for him. An explosion was building in his balls as they slapped against her crotch each time he buried himself in her sucking cunt. His cock was like a big fuse burning down to the power-laden powder kegs of his testicles. Just a few more seconds of savage fucking and he would be there! God, how he wanted to come! Needed to come! It was an urge he simply couldn't resist. He slammed into her with all his might, his prick swelling in the familiar way. . .
"Oh, God, don't come! Don't come! Wait! Wait! You've got to wait...ahhh, shitV Helen moaned, digging her fingernails into his buttocks, trying to hold him still and stop his cock from pumping.
But nothing could hold back his ravenous desire to unload inside her now. It was too late for anything but the aftermath. His prick throbbed against the hot walls of her cunt, then released a torrent of thick come. Helen could feel his sperm shooting high up into her and she was still so far from coming. She was almost insane with the need to release her own sexual tensions.
She jammed her hips up and down, trying to hold onto his rapidly deflating cock long enough to get her own orgasm started. But it was an exercise in futility. As usual. As soon as he came, his cock got as limp as a wet noodle. Harry tried to pump her a few more times, but his prick was too soft for her to even feel it anymore. His last few feeble strokes brought her no pleasure. Rather, she felt only intense frustration and defeat. He had spewed out his glut of come as he had rammed his cock between her legs, had gotten his pleasure, and had left her stranded. The viscid liquid was even running out of her pulsing pussy lips and soaking the crack of her buttocks. The feel of that trickle of warm liquid angered her more.
She would have given her left arm to have come with him. It was, however, too late. Just as it was always too late. Her clit, which had grown as large and red and erect as the thick nipples on her large tits only seconds before Harry came, was still standing out stiffly, begging for more attention.
"Damn!" Helen groaned, feeling the hot wave of frustration enveloping her full-bodied frame.
Every nerve in her body jangled with eager anticipation that was yet to be satisfied. "Couldn't you have waited!" she demanded hoarsely. "Couldn't you have held out just a little longer?" She clenched her teeth and tossed her head from side to side, her long black tresses bunching and swirling around her face.
Harry was slumping over her, his body glued to hers. His fun was over. His flesh was beginning to grow a bit sticky and uncomfortable, the way it always did after he had fucked. He had come, so what else was there? He rolled away from his wife, his soft prick slurping as it withdrew from between the pouting, flushed-pink lips of her unsatisfied pussy.
"Why do you always have to spoil everything by your demands?" he asked huskily.
Helen made a deep-throated, grunting noise. "You're like a damned rabbit," she said. "Climb on, pump for a few seconds, and then pour that sticky mess in me. You don't care about my feelings. All you want is a hole to stick that thing in so you can get your nuts off."
She sat up, fumbled around on the bedside table, found her cigarettes, and lit one. Exhaling the smoke, she stared into space, willing her body to come down from the erotic high that she had reached just seconds before he came. Harry lay on his back, his eyes closed, resting.
After a few minutes of tense silence, he sighed and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His cock was small and limp, almost hidden in the nest of hair in his groin. He knew he couldn't fuck her again right away. Didn't even have any desire to do so. He, too, reached for a cigarette. He remained on the edge of the bed, sitting with his back to Helen, puffing on his cigarette. He looked back over his shoulder and saw that his young wife was rubbing the moist, fringed mound of her cunt. As he watched, one finger slipped between her cunt lips, toying with her still-erect clitoris. The nipples of both her breasts were still large and pointing, standing up full and thick. They looked to be as hard as bullets. He liked to play with her tits, but only between fucks. When it was time to fuck, all he wanted to do was get his cock into her pussy.
"What are you doing?" he demanded. "You know that's not right."
"What the hell do you know about anything," Helen responded, her finger still working her clit. Her own touch felt good. Not as good as her husband's would have felt, but a lot better than nothing.
"It isn't right for you to play with yourself." Old teachings often rear their ugly heads to inhibit a person. Harry had always been taught by his mother that it wasn't right to masturbate. He never did, never had, and thought that his wife shouldn't, either. He didn't know why it was wrong. It just was. How could his mother be wrong, after all?
"You don't do anything for me," she snapped. "So why should you care what I do for myself. You've had your fun."
"Is that the reason you can't come when I fuck you? Do you get yourself off all the time and then have nothing left when we fuck? I'll bet that's what the problem is."
Helen snorted and continued playing with her clit. Harry reached over to pull her hand out of her twat. She slapped the hand away with an angry movement.
"Go take your shower. You're going to be late for work," she said coldly.
Harry held his hand near her thigh for a few seconds, hesitant to move away and more hesitant to touch her again. Shaking his head in dismissal, he rose and went to the bathroom.
Helen didn't really masturbate her clit. She never had brought herself off that way. She, too, had been taught that it was wrong and she couldn't push herself over that hurdle of childhood teaching. She wanted to. Badly. Was to the point where she would do almost anything to come. Except that. As soon as it started feeling really good, she stopped and removed her hand from her crotch. Reluctantly. Things had to change, and soon, or she would go out of her mind.
Harry came back into the bedroom and began dressing for work. Helen could not let matters lie as they were.
"Why don't you do things to me before you put that thing in me?" she demanded harshly. "Where's all the foreplay I've heard and read about? You don't do anything but climb on and stick that thing in me."
"That thing you keep referring to is my cock," he replied heatedly. "Or can't you bring yourself to say that? Just like you can't bring yourself to come with me."
"I can say cock," Helen retorted. "I can say a lot of things, just like you can. I'm talking about doing, not talking."
"Do what? All those weird things you've talked about before? like putting my mouth on your pussy?"
"For God's sake," she hissed, "you don't even touch it!" She saw him roll his eyes back and amended, "My pussy. My cunt. My twat. Whatever you want to call it! I don't care what name you give it, but I do care that you don't do anything with it but stick your cock in it and pound away until you come. Which is usually before I can even get my breath. You could at least put your fingers in it before you fuck it!"
"There you go again, wanting all those perverted things. Normal men don't do those things. What a man is supposed to do is use his cock, not his mouth or his fingers. Cunts are meant to have cocks in them. Not fingers or tongues or toes, or anything else!"
"Hell, you don't even touch my breasts, my tits, when you want to fuck me. Is there something wrong with my body? Don't you like to touch it and kiss it?"
"I don't have any objection to touching or kissing it," he replied. "It's where you want me to touch it and kiss it that matters. And where you want to touch and kiss me. A wife does not do that sort of thing. Only a whore uses her mouth to satisfy a man."
"Bullshit! I've read and heard that a lot of women, even wives, do that. What's so bad about it? And what kind of man kisses a woman's pussy if only a whore sucks a cock?"
Harry could only stare at his young wife. He hadn't ever considered that question. There being no male equivalent to a whore, he had no idea what to say. Except, "A perverted man does that, that's who. One who has no pride. Lesbians do that, not men."
"Then there must be a lot of male lesbians in the world."
"Just what the hell do you want from me, Helen? I don't neglect you, after all. We make love at least once a day."
"No, my dear husband, you fuck me at least once a day. We have never made love. Making love means all the foreplay; the touching, kissing, and playing with each other before we fuck. And then cuddling and touching and kissing after we fuck. And a man who is really a man makes sure that his woman gets her pleasure, too.
"We don't do any of those things. And I want to. Just like I want to use some positions other than me flat on my back all the time. Maybe if we did it some other way, it would help me come. I know it would help if you'd do something more than just stick your cock in me and fuck me."
"Where did you learn all these things? You told me you were a virgin when we married."
"I was, Harry. That was no lie. But being a virgin doesn't make me stupid. I did hear girls talking at school. And I can read."
"Read what? Trash, like those romance magazines? Those things are written that way just to sell copies. Those stories aren't true. Who would do all those crazy things?"
"Two people who are in love, the way we're supposed to be. You seemed so happy that I was a virgin, and now you don't do anything to teach me, or help me enjoy sex. Do you think I'm a 'bad' woman because I want to enjoy it?"
Again, Harry was at a loss for words. He wasn't really a bad sort. It was just that he'd never learned what making love was all about. Most of his information came from the wrong sources: the other boys at school who snickered about sex and what was involved. Boys who had no experience themselves and only made up the stories they told; the conquests of which they boasted. Harry had had a few sexual experiences before he married, but they were hurried affairs in the back seat of a car that left much to be desired. Foreplay was a foreign word, as far as he was concerned. You played with a girl's tits only long enough to coax her out of her panties so you cold put your cock in her. Hell, you didn't even get to see her naked body half the time. And you definitely didn't cuddle with her after you had fucked her! You put your wet cock back in your pants while she got her panties on and then you took her home. Only the really depraved girls, the ones everybody fucked, sucked your cock or jacked you off. Or even dared suggest that the boy eat her pussy. He wasn't going to have his wife thought of in those terms. Who would do that thinking had never entered his mind, either, unless he made a habit of telling his buddies about his private life. And the only thing he did was allude to how often he fucked his wife. He never talked about specific things they did. Or didn't do.
"We don't ever get anywhere with this talk," he said. "You just don't seem to understand that nice girls don't do those things. If you were a virgin, then you have to be a nice girl, so why do you keep wanting those things? I don't understand you at all."
"I'm not a girl, damn it," Helen hissed. "I may be only nineteen, but I'm a married women. All that garbage you learned from your school chums just isn't true. I. . . "
"You what? Have you been talking to your girlfriends about our private life again? You know that makes me mad!"
"I have to talk to someone, damn it! I'm gong crazy trying to figure out what we can do to make our sex better. And you don't seem to care one bit. As long as you can fuck and come, you're happy. I bet you'd do anything that woman next door wanted if you just had the chance. My boobs may not be as big as hers, but my body's just as good!"
"You leave Pam out of this! She has nothing to do with anything!"
"like hell she hasn't! I've seen the way you look at her when she spreads herself out in the back yard to sunbathe."
The woman in question was their next-door neighbor, a thirty-year-old blonde named Pamela Pearson. She often displayed her 40-24-38, five foot, four inch frame to Harry's and Helen's eyes by lying on a blanket in the back yard. None of the other neighbors could see into her yard, but there was a gap in the wooden fence between her yard and the Harper's. Harry looked at her every chance he got. His secret desire was to see her nude. But Helen was right. Pam might have bigger breasts, but Helen was no dog. Her own 36-22-38, 110 pounds packed on a five foot, three inch frame was just as luscious as Pam's.
"I don't look at her all the time," Harry protested, knowing full well that he was lying.
"like hell you don't! You find some silly excuse to be in the back yard every time you think she might be lying out there. She might weigh a little more than I do, but it's all in her boobs if she does. Aren't mine big enough for you? Or, do you think she's one of those 'bad' girls you keep talking about who'll suck your cock for you? Is that what you want? I've never done that, but I'll bet I could learn fast if you'd only give me the chance!"
"You're crazy!" Harry shouted, putting on his shoes and standing again. "No, you're depraved. And you have a wild imagination!" He blushed, however, knowing how close to the truth Helen had come. "I'll be late for work. I'll see you tonight." He moved to the bed to kiss Helen goodbye.
She turned her head so he kissed her on the cheek. "Don't be too damned sure! I might not be here."
"And jut where would you go?"
"Who knows? Maybe I'll go out and find out how to be a 'bad' girl so you'll like me better."
Harry left without saying anything else.
Helen sat on the bed a while longer and then went to the bathroom to take her morning bath. As she washed her pussy, her fingers tarried around the thick lips of her vagina and over her clit just a little longer than necessary, but she again stopped short of masturbating.
Her threat to Harry about not being home wasn't an idle one. The reason she might not be there was, however. She had no intention of going out and finding a man who would teach her to be a 'bad' girl. Not that she wasn't tempted. It would serve Harry right. He wouldn't take care of her, so there was no reason she should feel any loyalty to him in that respect. It was just that she didn't have the nerve to go out and pick up a man.
One of the biggest reasons Helen was a virgin when she married Harry six months previously, as soon as she graduated from high school was that she was shy. And naive. Word had soon gotten around amongst the boys that she wouldn't even let them feel her boobs, so she hadn't dated all that much. Oh, she had wanted the boys to touch her. Had craved it. But couldn't bring herself to do that, any more than she could bring herself to jack them off, which a lot of the boys wanted then they couldn't fuck her. The result was predictable. The only boys who asked Helen out on a date were those boys who were also too shy to ask a girl to fuck. Ironically, these were the same boys who made up stories about their sexual conquests. And Harry was one of those boys.
The more Helen thought about not being home when Harry returned from work, the more she liked the idea. Let him stew in his own juices for a while. But she couldn't go home to her mother. They weren't on speaking terms since Helen had married Harry, a marriage Helen's mother didn't approve. She could, however, go see her sister, Marcie, for a few days. Marcie was twenty, married, happily so from all appearances, and would be a good one to talk to about how she felt. She and Marcie had always been fairly close. Sort of a two-girl front against their parents.
Dressing hurriedly, Helen threw some clothes into a suitcase, wrote Harry a short note, threw the suitcase in the back seat of her little car, and set out to see her sister.
The trip to Marcie's house in a town toward the center of the state was normally a two hour drive. It was just beginning to rain when Helen left her house. Thirty minutes later, the light rain had turned into a typical spring downpour. Helen had to use secondary roads since the major highways all went in other directions and the going was tough. The rain was coming down so hard she could hardly see the blacktop road. She should have turned around and returned home, but her mind was set. She wasn't going to be home when Harry returned from work, no matter what. All he would find was the short note she had left him.
After she had been driving for almost two hours, Helen had the vague feeling that she was lost. The rain had let up some and she could see part of the surrounding countryside. Nothing looked familiar. When she passed a small service station and tavern that she didn't remember having seen before, the vague feeling turned into one of certainty. Then she realized that a red light was glowing on the dashboard.
The printing over the light said 'Alternator.' She didn't have the slightest idea what an alternator was. All she knew was that it meant trouble and she didn't know how long the damned light had been on. She had been too busy paying attention to the road to notice the dashboard.
Less than a mile beyond the service station, she found out how long the light had been burning. Long enough that the car stalled. When she tried to start it, nothing happened. The engine wouldn't even turn over.
"Well, nothing else has gone right today, so why should the car be any different," she said aloud, slamming her palms down on the steering wheel.
There was nothing left to do but walk to the service station and hope there was someone there who could fix the damned thing. And, of course, she hadn't remembered to bring a raincoat. As she climbed out of the car, she had no inkling of all the things that were going to get fixed before she was on her way again to visit her sister.
She trudged through the rain, head down, arms wrapped around her chest, soaked to the skin in seconds. When she arrived at the service station, she was shivering from the cold and looking like a drowned rat.