Chapter 14

Like a tableau out of some nineteenth century cautionary tale, they posed in the barn, Ella in short shorts and a large tee-shirt, Uncle George behind her, his crotch against the cheeks of her immature ass as his hands roved beneath that tee-shirt, memorizing the twin lovelinesses beneath it.

Ella was surrounded by a strange excitement-something she had never sensed before. She didn't know exactly what was to happen next but she was not frightened of good old Uncle George whom she had known all her life. He had always been good to her-always given her candy and little treats that Momma and Aunt Jane had forbidden. And now he had his hands over her tits.

And it felt good. She wondered how long he was going to keep them there. She didn't mind but she wondered if maybe they couldn't sit down facing one another, and then he could do it from the front while she rocked and slid back and forth, on the rough denim of his overalls legs. If he wanted she could peel off this old tee-shirt so he could really check out whether she was ready for a bra.

She was about to ask him if they couldn't do it that way when she sensed that Uncle George was going into one of his asthma attacks. He was puffing and wheezing. Suddenly he held his breath for what seemed to twelve-year-old Ella a damagingly long time.

Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!" he said with a long, drawn out wheeze. His hands gripped her tiny jugs, convulsively, almost painfully. Ella wondered if she ought to break loose and fix a little place in the hay where Uncle George could lie down until he was over his attack but suddenly the death grip on her jolly little jugs relaxed. "Forgot to water the mare," Uncle George said in a choked voice. He was hastening out the stable door when Ella called after him.

"Are they big enough?" she asked.

"Huh?"

"Are they big enough for a bra yet?" she insisted.

"I'm not sure," Uncle George managed in a strained voice. "Maybe we can decide tomorrow."

Ella didn't want to wait till tomorrow but she supposed she would have to. She hoped that tomorrow wouldn't turn out to mean next week, next month, or never as it often did when dealing with adults.

"Remember not to tell Aunt Jane or your momma," Uncle George managed as he disappeared out the door, walking so gingerly it occurred to Ella for a moment to wonder if a grown man could wet his pants.

Ella's forty-two-year-old mind, inhabiting a forty-two-inch-titted body stirred restlessly in the motel bed, sleepily aware that she was no longer twelve, remembering vaguely that she had not had to wait a week or a month or forever. Uncle George had been ready to pick up where they left off next day in the stable.

All of which didn't make that much difference to a forty-two-year-old woman trying to sleep alone in a motel bed. She wondered what had happened to the boy.

As if she didn't know. Sure as death and Texas, the boy had bugged out, caught a ride with another truck and here she was alone in the world again. She tried to be philosophical. She had given him a ride and bought him a meal. Surely she had gotten her money's worth. The boy had saved her from losing over a thousand dollars' worth of tires. And he had done other things for her that were beyond price. Ella guessed she had been lucky.

The boy hadn't held her up, hadn't abused her, hadn't asked for money. And though she dreamed of keeping him forever, Ella knew this sort of thing just didn't work. It was best this way: a quick clean break and she was left only with a happy memory.

And an empty cunt! Even now she could feel her belly doing flip-flops at the memory of that lovely boy's ministrations. She felt like crying with frustrated rage. Why couldn't he have stuck around a little longer?

Suddenly she remembered her unvoiced doubt. Had she left the door unlocked? Maybe she had locked that lovely, long-cocked boy out of her room, out of her life.

If she had, would he wait in the suicide box of her rig-sleeping in the truck as he had advised 'Ma' for all the onlookers? A boy's will is the wind's will, as some poet has remarked. Ella knew with sickening certainty that her boy had gone with the wind.

But ... she could never know for sure until she tried the door. And if he was gone, were her tires also gone? Ella slipped noiselessly from the bed. She padded barefoot across the darkened room and peered through the Venetians. The rig was still there, tires apparently intact. She tried the door and it was locked!

Oh shit, oh Jesus! Had the boy tried the door? Had he tired of waiting and gone off to graze in greener pastures? Was he even now putting his lovely cock up some other lucky woman's cunt? How could she have forgotten such a simple thing? Ella was reminded of the half-baked Freudianism which said there are no accidents, that if one does something stupid like locking the door on one's lover that this is not a mistake but instead, this seemingly stupid act is in obedience to a subconscious acting in one's best-interests. Did she know really deep down that it was best to be rid of this lovely boy? Did she know that no matter how nice his cock was, it could only end with bitterness and recriminations-perhaps even in jail for contributing to the delinquency of a minor?

Ella tried not to sob. It was over-ended. It had been fun and she would treasure the memory but she knew that never again would she dare be so foolish as to pick up another beautiful boy. Next time she might not get off so easily. The next one might beat her up, rob her-kill her.

Eyes brimming with unshed tears, she stumbled back to the bed in the middle of the darkened room. Somehow her feet managed to encounter and tangle with at least three times as many clothes as she had tossed off in her haste to have a hot bath. And get fucked from behind, her sour-graping memory reminded her. She kicked and garments thumped and swished. She stumbled and muttered words she would have sworn yesterday that she didn't even know.

Finally her knees found the edge of the king-sized bed. She was going into it from the opposite side but what difference did it make? The covers were rumpled. She pulled them back and crawled into bed-right on top of a warm naked body!

For an instant Ella was paralyzed. If she ever got over being paralyzed Ella knew she was going to scream. It had to be that burly giant who had warned her that her tires were being stolen. Who else could it be?

Then the moment of panic passed and she knew who it was. She hadn't left the door locked. The boy had waited till the excitement died down, then he had slipped into her room. He had locked the door when he came in.

She felt foolish and her anger at herself externalized. Damn him! Why hadn't he warned her? Then she realized how unreasonable she was being. Why should he? He'd gotten all he wanted for a while. He found her sound asleep so he must have decided she'd had enough, too-why waken her? And it was true, Ella realized. She'd been tired enough to go to sleep when she should have been waiting with bated breath for her lover to sneak in. She had no cause for complaint.

She wondered if these motel rooms were for sleeping or for fucking. The only real difference was in the lighting. She padded barefoot and naked around the dark room, searching for a light that would not blind her. She couldn't find the switch. She went into the bathroom, found the light switch, closed the door to a crack and fit it. In the subdued fight she circled the room again and finally found a rheostat switch. She got the lights on-just barely. She went back to the bathroom and turned that one off.

Ella stood indecisive. What next? She had never planned a seduction before. Old Fred had always been ready enough, willing enough when he came home from two weeks on the road. What did she want to do? Suddenly Ella knew what she wanted to do. She remembered Uncle George and felt a sudden sympathy for that aging man who had wanted only to admire and fondle a hard young body. She found the thermostat and turned it up to eighty. As the room began warming she began to peel the covers off the sleeping boy.

Oh god but wasn't he ever lovely! And for the next few hours at least, he was all hers! The boy lay in a fetal position, his lean, hard-muscled body curled into a ball, legs drawn up and arms round his knees. Ella sat on the foot of the bed and admired the planes and angles of his spare masculinity. Slowly the room warmed and the boy began to relax. Still sleeping in the dim light, he began slowly to relax and stretch out He sighed and stretched like a satiated tomcat and for a moment she held her breath, afraid he would awaken. Instead the boy's breathing settled down again but this time he lay at his ease, uncovered in the warm room. The boy lay flat on his back, legs slightly apart arms at his sides, his long, elegantly slim cock with the round, almost golfball-sized head dangling flaccid between his lean, hard-muscled thighs.

His pubic bush, chestnut ringlets as luxuriant as the straight hair on his handsome head-Ella felt a little quiver of delight pass through her naked body Just at the sight of all this glorious nude maleness spread out for her delectation. In the dim light and with his legs not spread that far apart Ella could scarcely see the boy's scrotum. There would be time later for that What would happen, she wondered, if she were to kiss him?

Would he wake up and start pounding her ass again? She wanted him to-but not just yet. For now she congratulated herself on her narrow escape from an uncontrolled imagination. Here she had been mourning a romance not yet dead! It was enough for now just to look at that lovely hard maleness, admire the heavy-veined symmetry of his flaccid cock, dream of how it was going to look once he woke up and discovered himself alone in the same room with a full-bodied ready-to-go woman.

Even at ease this boy's cock was almost as long as old Fred's had been when standing at attention. She gave a wry smile at her ignorance-all the years she had thought her husband had a big one!

But that was all dead and gone now-and so was Fred. She had the rest of her life to live and this lovely sleeping boy was going to help her live it just as soon as he woke up. What, she wondered, would they do first? How many things were there for a woman and a man to do? She had fucked him forward and backward. She had had his hands ranging over her and in her. She had felt his tongue in places she had never felt a tongue before. She had even felt his capable fist stuffing a tire club into her. What else was there to do?

Plenty, she suspected. The hell of it was, she had lived such a sheltered life that Ella didn't even know-couldn't guess how many more ways there were to force open the floodgates of eroticism. If only she hadn't neglected her education ... she should have read a few of those books that come "in plain brown wrapper."

It was too late now. She could either read or she could do. With a lovely naked boy just growing his first beard was no time for reflection. It was time for action. Still she hesitated, sitting nude on the foot of the bed, admiring the full length, naked perfection of this flawless boy.

Suddenly she knew the boy was dreaming Just as she had been a moment ago. She saw him squirm slightly. And then his cock began growing. Within seconds it was pointing mightily skyward, jutting like some phallic flagpole from the luxuriance of his chestnut pubic patch. The round head of his cock peeped angrily from the tight-stretched foreskin and Ella suddenly knew the boy was going to come. He was going to have a wet dream right now while she watched.

She wondered what he was thinking-whom he was dreaming about. She stared at his suddenly throbbing cock, fascinated as a bird by a snake. She could not tear her eyes from this phenomenon.

Some rational corner of her mind warned her that it was a terrible waste. There were only so many arrows in his quiver-even if he were barely old enough to grow a beard. Every shot fired into the air was one that would never be fired into the moist warmth of her target. She had to do something to prevent this. But if the boy were dreaming of some childhood sweetheart and if she were to spoil his spontaneous pleasure only seconds away from spurting-it would be unforgivable. What was she to do? If she were to awaken him this way he might be so annoyed he would never....

Ella watched his growing gouge, saw his rapid breathing. Any minute now he would be thrashing as his load fired uselessly in the air, serving only to smear the pristine sheets of the arena destined for a four-handed encounter.

Four-handed, two-handed, one-handed-who cared about hands? Ella wanted it in her pussy-not in her hands. She wondered if there were any possible way to climb atop him, straddle him, slip that lovely lance into her quivering quim and catch at least one firm thrust before the boy expired in dreamy agony.

No way, she knew. Admiring his lovely writhing body, Ella knew this one was a total waste-for him self as well as for her. Once the boy woke up and realized he had wasted a shot-that a naked woman ready and available sat on the foot of his bed ... There was only one thing Ella could think of to do. Praying it would be the right thing, that it would not be too late, she did it.

Taking a deep breath and addressing prayers to Aphrodite and Ishtar, Ella reached out and captured the boy's throbbing cock in one hand. She wrapped her hand carefully around the head and said a final prayer that it might not go off in her hand before she could ... then she began squeezing. She squeezed very hard.