Chapter 2

Funny how strange fate is, she would think to herself for months after, because it had been the merest whim, the merest chance that had caused her to glance at the bulletin board outside of the dean's office, two days after she'd said goodnight for the last time to the redheaded young man who had given her the benefit of his airconditioned car and his essentially adequate sexual performance.

Due to receive her diploma and teaching certificate, Amy knew that she really wasn't excited about entering a classroom, even if she had majored in elementary education, educationally equipped to deal with third-graders.

The whole idea of teaching had, in fact, never appealed to her. But Delancey was the only school that had accepted her to begin with, and so she'd had no choice but to follow its program and requirements. Her mother thought the education credits she earned would give her the chance to support herself, for she was not financially equipped to do it any longer, having exhausted the meager estate left by her husband, Amy's father.

But Amy didn't have any fears about surviving. She knew that she hated the idea of teaching, wanting to work at a job that was more glamorous, if not rewarding. And that was how she happened to pass the bulletin board by the dean's office.

She was on her way to discuss her problems with her guidance counselor, though she suspected the man would have little if any pertinent or salient suggestions to make on that score, for the school was geared entirely to the process of turning out teachers to fill the many vacancies existing in the state's educational system.

The notices on the bulletin board by the suite of administrative offices caught her eye and she stopped and began to look them over. It was then that she saw something that made her heart flutter with excitement.

Quickly, glancing around just to make sure no one else was noticing, she untacked the index card she'd scanned and stuffed it between the pages of her notebook, hoping no one else had seen it, not wanting to be beaten to the job before she was given half a chance to prove herself, to prove her abilities as it were.

And less than an hour later, after she had made a hurried phone call, an interview was arranged for the following week, just a few days after graduation ceremonies. It was the one thing that kept her going, right until the moment her diploma was pressed into the palm of her hand and she descended from the platform in her cap and gown, the unknowing recipient of her mother's joyous tears.

Amy had insisted that her mother not bother to make the trip and Mrs. Witney had reluctantly agreed, especially after her daughter had informed her that she had a round of job interviews to make before returning home.

But it was, in actuality, only one interview she had set up and it was all she could do to control her impatience and expectations, hoping against hope that Mr. Blake Clayton would find her suitably qualified to handle the job he'd written to the school about, the position advertised on the index card pinned on the bulletin board right outside of the dean's office.

"Husband-wife team illustrating and writing children's books needs research assistant for live-in position. Combination of library work as well as general responsibilities. Must be well versed in fields of primary education and child psychology."

That had been the wording on the card she had stuffed into her notebook. She'd called the number listed, introducing herself and ending up arranging an appointment to see Mr. Clayton in person. He and his wife, as well as their two children, lived less than a hundred miles from the Delancey campus and right after graduation, Amy boarded a bus, having shipped the bulk of her things downstate, where her mother still maintained a private house and a vacant bedroom for her absent daughter.

But Amy was not destined to return to her mother's loving arms, at least not for the time being or the immediate future.

She took a taxi from the bus depot, giving the driver the instructions Blake Clayton had told her over the telephone. The very idea of being involved in writing, in the world of publishing, excited her far more than teaching had ever done.

And the Claytons lived in a middle-sized city that had all the advantages her home town lacked. On top of that, she'd be able to save a considerable amount of money, not having to worry about paying for her room and board.

But, on top of that, the final clincher had been Clayton's voice when he'd picked up the receiver after the third ring. She could still hear it in her mind and she smiled and sank back against the seat of the cab, crossing her fingers and hoping that he and his wife would find her qualified, exactly the kind of young woman they had in mind.

He hadn't told her much about the job, but that didn't seem to matter to Amy. It was the voice that had won her over, conquering her, or just about. For what she told no one but herself was that Blake Clayton's voice had the same ring to it, the same sound as the voice she had been hearing in her dreams, the voice of the man who would take her away with him, the perennial studly Prince Charming who peopled her reveries and gave her the strength and push to wake up each and every morning.

It was almost as if each day was part of a search, looking for this dream person. So when she had spoken to Clayton, she had recognized the voice, ready to follow it to the ends of the earth. That was what Amy told herself as the cab now turned down a narrow tree-lined street with pleasant one-family houses on either side.

Near the end of the block was the Clayton residence and after she had checked her instructions, comparing the address with the numerals nailed to the front door, she paid and tipped the driver and opened the door, swinging her legs over the side and getting to her feet.

He helped her with her bags, but it wasn't until he'd pulled off that Amy rang the doorbell and tried to look her prettiest, smoothing out her shirtwaist dress and pulling her shoulders back to improve her posture.

A moment later she could hear footsteps echoing on the other side of the door and she held herself steady and tried to calm down, barely admitting to herself that she was perhaps more interested in seeing Blake Clayton face to face than she was in anything else, the job included.

But it was not Blake who greeted her as the door swung open. Instead, she found herself looking up into the open and ingenuous eyes of a rugged and handsome teenager, a boy sixteen or seventeen years of age.

"You must be Miss Witney," he told her, motioning her inside. "I'm Chuck Clayton. My father's expecting you. He's in the study."

"Thank you," she murmured, impressed with her reception, with the teenager's easy and winning way about himself. She followed him through the vestibule and into the living room of the house, finding herself admiring the modest yet tasteful furnishings, but not nearly as much as she was admiring Mr. Clayton's son.

You're impossible, she told herself. But nothing could change the fact that she always looked at men this way, judging them with a critical and evaluating eye, just as they invariably judged her. And Chuck Clayton, she told herself, was someone not to take lightly. If his father was anything like his son, well ... we'll worry about that later, she thought as he led her to the study, knocked lightly and then pulled the sliding French doors back, inviting her inside.

Behind a campaign styled desk she saw the man she had spoken to and even before Chuck closed the sliding doors behind her, even before Blake Clayton got to his feet, a smile etched across his lips, Amy felt weak, almost faint.

Her knees seemed to buckle and she gasped, swaying slightly just as he saw her staggering forward. "Are you all right, Miss Witney?" he asked with alarm, grabbing hold of her elbow and pulling her upright, supporting her as he helped her to the tuxedo-backed leather couch that dominated one wall of the book-lined study.

"I ... I think so. The air, on the bus. It was very close. I just have to catch my breath I guess," she said quickly as he let go of her and she sank down onto the leather sofa. Her skin felt on fire, as if the spot where he had grabbed hold of her was singed. His touch had that kind of effect, for the only reason Amy had felt suddenly faint was because she had found herself staring at the very image of the man she was certain she had seen in her dreams.

He was not an exact likeness, but looked so similar that she found the coincidence-like his voice on the telephone-almost too hard to believe. "Are you quite sure you're all right, Miss Witney?" Blake Clayton asked again, sliding down to sit next to her on the leather sofa.

His thigh touched her leg and she froze, once again feeling the electrical heat of his body, a kind of animal magnetism that made her feel weak and more confused than ever. Glancing over at him, Amy found herself staring into his dark and piercing brown eyes.

Nervously, or so it seemed to her at the time, he swept his hand through his thick curly black hair, leaning against the back of the sofa and staring at her intently. "Feeling better?" he said with a warm and open grin, a friendly look which did much to put her at her ease.

"Much," she laughed, feeling foolish just because for a moment the reality of her situation had seemed to exist more in a dream than in actual waking life. But now she began to pull her head together, still marveling at the extraordinary nature of Blake's physical similarity to the man she had always imagined, conjured up for herself in her dreams.

She had always been attracted to rugged outdoorsmen, that kind of physical vitality and brawny good looks setting off a chain of bodily reactions so that now she could feel it happening to her all over again, the dampness between her legs, the way her heart was beating at a rapid rate.

Blake didn't look at all the way she had pictured a writer of children books. Rather, he was far more athletic appearing than intellectual and now he reached over and patted her on the shoulder, beginning his interview without further ado.

Later, she would hardly remember what she had said to him, answering in a drugged and monotonic voice, all eyes to the way he gesticulated wildly with his large powerful looking hands. The muscles bulged out from beneath his oxford cloth shirt and he was more of a man than she had ever enjoyed in her life, the kind of stud she'd imagined in erotic fantasies, having never known one in real life except in the movies.

But now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, she was face to face with the kind of virile and studly middle-aged man she had always wanted to know, and on an intimate level, at that. At the age of thirty-five, it seemed to her that Clayton was just reaching his prime and although later she would find it hard to remember what she had replied to his questions, at the time of the interview she chose her answers succinctly and coherently.

The more he talked to her the more turned on to him she became. Amy wondered what kind of man he was, out of his clothes and away from his typewriter, that is. She wondered too if he was just as aroused by her physical presence and if he had a good relationship with his wife, a woman she was yet to meet.

"What are the other responsibilities you spoke about?" she finally asked him, fantasizing that he would sweep her up in his arms and tell her she was going to be his mistress, going to live in the house and service him whenever they each felt the urge.

But instead of replying that way, he shrugged his shoulders and once again waved his hand around the room. "General work. Helping my wife around the house, sometimes taking the kids to school if we can't make it. That kind of thing."

"I see," she said with a nod of her head, not annoyed by the notion that aside from helping him with his work, she would also assume duties not unlike those assigned to an au pair girl, general housework and the like.

And she knew, even then, that if she had her way with Mr. Blake Clayton, she'd never be called upon to wash a single dish, not for as long as she lived in his house. Now, as she regained her confidence, knowing the job was hers even before it was offered to her on what she saw as a silver platter, Amy crossed her legs and smiled flirtaciously.

No longer could she put up a mask, acting like an innocent coed. She had to have Blake Clayton, and on her own terms, not his. Outside the study she could hear his son puttering around the living room, but Chuck's presence on the other side of the door didn't put a damper on her desires.

If anything, they only inflamed them, fanning them higher as she thought of the teenager, curious to know what he too was like, stripped of both his clothes and his conventional and polite airs. And when she caught Blake glancing appreciatively at the long fluid line of her calf, the way the skirt of her dress had now risen up above her knee, she smiled broadly and swiveled around on the couch to face him more completely.

"So, you see," he concluded with a nervous stammer in his voice, trying not to stare too hard at the revealing glimpse of her supple thigh, "that's what the work will entail. I think you have all the qualifications, Miss Witney, so it's really up to you. My wife, Joan, has left this entirely up to my own good judgment and discretion."

"In that case," she laughed, "all I have to do is send for the rest of my things and be shown to my room. Is that not so, Mr. Clayton?"

"Blake," he smiled, extending his hand so that she was forced to shake on it. "I think you're going to find your work here very rewarding, and satisfactory as well, I may add."

"I'm sure I will," Amy replied, watching Blake as he got to his feet. The loose misshapen bulge behind the front of his trousers still gave little indication of having responded to her close physical presence.

But that too she knew she would take care of, and the sooner, the better.

Inside of an hour all the necessary arrangements had been made and Amy found herself installed in an upstairs bedroom, already well on her way to becoming a permanent fixture in the house. That same night of her interview she met Joan Clayton, Blake's wife, as well as their fifteen-year-old daughter, Cindy.

It was, she could immediately tell, a family of uncommon handsomeness. And what pleased her was that Joan responded to her without the slightest hint or trace of jealousy. If anything, she seemed to admire Amy the way Amy hoped Blake would soon be doing.

And soon was the word of the hour, for she hadn't even put her head down on the pillow that night when her life began to undergo a remarkable change. A change, she would come to see, as one she had been waiting for perhaps all of her young life.

She was undressed, sleeping in the nude as was her usual custom, about to reach for the night light near her bed, when her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a gentle knocking on her door. "Who is it?" she called out, not speaking too loudly, hoping it was Blake who was waiting outside of her door, impatient to be alone with her.

But instead of hearing his hearty and ringing basso voice, she easily recognized the more subdued though similarly low-pitched tones of his son's voice, saying, "It's Chuck, Miss Witney. Can I speak to you for a moment, please?"

"Certainly. Come on in. The door's unlocked," she told him, snuggling down under the covers as the door opened and Chuck Clayton stepped inside.

She had learned during dinner that Chuck was to be a senior at the local high school, a boy who had turned sixteen about six months before. Now, closing the door behind him, he stood there, his hands crossed behind his back, affecting a modest, shy and unassuming demeanor.

"I ... I was just wondering if you could tell me a little about the school you went to, Delancey. Next year I apply to college. I'm going to be a senior in September and well, I was just wondering what State was like, if you don't mind," he said to her.

"Not at all," though she found his timing rather unusual, for the question could certainly have waited until the following morning. After all, he hadn't even started his senior year yet, having just completed his third year of high school a week before.

Under the covers her naked body began to feel flushed and clammy. But she didn't dare pull the covers back to get air, not with Chuck Clayton standing there by the door. Finally, she motioned him to the edge of the bed, sliding over and prop ping the pillows up behind her back.

She pulled the covers higher, but not before Chuck was able to see her lush and naked breasts, flashing before his widened eyes for an indelible split-second as she pulled the blankets up to her neck and shoulders.

"Come, sit, don't be shy," she laughed and he sat down on the edge of the bed, right where she had made room for him. He was wearing pajamas and a bathrobe and even as she began to tell him about the college, her eyes were glancing inquisitively at his lap, curious to know why he had folded his hands there, for they seemed to be hiding something, something she knew quite a lot about.

Nevertheless, she kept up a running stream of conversation, telling him the pros and cons of State, the fact that it was basically a school geared to turning out teachers, not a liberal arts college in the true sense of the word.

But she didn't want him to leave the room so quickly, for it was quickly dawning on her that Chuck was sitting on the bed not to hear a lecture about Delancey, but to be able to speak to Amy firsthand, without anyone else around.

Whether he would make a move or not was something she didn't know, but she wasn't about to sit around and wait too much longer, either. As for Chuck, Amy had psyched him out pretty accurately. Ever since he'd answered the door, inviting her inside the house, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about her.

He knew his parents had advertised for a research assistant, but he'd never expected them to hire a girl like Amy Witney. Everything about her turned him on and now he sat with his hands folded demurely in his lap, hoping she wasn't able to see the effect she had made on him, the instant he'd caught sight of her tits.

For now, his cock was throbbing hotly behind the front of his robe. He pressed his hands down against his stiff and burning erection, not wanting her to think he was a pervert or something. Just sitting there next to her, the heat of her body permeating the bedcovers and radiating out at him, was having the desired effect, one he was afraid to reveal to her.

He didn't want her to think he was just a kid, but he also was afraid to make the first move. But that, as things turned out, was right up Amy's alley. Whether she was a corrupter of the morals of youth was a question we won't bother to pose or even answer. Let it suffice to say that the more she talked, the more she stared at young Chuck Clayton, the hornier and more aroused she was fast becoming.

"And of course, about the only good thing about Delancey is that there are twice as many girls there as there are guys. That's great for you because," and she leaned closer as if she was telling him a secret, "you'll be able to fuck anybody you want, just like that." She snapped her fingers and giggled, leaning back against the pillows as the covers slid down a few inches off of her neck and shoulders.

The tops of her lush creamy-white jugs were suddenly in plain sight, the very edge of her cleavage visible as well. She didn't fail to miss the way the teenager's eyes opened wider and smiling to herself, knowing that this evening she would have to be the aggressive one and take things into her own hands, she returned his stare with just as heated and open an expression as the one Chuck was now flashing at her jugs.

That he was blushing meant nothing and her eyes slid down to return to his lap. He still had his hands pressed down against his crotch, though by now she was quite certain of what he was atempting to conceal and hide from her view.

"Did I shock you?" she asked him. "Because it's the truth, you know."

"No, no you didn't shock me," he stuttered, blushing even more hotly as a result of her penetrating stare.

"I should hope not!" she exclaimed with a laugh. "I mean, you're going to be seventeen your next birthday. I suppose you know all about these things, the birds and the bees, I mean. That's what life's all about, you know."

"Of course I know about ... about sex I mean," he told her. "I'm not a baby, a little kid, Miss Witney."

"Amy," she corrected. She reached out and patted him on the shoulder and felt the way his body was warm and trembling. "My goodness, I think you may have a fever, Chuck." And saying this she pressed her hand against his forehead. "Yes, I think you do. Do you have a thermometer in the house? I took a course in practical first aid and since the flu's going around, we shouldn't take any chances. I'd like to take your temperature, if you don't mind."

"There's one in the medicine chest," he told her.

"Well, just bring it here and leave everything to Nurse Witney," she said with a broad and unassuming grin. He got to his feet, glanced back at her and hurried from the room.

The instant he closed the door behind him, Amy rubbed her hands together and giggled. Conquering the boy like this was turning her on incredibly and she had a vision of herself corrupting the entire household in the weeks to come, from son to father, perhaps even mother and daughter.

Joan Clayton, the more she thought of it, had eyed her with far more than just passing interest. Consumed by her daydreams, knowing that the next few weeks were going to be crucial ones, she hardly heard the door opening again.

Chuck held the thermometer, clutched tightly in one hand. He closed the door behind him, locked it for no apparent reason except one that Amy was already dreaming up in her feverish little head, and moved back to the bed. He started to put the thermometer into his mouth and under his tongue, but Amy snatched it quickly from his hand.

"That'll never do," she told him, wagging a cautionary finger. "They taught us in school that oral temps are never half as accurate as rectal ones."

"Rectal?" he said, raising his eyebrows in consternation.

"That's right. Here let me have your robe. I don't have anything on and it's chilly in the room." She watched him reluctantly slipping his arms out of the sleeves of his robe, turning his back on her as he got to his feet and surreptitiously tried to conceal the way his cock was poking up against the buttoned fly of his pajama bottoms.

But Amy didn't miss a trick, knowing exactly what she as well as Chuck was doing. And when he handed her the robe she told him to turn away, slipping out of bed and hoping he'd take a peek at her as she quickly pulled the robe on and tied it loosely around her waist, loose enough so that when she told him it was okay to look he could immediately see even more of her jugs, visible on either side of the low-cut opening of the loosely tied bathrobe.

"Just get over your embarrassment. After all, I don't want to treat you like a little kid. I'd like to think of you as a man, like your father, not a little red-faced boy," she said to him, instructing Chuck to lie down on his stomach.

Just taking control of the situation like this was turning her on all the more and by now her cunt was aflood with sap, hot rivulets of oily juice dribbling down the inflamed and twitching walls of her muff.

She could feel her heart beating more quickly and her erotic desires were reaching new and maddened heights. She wanted the boy, wanted to have him service her every sexual need, but not before she had seduced him, gaining both his confidence as well as his sexual devotion.

Having no doubts that she could easily accomplish these aims, she waited until the red-faced youth was lying on his stomach, stretched out on top of her bed. He turned his face to her, his eyes wide and questioning, not even understanding what was coming off, what she was about to attempt to do to him.

Playing the role of Nurse Witney to the hilt, she shook the thermometer with one hand, reading the temperature indicated by the line of mercury. Chuck said nothing, not really understanding what was about to take place.

When she had gotten the thermometer past body temperature, she moved back to the bed. "Now push your pajama bottoms down so that I can take your temperature, Chuck," she told him in an offhand and casual tone of voice.

"My pajama bottoms?" he said.

"Well, I certainly can't take a rectal reading if you don't push them down. But if you're embarrassed, I don't even see why you bothered to come to my room tonight, to begin with. After all, I didn't invite a little boy here, you know."

More embarrassed than ever, more confused as well, he turned his head away and gave in to her demands, reaching down to push his bottoms off so that within another moment she found herself ogling the twin muscular cheeks of his dimpled and boyish ass.

She moved closer, seeing how they were covered with a kind of peach fuzz of fine downy hair, golden as opposed to the dark-brown that grew long and shaggy over his head and covered his ears to the nape of his neck.

Amy trembled, got up on the bed and gently pried the boy's buttocks apart. She felt the way he was stiff, holding his breath and she smiled wickedly to herself, loving the way she was corrupting him and taking his innocence. She had a feeling that Chuck was still a virgin and this only delighted her all the more as she took hold of his buns and pulled them gently but firmly apart.

His anus was puckered like an unopened blossom, a swirl of short golden hairs surrounding his narrow sphincter opening. She was disappointed when she could not see his balls, for he had no doubt arranged his cock and nuts before pushing his pajamas off.

Now, all she could see was a thick tuft of wiry brown hair visible at the bottom of his anal furrow and she gently inserted the thermometer as he winced and trembled with a mixture of embarrassment and undeniable sexual fervor.

But she was not to keep it there too much longer. A moment later she withdrew it and held it to the light. "No, you're fine, temp's normal," she told him. "But it's better to make sure than to take a chance. Don't you agree?"

He nodded his head, making no move to pull his bottoms back up around his waist. Rather, he seemed to wait for her and he didn't have to wait too much longer, either. Amy, having guessed the teenager's shy and embarrassed nature, decided to indoctrinate him and not to wait for him to assume the naturally aggressive and masculine role.

She'd gone too far already and so without another word, she moved back onto the bed and quickly crouched between his legs, pushing them wider apart as he shivered and held his tongue. "Perhaps all you need is a little backrub, to get rid of your tensions," she said to him, immediately pressing her hands down against his buns, fondling his nether orbs and loving their warmth and muscular resiliency.

Afraid to look back at her, wondering if she was thinking what he was, Chuck merely nodded his head and closed his eyes, basking in the pleasures his body was beginning to feel. Her hands tickled and toyed with his buns and then massaged the backs of his thighs.

But when he felt her pushing the bottoms of his pajamas all the way off, he no longer had any doubts. Amy Witney was seducing him and he couldn't believe it was happening! But happening it indeed was and afraid of breaking the mood and the spell cast between them, he remained passive and unmoving on the bed as her hands slid up and down along his legs, her eyes glazed over with excitement.

By now her cunt was sopping wet and she could feel her cunt walls fluttering, sending thick trickles of sap leaking down to ooze out of her dilated gash. Droplets of musky sap dripped down along the tender white flesh of her thighs, the insides of her legs trembling with excitement that made her entire body ripple and shiver with delight.

She stroked up and down, feeling the muscles swelling and bulging on his brawny legs. If the rest of his body was as well-developed as his thighs, she knew she was in for a rare bout of pleasure. His thick-set legs were boyishly hairy and from the waist down he seemed much older than his years.

And the more she worked on his legs, ignoring the rest of his body, at least for the time being, the more aroused the two of them became. It was a game she took great comfort and delight in, pushing his legs wider apart and finally able to see the edge of his hairy and wrinkled scrotal sac, pushed up and almost hidden from sight.

She slid the tips of all ten fingers down along the ticklish inner surface of Chuck Clayton's thighs and he winced and trembled nervously, feeling the way his hard-on was pressed up against his stomach, already leaking pre-come as copiously as Amy's box was leaking cunt juice.

When will she do it? he thought to himself, wanting to turn around and grab her, but afraid of making the first move and eliciting a negative response from the young woman. So he maintained his silence and held his breath.

Gingerly, she slid her fingers higher up along the insides of his trembling thighs, gently running the tip of her index finger back along his sweaty anal furrow. His silence delighted her and she knew he was getting so turned on that any second he'd have to respond.

Her finger gently moved up and down his bum furrow, tickling it as she rubbed the tips of her other fingers over the bottom edge of his scrotum. It was time, and Amy knew better than perhaps anybody else when games had to end and realities begin.

So it was thus that she suddenly took hold of his waist and it was thus that Chuck was finally able to serve the function he had long wanted to utilize, for up to this very moment his cock had not been touched by anyone other than himself and himself alone.

As it turned out, things were due to change, and dramatically so, at that.