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The Zip

By: Starlight



I had only gone into the bedroom to change the sheets on Leigh's bed. I found him struggling with the zip fastener on his trousers. He couldn't get it to move. 

"Damn thing," he said, "It won't move."

"Let me try," I said, and sitting on the edge of the bed I got him to stand in front of me.

A little piece of the cloth that covered the zip when done up, had caught in the teeth of the zip that had closed for about the first couple of centimetres, then jammed. I endeavoured to pull it down, with no initial success.

I recalled having the same problem one or twice with Josh's trousers when he was alive. I tried to remember what we had done then.

In the course of my manipulating, I had brushed my hand against Leigh's genitals a few times, and I noticed his penis began to harden. I was a little surprised, as I had never considered that he could be aroused by me, his mother. 

I was reminded of the times similar things happened with my beloved Josh. Sometimes he would stand I front of me, as Leigh was doing now, his beautiful penis standing up like a tower, and I would fondle it lovingly. It was no moment of titanic passion, I just loved playing with him, and he clearly enjoyed it.

On those occasions I made sure Josh was not left frustrated, so after a while I would began to stroke him until he ejaculated. Josh would say, "Thanks, sweetheart," and stow away his now relaxed sex organ.

As I said, it was no great moment of passion – we had those at other times – it was just a pleasant thing we liked to do just for the fun of it.

Looking up at Leigh as I felt Leigh's young manhood growing, he reminded me so much of Josh. Same tall figure, brown eyes, smiling mouth and he seemed to share Josh's gentle, loving ways.

I gave a final tug on the zip and it slid down to the bottom, and I started to rearrange the piece of cloth that it had caught on. 

I could feel that Leigh's penis was now at full stretch, and almost without thinking, I slipped my hand inside his trousers, pulled down the top of his underpants, and exposed his shaft.

I looked up at his face and his eyes seemed to be imploring me. I smiled at him, and began my fondling. 

He gave a gasp and spoke one word, "Mother…"

"It's all right, my darling, I'll just make you feel better. Just let me help you." The same words I used with Josh.

It was strange, but even Leigh's penis looked a mirror image of Josh's. About 180 mm long and 60mm in diameter. As a bit of fun, we had measured it once. The crown stood out slightly larger than the shaft, shiny and dripping pre-cum. 

I licked up some of the juice, and he gave a groan, then I tenderly felt for his testicles. They felt full and swollen. I knew Leigh had recently broken up with an older woman he had been having sex with. 

"He can't have started masturbating yet, " I thought. I remembered how Josh's testicles would begin to ache when they became too loaded, so I started to speed up my manipulation of Leigh.

Within thirty seconds he came, spurting his semen high, some of it splashing against my face. His body jerked at each violent pump of his fluid, and his gasps increased in volume and frequency. It was a lovely moment for me.

He shot more sperm than I could recall Josh ever discharging, but then I always made sure Josh got frequent sex with me, especially as I had my own needs as well. 

When he finished, I continued to caress him until I was sure he had completed his orgasm and his penis began to subside. His whole body relaxed, and he whispered, "Thank you, mum."

"That's all right, darling," I replied. "Feel better now?"

"I feel bloody marvelous," he grinned.

I rose and kissed him softly on the lips. "I enjoyed doing it for you. Now you'd better be off, or you'll be late for your lecture."

He left for the bathroom to clean himself up, and using one of the sheets I had come to replace, I gave myself a preliminary clean, and tried to wipe up the sperm that had landed on the carpet.

I gave an inner mischievous smile, as I had often done with Josh, thinking, "We might have put that to better use…still, there's always tonight…"

But this wasn't Josh I had just played with, and there was no "tonight." My smile vanished.

Leigh came back into the bedroom, his zip now operating again, and kissed me goodbye, apparently in no way self-conscious about what had happened.

For the rest of the day, my mind dwelt on my manipulation of Leigh. It had happened as if it were quite normal for me to do it, as it had been with Josh. I think in a way it had been for me as if it was Josh standing there. 

This thought led me to contemplation of Josh's death. He had died in a car accident two years before. I had loved him dearly, and our passion for each other never seemed to fade over the seventeen years we had been married. For almost six months after his death, I was devastated. My one consolation was the lovely son we had produced. Leigh was a wonderful consoler during that time, despite having his own grief to deal with.

During that six months sex had not even entered my head, but by the end of that time, it began to make itself known again. I resorted to masturbation to relieve myself, but when you have had the real, flesh and blood contact, and had it with someone you love as much as I loved Josh, masturbation is of very little help.

About twelve months after Josh's death, and keeping knowledge of it well out of Leigh's way, I took a lover. He was some ten years younger than me, and at first things went well. He was virile and kept me satisfied, but then he began to get demanding and turned nasty. I sent him on his way.

I resolved not to try that experiment again, but this resolution did not quench my sexual fires. The trouble was, I was still looking for another Josh, but there seemed to be no such person. No doubt, it was unfair of me to measure men in that way, but that is how it was. So, I went on sexually ungratified.

At times I felt a throbbing ache in my lower abdomen, and got rather sullen. I couldn't have been very nice to live with during those times. Thank God for my patient and loving Leigh.

Perhaps you would like at this point to be told my vital statistics? Sorry, but I'm not going to give them to you. Let's just say, I'm thirty seven and men still bother to turn round and have another look when I pass them.

Leigh came home earlier than usual. He seemed excited, in fact, he seemed to glow.

I was just about to start preparing the evening meal when he said, "No cooking tonight, mum. I'm taking the world's most beautiful woman out to dinner, so put on your best dress, and away we go."

I took this to mean I was being rewarded for my little relief operation that morning, but I didn't want him to do this. He had only his meager student allowance, and a meal out would make heavy inroads into it.

To my protest he replied that "Just for once I want to do something really nice for you, after all you did…" His voice trailed off, and we said no more. I realised that there was going to be as much pleasure in this outing for him as for me.

I set about making myself as nice as possible for him, and put on a dress I had never worn since buying it. I had bought it to please Josh. He loved me to display my legs and the tops of my breasts, and it did plenty of both.

Leigh was astounded when he saw me. "My God, mum, I said you were beautiful, but I didn't realise how beautiful. You look stunning."

I simpered appropriately, complimented him on his appearance, and off we went.

Leigh had booked a table at a very flash restaurant, and it gave me a tremor to think how much this was going to cost him. "I'll have to secretly top up his bank card," I thought.

Surprised that he had chosen such and expensive place, I was even more flabbergasted when we were shown to an alcove with candles glowing on the table.

Leigh ordered wine, and it was the finest Shiraz. The meal that followed was superb. I was reveling in the luxury of it all.

It took nearly to the end of the meal before it struck me, "My God, he's like a lover wooing me." I set that one aside as too fantastic. "Perhaps this morning was a bad error on my part," I thought.

Set it aside I might have done, but when we arrived home, rather relaxed with the wine we had drunk, the thought reemerged. He stopped the car outside the house, turned off the engine, leaned over and kissed me – the full works. 

"Don't I get invited in for a nightcap?" he asked with a laugh.

He was playing the full dating game. I decided to play along.

"All right, you can put the car into the garage until you leave." I got out and went into the house while he stowed the car.

I poured some Scotch and Dry. I found my hands were shaking, and funny things were happening at the tops of my legs. They seemed to be getting wet, very wet.

I sat in an armchair to try to get myself under control. Another minute and Leigh came in. He looked at me and protested:

"Hey, that's not the place for you to sit," and he half lifted me up and took me to the sofa. "You don't end a date looking at each other from different seats," he said.

He put his arm round me and pulled me to him. I let myself lean into him without resistance. When he kissed me, thrusting deep with his tongue, I still went along with him. It was when his hand reached for my breasts I made my first objection.

"Don't do that, Leigh. Please stop, darling."

His animated mood dissolved and he became very serious.

"Do you really want me to stop? And don't give me the politically correct answer. Tell me from your heart, do you want me to stop?"

No I didn't. My thighs were saturated and I wanted him like hell –or should it be heaven? I wanted him like I used to want Josh, with all the abandoned passion of a woman deeply in love, and on fire for her lover.

Of course, I loved Leigh. He was the fruit of the love between Josh and I, the outcome of our hunger for each other, he was almost a clone of Josh…" 

That thought brought me up with a jerk. Leigh wasn't a clone, but the coming together of Josh's seed with my egg. I had been fertilised in an act of love, and this young man was the result. I had been seeking another Josh. Had I now found him?

He sat looking at me, no longer with his arm round me or touching my breast, waiting for my answer.

If I told the truth now, I would be committed – committed to an unknown future. Perhaps in other circumstance, with another potential lover, it might have been different. I could think to myself, "If I don't really like him, I can send him away." With Leigh, it would be different. If we went ahead and made love, I knew deep inside myself, it would be an act of total commitment on my part. I would be crossing a frontier into the unknown and perhaps bringing great pain upon myself.

I reached for his hand and laid it on my breast. "Touch me, my darling."

His gentle hand fondled my breast so softly. I felt love flowing into me from the touch of his fingers as he pressed my nipple. 

He kissed me and then said, "You know I love you, don't you. I've hidden it from you, but I've wanted you ever since I matured sexually. At times, I felt so jealous of dad, always being able to have you like I wanted you. I loved him, but couldn't help my feelings sometimes. Then this morning when you…you won't turn me away, will you? I want you so badly."

"No my love, I'll never turn you away, ever. Come to bed with me."

His love was so sensitive, so perceptive of my needs. His caresses always seemed to find the desired spot at the right moment. I never had to say, "Touch me here, put your tongue in there, put your fingers in," he seemed to know by some sort of instinct. He made me feel like a beautiful, desirable woman, the object of his love. 

As the recipient of his caring ardour, I was able to give myself totally to him. I denied him no part of me, often offering more than he asked, sometimes demanding from him more than his imagination could devise.

One shadow hung over our relationship as far as I was concerned. I longed to have his child. After Leigh's birth, Josh had insisted on having a vasectomy. It had been one of the few causes of disagreement between us. I wanted more children with him. He wanted just the one.

Theoretically I could still get pregnant, my menstrual cycle was as it always had been, which made me think my desire was possible of fulfillment. I lived in hope.

Some six months after we became lovers, there was a night of spectacularly sweet passion between us. It lasted for a long time, as if we wanted it to never end. Our in our kisses we seemed to devour each other. His tongue in my vagina and my mouth on his penis, bringing us to the edge of orgasm, but always retreating just in time.

He caressed my breasts and sucked my nipples until I could barely endure the ecstacy. He kissed and licked his way over my entire body, and I responded in kind. We became entangled with each, our bodies twining and untwining about each other, all the time murmuring words of love and devotion.

Finally, I became so frantic with my hunger for him, I begged for him to enter.

"Now, darling, I need you now. Don't make me wait any longer…please…"

Dear lover that he is, he came across me and penetrated my saturated vagina. Even then, he did not hurry. He moved slowly up and down in me, still speaking his raging fire for me.

He took me to paradise that night, and I hope I did the same for him. If his words are the judge, I'm sure I did.

I felt him start to come just as I finally began my orgasm. We clung to each other, he groaning with every convulsion of his ejaculation, I screaming and sobbing at the almost unendurable beauty of what was happening to me. Never before had I produced such an amount of lubricant. It was soaking Leigh as well as me, and with his semen filling me, we seemed to be swimming in what our love produced.

When it was done, we still held to each other, unwilling to come back from the Garden of Eden we had taken each other to.

I am sure it was that night. At the time, as we climbed down from the heavenly heights, the thought flashed across my mind "It will be tonight."

Today I received confirmation. I am pregnant. As I write it is almost time for Leigh to arrive home. He does not know yet, but tonight I must tell him. How will he respond? If he is happy, he will double my own joy. If he is not happy, then…?

The Zipless Fuck



This is about the most amazing and satisfying sexual encounter of my life. I am still having a hard time believing that it happened to me - me, of all people. I am a sixty year old man who loves the ladies, especially the young ones (young to me is anyone under fifty). I am semi-retired and as a result I have a lot of free time on my hands and it was during one of those periods of free time that the following happened.

I had some work to do around the house and I needed some paint and some screws and nails. I live fairly close to a Wal-Mart so I made my list, jumped into my pick-up truck and drove over there. I love going into Wally World during the day because that is when all the young housewives are out shopping and I never get tired of looking at the ladies, or with flirting. Flirting is usually harmless fun since none of the women are going to take a sixty-year-old guy seriously. I pulled in to the lot, parked and headed into the store behind a woman who had a very nice walk if you know what I mean. She pulled a cart out of the stack and then took off her coat and dropped into the cart and I couldn't help but notice that she had an extremely nice looking rack. I pulled my cart out of the stack next to her and she turned my way, nice face, I thought, freshly scrubbed, no make up and very, very appealing. Our eyes met, we exchanged quick little smiles and then pushed our carts into the store where she went right and I went left. 

Five minutes later as I was getting some shop towels off of the bottom shelf she came into the same aisle. Once again our eyes met, we exchanged smiles, and she went up the aisle and I went the other way. Another five minutes found me getting a couple of Valentine cards for my grandchildren and here she came again. Again the exchange of glances and small smiles except this time I said, "You're following me, I can tell." 

She laughed and said, "Damn, and I was trying to be so discrete about it." 

She went right and I turned left. Next it was the paint aisle. I smiled at her and said, "If this keeps up I may need to go to management and file a complaint that I'm being stalked in their store." 

This got another laugh out of her and she said, "Please no, don't do that. If you do my husband will find out I spend my afternoons chasing men." 

"Okay" I said, "Mums the word." 

She went down the aisle and I went the other way. As I pushed the cart I allowed my thoughts to dwell on her; nice ass, great tits, and the clean freshly scrubbed look of the girl next door except that she was no girl - about thirty-five I would guess. I turned down another aisle and there she was.

"Aha" she cried. "The truth is out. You are following me, not the other way round. Truth now! You are one of those dirty old men who haunt malls and shopping centers to take advantage of sweet young girls." 

I chuckled and said, "There is some truth to that, but not a lot. The truth is that I come in here and see all you lovely ladies and I wish I was twenty years younger and that just depresses the hell out of me."

She looked at my hand and said, "What about your wife?" 

"Well" I replied, "I spend a lot of time wishing she was twenty years younger too." At that, the woman gave out a belly laugh that could be heard all over the store. I went left and she went right.

Five minutes later I was ready to check out so I headed for the checkout counters; there was only one light on and I headed for it and there she was.

"This man has been following me all through the store" she told the cashier, "I don't know if I should be alarmed or flattered." 

I smiled at her and said, "Probably a little bit of both. But I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'll give you a head start out of the parking lot so I won't be tempted to follow you home." 

"Damn" she said, "Just my luck! I go trolling and he gets away." 

She paid and left, my stuff was rung up, I wrote a check, and when I got out to the parking lot she was nowhere in sight.

I stopped at the Conoco and filled my tank and then headed for home. When I pulled into my driveway a car I didn't recognize pulled in right behind me. Imagine my surprise when the woman from Wal-Mart got out of it. 

She walked up to me and asked, "Is your wife home?" I shook my head no, "Is anyone else here?" Again I shook my head no and she said, "Good! Let's get inside before I change my mind." Once inside she asked, "Have you ever read Erica Jong?" I said that I hadn't, but that I'd heard of her. The woman said, "In one of her books she wrote that the greatest sexual thrill was what she called The Zipless Fuck. Its when two people who don't know each other come together, have no holds barred sex, and then part company never knowing each others names. It struck me while we were kibitzing in the store that this might be the only time in my life that I'll ever have a chance to see if she knew what she was talking about. Are you up to it?" 

"Not really" I said, "To get up these days I have to take a pill." 

"What kind of pill" she asked. 

"Viagra honey. Since I turned sixty the old joy stick needs help." 

"How long does it take?" 

"About twenty minutes" I said. 

She looked at her watch and then said, "Go take it. I've got until four-thirty before I have to go pick up my kids and get home to start dinner for my hubby." 

I was shaking my head in amazement as I went and took the little blue pill, nothing like this had ever happened to me when I was young and vigorous. When I walked out of the kitchen I found her naked on the couch finger fucking herself. She noticed me watching and she said, "Well, I've got to do something while I wait for you." 

"I can help you there," I said as I went to my knees in front of her. 

She opened her legs wide and I stuck my tongue in her honey pot. I knew immediately that I'd been had. I looked up at her and she giggled, "Okay, so I've been bad. My husband fucked me just before I went to the store. I've always wanted to be eaten when I was full of cum and he would never do it. That's another reason why I wanted to try this Zipless Fuck thing. You will, won't you? Eat me, I mean?" 

I pulled her off the couch and onto the floor and moved into position to do a sixty-nine and buried my face in her. As soon as my mouth touched her I felt her lips on my dick and the women had a magic mouth - she got me rock hard in only four or five minutes. She loved what I was doing to her with my mouth and she had an orgasm and as soon as the spasms subsided I pulled myself out of her mouth, swung around and mounted her. I don't know if its age or the Viagra, but once I get it up it stays rock hard for quite a while and it takes me forever to cum. I fucked her for a good twenty minutes before I let loose my load and the whole time she moaned, "Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, oh yes." I swung around and ate her again while she sucked my dick some more, and then I switched and we fucked for another twenty or so minutes before she finally cried out, "Enough. I've got to go get my kids. As she dressed she said, "Thank you. I don't think I'll ever forget this day." 

She grabbed her handbag and was gone. We never exchanged names and I never saw her again. But I spend a lot of afternoons at Wal-Mart and who knows, I might just find someone else to follow through the store. What the hell, a guy can dream, can't he?



The Zipless ... Ironing, Bored



She was nineteen years old, from Glaavorn in the far North of Sweden. Tall and blonde and beautiful. Blue eyed with golden skin. A young Nordic goddess. She stood at the ironing board pressing one of his shirts. It was her third week as au pair to the Corduffs, and the first time Corduff had stayed home. He had a cold. Or said he had. She finished the shirt and reached for another.

He sat at the kitchen table nursing a coffee in a London Tower Bridge mug. He had showered and shaved but his hair, thinning on top, wasn't brushed. He was dressed in a faded blue dressing gown; a pair of old slippers on his feet. From time to time he looked at her. Her name was Gretal. Steam hissed from the iron in her hand. Her shoulders lifted as she bore down on the collar of the shirt. It was summer, warm. She was dressed in a simple cotton frock, no stockings. On her feet were flat-healed pumps. Her long hair was caught in a French twist at the back. A simple gold chain round her ankle was the only jewellry she wore. Corduff folded his newspaper. Got to his feet. Stretched. Gretal had her back to him. Continued to iron. 

He placed the paper carefully on the kitchen table. Squared it off. Straightened a knife on a plate, as yet unused. Let his eyes drift back to girl. The flat-healed pumps on the worn linoleum of the kitchen floor. The slim ankles, one moving as she ironed. The softly shaped calfs. The gentle indent at the back of her knees. The flare of her legs as they built to her thighs – cut off half way up by the dancing hem of her light summer frock. The girlish buttocks in cotton, firm and hard as they rolled as she moved, pert and lively as they clenched, and then relaxed, then clenched again – from smooth river-stones to soft and maleable handfulls. Handfulls you'd love to have in your hands. These hands. (My hands!) 

Corduff was pressing on the table with his fingertips. Pressing down hard as his eyes continued up the girl ... from tiny waist drawn in by the darts on her frock, up the fillets of muscle either side of her spine to the smooth flare of shoulders and neck. Her neck was long and graceful, like a swan. Her hair glistened in the morning sun from the garden through the window beyond. 

He took a step towards the corner of the Kitchen table. Stopped. He pressed down hard with his fingertips again, eyes all the while on the girl. The ironing girl. His au pair. Their au pair, from Sweden. He moved again. Edged quietly round the corner. Her shoulders and back moved with the strokes she was making with the iron. Her attention devoted to the shirt. His shirt. Not him. 

Gretal was employed to look after the Corduff's six year old nephew, Stephen, who was coming to stay. (A problem at home that needed to be solved.) But he hadn't arrived yet. He'd been due last week. Postponed. He had the flue, it seemed. So they had Gretel to themselves, for now. Francoise, Corduff's wife, was as taken with Gretel as he was, he thought – though she hadn't said, (just looked). 

Francoise had already left for work. 

The ironing table was set up between the kitchen table and the sink. Corduff had told her to set it up there. So that he could watch her, he realised now, without her knowing he was doing so. He moved around the kitchen table towards the girl. 

Now he was standing beside her, looking at the shirt – suddenly, alarmingly, maddeningly aware of how close she was. Was she as aware of him as he was of her? (She didn't seem to be.) Did being away from home make one more sensitive to the physical proximity of another human being? Why was he so aware of her, when she seemed almost blissfully unaware of him? Wouldn't being away from her boyfriend, or lover – or lovers – for almost a month make her more sensitive to men? Even him? 

'Be careful with the collar,' he said. 

She turned her head. Their eyes were inches apart. Corduff had a sudden urge to reach out and pull her to him, thrust his mouth against hers – so full and lively, lips so plump – force his tongue deep down the lovely girl's throat. But he didn't. 

'The collar,' he said, looking at the shirt. 

Her English was not very good. A look of puzzlement creased her brow. She looked back at the shirt. 

'Here, let me show you,' he said, putting his hand over hers on the iron, and starting to move it. The back of her hand was smoth, delicate, warm and alive. The touch sent dark secret waves to his deeper, darker places. She let her hand be moved. The shirt wrinkled up. 

'No, not like that,' he said, so gently it was almost a caress. The frown on her brow went away: such gentleness couldn't be scolding. He eased behind her gently. Like a cat, perhaps. Reached his other hand around her waist, caught her other hand from the table and put it on the collar. 'Like this,' he said, now holding the collar with one hand on hers, and the iron and hers in the other, and moving the two. The collar was smoothed. 

'You see?' he said, his head by hers. 

She nodded. Yes she saw.

'Now you try,' he said, releasing her hands but staying where he was. Her buttocks, round and firm and warm and plump, were soft and lightly touching his groin. Her shoulders gently pressed against his chest. A feminine ear was light, delicately held against his cheek. His hands came from hers. Her skin so smooth. Each settled on a hip, both hers, both round and smooth and filled with the heat and the movement of girl. They settled lightly as if she were a bird, and might fly away, if alarmed. But she didn't fly away. Or move away. Or flinch at all, in fact.

'You see?' he asked, as she did what he instructed. She nodded her head and did it again. 'That's right,' he said with approval, and with the approval he flattened the palms of his hands against the curve of her flanks, and pressed, as if showing approval. And as he pressed he felt the shape of the girl beneath, and the comforting way that the line of her hips snuggled inocently into the curve of his fingers and palm. 'Go on,' he said, 'I'll supervise,' he added, letting her continue, trying to imbue his supervisery role with a light-hearted spirit. A spirit that might explain the presence of his hands on her flanks, feeling her beneath: her hips, the curve below, the start of legs, long legs. Womanly legs. She continued to iron in the manner he'd decreed. He continued to hold her in the manner that gave him most interest, though not daring to move. Not daring to breath. 

Then he did. Breath. But only softly. And only once he had found some words, some attempt at explanation that might justify his actions, his actions of moving his hands on her – which the feel of her made him have to do. 

With a sudden brainwave, he asked, 'Have you eaten breakfast?'

'Breakfast?' she answered, her voice like a Norse bell, but lower. Throatily low. Secretive, almost. So femine it stirred things inside him.

'Breakfast,' he repeated, making it a joke, fingers on her flanks drawing her against him. Making it a cheerful form of chiding and mentally melting as round young buttocks moulded to his groin.

'Oh yes,' she sang back, understanding now, flashing a sing-song smile.

'I'd never have known!' he said, laughing as he did – as best he could with such a tantalising bottom where it was. Tight pressed against his crotch. Roundly arousing. Seriously sexy.

'Oh, why not?' she asked, head down, continuing to iron.

'You're so slim,' he said (his brainwave) as he allowed his right hand to run gently around her, towards her tummy. It was flat and firm. Alive, but hard. Rippled with youthful muscle. He let his fingers stroke her there. Felt her muscles tense, then flex. Relax. Some folds of frock in his hand. It had gathered in his palm from its trip across her flank. 

He noticed the reflection of himself and the girl in the glass at the back of the kitchen door. A glass for Francoise to have one last quick look at her appearance before she left the house every day. In the reflection was Corduff and the girl. The Nordic Goddess. The slightly wasted older man. The hem of the sweet girl's frock now lifted up her legs. 

'You think my tummy's too big?' said Gretel, joining in the spirit of their game, ironing stilled but letting his hand stay where it was.

'What about my shirt?' he asked, keeping it light, directing her attention to her chore.

'Oh yes,' she laughed, a low subtle laugh, like the snows on a sill, or beneath an eave. Something more than just lightness and air. She resumed the ironing of his shirt. He resumed the movement of his hands. Drew one up her flank. The other stroked her tummy. Stroked it gently, side to side, top to foot. Up to the bulge of a breast's underside, down to the rise of the pubis, seeking the secret ruffle of hair then back up the furrow at the centre of her stomach. Up, and gently further up until the edge of his thumb was was against the underside of her breast. Heavy, softly warm, roundly plump, unrestrained by any bra. Light linen only. 

The weight of the breast on the side of his hand. The knowledge of no bra involved. Then it has to move, again, on her. Proceeds on its downward journey back over her youthful tummy. Light mounds either side of a central rift. The tiny hollow of her navel – hand lingers there, gently circles – then on, over the softer bulge of lower tummy to the harder mound at its point. The slightest hint of hair within. Light cotton panties beneath, perhaps? The fingertips lightly across it, right to left, left to right. The indentation of groin one side, lightly over the ruffle of hair beneath, to the indentation of groin the other side. The urge to travel that path. Down to the secrets below. Led by the line of the groin. She turned over the shirt and started to iron the front. 

His hand at her flank was curved around the shape of girl: the fullness and firmness of hip, the lighter more delicate shape of her waist – as the other hand climbed up her front once again: the swell and spread of waist to chest, the firm hard ripple of rib, the thick plump start of breasts. And then, once there ... what next?

He had one hand at the top of her stomach, the start of her ribs, the heavy swell of breast atop his thumb, fingers spread out just beneath, the girls upper-stomach held captive. His other hand ran gingerly from hip, to leg, then started to return. Fingers round the curve of upper leg, approaching thighs, the hem of skirt was climbing too. The lower fingers of his hand around her leg were next to skin, the upper ones were lifted up her skirt. In the reflection in the mirror in the door, unnoticed by the girl who went on ironing, head bowed, he watched her leg grow bare as he revealed it ... to the top. Seeing the white of her panties peak out below her hem, now dangerously high, as his fingertips brushed over white cotton. At least he thought that's what it was. How long had it been since his fingertips had touched cotton panties on a youngster like this? 

Mrs Corduff never wore cotton panties any more. 

'Far too young,' she'd declare with disdain.

But Corduff wasn't complaining. There was nothing wrong with the feel of cotton panties, young or otherwise. In the long mirror at the back of the kitchen door he watched, momentarily mesmerised, as he saw where his hand was on the girl. The hem of her frock falling lewdly from his fingers as their tips so impertently stroked the pubis underneath.

'How do you keep it so trim?' he asked, dropping her hem, removing his fingers from so intimate a place.

What would she think?

She shrugged. And smiled. And continued to iron.

'You are very lucky,' he said, his recalcitrant hand now back at her leg, feeling for the hem of her frock yet again – as if with a mind of its own. He was pressed against her now. To stop from falling forward, into ironing, the girl was having to resist. He could feel her press back. Her buttocks into him, her back into his chest. The back of her legs were against his. How had he done that? One of his legs was between hers! He glanced at the mirror, looking at her feet. Her pumps were apart, one of his slippers had slipped in between. He pulled on the girl, slightly, gently, cautiously, and felt her legs come astride his own as she eased back into him. He pushed some more with his knee, and was rewarded by the parting of her thighs, and the warmth of them as they spread around his own. Enclosing it warmly. 

Her buttock, the right, was in his groin. A firm round perky buttock moulded in his groin like a melon, firmly held. Firmly rolled there. Moving, flexing – as she moved, as she ironed. His hand around her leg was coming back up the girl with all of his fingers touching skin. So firm, smooth, the muscle beneath so softly rolling, flexing, moving – as she ironed. His fingertips again came up to cotton. Reflection showing hem now over hand, dropping off either side, neat folds, flowing folds, folds unconcerned at the intrusion. He flattened his hand against her smooth warm flanks, felt the skin, and her shape, and the fingertips, the cotton ... over her pubis, hair beneath. A light silk thicket of hair. Pubic hair. His fingetips stroked the hair through cotton. Tried to lightly stray amongst it, but the cotton stopped that. Then he pressed his middle finger down harder, into the mound's hard centre. Rotated it once, then twice. Then left.

The folds of her hem fell back towards her knees. 

The frock shimmered once, then stilled, but for the movement of her, ironing still. Head bowed.

'How do you keep your figure so trim,' he asked, needing some words to go with his hands. He couldn't just stroke her like this! There had to be a reason.

'How is this?' she asked, holding up the shirt for his inspection.

'It's fine,' he said. Too quickly. She turned. Half turned. 

'I need to hang it up and get the next,' she explained, almost apologetically, having moved. And he found, that where once had been stomach, now he held waist. And where he'd had flank, he now had a buttock in his hand. And it was round, and firm, and exquisitely pert. And it fitted. His hand. Perfectly!

'Let me help,' he blurted out, releasing the girl. He went to the basket that sat on the counter by the sink, and took another shirt for the girl. She was at the door. The door with the mirror in back. Over the handle of the door she hung his ironed shirt. It was white, with a red chalk stripe. And a button down collar. Buttoned down. 

The master of the house, in his dressing gown, was back at the table with the shirt. The next shirt. A blue cotton Oxford. Waiting for her to get back.

She walked back to the board. She looked at the shirt in his hand. 

'This next?' she asked in her delightful, lilting, musical voice.

He nodded. This next. 

There ensued a slightly embarassing shuffle. Neither quite knowing where to go or how to get there. It looked like a sort of dance, or a type of game, as she made an effort to get back to her position behind the ironing board without incoveniencing him, and he at the same time, and without inconveniencing her, tried to get back behind her. Finally they made it. Back into position. She with the table in front of her. He with her in front of him. She began again to iron the shirt, with him behind her, supervising.

'Am I doing it right?' she asked – explaining, perhaps to herself, why he had remained where he had when the tutorial was seemingly complete. But it gave him the entry he needed. Back came his hands around her shapely waist. Back came the touch of his gown, against her buttocks. 

'Like this,' he said, his hands again on hers.

'Like this,' she repeated, as she moved her hands in the manner prescribed with his cupped over hers.

'That's right,' he said, then lifted his hands. They fluttered, momentarily unoccupied, close to the charms of her front. 'The front must be smooth,' he said, (another brainwave). 'Like the front of your dress.' He lightly ran his fingers down the front of her dress. 'It has to lie well.' He lifted his hands to her chin. She had stopped, mid iron, and was listening, her head to one side. 'No, you go on ironing, my dear,' he said, wanting her to do other things, as he did ... other things. 

She started to iron again. 

He touched the neck. 'Here, you see,' he said, putting his fingertips against the smooth skin of her neck, either side, just below the chin. He caressed her neck, but slightly, lightly, non-confrontational strokes. 'The collar must sit tight against the neck, just here,' he said, running his fingertips round her neck where the collar would sit, were she wearing a collar, which she wasn't. Her frock had spaghetti straps, buttons down the front and a pattern of blue irises on a cream coloured background. One of her nipples poked at the stem of an iris, the other poked free in the core of the flower. 'And the shirt must lie smoothly on the shoulders,' he went on and as he did he flattened both bands over her shoulders, taking the girl's soft skin back in his possession, and into his mind, and ran his hands down her arms.

She stopped, again.

He stopped, at her elbows, then closed his hands around her, an elbow in each hand, and said, 'Don't stop,' as he gently ran his fingers back up her arm, all the way in to her neck which this time he let his hands settle lightly around. Fingers meeting at her chin. She started ironing again.

He tried to remember where he was.

Then he remembered. Lifting his hands from her neck, but keeping his fingertips touching her chin, he said, 'And the shirt at the front.' 

What a beautiful neck she had! 

'The shirt at the front is important,' he repeated, or said – he couldn't remember which – but he knew the front was next. 'Here,' he said, 'and here,' he added, as he started to move the flat of each hand down the front of the girl, fingertips lightly touching her. The start of the sternum, the top of her boddice, a button, another. Fingertips moving over button number three as two soft breasts pushed their way into the palm of his hands, and a nipple traced a line up each. Then his hands were past. Her lower ribs held warmly, then her tiny waist. The tips of his journeying fingers, growing eager, ended up lower, over frock, over mound. Lightly assertive hair that covered the more assertive mound on which they sprouted, lightly, intimately. His palms flattened warmly on her neat firm-0muscled abdomen, as the tips of his fingers stayed where they were, over the bulge of the point, lower down, where pubic hair. Was.

'You see?' he said. 

Perhaps he'd alarmed her for she didn't respond. She usually did. 

'Let me show you again,' he said, seeking to allay her alarm, if such it was, as his hands leapt back to her chin like birds released from a trap. 'Here,' he said, before she could object. He started again. More slowly. (Hands shaking.) The girl's pretty breasts came into his hands like ripe warm fruit that was starved of affection. Full, and plump, and heavy, they nestled in his hands like the muzzle of a mare against her stallion. Nosing affectionately closer, pushing more assertively into the flank, or in this case, employer's nervous hands. The nipples felt tight and hard like tiny peas pressed forward, like knots at the top of two honey-filled baloons, the pressure coming roughly, with a sigh. (Or was that imagined?) 

This time he lingered. And studied the view in the mirror of the girl, as she ironed, head bowed, neat and tidy, freshly showered, brightly dressed ... while her employer, (himself,) stood in the kitchen, dressed only in his dressing gown and slippers, hair thinning, uncombed, while in his hands he held her breasts. This young, sweet, lovely au pair, employed by his wife from a ring-bound catalogue, blue cover, who stood here acquiescently, sweetly, obediently, offering her breasts without complaint. Their weight settled nicely in his hands, innocently offered. (Gratefully received.) It all felt so right! With the nipple pressing home so aggressively. 




The Zipless ... Ironing, Bored



He squeezed her breasts and as he did, he said, 'It's all a matter of degree.' 

Which meant, he felt ... Not a thing! 

He squeezed her breasts some more. Then he left them, as he must, and moved on down her shapely front. Heading for that pubis and its shape. And its roundness and its firmness, and it's downy covering of sily pubic hair. He ran his fingers over that. And then around it, then across it. 'Understand?' he asked. She nodded. 'Like trousers,' he said, his mind now off on a trip of it's own as his fingers, all eight, frollicked in the froth of the feel of the texture of teen-age pubic hair, under cotton, and neatly printed irises, on cream. He felt the shape of the girl beneath, but the surface sensation excited. The privacy afforded by the lightness of her frock, the subtle grating rubbing of the cotton, lightly ridged, the boyant frothy feel of the silky girlish hair, in such a secret place. And then the girl, of course, herself.

'They have to be pressed. Especially the crotch,' he said, reaching even further around her. Leaning over her and round her to the laundry basket sitting by the sink. Pressing her hip against the table. Pulling out some shorts from the basket. They were brief, and weren't his. They were yellow.

'Whose are these?' he asked, holding them up, one hand. (Shorts as skimpy and brief were not Mrs Corduffs.)

'They're mine,' she said, in her lilting voice. 

'How do you iron them,' he asked. She had eased herself back from the ironing board and was putting his shirt, newly ironed, on a hanger. 'I'll take that,' he said, reaching around in front of her, taking the shirt on the hanger, and reaching behind him to hang it on the back of a chair. It almost fell. But didn't. Her buttocks were fitted in his groin like the bottom of an egg in an egg-cup. His hard-on was burrowing away, but her buttocks felt so tight, he didn't think she'd notice. (He did. But he didn't think she did.) 'You know how to iron shorts?' he asked. The Nordic princess nodded. Then smoothed out her shorts on the ironing table

'Yes,' he said, 'That's right.' But his hands went around her all the same. 'It's here,' he said, catching the crotch of the brief yellow shorts in one hand, turning them inside out with the other, explaining, 'This has to be smooth. It has to be ironed with the point of the iron.' And so saying, he took her hands, one on the iron, the other on the shorts, and showed her how to do it. How he wanted her to do it. 

She did it as she was bid. Exactly as he'd said. He lifted off his hands, approvingly. They hovered lightly over hers, as if unsure of their next move, 'That's right,' he said, 'Otherwise it's rumpled.' He moved has hands. 'It's the crotch piece, here,' he said, one of his hands closing lightly, but quickly – bravely - on her pubis. He thought she sighed. She arched her back, a tad, he thought. Her buttocks pressing home. 

He curled his fingers round the pubis, tips ducking low, feeling into folds of her frock and the soft folds of her, underneath. 'Otherwise it's creased,' he said as his other hand scurried down the outside of her leg, looking for the hem of her light linen frock, scurrying back when they found it. His fingers started juggling with the hem. The light folds of frock fingered this way and that – mainly that, moving it out of the way as his fingers found cotton and flesh underneath. And started to stroke and caress what they found. The girl's pretty back arched gently, then suddenly hard, like a bow being drawn. The sound from her lips, a gasp of breeze through the tops of trees. She rose herself up onto tip toes.

'Open you legs just a fraction,' he said to the girl, as if showing her another bit it was important to iron, as his fingertips ran into the cotton strip between her legs. Flesh either side marked the boundary. 'So I can show you how,' he said, his fingers coming back down the cotton – slightly moist? - showing the sweet girl it wasn't creased. Furrowed maybe, but not creased. 

'A fraction?' she asked, the iron still moving on the table to her front, the word not a word she understood. His fingers retraced their steps. Softly up the cotton-covered folds of the girl. Secret places. Arching backs. Buttocks probing with an urgency greater than before. 'Open you legs,' he said again, keeping it simple. She parted her legs. His slippered foot slipped between hers, shuffling them further apart. She let them be shuffled. When he shuffled her more, she parted them more. The head of the house moved his hand between his pretty employee's now spread legs. And closed it around all he found there. 'If it's creased, you see, it get's caught,' he said, as his fingers snuggled closer to her secrets.

'Caught?' she repeated, sounding confused and a little distressed.

'See here,' he explained, now back to fingertip mode, stroking the length of her quim, flickering lightly in the furrow, circling the bud at the end, causing her knees to flex then suddenly straighten and tense. 'Smooth,' he said, repeating the process more slowly, more deeply, more thoroughly. 'It's all about thoroughness,' he said, being thorough, as the girl froze, then tensed. And her back arched abruptly with a sigh. Her eyes were closed, her lips apart. He watched it in the mirror in the door. 

'Keep going,' he said, to keep her on her toes. As it were.

As she was.

And she did. Keep going. Opening her eyes and continuing. 

'Like the shirt,' he said, bringing his whole wardrobe of ideas into play. Giving his other hand a task to do. It snaked its way up to her chin, then her neck. Then it dropped and he took her breast in its palm. He gently fondled the nipple at the tip. 'Keep going, ' he whispered, whenever she paused, as with one hand he fondled her breasts, and nipped and tugged and tweaked, (which she seemed to enjoy,) while his other hand explored her pudenda, all it's ridges and valleys and the bits in between that were moistened now, and filling with heat. 'Some are thinner, of course,' he said, not sure what he meant, but playing along. 'Take this, for example,' he said, lifting the ribon of panties out from between her legs and deftly slipping two fingers beneath. They snuggled next to her skin. 'Very thin,' he remarked, feeling the thickness of cotton while the back of his fingers nestled into skin, now moist, engorged, and hot. With his fingers and thumb be levered the strip of moist cotton aside, and slipped all his fingers inside. All against skin. Fingers slipping rudely into places of arousal. 

'Keep ironing,' he prompted as she stopped. Her back now permanently arched. Both feet stretched high on tip-toes. 'And this,' he went on, a finger at the entrance of the girl's now honey-slick vagina as his thumb rolled her clitoris without a shred of mercy and his other hand slipped into the boddice of her frock. 'This too is thin,' he said, fingers now into her boddice, thumb remaining at large. Thumb and finger feeling the thickness of the linen of her frock. Two buttons undone, then a third. The fourth. He slipped his hand in against skin. Took a naked breast in his hand. Dropped his lips to the side of her throat. And started to fondle and scratch and excite her breast, as his tongue took a taste of her neck. 

How smooth and warm. How sweet she tasted. He opened his lips as wide as they would go. He took the join of her shoulder and neck in his mouth and ran his tongue around it. He started to lick up the side of her neck. Making for the ear. A finger below ran warmly inside her, walls of a perky little pussy making him hot and damp, if not exactly welcome – but it was there, and she was here: how much more welcome did he need? His tongue found the lobe of her ear and lifted it softly to his teeth, that bore down hard. She yelped. 

'Keep going,' he said, releasing her lobe to do so. She did as he instructed. He took her whole ear in his mouth. Lips stretched, ear small and delicate, fine. He let the tip of his tonged probe gently into the girls fragrant tasting ear. She sighed. Just as her breast in his hand didn't try to escape, didn't wriggle or squirm, just stayed where it was, in his hand, for him to enjoy, so her ear did the same, in his mouth. Only her pelvis was squirming. Just as her back was arched and one heel was high off the floor ... as his finger played music in her pussy. Music that makes pussy purr. 'You can stop now,' he whispered in her ear, watching in the mirror at the door, noticing her eyes tight closed, her brow furrowed deep, her mouth half open, as if in mild pain. But none of her deepest reactions prevented the dear sweet girl from reaching forward, putting the iron on the sink, switching it off,and dropping the briefs she'd been ironing, onto the floor.

Who cared! 

(She could do them again.)

There she stood, legs spread, head down, hair fallen loose; arms straight, hands apart on the ironing board as he kissed, and stroked, and fondled her. Her shoulders rose and her face angled suddenly ceilingward as he slipped a second finger deep inside her. He ran the straps of her frock off her shoulders, her boddice to the waist. He tongued her hair at the back of her neck, then bit the skin. It made her flinch. Her eyes stayed closed. His shaking hand released the cord of his gown. It brought much of her that was naked, against all of him, naked too. His hand went between them. Scrabbled in and around those gorgeous girlish globes – eagerly bared and arched – seeking to locate his equally eager prick, and the target aperture. He had her arch her back some more. Lean forward more. Press back some more. And then, her shape and form arranged in the position he desired, he thrust his prick inside her. To the hilt.

To his delight she thrust and bucked against him as he pushed her over the board. Her golden hair now trailing in the sink, strands astray, breathing loud, awry. He began to pump her hard. The warmth and youthful firmness of the girl expanding his prick to pridigious size. The growing heat and girlish verve. The throaty groans and growling gasps. The way her passion grew as she threw herself into his thrusts. The throaty lower registers that signalled her growing arousal, growing higher through the scales as excitement grew and the violence of her bucking and squirming threatened to collapse the ironing board. Higher and higher they climbed, through scale of groan and gasp and plaintive cry. All the way up to a violently spasm of arching back and shoulders and neck, high pitched squeals that drove from her chest ever faster and louder, and more alarmingly, as his thrusts deep inside her did the same.

This was something. To see, to savour, to marvel at. This girl. This glorious, wonderful, specimin of feminine perfection. Youth and innocence, traversing the way, through this act, to woman fulfilled. And man fulfilled as well, Corduff, short of breath, was forced to concede. Sweating profusely. Gasping like an engine up an incline too steep. The girl was gasping too, now. Moaning and crying rythmic yelps for help as he drove in harder and firmer and faster than he'd done since decades gone. 

And still he rutted her. As she rutted back. Her sharply punctuated cries reaching higher and higher. Cries like the sound from a bagpipe, beaten sternly. Little whimpers, high pitched, as if from a pup being bounced on the floor. Or a seal. Little seal, bumping down the stairs. High little squeaks coming out, as each stair hit soft stomach. 

The monster with two backs. The monster in this case with one. The ironing table shaking and quaking with the pressure. Master of the house with his wheases and gasps. And ocassional groan. He came. Deep inside her. And she came, noisy as before, breasts squashed hard against the table, legs braced hard against the floor. Vagina grasping at him manfully. At his manhood, manfully. Getting her fill. Taking the toll. 

Her hand clutched behind her, closed on his buttocks, holding him there. Don't move! Stay inside me! Stay like that! Don't ... The sound, when she came, was like the sound of a barrage baloon, leaking air. A lot of air. Through an extremely tightly strained valve. He stayed like that, atop her, hesitantly pumping the little that was left. Into the girl. The girl stayed still, but for the walls of her vagina, and her pelvis, both of which rocked and pulsed ... and rocked and pulsed ... as she groaned again ... and then again. He wondered at his skills. The sated youngster, gasping, drained. He hadn't known he had such skills. Then her hand on his buttock released its vice-like grip. Withdrew. So he withdrew. 

His prick made a plop as it left her. She made a 'Whuff' in response. Her puss did that. He straightened his clothes. She straightened the table. He adjusted his robe, as she did her frock. Neither one looked at the other. They looked to themselves. Returning to their roles. 'I'll be out for lunch,' he said, finally, going out the door.

'Could you take the shirts to you room?' she asked, politely, nodding at the shirts hanging there.

'Good idea,' he said, and took them with him, smiling at the girl.

'Thank you,' she said, watching him go. Then she picked up the shorts from the floor, and began to iron them.



The Zippless Fuck



We were in our seventeenth year of marriage. My wife and I were geographically separated. I was stationed in the Eastern USA and she was at home in a Midwest State. Another Sailor and myself had rented a three-bedroom house, instead of living aboard ship when the ship was in homeport. We were stationed aboard different ships so; usually we were never there at the same time. We had the house all to ourselves to do with as we saw fit, as long as we didn’t destroy the house or the furnishings contained there in. 

I had been suggesting to my wife for about the past six years that she should find a male friend to keep her company while I was away. I kept insisting that since I was her first fuck, she should find out if she was truly satisfied with my cock alone. 

I had not always been faithful to her and ended up fucking several other women while I was away and sometimes even when I wasn't away. I was feeling a bit guilty, as she had remained faithful to me even after learning of a couple of the women. Or at least that's what she would have me believe, and so I did. 

One evening late I had gone to bed and was just drifting off to sleep when the telephone rang. It was my wife. She said rather haltingly, "Well I guess that I am now an adulterous woman." 

My heart nearly leaped into my throat and I caught my breath. I had been coaxing her for years to do just that, to assuage my guilt, and now she was telling me that she had done it. A multitude of things raced through my mind. The guilt that I had felt was now replaced with apprehension. I never thought that she would. Not even in my wildest dreams. But now she was telling me that she had and very recently.

I pressed her for details, not wanting to seem over anxious. "Do I ah, know the ah, gentleman?" I asked. 

"No." she replied. "I met him at a dance. Your cousin Cheryl and I went to the Old Red Barn to dance and have a few drinks. I met Bob and we danced and had a few drinks. We did some petting while on the dance floor. He would rub his cock against my leg and he felt of my breasts through my shirt. Of course you know that I never wear a bra. While sitting at the table I allowed him to reach inside my pants and feel my pussy." 

The scene that she was describing produced my next question. "What did you do? Take him out to the parking lot and fuck him in the car?" 

She laughed and said, "No! He invited me to his place for a nightcap. I don’t know why I went, but one thing lead to another and we ended up in bed together." 

I asked, "Did he fuck you then?" 

"Yes he fucked me, and I kept thinking about how it felt like you fucking me, not a stranger." 

I didn't believe her analogy of that one, although my wife was a very honest woman and rarely told untruths. Even so I knew her to be very capable of little white lies if the need arose. 

My question was, "Did you suck his cock for him?" I knew how she enjoyed sucking my cock. My wife was the type that could suck my cock and have an orgasm without anything touching her pussy. 

She admitted that she had sucked his cock and his balls. She had never sucked my balls for me before. I had instant pangs of jealousy. I discovered that she had in the course of the evening fucked him three times. I asked, "So what time did you return home?" 

"It was about six in the morning. I had to be home in time to get the children up for school and get ready for work." 

"Your telling me that you spent the night with the guy?" 

Her answer was a swooning, "Yessssss!" 

She had made plans to come out and see me in the East. She explained that she would be leaving on the plane and gave me the date of her arrival. I could hardly wait to see her. 

As she approached me in the airport, two very studly businessmen in suits escorted her down the concourse. The men had her engaged in conversation and I could see that they were attempting to talk her into going along with them for the rest of the day. I found out later, that she had sat in the middle seat between the two men for the entire flight, and they had become very friendly toward one another. 

When she spotted me, she smiled at the two men with her and told them goodbye. She walked over to where I was standing and gave me a kiss. Somehow she looked a lot different to me. 

"Would you like to stop in the bar for a drink before we go to my place?" 

"Yes." She said. 

Somehow I needed the drink to calm my ever-increasing anticipation. I couldn’t help but notice as we drank our drinks that she was different. She seemed surer of herself and of her desirability. I also noticed that she was not wearing a bra as usual and I could only guess about panties at this time.

On the way to my place, I reached over and lifted up her skirt above her knee and she told me, "I wouldn't lift it any higher unless you want to give the truckers a thrill." 

"Your not wearing panties?" 

She smiled back at me, "No." 

My concentration was yanked away by traffic and I didn't pursue the reasoning behind the lack of undergarments. When we were once again able to converse, I learned that she had removed them in the airplane bathroom so that the men on either side of her had access to her pussy. I was astounded at her apparent bravery or sluttish behavior.

In the course of our conversations I informed her that my roommate had been in port the other day and I had told him all about her. I had shown him a picture of her. Mike had liked what he saw. The picture was a G rated version but when I told him that he might have an opportunity to *Get Lucky* with her, he was very excited about that possibility. We had talked about her and that possibility in great length for the remainder of the evening. 

I explained to her that Mike had gone back out to sea but it was only for a couple of days. He should be returning the next evening. 

I wholeheartedly admit, I was testing her. I needed to know if she really had fucked Bob, or if it was an attempt to appease my efforts of trying to talk her into such an act, or an overly vivid imagination on her part. 

No more detail than she had given me over the phone, I couldn’t be sure. That evening, we experienced the best sex we had ever had in our relationship. She did things to me, which to her had been taboo before. In the middle of our love making, she asked me to do her anally. 

We had fucked vaginally about three times and I had cum all three. I wasn't sure if I could even accommodate her. I also didn't want to do anyones ass and that included hers. I told her that she was just going to have to get someone else to do the back door for her. "I just don’t like to smell shit, or have it on my cock." 

She was somewhat disappointed, but she seemed to understand my reluctance. In retrospect, I can recall that I had never fucked anyone anally, not even her. Here she was asking me to do her! My so-called virgin bride, where had she learned all of this stuff? 

As I had predicted, my friend Mike returned the next day. That evening we three had dinner together. After dinner we sat around sharing a bottle of wine and conversation. Although the subject of sex was bantered around, nothing definitive seemed to be starting between the two of them. There seemed to be a natural attraction between the two, but nothing serious that I could identify. After some teasing and friendly banter, Mike said that he was tired and retired to his room. 

Shari and I went to my room and began to make love. I noted that it didn't take a whole lot of foreplay to get her really wet and ready. In only a few moments I was able to mount her. I crawled between her legs and pushed my cock all of the way to my balls in her very wet and steamy pussy. I let it linger there. We called this "Letting it Soak." I left it in place and I could feel her pulse through my penis. I then began talking with her. 

"How would you like to go down the hall?" I asked her. 

"And fuck Mike?" 

I had the perfect instrument inserted for a lie detector test. My cock was firmly implanted inside her hot pussy. Experience had taught me that if she were the slightest bit excited, her pussy would contract and I would feel it in my cock. Her vaginal walls suddenly contracted catching me by surprise. She squeezed so hard that I thought she was going to squeeze my cock off, Wow, what a reaction. But she lay there seemingly very calm and said, "I think he has already gone to sleep." 

I was aware that after meeting her and having been told by me that he might have an opportunity, it was highly unlikely that Mike was asleep. In fact, he was most likely lying in his bed, looking at a Penthouse magazine, and rubbing his cock while fantasizing about Shari. I knew that Mike would not make the first move. If one were to be made, Shari would have to make it. Mike and I had been friends for a long time; I knew and respected his values.

I could feel her juices running down the under side of my balls. When she was super excited, her juices would flow like water being poured from a pitcher. I slowly withdrew my cock from her pussy and stood up on the door side of the bed. My door was ajar. From there I could see Mike’s. There was a light on in the room as I could see it under the door. 

I told her, "I see that Mike is still awake, there is a light on." 

She said nothing, she simply got up from the bed without a moments hesitation. I was somewhat surprised to see that she didn't reach for her robe, which hung on the hook by the door.

She walked naked down the hall to Mike’s room. I saw and heard her knock on the door. I heard Mike say, "Come in!" 

She opened the door wide. She stood in the full glare of the light from within and said, "Would you like some company Sailor?" 

Mike looked up from the book he was reading. He could see the sparkle in her eyes, pert little tits with the nipples standing very erect, and her blood engorged pussy all red with the lips all pouty in anticipation. 

He just patted the sheet beside him. She entered and closed the door behind her.

It wasn’t long before I heard the undeniable sounds of fucking coming from the other side of the door. Damn her ass, I was no longer in wonder if she had fucked Bob. I knew now that she had. She was inside my friend's room getting her pussy filled with his cock and most likely his cum as well. It occurred to me that we had never discussed this part of the equation. 

I had been so all fired up to get her fucked that I neglected to set up any rules with her should it occur. I just never thought it possible that she would ever take me up on the offer. 

I suddenly went through a whole string of emotions. Guilt, jealousy, worries, and finally I realized that it excited me beyond belief to have my wife in there being fucked and fucked hard by my friend. I wanted to see her getting fucked. That is what I now wanted. 

It seemed to dominate my thoughts like an obsession. I was furious at her for closing the door and shutting me out. I stood there outside the door listening for any sound, which would give me an idea as to what she was doing to him or him to her. 

I could here sounds which made me think that she was giving him head. Then I heard the bed squeak and slurping sounds along with his grunts and her moaning. I realized that they were in fact doing a sixty-nine. This continued and I stood listening and stroking my cock with my hand. Once again I heard the bed squeak several times with no sequence then suddenly there was a steady rhythm to it’s squeaking. 

I was about to shoot my load as I could hear her moaning and telling Mike, "Fuck me, fuck me harder!" 

I had had about all I could take at this point. I turned and walked back to my room. I sat there seething in the dark awaiting her return. I was both jealous and angry. These emotions raged within me. I knew that I needed to quiet them somehow. Perhaps if she hadn't shut the door. Perhaps if she had let me see.

I thought that I was prepared for her to do this but I also expected to be in on it, not standing outside a closed door. She had closed the door and prevented me from being able to see what I now realized I had longed to see, and now that it was a reality, she had truly fucked another man, I was uncertain as to how to handle it. I have never been the wimpy type or one who can endure much humiliation. It appeared that I had opened a very large can of worms. Now what to do? 

It seemed like she had been in there a very long time. When she came back to the room it took no time at all for me to show that I was not pleased. She saw me sitting there in the darkness. She came over and sat on my lap. 

I could feel the cum oozing out of her pussy and on to my bare leg. I was so angry that I tried to slap her face and missed. My emotions were running away and I didn’t know where they were taking me. 

Shari then leaned forward and kissed me tenderly. She then thanked me for giving her the present that I had given her. I hadn't considered what had just taken place as a present but in fact it was. 

I had given her, "Her Freedom". 

She explained it to me. "I now feel as though I am your equal. I am free to make my choices and to do as I see fit. Before I was always just your wife, now I am your partner. I am free!" 

I cried on her breasts and she stroked my hair with her hand. We then climbed into bed and I had my first ever, to my knowledge, "sloppy seconds."

The next morning I was really curious as to what my friend had thought of my wife’s talents? I asked Mike how he liked his visitor last night? At first his answer made me a bit angry. 

He said, "It was ok for a Zipless Fuck." 

I responded with, "What do you mean by that? Do you mean that she was no good or what?" 

He laughed and said, "No, that is not what I mean. She is a great fuck. A Zipless fuck is one in which there are absolutely no strings attached. You can have fun and fuck your brains out and just enjoy without worrying about what comes next." 

I blundered and let it slip that I had not been very happy with her when she closed the door. 

Noting my concern Mike said, "You should have come on in and joined us. Hell I don’t mind, and she is your wife after all." 

That evening, Shari and I both knocked at Mike’s door and asked if he would like some company.

Mike invited us in. Since none of us were clothed Shari got right to the matter at hand. Mike reached out to her and she slid into his embrace. After a long tongue in mouth slobbery type kiss, she placed her right hand on Mike’s scrotum. She then kissed her way down his chest to his belly and engaged the tip of his cock with her tongue. 

I was taking everything in and could see that her left hand was searching I didn’t know for what until it found my cock and began to stroke it for me. Having never been in a threesome before, I was intrigued. She was indeed a new woman. She had turned into a total slut and I was enjoying every moment. Shari had swallowed Mike’s cock totally into her mouth and was deep throating him. 

He said, "I’m going to cum!" She quickly removed his cock from her mouth and said, "No you don’t, I want the first load of cum from you in my pussy." 

She dropped my cock with her left hand and turned to allow Mike access to her gaping pussy. Mike swung his self around and between her legs and was trying to enter her in the missionary position. It was at that point that I did something that astounds me, even to this day. I took hold of Mike’s stiff cock and guided it into my wife’s pussy. I have never touched another mans cock since. It just seemed like the right thing to do at that moment. 

He fucked her for awhile in this position with me sitting on the sidelines stroking on my stiff Dick. Shari however was in charge of this little show and we men knew better than to challenge her authority.

She told me to position myself so that she could suck me. At that moment Mike wanted to change position, in doing so I am sure that his cock never left her pussy for a moment. They wound up doggie style, which made it easier now for me to stand by the bed and oblige her. 

Shari took my cock and began sucking it into her mouth. She engulfed it up to my balls. Her moans of pleasure filled the room with her many sounds of ecstasy. From my vantagepoint I could see Mike’s cock moving in and out of her pussy in a steady rhythm. I watched, as he would push in till his balls would slap her belly then pull out of her pussy till just the tip remained inside. 

I was aware that she had cum several times already as globs of cum were gathering around Mike's cock and running down the inside of her legs wetting the bed at her knees. I suppose it could be said that he was really putting the meat to her. 

While watching this real life movie that was taking place in front of me, I lost my load in her mouth. Shari didn’t miss a beat. She sucked all of my cream, and swallowed it.

Mike was riding her hard. She was moaning, "Fuck me, fuck me harder Mike!" 

He suddenly rammed his cock deep into her pussy driving her hips at an upward angle, and yelled, "I’m going to cum." 

She bit her lower lip and screamed "I’m cumming too!" 

With a loud groan that could have also been mistaken for a growl, Mike released a thick load of cum deep in my wife's cunt. He continued running his cock in and out of her pussy lips and allowing her to come down from her orgasm slowly. 

While watching this, I noticed that my cock was once again hard, and that Mike’s cock too was recovering rapidly. Without missing a stroke he continued to pump in and out of her pussy slowly and the juices were running freely. I then saw Mike scoop up some of her juices and smear them on her ass. He then began working his finger down into her ass and moving it around. 

I heard Shari say, "Ooh I like that!" 

Mike inserted two fingers inside her anus. When he had it lubricated and stretched enough, he pulled his cock from her pussy, rolled over on his back and picked her up. He sat her ass right down on his cock. Carefully he guided it past her sphincter muscle. Slowly her muscle relaxed and he was able to insert his cock until she was impaled to the hilt on his cock.

Mike instructed me to get between her legs and fuck her from the front. I followed his lead and I engaged in my first ever Sandwich. I quickly moved in grabbing her tits in both hands and sinking my shaft into her cunt. 

Shari was lost in ecstasy. "Oh fuck me, just fuck me. Don’t stop, please don’t stop." She kept saying over and over. 

I could feel Mike’s cock through the thin membrane that separated us. When I realized what it was, I began to loose my hardon. Shari realizing that my cock was deflating reached out and took hold of my balls and began squeezing them ever so slightly. My cock returned to its healthy state and we continued. It took us a little while to work a good rhythm, but finally we succeeded. He was hammering her ass and I was hammering her pussy. 

We all three exploded at about the same time. Shari wanted more. That was not enough for her. Mike excused himself and went to the bathroom. I couldn't help but take notice of the smell of sex in the room and the amount of cum that was accumulating on the sheets. Shari turned toward me, grabbing my deflated cock and began to suck it in earnest. She was like a woman possessed. Her lips were sucking and her tongue was swirling around my deflated member. Her determination to fuck some more was most evident. 


She was bent over me doggy style when Mike returned. His cock was once again at full attention and he aimed straight for her pussy. Mike filled her up and began to pump her hard. She bucked back up against him meeting his every thrust. 

Mike was fucking her while holding each of her tits in his hands and pinching her nipples, pulling her back onto his cock. What seemed like an eternity as I watched my wife being brutally fucked, in reality was about ten minutes. Mike sent a scalding load of cum once again into my wife’s pussy. We all three collapsed on the bed and soon fell asleep. 




The Zippless Fuck



Toward morning I awoke briefly to movement in the bed and I realized that my wife and Mike were fucking again. I opened my eyes briefly. This time she was riding atop his cock and he was flat of his back. I wanted to watch more but I was so spent that I lay there and went back to sleep. 

Shari told me later that she thinks that they fucked about four more times after I had fallen asleep. Which means that Mike filled her with about seven loads of cum that night. 

As I look back in retrospect, I can say that was just the beginning. There were many gallons of the stuff in her pussy through the following years. 

Can you imagine the sperm wars that were raging in her pussy? {Smile}



The Zit Queen and the Quarterback



Even her name bespoke of a girl most guys would normally ignore: Ellen Goldfarb. It was a plain Jane's name at best, a hag's at worst. Ellen Goldfarb was no hag, but nobody would ever call her pretty, either. Instead, she got called names like zit queen, thunder thighs, four eyes. Actually, Ellen wasn't as bad looking as the class bullies made her out to be. No, she'd never be asked to shill for Noxzema skin care products or Alberto Vo5. Nor would she ever sashay down some catwalk like those quasi-anorexics modeling the latest fashions. She was a big girl. Not fat but big. She stood around five-ten, with legs a bruising linebacker would be proud of. Her hair, dirty blond and disheveled, usually looked like it hadn't been brushed in weeks. And why she didn't wear contacts was anyone's guess, because those glasses she wore, the ones with the thick blue frames weren't doing her appearance any favors. She was the stereotypical ugly duckling, the girl nobody called for dates or asked to dance at school sock hops, standing in back of the school gym, wishing she were elsewhere. She only attended those dances—and thank God there were only two per year—because the school made attendance mandatory, and you didn't break the rules without suffering potentially embarrassing consequences. 

In 1965, that's the way it was at Damascus High, a small school in a small suburban East Coast town that had yet to embrace the great wave of social/cultural change sweeping the country. In the fall, on Friday nights, much of the town turned out to cheer on the Stallions, the school's football team, as pretty, baton-swinging cheerleaders danced on the sidelines. On Saturday nights, students with hot cars cruised up and down Main Street, strutting their wheels, their Mustangs and GTOs, their Vets and SS Chevelles. 

Conformity was still the name of the game, your passport to popularity. And there wasn't any guy more popular in Damascus High than eighteen year old Cole Reynolds. He drove a GTO; he quarterbacked the football team and he was ruggedly handsome, a "dreamboat" in 1950s vernacular, a word among other moldy words that, like the town's American heartland conservatism, still lingered like old clothing kept out of sentiment. On the surface, the strapping, brown hair, olive skinned six-footer appeared like some comic book hero, all flash and color with little below the surface—shallow, in other words. He smiled a lot as he swaggered down the school corridors, shaking hands and basking in the kudos and back slaps he got from students and teachers alike after a winning game. Adversity wasn't in his vocabulary. Sure, he knew what it meant. But the closest he came to it was getting sacked behind the line of scrimmage. 

His image, however, belied an intellectual curiosity and sensitivity that he revealed to only the chosen few. His family knew but not his jock buddies. Kayla, his blond, blue-eyed cheerleader girlfriend knew, knew that Cole could be compassionate and caring, knew he had other interests besides sports, knew he dug Tchaikovsky and Beethoven as well as the Beatles and Rolling Stones. 

Ellen had no idea. But then how could she? They shared the same homeroom, yet he might have been a continent away for all she felt they had in common: Ellen, the dateless, zit faced wallflower; Cole, the Big Man on Campus with the Barbie Doll girlfriend. Ellen wasn't immune to his charms, his all-American, masculine presence. He was very good looking, sure, but all form and little substance as far as she was concerned. Sometimes she wondered if her opinion was a classic case of sour grapes. No guy like Cole would ever give her a second look, much less ask her out. They had shared the same senior homeroom since September. Here it was three months into their senior year and she couldn't recall speaking to him for more than a few minutes. She assumed that would be the case for the remainder of the school year, until graduation. 

Then came an incident in the cafeteria that neither one of them could have predicted. 

***********************************************

Cole Reynolds thought about Ellen Goldfarb more than she knew, more than anybody knew. He admired her strength, her steely stoicism, the way she seemed to brush off the insults some cruel classmates threw her way. Thunder thighs. Zit queen. Four eyes. It was enough to make most girls either cry or lash out. Not Ellen. She took it, sat there at her desk and took it, smiling at her tormentors, not saying a word. Glen Dawkins and Steve Harris were the prime offenders, her main antagonists. What gratification these punks got out of tormenting Ellen, Cole couldn't fathom, though he suspected it stemmed from an inferiority complex born of insecurity over their own less than stellar looks. Steve looked like the proverbial ninety-seven pound weakling that got sand kicked in his face, while Glen, red haired and freckled, looked like a cross between Alfred E. Neuman and Don Knotts. Whatever their problem, their bullying disturbed Cole, pissed him off at times. And up until that day, he had felt a bit ashamed of himself for not intervening, for not telling them to leave her alone. Doing that, he feared, might subject him to being teased himself for coming to the aid of someone that many (not just Glen and Steve) considered a pariah. His jock friends, he reckoned, would make snide remarks about him being sweet on Ellen. It would damage his image, an image he worked hard to cultivate. 

That day in the cafeteria, Cole was laughing and joking with his jock friends, sitting at one of the long wooden tables, one of many that filled the room, row upon row. Ellen sat at the next table over, eating her lunch, alone as usual, when Glen and Steve approached her. Glen planted his hands on the table's edge, smirking. "Does she or doesn't she," he said. Steve followed with "only her dermatologist knows for sure," a parody of the famous Clairol ad. 

Ellen slowly shook her head, then did something totally out of character: She bolted up from her chair and got in their faces. "Don't you idiots have something better to do?" she snapped. 

Surprised at her comeback, it took them a few seconds to respond. "Well, well, Miss America here is getting frustrated," Steve said. 

"Either that or she's on the rag," Glen said. 

Ellen stood her ground, glaring at them, arms at her sides, slightly bent as if she was about to throw a punch. "You two have ten seconds to leave my area," she warned.

Steve glanced at his watch. "Yeah? And then what, beautiful?" 

Kids in proximity stopped talking and eating and turned their heads toward the commotion, Cole included. Concerns about his image collapsed in a spasm of rage. "Back off, ass holes," he ordered, bounding up from his chair. "Go pick on someone else."

Suddenly Cole became the center of attention. All eyes were on him, standing there in his blue, V-neck sweater and chinos, arms folded across his chest, his jaw clenched. "Do I make myself clear?" he said, his dark brown eyes boring into Ellen's antagonists. "Leave her the hell alone."

The duo shuffled their feet and bowed their heads, appearing to scrounge for a face saving gesture, something to say or do that would extricate them without appearing to back down. "Sure, no problem, my man," Steve said, an exaggerated smile stretched across his pudgy face. "We wouldn't want to insult a chick in front of her boyfriend." 

"Oooooooo," Travis Callahan, a stocky, powerfully built jock friend of Cole's crowed in mock horror. "You gonna take that from him, Coley?" 

Uneasy laughter rippled through the audience. Steve and Glen backed away toward their seats, warily keeping their eyes on Cole, as if expecting him to retaliate. Cole looked over at Ellen, gave her a faint smile. She didn't smile back. She held her head in her hands as if she was about to scream. Then she grabbed her tray, stacked it where it belonged and left the room. 

Cole sat back down. "All's well that ends well," he said before forking into his spaghetti. 

"I'd punch his lights out if I were you, Coley," Travis said, "for even suggesting I had anything to do with Ellen Goldfarb."

Cole shrugged, finished chewing, then slid a napkin across his mouth. "Why, what's so bad about Ellen Goldfarb? Seems like a nice girl to me." 

Travis shook his head, then ran a hand through his jet black, Brylcreem soaked hair, making no effort to hide his incredulity. "You ever seen a dog chick that wasn't nice? They can't afford to be anything else." 

Cole turned his seat around to face his friend. "First of all, she's not a dog. Second of all, she's got more guts than any of us put together. And third of all, if she'd get rid of those glasses, style her hair right, use the right makeup and wear the right clothes, she might look pretty good." He then slipped on his black corduroy varsity jacket, preparing to head outside for mid-day recess. His friends just sat there, slack jawed and incredulous. 

Ellen returned to class feeling ambivalent over how she reacted. She didn't like the fact that she let Glen and Steve get the best of her, perhaps gratifying those jerks even more. On the other hand, she felt good for sticking up for herself, choosing action over her usual passivity. She was also a bit stunned that Cole had come to her defense. He's the first one who ever did and she wanted to thank him but felt shy about approaching him with people around. She got her chance when she saw him walking toward his car after school let out. 

"Cole, listen, I just want to thank you for what you did," she said, approaching him from the rear. She wore black flat shoes and a plain yellow dress hemmed just above her knees. 

He turned around, had one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket, the other holding his books. "Oh, no problem, Ellen. It's about time somebody put those guys in their place. It was refreshing to see you fight back for a change. I enjoyed watching them squirm." 

"Me too," she said, looking up at him. Given her height, he was one of the few guys she could look up to, literately if not now figuratively. "Hopefully they won't bother me again." Her eyes focused on his car, the maroon GTO parked on the curb a half block from the school. "Nice car. They just came out, didn't they?" She knew that based on Pontiac's TV ads. 

"Just last year. Bagged lots of groceries and hauled lots of sheetrock last summer to get this baby. It's a beast—four on the floor and a V-8 with close to four-hundred horses under the hood." 

"I drive my dad's Chrysler on weekends. It's fast, too, but I doubt it's got that kind of power." She was just making conversation. Cars didn't interest her all that much. She saw him nod, figured he was bored, wanted to get going. 

Until...

"Wanna go for a spin?"

"Are you serious?" 

"No, just kidding." He paused, then said, "Of course I'm serious. Get in." 

She threw her books in back, eased on to the black vinyl bucket passenger seat and buckled in. Cole slipped off his jacket and hung it over the seat. As he gunned the engine, she blinked a few times to make sure she wasn't dreaming. Oh, the incongruity of it all—Mr. Popularity inviting her, a social zero, for a spin in his prized GTO. Was he just being nice or did he harbor some crazy ulterior motive? She forced herself to stop analyzing and just enjoy the ride, watching the scenery change by the minute as Cole drove past the town's pre-war housing stock, then through its post-war ranchers and splitlevels, then into a rural landscape of small farms, narrow roads and clumps of woodland shedding the last of their colorful autumn leaves. 

"Let's get some music on," Cole said. He kept his eyes on the road, holding his speed close to fifty, a few miles over the limit. "You'll find a bunch of eight tracks in the glove compartment."

Ellen popped open the door and grabbed a handful of tapes. "Wow, Cole, I didn't know you were into classical music," she said, flipping through the cassettes. 

"It helps me to relax, especially after a big game. Plus, it's just great stuff."

"Agreed. I've been listening to it since I was a little girl. Can we put on Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty?" 

"Sure, pop her in." 

Tchaikovsky's lovely, waltz-like melodies enveloped her like a soft, warm blanket, enhanced the bucolic scenery rolling by her window. She couldn't have dreamed this had she even wanted to, cruising through the countryside with Cole Reynolds while listening to Tchaikovsky. She almost laughed at the absurdity of it, absurd in a good way, though absurd nevertheless. Her image of him appeared out of sync with the guy she had talked to more in the last half-hour than in the past three months. Maybe they had more in common than she once thought, a notion reinforced when he inquired about what she did last summer, and she told him that her family visited New York for the World's Fair. He got all excited because his family had done the same thing right before Cole started working. They compared notes on the pavilions they visited. Both thought that General Motors had the most impressive exhibit. GM called it Furturama, but not a future that either of them thought was plausible or particularly bright. 

"I can't say I'm looking forward to living in one of those underwater cities," Cole said. 

"No, me either," Ellen agreed. "Nor do I think that clearing our tropical rain forests with laser beams is a good idea. We need those forests; they supply our planet with oxygen." 

"Speaking of forests," Cole said, "I thought we could pull into Clyburn Lane before heading back. Want to?" 

Clyburn Lane was a heavily wooded area where couples parked to neck. Ellen had never been there, knew it by reputation only. In fact, rumor had it that Coleen Grosniak, a former classmate, had gotten pregnant in her boyfriend's car there. So this was the payoff, Ellen thought. He was just out for a good time, to take advantage of a girl he figured was all too willing to put out because she was starved for attention. Sure, that was it; she was "easy" in his mind. For a little while, he had made her feel special. Now she felt insulted. 

"I don't think so, Cole. Maybe you should take me home."

"Look, it's not what you think," Cole said, glancing sideways before looking ahead. "I just thought we could talk awhile without the distraction of driving. Just for a few minutes. Then we'll head back." 

She wanted to trust him, wanted to believe that he wasn't out to use her to get what Kayla might not be giving him. Not that she'd mind smooching with him. What girl wouldn't with a guy that looked like Cole? Even so, she didn't want to be used—that would be worse than anything Glen or Steve had said. Of course, she'd never know his true intentions unless she agreed. Taking a deep breath, she said, "Well, okay, Cole, if that's what you'd like. But just for a little while." 

Minutes later he pulled on to Clyburn Lane, also called The Pines because of the tall trees that flanked both sides of this narrow, graveled road. On warm weekend nights, the place was jumping with cars, sometimes bumper to bumper. But not today; Cole's GTO was the only car here. 

She leaned back against her door, fidgeting. She rubbed her hands together, closed her tan suede jacket around her, darted her eyes from Cole, out the window, to the floor and back again. "I've never been out here," she said. "But I guess you already knew that." 

Cole swiveled around to face her, hands folded in his lap. "No, I didn't know that. How could I?" 

She couldn't tell if he was being gratuitously naive or if he actually thought someone besides Cole had showed enough interest. She looked away for a second, then turned to face him. "Listen, Cole, I'm grateful for what you did at lunchtime and appreciate you taking me out in this wonderful car of yours. But..." Again she looked away, continued to fidget with her hands.

He inched forward in his seat. "But what's a guy like me doing with a chick like you, right?" She looked at him, then looked down as if she were about to cry. He moved even closer to where his knee bumped up against the center console. Reaching out, he gently slid off her glasses. "You've got beautiful hazel eyes, you know that? Maybe you should stop hiding them behind these and get contacts." 

Cole wasn't the first one to compliment her eyes, though it felt more special coming from him. "Thanks, maybe I will." She paused, touched her face and said, "My skin, well, that's a different matter." 

He shook his head. "Look, we've both seen people with full blown acne. That's not you. You've got a few zits that will most likely vanish with age. Meanwhile, use more makeup." 

She was starting to enjoy this. "Okay, so tell me more. What else do you like about me?"

"Plenty. Like the way you stood up to those pricks today, and the way you held your head high when they would start on you before that. Most girls couldn't take it, most guys couldn't. And you have a nice smile, too. You should smile more often. And, last but not least," he continued, lowering his eyes, "you've got great legs." 

Self consciously, she pulled her dress over her thick knees. "My legs are too big. There's a reason they call me thunder thighs."

"They're jealous. You're legs are solid and shapely, calves especially. Real strong too, I bet." 

"I played soccer in junior high. Rode my bike a lot too."

"It shows." 

She flinched when he reached to touch them, shielding his advance with her hands. "Relax," he said, "I don't bite." She did a little, enough to let him touch her. "They're really smooth," he said, running his fingers along her calves. She relaxed more as the minutes passed. She remained wary of his motives but couldn't deny she enjoyed this impromptu leg message, the sensuous feel of his strong hands against her naked white skin. She let his hands wander further, past her knees and then up to the middle of her thighs. The thought of him rubbing her pussy, then licking her clit got her juices flowing. Still, in her guarded emotional state, there was no way she'd let him get that far if he tried. But he didn't. Instead, he withdrew his hand and leaned over the console, moving his lips toward hers. This time she didn't flinch. This time she surrendered to his affection, his soft kisses and warm hugs. She still wasn't totally convinced it was genuine. But it sure felt like it. She was beginning to feel flattered rather than used. 

He glanced at his watch. "Geez, five o'clock already. Time to get back. I'll drive you home."

"We didn't do much talking," she said in mock admonishment. "Not that I'm complaining." 

They embraced and kissed again before Cole started the engine. Ellen leaned back in her seat, gazing at the scenery, the acres of farmer's fields and the late afternoon shadows creeping across the landscape. She half expected to awaken from what still felt like a dream. He appeared to like her—her, Ellen Goldfarb, the social outcast. Well, imagine that. But what about Kayla? Were they having problems? Was he on the rebound? Cole's raison d'être still eluded her. 

***********************************************

Cole was hardly on the rebound. He still saw Kayla and, prior to what happened in the cafeteria, he wasn't looking to date anyone else. He still wasn't. Not really. Confronting Steve and Glen and then inviting Ellen to take a spin was pure spontaneity, nothing planned or orchestrated about it. But, did he genuinely "like" Ellen? Or, was he simply a self-styled Henry Higgins trying to make her over? He saw the movie "My Fair Lady" last year. The music he liked. The story he thought was corny, though he remembered enough of it to think it might apply. One thing's for sure—his dick had jumped to full staff in that car. Indeed, had Ellen given him the go ahead, lifted her dress, slipped off her panties, spread her powerful legs, he might have jumped her bones. No, she wasn't nearly as pretty as Kayla, nor could she be, contacts or no contacts, makeup or no makeup. Still, he really did think she had great legs, beautiful eyes and a nice smile. Plus, the clincher, her intellectual depth far exceeded Kayla's. Kayla was a nice girl and very pretty. However, she rarely read a book other than assigned class readings, and her concerns didn't go much beyond what eye shadow to apply or what dress to wear. Ellen, on the other hand, read books like "Exodus," talked about civil rights and LBJ's recent escalation of the war in Vietnam. He could discuss this stuff with Ellen. With Kayla? Not so much. She wasn't stupid; she just didn't care. He felt like a hypocrite at times, bored, sometimes even annoyed with Kayla's superficiality, while keeping her around like some trophy to impress. 




The Zit Queen and the Quarterback



Kayla had also been in the cafeteria that day. Like his buddies, she saw Cole's intervention as an aberration, a spontaneous reaction against injustice. Steve and Glen were jerks, she knew, and also knew Cole's penchant for defending the underdog. She didn't know about Cole taking Ellen to Clyburn Lane. What she did know is that Ellen and Cole had become somewhat chummy—a little too chummy. They talked together in the halls, and sometimes he'd sit next to her at lunch, inured to his jock friends' jokes and snickering. She was even in the bleachers on Friday nights, cheering him on. When she confronted him, he laughed it off, said he felt sorry for Ellen and was just trying to make her feel better. 

If that's what he was trying to do, it worked. Her hair now had body and shape. Her zits weren't nearly as visible thanks to the right cosmetics. She also became more fashion conscious, more selective about what she wore. A model out of Seventeen, she wasn't; but she was no longer the class frump either. And she was experimenting with contacts, trying to get the hang of using them. 

None of this was lost on Cole. He wanted to see her again, and not just in school or in the tight confines of his GTO, though he wouldn't mind another romp on Clyburn Lane, preferably in the back seat with her legs wrapped around him. But weekends were reserved for Kayla, as was the upcoming Damascus homecoming dance, a couples only affair. Showing up at the dance with Ellen instead of Kayla would subject him to more than the mostly good natured ribbing he'd been taking from his buddies. Kayla, of course, would feel hurt and betrayed, as would many of his classmates. He and Kayla were THEE couple, had been for the last two years. Some expected them to one day marry. It came down to either living through the expectations of others or doing what he felt was best for him. Wimps did the former, men the latter. That quote from Shakespeare's "Hamlet," culled from a unit in his English class resonated: "This above all: to thine own self be true." 

The fact is, to his great surprise, if not dismay, he was starting to fall for Ellen Goldfarb. And it was no longer a case of feeling sorry for her or wanting to make her over. He liked her, genuinely liked her, and what better way to show it than asking her to homecoming. 

Only one problem: She already had a date. Jeff Levine, a varsity basketball player, struck by Ellen's sudden metamorphosis, asked her to the dance and she accepted. She told Cole about it after he approached her with the idea of breaking his date with Kayla and taking her. "I just wish you had asked me sooner," Ellen had said. "I'd much rather go with you, but never thought in a million years you'd ask me. I just took it for granted you'd go with Kayla." He wasn't surprised at her reaction when he suggested she might break her date with Jeff. "He's the only guy who ever asked me to homecoming. I just couldn't do that to him. I, more than most people, know what rejection feels like." 

So that's the way things stood on a crisp, December Saturday night when their senior class and recent Damascus High graduates filed into the Franklin Hotel ballroom, decorated for the occasion with subdued lighting, balloons and party favors atop the twenty round tables scattered over the shiny parquet floor. 

Ellen, in a formal blue gown and high heels, stood just a shade shorter than six-foot three-inch Jeff Levine. Her hair was up in a French twist and her eyes looked more beautiful than ever—in contacts. She thought Cole looked absolutely smashing in his tux, felt pangs of envy seeing Kayla hanging on his arm. She and Cole nodded at each other at the door, then took their seats at adjoining tables. Jody and the Crewmen, a six-piece band, opened with "Dancing in the Street." The tables emptied for that one, a huge hit for Martha and The Vandellas the year before. After that, Todd Reinhardt, the school principle, hopped up on stage to welcome everyone. He praised the football team for another winning season. "It was a team effort, but who can deny that Cole Reynolds' golden arm led the way," he said. "I see Cole sitting over there with his main squeeze, the beautiful Kayla Ranucci, our senior cheerleader. "Cole and Kayla, stand up, would you?" They did as the room erupted in applause. The band followed with "Twist and Shout," "Lets Twist Again," "Mashed Potato Time," "Mickey's Monkey" and some cha cha number. 

Then Jody, the band's busty, thirty-something lead singer, stepped up to the microphone. "We're gonna slow it down now for you guys and gals who wanna get up close and personal. It's an oldie but still a goodie." 

"Are the stars out tonight? 

I don't know if it's cloudy or bright

'Cause I only have eyes for you, dear..."

Ellen thought the band must have honed in on her mood. Jeff seemed like a decent guy, but maybe she should have followed Cole's suggestion. Her eyes were for Cole, not Jeff, as they waltzed within just a few feet of Cole and Kayla. She couldn't help but wonder if Cole felt the same way. She had her doubts seeing Kayla's head buried in his chest. But then, with Kayla's back turned, he winked at her, boosting her confidence that he might. 

"The moon may be high

But I can't see a thing in the sky

I only have eyes for you..."

Cole did feel the same way. He did even thinking how great Kayla looked, felt, smelled. But Ellen looked pretty boss herself, especially in contacts. And oh what he'd give to see her legs in high heels. Ellen should be dancing with him, not Jeff Levine. 

"You are here so am I

Maybe millions of people go by

But they all disappear from view

And I only have eyes for you..."

The music hadn't quite stopped when Ellen pushed herself away from Jeff, lifted the hem of her gown and then bolted from the room. Jeff threw his hands up, shook his head, then started to go after her. Cole, not yet seated, stepped in front of him and grabbed his shoulders. "Jeff, let me handle this. I think I know what's wrong." 

"You do?" 

"Yeah, you do?" Kayla said, looking just as confused. 

"Listen, I'll be right back. Just sit down and relax."

He found her around the side of the hotel, crying and shivering in the cold night air, bare shoulders against the blustery wind. Without saying a word, he wrapped his arms around her, holding her as tight as he could. She sobbed for awhile, then wiped her eyes and looked up. "Look, you should get back in there. It's not fair to Kayla. I'm the one who screwed up." 

Weighty words eluded him. So he kept things light: "How does it feel to cry in contacts?" 

She managed a chuckle. "Well, not much different than with glasses," she said, blinking, "though they've fogged up a bit." 

He hugged her once more, and this time she hugged him back. Then they started to kiss, deeply, passionately, and Ellen didn't stop him when he reached under her gown and began walking his fingers up her leg to her crotch. She moaned when he began to rub her moistening pussy over her panties. Then he started to dry hump her. And then he heard something he didn't expect—the sound of Kayla's voice, strident and angry. 

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," she shrieked. She stood there, hands on hips, with a clueless Jeff at her side. "I guess this is your idea of making Ellen feel better."

Cole spun around and stepped forward. "Look, Kayla, I—"

"Sure, I know, you can explain everything, right? Well, so can I. Apparently, our zit queen here is giving you something I'm not." 

Ellen looked down, held her head in her hands. 

"It's not like that, Kayla," Cole protested. 

Kayla got in his face. "No, of course not. It's her brains and vibrant personality that compelled you to drop me at the biggest social event of the year, aside from senior prom. Give me a break. I knew something was up between you two, and now this proves it." 

She had the brains part right, Jeff thought, a truth he'd wisely keep to himself. 

"Kayla, I'm very sorry about this," Ellen said, wiping the mascara that had run down her cheeks. "My apologies to you too, Jeff. I know it's asking a lot right now, but could you take me home?"

"Yeah, sure, why not?" Jeff said with amused insouciance. "Ya win some, ya lose some." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his car keys, threw them up in the air and caught them one-handed behind his back. "How about you, Kayla? You need a ride too or do you think you can patch things up with Cole?" 

More anger flashed in Kayla's blue eyes. "Are you kidding?! This two-timing star quarterback and I are done. Finished. History. And I'll walk home before I get into the same car with that tramp. Why don't you take ME home, let her stay here with him, let them resume what they were doing before they were rudely interrupted." 

Jeff nodded. "Fine with me. All hands in favor say I." 

Nobody laughed. 

Jeff and Kayla went back inside, grabbed their coats and left. Ellen, at Cole's prompting, returned to their table. "Switch partners did you?" one of the guys joked. Others just stared, shook their heads and whispered, not comprehending but too polite to ask. Ellen agreed to stay a while longer, if only so she could dance with Cole the way Kayla did, slow and close. She got her chance when Jody and the band did a cover of a recent Barbara Mason ballad. 

"I don't even know how to love you

Just the way you want me to

But I'm ready, ready to learn, to learn..." 

They waded onto the crowded dance floor and fell into each other's arms, ignoring the curious stares of onlookers who wondered what the hell Cole was doing snuggling with Ellen Goldfarb, of all people. Where was Kayla? 

"I don't even know how to hold your hand

Just to make you understand

But I'm ready, ready to learn, to learn..."

Principle Reinhardt, a Damascus alumnus himself, strolled by, dancing with his wife. Catching Cole's eye, he shrugged, pulled on his black walrus mustache and mouthed the words, "what gives?" Cole shrugged back and kept moving.

"I don't even know how to kiss your lips

At a moment like this

But I'm going to learn to do

All the things you want me to 

Are you ready? Yes I'm ready..."

More people noticed, especially when Cole and Ellen started smooching in the middle of the dance floor. Some shook their heads, concerned, if not alarmed. Others laughed, as if this was some sort of gag. People craned their necks toward Cole's table, presumably searching for Kayla. And the band played on. 

"Are you ready? Yes I'm ready

To kiss me? Yes I'm ready

To love me?

To kiss you, love you, and hug you..."

Song over, they brushed by their table, exited the ballroom and made a b-line for the cloakroom, oblivious to the small crowd that had gathered, watching them split. Once inside the car, parked blocks from the Franklin, they fell easily into each other's arms, kissing with a passion that neither of them had ever realized. They were free at last to pour out their feelings, no longer constrained by convention, the prying eyes of significant others, self-righteous busybodies. Ellen had no defenses left when it came to Cole. The intensity of her emotions and pure carnal needs coalesced into one hot ball of desire. She'd surrender body and soul to this guy if that's what he wanted. She was, as the song went, "ready." 

Cole kept his wits about him. One, he didn't have a condom; and two, if he was going to make love to Ellen, he wanted to do it in bed where they could strip down and bare all, where they could explore each other's bodies without climbing over seats and hitting a steering wheel. Doing it in his car now felt cheap. So he just held and kissed her, kept his hands and mouth away from places that might force him to lose control. He didn't, however, hold back from expressing how he felt. "I might be falling in love with you," he said.

"Might be?"

"Okay, I am."

"That's better, because I'm already there." 

By the following week, the entire senior class, it seemed to Cole, knew what happened. He wasn't surprised. Word spreads fast in a small school like Damascus. He saw it as an opportunity to see who his true friends really were. He caught Glen Dawkins and Steve Harris snickering when he passed them in the hall. They almost took off running when Cole said, "You two have a problem?" 

Travis Callahan didn't mince words when he confronted Cole at his locker. "Have you lost your fucking mind, Coley? What's thunder thighs got that Kayla doesn't?" 

Cole considered the source, didn't get mad. He knew Travis would never understand. In fact, he made Travis' comment into a joke. "You just answered your own question, Travis. Thunder thighs, that's what." He walked away, leaving Travis scratching his head. 

Kayla pretended he didn't exist. In class, she moved her seat as far from him as she could get. In the halls and cafeteria, she averted her eyes. It hurt him; but what could he do? 

Ellen and Cole got closer over winter break. The day after Christmas, Ellen turned eighteen. Now they were both, as Barry McGuire's top-40 hit went, "old enough to kill but not for votin'." Consummating their love proved difficult with parents around, even for a romp on the sofa. So Cole suggested they go to a special place where they could—Times Square on New Year's Eve. Cole booked a room for two nights at the Americana in Midtown. This time he brought condoms, and this time there were no distractions. There were only the soft shadows filling their room on the forty-second floor, the sound of their bodies moving as young bodies do in the throes of youthful passion, the words of endearment spoken in tones soft and true. They welcomed in 1966 along with seven-hundred thousand others jostling each other as they watched the ball drop from the Allied Chemical Tower. 

When they returned to school, nobody but Kayla seemed to care anymore. Football season was over, along with Cole's career as the school's star quarterback. He was yesterday's hero, playing out the final golden season of adolescence, cruising down Main Street in his GTO, the former zit queen by his side.



The Zob



Master,

As we go to bed and you kiss me lovingly on my lips, look me in the eyes telling me you love me deeply how you need me and I am such a special girl. You lay me on your chest holding me as we talk about our day, softly touching caressing my hair and face. Relaxing with each other and getting settled in for the night. You tell me DOWN as you hold my hair. My body starts to feel heightened, aching more in anticipation as I know I can finally love and worship my Zob, sleep with him and love him as a good Zob worshipper always should.

I kiss you on the lips, and then down your chest knowing I am not allowed to rush when I'm to go to my place with my Zob. As I slowly get closer to being with my Zob I can feel my ache and need grow over taking me...as I finally lay my head on your thigh my nipples are fully erect aching, my breasts feel heavier, I can smell that musk of my Zob as I bury my nose in him which I love and it drives my need to be closer to him, to love him to be lost in my Zob, my Love. 

My tabboun begins to ache even more, pounding with need of my Zob deeper in sluts aching tabboun... I can't control that need any longer... I have to make love to my Zob...I have to feel my tongue on him, kiss him with my lips all over from the tip of his beautiful head, all down his big beautiful shaft, to the bottom of the balls over and over.

I go to my Zob, place him in my mouth as he is soft. I love feeling my Zob my love grow and throb in my mouth. I lay there just enjoying my love in my mouth moving my tongue on him, nursing him. As I feel him grow more and more, my tabboun begins to ache more and deeper, slipping me further into my sub space with my Zob.

I begin to moan on my Zob, my Love telling him I need my Zob deep in my tabboun, my terma... how deep my ache and need is for my Zob to be inside of me.. But slut knows all she's allowed to do is love him orally at night. As I pull my Zob in and out of my mouth I can feel the Zob in my tabboun going in and out. This is making the slut's ache and need even worse, deeper in her tabboun. As I softly moan more and more on my Zob begging him to use me, and all I hear is that's a good girl, love your Zob. Feel that ache and need to love your Zob... Pushing his slut further to the edge of her deep sub space with her Zob.

Master is letting the slut build her ache, making that need go deeper in her tabboun, from trying to rub her tabboun on Masters leg trying to make herself cum. As you take the Zob from my mouth, Hearing you tell slut to just kiss him and lick him, whisper to your Zob, love him...show your zob your dedicated to him to loving him always. NO more rubbing the tabboun on the leg slut!! Just feel the ache and need in your tabboun slut, as you softly caress my neck, talking softly to me as you do. This is where I get so lost in my sub space and into my love and worship of the Zob.

I begin to kiss and caress my Zob with my tongue and love my Zob. As I start to relax with my Zob I can feel your hand begin to caress my hair softly. As I begin to moan softly to my Zob and I kiss and lick him all over. I don't know if I am doing that for 5 min or if 2 hours goes by... all I remember is your touch on my neck and you talking to me, feeling very loved and needed by Master and my Zob and I hear you telling me I am such a good girl loving her zob like she should be, your Master loves you very much as you place the Zob in my mouth and tell me is time for slut to go to sleep, time to nurse him as you sleep.. As my Master sleeps...



The Zombie Librarian



She never grew tired of watching him. She was sure the strength of the current between them would have ebbed by now, but just when she thought they had settled into some kind of comfortable routine... Bam! It would hit her again out of nowhere. It was usually something simple, like a lazy half-smile or the way his hand grazed her hip when he moved past her in the kitchen. She would get wet sometimes just locking eyes with him. It confounded her. 

Tonight she was especially revved up; it was Halloween and they were hosting a party at their place. She had always loved the holiday and this time of year. She felt so alive in autumn, and tonight, very sensual, as well. The sexy zombie-librarian get-up might have something to do with it. She was keenly aware of the effect her tight pencil skirt with thigh highs and low-cut blouse was having on some of the men around her, but she didn't care. The only opinion that mattered to her belonged to one Mark Twain, who was leaning casually against a door jamb a few feet away. Even with the silly white mustache and snowy-powder dusting his curly hair, he was still the most handsome man in the room. Simply looking at him made her heart start to race. As she stared at him unobserved from her corner, she silently chanted her own version of an old Yeats poem: "Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny, I am looped in the loops of his hair..." 

As she gracefully weaved her way around tables brimming over with colorful candy and decedent desserts, she smoothly eluded a very tipsy Tinkerbell and a rather handsy George Washington, much to the latter's dismay. She could almost feel the night pulling her outside. It was an errant playmate, teasing her with the promise of cool, dark secrets and a few sweet minutes of solitude. A gentle breeze traced its fingers across her cheek and chest and flirted with the hem of her skirt as her lungs filled up with a cold, smoke-tinged crispness that she could almost taste. As she exhaled she felt him behind her, his warm hand stealing around her waist, and she leaned into him, the softness of her curves welcoming the hard planes of his body, the unyielding, comforting shelter of him. She smiled into the darkness as his lips brushed against her ear, sending ripples of pleasure throughout her entire body: "I knew I'd find you hiding out here."

"Not hiding," she grinned, "just catching my breath."

He chuckled softly, sending another wave of ripples through her. "And I'm sure that has nothing at all to do with a certain president and his inability to keep his eyes off your cleavage and hands off your ass."

"Why, Mr. Twain, if I didn't know better, I'd almost think you were jealous", she teased.

"Honest Abe? Maybe. But 'ol Georgie boy - not likely. He just needs to keep his dirty old ham-hands off my hot, undead librarian. Though I do see why he feels compelled..."

His fingertips splayed across her stomach and tightened, sending tremors throughout her belly and much, much lower. He pulled her deeper into the shadows of the porch, softly growling as his lips caressed her temple, "Do you have an idea what you do to me sometimes? What you do to me most of the time? With the lace bra and the stockings and the red lips. ...Thinking about what I wanna do to you, but I can't because we're surrounded by people...and I swear that just makes it hotter. You're killing me here."

"Really?" she asked, the picture of innocence. 

Turning in his arms, she took full advantage of her four-inch heels and brought her lips closer to his. Sliding her hand up his chest to feel the steady rhythm of his heart pick up its pace, she stated matter-of-factly: "The way I see it, I'm just being a good hostess ...making sure the candy bowls are all full..." She pushed her swelling cleavage squarely into his chest.

"...ensuring everything looks good and everyone's happy, so we know all of our hard work paid off." She spread her fingers across the growing bulge in the front of his trousers and gently squeezed. 

"...And last but not least," she smiled wickedly, guiding his hand past the lace garter to the dampening silk between her legs, "making sure we keep that wet bar very, very wet."

"Fuck me," he gasped raggedly in the dark, as his long fingers deftly pulled aside her panties and entered her hot, slick entrance with a gentle thrust.

She moaned softly into his mouth as his lips captured hers greedily and her fingers grasped at the lapels of his Twain costume. The sound made him even harder as he stroked deeper inside her, matching pace with their hot, sparring tongues. 

She was on the precipice now, distantly aware that there was still a party going on a few feet away from them, warm candlelight spilling out of the window beside them. But as a wave of exquisite pleasure crashed down upon her, the zombie librarian only had one clear thought: this was the best damn Halloween she'd ever had.