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Homeward Bound

By: Dakota_North



In the chill light of dawn they gathered, today and every day. Just as they always did, the herd moved forward slowly, reluctantly hurrying along to their final destination. None of them really wanted to be there, but there was no escape as they collectively made their way along the platform. Down the ramps they headed, the noise of the waiting train beckoning them in the early morn. They all had their heads bowed as they slowly boarded the train, each of them finding a spot for the long ride ahead of them. Once they were aboard, the doors slammed shut and the train began to move.

On board the train, Joe carefully made his way through the crowded car. Although he'd only been on this line for a few months, but he had already settled into a routine. He clutched his work bag close to him as he weaved and pushed his way to the end of the car, eyes darting back and forth to make sure he didn't miss her. As always, she was waiting, ostensibly making a show of needing the extra seat for her bags, something that other passengers loathed but that she somehow got away with every day, and Joe plopped down in it as soon as she pulled her things away.

"Good morning, Carole," he said as he slumped down in his seat.

"Morning, Joe," she replied with a smile. Carole always had a smile for Joe, which was one of the bright spots in his day. This morning she wore a hot pink lipstick on her sexy lips, and her dirty blonde hair was arranged just so. Carole required very little make up to enhance her fine features, and what she wore was artfully done. Joe found himself quite taken by her beauty, but while he harbored his fantasies about her, that was as far as things got. A sort of friendship had been struck between the two as they shared their morning ride, and the idle chatter they engaged in helped pass the time tremendously. They started this morning with the weather, the forecast was for a light snow, but nothing that would create any problems for them. After all, under normal circumstances the morning commute for both of them was hellacious, and that was just considering the drive to the train station. The regional rail line took even longer to get them to work, but they found they had quite a bit in common. Inclement weather was the last thing they needed, but it was a risk they were both willing to accept. Moving closer to work was something that they had both dismissed as well, for neither could maintain their current standard of living that close to the city. It was just too bad that they didn't live close enough to each other that they could car pool in the mornings, for their schedules were nearly identical. Every morning and night they rode the rails together, talking and laughing about life's little quirks and anything else that came to mind. In the anonymity of the crowd, it was nice to have a friendly face to talk to, but that was all they shared.

It wasn't as if Joe wouldn't have been interested in anything more, nothing could have been further from the truth. If Joe hadn't know her, Carole could have been almost intimidating to approach, but that was no longer an issue. That was partially what led to his attraction to her, not that she needed any help. Even without her ubiquitous heels on, Carole was nearly as tall as Joe, and the skirts she preferred wearing showed off her sexy long legs. That was something Joe always looked out for, and he dreaded her casual Fridays when jeans were permitted. She filled those out nicely too, and Joe usually caught himself casting admiring glances at her rear. Fortunately today was a skirt day, and even though Carole had stockings on, Joe could still enjoy the shapeliness of her lines. Besides, her white nylons were sheer enough that the dolphin tattoo on her ankle was visible. That lent Carole a bit of an exotic air, and Joe often wondered what else was hidden beneath her clothes. Once in a while he'd be able to catch a hint of lace beneath her blouse, and despite the cold today was no exception. Carole had doffed her long trench coat in order to be more comfortable on the ride, and Joe immediately noticed she had missed a button. Surely she'd pick up on it sooner or later, but for now he simply enjoyed the view she offered. While it was true that there were women who were more well endowed than Carole in that field, her breasts were full enough to capture Joe's attention. On most days, however, it was her legs that did the trick, and as the train made its way along the tracks, Joe got a reminder why.

Because the ride would take so long, Carole had leaned back in her seat a bit as she chatted with Joe. This caused her skirt to ride up a few critical inches, and as Joe leaned back himself, he found his eyes drawn downward. Fortunately for him, he never stammered once in his conversation with Carole, despite the fact that he was constantly sneaking glances at her delectable thighs. Sure she was wearing stockings, but the very shape of her legs beneath them beckoned to him. Already Joe could see that Carole was wearing thigh highs instead of pantyhose, and he wondered just what else went with her ensemble. For her part, Carole didn't seem to notice Joe's prolonged attention to her lower body, and if she did, she definitely didn't mind it. Instead, they continued their conversation as they had before, whiling away the time until they reached their final destination. The smooth lines of Carole's legs and the hint of lace beneath her blouse was plenty to get Joe's heart racing this morning, but just moments before the train reached the station he would get another treat. What happened was Carole shifted herself in her seat, and ended up at an angle where Joe had a direct line of sight to her crotch. While it wasn't bare (as Joe had often fantasized about), he could make out the thin triangle of white satin that covered his travel companion's pussy. He was so sure it was hot and sweet, just like Carole, and he couldn't help but focus his attention to her exposed panties. Joe marveled at how tightly the form fitting material hugged Carole's most feminine curves, and he thought he could even see the creasing in the satin outlining her pussy lips. In all his wildest dreams, Joe never believed he'd ever actually see what treasure she had hidden under there, but he filed away the view she gave him today in his memory, doubtless to be dug up the next time he needed something to fuel his desires.

All good things had to come to an end, and Joe's brief visual encounter with Carole's pussy would be no different. The train finally bumped to a halt at the station, and they rose to head off their separate ways. Carole and Joe parted cordially, as always, neither one revealing any hints about Joe's early morning voyeurism. As things turned out, Carole actually hadn't noticed the increased attention from her counterpart, and Joe wisely kept his secret fantasies about Carole to himself. After all, they were both married, and while their spouses knew general details about their relationship, it was simply platonic and there was no reason for anything to develop any further. Once the two of them were off into the city, most of what transpired this morning was forgotten, at least the conversation part in Joe's case. They parted ways at the usual corner, but as he often did, Joe lingered for a moment to watch Carole walk away. Her ass always looked so fine as she sashayed down the sidewalk. Joe could never be sure if it was her heels that made her walk in such a fashion, or if such a sexy walk came naturally to her. In any event, he enjoyed his final view of her as she disappeared into the crowd and he turned and made his way to his office. Such was the way of their friendship, each of them keeping the other as a way to alleviate boredom in the mornings and nothing more.

Joe didn't give much more conscious thought to Carole during the day, but as the hours ticked on by he found he had other concerns. The weather had steadily worsened during the day, and snow was falling in the city way in advance of any predictions. Thoughts of how difficult the drive home might become preoccupied him until it was finally time to leave for home. Joe knew he had a long, hard road ahead of him, and he trudged down the street to the train station wondering just how nasty the night would become. Along the way he ran into Carole, and the two made their way to the station together. Both worried about how they'd do after getting back to the suburban station, Joe especially for his car wasn't designed to handle such rough weather. In a gracious move, Carole offered to go out of her way to drive Joe home if need be, and while he openly dismissed the idea, Joe was grateful that he'd have an alternate method of getting home. They would have plenty of time to discuss this, however, for the train ride home took over twice as long as it should have. The farther away they got from the city, the worse it seemed outside, and when the two weary travelers finally reached their destination, they found the parking lot completely buried in white powder.

The sight of all those cars buried was quite depressing to Joe and Carole as they stepped off the train. Digging out Joe's car would have been a futile exercise and they both knew it. Clutching their coats tightly, the couple headed to the mound of snow that hid Carole's truck from view. The fact that the statuesque blonde drove an equally impressive Dodge Ram helped them out tremendously. While they would still have to fight their way through the knee deep snow and waist high drifts, they both knew that Carole's vehicle could still handle most of what lay before them. Even so, it took them both several minutes to clear off enough of Carole's windows and hood so that they could get going, and by that time they were both cold and soaked. At least Carole had the forethought to pry one of the doors open and start the engine so that her truck would heat up a little quicker. As Carole and Joe settled in, they tossed their work bags and sodden overcoats in the back of the extended cab, glad to be rid of those burdens. They shivered as they waited for the truck's heater to kick in, rubbing and shaking their hands in front of the vents. Carole took this opportunity to peel off her wet stockings, one by one. 

This did not escape Joe's attention, and he stared in disbelief as she peeled the nylon hose off. Perhaps she didn't mean to do it so sensuously, but there was no denying how sexy her bare legs looked as she rolled her stockings down and finally tugged them off. Once she was finished with the first one, Carole got to work on the other, hooking her fingers beneath the elastic that held them snug against her thighs. Her skirt was hiked up even more than it had been earlier that morning, and for the first time Carole noticed Joe's attention. He saw this and tried to apologize, but to no avail. She laughed at his apparent embarrassment, and to show that there was no harm done Carole peeled the second stocking off more provocatively than she had the first. In doing so, she failed to be discreet about her skirt, and while she thought Joe's attention was focused on her legs, his gaze was in fact resting on her crotch. He never expected to get such a close up look at her white satin panties, and for a moment he thought he could see the wisp of her faint pussy hairs peeking out from beneath them, but he couldn't be sure. Before he was caught looking again, Joe reluctantly returned his attention to Carole's shapely calf, which she had just bared before him. The bright colors of her dolphin tattoo flashed out from beneath the stocking as Carole finally removed it and settled herself back in her seat. "Show's over," she announced with a wink and a giggle. That prompted a smiling Joe turned to reach his shoulder harness. In doing so, he failed to notice the quick kiss blown to him from a pair of hot pink lips.

Carole returned her attention to the task at hand, which was somehow maneuvering her way out of the parking lot. The unplowed snow didn't make life any easier for her, but her mind was wandering. She had actually enjoyed the attention Joe had been giving her during her impromptu little strip tease, and she smiled to herself as she glanced out the window to see if her way was clear. With Joe unable to see, Carole ran her tongue along her lips, moistening them ever so slightly, and giving them a slight sheen. She had never done anything remotely like that before, at least not for someone she considered to be a friend and not a lover, but it had definitely given her a thrill. So much of one, in fact, that Carole failed to notice that she'd neglected to pull down and smooth out her skirt. This didn't escape Joe's watchful eye, and he found himself casting quick glances at the white triangle of satin barely visible between Carole's gorgeous thighs. She had to keep her legs moving as she alternated between the accelerator and brake, and the rubbing motion only added to the wetness she could detect between her legs. This was slowly creeping into her thoughts as she brought the truck onto the snow covered interstate ramp, and she nearly missed the uniformed man waving her down.

Amazingly, Carole was able to bring her Ram to a halt without skidding, and the dark figure stomped through the drifted snow to the driver's side window. Carole rolled it down with a puzzled look on her face and listened to the man's instructions.

The state trooper leaned in close, trying to steal some of the heat emanating from the truck's cab. "I'm sorry folks," he began, "but the governor's declared a state of emergency due to the weather. Highway's closed to everyone except emergency vehicles. You'll have to turn around."

Carole started to protest, "But officer, I've got four wheel drive and I know how to use it. My friend and I," she gestured toward Joe, "really need to get home tonight."

It was to no avail, the trooper interrupted her. "Ma'am, I understand, I really do, but I can't let you onto the highway." He pointed to a distant wreck where lights flashed and a tow truck was trying to pull a vehicle out of a roadside ditch. "Do you see that?" he asked. When Carole nodded in agreement, the weary trooper continued. "That's a National Guard Humvee, and they couldn't handle it. I'm real sorry, I wish I could help you but the highway's closed. You'll have to find another way."

Carole and Joe looked at the distant wreck, each thinking that the guardsmen had to be joyriding to run that four wheel monster off the road, and they shrugged. There would be no convincing this trooper otherwise, and they had no choice but to turn around. They were undaunted, however, for they realized that while the highway was closed, there was a good possibility that they'd be able to get home using back roads. This option would certainly take them a lot longer, but at least they'd be getting somewhere. They each made a quick cell phone call to let their spouses know not to worry, and they headed down the road.

Not really knowing their route well would be the least of their problems. The snow was piled in high drifts along the winding roads they took, and Carole was ever fearful of hitting a hidden car or sliding off the road. Joe helped her by keeping a sharp lookout, but as the time dragged on they knew it was futile. The night was falling fast and they estimated that they weren't even halfway there. Both of them made more calls home to deliver the bad news, and to assure their loved ones that they'd be searching for somewhere to stay the night instead. Joe's wife was somewhat wary of this development, but there was nothing she could do about it. Besides, Joe had spoken of Carole often and that helped defuse the situation. Carole's husband was just glad she wasn't out in the cold alone, and eventually their spouses urged them to find shelter quickly. That was easier said than done, for there was scant little to find on the road they were on. One promising looking motel was already displaying a 'No Vacancy' sign, and another appeared to be deserted. Joe spent quite some time trying to get someone there to answer the door, but in the end they had to press on. They drove on, searching for somewhere that they could spend the night.

By now it was completely dark outside, and the wind was blowing the snow fiercely. Visibility was even worse than it had been earlier that evening, and Carole was afraid that they'd have to spend the night in the truck. Joe hadn't given up hope yet, and he urged his friend to drive on just a little farther, they'd have to run into something eventually. Carole didn't really have any other choice in the matter, and she drove on. As luck would have it, they saw the neon sign of another motel just a short way down the road as they rounded a curve. That got them both very excited, for their lengthy trek was about to come to an end. Carole turned the truck into the driveway and up the short hill that the motel was located on, and they both looked to see what they had found.

From the looks of things, the one story building was a little mom and pop type place, it probably had less than a dozen rooms. Most of the parking spaces were full, but Carole was able to find the last available place. Joe hopped out and made his way in, hoping to find someone there. More importantly, he hoped that there was still a room left. The sign did say vacancy, but he was leaving nothing to chance. Fortunately, the office door opened right away, and Joe found himself talking to the proprietor. "Hey there, hell of a storm we're having, isn't it?" asked Joe. The man just nodded, so Joe continued. "Do you happen to have any rooms left?"

The clerk shuffled around a bit, looking at a mostly empty key box. "Got one left," he announced, and gestured toward Carole, who was peering in from the truck outside. "Are you guys interested in the full hour?" he asked with a leer.

Joe was surprised, and taken aback by the question. Under normal circumstances he certainly wouldn't have been opposed to the idea of checking into a motel for an hour with Carole, but the clerk had to be an idiot to think anyone would be arranging a quickie rendezvous with the weather outside the way it was. Joe figured that the guy was fucking stupid or just plain soft in the head. He turned to the clerk and asked "How about the whole night? You know, eight full hours?"

"Yeah, we can do that," answered the clerk as he tossed over the room key and a stack of forms. Joe filled them out quickly, then handed the papers back. He watched the clerk file them away and dismiss him with a wave of his hand.

With a triumphant smile on his face, Joe went out to tell Carole the good news. She was elated that they had finally found somewhere to stay and she got down out of the truck. Along the way, Joe got a hot view of her panties up her skirt, and this lasted for a moment as Carole grabbed a bag out of the back seat. Once she had it in hand, they headed down the snow covered sidewalk and found their room. A quick turn of the key and they were inside. Joe stepped into the middle of the room as Carole found the light switch and closed the door behind her.

The room was pretty basic, as they had expected. Besides the usual motel grade dresser and table, there were a couple of well worn chairs and a queen sized bed. While all of the furnishings looked like they'd been around, a quick glance at the bed revealed that the comforter and sheets were relatively new. That was refreshing in and of itself, because of this Carole and Joe considered themselves lucky. The wall mounted heater seemed to be working well too, and they huddled in front of it to try and relieve the chill. Joe rubbed his hands together over the vent, finally feeling the tips of his fingers again. He looked over at the solitary bed, then over at Carole. "Well, I'll take the floor if you don't mind," he offered.


Homeward Bound



"Nonsense," she laughed. "We're in this mess together, I think you can trust me for just one night."

That drew a laugh from Joe. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Sure won't be that comfortable sleeping in our work clothes though."

"Nah, I've got that covered," answered Carole. She unzipped the bag she'd brought in. As Joe watched, Carole produced a slightly oversized white T-shirt and a pair of grey sweat pants. "These are my workout clothes, don't worry, they're clean," she explained. "Sometimes I go to the gym after work, so I keep 'em with me in the truck. I guess they can double as pajamas for one night."

"Well, it's better than nothing," agreed Joe as he took the sweat pants. "You get the tops, and I'll take the bottoms." That drew a quizzical look from Carole. "Well, unless you prefer the bottoms, in which case I'll..."

"No, that's fine silly," she giggled, and pushed the sweat pants back at him. "Here, now if you don't mind, I'm going to freshen up a bit before bed. With that, Carole went into the tiny bathroom, leaving Joe to his own devices. Apparently Carole wasn't wasting any time, for Joe could already hear the water running in the shower. While she was in there, he looked over the sweat pants, guessing that Carole liked to wear hers roomy. Nevertheless, it was somewhat of a tight fit for Joe as he pulled them on, smiling as he thought about finally getting into Carole's pants. Once he had them on, he crawled under the covers of the bed and flipped on the television.

There really wasn't all that much to watch, the owners of this place knew that their guests certainly wouldn't be watching TV, and all the stations had news coverage on the sudden storm. He was only half paying attention, and had nearly drifted off to sleep when Carole walked in. 

She had just stepped out of the shower, and her luxurious blonde hair was still a titch wet. It hung down past her shoulders and onto the front of her shirt, which was rapidly dampening from the contact. Beneath the translucent cotton, Joe was sure he could see the dark shape of Carole's breasts peeking out. Not wanting to stare, he looked further down, to where the shirt ended, a few inches below Carole's waist. Despite this, he could still make out the flash of satin panties that had captivated him before. She made a show of scrubbing her hair dry with a towel, then turned to hang her work clothes in the meager closet. With her back turned, Carole afforded Joe a perfect opportunity to check out her ass, and he took full advantage of it. Her T-shirt hid most of her buns, but a slice of her panties could be seen just beneath where the shirt ended. Furthermore, when Carole stood on her toes to reach a top shelf, her shirt rode up, giving Joe quite and eyeful of her form fitting panties. He somehow managed to look away before she turned and caught him, and before he knew it, she was climbing into bed with him. There was no way to avoid looking at her while she did, and the ever observant Joe got an eyeful of her breasts through the drooping neckline of Carole's shirt. "Have a good shower?" he asked as he slid over to give Carole more room.

"Oh, just great, just what I needed after all we've been through," came her reply. Carole slid her long legs under the covers and pulled them up to her stomach as she sat with her back against the headboard. Joe was laying on his side, looking up at her. "You can have some more room," she offered. "I don't bite." That was delivered with a smile.

"Are you sure I can trust you?" replied Joe with a laugh as he sat up in bed as close to Carole as he dared. "You know, it's a good thing you wear these sweat pants a few sizes too big, or I'd never have gotten into them."

"Well, I do like them roomy," explained Carole. "Besides, I don't really need to be giving a show when I'm working out." Joe agreed that she had a valid point, and for a while they continued the same idle chatter that had filled the time that evening in the truck. Eventually, they both grew tired and Carole reached over to switch off the lights. As she settled down in the bed, her ass brushed against Joe's hand.

"Oh!" she said with a start, and Joe hurriedly pulled his hand back while mumbling an apology. "Oh, that's all right," cooed Carole as she snuggled into her pillow. With exaggerated motions, she rubbed her buns up against Joe. He recoiled a bit in surprise at first, but when she kept pressing against him, Joe relented, not that he had any complaints. The giggles that it drew from Carole told him that all was in good fun, and he decided to play along. He moved a hand into position, allowing it to conform to the curve of Carole's rump. A gentle squeeze got her giggling even more, and told Joe just how firm his friend really was. This friendly play was getting things firm for Joe as well, and in an unguarded moment, Carole pressed herself squarely onto his hardening cock.

Her eyes shot wide open as she felt Joe's hardness pressing against her. Up until now they'd been enjoying some relatively harmless stuff, and while it did excite her, she had no idea what it had been doing to Joe. Still, he was continuing to play along with her, and Carole wondered how exactly to proceed. Even though Joe was wearing her sweat pants, the feel of his stiff cock grinding into Carole's ass was unmistakable. A part of her wanted him to continue, but she shook off the idea. As much as her body told her otherwise, Carole started to pull away from Joe, just a little at first. Much as she guessed he would, Joe edged forward as she did, keeping his body in contact with hers in a classic spooning position. His hands were creeping around her waist, fingers toying with the elastic of Carole's panties. "Mmm, Joe, " she giggled. "If you want to do something with your hands, I sure could use a back rub."

"A back rub? Sure." Joe moved his hands along Carole's back, sliding them under her T-shirt until he reached her shoulders. Along the way he allowed his fingers to dabble with her bra clasp, but he didn't open it. Within moments, Joe's strong fingers were massaging and kneading Carole's upper back and shoulders, and she was purring contentedly. That didn't stop Joe from rubbing up against her, but his massage was so good that Carole didn't care. In fact, as Joe worked his hands all over her back, she found herself grinding into him once again. It was as if Joe had a magical touch as he let his hands wander all over Carole's back. Much as feeling his crotch pressed against her ass excited her, Joe's hands melted her into the bed. Before long, Joe was freely roaming Carole's body between her shoulders and her waist. She had long since twisted onto her belly, leaving Joe with a clear view of her gorgeous buns. So close and yet so far. He was careful to avoid her ass, no matter how much it beckoned to him from within her satin panties, but as the massage progressed, Joe did move onto Carole's legs.

When his hands first made the transition below Carole's waist, Joe hesitated for a moment to gauge her reaction. She didn't have one, except a contented sigh and a wiggle that could be signaling something more. Despite that, Joe continued, using one hand on each of Carole's gorgeously shaped thighs, while being careful not to stray too close to her crotch. They were smooth and soft, yet firm to the touch, evidence of Carole's work out sessions. Joe found himself bending down lower over Carole as he massaged her thighs, finding himself tantalizingly close to her satin panties. The outline of her ass was clearly visible to him, and they were bunched up a bit between her cheeks, exposing even more of her curves to his view. In an amazing display of self control, Joe kept his hands well clear, concentrating his efforts instead on Carole's legs. He steadily worked his way down and around her thighs and down to her calves. Just as Joe had found Carole's thighs, her calves were equally impressive, well toned yet luxurious to the touch. She responded well to his touch here also, slightly spreading her legs so that he could give his full attention to each side. Muscles that had been tensed up from the day's hassles were now completely relaxed, and Carole along with them. She felt Joe's hands working their way down towards her ankles, and she kicked her legs up to improve his position even more. When Joe had worked all the kinks out of Carole's lower legs, he gave her a full rubdown from her ankles to her butt, then ran his hands down again. He took hold of Carole's feet, and started to rub, which was answered by Carole's now familiar sigh of contentment. What he didn't expect was Carole to turn and look at him over her shoulder before asking "Would it be easier to do that if I was laying on my back?"

Joe nodded in assent, and Carole quickly rolled onto her back. She held a leg high for Joe to grab on to, and he gently brought it down into his lap. There he used both hands to rub her foot, paying close attention to the soles of her feet and her toes. Just as her legs were, Carole's feet were soft to the touch, and a casual glance told Joe that her nail polish was a perfect match to the pink lipstick she preferred. Carole brought her other foot to rest in Joe's lap as well, and she could feel his hard cock rubbing against her. This time though, she started rubbing back. Joe felt her deft toes sliding carelessly over the shaft of his cock, and he knew she was open for more. He made his next move gradually, bringing the foot he was massaging up higher on his chest. That caused Carole to spread her legs apart, giving Joe a look at the tight crotch of her panties. There was no mistaking the little indentation where they were gathered just inside her pussy, and she made no effort to conceal herself. Indeed, her T-shirt had bunched up above her waist, exposing most of Carole's flat tummy too. While the view was very stimulating to Joe, Carole's use of her foot against his cock spurred him on even more, and without waiting for any further invitation, Joe threw caution to the wind.

Looking closely at the leg he was supporting, Joe noticed it was the one Carole had tattooed. He drew it near to his lips and kissed her on the ankle, eyes locked on hers to judge her reaction. All he got was a wide eyed look, but those eyes closed to slits as Carole surrendered herself to the exotic feeling of Joe's mouth enveloping her toes. His tongue weaved its way between them as he sucked gently on her foot, lavishing it with attention. Carole's skin felt so soft and sexy against his lips and tongue, and her contented sighs filled Joe's ears as he continued. With his hands supporting Carole's leg, Joe slowly worked his mouth onto her ankles first, bathing her tattoo with tender kisses. Her sexy calves were next, and Carole allowed Joe to spread her legs farther apart as he made his way toward her thighs. Once he was there, Joe paused again, giving Carole plenty of opportunity to stop him if she'd thought that things had gone too far, but she did no such thing. In fact, she spread her legs even more for him, practically exposing her crotch to him as he inched his mouth down her shapely thigh towards her sweet nectar. Carole's breath was all he heard as his lips caressed her satin panties. Joe glanced up at her quickly, finding that her hands were slowly making their way to her breasts when he planted a soft, gentle kiss on her panties, right over where her clit should be.

"Oh!" gasped Carole softly as she felt his hot mouth finally daring to explore her body fully. "Mmm," she continued as her hands slipped beneath her T-shirt to find her waiting breasts. A shift in her body weight parted Carole's legs even more, sending Joe all the message he would need. He brought his fingers to the edge of Carole's panties, all while planting a few more kisses onto her through the satin. From those, Joe could almost taste Carole's sweet honey, and his fingers pushed the confining fabric aside so that he would no longer have to imagine with his next kiss. His eyes led him where he wanted to go, and although his fingers knew Carole was quite wet and excited when they brushed against her, the glistening folds of her pussy awaited Joe as he brought his mouth down onto her.

It was a moment that they had both eagerly anticipated, and neither wanted to hurry it along. With very deliberate motions, Joe's lips finally touched Carole's, and his tongue darted out tentatively for a taste. The low moan she uttered spoke volumes to Joe, and he did not dare separate his lips from her pussy. Instead, Joe started working his tongue on her in long, licking motions. For brief instants, he'd allow himself to slide his tongue between Carole's swollen lips or let the tip dance over her clit before he'd start licking again. All the while Joe savored the taste of Carole's pussy and he listened to the tone of her responses. He paused briefly to catch her eye, and was in no way surprised to see that her T-shirt was pulled all the way up and Carole was caressing her own breasts while he licked her. Joe knew that some of her moaning had to be derived from that as he saw her fingers tugging on a hard nipple before he returned to the task at hand. By now Carole's panties had slipped back into place and Joe pushed them aside again. In doing so, he exposed some of the dark tufts of her pussy hair, but that wasn't what drew him back down. Joe's lips parted as he kissed Carole's pussy again, pressing his mouth onto her firmly as he forced his tongue into her and started to suck.

Carole's hands closed tightly around her breasts when she felt Joe's hot mouth sucking on her pussy. She squeezed them tight together before allowing her fingers to return to her hard nipples. Even as she tweaked and plucked them, Joe's mouth was ravaging her cunt. She could feel his tongue all over her as he sucked, and there didn't seem to be an end in sight. His tongue was beating over her clit and stroking her wet pussy lips, driving Carole absolutely wild. Joe was trying to use his fingers to hold Carole's pussy open at the same time he was trying to keep her panties out of his way. The more he sucked on her pussy however, the less effective this was becoming. Daring to pause one more time, Joe hurriedly pulled Carole's panties down to her ankles, and she promptly kicked them off. During that time, Carole took advantage of the opportunity to shed her T-shirt as well. As soon as that was done, she reclined back on the bed, spreading her legs wide and pulling Joe's head back down to her cunt.

It wasn't as if Joe needed any further encouragement, he was drawn to the sweet taste of Carole's spread pussy. For the first time her neatly trimmed bush could be seen, and already some of Carole's dark pussy hairs were matted down. Although they were perhaps a shade darker than the rest of Carole's hair, Joe was well beyond caring. With a delicate touch his fingers were there, gently spreading Carole's pussy as he dipped his tongue inside her once again. This was now familiar territory for Joe, and he let his tongue explore all over Carole's pussy. He savored the taste of her juices on his tongue, craving more and more. With all that Joe was doing to her, Carole was thrashing about on the bed, enraptured by his skilled tongue touching her most sensitive spots. Her breathy moans were growing even more excited as she somehow managed to keep her legs spread for him. Those moans suddenly erupted into a gasp as she felt one of Joe's fingers gently probing her cunt. His finger slid in quite easily, so wet was Carole's pussy. At about the same time, Joe focused his mouth onto her clit, teasing gently with his tongue. Carole seemed to be quite satisfied by this turn of events, and Joe steadily increased his pace. One finger slipping inside her pussy was soon joined by another, then yet a third. His gentle licks and kisses on her clit grew more forceful, and he even dared rake his teeth lightly over her. With the passage of time, Carole's orations grew louder and louder, and the movements of her body telegraphed just how hot Joe was making her. He could sense this as he ravished her, and it was no surprise at all when Carole screamed out, her body shaken by waves of pure ecstasy as she came. Her thighs squeezed together, trapping Joe between her legs and her hands clasped involuntarily on her breasts. This only caused Joe to lick and suck her even harder, pressing himself downward onto her until her screams subsided.

Carole lay back on the bed, panting as she tried to catch her breath. Joe had certainly done a number on her, and she knew he was far from finished. The now familiar feeling of his mouth and tongue caressing her vagina dissipated, and Carole felt his fingers sliding out of her pussy at last. Upon feeling that she let out a whimper, but knew there was more to come. A quick look down at a smiling Joe revealed an obvious bulge in his sweat pants as he climbed up between her legs. He brushed against her legs as he did, and without needing any prodding from Carole, Joe was already sliding her sweats off of him. She licked her lips when she saw the stiff cock that she had only been able to feel through his pants until now. Hurriedly, Carole spread her legs even farther as Joe crept up on her. It seemed to take him forever, but in reality it didn't take Joe all that long to position himself on top of her. They made skin on skin contact, feeding off of each other's body heat as he took her in his arms and angled his body just right. The head of Joe's cock traced a path down Carole's trim little bush and over the waiting lips of her pussy before he eased himself inside her. Together they gasped while Joe's cock slid in deep, burying itself inside Carole's waiting pussy.

For a moment, Joe let his cock linger inside her while they both savored the sensation. Carole's pussy was very, very wet from everything Joe had done to her earlier, and his cock was finally getting what he wanted. Even though Carole was well lubricated to take him in, she was still a tight squeeze around his cock. Her hot, wet pussy grabbed at Joe's cock as he pulled himself out, then slowly eased his way back inside again. That drew another moan from Carole, and Joe continued with these long, slow strokes into her pussy. She had her arms wrapped around his body as he thrust into her, and her lips nearly touched his ear as she moaned out her delight to him. Joe's own breath was heavy as he raised his hips again before thrusting into her a little harder this time. That drew a sharp little gasp from Carole, and Joe could tell it was what she wanted. He continued to fuck her like that, rising up slowly each time, then driving his cock deep inside her with a little more force each time. She kept her legs spread wide for him, taking his cock inside her cunt as deeply as she could. Her breath was coming rapidly now, as was Joe's. Carole's gasps soon became mixed in with her moans, spurring Joe on even more. He started thrusting even harder now, jiggling Carole's breasts each time he rammed his cock into her cunt. These hard thrusts made Carole pull her legs as far back as she could, opening her body up for Joe to take. Her slick juices coated the shaft of his dick as it pumped in and out of Carole over and over again. Joe's expert thrusts had him nearly pulling all the way out before thrusting back in as he fucked Carole's waiting pussy. She had been dying to feel his cock filling her up ever since he started licking her, and it was of no surprise that she found herself begging him for it.

"Oh! Oh, God!" she cried. "Fuck me, Joe,! Fuck me!" continued Carole as Joe fucked her harder and harder. Her hot pussy squeezed tight against his cock as Carole moaned and begged him to cum for her. "Cum for me Joe, cum for me! Fill my hot pussy with your cum!" He picked himself up off of her a little, supporting himself with his arms as he gazed into Carole's eyes. She licked her lips seductively before closing them, giving in to the utmost desires of her body. Joe too was succumbing to the reality of the situation, for his rapid thrusts into Carole's pussy had to give way to something. His own gasps echoed through the darkened room as he pounded home his cock one last time, forcing his way deep into Carole's cunt before he finally exploded.




Homeward Bound



Thick gobs of Joe's steaming hot cum poured into Carole's pussy. His cock jerked as his muscle contractions forced his load out, shooting it deep inside that hot little fuck hole. Unlike before, Joe kept his cock pressed all the way inside Carole as he came, ensuring that every last drop filled her cunt. Her pussy squeezed tight against him, milking his cock for all the cum his balls could give, and he collapsed breathlessly onto the bed with her. She turned her head to meet his, and they shared a tender, passionate kiss. Gradually, Joe's cock softened up enough that it slipped out of Carole's well used cunt, followed by a thin white stream of his cum dripping out of her pussy. It coated her lips and spread onto the sheets, but they didn't care. Carole and Joe held each other close, snuggling together under the blankets. She even went so far as to wrap her shapely legs around Joe, holding him close. There they would lay in each other's arms all night long.

Joe awoke early the next morning. Despite being under a warm blanket and fluffy comforter, he was cold. Groggily, he swept a hand to his side, feeling only empty space where Carole had once lay. Her soft giggle attracted his attention, and he looked down at her through sleep slitted eyes to see what had woken him up in the first place. Carole was laying across the bed, and it was obvious that she'd been up awhile. Unlike the previous evening, when she'd made love to Joe with wet, disheveled hair and no make up, she was as well maintained this morning as Joe was accustomed to. The difference, of course, was that the smiling blonde was clad only in her white satin panties from the night before. She had been watching Joe sleep for a few minutes this morning before pulling the covers away from him and starting a very sexy wake up call. As soon as Joe had stirred, Carole paused for a moment, just to make sure she had his attention, and when he cast his eyes in her direction, she started again.

With an elegantly gentle touch, Carole took Joe's cock in her hands and guided the tip to her mouth. He was already starting to get hard, such was the effect of her previous efforts. Carole's soft lips gave way to Joe's growing shaft and soon his cock was slipping inside her hot, wet mouth. Her full lips were now wearing the familiar hot pink lipstick Joe had seen so often before, and the sight of her pretty face with his cock sliding into her mouth drew Joe's attention away from Carole's ass. It was only natural that the flash of form fitting white satin had been Joe's initial focus, and Carole had even been wiggling her butt a little for him, but nothing could possibly distract Joe from the blow job she was giving him. Joe was fully awake now, as his stiff cock could attest to, and Carole was just starting to bob her pretty head up and down on him. Her fingers were wrapped around the base of his shaft while she used her lips and tongue to tease Joe's cock. She was sucking him gently, and she kept her eyes on his. Joe found himself looking deep into those lovely hazel orbs, and he smiled lovingly at her. Carole used that as a signal he was enjoying this, and she started sucking him even harder. Her hand slid out of the way as she sucked down on Joe's cock, and it followed the movement of her mouth as she brought it back to the tip. There she paused, stroking his cock with her hand while teasing his head with a soft combination of her lips and tongue. Joe groaned out loud on feeling this, and he shifted his body in an effort to thrust his cock deep into Carole's mouth. He was ultimately unsuccessful in this, and a gently nudge from Carole got him to lay back down on the bed and enjoy. Watching the hot blonde sucking his cock was almost as erotic as feeling her mouth all over him, and Joe gave in to her unspoken wishes. His eyes followed her hot pink lips as they wrapped themselves around him again and slowly slid down until they were at the base of his shaft again. When Carole started teasing him again, he followed the wiggling motions of her ass while enjoying all that her mouth could do for him. Those long sexy legs that he'd always admired were stretched out on the bed, highlighted very nicely by her tight fitting panties. Carole was laying on her belly, with her legs bent at the knees, and her ankles were crossed. Joe spied her tattoo again, and just as he was savoring the sexy vision in front of him, Carole started sucking even harder. Once again his attention was drawn back to his cock, and Joe watched as Carole brought his head out of her mouth and onto her lips before she started stroking him with her hand.

Her grip on his cock was tight, but not painfully so, and Carole made sure Joe's head was constantly in contact with her lips and tongue as she stroked him. Even though it was the morning after, she could still detect the taste of her own pussy juices and his cum as she licked his cock, stroking it into her mouth while sucking on it slightly. Joe was very aroused by all of this, and Carole could already savor the sweet taste of his pre-cum as the sticky fluid coated her lips. She brought her mouth back down on him again, but kept stroking as she heard his soft moans urging her on. That got her to take his cock out of her mouth again, this time to spit a little, letting her saliva flow over and coat his cock. Joe felt this, and it seemed like she was drooling over his cock as she spit as much as she could onto him. When she was satisfied that he would be lubricated well enough, Carole brought her mouth onto Joe once again. This time there would be no pause, Carole wanted it all from him. Her hand pumped his cock into her mouth, or at least a little, for she was only allowing the swollen head to penetrate beyond her lips. She made up for this with expert use of her tongue, letting it explore the upper shaft of Joe's cock while she stroked him harder and harder. Her saliva made an excellent lube, and Carole's quick strokes and succulent mouth soon brought Joe over the edge.

Already during the blow job, Carole had gotten a hint of Joe's cum on her tongue. She got even more of his sweet taste as his pre cum oozed onto her tongue. Carole savored that taste, but with a few sharp strokes of her hand, the best was yet to come. Joe's cock had barely slipped out of her mouth when he came, and only a sudden thrust on his part ensured that his cock was touching her lips at that time. She parted them for his cock, ready to take him in when Joe came, shooting his steaming hot cum over her lips and onto her face. Carole managed to catch some of it in her mouth and on her tongue, but most of Joe's hot cum showered her pretty face. Her hand kept stroking his shaft, pumping his cum out as she turned to catch some on her cheeks, then let the rest dribble down her chin. Creamy white cum was streaked over her pink lips, until she darted her tongue out to lick as much of it off as she could. She savored the taste of Joe's hot cum for a moment, smiling up at him. His cock was slowly starting to soften in her hand, a drop of his cum still stuck to the tip. Carole opened her soft mouth and sucked him in one last time, going all the way down on Joe's cock to suck out every last drop. His hands found the back of her head, guiding her down and making her linger for a second before she pulled away from him. Cum was still splattered all over her face, and Joe watched as Carole used a finger to clean as much off as she could, then sucked all of that down as well. When at last she was finished, she kept the tip of her finger in her mouth for a moment, sucking on it as she gave Joe a smoldering hot look before they got dressed and ready to leave. 

From that look she gave him before they left, Joe had no illusions that Carole wanted things to end here. It was still going to be a long drive to get home, and they'd have plenty of time to figure out when they'd be able to do this again. After all, they'd had such a hot time, it would be a shame if they never got the chance to repeat it. Although it went unspoken, deep down inside both Carole and Joe hoped that they might even be able to convince their spouses to get involved as well. Even if they couldn't, both knew that from now on, those long rides home each night were going to be a lot more interesting. 



Homeward Bound



Dearest Lucy, come to my place on Friday afternoon, you’ll be staying for the whole weekend so cancel any plans. See you soon, James.

Excitement fuelled a giggle as Lucy read the note; she wondered what he could have planned. James had definitely become a powerful man over the last few years and when it came to pleasures of the flesh he was certainly proficient, taking this into consideration his plans could be anything. Within ten minutes she had managed to clear her diary, her friends did not mind being put on hold for a week so it had not been difficult. There was just one problem facing her now, it was only Tuesday.

The days passed quickly and she was soon in a taxi pulling up to James’ house, it was a beautiful home. The heavy oak front door gave the whole place an overwhelming feeling of security, a feeling that was reinforced by the strong locks on all the doors and windows. She paid the taxi driver and made her way up the steps to the door, before she had a chance to knock the door was opened and there was James waiting to greet her, ‘Lucy, my darling, how was your trip over?’ He asked, gesturing for her to enter.

‘It was fine, the traffic wasn’t bad at all so it didn’t take too long,’ she answered as she walked through the hallway. He locked the door behind her, took her coat and bag then escorted her through to the lounge.

‘Well here you are, my prisoner for the whole weekend and what am I going to do with you?’ He said. Lucy looked down at the floor and he continued ‘it’s not as if it matters, though. Throughout your stay you will obey my rules or face the punishments, I’m sure the discipline will do you good.’

They were sitting together on the sofa when James took out a pair of handcuffs, pulled her hands behind her back and snapped the cold steel cuffs around her wrists. ‘You have the run of the house, and may do what ever you wish to unless I say otherwise,’ he said as he removed a large pair of scissors from a drawer and returned to her side. ‘Stand!’ He said. She stood up carefully and deliberately; he slowly cut through her outer garments and threw them into the bin leaving her standing handcuffed wearing only a beautiful set of bottle-green underwear, she was glad that she had chosen them so carefully that morning. He looked at her closely, studying her from head to toe and back again. He removed the clip from her hair and placed it on the coffee table, ‘I prefer your hair down,’ he told her as he watched it fall upon her shoulders. ‘Hmm, there’s still something missing.’ He added as he picked up a jewellery box and opened it, inside was an amazing black leather collar studded with diamonds and with a beautiful ornate buckle. He fastened the collar snugly around her neck, ‘There, that’s perfect. I have a gown for you too, when we are in public you will wear it and I will remove your restraints.’ Lucy nodded in acceptance because she was not capable of refusing him anything, the power that James had over her was immeasurable and her loyalty and obedience to him were limitless, he had tested that many times. 

James pulled a long black silk scarf from beneath the sofa and tied a knot in the middle of it; he pushed the knot into her mouth and tied the scarf securely behind her head. ‘Lay down,’ he said. She carefully sat on the sofa, twisted herself round and lay back. He took a moment to admire her voluptuous body, her hard nipples beneath the lace of her bra, her curvy hips and shapely thighs. He slowly removed her underwear and then his own clothing before kneeling on the floor beside her. He leant forwards and gently squeezed her nipples then took one in his mouth, sucking and nibbling, teasing it with his tongue. He slowly moved his free hand down and slipped it between her thighs, she was so wet and so hot. He slid a finger inside her making her groan, the sound muffled by the gag, as he stimulated her by hand and by mouth. Lucy felt as though her whole body was on fire, as he touched her every single point of contact seemed to burn. Her juices covered his hand; he held it up in front of her face. ‘Would you like a taste?’ he asked, Lucy nodded and her eyes lit up. He laughed and moved his hand to his mouth, licking and sucking his fingers, allowing her nothing.

James lifted her and took her place on the sofa; he helped her to kneel astride him and to keep her balance. Lucy carefully lowered herself onto his hard cock and he reached up to hold her breasts, squeezing them and teasing her nipples. She moaned quietly as he took hold of her hips firmly and pushed up into her; he was thrusting harder and deeper into her. She pushed herself against him rubbing her clitoris against the base of his cock and trying to force him deeper inside her until they both came. They had not seen each other for a few weeks and the relief was obvious as she collapsed against his chest, before long they had both fallen asleep.

They were awoken a few hours later by the telephone, after taking the call James returned his attention to Lucy. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m starving now, I’ll phone and have something delivered then after supper I think you should bathe.’ Lucy only nodded, he had become comfortable with her silence but it seemed such a shame to cover her beautiful mouth so he removed the gag, she gasped and licked her lips. It felt so good to be able to close her mouth and she hoped that it would not be too long before her jaw stopped aching; this was providing that James intended to leave the gag off for a while. It was as though he had read her mind when he said ‘I have removed this so you will be able to eat and I will leave it off, for a short while anyway, but you must realise that if you speak then you will be gagged again immediately. Do you understand?’ She nodded, ‘Excellent,’ he whispered.

In order to make it easier for Lucy to eat, James had cuffed her wrists in front of her and he had decided to leave them there so that he could watch her in the bath as she struggled to clean herself. He ran the bath for her while she cleared up after supper. The bathroom was filled with steam when Lucy got there, he gestured for her to step into the tub. The water was so hot that her skin stung and began to redden as she relaxed back into the bubbles; she found the soap and tried to lather herself but found it very awkward. James laughed as she battled to reach behind her then after a short time he offered to help her and how could she refuse? He soaped her back, her shoulders, her breasts and stomach, as his hands reached down between her legs she zealously parted them allowing him the access he desired. He slid a finger inside her and used his thumb deftly to massage her clitoris. He leant forward and kissed her, pushing his tongue into her mouth, kissing her passionately until she came.

James helped her to step out of the tub and draped a large soft towel around her shoulders before escorting her through to the bedroom. Lucy looked around the room in awe; she thought that rooms like this were only found in stately homes and grand country hotels. The walls were a deep red colour and a fabulous oak four-poster bed dominated the room, the floor-length drapes on the windows and around the bed were gorgeous bottle-green velvet trimmed with gold edges. The navy-blue bed linen blended perfectly with the other deep colours and the dark wooden furniture and floorboards.

Before Lucy could take in anymore of the amazing décor James turned her around, he pushed her backwards onto the bed and climbed on beside her. He slid his hand under a pillow and pulled out a few black silk scarves matching the gag that he pulled out of his pocket. He placed the knot in her mouth and tied the scarf behind her head again, he used another scarf to blindfold her and, after removing the handcuffs, he carefully used the others to tether her wrists and ankles to the posts of the bed. James surveyed his art, which was how he regarded it, the beauty of her body spread-eagled before him, the contrast of her pale skin against the dark fabric. He stood at the foot of the bed admiring her body while she lay there still and silent and vulnerable. 

Unable to move, to speak and even to see, Lucy lay on the bed, she had no idea what James had planned for her. Suddenly, she thought that he might not even be there; he could have just left her there alone. Surely she would have heard him leave, heard the door at least, and what would have been the point of all this if he was just going to leave. Then he spoke. ‘You truly are stunning, Lucy, an absolute vision of beauty.’ The sound of his voice caused all the muscles in her body to tighten and her pulse raced as she awaited his next move.

James leant over her and kissed her stomach, the feel of his lips on her flesh was intense. He continued planting soft kisses all over her body, kisses that occasionally lingered and sometimes became licks or nibbles. He stroked her gently, caressing her slowly and delicately. Her entire body ached for more but she could do nothing about it, her movement was so restricted that when he hit a sensitive spot making her writhe she could feel the silk cutting into her skin. The frustration was building within her and the burning sensation grew between her legs, her clitoris was throbbing with the desire to be touched. He squeezed her breasts and kissed her nipples watching her chest rise and fall as she inhaled deeply then exhaled slowly as if it was taking all her concentration just to remember to breathe.

Lovingly, James ran his hands over her smooth body, caressing her curves and tracing intricate patterns on the blank canvas of her skin. She shuddered at his touch, her muscles flinching as his hand passed over them. He slid a hand between her thighs, taking his time, prolonging her suffering, making her wait for the release her body obviously needed. He was as steady as a rock as he lightly touched her clitoris with just one finger. Lucy’s orgasm was instantaneous and as she came he plunged his finger into her to feel her muscles tighten around it. He pulled away from her and undressed, never removing his gaze from her naked body bound and deprived of sight, she looked exquisite and his self-control was not limitless. He had felt the pressure building but the freedom that he experienced as he unbuttoned his trousers was more than welcome. 

Kneeling between her thighs, James continued to watch her motionless body as she lay there just waiting for him. Without warning he pushed his cock deep into her cunt, Lucy inhaled rapidly as he filled her. He withdrew slowly and thrust deeper into her with both speed and strength, repeatedly with a steady rhythm and increasing intensity. James fucked her hard until he came, biting her shoulder as his seed spurted into her. Only Lucy’s muffled scream could be heard as she was engulfed in orgasm, almost drowning in her own pleasure.

James untied her and removed the blindfold and gag. She looked deep into his eyes and felt her life melting away, everything seemed so trivial and so distant. She held her hands out awaiting the replacement of the cuffs. ‘I think I can trust you not to try to escape,’ he said, ‘and besides, everything is locked up very securely so I don’t think you’d get far.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her head softly.

It was gone two when Lucy finally awoke on Saturday afternoon. Well, she thought, they do say that a little B & D leads to a lot of R & R. She rolled over to see that James had already got up then she noticed the note on the dressing table.

My Darling, you looked so beautiful asleep that I couldn’t bear to wake you. I have to work for a bit this afternoon but I’ll be back about five. Help yourself to whatever you like. James.

Lucy made the most of the three hours she had to herself, she showered and wrapped herself in a large towel before venturing down to the kitchen for something to eat. She fixed herself a sandwich and went through to the lounge to eat it, on the way she paused to peruse the bookshelves and picked out an anthology of short stories to read while she satisfied her hunger and relaxed in her own company.

When James returned he handed her a beautifully wrapped box, she opened it and pulled out a beautiful long wine-red satin gown. ‘Oh, James, it’s fabulous,’ Lucy said.

‘We’re going out for dinner tonight,’ James explained, ‘and this is what I want you to wear, oh, and the collar.’ She assumed from his words that she was not to wear underwear and she had assumed correctly. ‘By the way,’ he continued as he showed her the two silver clasp on the straps of the gown, ‘these are to make sure you behave yourself while we’re out, just one little squeeze and these come apart then the dress will just fall straight to the floor. In a second I can have you naked.’

To Lucy the thought was exhilarating, to be fully clothed yet knowing that at any moment she could be utterly naked and she would have no control over it. The smile on her face and the look in her eyes gave her thoughts away and made her so alluring. He replaced the gown in the box and took hold of her; he held her so tightly and kissed her passionately on the mouth. ‘Well, I think you should go and get ready, I know what you’re like when it comes to doing your hair.’

They took a taxi to the restaurant and enjoyed a lovely meal, the evening was uneventful and despite the fact that Lucy felt a little overdressed and her fear of becoming undressed she enjoyed herself. However, she couldn’t help feeling as though she was being lulled into a false sense of security so she was nervously anticipating what was to come. James had no intention of disrobing her in the restaurant, he was all for public humiliation but he knew that kind of thing was only for certain venues with a specific clientele or for private parties.

James decided that they should walk home through the park as it was still quite warm and he felt that as they had both consumed a fair amount of alcohol, the fresh air would do them good. James took Lucy’s hand as they walked quietly, there didn’t seem to be any need to talk, they were perfectly at ease with each other and able to share a comfortable silence. They watched the Sunset as they strolled along the path and by the time they made it back it was quite dark.

As Lucy stepped through the doorway James decided to prove his earlier point so he released the clasp of her gown, he watched as the burgundy satin dropped to the floor and crumpled at her feet. She just stepped out of the dress and turned to face him; he closed the door behind him and ensured that it was locked, a deliberate display which was purely for her benefit. He led her upstairs to the bedroom and told her to stand at the end of the bed; he took two of the scarves and tied her wrists to the top of the posts. He kissed her softly on the forehead before saying ‘Just think, my treasure, tomorrow you’ll be free to go, but for one more night you’re all mine.’

‘I know,’ she replied with no emotional tone, the excitement of being his was equalled by the sad thought of her leaving. She had missed nothing of her everyday life, she was a bit of loner and her only commitments were her dreary office job and her bed-sit that she laughingly referred to as an apartment. James turned and walked into the bathroom, she heard the shower come on and started to imagine him, covered with bubbles, the steam rising all around. He’s doing this on purpose, she thought, he’s going to come back and check that I’m aroused then punish me for it. One thought of punishment led to another and by the time James returned her arousal was obvious.

‘You look fabulous, all flushed and…’ he paused for a moment before adding, ‘is that a twinkle of guilt in your eyes?’ Lucy looked down at the floor in a futile attempt to avoid his gaze. ‘Avoiding eye contact, another sign of guilt,’ he said as he lifted her head and forced her to meet his stare. He smiled and kissed her before untying her wrists and sitting on the bed beside her. He held her hands firmly behind her and kissed her gently, first on her cheek then slowly down her neck and across her shoulder.

James pushed her backwards and pinned her to the bed, holding her tight he lay on top of her and pushed his body down on hers rendering her powerless. She could not have resisted him even if she had wanted to and her resistance was certainly something that James did not want. He parted her thighs and, with one swift movement, he slipped a finger into her and withdrew it, her wetness was enough to confirm how much she wanted him and how ready she was. ‘I had no real need to do that but I thought I’d better check in case your guilt stemmed from something else,’ he said. ‘So, get on your knees,’ he added Lucy quickly obeyed. He held her hips as he pushed his cock into her slowly and gently; gradually he increased his speed and force. He grabbed a handful of her hair and used it to pull her head down to pillow, he held her there while fucking her hard with no concern or compassion knowing that it would drive her wild. She fought against her approaching climax but she could only hold out for a brief period before her cries could be heard echoing around the room. He continued fucking her, relentlessly forcing his cock into her cunt until he came, flooding her with his spunk and making her come again. He collapsed beside her and she fell asleep in his arms almost immediately.

On Sunday morning Lucy awoke before James, she left him asleep and went downstairs to prepare breakfast. She was disappointed that she had to return to her everyday life today but she was not going to allow today to be ruined. She returned with a tray laden with coffee, orange juice, croissants and various other delicious foods. She placed the tray on the bedside table and knelt beside him, she kissed him lightly on the forehead before pouring the coffee and returning to bed.

‘Do you want to be with me?’ James asked her as they finished their breakfast.

‘Yes, ’ she replied.

‘Stay? Permanently? My possession?’

‘Yes, I’d love to.’

‘Well, we’d better spend today collecting your stuff.’



Homeward Bound



If you are primarily interested in a slam bam thank you Mam type of sex story this one isn't for you. There is plenty of sex as it unfolds but it is also a true story of a great trip I took in a motor coach across the country with a mother and her eighteen-year-old daughter. 

It was going to be a long lonely ride back to California if I couldn't find anyone with whom to share the trip.  I had been touring the East Coast visiting friends and family for the past four months in a 36-foot motor home and decided it was about time to head for home. I own an upscale restaurant in Santa Barbara and although I have been in frequent contact with the couple operating it for me, I wanted to get back. I was then in Harrisburg, Pa. but still had to make short jaunt over to Wilkes Barre, Pa. before heading west. 

During my time in the Harrisburg area I managed to eat in several good restaurants but happened to concentrate on one simply because it had adequate parking for the motor coach. The food was good and the wait staff competent and pleasant. Over the course of the many times I had eaten there I frequently ended up with the same waitress. Marianne was thirty-eight, divorced and had Sue, an eighteen-year-old daughter from her failed marriage. Sue had also had a brief experience with married life. Her husband beat her and she had first got a restraining order against him and the finally divorced him after a year. Marianne had what appeared to be a nice shape but Sue had a drop-dead sweet ass with breasts to match. Marianne and I had gotten to know each other fairly well over the course of a ton of conversations and she seemed to me to be a very level headed woman. Her ex- husband had simply taken off ten years earlier and left the kid with her and they never saw him again! 

A number of times I was eating late and found myself as the last patron of the evening. During those times I invited Marianne to join me for an after dinner coffee just to chat. As her story unfolded it became clear she was having a very difficult time making ends meet with the income she was making as a waitress. 

The waitress staff in my place is very stable. We have never lost one to another restaurant but have lost a few due to family moves. When I left the place four months ago one of our old timers was going to turn in her resignation to move to the East Coast with her husband.

I called my place that night to see if she had done so and mentioned I might, just might, have a replacement for her. 

For my next meal I made certain to get there late in order to talk with Marianne at the end of her shift. I did and told her of my offer.

"Marianne, as I have told you before, my name is Ed, I am 42 but what you don't know is I own and operate a very nice restaurant in California. I have been very impressed by your ability and professionalism and would like to offer you a job at my place." Her eyebrows went up a mile and she blurted,

"How the heck would I do that. I have enough trouble making my next car payment never mind paying for a move to California?" 

"Look, an older couple gave me a helping hand up when I was down and out fifteen years ago and I try to do the same for at least one deserving person every year as sort of a pay back. Here is what I can do. I will transport you and your daughter to California in my motor home and pay for all expenses enroute. When we get there I will let you use a furnished apartment above the office in the building next to the restaurant for 3 months at no rent and let you use the restaurant's car during our off hours during the three months. At the end of the three months you should pretty much be on your way to independence." She was so confused her eyes just rolled around in her head.

Without going through a math exercise of a waitress's earnings, suffice it to say the wait staff in my place earn between $45-50 thousand if they work both lunch and dinner for 5 days. When I mentioned this to Marianne her eyes bugged out. "I would be on easy street if I could earn that much," she stated.

"Look, I know I have sprung this on you without any advance warning and I certainly want you to think it over carefully before accepting it. The last thing I want is to move you out there and get you set up and three months later have you quit to move back here."

"I don't quite know what to say. My daughter should be getting ready for college but her grades weren't good enough for a scholarship and student aid will help but I don't earn enough to even help her a little," she said.

We thrashed this out over the course of the next few hours and covered every base either of us could think of. I told her I was going to make a short trip over to Wilkes Barre and she could think it over while I was away. I gave her my cell phone number if she had any more questions.

She called a couple of times asking if they came with me how much of their stuff could they bring along. I told them the coach had some compartments on the lower level, which could hold all she described. She had been able to get another waitress to give her a few bucks and then take over the payments on her car. Since they were staying in a furnished apartment getting rid of furniture wasn't going to be a problem.  It sounded as if she was going to take me up on it.

I got back to Harrisburg on a Friday afternoon and the coach was loaded with their belongings by late Saturday. We all stayed in the coach that night and took off early Sunday morning. The sleeping arrangements were easy. I had the main bedroom in the rear room. The sofa bed area in the living room area pops out the side of the coach so when the bed is pulled out, it doesn't intrude into the main living compartment. The ladies slept there. It is a 5-minute job to get it all back in shape in the morning. The shower/toilet is midway between the back room and the main living room area and worked reasonably well. With women washing their hair every day I had the feeling I should have had extra fresh water tanks installed if I knew I was going to make a long trip with two women.

I had stocked up the freezer in the coach with a ton of food as well as a cabinet full of dry goods. The liquor cabinet was well stocked and I had put on a couple of cases of different kinds of soft drinks. We were set.

Our route was going to take us through the north central part of the country past Cleveland, near Chicago, Wisconsin, S. Dakota, Wyoming and then through a few of the Parks in that part of our great country. I would be parking the coach in either Tourist Campground types of places or in some of the parks permitting overnight parking.

"Ladies, as I told you before I am not in a big hurry to get there so we are going to take a little bit of a roundabout route. It will be great if you haven't seen much of the country. It is fairly easy to drive across the country in six or seven days but we are going to relax and stretch it to a couple of weeks. Any objections?"

They reacted as if they were embarking on a school holiday. "Go coach," shouted Sue.

The idea of being able to eat and use a toilet without ever stopping thrilled them. The coach only gets about eight miles to the gallon but I had them install an extra fuel tank when I bought it so it now held about 100 gallons. We were good to go across any of the states we would be passing through without having to stop for fuel.

Sue had brought a ton of CD's with her and Marianne and I had to listen to a bunch of them before insisting she put on her earphones and give our ears a break.

Marianne sort of commandeered the co-pilot's seat in the coach and Sue soon laid claim to the easy chair facing the TV in the overhead above the drivers and co-pilots seat. 

The conversations ranged from religion, politics, fashion, movies, art and my favorite, which is travel. I have made at least one overseas trip each year for the past eight and have learned to love Europe even though I don't speak a work of any foreign language. All in all I was pleasantly surprised at how well we got along for not knowing each other for very long. An hour into the trip I asked Marianne a rather telling question, "Marianne, you are a very trusting soul. How do you know I am who I say I am and won't mistreat you and your daughter?"

"Oh hell, that's easy. When you first told me about your offer I thought you were just full of shit and trying to impress me. You will remember I asked you the name of your restaurant. The next day I got the number from Information and called and asked for the owner. I was told the owner was on vacation and wouldn't be back for quite some time. I acted as if I knew you and asked if you had traveled by plane out of Los Angeles. The gal at the other end of the line went into a fit laughing saying ‘Ed, fly, never, he is in his motor coach.' I went on to say I might have the wrong man and described someone totally different than you. She stopped me half way through my description to correct me. The description she gave me of you matched you to a T. So there," she sort of smirked. 

"Damn, you aren't half as dumb as you look" I joked.  She laughed and hit me on the arm. 

Our first day took us from Harrisburg to the shore of Lake Erie just east of Cleveland. My Motor Home guide mentioned a great park along the lake that accepted overnight campers. We were unbelievably lucky in getting a parking spot with the side of the coach facing the lake. I quickly rolled out the awning and dug out a gas grille from one of the lower compartments and three sirloins from the fridge and supper was on its way.

I poured a couple of glasses of wine for Marianne and I but mom didn't want Sue to have any so she wasn't real happy about being treated like a child. With the tank top she wore all day it was obvious she was far from being a child.

It was really nice sitting outside of the coach under the awning having dinner and watching the boats, power and sail, go by on the lake. We ate on paper plates to simplify the clean up and after dinner took a stroll along the lakeside bicycle and walking path. We must have looked like a family to anyone watching. 

When we returned to the coach I went in for another bottle of wine and this time mom allowed Sue to have a small glass. The sight of the sun setting on the lake was breathtaking and we sat there for another hour or so just chatting about a million things. They were both quite excited about what their new life in California would be like and much of the conversation centered around that.  The bottle of wine was finished around 9 PM and I announced I was going to hit the sack. They decided to sit out side and chat awhile.

The next morning I awoke to the smell of coffee brewing and the sound of eggs crackling on the range. "Marianne, perhaps I should have hired you as a cook rather than a waitress." I joked.

"Nope, bacon and eggs are about my limit. You would be out of business in one night with me in the kitchen." She laughingly replied. 

We ate our breakfast, showered and dressed and were ready for the day. I had read something in my travel guide about some of the things to see in and around Cleveland and asked the gals if they would like to spend a day here seeing them. I made another offer that surely might have sweetened the pot; "I also read about a great fish restaurant close to where we are parked where I would be happy to treat us to dinner." 

"I love fresh fish but we are so far from the ocean do you think they will just have lake fish?" asked Sue.

"I don't think so, according to the advertisement they offer lobster and if they do I am sure they will also be offering other types of seafood as well." I replied. 

Well, we spent the day bussing and cabbing around the city seeing the various museums and got back to the coach in mid afternoon with sore feet and tired legs. 

I then announced "I called for reservations and we are good to go for 7:30. They told me it was casual dress and it is only a couple of blocks from her so it will be a nice walk."

"Now Gals, I don't know about you but I am in desperate need of a Scotch on the rocks." I joked. 

Marianne jumped in with "Put some water in mine and make it two." 

Sue responded with "I guess it wouldn't do me any good to ask for one too."

Mom came back with, "Young lady you were lucky I let you have some wine last night. Don't push it. Ed, would you please pour a small wine for the alcohol princess?"  Even Sue laughed at that.

Once again we sat outside of the coach just watching the boats go by and the sun start to get lower in the sky. It wasn't very long before we were all ready for our second drinks and I dug out some cheese and crackers to go with them. 

I had equipped the coach with a small TV that could be plugged in to the side of the coach so we were able to sit out there under the awning watching the evening news while enjoying our drinks. It really was very relaxing.

"Well, I am going to have one more small drink before getting ready to go to dinner. Anyone want to join me?" I asked. The both responded affirmatively.

I did make the Scotch's small and weak and only gave Sue a half glass of wine.

We left for the restaurant right at seven and it was just starting to get dark. About a block into our walk I felt Marianne take my hand … hmmmm.  We continued our walk hand-in-hand right up to the place. Sue looked over and saw it but never said a word.

The restaurant was great. Super menu and a very attentive waiter. Sue got her seafood and they stated on the menu they had it flown in fresh every morning. Whether they did or not it was very good. Another bottle of Chardonnay brightened the glow we already were showing. We enjoyed dessert and an after dinner drink before heading back. 

Once again, it was hand-in- hand but this time I also took Sue's hand and we made quite the cozy threesome.

I opened the coach and the gals almost fought to see who was going to use the toilet first. Sue won and her mom was moaning and groaning for the next several minutes. When the door to the head came open I thought Marianne was going to break the record for the 30 feet dash. Sue came outside with me and asked for another glass of wine. Right about then mom opened the coach door and had heard her and said, "NO WAY, we have had enough to drink! Let's go for a little walk to clear our heads." 

It was a great idea for we were all feeling little or no pain after all the booze we had consumed. Each of the gals took one of my hands and we walked a good half-mile like that along the bike/foot path.  Marianne was leaning her head on my shoulder about the time we were a short ways from the coach and I leaned over and gently kissed the top of her head. She looked up and held her lips for me to give them the same treatment. Which I did but was nervous about going any further since I knew it was the alcohol making her this romantic.

I was trying not to lose sight of the fact she was going to be my employee when we got to the West Coast. Sue walked ahead of us as if to give us some privacy. Marianne then turned to me and put her arms around my neck and pulled me to her. I dropped my lips to hers and we embraced for quite some time. I finally pulled away and took her by the hand to continue our walk back to the coach. I hit the sack just a few minutes after using the toilet and brushing my teeth. I could hear the gals talking out in the living room area for quite some time afterwards but couldn't make out anything they were saying.

I was up early and showered and dressed while the gals were still asleep. It was my turn to make the coffee, bacon and eggs.  When I turned to get the eggs out of the fridge my eyes fell to the double bed the gals were on. Sue was tossing and turning a bit and her long T-shirt she obviously used as a nightgown was bunched up to her waist. She had on panties and the pubic hair was clearly visible sticking down from the sides. She wasn't wearing a bra and her nipples were on view through the T-shirt. Damn, she looked good.

Marianne had a much more voluptuous figure with breasts that looked to be at least 34 C's. She had obviously spent some time in the gym for it looked as if her muscles were well toned. I couldn't keep staring at them or the breakfast would be ruined and I would have been embarrassed to tears if they both caught me looking at them. I started to make a lot of noise and they quickly awakened and grabbed robes with which to cover themselves. 

"Ladies, rise and shine. Breakfast is on and I want to get rolling early this morning. We are heading for Chicago today." 

They both grumbled and made their way one at a time into the bathroom. They could take their showers while I was cleaning up the site and getting the coach ready for the trip.  I wanted to make sure to fill our water tanks before leaving and discharging our gray water into the ground receptacle. We enjoyed our bacon and eggs and I made a note to try waffles or something different for the next morning.

"Ed, do you think it would be possible for me to drive this thing?" asked Marianne.

"Well, I might be talked into letting you try it on the open highway but I don't think I want to gamble on you trying it around town." I offered.

"OK, I won't say another word until we hit the Interstate." She promised.

Sure enough, I hadn't even pulled down the on ramp to the Interstate and she was bugging me about it being her turn. I pulled over on the shoulder and had her sit in the driver's seat and familiarized her with the controls, mirrors etc. As she was moving past me to get into the driver's seat she brushed those lovely breasts hard against me and then she looked up into my eyes and just smiled. Promises of things to come!!

I watched her handle the coach for a while and she was doing fine. We had a long ways to go before the next Interstate so I went back to the main part of the coach, taking the seat that backed to Marianne's, while facing Sue, so we could talk while her mom drove

Sue turned up the TV a bit so mom wouldn't be able to hear our conversation and then blurted out, "I saw you and mom getting a little friendly last night. Are you going to try and take her to bed as part of giving her the job?" 

"Damnit, that is simply not the case. Your mom and I are just friends. Nothing more." I blurted back, caught off guard by her question! 

"Well, if you aren't going to fuck her, how about me?" She asked nonchalantly. 

"Oh shit" my thoughts screamed as my cock twitched uncontrollably at what I could see lay ahead. I would be fucking both of them before the trip was over! 

After catching my breath I tried to answer with some sense of control, "Is that what you would like?" 

She answered something to the effect that it was going to be a long ride and we might as well make it interesting.

My thoughts were again racing.... What would Marianne think of me fucking her daughter? Would she be jealous? That's all I need is to be confined with two pissed-off females for the next 3000 miles!

Marianne was completely engrossed in handling her new found toy called a motor coach and wouldn't be coming back to see what was going on in the back any time soon. 

Obviously Sue realized this and bolted off her chair and onto her knees between my legs! Shamelessly she reached up into my lap, groped with my zipper and had my cock out before I knew what was happening! My dick was completely soft but with her young tender hands caressing it, it soon came to life! She was working her talented fingers up and down my growing rod, tracing each of the swelling veins until she had me hard as steel. 

In one sudden move she leaned forward and took me into her mouth and was soon pumping away.  Damn, I knew I was going to explode but I was nervous as hell her mom would see what was going on. I was glad no one was there to take my blood pressure or heart rate….they would have called EMS. Sue looked up at me with a devilish look in her eyes and started to play with my balls. That was it. I pulsed a long stream of cum down her lovely throat while she was staring up at me with those warm blue eyes of hers.  As soon as I stopped cumming and she had licked me off she held up her hand with her palm facing me motioning me to stay where I was. She got up and reached above the sink and grabbed a few paper towels and handed them to me to wipe off.  It was undoubtedly the fastest blowjob I ever had but also the most unexpected. Geez, this gal has been around the block a few times. I couldn't wait to get my cock in her pussy.




Homeward Bound



"Ed, how am I doing?" came from the front of the coach.

"Marianne, you are doing just great. A born bus driver." I joked. 

Sue just laughed and made a move to go up and get into the co-pilots seat. As she passed me I reached between her legs under her shorts and my fingers quickly found her puffy pussy lips. She was soaked and let out a little moan as she felt what I was doing. She turned to me and mouthed "LATER" 

Marianne asked, "What's the matter Sue?" when she heard the moan.

"Oh nothing mom, I just hit my shin on this table leg." The gal isn't only as hot as a pistol but she a quick thinker as well.

Marianne drove for a couple of hours and I suggested she pull over into the next rest area so we could all get out and stretch our legs. One of them could then make some sandwiches for our lunch and we would get back on the road.

Sue made the sandwiches and put on a pot of soup to accompany them. After lunch we did get out and walk around the rest area a bit. Sitting in any kind of vehicle for over a couple of hours tightens me up a lot.

When it was time to get back on the road Sue came out with the expected, "Can I drive now?" 

She was met with a chorus of "NO's" from her mother and I. She pouted for a while but got over it as soon as she popped a DVD in the player and was soon engrossed in one of the latest movies. Marianne jumped into the co-pilots seat and we were off.

We could hear the movie playing so loudly Marianne asked Sue to plug in the earphones so it wouldn't annoy us so much, which she did. I then discovered the noise of the DVD wasn't Marianne's reason for the earphones. 

"I couldn't help but see in the mirror what was going on between you and Sue while I was driving," 

Oh shit, I was afraid of that. I didn't say anything and she continued with, 

"When do I get my turn?" she said with a leer.

"Marianne, Sue seemed to think I was going to take you to bed as a payment for me giving you the job and there isn't anything further from the truth. What happened between her and I was a spur of the moment thing and had no lasting meaning."  

"Ed, I don't really care about you and Sue. She has been going her own way sexually ever since her divorce.  But I do know I have been interested in you sexually from the first time I waited on you in the Harrisburg restaurant. I knew when I accepted your offer of the job and relocation we would be in this coach for over a week and I would be looking for any opportunity to fuck you. I have been divorced for over 5 years and haven't had ANY sex in all of that time."

Well now, here was a turn of events with all kinds of possibilities I hadn't counted on.

"Marianne, I would love to have you in my bed but I am not sure just how to arrange that without letting Sue know what was going on," I replied.

"Leave it to me," was all she said.

The drive to Chicago went great. We did stop for fuel along the way and had us all get out for a little walk around the rest area. Once again we found a super parking spot for the coach in a huge park right on the shores of Lake Michigan. Again we were able to park parallel to the shore so our coach shielded us from passerby's and gave us just a bit of privacy.

Marianne had taken some pork chops out of the freezer that morning and she started to prepare them with some baked potatoes and green beans. The coach has a small diesel generator for AC power so the microwave and the range would be working full time for the next hour or so.

Once the food was cooking I poured our usual evening cocktails of Scotch on the rocks for me and one with a little water for Marianne. Sue got her half glass of wine which seemed a little ridiculous to be treating her as a child after she had just given me one terrific blow job.

Dinner was fantastic. Marianne had marinated the chops all day in something or other and they turned out well. When dinner was over and the table cleared Marianne said, "Hey guys, we have something important to talk about."

"What pray tell is that?" chirped Sue.

"Well it is about the sleeping arrangement on this coach. Sue, you will be sleeping alone on the pull out double and I will be sharing the back cabin with Ed." Geez, nothing like getting right to the point. This woman doesn't beat around the bush.

Sue almost came out of her chair. ‘What kind of bullshit is that? You mean you are going to fuck him all the way to California and I am left to play with myself? Keep in mind, as you know damn well, I gave him his first touch of sex with us this afternoon and I am not going to just give him up cause you are my mother." Oh boy, this is going to get interesting.

Marianne looked at me and asked with a sort of exasperated look, "Ed, do you have any suggestions?"

"Well, I am a normal American guy who loves sex and I believe I can keep both of you happy if you don't make any unreasonable demands on me. No four or five romps in a day, I couldn't perform that often." I offered.

"How about you gals alternating where you sleep? Take turns with me in the back cabin at night. Sue, you and I can get also together sometimes when your mom is driving." 

"Great, I can give you a rolling fuck." she laughed.

"OK, it's settled. Mom will be back with me tonight and Sue you are on for tomorrow night."

By then it was getting dark and I offered to put some lawn chairs out by the side of the coach and we could have an early evening after dinner cocktail. "Sue, forget what mom says, if you want a Scotch with us you can have it." Marianne just glared at me.

"Nah, I hate the stuff. I will stick with my wine. I was just breaking your stones acting as if you were cheating me out of something."

After watching some TV later on it was time for bed and Marianne just walked to the back of the coach as if she owned it. It was time for Sue to glare. 

She made the bed in the front cabin as if she was tossing hay around. Pillows and blankets went flying. The girl was angry. 

I chastised her with, "Sue, cut the shit. We made an agreement and now live with it." 

She stripped naked and plopped on the bed. Apparently she wanted me to see what I was going to be missing. 

"Sue grow up. I will fuck you so hard and often tomorrow night you won't walk well all the next day." She laughed and rolled over. I leaned down and gave her a kiss goodnight and let my fingers wander down to give her pussy a little twiddling. She roared with laughter but shouted, "You are going to pay for that!" 

When I got back to the rear room Marianne was lying naked on the top of the bedspread. 

"Nope, pull back the spread, I don't want it stained with either of our love juices."

This woman had a fantastic body. She was standing at the foot of the bed when I stripped for the night and I took her in my arms and just started kissing her. Her tongue found my mouth and she was rubbing herself against me as hard as she could. "Slow down honey, we have all night." I whispered.

I held her at arms length just staring at her body and realized she was one gorgeous piece of femininity. I lowered my face to kiss her neck and then lowered it more to the top of her breasts. I then started a slow circling of my mouth on her tits with my tongue flicking the nipples every time I went past them. 

I then turned her so her back was against the foot of the bed and pushed her back onto it. This left her legs from the knees down dangling over the edge of the bed. I leaned over and slowly kissed her stomach and let my mouth work its way down to her mound. I went to my knees at the edge of the bed between her legs and gently pushed them apart. Her moans started right then for she knew where I was heading. She was right. I started with kissing the inside of each leg from behind the knee and working my way up to her pussy. When I got there I skipped over it and worked my way down the inside of the other leg. My kisses were light with my tongue licking each spot I had just kissed. I finally worked my way back to her pussy but instead of skipping over it I separated the lips of her pussy with my fingers and let my tongue delve between them searching out her clit. I found it with my tongue and then used two fingers to slide back its cover and let it out for my tongue to explore. 

By then she had her fingers entwined in my hair and was pulling my head deeper into her. I could look up from there to see her throwing her head from side to side with passion. She started to make a low sensual noise at the same time she was lifting her legs and wrapping them around the back of my neck to pull me in as far as she could.

She then arched her back and threw her pussy as hard as she could against my mouth as she had an explosive orgasm. It seemed as if she had multiple orgasms within a few seconds of each other. I gently kissed and licked the entire area of her pussy and worked my way up past her breasts to her mouth. She swung her arms around my neck as hard as she could and kissed me as if it would never end. My tongue searched out hers and let her taste her own pussy juices around my mouth. She was still moaning the way she did before she exploded. She then lay back with her eyes closed and just let herself calm down.

I gently lifted her completely up onto the bed and lay down beside her. She turned to face me and let her hand run down the side of my chest to my waist and then into my groin. I could feel her fingers lightly touching my balls and then work their way up the length of my shaft to rub around the pulsing head of my cock. I was rock hard and with some pre cum starting to appear at the tip of my cock. She let her fingers concentrate on the head of my cock rubbing the pre cum around the head and then smearing it down my shaft. Damn, she had one hell of an educated hand. Her fingers then began tracing the veins in my cock until she had it pulsing and throbbing so hard I thought I would have an orgasm without ever getting it near her pussy.

She then rolled over and lay on top of me for a second before rising up to sit on my dick. She raised up and positioned the lips of her pussy directly over my cock head. With one hard thrust she dropped herself down the full length of my shaft until she had it buried to the hilt. We each let out a loud moan with that. I could feel the muscles in her vagina holding on to my cock and they were actually throbbing and it was as if they were pulling me deeper into her. She then started a long slow rise and fall up to the head of my cock and then thrusting her pussy down to the base of it. I was matching her movements and rising up to meet each of her downward thrusts. I reached up and grabbed each of her hips and pulled her harder as she came down. I could feel the head of my cock rubbing against something up inside of her and it wasn't going to be long before I was going to be over the top. Just before that happened I rolled her over on her back and started to drive my cock deep inside her. I was going in and out of her very slowly, pulling my cock almost all the way out of her and then driving it back. She instantly wrapped her legs around my back and was pulling me in with every downward thrust. I didn't last but a few seconds of that action before I literally exploded and my love juices were soon pouring out of her warm, pulsing pussy. 

Whew, she was some piece of ass!

The door to the back cabin was flung open, with Sue standing there nude and obviously madder than hell. "Enough of this shit. It isn't as if you are in the next room in a motel so that I wasn't able to hear you fucking and sucking. I can hear every moan and groan and feel the coach rocking with every bit of motion from back here. This was pure torture." 

"Sue, we agreed to the alternate night system and you agreed."

"Bullshit mom, if you remember correctly, you guys agreed and I just sat there without saying much."

"Sue, we can't insulate the coach any more than it is and we certainly can't stop if from rocking a little. What would you suggest we do?" I said.

"Ed, I don't know but I would like to have your horse cock inside of me NOW." 

"Marianne, if you don't mind watching your daughter getting fucked, move over and let her join us." I suggested tentatively.

"Mom, it isn't as if you didn't know I was having sex. Damn, I was married to that asshole for six months and all he wanted to do was to screw between the beatings he gave me." 

Marianne sort of slid over to the edge of the queen-sized bed and Sue hopped right up between us. She lay on her back and reached over and grabbed my now soft cock with her hand and started to rub her mother's juices all around it. She kept that up for a few minutes while I was fondling her tits with the other hand on her pussy lips. It didn't take much of that before I was hard again and ready for action.

"Sue, how about getting up on your hands and knees and let me fuck you doggie style?" I offered. 

She was up on her knees before I even finished that sentence. I positioned myself behind her with the purple head of my cock just touching her pussy lips.

"Damnit Ed, don't tease me. Put it in," she yelled.

I grabbed her hips and pulled myself in all the way to the hilt and she was soon moving her ass around fast and furious. Having the mother lay there watching her daughter getting fucked was one of the strangest things I had ever been involved in. I was pulling it out almost all the way and then driving it back in. With each forward thrust I made Sue was throwing herself back to me. I looked over at Marianne and she now had one hand playing with her clit. I had an idea. Mom was getting aroused again.

"Marianne, why don't you slide that lovely pussy of yours over here and under Sue's face? I am sure she would love to eat her mom's pussy."  

Sue screamed, "What the fuck are you talking about. Do you think I am some kind of pervert who would eat her mom?"

I answered her with, "No, honey but I see your mom is getting horny and she doesn't have anyone to help her out. How about at least lending her a hand?" 

Marianne didn't slide all the way over to us but came half way. Sue gingerly put her hand on her mom's pussy and started to rub the juices remaining there from when she and I fucked earlier. It wasn't long before Marianne was moaning very softly and moving her hips closer and closer to Sue's face.

Sue raised up suddenly and reached over and pulled her mom's hips towards us and soon had her face buried in her mother's crotch. Marianne let out a loud screech and threw her pussy high and hard at Sue. It looked to me as if Sue was enjoying eating her mom out every bit as much as she did having my cock pounding her pussy.

The whole scene was driving me up the wall. I don't think I had ever been more aroused and I knew that I would be lasting very much longer. All of a sudden Sue was pounding her pussy back at me harder than she had ever done up to then and I could feel her moaning. I couldn't hear it since she had her face buried in her mother's pussy but the vibrations came all the way up into her vaginal muscles and into my cock. She pulled her face away from doing mom and shouted, "Fuck me hard. I'm cumming."

I put some extra effort into driving my dick all the way in her while holding her hips as tightly as I could. It didn't take long before she let herself fall forward right between her mom's legs and I was left kneeling there looking down at the two of them. I slid forward and dangled my cock in front of Marianne's face and gave her a nudge. She opened her eyes and just smiled as she took my dick all the way in her mouth. She kept it there for a minute or so and then let it slide out again so she could lick every drop of Sue's cum. I still hadn't come so I told her to start deep throating me till I had my orgasm. Unlike Sue, she could take me all the way down her slender throat. She gasped a little when I shot my load but swallowed fast and furious to stay up with what I was dumping in her mouth. Right about then she started her own moaning and was again lifting her hips in the air and sticking her fingers through Sue's hair and pulling her face into her pussy as she raised her ass up and let go with one gigantic orgasm.

Marianne and I just lay there completely exhausted while Sue was getting up and going to get us a drink.  What a night!

The queen-sized bed was almost too small for lovemaking for the three of us but was going to be way too crowded for the three of us for sleeping. "Marianne, why don't you go out to the sofa bed to get some shut eye and Sue and I will sack out here. I have a little more pussy licking to do before shutting down for the night." Sue let out a little gasp and reached for my cock.

"Sue, it is my tongue that is going to work you over. Not my cock." I laughingly told her.

Marianne moved back out to he sofa and I pulled Sue over to me. I was soon kissing her mothers juices from her face while she was reaching down to give me a hand job. "Sue, move up a little higher in the bed to give me some room."

I then moved down between her legs and started a long and slow pussy licking. There was enough light coming from the bathroom night- light so I could see her face when I looked up from between her legs. She was tossing her head from side to side with her long blonde hair flailing away. She was puckering her mouth into a small O and letting out a very quiet moan every time I concentrated on her clit. I wet a couple of fingers with my saliva and pushed first one and then two up her ass. That was all it took. She let out a howl and pulled my face deep into her while she started to grind her pussy into my face.  Damn it hurt me but it was sure giving her a lot of pleasure. I am going to have to get this gal to shave her pussy a little closer. She almost convulsed when she came and then threw herself back on to the pillow. 

It was time for sleep.

I was up first the next morning and had the waffles in the toaster and the coffee brewing before the gals even set foot on the floor. "Rise and shine ladies. We have a day of sightseeing around the windy city scheduled. But before that, drag your butts over to the table. We have something to talk about AGAIN."  

"Oh, not another one of your earth shattering sermons I hope." smirked Sue.

I responded with, "No sweet lips. Just something to keep us from getting arrested."

That got both of their attention and they huddled around the dinette table. "Look at us and then look around….three naked bodies with no curtains on the front windows of this coach. We are just asking to get locked up for indecent exposure."

"I know we will be waltzing around this place without a stitch on most of the time so from now on you gals will have to remind me to have the front and side curtains pulled as soon as we park the coach. In addition, one of you make sure to remind me to get the coach's hydraulic jacks extended to keep it from rocking every time we are having a roll in the hay."

"OK stud," mouthed smart-ass Sue.

We spent the day seeing some of the sights around the city and got back late afternoon. Plenty of time for a couple of drinks. I was going to take them to one of the great steak houses for which Chicago is world famous and made the reservations for 7:30. 

"Marianne, you owe Sue big time." I commented.

"How is that?" she questioned.

"Both of you come into the bedroom and I will tell you." I answered.

They both traipsed back and I told them to strip along the way. By the time they got to the back of the coach all I could see were tits and pussies bouncing along the carpet.

"Marianne, Sue gave you a ton of pleasure with her mouth last night and you didn't treat her to the same. Now is the time. I would like to see you eat her out while you are on your hands and knees and I am fucking you doggie style. The same as she did for you last night."




Homeward Bound



It didn't take any more encouragement than that. Sue was on her back in a second and pulling her mother by one hand towards her. Sue got herself comfortable and her mom got positioned between her legs and I was ready to give her a good strong fuck. It wasn't long before Marianne had her face buried in her daughter's pussy and was licking away. I told her that she might want to wet a couple of fingers to tease Sue's ass with. 

I had positioned my red-hot cock head directly in front of Marianne's large soft pussy lips. I pushed the head in a little followed by a couple of hard thrusts to bury it up to the hilt. Marianne grunted and then responded with backward pressure pushing her pussy even further on my cock. Sue was tossing her head from side to side and her hair was flowing wildly across the pillow. Her moans were easily heard even outside of the coach but we were off by ourselves so we were safe in that regard. I then slipped my cock out of the pussy and positioned it in front of her puckered ass hole. I touched the head to her ass and she almost jumped. "What the hell do you think you are doing?"

I responded with, "I know exactly what I am doing." And with that I gave one hard push and my cock buried itself 4-5 inches up her ass.

She screamed and then started to cry. "You bastard, that hurts."

"Hush up. You have undoubtedly been fucked like this before so keep eating Sue's pussy. You are leaving it unattended while you are bitching. I'll go real slowly and if you really can't take it I will stop. OK?"

She mumbled something and went back to burying her face in Sue's hot pussy. I started a slow and easy pumping of her ass and with each stroke going in a little further. It wasn't too long before I was buried all the way. I then gave her a series of long slow deep thrusts of my rock hard cock in her tight asshole. I could feel her sphincter muscle throbbing tightly around my cock and after the first few thrusts I could feel her respond with a little back pressure. She might not have liked it but she sure wasn't fighting it any more.

Sue was arching her back in that familiar move she goes though just before she explodes. I looked down and she had her mom's hair in each of her hands and was pulling her face into her pussy. She let out one loud howl and bucked her mom almost off her. That forced Marianne's asshole even harder down on my shaft and she gasped. I then made a few long hard thrusts and I felt the familiar feeling deep in my ball sack. I said. "Marianne, reach around and hold my balls." She did and I shot a warm load of white cum way up her asshole. Her sphincter muscle was still holding my cock tightly and sort of milking my cum out of me. 

Dinner was great that night but it was obvious that Marianne was sitting a little gingerly. Sue made some comment about it and Marianne replied with, "You're next." We roared to the point that most of the tables around us were looking to see if anything was wrong.

We did spend the next day seeing a lot of Chicago but one of the problems with a visit like that was you try to see too much in too short a period of time.

The sleeping arrangements that night reverted back to three in a bed, which made for a very uncomfortable night of sleep. 

I drove for the first three hours out of Chicago and then surprised the gals with the suggestion of, 

" Sue, I think that you could handle this thing on this stretch of Interstate. It is almost straight as an arrow and there is hardly any traffic. Our next major attraction is The Badlands and Mt. Rushmore over in S. Dakota but we won't make that today. We will be spending the night on the western side of Minnesota so settle back for a long drive." 

She almost fell over herself getting up to the Captain's chair. It only took me a few minutes to get her seat and mirrors adjusted right and to show her the various controls and she was off. I sat in the co-pilots seat for a little while making sure she felt at ease with handling the coach and then went back to chat with Marianne.

Unlike Sue, Marianne hadn't really dressed for the day. She had pulled a nightgown over herself while we were having breakfast but that was it. As we were sitting in the easy chairs talking I was not only looking at her face but her pussy as well. Try as I could I couldn't get my mind off of the ass fucking I gave her last night. She saw me looking and asked, "Ready for some more?" 

I simply stood and took her hand and led her to the rear of the coach. I did look over my shoulder and said to Sue, "Try and not hit any bumps---we will be making our own for a while." 

She just laughed and responded with, "Think of me and have fun."

We hadn't made the bed that morning so we just pulled everything off except the bottom sheet. I stood in front of Marianne and told her to raise her arms while I removed her nightgown. She was unbuckling my belt as I was doing that and she soon had my jeans and shorts down to the floor. I stepped out of them as she was taking me in her mouth. I was completely soft but she was soon going to rectify that situation.

I reached down and lifted her to my mouth and kissed her hard and deep. I held her tightly as I fell back sideways on to the bed and pulled her with me as I was falling. As soon as we hit the bed I moved around so we were in the perfect sixty-nine position. Once again she took me in her mouth and I spread her pussy lips with fingers from each hand. Once they were wide open I moved my index fingers looking for her clit. Once they had felt that slippery little nub they pushed the clit out for my mouth to play with. I flicked at it with my tongue while inserting a couple of fingers deep in her pussy. She started her moaning which, once again, I could feel in my cock.

We kept that up for quite some time and I was just starting to fell that warm exciting feeling in my balls when I thought that I would try and give her another thrill.  I wet a couple of fingers with saliva and moved them in front of her asshole and just touched it. She gasped and let my cock fall out of her mouth to say, "Ed, please, be gentle. My ass is still sore from your horse cock last night." She went back to my cock as soon as she finished talking.

I was gong to insert a couple of fingers in her ass but decided not to after what she said. Instead I just buried my face in her pussy and rubbed it around with her juices, which were flowing by then. I then let my hands wander up to play with her nipples and that seemed to give her the same bit of arousal I thought my fingers in her ass would have provided. 

We, for the first time, had simultaneous orgasms. It was terrific. As soon as I felt the warm feeling start in my balls I started to fuck her mouth harder. She knew what was happening and threw her pussy at my face as hard as she could and that was it…we each had a massive explosion.

We lay in each other's arms while we came down from the unbelievable high we had been on. I hadn't showered that morning so I untangled myself from her and went in and washed up. She did the same after I got out and we walked hand in hand back up to the front of the coach. Sue saw us coming in the inside mirror and just smiled, "You guys look as if you enjoyed yourselves." 

"That we did Sue. Ed, as you know, is one terrific lover."  Marianne purred.

"OK Marianne, what do you want. You wouldn't say something like that without wanting something in return." I joked.  She just smiled a sort of mischievous little smirk.

Sue was handling the coach very well. She was humming along right at 70 MPH without a problem. Marianne made a few sandwiches for our lunch and heated a couple of cans of soup. I told Sue to pull into the rest area I had seen advertised a few miles back so we could all eat our lunch at leisure. She did and I took the wheel when lunch was over. Marianne took over the co-pilots seat and we chatted about a myriad of things before stopping for the night. There weren't any state parks where we stopped so we had to pull into a commercial camping facility. It was very well kept with a lot of amenities. Dumping gray and toilet water is a problem when parking a coach along the highway rest areas or in a lot of the parks that allow overnight parking so we welcomed the chance to dump our waste.

After a great dinner we sat outside with the awning down sipping our evening drinks. There wasn't another camper within a hundred feet so we had all of the privacy we would ever want. I started the conversation off with a question to both of them,

"Ladies, give me a straight answer. Have you two ever had any sexual activities with each other before this trip?"

Sue responded first. "Ed, to be very honest, mom and I haven't but I have had a lesbian experience with a gal I met after my divorce."

Marianne looked startled. "Sue, who was that with.?"

"Mom, you didn't know her. She was one of the girls I worked with in that part time job I had after dumping the asshole"

"Ed, to be completely honest, while we haven't ever had sex with each other, I must say that her young body sure had me thinking some evil thoughts every time I would see her naked. Also, since we are on an honesty kick, I too had a lesbian experience when I was first married. It was with a neighbor gal and it lasted for a few months before she moved away," announced Marianne.

"Well, now that the ice is broken it will be interesting to see what you gals do from here on out," was all I could think of as a response. 

We had gotten a lot smarter about adjusting the window blinds and the curtain that surrounded the driver's area and front windows to give us the privacy we all needed. It was a good thing for after that first romp in the hay none of us were at all bashful about walking around nude. 

After dinner that night we were watching the TV news and then some stupid love story came on the gals wanted to watch. I pissed and moaned about it but let them have their way. At one of the commercial breaks I reached over the back of the easy chair on which Sue had perched her pretty sweet ass and lifted her hand in the air. She got up and turned to me. I ran my fingers around her nipples and she melted into my arms with a deep tongue-searching kiss. I turned her around and let her fall over the back of the chair while I put the head of my cock against those lovely pussy lips. I gave a solid firm push and I was in her all the way. She gasped since I think she thought I would go in a lot slower. I then started a deep but slow thrusting into her. She wasn't very wet yet but I knew that would come in a few minutes of fucking. Sure enough she was soon gasping and moaning so loudly that her mother had to turn up the sound on the TV to hear it. 

I looked over at Marianne and we both knew what I was about to do. Yep, you guessed it. I let my cock come out of her pussy and made one hard push with it all the way into her tight asshole. It was a good thing that there wasn't another coach parked near us for she let out one huge scream. The way I had her positioned over the back of the chair prevented her from getting away from me and I just stopped and let her come down from her angry high. 

"You no good cocksucker. You didn't have to rape my ass. I would have let you fuck it but a lot more gently than what you have just done." 

"Hush Sue, I am going to fuck it long and slow and then shoot one huge load up your ass. My warm smooth cum will comfort your tender ass."

She didn't say a word but just lay there against the chair. Marianne looked at me as if to say, ‘Why are you hurting my daughter that way' but she knew it was going to happen before it did and didn't do a thing about it then so it was too late now. 

I started my long slow pulling myself almost al of the way out of her tender ass and then slowly pushing it all the way in. I kept that up for a few minutes before reaching around between her body and the chair till I found her clit and started to work it tenderly until I had her moaning again. She started to push back at me the same way her mother did and I responded with fucking her a little harder. My fingers were working furiously on her clit and soon had her gasping and moaning as loudly as I had ever heard her and it was right about then I started to shoot a load deep inside of her. She must have felt it through her sphincter muscles and she pushed back as hard as I was pushing forward. It was right then she exploded. She threw her ass back at me hard and it helped my cock shoot the rest of my load. My cum was soon running out of her ass around my shaft and I stood back to keep it from getting all over the chair.

"Well, gals I guess that I have now fucked and sucked every orifice in each of your bodies." I offered.

Sue responded with, "No you haven't. You haven't kissed my sore ass yet."

"Aw Sue, you sound angry when just a few minutes ago you were gasping and moaning with the pleasure I was giving you."

She mumbled something and went to the bathroom to wash her sweet, but now tender, ass.

Marianne yelled after her, "Weren't you the one smirking when Ed did my ass?"

"Mom, shut the fuck up." 

With that Marianne came flying out of her easy chair and charged into the bathroom area where she grabbed Sue's hair and spun her around. When they were facing each other she slapped her face so hard I honestly believed if there had been another coach parked near us they would have heard the slap. 

"Listen and listen good. We can fuck and suck until the cows come home but you will never, ever talk to me like that again. Do you understand, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

Sue was dumbfounded and speechless.  I got up to get between them but Marianne pushed me aside. 

"Leave it be Ed. This is between her and I."

She was still holding Sue's long hair and asked again, "Do you understand?"

The tears were rolling down Sue's cheeks and she fell into her mothers arms saying, "Yes mom, I'm sorry. It will never happen again." .. Marianne released her hair and took her into her arms as if she was just a small child again, taking her to the sofa where they sat holding each other, crying and just rocking in each other's arms. 

It was quite a heartwarming scene.

"Gals, why don't you two share the queen bed tonight and I will take the pull out sofa." I offered.

Marianne replied with, "Ed, that is a very thoughtful and generous offer. I think we will take you up on it." Looking to her daughter, "OK Sue?"

They retired early and sometime during the night I could hear and fell the coach rocking a bit and some moans coming from the rear cabin. I guessed they were making up.

During the next several days we saw some great sights. The Badlands certainly live up to their name and Mt. Rushmore can take your breath away, particularly when you see what they had to do in carving those figures out of that solid rock. The Crazy Horse monument being blasted out of the rock not very far down the road is even a more breathtaking accomplishment. They have been working on it for years and are still many years away from its completion. What is truly more remarkable is that it is all being done with private funding. 

We toured a lot more of the National Parks in that area and had some great meals both inside of the coach and at many of the restaurants along the way. Marianne and I settled down to some very nice, plain fucking and sucking about halfway across the country. It was terrific. We did have one more exciting experience I thought you might want to hear about.

One night after a coach-cooked dinner we were sitting outside having perhaps more than what we should have had to drink when Marianne asked Sue if she had ever been ‘fisted'. 

"Fisted, what the heck is that?" she answered.

"Let's go inside and I will show you."

I knew exactly what Marianne was talking about but was curious as to which of them was about to be fisted. Marianne took us all into the back cabin telling Sue to strip. While she was doing that Marianne stripped the bed and then went into the bathroom medicine cabinet and retrieved a jar of Vaseline. She also stripped and I just sat on the side of the bed to watch the action.

She said to Sue, "Honey, over the years you are going to feel a lot of different sized cocks in you but I have been told what I am about to do for you will be the most aroused you will ever feel. I have never had it done to me but have watched other gals having it done to them. Lie back honey."

Sue obeyed her mom and Marianne started to smear her hand and fingers with a ton of Vaseline. She also took a big gob of it and smeared it on Sue's pussy and pushed a lot of it up her as far as her fingers could reach.

Marianne then pushed Sue's legs apart and put her hand with the fingers all folded up like a pointed wedge against Sue's pussy lips. "Now, relax honey, I am going to put this in you"

"Jesus mom, that will split me open," shrieked Sue. 

"Hush baby, it will feel strange at first but you will earn to love it when your pelvic bones open to allow my hand to enter," replied her mother. 

With that she started a slow but steady pressure. Her fingers went in up to her knuckles rather easily when Sue said, "Hold it there for a minute mom."

Marianne instantly stopped before resuming the pressure.  She was very patient and it took another five minutes or so until she had the fingers in up to the knuckles where the fingers meet her hand. She stopped there and Sue was breathing very hard. It didn't sound as if it were sexual arousal but more along the lines of trying not to show any pain.

Marianne pulled the hand out a bit and then took her other hand and used it to smear more Vaseline on the upper part of her hand. She then pushed it back in as far as it had been before she stopped. Once again she put a steady pressure on her hand and it was soon in up to the middle part of her hand and now Sue was moaning sexually. That was all Marianne needed to hear and she resumed pushing but perhaps a little harder. The hand then simply disappeared inside of Sue's pussy and Sue let out one loud moan. No pain this time, she was in her glory. Marianne just kept her hand there motionless for a good three or four minutes before starting to pump it slowly. 

Sue was tossing her head back and forth and biting down on her lower lip and then whispering, "Mom, do it harder and faster."

"No, honey, I don't want to hurt you. Just lie back and I will keep this up until you have the most gigantic orgasm you have ever had or ever will have." 

She was right, a few minutes of that fist pumping and Sue was actually screaming, "Fuck me harder, harder."  

Marianne just smiled. 

Sue threw her hips so high into the air Marianne had to go through some gyrations simply to keep her hand inside of her and all of a sudden we could see the glistening moisture pouring out of Sue's pussy past Marianne's hand. 

Marianne was right, it was one huge orgasm. 

Before removing her hand she opened her fingers slightly and twisted her wrist around and that seemed to drive Sue crazy again. 

"Mom, I am going to have another orgasm. I think you are touching what I have heard is my g-spot." 

Sure enough she was tossing and turning and moaning once again. Marianne said she was going to close her fingers in case Sue hurt her insides with all of the motions she was going through. It still didn't stop Sue from exploding again. 

After watching this I was fearful she would never be satisfied with my cock again!

"Lie still Sue, I am going to remove my fist slowly. The last time I watched this done on a girl she asked if her boyfriend would fuck her right away. Ed, are you up for it if she wants you?"

"You bet but I damn sure can't compete with the size of your fist and wrist."

"Don't sweat that. Her pussy will contract as soon as I remove my hand." Marianne explained.




Homeward Bound



Although I love flying I tend to get a little claustrophobic if I am not sat in a window seat; hence my dismay when Adele and I checked in at Mo'bay airport to find that our pre booked seats had not, after all, been pre booked. An argument with the large native girl at the check in didn't help and so we boarded the 747 with me feeling a little dismayed that our holiday had not gone 100% perfectly. Our stay at Hedonism had been ace and both Adele and I had had our fill of cock and pussy licking and had left the hotel bow legged. Ok so that's an exaggeration but it had been a wonderful, sexy 2 weeks. We had both found time to go scuba diving every day, between the drinking and the fucking, but had wisely omitted the diving on our day of departure. Not a good idea, as anyone who knows about scuba diving will agree, to go diving just prior to flying at 30,000ft. So we had limited the diving on the final day to some muff diving on each other after the guys had left our room that morning.

On reaching our allocated seats my hopes rose a little regarding the window seat as it was occupied by a handsome looking dark guy, wearing a tight T shirt and shorts, and I was sure I could persuade him to swap to the aisle seat so that I could sit at the window and Adele next to me in the middle. 

Putting on my sexiest voice and making sure my short skirt was even shorter by subtly turning over the top I leaned over and politely asked him if he would mind swapping seats?

"I'm sorry babe" came back the unmistakable West Indian accent. "But I much prefer to sit by the window."

Not giving up hope I settled into the centre seat while Adele sat in the aisle next to me. As I got myself comfortable I made sure that my skirt had ridden up as high as possible. So much so that my red panties were almost visible at the crutch. I smiled to myself as I noticed the sideways looks I was getting from the guy at the window. Even on a 747 the seating is small enough to allow my naked leg to touch his. Glancing down at his crutch I could see a small bulge beginning to form.

I often, during sex, love to act out the roll of a slut, and decided that, on this occasion at least, I would actually become one in order to get my window seat. Leaning across so that I could whisper in his ear, and ensuring my leg pressed even harder against his dark, naked skin, I whispered sexily;

"Have you ever had sex at 30,000ft hon?"

Even with his dark skin I could see his ears turn red; as well as see the bulge grow even more.

"No babe I havn't"

"How about we slip into the wash room once we have taken off and then you sit in the aisle when we return?" I replied back.

His answer was even better than I had hoped for.

"Do we have to wait until we have taken off?"

I smiled at him as I placed my hand on his growing cock.

"Seat belt sign is on hon. Be patient." I smiled at him as the tip of his now very hard cock poked out from below his shorts. My pussy tingled in anticipation of the delights that his massive tool was going to give me.

Turning to Adele I kissed her and told her that I had arranged for us to swap seats later. Knowing me as well as she does she knew exactly what I meant and smiled. "You wicked little minx." She said as we kissed again. I knew that the guy next to me was watching us and also knew that his cock would be getting even harder watching Adele and I kissing. 

Ten minutes later the aircraft began to taxi down the runway and then slid gracefully into the air and continued to climb as it followed the Jamaican coastline eastwards before changing course to head on it's journey up towards the eastern seaboard of the United States.

No sooner had the seat belt sign clicked off than I was on my feet and headed towards the toilet behind us with the dark guy close behind. As he locked the door behind him he told me that his name was Calton Brown.

"I'm Linda. Nice to meet you Calton.. but even nicer to meet this.." I pulled his shorts down to his ankles as I spoke and gasped at the size of the big, black cock that now pointed towards me. In the tight space I managed to drop to my knees and before he knew what was happening Calton's cock was in my mouth and I was sucking it greedily as far up the thick shaft as I could. There was no way, even by deep throating, that I was going to get all of the giant cock in my mouth but I was determined to have as much of it as possible.

Calton began to moan softly and his breathing became heavier as he placed his hands on my head, gripped my flaming red hair, and slowly began to move his hips back and forth. I stopped bobbing my head in and out and just let him fuck my mouth while he held my head firm. I began to gag as he tried to force his throbbing cock deeper into my mouth but I soon relaxed my throat muscles and took even more than I had thought I ever could. I tasted his sticky pre cum as his balls began to slap against my chin even though there was still a couple of inches of cock that would not fit into my waiting mouth.

His moans became louder as he fucked my mouth even harder until he realised that maybe other passengers would hear him; he then kept his moans to a low volume even though most of the passengers had seen us both enter the cubicle.

I had my hands on his hips as he continued to thrust his cock into my wet mouth and I allowed my teeth to scrape the thick shaft and that sent a wave of even more pleasure through his now sweating body. On and on he plundered the depths of my throat until suddenly, without warning, he pulled his cock from my mouth and, with one swift movement, pulled me to my feet and lifted me onto the narrow shelf that housed the tiny sink. My legs spread either side of him and I braced my feet against the wall behind him. Next moment he was on his knees and pulling the elastic of my panties to one side. When his hot tongue entered my cunt I almost screamed in pleasure. Gripping the sides of the shelf for support I I opened my legs as wide as I could to allow this wonderful guy better access to my now very wet womanhood.

At first he just used his stiff tongue to ream in and out of my slit like a baby cock fucking my depths. After a little while he then relaxed his tongue and began to lick up and down my slit, pausing for a brief while on my clit to give it a suck, before returning to the licking of my juices that were flowing freely from me. Calton was taking me to heaven with each touch of his wonderful tongue. I knew it would not be long before an orgasm wracked my body and, keeping my voice low I moaned;

"Get some fingers in my cunt. Finger fuck me while you lick me outtttt ohhhhhhhhhhhh godddddddddddddd."

Two thick fingers were suddenly rammed into my pussy and I began to jerk my hips against them as his tongue flicked over my clit, sucked at it, licked my wet hole then returned to my waiting clit. It was as much as I could do to stop myself from screaming out in pleasure and I could taste the tiny drop of blood that came from my lip where I was biting it.

I came. My body jerked, my head went back and hit the mirror and my hips shook against Calton's face as his tongue licked at my clit and his thick fingers felt the spurt of my juices as my orgasm hit. For a good 10 seconds I just continued to orgasm but before it had even stopped Calton pulled his fingers from my cunt, stood up, pulled the elastic of my now wet panties to one side again and, without warning, thrust his massive cock deep into my wetness. This time I screamed. Not too loud but a scream non the less.

In and out Calton fucked me. I don't know if I took the whole length of his cock but it sure felt like it as I wrapped my legs around his waist and gripped his head tight to my face. Our tongues entered each other's mouth and we went crazy as he continued to thrust deep inside me. I knew I was about to cum again and my orgasm started just moments before I felt his cock stiffen that little bit more. Still shaking with my orgasm I told him to stop and again slid to the floor and wrapped my mouth around his throbbing cock. Five seconds later he erupted into my waiting mouth and I delighted at the taste of his hot spunk as it shot hard against the back of my throat. God knows when Calton had last emptied his balls but I have never known so much cum spurt out at one time. My mouth became full within seconds and I felt the warmness of the sperm as it slid down my throat; some even dripped from my lips where I could not swallow fast enough. On and on he pumped his hot semen into me. My body was still shaking from my 2nd orgasm as his cock eventually stopped pumping it's load and he slid his softening shaft from my mouth.

Adjusting my soaking wet panties we left the small cubicle and we both knew that many pairs of eyes were watching us as we headed down the narrow aisle. Settling myself next to Adele as she slid into the centre seat, while I glanced out of the small window at the billowing clouds beneath me, I made sure I didn't swallow the last drop of cum that I had kept in my mouth.

"Don't need to ask what you been up to Princess." Smiled Adele as I turned towards her. Smiling back I leaned sideways and kissed her on the lips and delighted in the smile that I felt as we pressed our lips together and I allowed the remaining cum in my mouth to slide into hers.

*

I hope you enjoyed my latest story. Please feel free to e mail me any comments.

Stay Safe readers.

Sweet Linda



Homeward Bound



To Henry Tolliver, the screech of the tires hitting the superheated tarmacadam was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. He didn't mind that he was in Atlanta, Georgia or that he was still hundreds of miles from home; he only cared that he was back in the United States, on terra firma Americana. After twenty-three months of enduring hell while serving in Iraq, he was overjoyed to be home. 

As he disembarked from the plane, the pilot and co-pilot came out and shook his hand, thanking him for his service. He did his best not to cry but his eyes teared up at their appreciation and he hurried down the hallway and into the terminal. Once inside, other people approached him, clapping, shaking his hand and wishing him well. It was too much for him. He shook as many hands as he could, grabbed up his bags and headed for the men's bathroom. 

Thankfully, the bathroom was empty and he leaned against the counter, bawling his eyes out, unable to stem the flow of emotion that he'd successfully kept bottled up since he'd left Iraq. The soft touch on his leg startled him and he jerked his head up, blinking furiously at the woman and the lace handkerchief that she was holding out to him.

"Here. Take this."

Henry stared at her for a moment, noted that the embroidered name tag on her uniform read Molly and took the offering. "Thank you."

The soft fragrant cotton felt good against his hot face and he wiped his eyes and nose, looking over at her. "Don't feel bad. You aren't the first to cry at coming home."

"It's not just that. It's just … "

"All the well-wishers?"

"Yeah. It was easier to fight than to face the people."

"They mean well."

"I know they do." He paused to swallow against the lump in his throat. "We … we weren't allowed to feel while we were over there. Over there, you see these people who have lived in absolute poverty and are facing starvation and most of the time, during the day, they clap you on the back and thank you for freeing them from Saddam, then, in the dark, they shoot at you and try to blow you up while you're eating or sleeping … " He took a long, deep breath. "It's so gratifying to know, to really know that the people thanking you really mean it."

Her mouth covered his and he gasped at the warmth that flooded his body. It had been a long time since he'd felt the touch of a woman. "Come with me."

He hefted his bags and followed her into the concourse, then down a locked entryway that opened into an electrical closet. She yanked him inside, slammed the door shut behind them and launched herself at him, unbuttoning her uniform top as she locked lips with him. She tasted of tomatoes and spices and his mouth burned with the heat that her tongue shared, his body fired by her raw responses. She raised his hands to her chest and warm, glorious breasts filled his palms, the hard nipples sliding between his fingers. She moaned into his mouth as he squeezed them, once, then harder the second time, closing his fingers and pinching her nipples between them.

Her hand rubbed the outside of his desert fatigues and his cock arose to her touch, straining against the fabric. He released her breasts and concentrated his efforts on pulling the uniform off of her while she worked on unlocking his webbed belt. The tiny buttons proved to be much harder and she wrenched her mouth from his, dropping to her knees and feverishly working on the buttons. The liquid warmth of her mouth on his cock told him that she'd successfully navigated the buttons and he had to seriously think about something else so he wouldn't cum right away.

Thankfully, she didn't stay down there long. She affixed her mouth to his again, whimpering as his fingers hooked into the sides of her panties, shoving them down to the floor. He bent and took one of her hard nipples into his mouth, giving it a thorough licking before turning her around and shoving his seven inch cock into her wet hole. She moaned, grabbing onto a huge metal cabinet as he began to pound into her, his hands on her breasts and his mouth on her neck.

He didn't have to say anything to her. She arched her back, seating herself on his pole each time and driving him deep into her body. He'd penetrated her so deeply that when she came, he thought he'd slipped out of her and that her hand was squeezing him. Her trembling body brought him quickly back to reality and she began to move again, her teeth gritted as she thrust backward against him, helping him drive into her. A few pumps later, she froze again, her cunt twitching around his prick and sending him into the stratosphere.

Henry grunted, groaning into her ear as he exploded into her body, filling her creamy hole with gobs of sticky cum. He shivered with aftershocks as he pulled out of her and stepped back, enjoying the pleasure that coursed through his body. She pulled more tissue from her pocket, cleaned both of them up and discarded them in a nearby trash can. It took another few minutes before their clothes were back in order and Molly commandeered a cart, taking him to his departing flight.

"Here's your flight." She leaned close and pressed a kiss to his mouth. "Good luck." He grabbed his bags and strode toward the check-in desk. "And thanks, soldier."

Henry smiled, gave her a mock salute and handed his ticket to the attendant. He was ushered onto the plane and this time, when he received claps and handshakes, he smiled, buckling himself into his seat and closing his eyes in comfort, now homeward bound.



Homeward Bound



On the bus ride home from college Amy was unconsciously teasing as usual. There weren't ever many people on the bus and since I was the only one she knew, we usually ended up sat together in deep discussion about life and experiences. She teased with stories of what her boyfriend Nick liked her to do and all the things that really turned her on, not to mention the fact that now it was summer I couldn't help peeking down the gap in her blouse at her pert breasts and the way her short summer skirt displayed almost all of her athletic thighs; thus leaving me to try and cover the tent being pitched in my trousers. 

I didn't have a girlfriend and to be honest, hadn't seen any action at all in at least the past year so these discussions left my mind trailing about having the opportunity to have my way with Amy. At our stop I discretely put my hand down my trousers as I stood up to re-arrange my bits before anyone could notice my hard on.

Our walk home after the housing estate was through some woods, across a bit of field belonging to some dodgy farmer who always seemed to be out doing chores, into some more woods and eventually arriving at our village. It was Nick's birthday and Amy kept stating how she couldn't wait to get to his house and give him his 'birthday surprise' before his parents came home from work. From the discussion on the bus no query was left in my mind about the night of pleasure he was to have ahead of him. I, on the other hand, was going home to an empty house with the sole pleasure of the internet and my right hand.

We could see the farmer's tractor in his field through the trees in the woods as we dodged between the stray branches. Amy walked ahead.

"Is that farmer staring at us from his tractor?" 

Her words seemed meaningless as I stared at her cute bum, imagining my hands roaming all over it as my cock filled her insides. 

"Yeah. Wierdo.," was the only murmur I could put together as my eyes transfixed on her firm ass. 

We came to the clearing, by which time the farmer had got out of his tractor and was now stood in the field watching us so we decided to pick up the pace a bit and get into the next section of trees.

The next part of the woods was much thicker and Amy's eyes were on the track (mine on her fine legs imagining what it would be like to be between them), when suddenly a husky "Stay where you are!" broke the silence. 

We stood still, turning slowly to see the farmer behind us pointing a shotgun directly towards my chest. 

"Don't dare to run," he grunted to Amy, "or I'll pop a round into his chest." 

He shoved the point of the gun into my chest and threw me 2 sets of handcuffs. 

"You, cuff her pretty hands behind her back, slowly" I fearfully cuffed the non resistant Amy's hands and she was ordered to do the same with mine. 

"What do you want from us?!" I shouted. 

He slapped me across the face, "Shut up! Don't speak until I say so." 

He directed us back across the field to the farmhouse. I felt helpless as he led us up the stairs in the tattered old building, then ordering us to sit down on a long bench. He took off our handcuffs, still pointing the gun directly at us. 

"Strip the boy" He ordered, "And don't try any funny business. You, lad, I want no resistance, this bitch want to see your cock." 

My face turned bright red as Amy trembled at the buttons on my shirt. After my top half was bare Amy removed my trainers, and unbuckled my belt and button on my jeans. My cock was hardening as she undid the zipper and slid my trousers down to my ankles and over each foot in turn.

Amy stopped. "And the rest!" he yelled. 

Her trembling hands slid into the waistline of my boxers and slowly pulled them down. I wished so much as my hard member sprung free that she would just take it into her gorgeous mouth and swallow my load that was so eager to fill her. She blushed as she was ordered to cuff me again and I sat on a chair at the side of the room.

"Take off your blouse" he told her. 

She didn't comply until he put down his shotgun, barged over to her and forced her back onto the bench. His bodyweight was too much for her to fight as this animal tore open the buttons on her blouse revealing a fine pair of tits in a frilly laced bra. This must have been part of lucky Nick's surprise, I thought. The farmer buried his head into her tits as he fumbled up her skirt and pulled down a sexy, matching pair of French knickers. Lucky Nick. And now, lucky farmer! 

He stood up and pulled down his jeans and pants swiftly, revealing his cock to her. 

"Get your pretty face here and lick my cock." 

She lay on the bench with tears in her eyes as he pulled her up by the hair and forced his cock into her mouth. 

"Suck me properly, bitch, and I won't have to hurt your boyfriend over there." 

She started to suck on his hard cock as I looked down at my own throbbing member. I silently appreciated the fact that she could have refused to perform, resulting in him beating me senseless.

"Lick it!"

Her tongue ran up and down the length of his cock, and nibbling the end. Her hand was sweeping its length when she surprisingly took one of his balls into his mouth as he groaned with pleasure. 

"That's enough bitch, I don't want to be cumming all over your pretty face just yet. Turn around and lean on the bench, I want to fuck your tight cunt from behind" 

Amy seemed to accept that there was no way out of this and bent over ready to take this farmer's hard cock. His hands pulled up her skirt over her waist and ran up her thighs, over her pussy. 

"Seems like this bitch likes it," he chuckled at me while probing her slit. 

She gasped at he poked the tip of his cock into her now wet hole. He ran his hands up her back and undid the clasp on her bra. It fell onto the bench, allowing her pert tits to sway as he moved slowly in and out. I felt on the verge of cumming watching this animal having his way with one of the sexiest girls in college.

His hands grabbed her tits, pulling her further onto his shaft and tweaking her hard nipples. Amy held in her screams as her pussy contracted around his cock and she began to orgasm, coating this dirty bastard's hard cock with her cum. She panted as he now drove his member in and out, and from the expression on his face, he wasn't going to last much longer. 

"Oh yeah, oh fuck, I'm guna come deep inside you bitch! Take my hard cock! Oh fuck!" Amy moaned with pleasure as he emptied his load deep into her cunt. She sank onto the bench and noticed I was staring, my eyes fell to the floor ashamed. 

The farmer wiped the cum of his limp cock with her skirt and told her to stand up. She stood feet together, trying to hide the mixture of cum trailing down her legs. Her body was beautiful. Just turned 18, her tits were pert, but full. She was part of the athletics team and had the figure to go with it. Her short haired snatch was shaved into a line which descended towards her pussy. He legs were slim but muscular with a tennis ball bum at the top. Suddenly my thoughts were distracted by the sound of someone coming up the creaky staircase. 

"Oh John, she's beautiful," said the voice, belonging to an older female, maybe of around 40, seemingly the farmers wife. 

Her face was pretty and had a fine physique from what could be seen. She wore a long flared dress with a small top, encasing a pair of huge tits. Her nipples were poking through the fabric as she stared at Amy. 

"Caught 'em in our woods" he replied proudly. 

She walked from the staircase over to Amy and ran her hands over Amy's fine curves. She lingered on her nipples, caressing them until they became erect. Her hands ran down to Amy's thighs and stroked the cum mixture, wetting her hands. She brought her cum coated fingers up to Amy's mouth and ordered her to suck them. Amy just opened her mouth, the thought of licking both her and the farmers cum off some woman's fingers revolted her. The woman pasted her lips, returned to Amy's pussy and again coated the lips and insides of Amy's mouth with the cum mix.

She then touched Amy's pussy one more time and walked over to me. 

"Want some too?" 

I didn't answer and she pushed her fingers through my lips into my mouth, tasting the salty cream. Her hands trailed down my naked chest and ran gently over my hard cock. 

"Can I fuck him, John?" 

"As you please," was the reply. 

She told me to stand as she dropped to her knees and took my cock into her mouth. Her still moist hands ran down over my balls and played with the entrance to my asshole. It felt amazing, I didn't know where to look – at the gorgeous naked Amy, or at this mature woman skilfully sucking my cock right in front of her husband! The farmer went over to a drawer, pulled out a mini vibrator and ordered Amy to sit on the bench and use it on herself. 

"I want to see it nice and wet," he exclaimed, "coat some more of your cum on it, I want that cunt nice and wet for its next fucking." 

His wife was now pushing my cock further into her mouth, nudging the entrance to her throat. The pressure felt so good as she gagged and pushed my member right down into her throat, at which point the farmer lifted her dress and pushed his newly hardened cock into her pussy. The sensation was too much and I was breathing heavily. 

"I'm guna cum" escaped from my lips and suddenly she plunged her finger deep into my ass, reaming the insides of my virgin hole. 

The farmer was getting close once again and panted loudly as he fucked his wife. My cock burst in her mouth and it seemed like too much as she pulled it out, coating her face with my cum, still jacking me off with her hand as streams shot out into her hair. The farmer pulled her down hard on his cock as they both came together and gently slowed the pace. My cock was still hard as she ordered Amy over. 

"Do me a favour love, lick this boy's cum off my face." Amy stood back, shocked. 

"Do as she says!" yelled the farmer, now sat on the floor after his second cum of the session, "And do it good, else it'll be my cum all over your pretty face." 

Amy licked and sucked the woman's face, cleaning it of all my cum. 

"And here," said his wife, pointing to a wad that had landed on her cleavage. 

"Good, now clean up the boy's cock." Amy paused, but knowing she had no other choice, began to suck my cock, making it stand to full attention.

"Oh look! You've made the young stud hard again, it would be rather unladylike not to do anything about it, stand up" 

Amy stood up straight as the farmers wife tore down Amy's skirt, pulled the wet vibrator from Amy's cunt and grabbed her waist. Amy tried to pull away as the vibe was nudged gently into her arsehole. It was only small but hurt slightly, Amy had only tried anal sex a few times with Nick but didn't like it. 

"Now sit on his cock," she ordered. 

Amy reluctantly stood with her legs either side of my chair and lowered herself onto my hard member, slowly sucking me inside. The vibe had made her extremely wet and it was evident by the look on her face that she was on the verge of cumming. The farmer unlocked my handcuffs and my hands sprung free. Trying to escape was the last thing on my mind, I was totally amazed by Amy bouncing up and down on my cock and couldn't stop my self from grabbing her tits.

Amy lost all control and pulled my head into her breasts. I sucked hard on her nipple as she began to scream in ecstasy, her pussy sucking hard on my cock and contracting around it. I could feel the vibrations coming through from the vibe in her ass, my cock expanding and suddenly shooting a huge stream of semen right into her cunt. It was too much for her as she plunged me in and out, coming hard all over my cock. She pulled my jaw up and secured my mouth to hers, exploring my mouth with her hot tongue as her pussy sucked the cum from my cock, both of our juices leaking down over my balls. 

The motions came to a pause and we sank into each others arms.

"Looks like you've caught 2 right horny fuckers here, John," his wife interrupted, "hope he's got some cum left for me" 

With that the farmer ripped Amy from my embrace and dumped her, face down, on the bench. After the mass fucking, she did not have the energy to position herself as he dipped his cock in her pussy, coating it with juices and pulling the vibrator from her rear. He began to slide the tip of his cock over her arse, making it nice and lubricated from her and my cum that was still leaking out, then pushed it into her. She offered no resistance, her arse still open from the vibrator and her body drained from the previous sensations.

His wife was now back on my cock, totally naked and cleaning me up once again, running her tongue down to my arsehole and licking the entrance. This made my cock begin to stir again and I reached down, trying to cup her huge tits in my hands. She moved up over me and sank my cock into her pussy. I wanted revenge for the ass fumbling she gave me earlier so I hugged her close to me, shafting my cock in and out, and trailed my hand down to her arse and pushed my middle finger deep inside her. She shook with pleasure and began to fuck my finger and cock at the same time.

I looked over at Amy, "Yes, yes..." was shouting from her mouth, she seemed to be enjoying this cock in her arse. The farmer suddenly tore her to an upright position and started shafting wildly as he came deep inside her bowels. She fell onto the bench and before the farmer could lose his erection, he ran over to his wife as she was still bouncing fast on my cock. 

I pulled my finger from her arse, quickly to be replaced by the farmer's big dick. I was getting closer and closer, trying to push my cock deep inside his wife as he pummelled her from the rear. She came instantly, causing my cock to erupt inside her, sending small waves of cum into her. The farmer must have noticed cos he picked her up, and still with his cock in her arse, slammed her onto the bed. Continuing to push into his wife's arse, they were screaming with pleasure as the last of his cum spurted into her. They fell down on the bed together, wrapped in each others arms.

They seemed asleep so I crept over to Amy and we decided to make our escape. Picking up our clothes on the way, we slowly edged, naked, down the stairs. No time to dress, we ran across the field into the woods where we embraced each other, clothes falling to the floor. 

"Better get dressed and get out of here," I said. 

Both of us put on our clothes and ran. At my house Amy gave me a hug and whispered into my ear, 

"I thought you were great," she gave me a long deep kiss before running off down the street to Nicks, probably for another session. Shortly after she text me, 

"Lets just keep it our little secret, Amy xxx." 

The secret was fine with me, but I couldn't help replying, 

"Maybe we could have some more 'little secret(s)' sometime." 

She replied, "I'd love to x."



Homeward Bound



--------------------------------------------------------------

"And this is why I sojourn here, alone and palely loitering, though the sedge is withered from the lake and no birds sing - the beautiful woman, without mercy has me in her thrall."

"In vain we lavish out our lives, to gather empty wind; the choicest blessings earth can yield will starve a hungry mind."

--------------------------------------------------------------

You often see the couple walking around town, walking quickly side by side, in step, almost the same height, gray hair, his short, hers tied casually behind her head, wisps waving loose as she walks, wearing shorts and sneakers in summer, jeans and coats in winter, gray raincoats in a shower. You may see them together when you drive to work, when you drive home, when you go shopping, when you go to church. They may pass by when you mow the lawn in your quiet cul-de-sac. You might see them pass the park where you sit on the rickety stands, bored out of your skull by your son's soccer game.

They are a part of the town scenery, if you don't see them for a day or a week, it doesn't register, you think they are walking along Elm St when you're driving to the Food Lion along Main.

You might see them as you walk your dog in the cemetery (having disrespected the sign that says "Have some respect! No dogs in the Summer St Cemetery!"). They might stand for a moment by a pair of graves. You glance at the stones on your way out, each has a rose bush growing behind it, their thorny branches twine in the air. "Deborah Andrews 1934-1985", "Richard O'Neill 1934-1985". You wonder who they were, what took them, and what their relationship is with the couple, but you're distracted by your dog lunging on his leash after a cemetery squirrel up to no good under an oak tree and think no more of it.

Mostly you see them as they walk and walk, heads turned to each other more often than not, talking animatedly, smiling and laughing now and then. They make you think of your own marriage and how quiet it has grown.

Sometimes they will pause. "Look at that forsythia!" she may say.

Or as they walk passed the First Methodist Church, he may say, "The Indians really have to get a better fielder at second."

She may answer, "I like Joe Inglett, he's scrappy."

To which he might reply, "But can he handle the job every day? Sure doesn't seem like it and that Luna looks plain sluggish whenever he's out there."

Or they may stop before the closed gas station at the corner of Main and Elm, the pumps gone, rubble piled where the tanks once were buried, the windows boarded up, the aluminum siding coming loose, flapping in the wind, the concrete of the empty garage crumbled and discolored by years of oil. "Remember that bonus question on our 7th grade Ohio history exam?" she may ask.

He will laugh and say, "Sure. It was: what president visited Greenwood, what did he do here and where did he do it?"

She will answer, "Yup and YOU got it wrong. The answer was: Grover Cleveland, sleep, Greenwood Hardware."

"I thought it was so funny he'd sleep in a hardware store, I imagined him stretched out there in the aisle looking up at the screws and bolts and nails."

"First off, he wouldn't've fit, they really knew how to do obesity back than, and second, if you'd paid attention you'd've known it was the Greenwood Hotel at the time. Sometime later it became a hardware store."

"If I'd paid attention I wouldn't've failed the test."

"After we graduated they tore down the brick building and built that gas station."

They stand and look quietly at the grease stained ruin.

They walk up North Maple with its little houses, each with its attached carport and tiny yard. They turn into number 35, walk up all 5 feet of front walk, up the three steps and onto the cramped little porch. He opens the door, it is never locked.

When he steps into the darkened house he is alone. He sighs and his shoulders sag.

Two weeks later his phone rings. On the fifth or sixth ring he lurches off his bed, walks down the so short hall, walks into the kitchen and picks up the receiver. It is an old fashioned phone, black, with a rotary dial. Its ring is from a real clapper hitting a metal bell.

"Hello?" he says. After a pause he says in a soft voice, "Hello, you."

She stands on a balcony in the night. Over the rail she can see the ocean. Lines of low breakers roll in, pale dirty white in the moonlight. Their sound reduced by the expanse of sand. Her cell phone is to her ear.

"You just made love?" he asks.

She looks down at her pubic hair. It's matted with sweat and her excitement, the night breeze feels damp on her thighs. She glances into the room behind her, to the rumpled bed that fills most of it, to the man who lies amongst the sheets.

"Yes," she says.

There is a pause. He asks, "Was it good?"

She looks back out over the ocean, then up and down along the sand. In the moonlight she can see a restaurant, it's deck deserted, and beyond that the towers of a water park. She feels her heartbeat, calming but still hard. She feels the weakness in her knees, the ache in her thighs so recently spread, the fading pain in her pelvis from recent collisions. She remembers her cries. She touches her breasts, firm and young, her nipples still tender, holding the feel of eager lips. "Yes, it was good," she says.

"I saw you the other night," he says, "You were at the Red Sox / Indians game. You were in the stands. With some guy. The camera panned across the crowd and lingered. They showed you in the Sixth as well."

"I know," she said.

"You looked very pretty, just like I remember."

She's silent.

"Was that the guy?"

"No, just someone else at work. I didn't go with him for fun. The game was painful, those Indians! The sex afterwards was just empty wind."

"When will you be back?" he asks.

"I don't know," she says.

The man in the bed mutters and reaches out and makes a complaining groan.

"Not long I think. He's an easy mark. Bye now." She closes her cell and steps back into the room, leaving the sliding door open behind her. She sets the phone on the bedside table next to the box of condoms and climbs back onto the bed. She pulls the covers down and takes the man's limp slick sex in her hand and drops her head down and sucks him into her mouth.

The man groans, "Shit Deb, haven't you had enough? Get some sleep for Christ's sake."

"We can sleep later in the sun on the beach."

"Deb, I'm a broken man. I'll never rise again."

"Liar," she chuckles, his hand has started to vaguely caress her thigh, moving up between her legs to her moist crotch. She feels him stir in her mouth.

"Deb, I swear, that's just the involuntary reflexes of a stiff."

"Liar." She rears up and straddles him. She bends over and reaches for a condom. Her breasts brush his chest as she stretches, her belly pressing his now almost erect cock down against his skin. She has one and pulls it over him, holding his balls with one hand. She plants him, drops down, and grinds her hips against him.

He groans, more from discomfort than pleasure. Her hands grip his shoulders and she begins riding up and down. The bouncing of her breasts just before his eyes is exhausting and distasteful. The memory of how eager he'd been for those breasts just a short time ago is nightmarish. Her lovely young face, the face he'd been so happy to see sitting across from him in the seaside restaurant, the face guys at neighboring tables had so admired, that he'd been so eager to see close below his looking up from the pillow, now looks strained and crazed looking. He turns his head and closes his eyes. 

He feels her nails dig into his shoulders. Her bouncing becomes frantic, her breath gasping. She stiffens and cries out. He wants to put his hands over his ears.

He is more than half asleep when she starts up again.

Filtered by half opened eyelids he sees the brightening horizon through the open window, a spreading band of dark blood red. Despite himself he caresses her thighs where they strain on either side of his chest, he runs his hands over her firm ass, when his fingers reach her narrow waist he feels more desire and begins rising to meet her descents. He becomes aware of his need. He pushes and rolls her, his weight on her thigh as they struggle around. He pops out. "No, no, no" she complains, her fingers find him and frantically re-insert him. He looms over her now, her legs on either side lifting herself to meet him. At first she is out of time, then they are in sync.

The room is filled with the panting of their breaths, the groaning of the bed, the knocking of the headboard against the wall, the sucking sounds when their sweating bellies press together and separate, the sound of the waves through the open sliding doors.

His cock is hot and sweaty in its plastic tube. He looks at her face, turned to one side, her hair all over, brown and lustrous. She looks desperate and unhappy, as if she is weeping. She grabs him with arms and thighs, her mouth open wide, unable to get enough air. He feels her shuddering. He feels the tightness of his climax. There is a stab of something like pain in his cock as it releases.

He is lost in black exhaustion, his forehead is on the pillow, his chin against her sweaty shoulder, her hair matted against his cheek. The pillow is wet with saliva. It is despair pure and simple that he feels.

She squirms from under him, rolling him onto his back. His head sinks deeply into that moist pillow. The sheets feel wet and slimy. She throws a leg over him, her knee touches his balls, holding him down. Her head is on his chest, he feels her hot breath. She mutters something and begins breathing evenly, sinking into sleep.

He stares at the ceiling. It is smooth and unblemished and white. The details of the room grow clearer as light spreads along the horizon. Clouds in the east are already bright.

--------------------------------------------------------------

His phone rings again. He is sitting on a chair on the little cement patio behind his house. The hedge separating him from his neighbors is not 10 feet away. He gets up, goes in the kitchen door and picks up the receiver.

"Hello, you," he says softly, without surprise. The cord stretches as far as the refrigerator. He takes out a beer.

"Who is he?" he asks. 

She stands on the balcony, the undershirt the man wore the day before pulled over her form. Her hair is pushed in a matted mess behind her ears, her face shines in the morning light. The sun is a brilliant hole in the sky, a foot above the water, there's a brilliant shimmering path on the water from it to the sand, 20 yards from the balcony. She glances into the room, dark in comparison. The man is asleep.

"He's the human relations manager where I work. He assures me his is a great job. He'll never get outsourced, the execs will always need someone to manage their benefits and who but an American could understand the system?" she laughs, "I told him I'd let him have my job if he wanted it, it's even safer. I'm the receptionist there. The place has done quite a bit of offshoring."

He looks out the kitchen window. His little dwarf apple tree is blooming. He can see bees moving about. "He's married?"

"Of course," she says. There's a silence, she looks down the beach. The tables on the restaurant's deck are filling with early breakfasters. The sea breeze blows a napkin set down by an unwary pancake eater. It blows onto the sand beyond the deck. That sand is quite littered with white paper. Beyond she can see figures speeding down the waterpark slides, their arms waving, their voices lost to the distance, the breeze, the seagulls and the waves.

"We're at a not-so-cheap not-so-nice beach hotel in Rhode Island. The Beach Breeze Resort. His wife thinks he's at a conference."

There's another silence. "Let's talk about something else," she says.

"What do you think Westbrook's chances are tonight?"

"And I don't want to talk about baseball. The Indians are such losers."

"I'm always hopeful. He gave up 15 hits the other night and still won."

She's silent.

"You remember the summer after our senior year?"

"What about it?" she asks.

"We were always together."

"Not quite. You'd pick me up at 5:30. Your skin would look like you'd taken sandpaper to it. You'd smell like you'd doused yourself with all the antiperspirant in Ohio."

"I'd been mowing lawns all day. It took the fire hydrant to blast away the dirt."

"We'd drive and drive. Eat at a road house, go to the movies in Wooster, swim in the creek, then just park. After 55 years, my ass still remembers what the fabric of the back seat of that Bel-Air of yours felt like, what the stitching felt like, my foot remembers the feel of the glass of the rear window, what it felt like to have my leg hang over that front bench seat. I often think girls back then had much the better of it, we'd just lie there on our backs and let you guys do all the work. We could fool around. I remember I'd plant my feet on your shoulders, you'd have such a serious expression, like you were still plodding round and round behind your lawn mower. I'd run my foot along your neck, over your cheek, stick my big toe in your mouth, then I'd stretch it up to the glass and try to draw something like 'DA + RO' trapped inside a heart.

"It's the talking I remember."

"We didn't do so much of that."

"We did too. All the time."

"Well, there wasn't so much time that summer and it went real fast."

"I'd been wanting you for 4 years."

"You picked a funny way to show it. You never asked me out. You didn't even ask me to the prom."

"Would you have gone with me? You were dating Doug Massey."

"I guess not. I would've liked to've been asked though. You never did ask me out, I had to ask you remember? Like the last day, we were hanging about for the bus to take us on the Senior Picnic. Well I went up to you and asked what you were gonna be doing now school was through and you said you were gonna be doing yard work for your Dad. I said, well that's nice, I'll be seeing you sometimes when I walk uptown. You didn't say anything and then I said you could see me more predictably if you took me to the movies."

"I did ask then."

"It doesn't count."

"I asked you to marry me at the end of the summer."

"And I said no way."

The man in the bed mumbles something which turns to a complaining, "Deb?" when he realizes she's not by him. He sits up and peers at her on the balcony. She closes the phone and turns to him. She's got his tank top on, it hangs loose, through the arm openings he can see the profile of her breasts, the shoulder straps start just at her nipples. The thought of her standing on the balcony like that stirs him. His wife never would've, she'd've had her bathrobe buttoned to her chin.

"Who were you talking to?" he asks.

"First I had to call in sick. New employees get no vacation time for half a year, as you know so well. Then I called my sister."

He frowns unhappily.

She grins at him, "A girl's got to talk," she says.

This is unarguably true, his wife and daughters do nothing but, well, sometimes they yell. "That's my undershirt from yesterday?"

"Our sweat is one. But believe me, kiddo, after we've had our shower, I wouldn't touch it with gloves on." She spreads the shoulder straps and lets the white cloth fall from her. She grins at him. "Come on. We need to take a shower and get going. I'm hungry."

She makes a detour by the bedside table and takes a condom. "Come on."

He follows her swaying bottom into the bathroom. She opens the shower stall's glass door and leans in and gets the water going. She steps in, turning and letting the water play over her. The light in the stall is hard and angular. Her skin gleams and shines. She sees him standing stunned and grins, "In! in!" She reaches out and with a wet hand grabs his erection and pulls him to her. "Close the door behind you."

She lets his cock lie on her flat open hand, "I know a nice way to clean you, but later," she says to it. She takes the condom from where she'd placed it in the soap holder and pulls it on. She looks up at him, water is bouncing off her back. "There are two of us. Why do I have to do all the talking?"

She turns him so the water is hard on his back and she is somewhat sheltered. She kisses his chest and looks down and says "I need a lift."

He looks at her without comprehension. She giggles and takes his cock and stands on tiptoe. "I can't quite get on it. You're too tall."

He grips her thighs just below her ass and lifts, shifting his feet so as to be less top-heavy. She fiddles with him, he feels the tip of his cock against her entrance. He lowers her. His breath catches it feels so good.

"OK," she says, "I want my hair to get good and wet."

He turns them so her back is full in the spray and reaches up and fiddles with the nozzle. The water bounces off her hair, splashing his face as he looks down. She looks up, a little rivulet of water flows down her forehead. She blinks. He bends and they kiss.

With one hand she grips the back of his neck, with the other she takes his hand sets it on her head. "OK. Get to work. My hair is filthy."

He rubs the water into her hair. Every movement shifts her on him, he feels her thighs clinched tightly at his waist. He turns and takes the shampoo and rubs it in, her hair is thick and exciting, her face is turned up, her eyes scrunched shut. She is getting heavy and he can feel his climax not far away. He turns so the water strikes her head, the shampoo in the spray stings his eyes. When he's done rinsing and has rotated her again she shakes her head like a dog, getting the ends of her strands of hair to slap him in the face.

"Now soap yourself," she orders.

As he does she runs a foot along the slick tile. A toe comes across the edge of the soap dish. She runs her big toe across the bar and then shifts her leg so her foot comes up to his face. She sets her toe firmly to his eye. He bellows at the sudden sting and bounces her.

"Jesus Christ, Deb." He nearly shouts. He turns so the water sluices off his face. "We could've fallen! We could've gotten hurt!"

"A girl gets bored," she says, "You were taking too long."

He pulls out of her, sets her down, opens the shower door, pushes her so she is leaning over the sink. He sees her gleaming and dripping. He sees shards of her reflection in the little puddles growing on the tile floor. He sees her looking up at the bathroom mirror, looking at his reflection as he presses against her bottom. Their eyes meet, he can't tell if hers are bottomless or completely empty. He grips her hips and rams back into her. He begins fucking her hard. She grips the edge of the sink with one hand and the faucet with the other.

He sees her face with its twisted urgent unhappy expression, her lower lip pushed into her mouth, her teeth biting down. He thinks he will come any second but he doesn't. She gasps and jumps against him, she lifts her knee onto the sink top and slaps it hard and repeatedly. He keeps pumping doggedly but after some time he realizes he is tired and his moment isn't going to coalesce. He slows and stops and pulls out.

"Whew," she says. She looks down and sees he's still erect. "Now for that cleaning." She pulls the condom off and tosses it into the toilet and sinks to her knees and licks him and takes him in her mouth. She lifts her head off looks up and points to the hair dryer that's attached to the wall. "Make yourself useful."

He takes the hairdryer and flicks it on and begins running it up and down her hair. Echos of hot air hit his still wet thighs and stomach.

After a time he says, "I'm just not going to come."

"Let's get dressed then. I'm hungry and I need breakfast from somewhere."




Homeward Bound



He has his jeans on when he sees that it's almost nine thirty. "Shit. I told my wife I'd call."

He watches her brushing her hair, still thoughtlessly naked. He presses the key that dials his wife's cell.

From his wife's "Oh Hi" he realizes she hadn't really been expecting him to call. As her voice goes on he feels grayer and grayer. He doesn't listen, but watches the girl's bottom as she brushes her hair, looking at herself in the mirror over the dresser. He watches her breasts rising and falling and the movements of her shoulder blades. After a time he realizes that the phone is silent. The other end might be dead for all he cares. "I've got to get going," he says, "The first presentation is about to start. I've had all the coffee and danish I can stand." 

Suddenly he imagines his wife calling the hotel he'd said he'd be at in Atlanta to leave a message and then calling work and being told he's taking a vacation day, not at a conference in Atlanta at all. He feels a brief flush of freedom. Then it's gone. She'd call his cell if she wanted something or if something happened. His cell is the sole connection between his work and home lives.

He first saw this girl, this Deb, when she came to his office about her new-hire paperwork. It'd been his assistant who'd been part of the interview process and normally it'd've been his assistant who handled the forms, but Shirley'd emailed in sick that morning, reporting a virulent case of summer flu and since the next payroll cycle was imminent, he'd decided to take care of it himself. 

The girl'd walked in and said 'Hi, I'm Deb Andrews' and he'd risen and introduced himself and they'd shaken hands. At least he'd heard and felt himself doing those things. He himself seemed to be frozen, everything but her face out of focus.

"Hello?" she said and he realized they were still standing.

"Oh, oh yes, please, sit down," he said, and then added like a complete fool, "And I will too, sit I mean". He flushed and either the act of saying something stupid, or just being behind his desk, looking at her past his laptop, his pictures of wife and daughters, his neat stacks of papers, settled his mind a little bit.

She was so young. For the first time, he realized, they were hiring someone almost his oldest daughter's contemporary, she was maybe five years older, maybe less. He had just begun to notice that there'd been a change in young people. When he was a kid, some girls were pretty, some not so much. Now he'd been startled to notice that all young women were attractive.

This Deb, so very much.

She had brown hair which bounced about her shoulders, bounced about her face, often causing her to absent-mindedly push it behind an ear. Her eyes were greenish brown and when she looked at him light seemed to flicker within them. Her lips were full and when she spoke her voice was rich in the overtones of life. She wore a tan dress, short sleeved, her arms nicely folded in her lap. Her breasts pressed nicely against the material. He tried to remember what her legs had been like and what sort of shoes she was wearing, but couldn't. When she'd entered his office, he'd been unable to see anything but her face, everything else'd been an unfocused blur.

He felt relaxed and happy and safe admiring her. She would no more look at him than she would at the faceless man stocking a supermarket aisle.

"Yes?" she asked after another minute.

With an effort he opened her folder and took out her 401K form, "Listen Deborah," he said.

"Deb, please," she interrupted.

"Deb," he smiled, "I really urge you to join the 401K. We offer a good plan with many options appropriate for all ages and situations and we match up to 2% of your salary."

She looked up at him and grinned. That smile near took his breath away. "Nope, I really am not interested in it."

He started in on the spiel describing how little investments early would balloon into healthy retirement cushions later.

"That's a mixed metaphor," she interrupted severely, "Possibly they could balloon into health retirement blimps. I'm really not interested. I think people should be self sufficient and not sponge off others, don't you?"

"Yes," he said, feeling a bit confused.

"Right then, my old self can't expect to like leach off her young self. She must stand on her own two feet."

"Really, you should be serious about this," he said, "You could take the form home and think about it."

"Nope."

He took out the next form he'd paperclipped, "I think you made a mistake here about the health insurance."

"Nope."

"You've chosen not to take the health insurance. It's a very good plan. You can choose between an HMO and a PPO. The company pays 70%, you pay 30% of the monthly premium, the co-pays are reasonable and ..."

"Nope."

"You have insurance through a, through a spouse?" she wasn't wearing a ring and she'd flagged herself as single and she was so young.

"Like I could have more than one? I'd have to be a fast worker. Listen, I don't want the insurance, my paycheck's for me."

"Really Deb, you should talk to someone about this. Your parents? You shouldn't go without insurance. It's a stupid gamble. And the plan's only open for new enrollees once a year, besides when you're hired of course. And pre-existing conditions are only covered if you enroll when you're hired."

"You can't change my mind. I won't get sick and I've only got one pre-existing condition that affects my health."

He again felt confused.

"And it's not going to go away or get any better."

She grinned at his expression. "Like everyone else, a girl's got to eat," then she added soberly, "Sometimes I'm nothing but hunger."

He looked at her with surprise. She stood up, "Have to get back to the front desk, Julie could only cover it for a bit."

He saw that her legs were very nice, at least what he could see from just above the knee down. She paused in the doorway and asked, "Where do people go for lunch around here? Like to get a sandwich? or a salad?"

"There's the caf. in the building," he answered, "They're cheap and pretty good but they're very slow. You have to get there by 11 to be served in real time."

"That's so true, when I interviewed here I stopped there on my way out, I was like so hungry, I waited and waited and then when I ordered a BLT the guy seemed to want to think about each little thing, first he took an age over the toast, then the bacon had to be just so, then the tomato, then he forgot the lettuce and had to disassemble the whole thing. It was painful to watch. You'd think in a place like that speed would be everything."

"Some people go to the Coffee Plantation, they make a good sandwich, there's a D'Angelos a bit further away and a supermarket with a Deli about a mile south of here. Just turn right at the lights leaving the office park."

"Thanks," she said and they shook hands. When she'd gone, he'd thought that was likely the last thing he'd ever say to her, unless she quit and he did the exit interview.

--------------------------------------------------------------

When his phone rings again, he's sitting at the kitchen table. He rises and answers it. "Hello you," he says, "It's hard to make you out, where're you calling from?"

"The deck of a restaurant, it's right over the beach and there's a good deal of breeze and sea gulls and shit. He's gone in to the restroom."

"Remember the last time we saw each other?" he asks.

She understands and says, "At my mother's funeral, I'm not likely to forget that."

"She never liked me."

"She did so. When I came back from that first date, she took one look at me and said, 'We have to get you on the pill.' She didn't tell me to stop seeing you or anything. When I told her you'd proposed, she told me you were a nice boy and I was a stupid fool to turn you down."

Then she went on, "You remember how we walked after the funeral? I was feeling real sad, sad and old and sorry for myself and we just walked about town. I never realized how much there was to see or how much there was to talk about. We found ourselves at the School St Cemetery, you stopped by that sign, the one that shows a dog raising its leg, and said, 'No dogs?' and I said, 'Nary a dog,' and you said, 'Then we may proceed.' Then we found a clear patch of grass and lay on our backs and looked up at the stars"

"It was a bit buggy. We'd've been smarter going and sitting in my house."

"Well, it wasn't so bad. You began to kiss me and pretty soon we were making out like the kids we'd been."

"You didn't enjoy it so much."

"What do you mean?"

"In the car you'd always fool around doing stupid stuff, then when you got serious, you'd always make so much noise. It was deafening. There on the grass you were so quiet."

"I didn't want to come. I wanted to remember everything. Lots of times I just fuck to forget myself for a while. Drugs probably would be smarter."

"I asked you to marry me again."

"And I said no," then she laughs, putting a bare foot up on the white plastic table, rocking her chair onto two legs so she nearly tips over backward against the deck railing. "We could get married next time we're together. Just turn into Town Hall and fill out the paperwork."

He smiles too. "I can just see their expressions when they look over our birth certificates."

"I'm not sure what would show from the blood test," she says, "What would you put as your profession?"

"Oh, layabout I guess."

She laughs, "That's true enough, now and then both. Though you always did work hard."

"And what would you put?"

She sighs, "Tramp, I guess."

"That's not true or fair. You're just restless."

"That's sweet of you. Have to go, here he comes."

The man returns and resumes his seat, looking at her.

"Girlfriend this time," she says lightly.

He sighs. He just doesn't understand it. In the whole world there's just one person outside of work he regularly talks to on the phone. That's his wife. Why, he's never even phoned this girl. What's with this need to be always talking?

His wife, when he's quiet, gets artificially chirpy and tries to draw him out. Or at least she used to, he thinks. This girl doesn't. He looks at her with the breeze blowing her hair, the morning sun on her fair cheeks, her skin alive in ways that has nothing to do with makeup. She'd not even bothered with lipstick. His wife wouldn't go anywhere without it.

He cannot imagine what she sees in him.

After she'd left his office, he'd remembered that he had some other issues with her forms, she'd put in for about 30 deductions, a number maybe appropriate if she had a mortgage and 10 children and also she didn't want direct deposit. He'd sighed. Someone from the payroll group could deal with her.

He was still thinking of her when he drove up his driveway. The thoughts were certainly harmless, he told himself. Nothing could come of them.

Normally he took great pleasure in how his house looked. It's long drive, it's neat expanse of grass, the flower beds he and his wife tended so carefully, now a blaze of reds and yellows, the large house that always made him feel like some rich person in a BBC historical drama.

Now the yard looked sterile, the house looked grotesquely large and out of place, nothing looked like it belonged to him.

Climbing up the kitchen steps from the garage, he heard his wife's voice angry and raised, yelling at his older daughter. "I want the dishwasher emptied now! Not later! If LATER was OK I'd've said you could do it LATER when I asked. NOW is when it needs to be done! NOW!" His shoulders sagged and he stepped in as quietly as he could. To his right was the kitchen table. To his left the kitchen itself. His wife was clutching the island, glaring at his daughter who stood with a pained put-upon expression in the doorway to the front hall.

"There you are," his wife said. "I'm beside myself. I can't get YOUR daughter to do anything."

"Hi Jane," he said to his daughter.

"Hi Dad," she answered, her tone indicating he was a person of no importance.

"Would you empty the dishwasher please?"

"Sure Dad," and she set about it, not once looking at her mother standing furious by the refrigerator.

"Shit," his wife roared and stamped out of the room and up the stairs. 

"Jane please," he said.

"Talk to Mom. She's always on my case. She's always after me to do something."

He climbed the stairs, tired and heavy. Everything he saw was familiar and lifeless. The air was still with a stuffy suffocating lived-in scent. His wife lay on their bed, on her face, her shoulders shaking. He sat on the bed and began rubbing her back for want of anything better to do. It was hard to remember the last time he'd touched her through her clothes. He felt her back tense, then relax slightly. He felt discouraged. His unspoken plan was to just survive until the girls were both in college, things would then return to being OK. Now he wasn't sure the plan would, could, come off.

"She always does what you ask," his wife said. Her voice sounded hopeless, he thought.

"She's just scoring points, honey," he said, "It's you she has to rebel against."

"And why is that?"

"You're her mother."

"Crap, I'm just the one who's here more." His wife worked part time as a secretary in the schools. "You just turn up in the evening, like a guest."

"That's not true," he said.

"Maybe not, but that's what it seems like sometimes."

"Look," he said, "She'll be off to college in a month. Last year you had a whole year of this to look forward to. Think how much better off you are now."

She just said sadly, "I'll miss her, but she'll never look back."

His hand rested on the small of her back. He remembered the girl in the office, her trim figure, her narrow waist. The way her rear moved as she'd walked to his office door before turning.

When they made love later on in the evening, after a dinner that felt like a truce in the Middle East and an evening of his watching baseball alone, he couldn't help imagining it to be the girl's body under his, that the breasts under his fingers stood firm and smooth, not puddling and flaccid, that the chest against his was firm and smooth, that the thighs spraddled wide to either side of him were firm and smooth and active and unmarked by broken veins, that their each action was not a rehash of a thousand previous engagements, that there was spontaneity and surprise and freedom.

It wasn't fair, he knew, the girl was 22 not 44, she hadn't born 2 children and a still birth, her breasts had never swollen with milk, she hadn't lived with him for nineteen years. Still, sliding in and out felt like stirring soup. His climax came and went and he kept soldiering along to give her her pleasure. Her little shiver after a minute disgusted him.

He lay sleepless in the dark, his wife's breathing heavy and slow beside him. In his mind he imagined himself talking to the girl, "Often of late," he imagined himself saying, "I've felt that I'm looking out at the world from some removed gray place where nothing moves, that the engaged person I remember, whom my wife married, who was a father to his girls, who cared about his job, no longer exists. That person's now a facade, a recording, a poorly done computer game animation, fooling no one. I listen to its voice, watch it going through its motions, from some everlastingly dull place deep in its head."

The next day he had glimpses of the girl at the front desk when he came in to work, when he went to the little cafe for coffee, when he went to a meeting in the front conference room, when he went to the men's room. At lunch he and a friend from accounting went to the supermarket for sandwiches. He saw her in line at one of the other registers. She saw him and waved. His friend said, "That's our new receptionist isn't it? She's hot shit."

The next day he stood in line in the supermarket by himself, waiting to pay for a turkey sub. A voice he instantly recognized said from behind him, "Well Hi!"

He turned and there she stood, holding a salad, "That's quite the salad bar," she said.

"And that's quite the salad," he replied and it was. All he could see were artichoke hearts, boiled eggs, various cheeses, pea pods, baby corns, broccoli, cauliflower, blue cheese dressing. "There any lettuce under there?"

"There's plenty of lettuce. Something has to support the good stuff." She took the lid off and poked her finger in and shifted it so he could see deep into the hole. "See?" She put the clear plastic lid back on and slipped her finger into her mouth, pulling it out clean. "Wake up, it's your turn."

They'd stepped out into brilliant sunshine, heat rising about them from the expanse of lined asphalt.

"Where do you usually eat?" she asked.

"I usually go back and either eat in my office or join the bunch in the back conference room."

"Not me," she made a face, "Too nice a day. I'm going where I can see some trees and water. There's a town park just a few blocks away. I'm gonna sit on a bench. That's what I did yesterday."

She looked up at him. A retired man with his wife beside him pushed a laden cart past. The woman was holding a mess of coupons from the Sunday newspaper. "We'll go to the Food Liner next," she was saying, "I need some ..." the departing rattle of the cart drowned out what she needed.

When he was unable to say anything, the girl poked him on the shoulder, "Wanna come? I'm not after solitude. Just some sun and green and moving air. That stuff in the office's been through a thousand cold infected lungs. Come on, I'll drive."

She led him to a blue Honda Civic.

The park turned out to be small. There was a pond with a little beach and a prominent sign saying, "No Swimming! High bacterial count" and, to further assist the messaging, tape with "No Swimming" repeated over and over was strung between stakes driven into the sand and grass at the water's edge. On the other side of the beach was a little playground inside a fence with swings and a weird plastic tubular thing and children and their watching mothers. On the left a little stream fed the pond and along it there were benches, all deserted. She led him to one of these. Just a little way up the stream were a couple baseball fields. In both of these summer kids baseball was in progress. 

"They don't want you to swim," he observed after sitting and unwrapping his sub.

She laughed, "What gives you that idea?" and pitched into her salad. She ate in what looked to be companionable silence. He ate in taut silence, he felt desire and some fear. There were possibilities now that he wasn't sure he wanted. He wished he'd gone back to the office.

She tossed her white plastic fork into the slimy remains of her salad, set the aluminum plate down next to her on the other side from him, stretched and sighed. She was wearing white cotton slacks, a burgundy blouse, and sandals. Her toe nails were painted black, she had a silver ring on each second toe. She leaned toward him and lifted her face to his and kissed him. She tasted of cheese and peppers and vinegar and egg.

That quick kiss left him dizzy.

She laughed at the desire in his eyes, "Can't do much here. Not with all those moms over there." She kissed him again and he felt her tongue. She took his hand and put it on her waist and as he pulled her to him, he felt his cock stir with eagerness.

She pulled away and looked up at him. Her tongue slipped along her lip, picking up a stray sliver of grated carrot. "Don't want to shock them." 

She bent and undid her sandals. He admired the way the form of her breasts pressed against her knees. She laid the sandals on his lap. "Hang onto them," she instructed.

She stood up, turned to face him, undid her slacks, hooked her fingers in her belt and dropped her pants and her panties to her feet. She turned and ran the ten feet to the pond, jumped the no-swimming-tape and splashed in and dove shallowly into the water. He jumped up but otherwise froze watching.




Homeward Bound



She swam several strokes underwater. Her hair fluttered about her head like a jellyfish's tentacles. She twisted and stood. "Yuck! Cold slimy muck!" She splashed back out and ran dripping to him. He could see her bra clearly through her blouse. "Come on, we gotta get moving. Those moms'll all have cell phones. One's sure to call 911."

She pulled her slacks over her wet legs, the fabric turning dark and translucent where it touched her skin. "Come on, oh and get the trash and throw it in that barrel. Don't forget my shoes."

She ran down the path to the parking lot. He caught up to her at the car, panting, unused to running. "You drive," she said handing him the keys. He started the car as she huddled down on the floor. "Just be calm and slow. That's the ticket." As they turned onto the residential street a police car with flashing blue lights flew up from the opposite direction. It passed them without pause and turned into the park.

When he turned onto the main drag that would take them back to the supermarket he expected her to sit up. He felt her hand on his thigh. "Keep both hands on the wheel and concentrate on what you're doing," she warned, "Don't be afraid to bounce me about if you need to slam the brakes."

He felt her fingers on his fly, felt his zipper opened, felt her fingers slip through the fly of his jockey shorts. He couldn't remember how presentable the pair was, his wife had stopped caring when the elastic gave out and the cotton got discolored. He felt her lips on his cock. He didn't like this, he'd never let a woman go down on him, he'd always imagined it to be wet and slimy and unpleasant. When his wife'd tried, early in their relationship he'd put a stop to it quick.

He glanced down at her. She was leaning across the passenger seat, the stick shift under her right armpit. Her face was inches from his cock. "Stop," he croaked.

"If there's a light or a stop sign, don't tell ME about it,"she said, "You're in the driver's seat."

Then he felt her tongue run up from his balls to his tip and he gasped. He no longer wanted her to stop. Her fingers gripped him, she pulled him up into an easier angle and took him into her mouth.

His leg working the clutch shifted her head, moving the gear shift pushed against her chest or arm, he felt her teeth on his cock, then her tongue. She lifted her head. "Never asked if you knew how to drive a stick," she grinned, "Still don't know if you know how to drive this baby down here." Then she dropped back down on him. It took all his concentration to turn the car into the supermarket parking lot. He shifted her again as he braked and clutched and turned the car off.

He put his hand on her head, feeling her wet hair, feeling her head bob and turn. It felt so incredible. "My pants, my clothes," he gasped thinking of stains, looking around for a Kleenex.

"Not to worry," she slurred. He pushed his groin up against her face, pushing her head down with his hands. He felt the car growing hot in the parking lot sun. He felt his balls tightening. He felt his feet between the pedals pushing against the car. The pleasure spasmed in his cock. He felt her tongue pushing up against him as she swallowed, her cheeks drawn inward.

He collapsed back into the bucket seat, feeling sweaty and rumpled. His cock felt slick and unpleasant. She squirmed and sat up. She pulled the passenger's side visor down and took a tissue from the little dispenser. She wiped her lips and then stretched over and kissed him again. It did not feel that welcome.

Outside there was a clatter as a worker pushed a long line of carts toward the store. He glanced in without much curiosity.

"I have to be getting back," he said, then looking at his watch he realized that the whole thing had only taken 30 minutes from start to finish.

"So do I".

He looked at her. She was still sopping wet. Her hair was plastered to the side of her head, making it look thin and somehow starved looking. Through her blouse he could see her shoulders and her bra. Her slacks were wet from her legs and dirty from kneeling on the floor.

"You can't go back like that!"

"Don't worry. I've clothes in the trunk, I'm not completely crazy," then she began to laugh. "Your lap. It's like completely wet. From my hair. It looks like you've had an accident!"

When he got back to his office, after walking twice across the back of the building parking lot to dry his pants, he sat for a long time staring at the wall, unable to respond to his email or return his calls. Everything about his surroundings seemed unreal and unimportant. The picture of his wife, the picture of his older girl in her white prom dress standing by her boyfriend in front of a limo, the picture of his second girl on her horse, all felt so confining, like ropes lashing him to his chair. It was the memory of the girl running into the pond, splashed greenish water rising about her, that was real, that consumed him with the promise of excitement and freedom.

He stood up and fiddled with the thermostat to try and get some air moving. Guys in the cubes outside his office were going to be complaining about being frozen shortly. There was no happy balance.

Still unable to get going, he stood and went out to the men's room. This was a mistake because he saw her sitting at the front desk, composedly typing away at her computer. He felt a yawning gap of desire that nearly had him weeping. On his way back she was chatting cheerfully with a UPS delivery guy who had a two wheeler stacked with boxes leaned against her desk. She looked happy and carefree. She didn't even glance at him.

Somehow he'd pulled himself together and'd worked the rest of the afternoon.

"Come on," the girl says rising from the table, the sea breeze in her hair. She collects their paper plates, both showing the dregs of pancakes and bacon, and throws them in a barrel. "Let's walk down the beach."

--------------------------------------------------------------

His phone echos through the house. He no longer dreams so he wakes instantly and moves unhurriedly down the hall to the kitchen.

"Hello you," he says.

He looks at the refrigerator. On it is an old yellowing clipping. It reads:

"Deborah Andrews

"Saturday, Sept 14, 1985

"Greenwood -- The funeral of Deborah Andrews, late of Oakland, California was held at Edwards Memorial Funeral Home in Greenwood, Friday, Sept 13, 1985. Followed by cremation and burial in the School St Cemetery as was her wish.

"The organist was Virginia Wagner.

"Ms. Andrews, 55, is survived by a daughter, Susan Montani, of Boulder, Colorado and a son, David Andrews, of Atlanta, Georgia. Neither were able to attend.

"Her mother, Mrs. Stephan Andrews, lived for fifty years at 25 Oak St before being stricken in her home, Friday, September 6, 1985."

She sits naked on the sand. The man is stretched on his back beside her, an arm thrown over his face against the sun. He is asleep, dead to the world. The wind blows in her face, causing her hair to weave about her head. Back in the dunes away from the beach, it's quite hot.

"You just made love again," he says.

"Yes," she admits, then "Why didn't you marry me back when you had the chance?" 

"I asked, if you remember," he says, "And you said no."

"You never pressed."

"You said no pretty firmly. You said you didn't want to spend your days in a hick town."

"You could've argued, gotten upset. You just said 'Oh'."

"You said no. I didn't want to make it any worse than it was. Would it have made any difference?"

"I don't know," she says, "I was always so restless. And your family was so crushing. Remember when we went to the cookout at your Uncle Doug's? My God, there were so many of your relations there! And you were so proud. You led me around and around, holding my arm. You introduced me to aunts and uncles and cousins and you had five brothers and sisters and a mother and father as well. And three grandparents. There was a great great Aunt if I remember right with skin like white parchment. Afterwards whenever I'd walk uptown, I'd be sure to be greeted by some complete stranger coming out of like Jones' Market who'd press me to come over with you for dinner. They'd turn out to be some damned second cousin twice removed on your mother's side."

"We never went though. We always roamed by ourselves."

"I still felt like I was being crushed flat."

"We didn't have to stay in Greenwood. I'd've gone with you. I'd've gone anywhere with you."

"Yeah right. You never left that town once your whole life."

"That is not true. We drove all over. We went over to Cedar Point, up to Cleveland. We saw the Indians twice."

"And after I left?"

"Well, not so much."

"You just mowed lawns and did yard work and when your Dad retired you took over the business. You never went more that 5 miles from Greenwood center. You never dated another woman."

He looks silently at the refrigerator door.

"I remember I asked you what you did for amusement, you remember, at like our 20th class reunion. You said you'd joined the local chorus, had been singing with them for 10 years."

"It was fun," he says, "I liked to sing. So did you. You sat across from me in the altos all through high school."

"I'd often notice you were staring at me and not singing."

"You had such a fine clear voice."

"That's what you were interested in, not."

"It was, I can still hear it."

She laughs suddenly, "That group still in existence? We could join up."

He sighs sadly, "You're not around enough, you'd miss most of the rehearsals and probably the performance, and when you're not here, I just can't get up the energy to leave the house."

The man next to her says something indistinct. "Bye," she says and closes the cell. She gets on her hands and knees, straddles him and looks down into his face. She moves his arm so she can see his eyes. "Hi," she says, "You'll like get sunburned so I've got to be like your canopy." She pushes at her hair so it falls on either side of him. She bends and kisses him hungrily.

He looks up at her. He is in her shade. Through her hair he can see the blinding white sand and the sharp brilliant green of salt grasses and beach roses and scrubby bayberry bushes. They have wandered back into the dunes, past the signs warning them to keep out so as not to disturb the piping plovers. If he looks down his chest, between her thighs he can see through a dip in the dune the blue of the ocean where it meets the horizon. Her breasts as they dangle before him are soft creamy white, their nipples dark.

He feels her fingers on his cock, "Sand," she murmurs, "That won't be so nice for you."

She drops down on him quickly. The light is suddenly blinding, the colors around him become supersaturated and pale. He feels her lips about him, her tongue licking him. He looks down and sees her lick her fingers, then she reaches for her bag, takes a condom and pulls it down over him. He is again in her shade. She shifts on him, he feels her fingers placing him, then he is in. She is so tight. She shifts her legs so they rest on his, thigh to thigh, knee fitting just over his knee, he feels her toes sharp against his ankle. Sand rubs abrasively between them as she squirms on him, her eyes, below his, are tight shut. She lays her forehead on his chin and twists her bottom about. He runs a sandy hand over her thighs and up, he feels her muscles working. He wishes he could reach around and touch and caress where they join, but his fingers are all sand. He lifts his hand to her lips and pushes his fingers into her mouth, he feels her tongue hot against them. "Yum, salt" she murmurs. He sends his now hopefully sandless fingers back down, hovering so as not to touch her skin. He feels his hard cock through its plastic, he feels where she is stretched about him, he rubs her clit. She gasps and drops her knees to either side of him and begins to bob up and down hard. When she cries out, it is like the sound of a bird, some bird of prey, quickly lost in the sun, the sand, the grass and the wind.

She collapses on him, gasping. He can't wait. He rolls her, oblivious of sand, and crouches over her. He begins pumping. She lies still, spread beneath him, unmoving. His feet clinch and his climax is sharp and again it hurts. As he lies panting on her, he trys to remember when he's come so many times in a 12 hour period. Probably never.

"Shall we walk back?" she asks, "I'm getting hungry again."

As they stroll back, the spent waves foaming about her ankles, occasionally as high as her knees, he cannot imagine any connection between her youth and beauty and himself.

The next day, the day after the park experience, he'd made sure to go to the supermarket with his friend from accounting. He hadn't seen her at all and'd eaten his lunch sitting with his fellows around the conference room table unable to listen to their chat, unable to think of anything but her. Going to the restroom after lunch, he'd seen her coming up the hall with several other young women, in high spirits, laughing at something or other. They'd all said hello and she'd smiled at him.

The day after that he'd seen Mark Raposa, the manager of the in-house sales team, and a handsome, aggressive thirty-something to boot, standing at the front desk, grinning and talking to her. Going to his car at lunch he'd seen the pair of them climbing into Mark's Cadillac Escallade.

He'd felt a sharp pain in his chest such as he'd not felt since right after college when he'd first met his wife, well the woman who would become his wife, and'd learned she was living with some guy, some guy who'd seemed in every way his superior. Like then, he felt that if he only had a gun, he'd start shooting.

As he watched the red SUV roll away past the building, its reflection gliding along the office windows, he'd felt a deep pang of nostalgia for that moment long ago. When he'd first seen his wife, at a party thrown by a co-worker, she'd been drinking a margarita and his eye'd met hers and the future'd seemed wide open.

He turned and went back into the building and sat hungry in his office.

An hour later, when he felt'd the need to get a breath of fresh air, he saw she was back at her desk.

At 4:30, as he passed the front desk on one of his several trips to the restroom, he saw the pair, Mark and Deb, pushing through the glass doors into the hall. Deb saw him staring and her eyes met his and she shrugged. He went to a window facing the parking lot and watched as they walked to the guy's SUV. They weren't holding hands, but they were close to each other and walking in step. Mark was leaning to her and talking animatedly.

He was tense at dinner, snapping when his wife'd suggested that he might want to mow some of the lawn before it got dark. Then in the fifth inning of the Red Sox/Indians game, a boring rout, the camera'd panned the crowd. There she sat, a beer in one hand, a baseball cap on her full hair, Mark sitting right next to her, his arm around her shoulder. If she was paying attention to the game, he wasn't. The camera lingered, as if glad to have found such an attractive couple. In fact, it returned to them in the middle of the sixth. Neither was watching the game, they were talking cheerfully. One of the announcer'd had said, 'They've got something better to talk about than this dog of a game'. He'd felt torn up inside.

That next Monday, driving to work, he'd told himself he'd been a reckless idiot to let himself get as wound up by her as he had. That she was young and wild and could have no real interest in him and that any interest he had in her could be nothing more than masturbation, pleasurable, but solitary. That he had a wife and a family with whom he was going through the motions. That his life would run its course to an essentially satisfactory end. That all his hopes and expectations were now centered on his daughters, on their test scores, on their choices of colleges, on their successes and not his own. That he was a fool to feel lonely, trapped, and lost.

At 11 that morning he got an email from her, all subject, no body, "Lettuce at 12 o'clock?"

He'd stared at it. He imagined ignoring it, simply deleting it. It would remain in the company's email archives, possibly glanced at by auditors or lawyers who might wonder if it was code for some kind of insider trading, until they checked out the people involved and realized how outside the loop they were. He would go about his business, perform his family obligations, would remain outwardly blameless.

He'd emailed back "Sure." He'd felt a surge of excitement, his cock'd stirred, he'd felt liberated and scared.

When his friend'd stuck his head in the door and said he was thinking of going to D'Angelos for a sub, he'd replied, "No, I think I'll just go to the caf. here in the building. I've got work to do."

"You drive," she said as they came out of the supermarket. She wore a striped sundress, thin red and green stripes on light white summer material. It had thin straps over her shoulders. The skin of her shoulders and arms shown in the sun. She wore sandals, just slightly higher in the heel than the toe. From the way her breasts moved he wondered if she was wearing a bra.

He looked stupidly around the parking lot, unable to remember where his car was.

"It's over there." she pointed at one of the little neglected kiosks for shopping carts. "I saw you park as I drove up." She took his arm and all but pushed him, like one of the workers rounding up scattered carts.

"The park?" he'd asked as he started the car, glancing over at her as she'd leaned back.

"Those mom's'd show no mercy and I think someplace more comfortable is in order. I'll give directions."

Her hand reached over, rested on his thigh, then slid to his zipper.

"Listen," he said, almost croaking. He was going to tell her to stop, but then felt her fingers about his cock and couldn't get the words out. With his peripheral vision he could see the motion of her white hand. She got him out straight, the darkened head of his cock just touching the steering wheel, it slid against it as he turned the car onto the exit drive, heading toward the light on the highway.

"Right at the light," she said and she tipped his cock hard over so it lay against his right thigh. When he had the car on the road, she straightened him up, her fingers fiddling idly.

"Right again at this little street," she said tipping his cock so it pointed toward herself, she stretched over and kissed it and gave it a little lick, removing the pearl of fluid that had gathered on its tip.

"Where are we going?" he managed, barely able to recognize his voice.

"Oh, we'll know when we arrive," she said. After passing a slow children sign she bent him away from her, aiming him at his door. "Hey! Left turn here!"

He'd braked hard and turned onto a winding subdivision street.

"Pay attention!" she'd ordered, "Sheesh!"

When she'd next tipped his cock towards herself, he'd obediently turned the car onto another little street. His breathing came hard, he felt amazed that he could keep the car on the asphalt, only vaguely aware of the large houses and grassy yards they were passing.

She tipped him to the left then to the right. He felt lost, aware solely of her fingers caressing him.

"Hey," he exclaimed, "We passed here a minute ago!" He only knew this because of a large dumpster planted beside the house. Men were on the house's roof, the noise of nail-guns was muted by the car's closed windows.

"Yup, I'm just having so much fun. But OK."

She pressed his cock hard against his belly. "Are you a slow learner or what! That means slow down! This means speed up!" and she pulled him forward till the angle hurt. She laughed when he lurched the car forward, tromping on the accelerator. She pressed his cock back again against his shirt and belt and he let the car slow to a crawl.




Homeward Bound



Eric settled into his seat at the back of the plane. After being bumped, he and Tess were finally on their way home. The red eye flight was mostly empty. It wasn't the four o'clock flight liked they had planned, but at least it was a flight. He looked at Tess and smiled. It had been an interesting week. Eric chuckled has he thought about the look on Max's face. "Served him right," he thought. Max had been trying to get Eric to hook up with someone every time he was in town, but Eric refused. Maybe now that he had met his wife, he would drop the idea.

"What's the matter?" Tess asked.

"Nothing. Just think about this week," Eric replied as he rested his head against the side of the plane. "I better get some sleep. This late flight kinda screwed me. I'm going to have to go straight to work from the airport."

"Do you have to?" she asked disappointedly.

"You know I'm going to be further behind after being out last week. I'll be home as soon as I can. But right now, I've got to get some sleep."

Tess shivered as she snuggled in close to him. "It's a bit cold on here. Can you hit the call button for the stewardess? Maybe she can get me a blanket."

"Yes, my love," Eric said sarcastically as he reached for the button. "Anything you want." He chuckled as Tess slapped him playfully. 

"Is there something I can get you?" the stewardess asked.

"It's a bit chilly. Would I be able to get a blanket? " Tess asked.

"Sure thing," she said with a smile as she turned to retrieve a blanket from the overhead compartment across the aisle. As she stretched to reach the blanket, her short skirt rode up slightly exposing the tops of her stockings and the clasps of the garter belt, which held them up. Eric quickly took notice and his cock began to stir.

"Anything for you sir?" she asked as she looked over her shoulder.

"No, thank you. I'm fine." Eric smiled as he quickly turned away. He knew she had caught him staring. The stewardess flushed realizing she had been giving him a bit of a show. She quickly straightened her skirt, flashed a smile and headed back up the aisle.

They were the only ones in their row, the only ones in the last four rows for that matter. Tess let out a heavy sigh as she laid her head on his lap and covered up with a blanket the stewardess had given her. It was only a matter of seconds before they both drifted off.

Eric's mind raced as he slept. His dreams all seemed so real. He had images of Tess's crimson lips sliding up and down his hard cock, her tongue swirling around the tip, her fingers caressing his tightening balls. As he stirred in his seat, Eric felt something he hadn't felt since he was a teenager. The feeling that he was going to explode in his pants. The feeling roused him from his sleep even more. He tried to shift in his seat as the feeling intensified but Tess was keeping him from moving, her head still in his lap, her face partially covered with the blanket. He knew he was seconds from cumming.

"Sir, would you please wake your wife, we are about to land."

Eric froze as the first jet of cum exploded from his cock. He opened his eyes to see the stewardess just two rows in front of him. His cock continued to spasm spewing out a massive load. He dared not move.

"Sir, you need to wake your wife. We are about to land," she said as she started closer.

"Yes, ma'am," Eric stammered trying to keep his composure, hoping she wouldn't come any closer.

"Thank you," she replied as she smiled coyly and gave him a wink as she walked away.

Eric waited a moment before shifting in his seat and pulling the blanket back. Tess looked up at him and smiled, a small bit of his cum stuck to the corners of her mouth. Tess sat up, his cock still in her hand and kissed him full on the mouth her tongue intertwining with his. Eric could taste the bitter saltiness of his seed as she broke their embrace.

"Jesus Tess, what the fuck are you doing?!"

"I was hungry. I wanted more of what I got last night," she said nonchalantly as she continued to stroke his softening cock. "Ooh," she squealed as she managed to milk one last drop from him. "Looks like I didn't get it all!"

Tess sucked the last drop off the head of his cock and cleaned up what had escaped her mouth. "Mmm, that should hold me for a while," she giggled. Tess tucked his cock back into his pants where she had found it and sat up just as the plane touched down. "Besides, it would have been a shame to let that hard cock go to waste."

The plane rolled into the gate and they collected their things from the overhead.

"Hope you enjoyed your flight," the stewardess said to Eric as he exited the plane. "Please fly with us again soon."

Eric flushed a hundred shades of red. He knew she knew what was happening at the back of the plane. He was grateful she let it go without incident.

Eric and Tess headed for the baggage claim to collect the remainder of their luggage. It was later than he realized and the luggage was taking forever. Eric fidgeted as the last of the luggage appeared in the carousal. "Where the hell is it?" he thought.

"Damn it! I don't have time for his! I've got to get to work; it's 8:30 already!"

"Don't worry about it honey. Go. I'll take care of it." Tess gave him a reassuring smile and peck on the cheek. "It'll be there when you get home tonight."

"Ok," Eric sighed as he rubbed his aching forehead. The lack of sleep over the last few days had him on edge. He kissed his wife one last time and headed for the exit to catch a cab.

   *****

Eric fumbled through his day. His mind kept drifting to the events of the past few days. It was hard not to. The late flight had him drinking more coffee than normal and every time he took a piss, a red lipstick ring around his cock greeted him. He still hadn't figured out what got into Tess. He didn't think she would go for his little role-play fantasy. Their sex life had been failing and they had both acknowledged it. Both had agreed to try new things and talked about their fantasies. Surprisingly, this was one they both shared. Or at least Eric said he shared. His real fantasy was sharing his wife with another woman, but he knew Tess would never go for it. So to keep their sex life going, he agreed to a little role-play.

When Eric mentioned his upcoming trip, Tess suggested they use it as an opportunity to spice things up again. Eric had always talked about Max and how he would try to set him up with women at the bar. It wasn't long before Eric and Tess had the idea for their role-play weekend...and a little practical joke for Max. 

It was 6:00 p.m. when his cellphone buzzed. Eric looked to see who it was. It was a text from Tess. "Where are you? We need you!" the message read. Eric chuckled. He wasn't sure how much more of his wife he could take. Her new found sexual energy was running him into the ground. But then again, who was he to complain! He quickly finished up what he was working on and texted her back. His phone buzzed again as he headed out the door. "We couldn't wait any longer, we started without you ;)" it read. "We? I guess we brought the role-play home," he thought.

   *****

The cab ride home took forever. "Twenty two fifty," the cabbie said as they came to a stop in front of their house. Eric fumbled through his wallet looking for something smaller than a fifty. "Fuck it," he thought as he handed the cabbie one of the bills. "Keep the change," he said has he hopped out of the cab and hurried for the front door.

"Hey mister," the cabbie yelled. "This is a fifty..."

"I said keep the change," Eric yelled back as he rushed up the walkway. "I don't have time for you to figure out the change," he murmured to himself has he unlocked the front door. Eric rushed inside nearly tripping over their luggage. He could hear Tess moaning as she was about to cum. She definitely hadn't wasted any time getting started. From the intensity of her moans, he could tell it was going to be a big one. Eric rushed upstairs to the bedroom. He stopped and stared in awe. His cock immediately sprang to life and ached to be released. But all he could do was stand there and stare.

    *****

Samantha was a late bloomer. She never really filled out until after school. She was lucky to find a job as a stewardess. It gave her everything she was looking for. A job that allowed her to travel and see new places. Unfortunately, it didn't give her time for much else. She had few friends outside of those she worked with and holding onto a boyfriend seemed somewhat of a challenge. She found herself recently single having come home from work unexpectedly the night before when her flight was cancelled due to weather related issues only to find her live-in boyfriend in their bed with some girl that worked in his office. Samantha cried herself to sleep that night trying to figure out what was wrong with her. She eventually came to the conclusion it wasn't her, any guy would be lucky to have her. Nonetheless, she was still a little down the next morning. Having a day off before her next scheduled flight, Samantha decided to do what any girl would do to cheer herself up...spend the day shopping and pampering herself.

Samantha had made an appointment at her local salon to get her hair and nails done, and to get some much needed therapy from her friends at the salon. The chatter was as she had expected. Everyone agreed her boyfriend was an ass. It made her feel better just hearing others say it. The general consensus was she need to do something special. Something to make her feel good now that she was back on the prowl. Samantha agreed. But what? She had already had her hair done and her nails looked absolutely beautiful painted in a pink and white French manicure. What else was there? Then a thought crossed her mind. 

"Desi, do you..." Samantha stopped mid-sentence and blushed. 

"Do I what?," her stylist/therapist asked. 

"Oh, nothing, it was a crazy thought anyway. It was just something I had read about in a magazine," she replied, blushing even more. "It was a stupid thought."

"Honey, at this point, nothing's stupid. Now tell me, what were you thinking?"

Samantha motioned her closer. "Do you do waxing? You know, waxing?" she said, her eyes motioning to her most private of areas.

"Of course we do," Desi said with a laugh. "Have you ever had it done?"

"No...does it hurt?"

"Oh, honey, I won't lie, it hurts like hell, but tomorrow, you will be in heaven. Well make you as smooth as the day you were born. But trust me, it will be worth it. You'll wonder why you hadn't done it before."

"Let me think about it," Samantha said, still a little unsure of the idea. "Let me think about it."

Desi put the final touches on Samantha's hair. "Honey, only a fool would mess around on you. Look at you!" she said tussling her curls as they both looked at the changed woman in the mirror. Samantha smiled. "She's right," she thought to herself. "Only a fool," she repeated.

"Now follow me," Desi said grabbing Samantha's hand.

"Where are we going?"

"Just follow me," Desi replied.

She led Samantha into a back room in the salon. "I'm not giving you a chance to back out on this. It's my treat. Now strip and lay down on the table."

Samantha blushed again. No one other than her boyfriend had ever seen her naked before. She hesitated as she started to strip. "Oh, honey, don't be shy. I've seen it all," Desi said with a chuckle. "I won't bite!"

Samantha forced a smile. She couldn't believe she was actually going through with it, but she was. "Why not," she thought to herself. Samantha stripped down; her well toned body exposed for the world to see. Well at least Desi, that is. "Only a fool," Desi said as she gazed over Samantha's naked body. Samantha quickly tried to cover herself. "Sorry honey. I didn't mean to embarrass you. Only a fool would mess around on this! Now lie down and let me work my magic."

Samantha laid the table; her heart was beating a mile a minute. She couldn't wait to get it over with. She could feel the warmth of the wax on her nether region. "Now just relax," Desi said. Without any further warning, she ripped the cloth strip removing hair and wax. Samantha nearly jumped off the table. "This is going to sting a little."

"Jesus, Desi, warn me next time!"

"Sorry, honey, it's better that way the first time..."

The torture continued. Each pull of the strip hurt like hell, but not nearly as bad as finding her boyfriend in bed with another woman. Samantha closed her eyes and bit her lip to hold back the tears. What seemed like an eternity was really only a matter of minutes. The torture had stopped and Desi was rubbing her newly exposed pussy with oil. "This will soothe the skin. Use a little more tonight and tomorrow you will be in heaven!" she said handing Samantha a small bottle of oil. "I'll leave you to get dressed." Desi left, closing the door behind her. Samantha lay there for a moment afraid any movement would bring back the sting of the waxing. Finally, after a few minutes, she got up the courage to move. Desi was right. Whatever she had given her was helping. Samantha slowly sat up. She gazed at herself in the full-length mirror on the wall. Standing, she admired her body with its newly exposed skin. She was slightly aroused by what she saw. Fresh and bare as the day she was born. "Only a fool," Samantha murmured as she smiled at her self, taking a moment to explore herself with her hands. A shiver went down her spin as she brushed her exposed pussy. She wanted to explore more, but now was not the time. Desi was waiting and she still had things to do. Samantha quickly dressed and headed to the front. Samantha reached for her wallet, but Desi stopped her.

"It's all on us," she said with a smile motioning to the other girls in the shop. 

"Thanks!" Samantha replied. "But you don't have too..." 

"Enjoy your flight. Hope you find yourself someone who will appreciate you. We'll see you in a few weeks."

Samantha left feeling more like a woman than she had when she started her day. She had one more stop before heading home and packing for her flight. A few doors down was her favorite lingerie shop. Although she had no one to "share" it with, Samantha still wanted to pick up a few things. And she knew exactly what she wanted. Feeling like a new woman, it was time for a change. She had always seen models wearing stockings and a garter belt. She had always thought to herself how sexy they looked but had never worn them herself, mostly because she thought her boyfriend would think it was silly. But it was time for a change. She headed for the hosiery section of the store and picked out some stockings and a garter belt that would go with her uniform. "May as well go all the way," she murmured to herself as she walked past a display of satin panties and bras. After a short root through the piles, she managed to find a matching pair. Her pussy began to tingle. She wasn't sure if it was from the waxing or the thought of her wearing her new lingerie, but she was sure she was ready to get home. The store clerk gave her an odd look as she rang up the articles. Samantha gave her a half smile and said nothing as the clerk cashed her out. Samantha quickly headed for home to relax the remainder of the day. Before heading off to bed, she massaged some more of the oil Desi had given her into her aching pussy. The slightest touch of her hand had her tingling. "I hope you're right Desi," Samantha said to herself as she finished up. "I hope you're right." Samantha pulled her nightgown over her head and headed for the bedroom. She couldn't help but think about what she walked into the night before. She couldn't bear to sleep in that bed. Samantha headed for the couch in the living room. There she cried herself to sleep.

Samantha was roused from her sleep by a constant beeping. She rolled over on the couch and grabbed her phone to shut off the alarm. "How can it be 5:30 already?" she mumbled as she rolled off the couch and headed for the bathroom. She was still in a sleepy daze as she showed. It wasn't until her soapy hands made contact with her bared pussy that she remembered her antics from the day before. Desi was right. She was in heaven. The slightest touch was intensified one hundred fold. Fire shot through hear body as she her soapy hands massaged her pussy. Samantha wanted so badly to continue, but she knew it would have to wait. She couldn't afford to miss her flight. She quickly finished her shower and fixed her makeup. Samantha looked at the bag of lingerie on the bedroom floor. She smiled remembering what she had bought. She carefully examined each piece as she took it out of the bag. Samantha had never worn a garter belt and stocking before. She was mesmerized by how much silkier the stockings felt compared to her normal pantyhose. Her pussy began to tingle again and she could feel her juices start to escape from her excited pussy. She carefully put the garter belt around her waste and fastened it. It fit her perfectly. Samantha fumbled with the clasps that held the stocking for a few minutes, struggling to figure out how they worked. She soon figured it out and she carefully slid the silky stockings up her legs. They were extremely sheer and her perfectly pedicured toes peeked through the material. After securing the stockings with the clasps, she slowly slid the satin thong up her long legs. The satin material against her bare skin sent shockwaves through her body. She could feel herself getting wetter. She again wanted to badly to explore her body, but knew she didn't have time. After fastening her bra, she stood and admired herself in the mirror. The beauty she saw shocked her. She had never seen herself like this. "If only I had done this sooner," she thought. "No!" she said out loud. "He didn't deserve this!" she said with a smile. Samantha glanced at the clock. "Shit!" she exclaimed. "I've got to go!" She quickly threw on her uniform and stepped into her heels. One last glance in the mirror had her concerned that the skirt she thought was long enough to conceal her new lingerie was in fact not. "Oh well, it'll have to do," she said as she rushed out the door.

Samantha boarded the plan and went through her usual routine. She walked the aisles checking to make sure previous passengers left nothing behind. Although she was wearing heels, Samantha still had to stretch to check the overhead compartments. While doing so, Samantha noticed cool air against her thighs. It was only then she that she realized just how short her work skirts really were. The tops of her stockings exposed. Luckily, there was no one else on the plan at that time. She was going to have to remember to be careful or some lucky passenger would get a free show.

The flight out was boring as usual. This was her usual flight and Samantha saw a lot of repeat passengers, mostly married businessmen. She sighed as the plane emptied. She was never going to find another boyfriend, at least not on one of these flights. Samantha sighed again as she went about her pre-boarding routine. She couldn't wait to get home and relax. The out and back flights were getting to be too much. But at least with it being a red-eye, she could possible get some rest.

Samantha manned the front and greeted the passengers as they boarded. "Usual crowd," she muttered to herself as the last of the passengers boarded.

"Excuse me, Miss?" someone called as she turned from the door. "Please tell me there are seats open in the back. I was bumped from an earlier flight and was told I could get one on this flight."

Samantha turned to face the late passenger. Her heart skipped a beat. There walking towards her was the man of her dreams. She knew it sounded cliché, but she was looking for a tall, dark, and handsome man, and here he was.

"Miss?"

"Oh, um, sorry," she stammered and forced a smile. "Can I help you?"




Homeward Bound



"Yes," the man answered. "I was told the back of the plane was open and there would be a seat for me. I was bumped off the last flight and I want to be as far away from everyone as possible so I can get some sleep."

"Sure," she answered with a smile. "Sit anywhere you like." Samantha stepped out of the aisle and let him pass. She looked for a ring, but was unable to see one. "How is he single," she said to herself with a smile. This was one opportunity she was going to take advantage of. Samantha stepped back out into the aisle to check on her new passenger.

"Oh! Excuse me!" a voice said from behind her.

Samantha jumped as another late passenger bumped into her. "Oh, no, excuse me, I'm sorry. I didn't see you," she said as she stepped out of the woman's way. Samantha's heart sank as she watched the woman sit down with her dream man. She turned and headed for the front, her dreams dashed. She was only part way up the aisle when the call light lit up. "Damn, it," she muttered. "We aren't even in the air yet," she said to herself. Samantha turned to see who was bothering her already. It was the back row. "Great," she thought. "At least this will give me a chance to survey the situation better." She put on a smile and headed to the back of the plane.

"Is there anything I can get you?" the stewardess asked.

"It's a bit chilly. Would I be able to get a blanket? " the woman asked.

"Sure thing," she said with a smile as she turned to retrieve a blanket from the overhead compartment across the aisle. As she stretched to reach the blanket, her short skirt rode up slightly exposing the tops of her stockings and the clasps of the garter belt, which held them up. 

"Anything for you sir?" she asked as she looked over her shoulder.

"No, thank you. I'm fine." The man's face flushed and he quickly looked forward. Samantha flushed too realizing she had been giving him a bit of a show. She quickly straightened her skirt, flashed a smile and headed back up the aisle.

Samantha took her seat, fully embarrassed by what had just happened. "Oh well," she thought. "At least I got his attention," she said with a smile.

The plane took off and the cabin lights dimmed. It wasn't long before the passengers were asleep. Samantha took a walk back the aisle pretending to check on passengers. She was really just surveying the situation and seeing how many were asleep. To her surprise, the entire plane was out. Not a soul stirred. She took a long look at her dream man and his woman. "No rings," she thought. "Maybe I do have a chance." She smiled and walked back to her seat to try to get a few minutes of rest herself.

Samantha stirred in her seat. She had slept longer than she realized. She peered around to see if any of the other passengers had awakened. To her delight, not a soul stirred. Samantha couldn't take it any more. She had been dreaming about her tall, dark and handsome at the back of the plane. Her pussy ached and her panties were thoroughly soaked with her juices. She looked around one more time to be sure everyone was asleep. Satisfied that they were, Samantha hiked up her skirt just enough to gain access to her aching wet pussy. She had never done this before and the thrill of getting caught as well as her touch on her bare skin had her ready to break over the edge. Samantha worked her fingers in and out of her dripping pussy and rubbed her swollen clit. She was getting close to cumming and she knew it. Her eyes closed and her backed arched a bit in her seat lifting her slightly. Samantha imagined it was the raging hard cock of her dream man at the back of the plane slamming into her tight hole. Samantha hit her peak and started to cum. She bit her lip as she gave in to pleasure her orgasm, silencing her cries of bliss. Samantha continued to finger herself working toward a second orgasm. Just has she hit her peak a second time, Samantha felt a hand caress her inner thigh. She froze in fear, her face flushed from the orgasms she just had as well as embarrassment. All she could do was stare at the woman next to her. The woman from the back of the plane. The woman that was with her dream man!

   *****

Tess stirred. There was only about forty-five minutes left in their flight and she couldn't get back to sleep. She kept thinking of the "show" she had caught earlier. Undoubtedly the same show that was causing the lump in Eric's pants, the main reason she was awake. The lump that she so desperately wanted to do something about. Tess looked around the plane. The lights were still dimmed and most of the passengers on the redeye flight were still fast asleep. Tess had talked herself into using the restroom in order to get a better handle on the situation before she further pursued what she was after. She quietly arose from her seat and made her way down the center aisle. Much to her delight, all of the passengers on the back half of the plane were still asleep. Everyone, that is, except the stewardess. Tess could see she too was stirring. Tess stealthily slipped into the restroom and closed the door. Tess freshened up her makeup and applied a fresh coat of red lipstick. A little something for Eric to remember her by later in the day as he would likely have to rush off to work as soon as the plane landed. She smiled at herself in the mirror as she straightened her clothes. She took a deep breath and every so quietly opened the restroom door. Tess took a moment to again survey the situation. The passengers around them were still fast asleep. Tess started back the aisle before remembering the stewardess. She stopped and looked over her shoulder. The stewardess was still stirring in her seat, but the movements didn't seem to be those of someone who was having trouble sleeping. They were too rhythmic. Almost as if...Tess's curiosity got the best of her. She quietly crept towards where the stewardess was sitting. As she got closer, her suspicion was confirmed. Tess watched intently. The stewardess, unaware of her presence, continued to furiously rub her excited clit. Tess's pussy began to ache. She crept closer yet, being careful not to attract attention to herself or the stewardess. She watched as the stewardess bit her lip to stifle her moans. Her back arched, lifting her off the seat slightly. Tess knew she was at the edge. She slipped into the seat beside her. As she hit her peak of excitement, Tess reached to caress her inner thigh. Her body began to shake uncontrollably. As her orgasm subsided, the reality of the situation sunk in and the stewardess froze in fear. Her face flushed, mostly from embarrassment, but partially from the mind blowing orgasm she just had.

"Mmm, that was great...Thanks for the second show," Tess whispered, her crimson lips inches from the stewardess ear. "Don't worry, your secret is safe. I'm the only one awake." Tess's hand wandered further up her thigh to her sopping pussy. She gasped and tensed as Tess's hand made contact with her extremely sensitive clit. "Your secrets safe," Tess whispered again as she gave her a peck on the cheek leaving a faint lipstick mark. Tess took notice of her nametag. "Samantha. What a beautiful name for such a beautiful young lady. A young lady that knows how to please herself," she said taking in the beauty in front of her. "Please, let me repay you with a show of your own. Your little stocking peep show did quite a number on my husband. I was just about to give him some relief before we land." There was no response, only a blank stare. Tess stood up. A quick glance around the plane, much to Tess's pleasure, revealed that no one else had awakened. Tess hurried quietly back to her seat where Eric was still sound asleep. Carefully, not wanting to disturb him, Tess worked the zipper of his pants down and freed this still hard cock. She smiled as she kissed the head leaving to red lip prints. Eric stirred slightly, obviously lost in a dream. She knew she would have to work quickly before he woke up and stopped her. Tess took his entire length into her mouth leaving another red ring, this time at the base of this cock, before ever so slowly working her way back up to the tip. Eric stirred some more. Obviously whatever he had been dreaming about had him extremely worked up. His cock was harder and thicker than she had ever seen it. It seemed a shame to waste it on a blowjob, but she would have to make due. Regardless, she was going to get the load she a longed for. And she knew just how to get it quickly too. Tess's tongue swirled around the tip of his cock at a feverish pace as she caressed his balls. Eric stirred even more. His hips began to move as he fucked her mouth in his sleep. Tess felt a hand on her back as a blanket was laid over her. "We are going to land soon," a voice whispered. "You had better finish." Tess could only assume it was Samantha who had covered her as she was too focused on the task at hand to stop and look. Eric's balls began to draw tighter and the tip of his cock swelled even more than before. Tess knew what was about to happen. She readied herself her treat. Just as the first jet of thick gooey cum blasted into her waiting mouth she heard the voice again, this time not in a whisper. "Sir, please wake your wife. We are going to land soon." Eric's eyes flew open as he suddenly realized his dream was more than a dream. He froze, unable to respond. His cock continued to spasm, sending more and more cum into Tess's mouth. His eyes were locked on the alluring brown eyes of the tall brunette stewardess who was just rows away. "Sir, please wake your wife. We are about to land," she repeated as she took a step closer. 

"Yes, ma'am," Eric finally managed to stammer as his orgasm subsided. "Thank you, I will." 

"You're welcome," she said with a smile as she turned and headed back up the aisle to wake the other passengers. Eric's heart was racing. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled as he pulled the blanket back. Tess looked up and flashed him a smile before continuing to clean up the last remaining drops of cum that leaked out of his deflating cock. "Jesus, Tess! What got in to you?..."

    *****

Tess never would have dreamed her day would have gone the way it did. Only a few hours ago she was getting her fill of her husband's hot seed. Now, she was in heaven. Every nerve ending in her body was going into sensory overload. Her erect nipples were so hard they ached. The slightest touch was sending her into another mind-blowing orgasm, each one more intense than the last. Tess pinched and pulled her own nipples as she hit her next peak. Her body trembled as her pussy flooded with her juices. Tess collapsed and lay limp like a rag doll as her lover continued to expertly lick her dripping wet hole. Her eyes were closed as she absent-mindedly played with her lover's hair. Tess was in another world. A world where the next orgasm was seconds away. And seconds away it was. Tess bolted upright and grabbed her lover's head, pulling it deeper into her pussy. Tess looked into Eric's eyes as she came again. As the most recent wave ended, she held a finger up to her lips signaling Eric to remain quiet. Eric had no intention of making any noise. The last thing he expected when he got home was a show and he wasn't about to have it end now. 

Eric watched intently as his wife's stocking clad lover sent her over the edge again and again. The show was too much for him. Eric managed to quietly strip and began to slowly stroke his throbbing cock. A steady stream of pre-cum was leaking out of the tip. A long trail of the clear slippery fluid dangled from the end before dripping onto the floor. Tess hungry licked her lips not wanting to waste the sweet fluid leaking from her husband's throbbing cock. She motioned for Eric to come over to her. Eric hesitated wanting to tease her. He knew she wanted his pre-cum. She couldn't get enough of it. She again motioned for him to come to her, but Eric didn't budge. Instead, staring her in the eyes, he took his index finger and wiped up the pre-cum from his cock. In keeping with their agreement to try new things, Eric raised the finger to his mouth and sucked it clean. It was salty and sweet. He could now see why Tess loved it so much. Tess trembled in ecstasy as her pussy squirted covering her lover with her juices. As her orgasm subsided, she pulled her lover from between her legs and kissed her. Tess could taste her sweet pussy on her lover. It was sweet as honey.

Eric continued to stand in the doorway and slowly stroke his cock as he watched his wife and her lover make out. He watched intently as Tess' lover kissed every square inch of her body eventually collapsing beside her.

"Mmm, sweety, that was good. I've never cum like that before!"

"My pleaser," her lover said with a smile. "When will your husband be home?" she asked as she closed her eyes and snuggled up closely to Tess. "I should probably go soon."

"He'll be home soon," Tess replied as she ran her fingers down her lovers back caressing her. "Very soon."

Eric was seconds from losing it and Tess knew it. She could see his balls start to tighten up. The sight of two stocking clad, gorgeous women would have normally sent him over the edge in a heartbeat. Fortunately for Eric, Tess had already taken a huge load from him that morning on the plane giving him a little more stamina now. Even so, she was surprised he was able to hold out as long as he had. 

Unable to wait any longer and not wanting to waste his load, she motioned for him to come to her. Eric quietly made his way over to the side of the bed. Tess' lover started as Tess quickly leaned over her and took Eric's exploding cock in her mouth. "Very soon," he repeated. Her lover lay there, frozen, not knowing what to do. Eric looked her in the eyes as he finished unloading in Tess' mouth. It was the first time he had gotten a good look at Tess' lover. 

When Tess was satisfied that she had gotten every last drop of Eric's cum, she released his cock from her mouth with a 'pop'. She grinned has she grabbed her paralyzed lover and kissed her, forcing a bit of Eric's cum into her mouth. Tess greedily swallowing the rest herself. Her lover instinctively swallowed. "Just a taste for now. There will be plenty later. No need to rush off," Tess said as she smiled at her lover. 

To be continued............



Homeward Bound Ch. 01



"I used to fly way back when, so if my terminology or procedures are not quite up to par, please forgive me. This is a simple story of mistakes, heartache, love and forgiveness." 

Temuchen

*

Looking out the window, all I could see was a grayish white blanket...nothing more. Glancing from left to right, I re-checked the instruments making sure of my heading, attitude and altitude. Yeah, everything okay...so far. I didn't like flying through clouds, which meant I had to pay more attention to my gauges instead of flying visual. Looking at my VOR settings, I saw the needle was off to the right. Shit, I was going to be chasing that stinking needle. I checked the map and found I had a variation of five degrees off course. Shit, how long had I been flying on this error? I checked the map noting the five degree mistake from take off; however, I didn't know when the plane went off course. Fuck, the heading was correct...must have been wind drift. 

Whenever you read about light plane crashes, pilot error is often the cause. Hell, now I could become one of those statistics in pilot error. 

My name is John...John Joseph LaRouche. Several hours back, I had taken off from a small private airfield in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, returning home to Seattle, Washington. I had been following the 90 Interstate but lost that ability when I became embroiled in a low ceiling. Hopefully, at the moment, I should be about fifteen hundred feet above Snoqualmie Pass. Not a good spot to be when you might be lost. I knew I should be above the highest point over the pass but you never knew for sure when flying on instruments. The only thing I was sure of for now, I have fuel, my attitude is level, the heading correct for my destination and nothing but white outside my windows...kinda like flying wrapped inside a bed sheet. Yeah, I was in real good shape.

I thought of my wife, JoAnne, waiting at home with the kids. We had a fight before I left for Idaho. She didn't want me to go and I asked her if she liked living in the house we owned, if she enjoyed driving the Lexus, if she wanted the children to continue in that expensive private school she insisted they attend. JoAnne glared at me comprehending I knew what her answer would be and called me a bastard. I merely smiled, picked up my bags and walked out the door without as much as a plea to be careful; although, I thought I did hear a sniffle or two. You see, not more than a month back, I discovered my darling wife had an affair with my dear dead brother. Well, not really deceased...just dead to me.

Their little tryst occurred when I had to fly up to Vancouver, British Columbia. In my business, I have to travel a good deal and, instead of flying commercial, I bought my own airplane, an older model twin-engine Comanche. I have been flying most of my life, my father having taught me when I was fourteen. I had achieved my single engine pilot's certificate two months after turning eighteen. Since then, I have been rated for instrument, twin-engine and seaplane. 

Only once did I suffer a near catastrophe. I had been practicing spin recovery over Elliot Bay. I would climb to six thousand feet, pull the nose up hard and when the little Cessna 150 stalled, would kick the rudder hard over. And, down I would go into a nice little spin. Next, I push the nose down to build up air flow over the wings, kick opposite rudder to stop the rotation, slowly pull back on the wheel and the plane returns to level flight. After I performed several spins, I returned to the Tacoma Narrows Airport and it was there I almost met the Almighty. There was a terrific crosswind upon landing and, despite the over-correction; I was blown off the runway, the front wheel compacting into the gravel. The plane nosed over and the next thing I knew, I was hanging upside down held by the seat belt. What seemed like hours but actually less than a minute, a crash crew was on scene and able to cut me out. Luckily, the plane didn't catch fire and other than a few scrapes and bruises, I was fine...at least for awhile. When my Dad learned of the accident and the demise of his beloved little Cessna, I wished I had been seriously injured and laid up in the hospital. That would have been better than my father's anger and disappointment.

I smiled when I thought of the Cessna. Dad was able to salvage the little plane, restoring it to flying condition. In fact, three years later, for my twenty-first birthday, he gave me the 150 as a gift. I later learned he had always planned to give me the plane.

A sudden lurch brought me back to the present, turbulence buffeting the Comanche. Shit, I thought, maybe I should climb and see about getting out of these clouds. Before I left Coeur d'Alene, the weather report was favorable with the ceiling broken at seventeen thousand feet. This was no fucking seventeen thousand feet and the damn clouds were not broken. Another draft of instability struck the plane sending me upward and then back down. The screaming wind smashed against the aluminum skin but I was still at proper attitude and my magnetic heading dead on. I checked my fuel, the gauges reading near full while the drone of the two engines comforted me. I took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before exhaling, releasing some of the built up anxiety. 

Just as suddenly as it arrived, the turbulence vanished. I was still flying on instruments, but at least, for now, I was flying in calm air. My thoughts returned to JoAnne and that fateful day. 

I had returned early from Vancouver. The people I was to meet had cancelled cutting short my trip. I called the house to tell JoAnne I was coming home and maybe we could go out to dinner; however, was surprised when the answering machine picked up. JoAnne should, by now, have been home with the kids. She must be out with the twins, I thought, probably shopping at the mall. I remember smiling, thinking how my three girls had their husband and father wrapped around their little fingers. I tried her cell phone but still no answer so I left another message.

When I drove up onto the driveway at 6:30pm, the house was dark. Now, I was concerned that no one was home. Had there been an accident; was JoAnne or the twins alright? I searched the house for some clue where everyone was. At least I found nothing, other than their absence, to indicate anything was wrong. I called my parents but my mother said she didn't know where the girls were but not to worry, she was sure they were fine. I contacted JoAnne's mother and was surprised to discover my twin daughters were staying with her for the weekend. When I asked where JoAnne was, she said her daughter should have returned home by now. Troubled, her mother asked that I call her as soon as I talked with my wife. I said I would and disconnected, now upset. Where the hell was she? I checked the messages on the answering machine hearing my voice telling Jo I was coming home early and about dinner. Wait, Moira! Maybe she's out with Moira. Yeah, that must be it...she must be out with Moira. I tried her cell one more time and still no answer...this time I didn't leave a message. I called Moira's apartment but, like my wife, no answer. They must be together.

Then I made the worst decision of my life, I decided to surprise David, my brother, with a visit. A Lieutenant Commander in the U.S. Navy, David was stationed at Bangor Sub base on Bremerton but lived off base in an apartment not far from our parents home. He was waiting to head back out to sea on some nuclear sub, I didn't know which one but I think he once told me it was a Los Angeles class...something called a fast attack boat.

As I drove over to his place, I was disappointed about JoAnne but thought at least he and I could spend some quality beer time together. I pulled up in front of his complex and parked in the only stall available. When I got out of the car and proceeded toward the entrance to the complex, I stopped dead in my tracks. Not more than three stalls away, was my wife's Lexus. She had that silly pink bumper sticker that read, "My twin girls are honor students!" Why would she be here?

I made my way through the complex and stood just outside of his door. From my vantage point, I could see his front door, the kitchen window and the sliding glass door to his open patio. The light to his living room was on but the drapes were closed. I heard the soft muffle of music from his apartment and saw the shadows of two people gliding along the drapes in a slow dance. At one point, their heads merged as if kissing.

Breathless, I moved to the kitchen window and stared through the open blinds. From this view, I could see right through the kitchen and into the living room. Choking back a gasp, I saw my wife held tight against my brother her arms around his neck, his around her waist. They were both naked. As their lips pressed against the other, I watched his hand slowly slid down and his fingers graze along the crack of her ass. She removed her right hand from behind his neck sliding it downward between them. I knew where those fingers were going.

At first, I was going to kick down his fucking door but, instead, decided to play a different game. I don't know why, but, I didn't want them to know that I caught them. My hands shaking, I removed my cell phone, my eyes trapped by the sight before me. I called my brother's number and heard his phone ring. They stopped moving and both looked at the phone. He whispered something to JoAnne and went to answer. When he saw the calling number he stopped and whispered to my wife, her hands moving to her mouth. He hesitated but finally answered.

"Hey bro...what's up," he said.

"Hey Dave, you up for goin out for some beer and maybe a little stick time?" I tried very hard to hide the rage threatening to burst out.

I saw him cover the mouth piece, looked at JoAnne and told her what I said. She closed her eyes and nodded. She flew to the sofa, grabbed her clothes and ran from the room.

"Uh, Johnny...sounds good but give me about twenty minutes to get ready. I thought you were out of town for the weekend?" 

His second mistake for the evening, how the hell did he know I was gonna be away for the weekend?

"Nah, clients cancelled and came back early. Tried calling JoAnne but she wasn't home and wasn't answering her phone. You haven't heard from her have you?

He paused before answering, "No...haven't spoken to JoAnne for some time. When will you get here?" By this time JoAnne returned to the living room dressed and shaken.

"JoAnne's probably with Moira then. It will probably take me about fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.. Be ready to get your ass whipped at the table. See ya then." 

I saw David, still naked turn and tell my wife our conversation. She was crying, her hands pressed against her lips. He said something else and leaned in to kiss her. She shook her head and moved away and I saw his shoulders slump as he nodded. JoAnne started for the door so I quickly moved away and stood behind a tall shrub hidden in the shadows.

The door opened and she stepped out, David now his old tattered blue terry cloth robe. I remembered that bathrobe as the one he stole from the Edgewater Hotel in Seattle. We had stayed there one night hoping to get the same room the Beatles had once inhabited but, unfortunately, wasn't available. So instead, he kept the bathrobe.

He stood there looking at her, she looking down. "JoAnne, can I see you again? Please?" "I...I don't know David. I love John and don't want to lose him. Please, don't do this. If he found out...he would be crushed."

"Please JoAnne, I want you...I need you and I know you want me. We can try another time...when he's out of town. I know you want this as much as I do."

My wife looked up, her face twisted in confusion. "David, I...I...just can't do it!" She ran from the apartment and disappeared. David, anger showing in his face, stared for several seconds before closing the door.

After fifteen minutes passed, I stepped out from the bushes and knocked on the door. The door opened, David standing there with a shit eating grin pasted across his face. I couldn't do it. Seconds later, David pushed himself up from the floor, blood flowing from his broken nose. "Johnny, what the fuck...aaahhhhggggh!"

His hands grabbed his crushed testicles after I rammed my boot into his crotch. I leaned down and grabbed his shirt collar pulling him up. "Listen you motherfucker, if I see you around JoAnne again I'll kill you. As far as you and I are concerned, from this moment on you are dead to me. You no longer exist as my brother. Do not talk to me, call me, e-mail me, send me a letter or postcard...nothing. When I visit Mom and Dad, do not be there. I don't know what I'm going to do about JoAnne but if you try to see her or talk to her, I swear before God...I will come after you. Understand?

He just groaned and I smacked him across the face. "Do you fucking understand me?"

"Ye...yes, he gasped still holding his balls. I released him and watched as he fell back. Looking up, I saw a framed photo of us as kids, him with his arm over my shoulder. I took the picture and, with David watching, I smashed the frame against the wall and left. Now I had to deal with JoAnne.

The turbulence suddenly returned with a vengeance; the plane shook throwing my chart and clipboard from the right seat. Unexpectedly, the twin-engine pitched sideways slamming my head against the window post. For a second, my vision blurred but cleared enough to read the gauges. All instruments checked okay but the left side of my face didn't, it felt wet. Reaching up, I touched my scalp feeling a deep laceration. When I drew back my hand, it was soaked in blood. Fuck, that's all I need! I reached below the right seat and retrieved a small first aid kit and, removing a compress, I pressed it against the wound holding it while I grabbed some rolled gauze. The plane was still trembling from the turbulence but the auto-pilot was holding. I wrapped the gauze around my head which held the compress in place. I wasn't worried, I knew small head wounds bleed like a son of a bitch and looked much worse than they are.

While I cleaned up, the pain subsided and I looked down seeing my leather jacket soaked in dark crimson. "Fuck, cleaning this thing is gonna be a bitch and expensive," I angrily muttered as I tried wiping the excess blood from the leather. 

The plane shuddered and I decided it was time to try to find some calmer air. I pulled back on the wheel and felt the quaking plane slowly climb. After close to twenty minutes, the Comanche stopped shaking; I had topped ten thousand five hundred feet. I reached behind and seized a small metal bottle of O2. Because of the higher altitude, oxygen is required though I doubt I would need it.

Still blanketed within these fucking clouds, I chose to remain at this altitude for awhile before returning to my flight plan. At least the air currents smoothed somewhat. I reached down and grabbed my charts and clipboard placing them back on the seat. When I looked up, I stared at beautiful clear blue sky; I was out of the clouds. Out—fucking—standing, I thought. Looking down; however, was a different story. The cloud layer was thick and appeared to stretch forever.

I figured I would stay up here for another fifteen to thirty minutes before I had to descend. Checking the instruments, the VOR needle was, once again, centered. My dad always tried to convince me to install a GPS but I was too stubborn to go modern. I wish I had now, definitely would be much easier. 

My mind began wandering back to my marriage. I first met JoAnne in college at Washington State University. I was majoring in computer programming and repair with a minor in aeronautics while she was into the arts, painting to be specific. One evening a few of my friends convinced me to accompany them to one of the more ambitious frat parties. Once there, I grabbed a beer and found a secluded spot out back while inside my buddies chased the skirts. Sitting there, sucking on my beer, I listened to the ruckus from inside the frat house and laughed. No doubt, my buds were probably pretty wasted by now.

"Hello, mind if I join you?"

The soft musical voice startled me out of my reverie and I turned to stare at the most beautiful set of blue eyes I had ever seen. I was spellbound until she laughed and said, "Excuse me...are you alright?" I felt a gentle touch to my right shoulder as she lightly shook me back to reality.

"Sorry about that but I...I'm under a powerful spell."

The girl looked confused. "Spell?"

I smiled at her and said, "Your fault."

"My fault?"

"Those gorgeous eyes of yours. I can't resist their incredible allure."

When she smiled, I was lost. Though dark outside, she shined with a radiance the sun would find envious. After I introduced myself, she sat down and we chatted about everything and anything. She told me she wasn't much for frat parties but her friends insisted she go with them. I laughed as I told a similar story. Hours passed before we realized the time. JoAnne Marie Jardine stood and said she had to get back to the dorm and I offered to escort her. She looked at me for several seconds before agreeing. I remember standing outside her dorm, both of us staring at one another. God, I was lost in those brilliant blue eyes of hers. Suddenly she threw her arms around me, stood on her tip toes and kissed me on the lips. Just as abruptly, she ran into the building. Like a dork, I stood there, her kiss lingering on my lips.

It was our fourth date when she asked me into her room. JoAnne whispered that her roommate was gone for the weekend and seductively batted her sexy long eye lashes. I remember standing like an idiot in front of the door and she reached to take my hand and gently pulled me inside. The moment she closed the door, we embraced and passionately kissed, our tongues entwined in a battle for domination. She pulled away, locked the door, dragged me to her bed and pushed me down. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I watched as she slowly removed her blouse and jeans. Braless, she stood there in nothing more than a pair of skimpy pink panties and socks.

"Pull your tongue back in, John...you're drooling," she giggled. "Anything pink is for you to remove," she cooed turning in a sexy pirouette and coyly staring over her shoulder, her lustrous shoulder length auburn hair twirling behind her.

"My God JoAnne, you are so beautiful," I gasped and she smiled as she drew near. She straddled my legs, wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled me tightly to her. I could feel those gorgeous pair of tits press against me as she pressed her lips against mine, her tongue sliding into my mouth. My hands glided over her back, her smooth satin-like skin beneath my fingers. Holding her, I stood and spun around. Before I laid her on the bed, I stood before her and removed my own clothes. Soon, I was naked and then kneeled down, my fingers grasping the elastic of her panties. Unhurriedly, I slid the flimsy material over her thighs, past her ankles and lifted her feet to pull them off. She watched as I held the damp bit of silk to my face before dropping them onto the foot of the bed.

"I want the socks to stay on," I said. "You look really sexy wearing only those pink socks of yours."

JoAnne reached down, curling her fingers around my very hard cock and pulled me to the bed. She lay back pulling me down to her.

"John?" Anxiously, she looked at me. "I...I've never done this, please...be gentle." 

I recalled how I almost laughed. Shit, would that have been a mistake. She would have misunderstood, not realizing this also was my first time going the distance. Instead, I caressed her face and kissed her as we clung to each other. My hands had minds of their own seeking every inch of her sweet flesh. My lips traced a delicate line to her right breast capturing her nipple, the stiff pink bud like a small pebble between my lips. 




Homeward Bound Ch. 01



This eight-chapter novella, inspired by Thomas Wolfe's Look Homeward Angel, is set at inception in Asheville, North Carolina, in the second decade of the twentieth century. Posting of the work will be completed within three weeks chapter one posts.

*

"It won't be long now."

The young man had a booming voice—a surprise coming out of his frame, which wasn't small. But he was trim and not more than average height, and was made to look smaller than he was by the soaring spaces around him. The light hit him just so as he hunched over the centering writing table, leaning over the top of the table from the straight-edged chair and just laying his pen down from having been writing intensely. The lighting, focused on the table, picked out the red highlights in the unruly golden curls framing his almost angelic face.

A moan and something close to a menacing rattle was heard from the shadows beyond and to one side of the table, and the lighting expanded to pick out a narrow brass bed with a thin mattress and, one became increasingly aware, the figure of a man, on his back, bare torsoed, but with blankets covering him to half way up his chest. He was dark headed and had an arm thrown across his face. Nothing could be seen of him except his broad, deep chest, covered in curly black hair and slowly, laboriously rising—and holding—before it contracted with a moan twisted into a hollow rattling sound.

"Confession finished—leaving nothing to conjecture—and bound for home at last." It was the young man's voice again—loud. Spoken as in self-contemplation, but delivered as if for the ears of the many. "One last promise to fulfill, and then freedom. Release."

The young man stood, and his hand picked up the pen again. He stared dramatically down at what he'd written. He paused, and then noticeably shuddered. He wiped the back of a hand across his eyes and heaved a great sigh. He stood there, transfixed—but was then set in motion by the hoarse, deep-chested rattle from the gaping mouth of the man prone on the bed.

The pen descended to the paper and there was the flourish of a signature before the pen was dropped, with a thud, on the desk top. The hand moved to another object on the table, just now becoming the focus of attention. The young man picked the object up and held it at various angles, allowing the light to reflect off the metal of the pistol's barrel.

"Two bullets. Enough," his voice boomed forth. "And then bound for home."

He gave a mournful look to his side, the side away from the bed, and then he turned, facing the bed, pistol held up and shoulders squared—as the scene went to blackout.

The hollow sound of six hands clapping, two pair slowly and perfunctorily, and one overenthusiastically as if trying to make up for all that weren't there, echoed through the nearly empty hall and was quickly muffled from the stage by the sound of the curtains creaking shut with a loud rustle. Then, more timidly they slowly began to part again.

"Good, good, Tom. No, you can leave them shut I think. That running was fine. The curtains need not be rung up again until tomorrow's opening. Thank you, Tom. You can go home now. We'll close up. Yes, yes, that will be fine."

The voice was deep and cultured, each word enunciated perfectly. It was muffled by the thickness of the curtain, but had grown louder as its owner continued up the apron stairs to the front of the stage. The last "Yes, yes, that will be fine," was clearly heard as the play's director, Stanford Dane, had then reached the wings at the edge of the curtain and was speaking directly to the stage manager, who had drawn the curtain.

Simultaneously, a young woman, her eyes big with awe and admiration came around the edge of the curtain at the other side of the stage and latched her worshipping gaze on the blond actor who still stood, holding the pistol, but who had turned back toward the front of the stage when he'd heard Dane start to speak.

All ears were on Dane when he spoke. He had a silky, rich, tone-perfect voice that commanded attention and fostered an immediate wish to be with him and to do whatever he asked of you.

It was the young woman who had been clapping enthusiastically. She had stopped when the curtain was fully drawn, but she started up again as soon as she stepped into the area of the stage behind the closed curtain. "That was wonderful, Charlie," she gushed. "You are a natural dramatic artist. And to think, grown right here in Asheville. Who would have known if Mr. Dane hadn't found you here? He is a natural, isn't he, Mr. Dane?"

"Yes, yes. A natural, you sweet girl," Dane condescended to her with an indulgent smile. "Ed will take you home, Betsy. The costumes are fine. He should be finished taking care of the lights now. He'll be waiting for you out in the lobby."

"I thought . . . Charlie said he'd take—"

Her eyes were turned to Charlie, almost pleading, her voice almost a whine. Her stance dripping with the signaling that she had endured the entire last-minute, hours-long practice in the drafty theater hall before tomorrow's opening night in anticipation of the walk back to her boarding house that Charlie had promised her—and perhaps more.

Charlie looked at her, eyes full of apology, but also with the reality that he would not say a word to challenge anything Stanford Dane wanted to direct or orchestrate.

It was Stanford Dane who didn't let Betsy finish her sentence and complete the bald shame of her declaration for Charlie.

"Charles will be staying for a while longer, Betsy. I have some director's notes for him and for James. You must leave now if we want to be sure that your Mrs. Porter won't lock you out of the house. We have gone quite late."

Betsy stood there for a few minutes longer, her jaw working, but no sound coming out, her fists clenching and unclenching at her side on stiff arms. But at the muffled cry from beyond the curtain of "Ready to go, Betsy? I've finished out here" from Ed, her face and body seemed to implode upon itself and she turned and disappeared beyond the curtain into the front of the house.

The three men on stage behind the curtain held position, as if for a photograph, Dane's ears tuned to the stage door to the street, in one direction, for sign of the departing Tom and toward the front of the house for the sound of the main street door closing behind the bustling figure of Ed and the reluctant one of Betsy.

Charlie's eyes were on Stanford Dane, impressed, as always, by his commanding presence. Dane was a tall, large-boned man. Robust, but elegantly clad and holding himself like a monarch—knowing he was extraordinarily handsome, with his wavy black hair and finely chiseled face, and straight back, with barrel chest held high.

As for Jim, his eyes were on Charlie. And they were slitted, in anticipation of something promised, something he'd looked forward to for the hours of the rehearsal, much of the last hour laying on his back on the bed and taking deep breaths and slowly dying on tortured cue.

"Ah, I'm not sure of the front. Let me check," Dane said and then he disappeared around the edge of the curtain.

At a deep-throated sound from the bed, Charlie turned his eyes on Jim. Jim had thrown the covers off. He was laying there just in his undershorts, and his hand was encircling an already-engorged cock that emerged from the fly.

Jim was young and athletic. A dark-headed lad with curly black hair on his chest and arms. He was possibly a couple of years older than Charlie, and he spent much more time on his body than Charlie did. He was well muscled, and tense, and tightly wound. And ready to go.

"Come here and sit on this, my lad," Jim said in a lust-filled voice. "I could hardly wait for practice to be over."

"Jim!" Charlie exclaimed in a covered, but firm stage whisper. "Not here. He'll be back. He'll see."

It wasn't that Charlie was averse to sitting on Jim's cock. Jim had already had him three times in the dressing room in the last three days. And Jim paid for it. He didn't have to, but Charlie was grateful for the money. He was grateful for anything he could get. He was anxious to be out of Asheville and on to his dreams.

"I was meant to see, Charles," Dane said, already back at the edge of the curtain now. "I have wanted to see the two of you together. I am ready for Act Two of the evening."

Charlie slowly put the pistol down on the table and turned toward the bed.

"I don't—"

"It's getting late, Charles," Dane cut in. "We don't really have time for false theatrics. I know that Jim has already had you."

Dane walked over and pulled the chair out beside the table, the back facing the bed, and straddled it with his legs as he sat down.

"Please, disrobe slowly first, Charles. And toward me. For me, please."

After shrugging with resignation, Charlie slowly did as he was asked.

"Yes, yes, well done, Charles. Now slowly walk to the bed."

Charlie did so, into the rhythm now of following the directions of his stage director.

"Up onto the bed now, your knees straddling Jim's hips, please. Yes, like that. Look down into his eyes, while Jim cups your buttocks and finds you with his fingers. Yes, Jim, yes, like that."

Jim and Charlie were both breathing heavily now as Jim's finger invaded Charlie's channel. Dane was breathing heavily now too, and Charlie turned his eyes briefly to see that Dane had unbuttoned his fly and unfolded a prodigious cock and was fondling himself as he gave directions.

"Lower your head and kiss Jim on the lips, Charles. Yes, beautifully done. You are angels, both angels. A dark, forbidding angle of darkness and my sweet golden angel of innocence. The purity of the world held in balance. Will goodness fall to evil? Yes, I do think it will."

Moments of heavy breathing in triplicate and then the stage direction came. "Reach for Jim, please, Charlie. And position him, and lower onto him. You are offering yourself to the angel of darkness. Yes, yes, like that. And now I will be silent. Do what you are well positioned to do. Give over all of your innocence to him."

Later, the two of them, Charles Bairr and Stanford Dane, walked silently, in the large-flaked snow that had started while they were practicing, to the Swannanoa Boarding House on North Market. Dane had been so introspective and quiet as Charlie fucked himself on Jim's tool at great length—and then afterward as well—that Charlie wasn't sure whether his performance had pleased Dane. It had been embarrassing for him to do that at Dane's instruction and under his close gaze. But he was anxious to please Dane in all things. He just didn't know if had done so. Dane could be so fickle in these matters. Dane hadn't said anything since he stopped giving instruction. When Jim and Charlie were finished, he'd just stood up from his chair, pushed his cock back into his trousers, buttoned his fly, and glided back around to the front of the house as if nothing had transpired.

He was waiting for Charlie in the lobby of the theater. They walked together, because they were lodged at the same boarding house. Dane was there for the theater season. Charlie was there because he worked there—and had done so since his mother had died and her own boarding house had been sold at auction to cover the family's debt.

"Hello, Mrs. Childress," Dane said with a grand flourish and a smile as he and Charlie mounted to the porch and entered the door Mrs. Childress was holding open for them. "So good of you to keep watch for us and not to lock us out this evening."

"Anything for you, Mr. Dane," Mrs. Childress said in a giggly girl tone. "I hope the practice went well."

"It did, indeed, Mrs. Childress. It went very well indeed. We are quite well prepared for tomorrow's opening."

"Oh, I'm so glad to hear that," she said in a small-girl's voice, and then she turned to Charlie and in far less dulcet tones said, "Mind you lay out the linen for tomorrow before you go to bed, Charlie. We've all had to cover more of your duties than we can even remember since you signed on for this play. If Mr. Dane hadn't—"

"And I'm ever so grateful you've loaned him to us, Mrs. Childress. We were ever so needful of another actor in this play. And he is doing well. I promise, I'll return him none the worse for wear to you at the end of the run of this play."

Mrs. Childress was all girlish smiles now, as Charlie turned toward the dining room to lay out the breakfast linen.

"Good night, Charles," Dane said to Charlie's back, and Charlie turned and smiled at the director, the voice having given him assurances that Dane was not disappointed or upset at him for some reason.

Later, in the dead of the night, as Charlie lay in the narrow, brass bed accorded him in a room created by blocking off the end of one hallway, he watched a sliver of light from the hall expand as his door slowly creaked open and then shut. Charlie joyously turned on his back, and spread his legs while he moved a pillow down to the small of his back, elevating his hips.

The springs of the bed complained with a grinding metal sound as the bulky weight of a giant of a man settled on the bed between Charlie's spread knees, and meaty thighs worked their way under Charlie's buttocks. Charlie's torso was being encircled by well-muscled arms, and Charlie gave a little cry and arched his back as the large-bulbed, powerful cock pushed inside him. He gasped and groaned and moaned as it invaded ever deeper inside him.

He felt the breath on his neck and then the low, rich voice in his ear. "Act Three."

"Was it . . . did I . . .?"

"Yes, Act Two was very nice, Charles. Now show me how much you want me."

Charlie closed his legs around the small of Stan's back and drew the director's cock ever deeper inside him and began to move his hips and moan his want and need.

On the other side of the wall, Mrs. Childress both heard the thumping of the headboard of the brass bed in Charlie's cubicle of a room against the wall of her own bedroom and felt the vibrations of the rhythm of the fuck on the other side of the wall. She smiled and her hands moved down her belly and into her secret channel. 



Homeward Bound Ch. 01



"Ahhh....," she moaned as I gently chewed on the rubbery teat.

I continued my downward trip kissing her soft belly, my tongue hungrily exploring her tantalizing belly button. And finally, I reached my destination...her delicious auburn down covered center. I felt her tense as my tongue pushed between her moist folds, her exposed labia opening like an exquisite red rose.

"Oh my God! Aaahhhgh....my God, don't stop Johnny! Yessssss....." Her back arched as I sucked her engorged clit. "Oh yes...yes!" she cried.

My face saturated with her mouth-watering juices, I climbed back up, the head of my cock pressed at her wet entrance. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open in a silent scream, her head thrown back as I gradually pushed. She hissed as I slid inward coming to a stop when I felt an obstruction. I pulled back and stared at her, a single tear forming on the corner of her left eye.

"JoAnne?" I softly whispered.

"She gazed into my eyes before she replied, "Yes!"

She screamed when I plunged into her, tearing through her maidenhood. Once fully in, I remained motionless allowing her pain to subside, her pussy to adjust. JoAnne forcefully held me, her fingernails digging into my skin when I, finally, began to slide back. When I pushed back in, she groaned, "Yes..."

It didn't take us long to find our rhythm before we both screamed and reached orgasm together. Afterwards, we held each other, my fingers gently running through her damp hair.

"I love you JoAnne," I said my voice choked with emotion. JoAnne caressed my cheek and kissed my forehead before she replied, "I love you so much, John."

Two years later we married. Four years after that, JoAnne gave birth to two beautiful twin girls, Jodie and Samantha. I thought our marriage strong, secured with a binding love for one another and for the girls. I would never have imagined JoAnne capable of cheating on me.

I knew I would have to come to a decision about us. The girls, Jodie and Sammy, knew something was wrong between their mother and me and I could see it taking a toll on them. They were spending time more often with their grandparents, trying to avoid the chill that permeated the house. Shit, shit, shit...why did she have to do this to me? Why did my brother, my own brother betray me? 

It's been four weeks since I found out. When I left David's apartment, I didn't go home. I, instead, found the nearest bar and got stinking drunk. I staggered to the car when the bar closed. I had barely managed to open the door and slide behind the wheel but before I could turn over the ignition, some fucking asshole butted into my business by reaching and grabbing the keys. I stumbled out and demanded, "Motherfucker give me the fucking keys before I smash your face in." I couldn't see his face but the asshole had it coming and I stepped in swinging my fist in a well-telegraphed round house. Next thing I knew, the sun was shining through the window of the family room blinding me as I lay on my sofa with the worst hangover ever. Sitting across from me was JoAnne, her eyes red and puffy. 

"John, I am so, so very sorry. I can't begin to..." I didn't let her finish.

David must have told her what happened. "JoAnne, please...I don't want to hear it. Don't say a word, don't talk to me, don't even look at me." "John, I love yo..."

"Shut the fuck up! I said don't fucking say a word to me. Don't even think to say to me you love me. I no longer have a loving wife and I fucking don't have a brother!" 

I glared at her daring her to say one more syllable but she stared at me in shock. She rose from the chair and ran to the master bedroom. I heard the door slam and could hear her sobbing. My heart ached for her but my pride demanded my pound of flesh for what she did to me. We still haven't spoken to one another until I left for this trip. 

I moved into the guest room and every morning would be out of the house before she woke and wouldn't return until late in the evening. The weekends were the worst. I would spend most of the day either in the den or working in the yard while she spent most of her time in the bedroom or taking care of the girls. I would see JoAnne for a few minutes when she would fix dinner for the twins. Whenever we locked eyes, she would look down and we both would turn away, the girls always watching us. 

As for David...well, he took the easy way out. Somewhere off North Korea, cruising below the ocean aboard a nuke boat. At our parents urging, we met one last time, his nose heavily bandaged. Heated words were exchanged finally cumulating with the understanding he was no longer my brother. He was emotionally dead to me. My mother took it the hardest. I was reluctant to tell her why we had a falling out and David had gone to sea. I finally explained what happened between David, JoAnne and I. She couldn't believe, wouldn't believe David would do that to me, his younger brother. Frustrated, I told her to call my wife for verification. She did. I never heard another word about David from either Mom or my Dad.

JoAnne's mother was a different tale. She gleaned from the grandchildren something was wrong at home and had the girls ask me to call. I did more than call, I personally spoke with her. When JoAnne picked up the twins, I waited until Anna, JoAnne's mother, was alone and knocked on the door. I wouldn't go into detail but, somehow, she figured out her daughter was the cause for everyone's grief. I didn't disagree but I never told her what transpired. I merely said her daughter and I were going through a rough time and I wasn't sure of the outcome. Anna hugged me saying not to give up on JoAnne. She knew her daughter adored me, truly loved me and whatever she did was emotionally tearing her up. She also reminded me of the children. The girls loved and needed both their parents. I returned her embrace and thanked her for everything she has done for us and the girls and then left. I knew I would eventually have to talk to JoAnne, to find out why.

A small hiccup in the hum of the engines woke me from my thoughts. What was that? I wondered. I waited and listened to the thrum of the motors but didn't hear anything else. 

Feeling it was time to drop down to seven thousand feet, I looked at the cloud layer beneath me. I breathed a sigh of relief when I noticed they were scattered and I could actually make a visual of the ground. I could see the soft yellowish glow of street lights radiating outward like a golden web. It was evening and the sun, already obscured by the mountains, created a stunning montage of soft pastel orange and pink blended into a cool blue gray veil of cumulus clouds. Seeing the majesty of this sunset is what makes me appreciate my love for flying.

I was still over the mountain range, Mount Rainier far to the south. Through a break in the clouds, I could just barely make out Seattle, the Space Needle a small bright dot. Soon, I would be banking to the right for the Tacoma Narrows Airport.

"Grrrr...chuff...gachunk," the engine began coughing, sputtering with black smoke streaming from the port engine cowling. I quickly scanned the instruments but found nothing to indicate what was wrong. I had enough fuel and the oil gauge looked good...ahhh...maybe not. The oil pressure for the port engine was dropping, and fast. Fuck me, this can't be happening! Dropping down to six thousand feet, I found myself blind having flown into the goddamn clouds again. 

"Bbbrrrrkk...pop!" I glared at the port engine watching the prop begin to feather. I shut down the fuel line and switched off the magneto for the stricken engine. I applied opposite rudder to correct for the yaw created from flying on the single engine. The Comanche shuddered but was at least flying straight. I radioed SeaTac Tower and declared a mayday. 

"Mayday, mayday...this is Comanche twin N73251 flying on one engine. I am switching transponder over to emergency. I am..." I never had the chance to finish the mayday. All electric power shut down. 

"Son of a bitch, what the fuck just happened?" Incredulous, I stared at the instrument panel, everything was out. The radio, all electronic gauges, the lights were gone. I watched in horror as the starboard engine now began sputtering, the prop also beginning to falter. "Fuck, this ain't good!" I growled. I was losing altitude, coming down through the clouds but I was able to maintain a level attitude. I knew it was only a matter of minutes before I came out from under the cloud cover. I was fighting to keep a glide. I kept the nose up just beyond stall. There, I was out of the clouds. I guessed my altitude around two thousand maybe twenty five hundred feet at the most. Looking down, I was over a woodland hillside with no clearing in sight. 

"JoAnne," I cried thinking of my wife and the girls. "I don't want to lose you," I whispered as I fought the plane to hold a glide. 

"Fly the plane." I could hear my Dad's words as I watched the trees close in on me. It was almost dark now, the tree line a threatening silhouette. With the both engines gone, I could hear the wind rushing over the airframe as I wrestled from stalling. 

Whack! I felt what I believed was a tree top skidding across the bottom of the plane. I looked out the window and gasped as a massive dark outline formed directly in front of me. I gripped the wheel, my heart breaking as I bellowed, "JoAnne, I'm so sorry...God forgive me!"

The last thing I heard was the agonizing shriek of ripping metal as everything went black.

(To be continued...)



Homeward Bound Ch. 02



"I appreciate all your comments and criticism. Only through helpful critique, whether positive or negative, can I hope to improve. Thank you."

Temuchen

*





Homeward Bound Ch. 02



When the scheme first got started, it seemed to be no big deal, really. By then there wasn't anything to protect and after the first time as part of the boarding house service there wasn't that much to be embarrassed about either.

My family came to Asheville when I was just ten. For me, it was an improvement over the dreary coal mining towns of western Pennsylvania. Asheville was a boomtown nestled in a bowl of mountains made up of the Blue Ridge Mountains running up against the Great Smokies. The railroad had been cut through the mountains thirty years earlier. It went through Asheville, already popular with the rich plantation families of the Carolina coast as a summer retreat from heat and mosquitoes and also because of its reputation as a healthy mountain environment for the cure of such diseases as tuberculosis, consumption, and melancholy. With the appearance of the railroad came summer visitors from much further away, including the superrich. Most notable of these was George Vanderbilt, who, as I was growing up, was constructing his premier American palace, Biltmore, in the hills just south of the city.

Construction was frenzied and mammoth, and business of all types was more than good. To accommodate both the summer visitors and the labor pouring into the city, boarding houses, renting rooms and two meals for a dollar a day, sprang up throughout the expanding city.

It was the cure that brought my family to Asheville in 1909, my father's death in early 1917 that turned our house into a boarding house, and my mother's own passing in the Spanish Flu epidemic in late 1918, that erased my dreams and turned me into a whore.

But that's not true, really. I won't whitewash my mother just to give her rest in her grave. I was a whore when she died. It was on me that I let men take me; it was on my mother that money was taken for it—and that it became a way of life, a replacement for what I wanted in life.

At eighteen, life was looking bright and full of possibilities for me. We had moved to Asheville because my father had contracted something in the mines, and he was told he needed to move to the mountains, somewhere with good sanatorium facilities if he wanted to live for any length of time. He didn't carve out coal below the surface; he owned the mine. But he was a close-supervision sort of owner. He constantly went underground to spur his miners on and to maximize production. And the black lung disease felled him just as quickly as it did any of the miners.

My father, Horace Bairr—yes, with two "Rs" we constantly were telling everyone—had the means to escape the black-walled channels with their bitter, choking coal dust. He brought his family—just me and my mother—to Asheville, and had a good-sized wooden Victorian manse built in the newly establishing Montford district to the northwest of the city, where many working-class people were settling within walking distance of their shops in the city center. My father was more comfortable around the middle class, he said, than with the wealthier people building their summer homes on the mountainsides surrounding and looking down in Asheville.

My mother disdained the move—and my father, for that matter. She was from the Philadelphia mainline. And she would have built up in Grove Park if my father had a notion to listen to her—which he didn't. But my mother was the half of the couple with a hardnosed sense for business. Away from Pennsylvania, my father allowed the assets of the mine to shift through his fingers and into the pockets of various unscrupulous relatives.

Although the relations between my parents were formally cordial, I would have to say they were icy cordial on my mother's part. Not that she treated my father much different from how she treated anyone else—including me. With me, there always was a reserve of sorts, and an air of sufferance of some sort of burden that I was the living symbol of. My parents didn't sleep in the same bed—or bedroom. And often, not in the same house. And they never had sex to my knowledge—never. My father never raised a voice or a hand to my mother, and he indulged her in everything that he was capable of doing. But it seemed more from a respect for her gender and that she had married him and darned his socks than from a deep passion—or even particular affection. And in the brief time he was with us in Asheville, he was away on business quite a bit. Only in later years did I know how hard he must have worked to keep the family's finances afloat—or the sacrifice he made to pretend we were a family.

When my father died in the back bedroom of our Montford house, taken finally by the hardening of his lungs in a wheezing bout of trying to suck in air that no longer had anyplace to go inside his body, my mother immediately used all of the savings left to them to add a bedroom wing, upstairs and down, to the back of our house, and opened it as a boarding house. The construction took an amazing short time of three months, but also an amazingly larger sum of money than my mother had figured. The construction boom was so healthy in Asheville at the time that she had to pay top dollar for materials and laborers.

My mother's failing—if you discounted avariciousness and a propensity to look the other way when it suited her pocketbook—was her pride. I always thought that upon my father's death she could have fallen back on the good graces of her family in Philadelphia. But when she died and I had to inform her relatives that she had, I found that they didn't even know my father had died or that my mother had had to go into business for herself to try to salvage the family fortunes. They had, however, told her that she was marrying below herself and that her union with Horace would come to no good. And she, no doubt, hadn't told them of her straits after he died so that she didn't have to see them gloat.

I believe she was right in that, because when I told them, plenty of gloating started—which was only wiped off their faces when I told them what my father had whispered to me in his last week of life and that my mother reluctantly then admitted to me—that my mother hadn't much choice marrying my father; that she was pregnant at the time, and he was the only one knowing that she was who would have her.

The irony was that I, a sandy blond, blue-eyed child of slim build and slightly underaveraged height, loved my roly-poly, dark-haired, brown-eyed, large-framed father who wasn't really my father a far sight more than I did the raven-haired woman who really was my mother.

But I mustn't be bitter. My mother gave me life—more than once—in addition to having ruined, at least for a while, the life I had.

When my father died and after my mother had thrown up her bedroom wing and opened her boarding house, and only then, did she realize she couldn't handle it all herself. She hired help, but help cost money. A son's help didn't.

At the time I was off at a small Presbyterian liberal arts college, Lees-McRae College, in not-so-far-away Banner Elk, fully intending to begin a life in writing arts. The good people of Lees-McRae were well-meaning and progressive of mind, and they were as delighted that I intended to be a writer as I was and were prepared to do everything they could to help me do that. It was all I ever wanted to be. I wanted to write plays, mostly, and my fantasy was to tell of the plight of the coalminers in Pennsylvania. Later in life, I was halfway grateful my dreams had been crushed at this point, as by then I realized that a mine-owner's son had less than nothing worthwhile to say about the plight of men hacking at black-coal walls hundreds of feet below the ground. 

But I was idealistic at that time—and open to anything new and mind-expanding. I started down a road of "other" choice, though, when I met Seth Evans. He had come to Lees-McRae from the far more sophisticated city of Winston-Salem down on the Piedmont. And he was open to anything new and mind-expanding too. And he was a poet. But his mind had already been expanded much more than mine had been. And it wasn't long before we were taking hikes in the mountains surrounding Banner Elk, our books of short stories and poetry tucked into our backpacks along with the bottle of local moonshine Seth always was able to come up with, and a blanket.

During that first fall, we hiked at least twice a week, which the administrators at Lees-McRae thought was a fine addition of physical exercise to mental stimulation. I loved the poetry—at least what Seth picked out to read to me. He had a good speaking voice and was quite active in the college theater—an interest he was developing in me, saying I couldn't really write plays without having experienced the role of the actor on stage. He was also handsome of face, with dark, curly hair and long eyelashes, and a firm, trim body. The poetry he brought became increasingly explicit and the bottle of local brandy he brought became increasingly full going up the hill and empty going back down.

We started with petting and tentative kisses. The broadest plateau in our relationship was the month of the hand job, where we each slow-pumped the other off while reciting memorable, then, not-so-memorable-later, love poems to each other. There was just that once, though, before my mother called me home, that he managed, through the combination of poetry, brandy, fondling, and my first blow job, to get his dick inside my nether channel.

But once is pretty much the whole ball of wax on the topic of sexual innocence.

I know I like to think that it was my mother's calling me home to help with the boarding house that ended my idyllic, progressive and high-art trysting with Seth. But the truth of the matter is that I was escaping something. I must not have pleased Seth in our one taking of the sex act to completion—a painful completion for me, but one I endured and celebrated for freeing me intellectually and representing my choosing my own course in life. For that was the last time I laid with Seth, and the next week he was taking a fine arts student named Sandy on a hike up the mountain—instead of me. It might have been that the conquest was what was arousing for Seth rather than the consummation. It was a week after that that my mother called me home. I wanted to die or to run away from school, and I almost leaped at my mother's request that I come back to Asheville immediately. I didn't feel used—I felt rejected, unworthy. I sometimes try to deny that, but it was the truth—and the truth of that is probably the only thing that made me give in to my mother's call so quickly and easily.

I pretty much provided the same functions a rather slow girl named Mary did at my mother's boarding house. We took care of the in-house cleaning of the boarders' rooms once a week, no matter how many times the occupancy of the room turned over; the stripping and changing of linen after each boarder, or weekly, if they were staying that long; and the set up, service, and take down in the dining room for the morning and evening meals. No midday food service was provided, although the kitchen would turn out a lunch in a sack for fifty cents upon request, which few took us up on as that was almost the cost of the room for the night.

Behind the scenes were three blacks; two women—a cook and a laundress, and one young man, who did all of the menial chores that required muscle. His name was Samuel, and he had muscle to spare—certainly more muscle than intellect.

My mother's role was to collect the money, quiz the boarders to within an inch of their lives to determine that they weren't in town for the tuberculosis cure, and stride around and look authoritarian—which she did very well.

At the start, I went about my duties sullenly, but my mother soon tongue-lashed that out of me.

"I wanted to be a writer," I whined. "Father saw that and understood. He encouraged it and told me the money was there for college."

"Your father had no idea how far in debt he was. He died and left me to do what has to be done," she replied, baldly and without a soft word for my father's memory. "And you don't have to go to college to write. Just sit down and write. Write of the interesting people coming and going in the boarding house."

"When would I sit down and write, Mother. There is always something else to do."

"So learn to do it faster and more efficiently. If it's a writer you want to be, you will find a way."

And in that she was right, because I quickly did learn to work faster and more efficiently to free time for writing. I set up a little table and a straight chair under the window in my small room—and I found the time to write. She also was right about the people coming through the boarding house. I found much to write about, from the woman never leaving her room and always crying quietly through the night, afraid her husband wound find her in hiding in Asheville—which he did in an act of high drama one Saturday afternoon—to the tubercular little old man even my mother could not turn away who she tucked in an attic corner, to the hog of a man and his wife and their two little piglets who my mother finally had to put on rations at their meals, to the young "widow" who my mother turned out along with one of the male lodgers in the middle of the night, to the retired preacher continually in his cups and uttering profanity under his breath.

But still there was an empty hole in my life—and what I most wanted to write about were things that one could not write about in the American south in those days. I had longings and desires that I could not talk about and believed I should not write about—left alone think about.

Although Seth apparently had left our fully consummated sexual encounter less than impressed, it had left me mesmerized, opened to a whole new world—and frustrated and confused. I wanted more. And it must have shown, at least to our handyman, Samuel, who was well versed in what one man could do with another. He saw in me what I was hungry for—and increasingly frustrated at not exploring—and he saw in me something he wanted. And he took it.

One morning he was in the back of the little barn we had out in the rear corner of the property, near the chicken coop my mother kept for their eggs and for Sunday dinners. My mother didn't particularly want the boarders to know that she was raising what they ate on the property, this beginning to be considered unseemly in the city in that age, so the barn was hidden from the house by a copse of trees and a stand of boxwoods. It wasn't just the chickens. She had a couple of cows and a pen of pigs back there too.

I was coming back there for eggs. But Samuel was back there slopping the hogs. He was stripped down to undershorts to dirty as little of his clothing as possible.

And to me, in my deepening frustration, he looked great. He was six and a half feet of solid ebony muscle. His mug was as ugly as it could be, but he exuded sensuality and power—and fecundity. As strange as it seemed, ever since I'd first seen him, I could only think of the raw sensuality of him and think on all of the blow-bys he must have sired already off the women of Asheville. And as he stood there, in the midst of the hogs, with his drawers sagging and his massive manhood clearly traceable by the eye inside the rough cotton, I began to hyperventilate, grateful I hadn't gathered the eggs yet, hoping I didn't look too silly—and obvious to him.

Never for a minute did I think he would be interested in a man.

But that all changed when he gave me a big white, toothy smile and moved his beefy hands to the waistband of his drawers and pushed them down to the ground.

"Well, lookee what we's got here. Mr. son of the owner, commen for somthin'. This what you come fer, pretty boy? 'Cause this is what I got fer ya. Jam this up in yer stomach, I will. Make yer squeal like these here hogs. Nobody hear yer squeal back here. Yer can scream all yer want as I open you a wide one."

"Eggs. Just sent out for eggs," I stuttered out.

"I know yer want it. I seen yer lookin' at me. I'se know that look. Not so hoity-toity back here in the barn, are it? Not like bein' in the big house, bein' the big lady's little boy in the big house. Out here, it's raw. Life is raw. Yer git what you want out here."

"Eggs," I muttered nonsensically.

"Strip down and come here and kneel to me and suck it," he commanded. "Or go back to yer mammy and dream of what I got to stick up inside yer that you won't git if you don't do what I know yer wantta do."

I stood there, trembling, rooted to the spot. Not able to move.

"Strip!"

The command hit me like a bolt of lightning, and it jolted me to move my hands to the top button on my shirt. But I fumbled there, unable to get the button out of the hole.

"Do it. Suck it"—he was waving it at me now, and I had no idea a cock could be that big and thick—and black—"And then I'll give yer the ride of yer life."

His outrageous demands motivated me. I pulled the shirt over my head and undid my belt and pushed my jeans down over my slim hips. But then I had no idea what put me kneeling in front of him and gagging at the brutal thrusting of his cock inside my mouth cavity. And before I knew it, he had me bent over the pig trough, my head turned and facing the milling pigs—and squealing along with them in their confusion and indignation at that first glorious, deep, stretching, rough, relentless, eternally lasting rear-end fuck by Samuel's master cock.

Seth hadn't speared me like this. I couldn't have imagined that anyone could do this inside me. Samuel had to laugh and tell me to breathe once as I concentrated on trying to hold still and open for his plunging tool. He fucked me deep and widened my channel walls to the point I thought they would split. And he laughed and enjoyed it, holding once he was all in as I gasped for breath and scrabbled my hands back at him. He simply grabbed me by both wrists and folded my arms on my back, crossing them and holding them pinned by one fist, while his other hand prodded and slapped me elsewhere and a couple of times took the root of his cock and rotated his staff inside me to hear me groan and cry out for him. And when he'd come deep inside me—long after I'd done so—his flow burbling out of my channel and dribbling down my thigh, he held for mere minutes and then started to pump me again, at first slowly and then rapidly, his spent come lubricating the friction in my channel until I begged him I could take no more and he ejaculated again.

I lay there, under him, both of us panting.

He had reached depths of me and exhilarated me as I never could have known was possible. It put Seth's seduction to shame and made what he called a fuck seem silly.

I felt Samuel's cock softening and withdrawing, and, involuntarily, I whimpered a long, drawn out, "Noooooo."

"No, what?" he asked leaning over me, still holding my crossed arms in thrall behind my back, and whispering in my ear.

"No, don't . . . don't . . . please do it again," I moaned.

He laughed a deep, husky laugh. "My own little white boy whore. We'll do it again. Yer can be sure of that." And then he pulled away from me and strode out of the barn and left me there, eye to eye with the disapproving pigs.

It may have been true that no one could hear my squeals from the house, but someone—someone I could name—must have been out and about in the rear yard—or what happened that night wouldn't have happened.

In the dark, I lay in my bed, still swooning, hardly able to close my legs, and wanting more of Samuel—as soon as it could happen, no matter how rough and down dirty with the pigs it was. That just added even more excitement to the act.

I should have heard the scrape of the door on its rusty hinges, but I didn't. And because the noise should have been a warning and I didn't take it as such, the shoe salesman from the second room back on the second floor in the added wing probably assumed more acceptance than he should have—than he had a right to.




Homeward Bound Ch. 02



Just as I was nearing an intense orgasm, David grunted and violently slammed into me, his cock shoved deep before he came. I cried, "No...not yet," as I felt his hot cum burst into my womb and after several eruptions he moaned and fell away. Frustrated, I lay there with my legs spread wide, feeling his seed slowly seep from my abused pussy. Then reality slapped across the face. The realization of what I had done was deafening, I had become a cheating wife, an adulterer...nothing more than a common slut. 

I ran into the bathroom, locked the door and threw up into the toilet. Only when I had nothing left to heave, did I finally collapse and begin to cry. I lay there on the tile floor, my head in my arms resting on the toilet seat sobbing, my thoughts filled with my betrayal of John. Outside, I heard the gentle knock on the bathroom door.

"Jo? JoAnne...are you alright?" 

I heard what sounded like concern from David but, somehow, I knew he was concerned not about me but more about what I would do. 

"I...I'll be okay, just give me some time," I replied wiping the tears from my face.

"Maybe I better go, you sure you will be okay?"

"Yes David, I'll be fine," I replied rather sharply, "Just leave me alone, please."

"Sure...call me later, okay?"

"Yeah...I'll call you later." 

I heard sounds emanate from the bedroom as David dressed and left, leaving me devastated from my own actions, or inaction.

I never called David. I steeled myself for John's return the next day. I remembered how he smiled as he came through the front door, laden with his bags and equipment. I had stood at the end of the entranceway when he entered. He looked at me, smiled and dropped everything he was carrying and rushed toward me, sweeping me into his arms and kissing me hard on the lips. "God, have I missed you Joey," he breathed into my ear as he hugged me. 

I was so afraid he would see the guilt written across my face and in my eyes but he never did. John was so happy to be home he wouldn't have seen a snake if it had bit him on his ass. That night, I nearly raped him when we went to bed. I didn't care if he was tired from his trip. Rarely, am I the aggressive one when it comes to sex, but, that night...well, I was determined to make up for my tryst with his brother. Johnny loved every minute of my dominance but, afterwards, he asked, "What was that about?" 

I meekly said, "Oh...I just missed you so much, I needed to show you." I now recall now how he stared at me for a time before embracing me, holding me until we both fell asleep. I was still awake when I heard his breathing settle into a soft rhythm. He never knew the tears that fell as I lay there while John spooned against my back.

The following morning, I heard the phone ring and panicked when John answered. 

"Hey, Dave...what's up? Where have you been? You haven't come by for awhile."

I only heard John's side of the conversation and worried if David would somehow slip what happened between me and him during John's absence. Ten minutes later, John hung up the phone and walked into the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee. When I entered the kitchen, my husband was seated at the dinette table, sipping his coffee and reading the paper. He looked up and said, "Morning babe, sleep okay?" He displayed no sign that anything was wrong and I breathed a little easier.

Later in the day, after John had left for work, David called and asked me how I was. I told him I was fine but didn't say anything about what happened. But he did. 

"Jo, I just want to say how much I enjoyed being with you, you were absolutely wonderful..."

"David! Please, don't say anymore about that! I made a terrible mistake. I was weak and never should have done what we did. I love John and don't want to lose him. Please, please forget what happened."

There was a long pause until David finally spoke, "JoAnne, I can never forget what we had together. I need you, I need to be with you again. Darling..."

"Stop it! Don't ever say that again! David, I admit I...I enjoyed it but I won't jeopardize my marriage any further. Please, oh please understand that." After a long silence, I returned the phone to its cradle and prayed that David would honor my wishes.

Days and then weeks passed. David never called back nor did he come by the house. John and I made love several more times, each time my passion beyond control. It was as if each time we made love, my guilt would compound and I would compensate in my need to satisfy my husband, the love of my life.

However, there were periods now, when alone I would think of David, of him on top of me, fucking me, having his way with me. As my mind drifted along those thoughts, I would instinctively run my hands over my breasts or slide my fingers deep within my folds. When I realized what I was doing, I would violently wrench my fingers away from my pussy and cry. I really believed I was going insane.

By now, John knew something was wrong. Several times, he would ask me if anything was bothering me. I could only tell him no, nothing was wrong; however, secretly in my heart it was all wrong, that I was continually betraying my love with thoughts of his brother. Soon, John was again caught up in his work and our recent intimacy once more fell away.

It was two months later when John discovered my liaison with his brother. John had supposedly left on a business trip for the weekend when David called me sobbing over the phone.

"JoAnne, I...I can't do it anymore! I..." The line disconnected. Oh my God, I thought, David sounded so distraught I was afraid he was going to do something drastic. He was going to hurt himself. I was so fucking naïve. 

I rushed to his apartment and found the front door open. Once inside, I found him in the bedroom sitting at the foot of the bed sobbing uncontrollably. Like a lamb to the slaughter, I went to him and wrapped my arms around his heaving shoulders. 

"David...please look at me. What is it, what's wrong?" I pleaded. I was so stupid. 

Between sobs, he cried, "I can't deal with it anymore. All the stress from the responsibility of command. The long periods at sea. My life is empty, I have nothing to live for. And, now I've hurt you and John. Jo, I love you both so much and I fear I have destroyed your love for me."

I held him in my arms until I stood, took his hands and pulled him up. "Come with me," I said and, holding his hand, dragged him into the living room and sat him on the sofa. "Wait here while I fix us some coffee."

As I made to move away, he stood and held me saying, "JoAnne, please don't leave!" I stood there, his arms around me, his head buried in my hair against my neck. I could feel his strength, I could smell his essence. I stroked his neck as I closed my eyes and allowed him to hold me tight not recognizing he was no longer bereft. I felt his lips move across my neck, leaving subtle pecks as they traveled upward. Holding me with his left arm, his right hand slid down my back trailing to my buttocks. 

I moaned as his soft lips covered mine and pressed down, his left hand now behind my neck pulling me to him. His tongue, once again, was demanding entrance into my mouth. Without thinking, my lips parted and my mouth opened allowing him access. His tongue sought mine and began its seduction.

Suddenly, I focused on what was happening and cried out, "No, David! We can't let this happen again...please stop."

"No JoAnne, I need you...I want you so much and I know you want this too," he whispered as he slid both hands upward into my blouse sliding the delicate material up and over my breasts, drawing it from my arms and over my head. As his hands came back down, they deftly unhooked my bra and drew the straps over my shoulders allowing the garment to fall away. I tried to pull away but he was much too strong.

Holding me tight against him, he kneeled and his fingers hooked into the elastic of my slacks pulling them down with him. As he peeled away my pants, he removed my panties until I was naked before him, my clothing now bunched around my ankles. He stood and, staring into my eyes, released me to remove his own clothes. I don't know why I didn't leave then. I lost to my own lust. I watched as David stripped and took me into his arms, his cock hard against my lower belly. Holding me, he place one hand behind my head as he leaned down and pressed his lips against mine. This time, my tongue beckoned entry and David groaned as I slid my tongue against his.

When the phone rang my lust and desire vanished so abruptly, I cried from its loss. David looked at the phone and said, "John." I gasped and looked down. The caller ID displayed John LaRouche; it was his cell phone. 

"Oh my God," I muttered and, as David moved to answer the phone, grabbed my clothes and ran from the room.

When I returned, dressed, David, still standing there naked, had set the phone down and told me John was on his way over. He said John had returned early and couldn't find me. Figuring I was with my best friend, Moira, he decided to visit David and go out for a few beers and pool. David tried to touch me but I moved away and headed for the door. As I stood just outside the door, David asked when I would see him again. 

I just looked at him and told him, "I...I don't know David. I love John and don't want to lose him. Please, don't do this. If he found out...he would be crushed." Little did I realize John was hidden behind the shrubbery listening to my words. Finally I left. I decided I needed to call Moira and somehow create an alibi, creating more lies and deceit.

An hour later, my world came crashing down around me. David called my cell and relayed what happened between John and him. "John knows about us, he saw us naked through David's kitchen window." 

Gasping, "Please dear God...no," I disconnected and drove straight home, to somehow try to save my marriage when my husband returned.

I waited for what seemed an eternity for John's arrival. I heard a car pull up in the drive but heard two doors open and close. After a minute, there was a knock at the front door and, afraid, opened the door. There stood David, his nose bloodied and broken, his face badly bruised. In his arms was John, passed out.

David dragged his brother in and laid him on the couch. John's right cheek was discolored and turning dark.

"I had to hit him," David said. "He was trying to drive off from the bar and, in the condition he was in; he would have never made it home. When I tried taking the keys away from him, he swung at me and I had to hit him. It was the only way. I'm so sorry, Jo."

I remember glaring at David. "So am I. You seduced me but I went along with it. You should have never done so and I shouldn't have allowed you but it happened and I have to live with the consequences. Now, I have to try and save my marriage, salvage my relationship with my husband. The only man I have ever and will only love!"

"JoAnne..."

"Go David, just go!"

I sat there across from my husband, readying myself to tell him everything when he awoke. But, I never had the chance. John woke up and when I tried to say how sorry I was, he told me, "JoAnne, please...I don't want to hear it. Don't say a word, don't talk to me, don't even look at me." 

When I again tried to talk to him, he shouted, "Shut the fuck up! I said don't fucking say a word to me. Don't even think to say you love me. I no longer have a loving wife and I fucking don't have a brother!" After that, I broke down and ran sobbing to the bedroom.

For weeks, he wouldn't speak to me. I waited for some sign of what was going to happen. Was he going to divorce me? Would he demand I leave or would he leave me and the girls? After a month, he finally spoke, telling me he was leaving for a few days. He was flying out to Coeur d'Alene, Idaho to meet with some investors. Looking into his eyes, I asked if he had to go...to stay home so we can work things out. He glared at me, his tone cold as he asked me how I like living in the house; do I enjoy driving my Lexus and having the girls attend that private school. Then he turned and left. I stood there, watching him throw his bags into the bed of his truck. I stared as he got in and backed out of the driveway and sped off, not once looking in my direction. Tears formed as I closed the door.

Now, he was gone, his plane crashed somewhere in that godforsaken wilderness. I had lost him and would never have the chance to make up for what I did. I would never be able to show him how much I love him.

Screaming, I hurled my glass against the wall. The empty wine glass shattering into hundreds of tiny slivers, a few shards of glass imbedded into the wall. I wailed and buried my head within my arms and sobbed, drowning in my own self pity.

(To be continued...)



Homeward Bound Ch. 03



 "For those of you kind enough to write, I thank you and assure you, when I am able to find the time to write, further chapters will follow."

Temuchen *

Chapter Three (No sex in this chapter!)

"Sometimes I wonderIf our lack of ability to forgiveIs truly more rooted in ourBruised ego and hurt feelingsPerhaps the pain we feel is comforting"

.....Chuck Smoot

I cracked open my eyes and, for a moment, forgot where I was. Covered inside my silver e-blanket I noted the morning light filtering through the bottom of the sheet. Pulling the blanket away, I yelled with surprise when I found myself tied to a tree close to forty or fifty feet up. "Son of a bitch," I cursed. How...? Then it came crashing back on me. The plane went down! In the morning light, through the pouring rain, I gazed down and was able to catch a glimpse of what used to be my beloved Comanche twin. Now, all I could see was a twisted wreck of a white and blue aluminum airframe. The plane had slid from its high perch onto its nose, resting at an angle against a row of Douglass firs.

I looked up into the dark sky, my eyes squinting against the rain. In the distance, brief flashes of lightening streaked through the heavy clouds, a clap of thunder following close behind. Well, I'd better get down from here, I thought.

An hour later, I stood next to my old Comanche staring at the wreckage. What happened, I thought, to cause the engines to seize? I remembered doing the pre-flight walk-around but found nothing to indicate any problems. I had checked the engines, looking for any possible leakage or loose fittings yet everything checked out. I remembered running up the engines while on the tarmac, both of them displaying proper high rpms. Well, nothing I could do about it now; the NTSB will be conducting their investigation so I would just wait until their findings. For now, I had to find his way out of these mountains and...shelter.

Wheezing, I had hiked several miles before coming to a small cave partially hidden among several large boulders. I knew there may be critters hiding inside so I was cautious when entering. Enough light filtered in allowing me to see most of the small interior finding it empty. Sighing with relief, I threw my bag down and removed my leather Jacket and sweater. Reaching into the bag, I removed another wool sweater and donned the dry garment. Ahhh yes...that's better I thought, the pants will have to wait though. Searching through the cave, I found enough old wood and debris to start a small fire. Removing my old beat up stainless steel Zippo cigarette lighter, I moved close to the entrance and was successful in starting the fire. Watching the course of the smoke, I was satisfied as I watched most of it drift outward through a natural upward notch in the cave's ceiling.

Removing my soaked jeans, I set them on some rocks near the blaze to dry off. Settling near the flames, I kept warm and listened to the rain pounding outside. Searching through my bag, I decided to inventory what I had. Jo would laugh right now, saying how much of an Eagle Scout I was. I always packed to be prepared. I found two pair of dry socks, a t-shirt, a brushed cotton long sleeve shirt, several energy bars, a small travel size first-aid kit and a quart size plastic water bottle. In a special hideout pocket, I removed my bowie knife and a Colt .45 pistol. I never flew anywhere without the handgun. The gun has been in the family now for two generations. It served my father during the Vietnam War and, when Dad gave me the Cessna...well, the gun went with the plane. Surprised by the gift, I always believed David should have gotten the Colt but Dad thought otherwise and never gave his reasons.

Searching further, I found the two extra full clips for the 45. Good, I thought, I may need these. I placed the clips next to the gun and knife. Finally, I removed an old brown leather case containing three of my favorite cigars, Carlos Toranos 1916 Cameroons. Thank the gods they were still dry! Shivering, I wrapped the e-blanket around my quivering frame and hunkered down by the fire listening to the down pour. My stomach growled and I was hungry but knew I had to wait until morning before eating one of the power bars. For the time being, it would be necessary to conserve. The warmth of the fire began to drive away the shuddering cold and relaxing against the wall of the cave; I watched the flames dance across the interior of the cave.

My thoughts began to wander and JoAnne's image materialized. I could see her smiling, laughing with the girls as they sat together at the dinette table working on some kind of school project. I couldn't help but grin thinking how they all looked so happy, Jo laughing and the girls giggling. Then my eyes closed and choked back a groan as the next image was of my dear brother embracing Jo, both of them naked in his living room. I remembered Jo leaving and David on the ground, his nose bleeding, his hands clutching his crotch. I suddenly howled and slammed my fist into the wall. The pain radiated upward through my right arm causing me to gasp and I examined my hand finding the knuckles bloody from lacerated skin.

"Shit, that was fucking stupid you moron," I griped and slumped back down. Grabbing my bag, I retrieved the small first aid kit and cleaned the wounds, thankful that I didn't break my hand. "Why? Why would she go to him?" I cried out. "What did I do to drive her away and into his slimy arms?"

My side ached something fierce and I tightened the torn t-shirt I had wrapped around my torso. That's a little better, I thought. My eyes locked onto the fire and the undulating flames gradually lulled me into needed sleep.

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

JoAnne was still seated at the kitchen table staring out the window watching the pelting rain and storm clouds when the front door opened and a young soft voice cried out with concern, "Mom...mom where are you?"

JoAnne turned and saw her youngest, Samantha, running into the kitchen and over to her wrapping her strong young athletic arms around her. Another pair of arms embraced her and she looked up into the misty emerald green eyes of Jodie. "Mother, don't worry...Dad will be okay, I just know it." JoAnne smiled at both her girls and gently stroked their cheeks.

"I know...I know. Your father is famous for his resilience. But, "he's up there all alone lost in that forest and in this horrible storm." She turned away, tears trickling over her cheeks. With the back of her hand, she wiped away the tears and turned hugging her two daughters. She looked at Jodie and marveled at how she was so much like her father. Both shared a love for flying and Jodie, gifted in technology and computers, was already designing advanced software. Sometimes, she excelled John in her understanding and troubleshooting the most complex problems. John, never envious, was extremely proud of her prowess and accomplishments.

Samantha was more like her mother, very feminine and athletic. As an accomplished gymnast, she excelled in the uneven parallel bars. Her father never once missed any of Samantha's meets. The day John had disappeared; she had come home excited with great news. She was selected to compete in the 2008 Pacific Rim Gymnastics Championships. When she learned of her father's plane going down, Samantha immediately forgot anything about gymnastics and spent all her time with her mother. Now, the three of them stood in the kitchen holding each other hoping their father and husband would soon be found...alive.

After the girls had finished their dinner, they drove over to see their grandparents and see if their grandmother needed any help. JoAnne remained home and sat on the couch staring at the un-breaking storm just outside the plate glass. She heard the news earlier saying the storm was quickly reaching typhoon classification. She knew she should start taping off the windows and securing the house but, at the moment, she didn't care. An annoying sound slowly filtered into her thoughts. The phone. Was there news? She quickly grabbed the phone and said, "yes?"

"Jo...JoAnne?"

She recoiled at the sound of her brother's voice. What right did he have to call her now! She angrily thought. "Why are you calling David, I have nothing to say to you!"

"JoAnne, I am so sorry for everything. I heard about John after we had pulled into Subic Bay, in the Philippines for repair. I was able to ship out on emergency leave. I'm back here in Seattle. Is there anything I can do for you or the girls?"

"Yes, stay the fuck away from me and my daughters. You have done enough. I...I know you're not the only one to blame; but, you knew what you were doing from the start. Why you were able to so easily seduce me...I'm still seeing a counselor over that. But, I can tell you now, I have no feelings toward you in the slightest. John disowned you and so have I. Just leave me alone."

With that, JoAnne slammed the phone down. "My god, not now...not with John still out there!" she wailed.

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

"David, what are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be at sea?" Frank stared at his son standing in the foyer drenched from the storm.

"We were in port and I received a message about John. Is it true, they called off the search?"

"For now, while the storm is at its peak. Jake had to call off the search...too dangerous."

"Dad, where was John's last reported contact?" David looked into his father's eyes and could see the anguish within them. How I wish he felt that way about me, David thought.

David followed his father into the kitchen where he saw a topographic map of Mt. Rainier and its surrounding geography.

"We believe he went down somewhere here." Frank pointed to a general area halfway between Mt. Rainier and Interstate 90. We know he flew by Snoqualmie Pass but we don't know how far. For some reason, his ELT isn't sending.

David stared at the map studying the terrain. "Where was John going, the Narrows?"

"Yeah, he was on his way home just before the storm hit. Now we hear the storm may be upgraded to typhoon class."

David didn't say anything further. He gazed into his father's eyes once more and then turned and left. Frank called out but his son ignored him as he left the house. Frank stared at the closing door and grinned. He knew where his oldest was going.

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

A dull gray light lit the entrance to the cave, the driving rain thundered creating a virtual waterfall over the opening. I opened my eyes and discovered the fire had gone out. At least my pants are dry, I thought. Throwing off the emergency blanket, I stood and grabbed my jeans slinging them on. Pulling on a dry pair of socks and then my boots, I felt much better. I may be hungry but at least I am dry...somewhat. Even the pain in my side eased somewhat. My right hand ached and was stiff. I looked at the swollen knuckles. That'll teach me to hold my temper, I thought. I rolled my fingers several times trying to work out the stiffness. Stumbling to the entrance, I could see the storm had worsened.

"Damn it," I whispered, "this ain't good." The rain was falling hard but thankfully away from the cave. Watching the fury of the down pour, I could see it was close to gale force winds if not stronger. The problem being...the cave was near the bottom of a gully, a narrow gully beginning to fill with water. I estimated maybe somewhere around midnight before the water level reached the cave opening. Too bad it wasn't cold enough to snow. I stared off into the distance and barely made out the shape of the base of Mt. Rainier through the driving rainstorm, its peak hidden among dark clouds. I knew I would have to leave the comfort of the shelter before the flood waters prevented me from escaping the gully.

Returning to the cold fire pit, I donned my leather jacket and stuffed most of my things into the bag. I jammed the pistol into its holster hooking it inside my jeans, the knife strapped onto my belt. I slipped the two clips into my inside jacket pocket and, with my bag, moved to the front of the cave. It became a waiting game. I watched for any possible lull in the rain hoping it would let up enough to safely move out. About two hours later, the rain did slow; however, the wind lost none of its strength. Now or never, I thought and pushed out. I slipped to the side of the cascading waterfall over the entrance and moved west along the side of the mountain, against the wind. Looking down into the gully, I knew I was right in leaving. The water level was quickly rising, faster than I first estimated. I looked up into the wind, searching for any sign of aircraft but knew better. Nothing would be up in these conditions. I had to somehow move further west and then down off this mountain.

After what I believed near half a day, more likely less than an hour, I passed the gully and stared at a long barren stretch of earth. Resembling a giant scar slashed from Godzilla's tail, the old Japanese Godzilla...not the modern American one, the ground was shredded of any growth from the mountain side. The scored earth was directly in my path. I would have to climb near seventy to a hundred feet to pass it over it. If I tried to cross it, I would be mired in muck, The falling rain had transformed the earth into rivulets of flowing mud. I decided to climb around the desolate stretch and painfully grappled my way upward. Twenty minutes later, gasping for breath, I found myself fifty feet left to climb. I can do this, I thought, feeling my strength beginning to wane. Thank god, I had eaten one of the power bars and had two more left. By now the rain began to build in force, slashing at my face from the wind. I had to keep my head down just to breath.

Finally, I was able to scramble over the tip of the of the scar and begin my descent. I estimated it was probably near one in the afternoon and, by now, drenched and chilled to the bone. Thank god for my leather flight jacket, though it was soaked it still kept me warm. By late afternoon, I was nearing the base of the mountain and conscience that I needed to find shelter. Grimacing, I remembered the cave. Shit, the water level's probably near the mouth by now, I thought.

Moving west, I finally made it to the bottom. I huddled beneath three large firs avoiding much of the driving wind and rain and pulled out another energy bar. God, I was famished! The power bar lasted only seconds before I slurped down some of the bottled water.

"Crack!" A tremendous flash bolted from the sky striking a nearby tree not more than fifty feet away followed by a tremendous clap of thunder. Shit, I thought, definitely not good...not good at all. I had to keep moving. The forest was growing dark as daylight dissolved into turbulent evening. I was in trouble. Soon it will be dark, and I'm out here, in the open, with no viable shelter. I pushed myself up and trudged on. Soon, bathed in darkness I found myself stumbling in this storm ridden wilderness. My flashlight out, I was barely able to see no more than six to ten feet ahead through this deluge.

I came to a slight rise and barely fit to climb to the top. Once I made the rise, I tried to survey my surroundings but couldn't see a thing. I turned away from the wind and doing so, my foot slid in the muck. Trying to right myself, the side of the hill gave way and me along with it. I pitched sideways and began rolling down the hill slamming hard against an immovable object. I groaned and pressed my hand against my left side, pushing on the stabbing pain. Breathing hard, I managed to push myself into a sitting position, my back against the object. I had lost the flashlight and my bag but I could see a small light about twenty yards away. I made to stand, placing my hands against whatever stopped my momentum and felt timber, logs stacked on top of another. Moving my hands across the chunk of wood, I realized I had rolled against a wall of timber, a structure of sorts...maybe a log cabin. I moved toward the light and grabbed the flashlight. Returning, I could see it was a small cabin and very old. I walked around the structure and found the entrance, the front door missing. Flashing the light inward, I saw the interior strewn with debris and broken shards of what were probably once furniture. The rain was coming in through several large openings in the roof; however, only on the southern side of the cabin. The north part was dry with an old cast iron pot belly stove. I whispered, "Thank you god," and returned to where I first fell. I needed my bag. I found it about twenty feet up the small hill. Fifteen minutes later, I had a small fire going in the iron stove, fueled from the broken furniture.

The glow of the stove partially lit the cabin and I was able to inspect the old shack. I found some antique saws and axes and concluded the cabin probably was once an old line shack for lumberjacks. In the corner, on the wet side, I found an old bed with a discolored mattress stuffed with straw. Dragging the bed by the stove, I collapsed onto the crumbling mattress still wearing my drenched clothing. I sighed with relief at again finding shelter. I figured the time must be around nine maybe ten o'clock. Sitting up, I spied a shelf near the front door. On the shelf was a brass candle holder complete with candle. I also noted animal tracks in the thick dirt on the floor. I found the door braced against a support column and dragged it to the entrance where I shored it up with long fragments of broken furniture. "Well, at least that should keep the larger critters out," I muttered.

I returned to the old bed and removed my jacket, boots and jeans. I hung them over the bed post near the stove and wrapped myself in the E-blanket. Laying down, I soon dozed off.

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

"This is a close as we're going Davey! Too much turbulence near the mountains. Get ready and we'll winch you down, okay? How the hell you talked Jimmy into this, I'll never know. You must have something pretty good on him."

Lt. Blairfield, the Navy co-pilot stared at David who was standing near the side opening of the Navy Blackhawk. David geared up for extensive foul weather complete with a survival pack and sat phone, turned and said, "Alright, let's do it then."

The chopper buffeted from the brutal winds, but Captain Jimmy Lee, the pilot and a close friend of David, held control on the bird. Jimmy turned and stared at David, "Good luck Bud, hope you find your brother!"

David waved and hooked up to the cable. Once the Chief crewman checked his harness, he gave David the thumbs up. "Good to go!"

David pushed out, the harsh winds and rain instantly throwing him against the side of the helicopter. The winch began to lower him down into a small clearing among the tall trees. Minutes later, he released the harness and fell the last six feet into a soft patch of grass and mud. Looking up at the chopper, he gave the thumbs up and the Blackhawk turned and vanished into the storm.

Howling wind pelted his frame with sheets of rain and David had to turn and hunker down to get his bearings. He remembered from his father's map, there was an old line shack two miles from here. Placed on the map for use by the US Forestry Service, the shack was rarely used as such. If he could just make the shack, he could use that as his base to look for his brother. I wonder what John will do if I find him, he thought. Well, I'll just have to wait and find out. Using the compass to take his bearings, David moved off into a northwesterly direction, hoping to find that old shack.

Daylight had all but vanished as David slogged and fought his way through the pounding elements. Using the powerful emergency lantern strapped around his shoulders, he continued making his way to the shack.

"Crack! whoosh...carumph!" David jumped aside as a huge cedar snapped and fell to the ground not more than ten feet away. "Johnny," he yelled, "you'd fucking better forgive me after this!" The journey was taking longer that he first estimated. What should have been a couple of hours was stretching into the majority of the night. Again, checking his bearings, he found he was still on course but had no idea how much further to the line shack.




Homeward Bound Ch. 03



I quickly found that my mother's "special services" operation paled in the face of what Mrs. Childress was capable of. I wasn't the only one on her staff giving extra attention for extra cash at the Swannanoa Boarding House. In addition to me for the men guests so inclined, she had two serving girls, Sadie and Clare, who did the same for the men who paid for it. Their rooms were in the attic, at the back, and I'm betting Mrs. Childress made more off of our added services than she did off the letting of rooms and fixing of breakfasts and dinners.

It didn't take Mrs. Childress long to zero in on a good thing—financially. Soon after I arrived she established two of the rooms in the boarding house—one for each preference—as "by the hour" rather than "by the night"—and these rooms came with no meals. At least none of what Mrs. Childress served in the dining room. The by-the-hour rooms, quite naturally and swiftly, began to bring in local trade.

And with this, the character vignettes I was painting with my pen in the stolen hours, usually between breaking down the supper service and when the lights began going out in the boarder's rooms at night—and often there wasn't a whole hour between those times, especially that winter—took on an interesting aspect. My manuscript was becoming quite voluminous. It had started out as a play script, as that was my real interest in the literary field. But soon that became unsustainable, something I couldn't possibly see being put on stage, and I decided that I was moving toward a time period and character novel. Before I came to Mrs. Childress's I had already been calling it The Boarding House in my mind—and this it remained. I had quite a collection of character studies with interwoven stories from my mother's house. When merged with my writings at the Swannanoa house, the storyline became much more interesting—and localized to Asheville.

I wrote about the traveling salesmen and the various ways they waltzed about with Mrs. Childress in expressing an interest in a special service—and then the even more convoluted dance they went through on establishing preference and price. The actual act was often an anticlimax after the waltz that came before it.

I was more expensive than either Sadie or Clare were, with Mrs. Childress reasoning that it was much easier for one of her boarders to pick a Sadie or Clare up for themselves at one of the taverns or off the street corner than to pick up a young man for what they wanted to do—at least in that day and age. She didn't know what I knew about that, but I wasn't about to disillusion her on that score. Her view of it left me more valuable.

The type of personalized story of a boarder that I latched onto at my mother's boarding house continued—stories like the boarder only pretending to be a traveling salesman but who really was a pickpocket moving indoors for the winter—and doing not badly at the boarding house until Mrs. Childress smoked him out and introduced him to the constables—and, in the process, took possession of more possessions for her own use than he had lifted from her boarders.

Or the aging Southern belle, up for the summer to avoid the mosquitoes and heat of coastal Charleston, coming to Asheville as usual, but being forced by reversal in family fortune to board at the Swannanoa rather than the house her family once had on Grove Park. She spent the entire summer writing farewell letters to all of her friends down at the ocean and took too many sleeping pills on her last registered night at the boarding house—because she didn't have the money to pay her bills.

Or Mrs. Childress's own son, who showed up at the door with his new wife and babe, both obviously of the wrong color, and all three chased off the front porch and into the night by Mrs. Childress herself with a broom—the first and last time I ever saw her wielding a cleaning utensil.

But, because of the presence of Sadie and Clare—and me—a new line of stories crept in. The stories of how both Sadie and Clare left—temporarily in Sadie's case—before I did. There were men who came and used the rooms without paying for any of us, of course—who brought their own companionship, with Mrs. Childress discretely looking the other way, even though she saw their wives on a daily basis. Asheville was only a big, impersonal city to the ones who didn't live there permanently.

For in-house services, though, there was the story of Sadie and her sad little regular older, rotund gentleman who came to the boarding house in thread-bare clothes and apparent unfortunate circumstances two summers in a row. He had said he had come from Philadelphia on doctor's orders because he was working himself into a grave in Philadelphia and needed a slower pace to tone down his racing heart. He had timidly given Sadie a trial, and she had raced his heart—without breaking it. By the end of the second summer, it was revealed that he was a wealthy manufacturer who had spent the two years having a twenty-room summer home built in the hills—to which he spirited Sadie away. Sadie would return to her duties in the boarding house during the winter months, while the sad, timid little manufacturer wintered with his wife in Philadelphia. The arrangement seemed to satisfy them all.

Clare's was a sadder story. A young, naïve tinker stopped by the boarding house one summer's night and Clare declared him a good catch in her own mind. She apparently needed a good catch at the moment. She seduced him and held him in thrall in a back bedroom of the boarding house for nearly two weeks, with Mrs. Childress standing by the door and toting up each time the two enthusiastically fucked. At the end of the two weeks, Clare declared herself undone and contemplating throwing herself in the French Broad River, identifying herself as a virgin before the advent of the tinker and now a mother to be. A bewildered young man had to walk his new bride to the train station, Mrs. Childress now being the owner of his wagon, horse, and wares. Clare looked pleased as punch with herself as they departed, but I often wondered how long the smile stayed on the face of that stupid girl.

I had stories of my own, which I alluded to in my manuscript but which the times and public morality would not permit me to make explicit. Not being explicit in personal detail took nothing away from being explicit in titillation, however. I never could forget one of my earliest, as he reminded me so much of Seth—an older, much older Seth in some far distant future. He was a traveling bookseller, some literary figure, I decided, down on his luck and down to his last meager scrabbling at life. I watched as he carefully counted out the cost of my night into Mrs. Childress's claws while giving me a look of almost apology.

"It's because I cannot stand to be alone, you understand." . . . although I clearly didn't and had no reason to understand . . . "especially at night. I have a recurring dream of dying in the night and no one noticing that I had. I won't be demanding, I promise." The apology still there, even after he had paid more than the set price—which I knew and he didn't, of course.

Under those circumstances, I was determined to give him something more than just solace and assurance that I would tell him in the morning that he still lived. On his own initiative we laid on the bed stretched out along each other's bodies. At my own request—feigning the heat in the room and the possibility that Mrs. Childress would check on us, which, in truth, always was a possibility, we both stripped off our clothing down to our skivvies. Then he started reciting poetry to me in a German accent, becoming more heavily accented as he proceeded. He was pleased when I told him my family was from western Pennsylvania and that I understood a good bit of German. This served to release much of the tension in his body—so that when I slowly began to explore his body with my hand—which eventually gravitated to a hardening cock I fished out of his underdrawers, he also slowly began to reciprocate.

We didn't fuck, but we did bring each other to ejaculation, and he was crying softly and humming a German lullaby when he went off to sleep.

Months later, I heard of a German bookseller having died in his sleep in another boarding house down in Winston-Salem—with no one having noticed the body for a week. And I prayed that it wasn't my German bookseller.

On a less sad note, there were the twin accountants from Greensboro, coming back to their birth city for a school reunion, who each had me in their room, one at a time, while the other was at the writing desk penning a letter to his wife and children in Greensboro announcing his safe arrival in Asheville—and then both of them climbing into the bed with me and sandwiching me, both having me together—and then each other when I had been exhausted.

And then the old evangelical preacher and seminary professor from Trinity College—later Duke University—in Durham, who insisted I come to him in the dark and endure his feign of surprise and scourge him with the rushes from an old broom until his cock was hard enough to take me. And then he sermonized about the sin of man lying with man, citing biblical quotations, in a fevered voice as he bent me over the straight chair in the room and fucked me with all of the anger and vengeance he could muster.

* * * *

Although I didn't know it at the time, the writer who came to stay in the boarding house that winter upon advice of his editor, the great (as I was later to learn) Maximilian Trudeau, to retreat to a cloister where no one in New York City would think to seek him out and to complete that assigned novel that was long overdue, was my most meaningful encounter during my sojourn at Mrs. Childress's—except for Stanford, of course. Alec Cotton was quite straightforward with Mrs. Childress. He said he could not concentrate on writing without an angelic young man to fuck and that none would, as he said, journey into the wilds just to accommodate his libido. He went on to say that he had heard Mrs. Childress could help him. Mrs. Childress could. For the three weeks Alec was with us—and to the litany of moans and groans from what had become a regular clientele of mine—I slept in Alec's bed, and Mrs. Childress rented out my closet of a room.

Alec Cotton proved to be one of my most attentive, sensitive, and alluring lovers. This was not because he was handsome and dreamy, which he wasn't. He was ugly, half of his face scarred from a fire in his youth, and one of his arms—thank god not the one he wrote with—and a leg were deformed and slightly shriveled from the same mishap to the extent that they almost were useless to him. But the man could fuck—and it wasn't the actual act that set him apart from anyone else. He was no Samuel—or later, Stanford—inside me. But of all of my men to that point, he was a lover. He took his time with me, preparing me until I peaked and was begging him to fill me and move inside me. And in the early preparation, he was sensitive to ask me what I was feeling and what was working for me better than other approaches.

But once we were fucking, both of our pelvises working on consort, and we were both into the rhythm of the act, he insisted that I not say a word to him.

"But you are doing something special to me inside, Alec. I want to let you know how much I love what you are doing."

"Shush," he would murmur until I finally understood what was happening. "I'm thinking," he would say.

But I finally got it. Because after we'd both ejaculated and he'd gone soft inside me—he never finished and immediately withdrew and left me alone—it became apparent that he need the fucking more emotionally than physically. He'd finally sit up on the edge of the bed and kiss me lightly on the mouth and then again at my navel—and then he'd go immediately to the writing table and write furiously.

I would lay there, naked, on the bed, watching him—but, as preordained—not saying a word. I would be looking for the wrinkling of his brow and for him to lay his pen down and frown slightly and look a bit lost. Because then I knew he was coming back to the bed to make love to me again until his muse had removed whatever writing barrier had arisen and he could go back to his writing.

I nearly starved in those three weeks, because Alec's muse didn't include mealtimes on his schedule. He never broke to attend a meal in the dining room, as the rhythm of his writing and our fucking never matched the rhythm of the boarding houses meal plans. Mrs. Childress indulged him, though, because his publisher paid very well for the environment and services she was providing. After the meal had been served in the dining room, she'd arrive and knock on the door and enter without leave—never knowing if Alec was lost in writing or in fucking. She'd be carrying a food tray—enough for both of us—and with pursed lips she'd set the tray down on the table underneath the window at the foot of the bed and pick up the spent tray. Then she'd turn and look at the chalk board hanging over the headboard of the bed, give a little smile as it always was good news for her, and then silently glide out of the room and give the door a little click of privacy assurance in her wake.

The chalk board over all of the beds in Mrs. Childress's house was her accounting system. I wouldn't be surprised if she had one over her bed as well. Each had a piece of chalk dangling on a string attached to it. These were for the use of Sadie, Clare, and me, and for Mrs. Childress's tallies. After each client ejaculation—or mine, if that was the client's principal interest—we made a chalk mark on the board. Upon each change of room tenant then, Mrs. Childress checked the board and added to the service fee appropriately. I'm sure she knew that we didn't fully report for the clients we each favored—and Alec was one who I gave a free ride every other time—but the favored clients, including Alec, still ejaculated satisfactorily often for Mrs. Childress's expectations of remuneration.

As Alec's book increasingly came under control and he could see the end coming, he wrote less and fucked more—and spent more time talking to me and rebuilding his strength on Mrs. Childress's niggardly meals. I got the impression that he enjoyed my channel so much that he was stringing his publisher along and could have finished drafting his manuscript in closer to two weeks than nearly three.

This was the point, near the end, when he found out that I fancied myself a writer too.

"You're writing a novel on lodging houses such as this?" he asked one afternoon after we'd fucked and he admitted that he wanted to do it again as soon as he regained a hard cock.

"Yes, but what I really want to do is to write scripts."

"Let me read what you've written," he offered.

"I couldn't possibly show it to you now. I'm still collecting and writing and weaving vignettes—and looking for a central theme."

"I would think this was your central theme," he said playfully.

I moaned and reached for the wrist of his good hand, his writing hand, the one stained permanently with honest ink. "Please, please," I groaned. "Remove those fingers, please, and replace them with something thicker and longer."

"You don't think I can take care of you with just these two fingers? I'm not nearly ready with anything else to please you with, but I will be ready quicker if you will come for me with just what I can do with these two fingers."

He was embracing me close to him—although not strongly, as it was his partially withered arm he was holding me with, but the tips of his fingers had found my prostate—and he knew he had from the involuntary shudder I gave and the arching of my back.

"Oh god, oh god, yes," I whimpered as he proceeded to show me why he was a consummate lover and that he could make me come with just those two fingers and enough time for me to rise in arousal and pleasure and to writhe and flow as his lips opened over my bulb and drank me inside him.

"Seriously, do you have any inkling of a central theme yet?" he murmured later after he had mounted me and taken care of his own needs again.

"I would like to leave here," I answered honestly. "Everything I've written seems to serve motivation to leave."

"Perhaps that would be fine," he answered, having given it some thought, for which I was grateful. "Perhaps a stronger theme would bend back to motivation for coming home again after a time away and in spite of all that had happened. You will show your book to me when you are ready, I hope."

"If you leave me your address," I answered.

He grew morose then and left the bed and played with his pen above a blank sheet of paper for some time before declaring that he would dress and attend the taverns that evening. I thought then that I had said something to dissatisfy him, but I only realized later that what I had done was remind him of an inevitable, quickly approaching parting.

The advent of the "by-the-hour" room had spiced my manuscript up tremendously, although here too I could safely do little more than a broad brush treatment and more suggestion than detail. The men of Asheville—even the most upstanding citizens among them, or should I say especially the most upstanding citizens among them—quickly took to Mrs. Childress's innovative new services. Clare never seemed to catch on with them, but Sadie caught a local man of the cloth, while I counted a Jesuit priest among my regulars. There were an assortment of leading merchants with an assortment of preferences. Sadie boasted of the sheriff, while I kept mum—to her, at least—about a judge. Sadie became a regular first stop for men of wealth passing on useful information and experiences to their sons, which she thoroughly enjoyed—and which I had to admit I could boast little of. Although there was one leading lawyer who used me to demonstrate what his son—not much younger than I was—then mimicked with me. And then I was shunted aside and the father used the son, which I was somewhat chagrined to hear that the son enjoyed more than lying with me. But their money was good and the lawyer returned as one of my better customers, so I have no real complaints there.

And then there was the headmaster of the local Presbyterian girl's school who, until Mrs. Childress priced the service out of the market for him alone, entertained Sadie in one hour, she dressed as a young girl, and then me in the next, also dressed as a young girl.



Homeward Bound Ch. 03



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

Awaking to the howling storm, I looked around momentarily confused. Forgetting where I was, I glanced at the soft orange glow emanating from the cast iron stove. "Shit, and here I thought it was all a dream." Chuckling, I climbed out of the blanket and grabbed my clothing. Well, at least they are dry, I wryly thought. I stared at the rain pouring in through the torn hole in the roof on the far side of the cabin. Securing several pieces of broken fixtures, I piled them next to the stove throwing two of the old wood shards into the stove. After stoking the fire, I settled back listening to the horrendous pummeling from the storm, Whistling, I muttered, "Gotta be typhoon class from the sound of the wind. Jesus thanks for breaking my fall with this shack!" My stomach growled and decided to eat half of the last energy bar. Afterwards, I broke out a cigar, cut the tip. Gently, I turned the dark brown body in a clockwise movement while holding the Zippo's flame against the business end. Once lit, I settled back with the cigar and relaxed. As I sat there on that old wood floor, I thought of JoAnne and the girls. They must be terrified. I wish I had some way to tell them I was okay. Jo must really be suffering. Good! Let her suffer. My eyes closed as I rubbed my forehead thinking about her. Thinking back, I knew she was attracted to my brother, hell...what woman wasn't, he was a charmer. I remembered the old girlfriends I had lost to him. And now...a wife. I couldn't believe she would ever cheat on me or my brother betray me. I thought they both loved me as much as I loved them. Still love them, even after this fiasco, I realized. Hell, if I truly loved them so much why haven't I tried to find out why, how? Maybe, what they have is more than what Jo and I have. I kept rubbing my forehead as if the more I rubbed the less pain I would feel.

Then, it came to me! Disappear, vanish...never to be seen again. They would believe the crash killed me, at least the elements. They would never find the body. Hell, this forest is so huge they would never be able to find my remains. This way JoAnne and David could be happy together. Oh, she would feel remorse for my death, feel guilty over the affair but time eventually heals most pain. The only problem...Samantha and Jodie. I would never again be able to talk to them, to hold them in my arms. Could I live with that? Can my own selfishness for my daughters outweigh the happiness of my wife and brother? My daughters would grieve over my death but their mourning would not last forever. After all, they don't know about the affair. What would my girls feel toward their mother if they knew the truth? I can't take that chance. And, the life insurance would take care of them. In time, they would be able to embrace their uncle as father. I would miss my mom and dad but, JoAnne and I can't keep on living together as we have been, I have to somehow unshackle all the bitterness, the anger and hurt! I have to forgive them.

Despite the howling resonance from the fury of the storm, a loud snap erupted near the shack. My eyes snapped toward the direction I thought the sound came from and heard a distinct crackling, much like..."Oh Shit!" The roof exploded, fragments of rotten wood and shingles flying everywhere. The massive tree trunk smashed through the shack, the walls bursting outward. Then everything went dark.

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

To be continued...



Homeward Bound Ch. 04



For those of you who have e-mailed me with your suggestions and praise, I cannot tell you enough how much I appreciate your excellent critique and comments. Thank you.

Again, no sex with this chapter.

Temuchen

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

"Is this one of the famous battles Between head and heart With both having opposing views But the same hold on your psyche Neither winning, neither losing"

Chuck Smoot

The towering Douglass firs, pines and cedars trembled and swayed dramatically from the onslaught of the winds as the storm reached its peak, sheets of cascading rain drowning the thick forest. Overhead, thick black clouds invisible against the dark sky roiled over the sweeping hills and mountains surrounding Mt. Rainier. Lightning snaked within the nebulous shroud creating a myriad of ghostly bright bluish-white streaks. Any woodland creature possessed with an instinct for survival would have gone to ground long before the fearsome storm struck. Any creature but one single man struggling through the storm debris trying to find a small weathered line shack.

This is so fucked, thought David as he stumbled into a massive sheared trunk of a fallen tree. The shack should be here but...it's not. David pulled out his Magellan GPS and checked for the waypoint designating the old lumberjack shack.

The tree line suddenly lit up from a flash of lightning as he grasped with the device. "Where is that god damn shack?" he howled into the wind. He wiped the water from his goggles as he searched the area. Nothing...not a god damn...another flash exposed the downed tree and David briefly spied what remained of a small structure. The huge tree trunk had smashed through the frail shed that he believed was the shack he was searching for. "Oh, this just keeps getting better and better," he muttered as he made his to the small shack.

David reached what was once the west wall now reduced to kindling. Most of the damage was to the south of the building taking out most of the south and east siding. The ceiling had caved inward on the south portion with just a small section still intact over the far north end.

"Well hell, I doubt another tree's gonna come crashing down...maybe there's enough shack left to set up camp," he said. 

David moved around the undamaged section and found a doorway, the door blown outward. His search light swept the interior and saw the ceiling's crossbeam had fallen at an angle beneath the wall crashed inward from the tree. He spotted an old pot bellied stove in the corner and froze. Next to the iron stove was a familiar bag...Johnny's!

"Johnny...John where are you!" he shouted. He heard a faint sound from the other side of the building and moved around the downed beam. He moved the light around and found his brother pinned beneath the wall.

"JOHN!" he screamed as he carefully stepped over the debris and wall and knelt next to John. John turned his head toward the light and peered up into David's face. He made no sign of recognition and David realized John had no idea who he was; his hood and goggles hid his face.

"I...I'm pinned under this siding and beam but I don't think my legs are broke. If we can somehow move this beam up, I might be able to pull myself out." John turned his face against the driving rain as he spoke. David nodded and patted John's shoulder.

"I'm going to see what I can use as a lever...be right back." 

David moved off and searched the shack for something he might use to lift the cross beam. Inside, he failed to find anything strong or long enough to work and moved outside to look. He soon returned, dragging a piece of ripped timber, a thick branch from the downed tree. He moved to John's side and slid the tree limb through a gap in the fallen siding. Now he needed some type of a fulcrum. Looking around, his eyes fell upon the stove. 

Fifteen minutes later, John was propped up against the north wall, beneath what was left of the roof. David had dragged the stove over to John and tried to start a fire; however, all the wood was soaked. He knew John had to be freezing and suffering from hypothermia. He quickly opened his backpack and removed a small bundle. Finding a sizeable open area, he opened the bundle and a small two man dome tent popped up. He secured a vestibule over the small tent, and dragged his brother into the shelter. Once in, he ignited the small portable backpacking stove and told John to strip. While his brother disrobed, David reached into his pack and withdrew a pair of woolen long johns.

"Here, put these on," he said passing the underwear to John. 

Beneath the pack, he unfastened a sleeping bag and, unrolling it, unzipped the bag. By this time, John had donned the long johns and told to get into the sleeping bag. The winds and rain pounded against the dome tent as David heated up water for soup on the small Peak 1 stove.

He glanced at John encased within the sleeping bag. At a rating of minus 15 degrees Fahrenheit, David knew the bag would help. When he looked at his brother, David was not surprised to see him dozing and knew he would have to wake him. For a while, he would have to monitor his brother before he was satisfied with John's progress.

While John slept, David left the tent and secured the little dome and vestibule to the floor. The shelter was strong and would hold up to the heavy elements. He grabbed his brother's bag and tossed it inside the dome next to his backpack. He crawled back in and zipped closed the opening. 

"John...john, wake up. You need to eat this. John?" David watched as his brother's eyelids parted into slits and turned to look at him. 

"Da...David?"

"Hey bro, how ya feelin?"

"What the fuck are you doing here? How did you find me? Why did you find me?"

David was ready for this. He knew John hadn't forgiven him and, in all likelihood, wouldn't. But, he didn't care. As long as John was safe, David would suffer his brother's resentment.

"I'm here because I am your brother and I love you. I knew of this old lumberjack line shack but I had no idea you would be here; though knowing you, it doesn't surprise me. Now, shut the fuck up and eat this!" David held a metal cup of hot broth and shoved it into his brother's hands. "I know you hate me and deservedly so, but for now, you're going to have to put up with me, so get over it. Okay?"

"Fuck off and die!" John spit and glared at his older brother but he did take the hot tin of soup. After he finished off the meal, David knelt by his legs and asked John how they were.

"They're fine...now, stay the fuck away from me!"

David rolled his eyes and shook his head and thought, this is going to be a long night.

"All right, John...I'll leave you to yourself. As for me, I'm going to get some shut eye, see you in the morning." With that, David jammed the backpack under his head and bedded down. John just sat there staring at his brother; David's back turned toward him. John finally turned away and saw his bag at the foot of the sleeping bag. For a brief moment, he thought of the pistol. Looking at David once more, he dismissed the notion that flared within his hatred. He lay back seething, his breathing rapid. The cause of his shattered home life lay no more than a foot away. His belly warm from the hot broth and with the comfort of the sleeping bag, exhaustion finally caught up and soon he fell into a deep sleep.

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

JoAnne couldn't sleep. The storm raged on, the wind and rain battering the house. She sat at the kitchen table, a cup of hot tea in her hands as she stared out the window and watched the violence weather wreak havoc. The girls were in bed and JoAnne's mother was sleeping in her room. Jo and the girls didn't want her to be alone in this hellish storm.

As she gazed at the dark savagery of the elements, she knew she was taking a chance sitting so close to the large plate glass window. John would have the windows either boarded up or at least taped and the curtains drawn. But, John wasn't here. He was lost somewhere in the wilderness; in the storm...if...he was alive. No! Don't think that, she angrily thought. He is alive, I know it!

JoAnne sighed and stood. She looked at the clock and noticed the time was three in the morning. I'd better try to get some sleep; she thought and turned toward the stairs when a tremendous crack resounded followed by breaking glass and a deep wail. She whirled to see the window gone, smashed by a strange flat object. Water covered the kitchen from the incoming rain and scattered shards of glass littered the floor and table. Her eyes widened and she gasped when glimpsed the chair she had sat in. It was nearly cut in half from a large fragment of the window still imbedded in the seat; the back rest hanging from a single slice of the chair's frame.

"Mom? Are you okay? What happened?" The girls screamed in chorus as they ran into the kitchen.

"JODIE...SAM! Stay out of the kitchen and dining room. The floors are covered in broken glass."

"JoAnne...what happened? Are you all right?" Jo's mother stood on the foot of the stairway gazing at the shattered window.

"Ye...yes mom, I'm fine but keep the girls upstairs. There's too much broken glass here. Something came through the window, looks like maybe part of a roof or something." 

JoAnne moved to the stairs and the girls hugged her. "Leave it for morning. Let's get upstairs. Jodie...Sam, check your windows and make sure the curtains are closed. I'll check the other rooms."

The girls ran to their rooms as Jo and her mother moved down the hall and into her bedroom. Jo noted the blinds were closed and sighed. She looked at her mother.

"Jo...how long have we lived here? You think this is the first storm we've weathered?"

JoAnne smiled and nodded. "I know...I know."

Her mother moved up to her wrapping her arms around her daughter. Jo couldn't stop the onslaught of tears as she pressed her face into her mother's shoulder and sobbed. 

"Jo...he'll be okay. I have more faith in that man of yours than anyone I've known. Unless God decides otherwise, that man will crawl on his hands and knees to get to you. And, I have this feeling he's alive and doing everything he can to get home to you and the girls. That man loves and adores you and them." 

JoAnne grimaced at her mother's words. She knew they were meant to calm her. But Jo was carrying a tremendous amount of guilt. Would John even want to come back to her?

As if her mother had read her mind, she said, "Jo...you have some work ahead of you. I don't know why you did what you did with David, but...if you love John as much as I think you do; you have to do everything in your power to make him understand how much he means to you."

Jo pulled away and wiped her face, her mother still holding her. "I know mom, and I do love John so very much. He is my life. I don't know what I would do if I lost him. I don't know what I can do to keep him. He hasn't talked about what happened since that night. For the past month, we've hardly spoken. I don't know what to say and he avoids me. I am afraid he's going to leave me, divorce me and I wouldn't blame him. He discovered his wife was a slut for his brother. I can't fathom why he's stayed with me the past month."

Jo's mother stared at her and could see the deep sadness and regret in her daughter's face. "JoAnne, have you considered professional help? Counseling?" As she said this, she wiped the tears from her daughter's face and kissed her forehead.

"Yes, I have. Actually mom, I've seen a counselor for the past two weeks. I'm afraid to ask John if he would go with me. The counselor wants me to try and get him to come in with me."

"He will, Jo. You need to ask him. You might not feel so, but, John loves you. I see it in his eyes, the way he looks at you. It's because of his love for you that makes him hurt so. He lost his trust in you. Ask him; tell him you need his support."

JoAnne pulled away and sat on the edge of the bed. "Okay mom...I'll try."

The empty bedroom door exploded with Jodie and Sam running into the room and sat on both sides of their mother. Each one grabbed JoAnne and hugged her. 

"Mom, is Dad gonna be okay?" JoAnne looked into the worried face of Samantha. She could see Sam's eyes glistening. 

She hugged her youngest and whispered, "Yes, he'll be fine." Now, if she could only convince herself.

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

David woke first. Something was different. Then, it hit him...no wind, it was quiet. He stared at the dome's peak and saw morning light trying to filter in. He unzipped the opening and peered outside. It was morning and a gray mist hung in the air. But, the storm had passed. He grabbed the backpack and removed the sat phone. Shuffling outside, he could see the damage to the shack.

"My God," he softly spoke. The tree that had smashed through the tiny structure was enormous. Why the entire shack hadn't collapsed he didn't know, but somehow, the northeast corner had maintained its integrity. David knew, with undeniable certainty, John would have died, should have died when the tree fell. The entire south section was gone.

He stood by the tent and spoke into the satellite phone.

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

"Bzzzzz...bzzzzz...bzzzzz!" 

"Ohhh, my head!" JoAnne groaned and pressed her hand to her temples rubbing them. She finally recognized the sound coming from her cell phone and tried to reach for it; however, Jodie was lying next to her in the bed. As she reached over her daughter, the phone stopped. She grasped the device and checked finding one call waiting. Listening to the message, she heard her fathers voice asking her to call right away. The next sentence caused JoAnne to scream waking both Jodie and Samantha.

"They found him...they found your father, he's alive!"

"Wha...what?" Both girls shot up and stared at their mother.

"That was a message from your grandfather. They found your father...he's been found and is on his way to the airport right now! Get dressed! Jodie, go wake your grandmother!"

JoAnne's excitement was infectious and the girls, squealing with delight, ran out of the room. Her hands pressed against her face, she closed her eyes and quietly prayed, "Thank you, Lord for watching over him, for bringing him back to me and the girls."  

When her mother entered the bedroom, she found JoAnne crying with relief. JoAnne saw her mother and ran to her yelling, "He's alive and on his way to the airport. They're bringing him in on a Navy helicopter as we speak!" 

The following several minutes was witness to a flurry of activity as JoAnne, the girls and her mother dressed and ran to the car. When they backed out from the garage, they were surprised by the stillness of the morning as sunlight peaked from between the clouds creating an explosion of color on the landscape. JoAnne, momentarily, stopped the car and pressed her head against the steering wheel. 

"Mom?"

JoAnne looked up and wiped her eyes. "It's okay...I'm fine, let's go see your father." As they drove to the Tacoma Narrows Airport, she called Frank.

"Frank LaRouche here, leave a message and I'll get back to you." She grinned. Short and sweet and to the point, that was Frank. "Frank, this is Jo. I got your message and I'm on the way to the Narrows. Jodie, Sam and my mother are with me. Call me back."

Two minutes later, her cell toned. "Jo LaRouche," she said.

"Jo...don't bother coming to the airport. John's going to be taken directly to Memorial. Jo...David's with him."

JoAnne caught her breath for a moment before saying, "Okay, Memorial then. We'll meet you there. How is he?"

"Don't know yet, Jo. They had to winch a basket down for him. David went out last night looking for John and, somehow, found him. But, they needed the chopper to send a basket down. See you in a bit."

"Okay Frank, we'll be there in twenty minutes, see you then."

JoAnne disconnected and thought about what Frank said...David found John. David will probably be at the hospital. Her elation at John's return was rapidly eroding into a growing fear; fear of what John must be feeling, David, the man who seduced his wife, the brother who betrayed him had rescued John. She gritted her teeth and decided, despite David...despite John...despite everything that has happened she would be there for her husband.

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

I remember rousing to the sound of a heavy rhythmic thumping. Opening my eyes, I stared at a military zinc green nylon ceiling, the daylight filtering in through the thin material creating a strange almost radioactive glow. I tried to move to the opening of the dome but gasped when a sharp pain radiated from my left ankle. Shit, maybe I did break it, I thought. That throbbing clamor increased and suddenly David stuck his head into the tent.

"Hey sleepy head, ready to go home?"

"What the hell you talking about?" I groused at him.

"Got ya a ride on behest of the United States Navy! Hope you appreciate it, grouch!"

"What the fuck are you saying, you got a chopper in here?" David looked at me as if I wasn't very bright.

"Come one Johnny...I know you're not that slow on the intake. Yes, I called in a favor and have a Navy Seahawk parked just above us. Now, let's get your ass out of that tent and into your hovering limo!"

David squeezed into the tent and helped me to crawl out. 

"Don't forget my bag!" I didn't want to leave my Dad's gun behind.

"Yeah, I know...Dad's Colt is safe in my pack." I looked at him angrily. "Who gave you the right to take it?"

David looked serious as he said, "John, honestly? I wasn't sure about your reception and knew you always took the 45 with you. I just didn't want to take any chances you might not be in your right mind. Sorry if I made the wrong assumption but live with it for now."

I grunted and finally made it outside of the tent. Sure enough, a pale bluish-gray Navy Seahawk was hovering above with a basket hooked to a cable extended to the ground about twenty-five yards away. David helped me to my feet and half carried me to the basket. Making sure I was secured, he went back into the tent and emerged with my bag. Once I was set, he looked up and gave the thumbs up. The next thing I knew I was floating toward the helicopter, mixed thoughts running through my mind. I was relieved this ordeal was over and I was going home but was upset David found me and got me out. My great idea of pulling off a vanishing act had evaporated.

Shortly, David was settled in and we were off. I heard David yell at the pilot to make for the Lutheran Memorial Hospital, the pilot acknowledging with a curt nod. David sat opposite from me and spent the remainder of the flight staring at me. I refused to recognize his concerns and turned away. God damn it all to hell, I thought. Soon, I would be forced to see my wife and David together. Not what I wanted.

Thirty minutes later, the chopper settled onto the tarmac of the hospital, attendants standing my with a gurney. Quickly, I was off-loaded and ran into the emergency room and transferred to a bed, a young doctor examining me while attending nurses and such started hooking me up. I screamed as they examined my left leg, the ankle flaring in agony. I groaned as they prodded everywhere and gasped when the doctor pressed on the left side of my torso. 

"Mr. LaRouche, does that hurt?" His eyes shown with concern as I nodded. "Okay, we are going to set you up for some x-rays. You may have a fractured rib or two and a possible break to your left ankle. Other than a number of scrapes and bruising, is there pain anywhere else?"

"No, I don't believe so," I said. "Just really tired."

"After what you've been through that's understandable Mr. LaRouche."

"Please," I said. "Call me John. Mr. LaRouche is my father."

The young doctor smiled and said, "Okay Frank. You are also suffering from hypothermia. You know, it's a miracle you're here at all. I heard you had crashed and spent the past couple of days in the Rainier wilderness during the storm." I just stared at him as continued examining me.




Homeward Bound Ch. 04



And then, one day, there was Stanford Dane—and eventually there was Abraham.

With Stanford everything was different, nothing unfolded according to the set plan, and, amazingly enough, Mrs. Childress purred through the whole process.

Dane came to Asheville at the height of an arts festival in which the new live drama theater was being launched. He came with a trumpet fanfare, striding in on a red carpet, as the guest stage director from Savannah, Charleston, and Baltimore. Our mayor had seen a production of his in Baltimore and had begged him, histrionically, I'm sure, on bended knee to deign to deliver the first play in our new playhouse.

The great man of the American theater, Stanford Dane, arrived at the doorstep of the Swannanoa Boarding House for lodging during the preparation for this three-month festival running of his play. He hadn't intended to board at the Swannanoa, and the flattery of my being the reason he did became part of the unnatural hold he eventually was to have over me. For the entirety of our relationship I lived under the misconception that somewhere under that controlling, consuming nature of his that he cared for me. 

I didn't notice him standing there, at the top of the stairs to the front porch as engrossed as I was in what I was furiously writing, trying to capture all that happened the previous night and the thoughts and emotions that it had evoked from me. It was Sunday. Mrs. Childress didn't make us work the special services on Sunday, and she herself spent most of that day in prayer and praise up at the Baptist church at the top of the street. So, itching to try to capture—and to come to grips with the previous night's event, I had taken my paper and pens to the front porch of the boarding house and was sitting at the table out there, deep in thought and in making a short, dramatic scene of it.

The previous evening, a Saturday, a man had arrived, almost hesitating as he mounted the stairs of the porch to the front door, at twilight. I was in the dining room, clearing up the last of the linen from supper and spied him through the window. He immediately arrested my attention because of the incongruity of him. He was finely dressed, as if he worked in one of the banks or attorney's offices here, but he filled his clothes out to capacity—at least in the chest and arms—like he was a man accustomed to heavy-lifting, repetitive work. He was of pale complexion, though, so it would not have been work in the outdoors—and his hair, although curly and a light brown, was unruly about his head, as if he knew little of the grooming that went with the cut and quality of his clothes. He wasn't old, but he must have been a good ten years older than I was. And I clearly could see him through the dining room window that wrapped around in a bay at the side of the front porch right next to the entry door. He had a sad expression on his face, which, though handsome enough, was marred by the squint of his eyes. The hand that was raised to the door knocker was rough and gnarled—another incongruity with the quality of his clothing.

In my writing of it, I spent considerable time on this entry into the scene, wanting to convey the mystery of him from the very beginning—the incongruities I instantly latched onto. Scrutinizing people as possible characters in my works had become second nature to me.

The mystery of it only deepened when Mrs. Childress responded to his heavy knock and I heard him ask in a deep, raspy voice, "By any chance does a young man named Charles Bairr live and work here?"

"Yes he does. And is it about his work that you come here?" Mrs. Childress asked.

There was a pause, and then the man answered, "Yes, I guess it would be—unless you would just let me speak with—"

"That would be fifty cents for the room for no more than two hours, and a dollar fifty basic for Charles's attentions—and seventy-five cents more for each time there is a . . . finish," Mrs. Childress answered in an authoritative voice. Two dollars and seventy-five cents on nonreturnable deposit. I don't think she had heard the man's incomplete sentence. But I had, and I immediately thought that he must be shy and that in his hesitancy, I would have to work extra hard to get my needed chalk mark out of him—Mrs. Childress did not like to entertain claims of return on deposit for incompletion of the basic expense. Most of the men were easy. They customarily were only there for immediate relief and then, almost in embarrassment at their own preferences, were dressed and away with nary a comment on the experience or my performance—or the fulfillment of the contract.

I was to find that Stephen Bander was there for relief but none that he could name or that I could provide.

The man said nothing further at that point. He just took out his wallet and doled three dollars into Mrs. Childress's talons. Having looked into his wallet as he did so, Mrs. Childress gave the small smile that I knew indicated that she hoped he would become a regular visitor because he clearly had the means to do so. She became especially friendly to him because he made no indication of expecting twenty-five cents returned to him on the deposit—nor did Mrs. Childress volunteer to give him change. With Mrs. Childress, money moved in only one direction comfortably.

She led him into the foyer. The door closed behind them and I heard my name bellowed out by Mrs. Childress. I had stopped picking up the dinner linen at his mention of my name—most of my clients not wanting to know my name any more than they wanted to reveal their real name to me. Upon Mrs. Childress's summons, I walked out into the foyer, expecting the man to say something to her or to me why he had asked for me by name. But he just stood there, staring at me. I sensed even then his indecision on whether to bolt out of the door or not. But he didn't.

The man shuffled along behind us, down a corridor to the very private room, with its own full bath, including a large claw-footed bathtub—quite a luxury in those days—at the back of the bedroom wing. Mrs. Childress had found that a favorite of her new-service clientele was to be bathed—and more—in a porcelain bathtub. And Saturday night was a particularly popular time for this, the men being able to see to two of their basic weekly needs at the same time. I often thought that during that period I must have been the cleanest young man in Asheville. As we walked in the purposely darkened hallway, the man looked down at his feet, and although his physique was magnificent, as I could clearly tell, he was hunched over as an old man with many burdening sins.

When we were alone, he walked over to the nightstand and placed something on it that I assumed, upon getting a glimpse of it, was an envelope—hopefully with money in it. Then he returned across the room, as far away from the bedstead as he could get, and sat in a chair facing the bed. I started to undress.

"You needn't do that," he whispered. "I just want to look at you and perhaps talk a bit."

"We must fuck or I will not be paid my share," I answered, while I continued undressing, taking my shirt off my shoulders. I knew that I needed to put him into arousal or this would not be a good day for me. Mrs. Childress demanded seventy-five cents for the first ejaculation upon nonrefundable deposit, but I only got my share of that seventy-five cents if there was an ejaculation.

"Well, if you must—if we must. I suppose I would like to see what you have become. My name is Stephen, Stephen Bander," he said. And he gave me a searching look as if that might mean something to me, which it didn't.

"I am Charlie," I answered, as I undid the belt to my trousers. For some reason I did not want to give him more—they rarely asked and I never wanted to allow them into the personal corner of my life. I never lied by giving a false name; this was not a large town. I left it up to them to cling to that false protection if they wished. In this case, my reticence was nonsensical, of course, as I had already heard him enunciate my name.

I spent considerable time at the table on the porch the next morning trying to get that part of the scene just right.

"I know. Your name is Charlie. Charles Bairr. With two Rs."

I looked at him sharply as my trousers and underdrawers dropped in folds onto the floor around my feet, wondering how he knew about the two Rs.

But all of his attention now was focused on my naked body, and by his gasp and the intake his breath, I knew that he did want me. For the next nearly hour, I kept telling myself that. That he really had wanted me. It helped assuage the wound of rejection. 

I cannot claim that I did not enjoy the trembling, hardening reaction I had on other men or that I found the act of lying under different men—and sometimes in quick succession or even in multiples—of any thickness or length repulsive or even of indifference to me. At no time did I become a numb prostitute, shutting my mind to what was happening so that I could endure it—or needing to pretend that I enjoyed it. I loved the looks men gave me when I stood naked before them; it didn't matter how unattractive they might be. What mattered was the effect my nakedness, my willingness to open my legs to them, had on them and on what was swinging—and rising—between their thighs. Their uncontrollable, naked desire was my arousal. And I loved being cocked—being held close and controlled and men becoming frenzied and captive of my sheath, not being able to get enough of me.

This perhaps was why I would melt at the likes of a black Samuel or an ugly-faced rough workman. If they were able to produce a hard pole for me to climb—the longer and thicker a challenge the better—their color or social standing meant nothing to me. Their involuntary hardness and their show of desire to have it inside me—that I had this involuntary effect on them—was all the arousal I needed. Their shudder and flow was my power over them and affirmation of my own worth to them—and therefore to myself.

I would never write of myself as a victim during those boarding house days—beyond the fact that I was being prostituted for the profit of others for something I'd be willing to give away for free for the mere award of the lust and want in a man's eyes when I stood before him naked—and his resulting need to have his most precious possession churning up inside me against any and all dangers to his own position, well-being, or dignity.

Here, in my writing of the scene about Stephen Bander, I had to make a choice—whether to write this for an audience or just for myself. As I was trying to capture it faithfully for myself, though, I chose to baldly write it as it actually happened. This would be a play for my eyes only. I couldn't expect others to understand, let along condone, my attitude toward the lusts and weaknesses of men—but I was compelled to burst out of the bounds of denying the reality of me at least to myself.

Stephen Bander wouldn't make a move at that point and for moments afterward as he sat there, staring at me and saying nothing. Deciding he was not going to come for me, I walked to within his grasp—usually that's all it took with the initially reluctant ones—and leaned over and took his finely cut jacket off his back and started unbuttoning his vest.

"You needn't. We needn't."

"We must. As far as I know, she is watching from somewhere." I wasn't lying in this, although I never could discern the presence of an eyehole in the room, I sometimes felt an unseen scrutiny and certainly didn't put the practice beyond Mrs. Childress's capabilities or interests. There were times when men came to the house who I thought were of particular interest to Mrs. Childress, and often, when this was the case, she instructed me to take them to that small room of mine where the headboard would bang against the wall of her bedroom when set in a rocking motion and from where she could hear his rough talk and my moans.

"And at the end of your time," I continued telling Bander, "there must be a chalk mark on the slate over the board. More than one, though, and you will have to pay seventy-five cents more—each."

"More than once?" he asked in almost a gasp.

"The younger local miners can provide four or five chalk marks in the two hours," I answered. It wasn't a boast. It was the simple, sore truth.

He winced at that, and I didn't know if it was from some feeling of inferiority at the number given or from the mention of miners. He certainly had the physique to rival any of the miners who regularly took out their week of tension on me on a Saturday night.

"A chalk mark?" His breathing was heavier now, because I had continued undressing him. I was kneeling between his spread knees and had his vest off and was unbuttoning his shirt—to reveal a barrel chest of much breadth and depth and nipples standing out strongly, signaling a need I knew he had even if he was denying it.

"Yes. It marks each time you . . . come. It must be at least once or I will not be paid."

His breathing was ragged and he let out a little moan from the effect of my lips going to one of his nipples. My hands were unbuttoning the fly of his trousers, and a hard cock nearly sprang free upon release.

But when my lips went to it, it began to whither immediately.

"I'm sorry. Please. Perhaps too quickly. Could you just go over and sit on the bed for a minute? I will finish undressing myself and join you on the bed." The voice was stressed, and deeply apologetic. I was afraid he would bolt for the door then and escape, so I did as he bid, determined to earn my share of seventy-five cents—I was only paid by the ejaculation; I received nothing from the payment for the room or my basic presence—and I was aware that I had to try to do so less directly with this one.

As I sat down on the bed, I looked down at what he had put on the nightstand. It wasn't an envelope; it was a folded piece of paper, and it had my name written on it—correctly spelled and in a familiar hand that I thought I should recognize but could not, at that moment, put a name to. I quickly concluded that this is how he had known my name. I had been recommended to him—by name. I looked up from the paper and saw that he had finished undressing and was giving me a look that was more stressed than lustful.

He had a powerful body; he was not built especially large for fucking, but the massiveness of his chest and biceps and thigh and calf muscles were very pleasing to me. He obviously did—or had done—hard labor with his body, which was still hard muscle and no fat. His ribs and abdomen lay on his torso like he was wearing Roman armor, and I wanted to run my hands over him to determine that he wasn't made of steel.

His cock was engorging again as he stood there and watched me stroking my own cock for him. As he walked toward the bed, I stretched out on the mattress and raised my arms, welcoming him to stretch out beside me in the double bed. As he did so, I moved my lips to his taunt nipples again and encircled his waist with my arms and palmed his well-rounded buttocks, which were as hard and unyielding as the rest of him.

Our cocks were resting against each other, and I brought a hand around and encircled them both as I started to move my mouth down his clavicle en route once again to the root of him. But even as I rubbed the two cocks together, I felt him going flaccid again.

He brushed my hand away and pulled me back up along his body until we were laying face to face. The hardness of his body was arousing to me. I was not sure what his problem was.

"Do you want me to . . . is it that you want me to cock you?" I asked this hesitantly. This sometimes was required of me—but not often. It was usually me they wanted to fuck.

"No. It is nothing. Just let me hold you a moment and look at your face. No, no," he said with a sigh at length. "There is no similarity. I should not have come. Nothing alike. It would be a disloyalty. For me at least."

As he was saying that, I had taken one of his callus-hard hands in mine and was playing with his fingers. That's when I noticed them. They were groomed well enough and seemed to have been cleaned thoroughly. But there, at the base of the fingernail, where it met the flesh of the finger, the black line. The line of blackness that I remember being told a hundred times would not wash away once you had worked with it. Coal dust.

"How is it that you know my name? Who has recommended me to you?" I murmured, suddenly all attention, my mind racing on the possibilities.

"I cannot tell," he whispered. "It would be a cruelty. I should not have come."

I watched him from my reclining position on the bed, as he hurriedly dressed.

"I'm sorry. I cannot get the rise," he told me apologetically when he was done dressing. "It's not you. Oh, god, it's not you. It's me."

"It's all right," I answered, trying to use my reasonable voice, wondering if there had been anyone else turned away who I could have made money off of—but principally lost in thought about what this could mean—whether I was letting my imagination running away with me and it didn't really mean anything at all.

I saw him take his wallet out.

"You have already paid," I said. "Did you forget. It is not that the house will not have its money—what has happened has more than fully been covered by the deposit you gave—it's that I will not be given a share."

But as if he hadn't heard me at all, I watched him take five one-dollar bills out of his wallet and lay them on the nightstand by the bed and, almost in the same movement, take up the folded paper that was there and slide it into the inner pocket of his jacket. And then, in an afterthought, he reached up and marked a vertical line on the slate over the bed with the chalk.

Saying nothing else, he turned and left me alone in the room.

No one visited me that night, but he'd paid for his time, so Mrs. Childress was happy and I certainly should have been happy, as I'd received pay for more than a couple of days of fucking without doing it. But I spent that Saturday night, awake, knowing that the incongruous gentlemen with the coal miner's fingers had left somehow unsatisfied—and something grated on my sense of pride. I did not feel diminished when a man fucked me; I felt diminished when his mind or body told him he would not. And the circumstances were such that my mind raced all night, setting forth the scene as well as my recalling would do—as a play. Certainly a tragedy rather than a comedy.

* * * *

"What is that you are writing so intensely that you did not heed my appearance on the stage, young man?"

The voice was booming, rich-toned, and although spoken jovially, it's message had a touch of pique below the surface, leaving me red faced with the impression that I had committed some act of inconsideration by not having seen the man mount the stairs to the covered front porch of the Swannanoa Boarding House. And when I looked up, I felt doubly embarrassed, because such a magnificent figure of a man as this was due a welcome everywhere he went—and he clearly knew it.

"It is nothing. Just some scribblings," I answered in a stammering voice. "If you are seeking rooms, you are free to sit a few minutes here on the porch. The proprietress, Mrs. Childress, is at church but should be back any moment now."

"I prefer to stand," he answered in the booming voice of his. And I could see why that was so. His appearance was so commanding, his attire so flamboyant and colorful that he took center stage. Until his command of all about him was complete, he would be holding the spotlight. "And I am serious. What are you writing with such concentration? Are you a famous writer, my young man?"

"No, no, not famous at all," I sputtered, looking up the full six and more feet of him, from highly polished boots and scarlet plush trousers to filmy and fluffy embroidered white shirt, covered with a shiny blue jacket cut high at the wrists and wide at the lapels to permit room for the white lacing exuberantly cascading there, past a finely chiseled face, with a flamboyant handle-bar mustache and thick, glowering eyebrows on to a healthy head of salt and pepper hair worn as a lion's mane. If there had been a poster of Manifest Destiny in the making, he would have been the model for it.




Homeward Bound Ch. 04



I muttered under my breath, "I'm not sure I would call it a miracle to be back here!" I saw the doctor pause and gaze at me before he continued.

Soon, I was rushed into x-ray and then found myself in a room in ICU. The same young doctor later came in and gave me all the good news.

"John, your left ankle was crushed. We will have to rebuild it and you'll have to stay off it for at least six weeks. The cast will remain for a minimum of four to six months. I have an orthopedic surgeon coming in later today. You also have two fractured ribs; however, they had retained their integrity. I saw how you wrapped the ribcage which, in all probability, is what helped. We cleaned up all the scrapes and bruising. We will keep you in ICU until your core temperature is back to normal but that shouldn't be more than a day or two. Then, we will move you into a private room. We have you on a minor sedative drip to give you some needed rest. Any questions?"

"Doc, what is your name? I don't even know your name!"

"Brian...Brian Sullivan, you just don't remember me telling you earlier, John. Please, call me Brian."

"Brian, thank you for all you've done."

"My job." He patted my shoulder and said, "Take care now."

I watched as he left and then closed my eyes. Soon, I drifted off into sleep.

When I cracked my eyes open, it was dark. Hell, I must have been out all day. I turned my head and saw someone sitting in a chair next to the bed. I couldn't make out who it was in the dark but I heard the rustle of movement.

"John, you awake?"

I couldn't control the weepy croak when I recognized the soft voice of my wife. 

"John?"

I heard her stand and move toward the bed. Her hand searched for mine and held it. I could hear a soft sobbing as she stroked my cheek with her other hand. I didn't say anything.

"Oh John, thank god you're here. I was so worried. I hoped and prayed you were alive and would come back to me, back to the girls." Her voice cracked with a sob.

I still hadn't said a word as she leaned over and kissed me gently on the forehead and then the lips. When I felt those wonderfully soft lips press against my swollen and cracked ones, I lost it. My arms came up and wrapped around her slight frame pulling her down against me. I grunted in pain as she pressed against my damaged ribs and she tried pulling back saying, "Oh my god, I forgot you're hurt!"

I wouldn't release her. Enduring the discomfort, I held her and cried. Maybe it was the medication, maybe it was the release of all the pent-up emotion, and maybe it was the realization of how close I came to death, but I couldn't let go, I couldn't let her get away.

"JoAnne, I...I've missed you so much!" I felt her fingers gently graze my cheeks wiping away the tears.

Feeling her tears fall on my face she said, "Dear God John, I cannot begin to say how sorry I am, how ashamed I was for what I did. I can't even imagine asking for your love and forgiveness. I can only hope you don't give up on me, on us."

Sniffling, she was finally able to pull away taking my hands in hers. "John, you need to rest now."

I tried to keep her from moving away.

"Don't worry...I'll be here for you in the morning. The girls will want to see you. Just rest now."

I sighed and soon fell into a strange sleep.

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

(To be continued...)



Homeward Bound Ch. 05



It was mere happenstance that I received the letter at all—and I remembered later that I had every reason to suspect that there had been other letters sent to me at the boarding house that I never saw. I just happened to be the one standing at the front door when the mailman came by and, although I didn't usually do so, I glanced at the addresses on the envelopes he handed me.

The name was spelled with only one R, of course, but it clearly was addressed to me—and it was from a town in Ohio. I didn't know anyone in Ohio that I knew of. In fact, I couldn't name anyone in the world who would be sending me a letter at all.

When I opened it, I had to sit down and read it a third time before the message therein began to sink in. It was from the chairman of the English Department at Oberlin College. My works had been read—I had to return to this statement several times; only a few of my play scripts had ever been seen by anyone else. My works had been read with interest, it said, and Oberlin was prepared to offer me an assistantship if I wished to continue my college education there.

In the next few hours and days—not longer than that, because I was on the wing within a week—I poured over all of the circumstances of my life and everyone who was in it, and only two possibilities occurred to me. There was that strange man who visited me and seemed familiar with me but who had been unable to perform sexually. And, when I thought more on it, there was Alec Cotton, to whom I had sent my draft of The Boarding House. The more I thought on it, the more I became convinced that this was the source of my visitation by the angels—I couldn't think of the opportunity as anything else. I never even considered that it might just be a practical joke—and, in hindsight, I'm certainly glad I didn't, because that, by far, was the most logical conclusion. And if I'd thought that was a possibility, chances would have been good I would have marched straightaway to the grate and burned what I would have taken as a cruel joke.

The was another possibility—that it really was my play scripts that had been seen and admired. And I asked around at the playhouse about whether any of the actors and stage people there had sent any of the scripts to anyone, but they all reacted as I reasoned they would—fearing that I was seeking evidence of my work having been stolen for production elsewhere without my permission. Thus, it was not surprising when they all denied any knowledge of the scripts having been disseminated beyond Asheville.

Once I'd decided I would go to Ohio to at least find out what this was about, it was like walking on glass at the boarding house. Mrs. Childress, with her sharp sense of detection, obviously knew something was afoot. I had no idea why she suspected anything until she asked me whether I had any relatives in Ohio. Then I realized that I must have dropped the envelope in the front hall the same day the letter arrived. I certainly couldn't find the envelope later, and I was so shocked by receiving the letter that I easily could have dropped the envelope there.

I stonewalled her, however, and made my plans in private. And the next Sunday, while she was at church, I put the few belongings I had in my valise and trudged to the train station, where I had already bought a ticket for Oberlin, Ohio.

When I finally got in to see the man who had sent me the letter from Oberlin College, I found I hadn't been thinking clearly on the possibilities of why I had been invited to school at Oberlin on an assistantship.

"It is all quite unorthodox," the department chairman said, "but S. D. insisted he couldn't take up the position offered to him here without an assistant—and one of his own choosing—and when we quibbled on the educational assistant he had chosen, he merely said that we could educate you as we pleased—but that you had worked under him before and the two of you were a comfortable fit."

"S. D.? Worked under him before? A comfortable fit?"

"Yes, didn't Professor Dane contact you about this? He seemed quite insistent that you be brought over from Asheville to work with him."

"Ah. Stan. Stanford Dane." I almost pinched myself for being so slow—well, for that and for almost bursting forth with laughter at the double entendre references to my having worked under him and the two of us being a comfortable fit.

I finally got to the office they sent me to, the one they said was Professor Dane's—down a semidark, dusty hallway in one of the college's older buildings. The chairman of the English Department had spoken of it as if it were some hallowed ground and that his department wouldn't agree to move to newer facilities even if the college administration tried to force them to, I took my steps with increased hesitancy. I didn't feel worthy of being here. I knew I would make such a fool of myself for taking on airs above my abilities. And it couldn't be the Stanford Dane I knew who I was going to meet.

Somehow I didn't relate all of this to flamboyant, bigger-than-life, got-to-have-the-best Stanford Dane.

But they were right. The door was open to his office and sitting behind the desk was none other than the Stanford Dane, showman extraordinaire, I had known in Asheville.

"He didn't tell you in the letter who was recommending you?" Stanford said when he looked up from the text on his desk, his face bathed in a beam of sunlight coming through a window that left the rest of the room in semidarkness, and saw me standing there in the shadows just inside his open door. I already knew him well enough, though, to know that it was all for dramatic effect. I'm sure he knew I was there the moment I entered the building and had taken pains in establishing his place on stage.

"Ah, that is a pity," he continued. "I didn't want to do it myself, because I could never quite be sure they would accommodate me. They salivated over my appointment as playwright in residence, but you know how testy the politics can be in a college faculty."

No, I didn't know, actually.

"My plays . . . the ones I directed in Asheville last winter attained quite a bit of acclaim. This wasn't the only college that took note of my successes and abilities."

"Your plays?" I screamed inside my head. "Don't you mean our plays?—the ones I slaved so hard over while you were prancing around the parlors of the wealthy in Asheville?"

I didn't say it, of course. And I didn't really believe it. The plays would have gone nowhere without his signature stamped all over them. If nothing else, I had no argument to give that the ending he loved and that I hated hadn't made Bound for Home fail in the eyes of the audiences. I had heard that the play had done well on the New York stage as well, which I took as a lesson for my own skills at assessment. It had humbled me.

"Why, Mr. Dane?" I asked instead. "Why did you send for me? When you left you didn't even say good-bye."

"I was slightly piqued at you, dear boy. But since we were parted, I discovered that I missed you."

I should have been satisfied with that—and I would have been—if he hadn't eventually gotten around to a deeper reason.

"I'm grateful, of course, for the opportunity to study. And to work with you—"

"I would like to know how grateful, Charlie. I would like to have that cleared up right at the beginning."

"Oh, very. I—"

"Don't just tell me, Charlie. I would like for you to show me, please."

With that he rolled his chair back away from the desk I know was facing as I stood between desk and door.

"Close the door, Charlie, please—and come kneel between my thighs."

"Here? Now? In a public building? The glass in the door isn't clear, but with the backlighting from the window—"

"Yes, here, now, Charlie. Don't you remember that we had a discussion about danger enhancing the ecstasy—on our first day together? Have you lost your sense of adventure?"

I knelt between his thighs then and unbuttoned his trousers and pulled that monster cock of his out, already in partial arousal, and closed my lips over the bulb to begin the ritual of what I knew he enjoyed the most.

When he was in full erection, he commanded me to rise, strip off my trousers and drawers and lean over the desktop with my belly on a pile of notebooks he'd been grading.

I moaned as in times of old as he reached between my legs and began milking my cock and ran his tongue into my ass. He knew all of me—what I liked better and what I liked best. He was the master of me—which, I knew, was the whole purpose of this welcoming session. But when he had his long, thick, strong cock moving deep inside me and I was writhing under his attentions and not caring about anything but that he hadn't given me this for so long, I again, almost instantly, was entirely his.

Immediately after his ejaculation, he put his lips to my ears and stabbed me with the real reason I had been sent for.

"You didn't ask what your duties would be as my assistant, Charles."

"They seem fairly obvious now," I countered with a groan.

"Beyond that—that's just a pledge of your loyalty—beyond that, I've been working on scripts since Asheville, but they seem to need something more. You did so well with the Asheville play that what I want your assistance with is cleaning my plays up and enhancing them."

"You want me to write your plays?"

"The plays are mine, Charles," and not having taken his still-hard cock all of the way out of me, I gasped as he slammed it deep up into me again—showing me that his forbearance had its limits. "I want you to work on them as you did in Asheville—no more and no less. You seemed content to learn from me then. Has that changed?"

"No," I whimpered. And I'm ashamed to say that my "no" was really because he was withdrawing his cock from inside me once again. He was still hard; I knew that he was capable of fucking me again—and the second and subsequent ones had always been the more pleasurable ones.

"Rise and dress now, Charles. This is perhaps a bit more public than we should chance further. But I'm not finished with you."

"No," I whimpered again, this time making clear that I wasn't finished properly either.

As we dressed, he wrote something on a scrap of paper and handed it to me. "This is my address. As soon as you are settled into your dormitory room this afternoon, attend me at my house, please."

"I am to live at the college, not with you?" I asked. I tried not to make it come out as a whine, but I'm sure I didn't succeed.

"Yes, it would be inconvenient—and perhaps a bit too obvious—if I were to take you into my home. You're a student now. You should be happy to make the most of this time among other students. As long as you don't get too familiar with any of them, of course."

I recognized the last sentence, addressed in a voice of steel, as the command it was rather than friendly advice. I was to be for his use alone.

* * * *

"Professor Dane?" I called out as I pushed the already-ajar door of his two-story cottage on the college grounds open enough for me to slip inside. I reasoned that if he wanted our relationship to remain a secret here, I shouldn't stand out on the open front porch for any length of time.

"Up here, in the bath. Come give me a hand."

I gave him two hands actually. Finding him in a stand of soapy water in a large claw-footed tub in the center of a good sized bathroom, I scrubbed his back for him with one hand and slow-pumped his cock with the other.

He sighed and issued an instruction in a low, melodic voice. "Take your clothes off and join me in here now, please."

"You want me in the tub with you?" I asked nonsensically.

"Of course. I did teach you how to sit on a man's cock in a bathtub, didn't I? I know that I taught you so much that I may have missed something, but that's pretty fundamental, I think."

I entered the tub and knelt over his pelvis and impaled my channel on his cock—and finally experienced the complete second-and-third-times-are-higher-heavens cocking I hadn't quite gotten in his office. When we were done, there was as much soapy water on the floorboards around the tub as in it and my eye sockets were swimming in his cum.

I was leisurely drying myself off with him watching me and me knowing that from his look he was not finished fucking me for the day, when we heard the front door slam downstairs and a saucy-toned male voice called out Dane's name.

"I'm home. Got the chops just as you directed."

I looked over into Dane's face and I saw both amusement and triumph. He was punishing me for having found Abe and me together in the hayloft.

"His name is Freddy," Dane said, and I heard the twinge of laughter in his voice. "He is taking one of my classes, he lives here with me, and I am teaching him to be fucked by men."

I passed Freddy on the stairs, and it seemed that he, a little blond snippet of an arrogant college freshman, looked on me with disdain.

I said nothing; but I knew two things now. One, an obvious revelation, was that there was a good reason Dane hadn't asked me to live with him here. And, two, no matter what I let Dane do to me and take from me, if any plays were going to be written by our collaboration, they would bear both of our names as playwrights.

I would do anything Dane wanted to do to me sexually—he had that sort of command over me. But he would not fully command my pen ever again—or at least that was my resolve at the time.

* * * *

Dane didn't like my conditions for working with him, but as long as I would open my legs for him on command, he chose to live with my name under his—and in smaller, less bold letters I soon found out—on the play scripts.

I think I would have been content with that arrangement as long as Dane was—and indeed, it lasted beyond the time I had earned my undergraduate degree at Oberlin and was starting to pursue a master of fine arts degree there as well.

What changed my life was another lover from my past unexpectedly drifting back into my path.

A book festival was being held at Oberlin and one of the keynote speakers was Alec Cotton, the frenzied writer who used sex with men to jog his writing muse and who had spent three memorable weeks with his cock inside me at Mrs. Childress's boarding house.

I saw his name in the festival announcements, and I made sure that Dane was having a private teaching session with his Freddy that evening—and I went to Cotton's lecture on the creative use of tense in novels.

I sat well back in the lecture hall, but he saw and recognized me anyway. And he embarrassed me by including me in the introductions of the writers he saw in the audience.

"Mr. Bairr with two Rs, could you abide me for a moment when I've attended to everyone else who wishes to talk with me?" he called out to me as the lecture concluded and some attendees moved to the podium while most turned and shuffled out of the hall, telling each other of their own important beliefs on the use of tense in writing.

What he had to say when others were far enough away not to hear what he whispered was, "Can you come back to my hotel with me now? I need to be inside you. I was so afraid that my need could be seen by all as I spoke. Did you see me hiding behind the lectern the entire time? Just seeing you in the audience gave me an uncontrollable hard."

He fucked me more furiously than I can remember him ever having done before when we returned to his room. When we were both spent, he sat up in the bed and reached over on the nightstand and retrieved a cigarette and lit up. He offered one to me, but I demurred. I just lay there, looking up at him, not fully believing that he had thundered back into my life like this.

"How did you recognize me in the hall?" I asked. "Surely I have changed."

"For the better—which I would not have thought possible," he answered. "I knew you were here. I'd heard about Dane's assistant and I knew it was you. That's why I came to this dreary gathering."

"You came just for me?"

"I have wondered. Why didn't you answer my letters on your book? I was drowning in enthusiasm—as was my editor, Max Trudeau, but I received no response from you on helping you have it published."

"Published? Letters? I'm sorry, I received no letters." Mrs. Childress had interceded. I knew it then. And if she'd been present here, I would have choked the life out of her for her grasping interference. Any thoughts of remorse I might have had about leaving her without notice were now flown.

"Trudeau is a master of guiding an author into publication. You'd be smart to let him take you on. He says The Boarding House is far too taboo to put directly into the mainstream market here, of course. But it can be translated into French and supposedly pirated editions can filter back into the American market. He says he can guarantee you a faithful and well-heeled following. And, with his credentials, that's saying a lot. So, I don't understand why—"

"Yes," I said.

"I don't understand—"

"I said 'yes,' Alec. I'm interested. I didn't receive the letters. They were kept from me."

"You will have to come to New York, of course," he now said. "Trudeau works extremely closely with those he's editing and mentoring."

"That may not be quite as possible," I said. "Perhaps I should sound Stanford Dane out on it. I'm supposed to be working with him on play scripts."

Alec was not thrilled about this, but I insisted. "I will have an answer before you leave Oberlin on Saturday," I said. "I owe this to him."

I went straight to Dane's cottage and opened the front door when no one responded to my knock. In the foyer, some proofs lying on the table in the hall caught my attention. I could hear Dane and Freddy in their lovemaking in Dane's room at the top of the stairs, but I was more interested in the proofs. They were releases about his newest play—our newest play. My name did not appear on the title page.

I was seething as I mounted the stairs. The door to Dane's bedroom was open and they were on the bed. Dane was kneeling on the bed, facing the door, his torso arched back. Freddy, also facing the door, was stretched out on top of Dane's torso, also kneeling on the bed. Dane was palming Freddy's belly, holding him close in to give his impaling cock as much purchase up Freddy's channel as possible. Freddy's torso was stretched up as his arms were flung back and his hands locked behind Dane's neck. His pert little cock was bobbing up and down to the rhythm of the thrusts of Dane's cock inside him.

When he looked up and saw me, Freddy gave me a sneery little smile of possession and triumph.

"Oh, it's you, Charles." It was Dane who spoke. "I thought it was a couple of football players I summoned to play with us tonight to receive passing grades and keep their positions on the team. Good. Come join us, please. Suck on Freddy for me please. And when the football players arrive—"

I heard no more. I had turned and was stumbling down the staircase—more upset, I'm afraid by the evidence of the proofs missing my name than by Dane's sexual plans for the evening. I went back to the hotel and knocked on Alec's door.

"Who is it?"

"It's me, two Rs," I answered through the flimsy wood of the door.

"Come on in. Back so soon?"

"Yes and yes," I said, as I moved to the bed and straddled his pelvis with my knees and began to fuck myself on his willing cock.

I stayed the night and gathered up my few belongings and returned to his bed until his lectures were finished. And when Alec left for New York, so did I.

I had the presence of mind to let Dane know I was going—and that it wasn't really about the sexual demands and degradations but because of the continued attempts to cut me out of my due in the playwriting. I told him I would give him my address wherever I'd be and I'd even continue to work on the plays with him from a distance, if he liked. But I would do so only if my name appeared on the scripts, that I received confirmation of this from any theaters or publishers working with the scripts, and that I was sent my share of any profit from them.




Homeward Bound Ch. 06



I was a little smug with Stanford Dane at that point; his comment on the arrogance of youth held true. I had assumed that what I knew that he didn't made all of the difference—that I was going to New York with Alec Cotton. That Alec Cotton was my sponsor lover now and would take care of me. And Dane didn't even know about Alec Cotton. But Dane did know about Max Trudeau.

The first week in New York City was fine. Actually, it was awesome. And I'm not writing about the sex with Alec Cotton. That always had been a bit strange and hit or miss according to his muse—or lack of muse for the times he paid more than perfunctory attention to me in bed.

It was New York City itself that was awesome. I, of course, had never been to a city that large or cosmopolitan. Alec's rooms were in the Village, so each day he would take me out into the city in a different direction and would show me the city that he clearly loved.

I loved it too; its excitement nearly overwhelmed me. But only nearly. What meant the most to me at that point, however, was that Alec said that a major editor in publishing loved my book, The Boarding House, and wanted to help me get it into print—a work of mine that wouldn't have Stanford Dane's gilded signature and personality overwhelming it.

Well into our second week together in New York, Alec was facing another deadline on a novel he had nearly completed but couldn't quite top off, and he'd slipped into our old relationship to churn up his muse. He no longer took me out of his rooms. In fact, we didn't leave his rooms at all. A friend of his sporadically brought food into us, and I was trapped in his bed—to be there whenever Alec's brain locked up and he needed a boost of frenetic sex to break through the barrier.

All good and fair for Alec's writing. But what about mine, I increasingly was asking myself—until I couldn't help it anymore, and I asked Alec.

It was when I heard him curse and ball up the sheet of paper he was writing on and stand up and look over to me on the bed. I knew better than to break into his concentration after sex—that's when he had a chance to rejoin the threads of his novel, and there would be nothing but anger and frustration from him if I broke into the mood with concerns of my own.

But now, his muses were locked, and he was focused on me—he wanted me.

As he approached the bed, I held out my arms, not in welcome, but in a gesture of fending him off.

"No, sit first, Alec. We must talk."

"Talk?" he asked, in a fog of confusion at the breaking of a routine that worked for him so well.

"Yes. You are nearly finished with your work on this novel. But I am here because you said a famous editor wanted to work with my novel manuscript. When does this happen? When is my time?" I almost went as far as to point out that I was no less of a slave whore to him in this arrangement now than I had become to Stanford Dane at Oberlin—and that I hadn't come away with him for just more of the same exploitation without concern for my writing future.

"Trudeau is a very busy man. Praeger is a juggernaut in publishing—they churn out several books a day, and Max is at the center of that. He knows you're here. He will call for you when he's ready. And the time will not be long—it will be too short."

There was a catch in his voice, and I looked at him sharply. His face bore a sadder expression than I had ever seen before. And he was running his hand down my belly and then farther—and driving me crazy with his attentions. I shuddered, wanting to give into my own arousal and also wanting to take the sad expression off his face—and yet wanting an answer to my question.

His sad face and what he was doing with his hand won out.

And then when Trudeau did summon me to his offices two days later, the sad expression returned to Alec's face, and he seemed to be reluctant and to be dragging his feet in taking me to Trudeau. His hug and handshake as we stood in front of Trudeau's office door seemed more of a farewell than a beginning of a new phase of our lives.

I couldn't understand what his problem was. He had been the one to send my manuscript to his editor. He had shown no evidence beforehand of wanting anything less than literary success for me. He never before had portrayed a moment of professional competition or jealousy. Indeed, I assumed that when I was published, we would have a life of sharing each other's successes and playing off each other's revealed inspirations in discussions that benefited us both. That's what I'd been told could happen in writers' liaisons—the synergy of the muses of both enhancing the creativity of both.

All Alec said before he withdrew, leaving me alone with Maximilian Trudeau, was "Here he is, Charles Bairr," when we opened the door after a gruff voice answered our knock. We had walked to and stopped at the threshold of the dimly lit office stuffed with manuscripts and flecks of dust floating in the beam of light coming through one tall window some dozen stories off the ground and grimy with grease from the fumes of the horseless carriages bustling by on the narrow city street below.

I looked to the desk to the left of the door, but the "Come here and sit beside me" command came from the right. I turned there. A large man, perhaps pushing fifty, and obviously an avid and frequent diner on fine foods, was folded into a heavy, horse-hair-covered Chesterfield sofa that sat in front of a fireplace, blocking it, with towering bookshelves on either side stuffed with manuscripts. My first thought at seeing the piles of manuscripts strewn about was to wonder how Trudeau got to the furniture, the fireplace, or the shelves—or, indeed, how he knew where anything could be found on demand in the room. Intuitively, though, I knew that he could place his hands on anything in the room. Including, now, me. My second thought went back to when I first saw Stanford Dane in that dimly lit office at Oberlin, and I shuddered at the realization that this would be a déjà vu moment.

Alec had told me what working with Trudeau would require. In fairness, he told me before we left Oberlin. But letting men fuck me had become my lot in life. I wasn't a fool of my circumstances. My life had been moving from the cock of one patron to another, starting on an hourly basis and eventually moving to liaisons that had greater rewards for me. I appreciated that the progression was going in this direction.

But I was to learn that when Alec said I would be Trudeau's if he agreed to be my book editor, I had no idea how sweeping the reality of that would be—how much of a slave I would become or how exotic and cruel the man's technique would be.

Alec had mitigated what the contract would be, though. "When you prove out, as I now have, his interests will move to new authors. But he will stay with you professionally. Then the real author-editor relationship will become as gold."

"You let him fuck you?" I asked, in disbelief.

"Yes, of course. He won't take you on unless you give yourself completely—and unless he wants more than your manuscript."

"But, you aren't that way—you are the one who—"

"Life is a compromise, Charlie. You do what you have to to get where you want to go."

So, I can't claim I didn't know what would be expected of me.

"Ah, so young and beautiful," he said as I stood there, trying to take him all in. He was heavy, yes, but he also was tall and big boned, so the sofa had several reasons to be sagging a bit in the middle. "Alec had told me you were an angel. And such an accomplished writer too. Come. Come sit beside me."

I wasn't sure how "sit beside me" was going to be accomplished. He was taking up more than half of the sofa—the middle half. I chose the side more in the shadows at the inner-wall end. In fact, it was the only end available. When I came closer, I saw that there were several devices lying on the sofa beside him on the other side. I recognized the oversized leather dildo, but there were other devices I didn't recognize.

He immediately wrapped an arm around me when I sat down, and the palm of his hand rested on my chest.

"I know you are a good writer, my young Charles. Alec told me you would be. I wasn't sure, of course. But he proved to be right. And I am a great editor, Charles. One of the best in the business. Did Alec tell you that?"

"Yes."

"And did Alec tell you my conditions for taking on a new author?"

"Yes. At least some."

"Some? Was Alec telling me the truth when he said you were a male prostitute? You look too young and fresh. I certainly hope that Alec hasn't been lying to me. But then what you wrote in your book seemed so authentic and . . . interesting."

His direct reference to being a male prostitute took me aback. I had never heard it stated that baldly—and I certainly didn't think that baldly about it. I had done what I needed to do to survive. And I had been brought to it—and I loved being fucked whether or not there was money being exchanged for it. But then, Alec had told me Trudeau would be direct and bald about everything—and that when this concerned my manuscript, I would not be published if I was thin skinned about his instructions and assessments and did not fully, and genuinely accept that he was the expert or refused to rewrite and then rewrite again.

"Yes." I would be bald and straightforward with him, too. It was a fact; I was a prostitute—and when it wasn't money I was taking for it, it was other favors. The truth was I was here because of what Trudeau could give me, and both he and Alec were being up front about what I had to give in exchange for what Trudeau could give me.

"And that you have taken cock big?"

"Yes." I wondered if he was telling me he had some sort of channel killer of a cock. I would find it hard to believe that he could exceed either Samuel or Abe or Dane in that department.

"And have you ever taken two at once."

I didn't answer. The questions certainly were bald.

"Well, have you?"

"Yes. Once . . . or twice."

"Well, then, you know that we will have to test for compatibility and satisfaction before we talk of author and editor relationships, don't you?"

"Yes."

He had already started. When I'd entered the room, he was already "comfortable." His boiled white shirt was open as was the vest over it. He was wearing trousers, but he was in his sock feet.

But while he was quizzing me on my sexual experience, he also was starting to undress me with his hands. The hand of the arm he held me close to him with had been unbuttoning my shirt. And the other one had unbuckled my belt and was unbuttoning the fly of my trousers.

"I will unpeel you now," he said in a commanding voice. "Like an orange. We shall get right down to what is the pith of you." And he proceeded to peel off my clothes while he held me in a tight embrace.

"Stand up and face me."

I did so. We were more on my ground now. It didn't matter that he was an ogre. He was eyeing me with a lustful look that more than approved of me—that wanted to merge with me and have me. He may have been a god in the publishing industry, but he was still just a man, controlled by the engorging of his cock—something he couldn't keep from happening when he was looking at me posing demurely—falsely so—in the nude within arm's length of him.

"Ah, yes, an angel. Alec didn't lie."

He drew me into him, his face going into my crotch, where he drew in heavy breaths. He made me bend to him, and his nose and mouth went into my pits, one after the other, and he snuffled there and licked.

Then he pushed me erect and backed me up a couple of steps. "Ah the sweet smell of youth. I'm sure you drive the men wild. Suck me now, please."

I knelt between his spread thighs as he unbuttoned his fly and took out a surprisingly normal looking cock. Perhaps it thickened and lengthened overmuch in greater arousal I thought, as I began to sheath it with my mouth and he began making sounds both guttural and purring.

The surprise came immediately after I had made him come with my mouth and swallowed him down, still perplexed that his cock was nothing special in penetrating power.

I found that the toys he had on the other side of him on the sofa were special. And his positions were something I had never encountered before.

For this first time, he had me sit on his thighs, facing away from him. And in a movement that was far more rapid than I would have thought a man of his size could accomplish, he pushed my face to the floor with the palm of his hands on my back and brought both of his feet up and locked his heels behind my neck and flipped me down so that my head was trapped at the floor, facing the sofa. My legs were spread-eagled to the sides, and he somehow tied them off at the ankle at the arms of the sofa. I would have looked ridiculous if anyone had entered the office at that point—but the staff no doubt was well trained not to do that when Trudeau was "in session."

My buttocks was then exposed at the level of his chest, and Trudeau merely needed to lower his face—which he did—and palm my butt cheeks and spread them wide and he was feasting on my ass entrance. I writhed under his attentions and groaned and moaned deeply not only in shock but also because this was so arousing and different, his tongue seeming to be longer and thicker than his cock, that I had ejaculated on his bare belly in short order.

He merely laughed and began to work with the tools he had on the sofa: the leather dildo and then a chain of graduated balls and other large foreign objects that tested out that "have you had two?" question.

After my first ejaculation, though, he didn't let me have another. He worked on my ass forever. And each time I came close to coming again, he'd stop and hold me still until the urge to blow subsided. My balls began to ache and I begged him to let me come again—which must have been the signal he was listening for, because at this point the toys were discarded and he grabbed me by the hips and pushed my pelvis down toward the floor, and when it lifted again, it slid around his cock. He fucked me by moving my channel up and down on his cock with the force of his hands on my hips—until, with his permission, we both had ejaculated—the bulb of his cock not reaching farther inside me than my prostate, but not being any less effective in arousal and ejaculation value than if his cock had been able to reach into my stomach.

"Dress," he said when he'd released his heel hold on my neck and I'd tumbled to the floor. "And then come over to the desk and we begin. Your manuscript is perfect. It will need to be totally rewritten, though. Then we find an excellent French translator and introduce it to the French market. And when it has made waves in France—which it will—it will be introduced back into the American publishing underground—a subsidiary of Praeger—in the original English, declaring it as a translation of the French. It will sell well here, very, very well here. I have said it is so. Alec told you this already, did he not?"

"Yes," I answered in a breathless voice—still trying to recover from a cruel and possessive fuck such as I'd never experienced before.

"And then we go home and I fuck you properly."

I moaned. "Home?"

"Yes. You belong to me now. Alec is already taking your possessions to my home. We work and we fuck there. Maybe more fuck than work at the beginning." He laughed at his joke.

I didn't. I now knew why Alec was so reluctant for me to meet with Trudeau. Now Alec was on his own for stoking his muse when he had hit a writing wall.



Homeward Bound Ch. 07



Happily Trudeau was not completely serious when he told me there would be more sex than work on my book in his home. He was fully professional in the art of creating first-class novels. What was true, though, was that my work was taken completely apart and put back together again. And, although he was blunt with his critiques and was a hard task master, Trudeau beat two books out of me over the next eight months that each was far better than the one I had originally written.

I say two books, because soon after he started looking more deeply into what I had written, he saw the possibility of a payoff for both a literary fiction that could be published in the American market straightaway and then a more sexually explicit one that could follow the path he had originally set. And he suggested that I have a pen name for that one.

"I had no idea that the earlier material—what you write about your mother's boarding house—could stand alone so well as less erotic character vignettes and a look into a certain segment of society in a southern city in this time frame. I must admit that my attention went directly to your writings in the second boarding house, where we get a much darker, but heavily sensual view of the same setting."

"What are you saying?" I asked. "Do I have to delete one slice of it?"

"Oh no, dear boy, it means we have two books and far greater possibilities of making your name in publishing. I believe we can publish the first part, with augmented material and a central theme—the resilience of a mother such as yours, perhaps, under dire circumstances. And we must do something with your shadowy father. This we publish under your name and openly in the American market. And then the second, sensual one, centering on a young man losing his virginity and learning to gain control through the use of his body. This one would begin, of course, with your initial experiences in your mother's boarding house, but you would establish a separation between the two segments. And this one would be launched through a French translation under a pen name. We'll call the first one The Boarding House, as you have named it—and the second one, perhaps, The Gentlemen Lodgers."

"I don't see why—"

"You will write it cleverly—I will see that you do—so that the books aren't easily discerned as a matched set by the general reader—one even who later read an English version of The Gentlemen Lodgers. What will be delicious in the literary field, however, is that one will be able to be seen as flowing into the other by discriminating readers who receive the hint that you are the author of the second one as well. It will cause a sensation in the more elite literary circles. They love to know something that the great unwashed general readership does not. That's how they love to learn of new books to read and recommend, which will help sell the book. And you will, of course, be all the more celebrated for it."

I was confused by the whole proposition and started to voice my doubts, which brought out the authoritarian in him. I learned fairly quickly that his sessions of cruel sex were brought on by his need to be believed and obeyed without question.

"You need not understand it, Charles. It is quite enough that I do. And I hardly think it is your place to doubt me. Now, please come over here and I will unpeel you and fuck you to the core."

Undressed, I was pushed down onto the floor on my back, and Max grabbed my legs and rolled me up onto my shoulders. He straddled my waving buttocks, my legs in the air. Although his cock was small, his fist was not, and I was writhing and crying before he gave me the relief of only his cock pumping down into me. The "punishment for questioning" fucks were always the cruelest ones.

Trudeau didn't engage me in sex as often as I thought he might. But when he did, it was a total, exhausting experience. He was a master of what he termed as edging—something the men in the boarding houses certainly never had the patience for and something that Stanford Dane couldn't control his own urges enough to practice as Trudeau did, although he did sometimes bring me to a level of begging for release. Trudeau not only brought me to that edge, but did so repeatedly in a session, until my balls ached with the need for flow, and I was whimpering for release.

And although some men in the boarding house had been physically cruel to me during sex, Trudeau was the first to use crops, the flat of his hand, his fist—and his various toys—to abuse me in carefully orchestrated and highly controlled ways.

Beyond that, during the time we were recasting my books and his "new author" focus was on me alone, he always wanted to parade me as his latest protégé. This would have been fine, but he was careful to demean me in public to make clear that I was his and that anything I ever produced would only be a success because of what he had done for me—and he wasn't averse to announcing to his colleagues in crowded theater lobbies exactly what arrangements we lived together under. It was almost as if he was baiting me.

But I later decided that it was his own inferiority complex that caused it. He was an editor—the best of editors—but he was not an author. I became ever the more convinced that his public establishing of my place under his thumb was his attempt—possibly unconscious—to establish in the minds of his colleagues and acquaintances that the success of his authors was secondary to—and subservient to—his own as the book editor. In this, he was largely successful, as the New York publishing scene bowed and scraped to him—and said nothing derogatory when he declared in a loud voice that he had just come from fucking this young, blond angel who was standing two paces to his rear.

Only once did I try to counter this in public. This was when Trudeau took me to see a new play on the street of stage theaters beginning to form on the city's Broadway Street. Fortuitously, the play was one that I had written with Stanford Dane. I seriously doubt Trudeau realized that when he took me there.

He was telling a circle of men I knew of by reputation and who he was an admired colleague of that "This is Charles, the young man who I am making a famous author out of and who came to me as a male prostitute who would do anything for anyone—and now does it for me. I do plan to make him his name in literature, however. His work can be salvaged."

"Ah, but I already have a name in literature," I spoke up boldly. "You gentlemen are watching a play tonight that I cowrote."

Trudeau's complexion went to scarlet, and he looked hard at the playbill we were standing by. "This play was written by Stanford Dane. I, of course, know him, and you, young man, are no Stanford Dane."

"Look at the other name," I said in defiance.

But Trudeau was too quick and too smart for me. "Oh the name in the smaller print? That could not be you, Charles. You spell your name with two Rs, don't you?"

I drew up to the billboard and scrutinized it carefully. And sure, enough, Bairr was spelled with only one R and I was only given the initial "C." Now I was reddening up and Trudeau had regained his composure. I didn't care about him at that moment, though, as I was too busy seething. I was sure that Dane had done this on purpose.

I should have given more thought to Trudeau, though, because when we reached home, he spread-eagled me, face down, on the bed, tied off my wrists and ankles at the four corner posts, and flogged me until I cried. And then he mounted me and rode me mercilessly for nearly an hour—doubly, a long dildo working inside me in addition to the attention to my prostate the bulb of his short cock could manage.

I was not to try to upstage him in public ever again. Both the message and consequences were clear.

But not long after that, the bulk of the rewriting on my manuscripts was done—and Trudeau grew bored with me. He continued forming and publishing my work, just as he had planned—and to the very same result he had predicted and was reaching for. But he brought a new "new author" protégé into the house and relegated me to an attic room and to listening to him working the channel of the "new boy" as he had formerly worked mine.

Getting the hint, I sought to move on myself. At first I thought I would return to Alec Cotton, but in the year since I'd left him, he'd found a new young man to help him coax his muse out of hiding—which, unfortunately, I only learned about by reentering Alec's Village apartment with the key I still had and finding that Alec was working out a particularly bad stoppage on a key passage of a manuscript inside the channel of a hot Latin youth who obviously could pump his hips much faster than I ever could. Until that moment, I hadn't realized that time had marched on and I wasn't the sweet young blond angel anymore. As with Dane, Alec's unabashed offer for me to join them was what propelled me out of the room.

After that I drifted for several months, busy reading proofs and then attending initial signings and launch programs.

And then, as Trudeau had more declared than predicted, I was a smash success with The Boarding House. The Gentlemen Lodgers had not yet been launched in Paris in the French edition, but I had no doubts Trudeau was right about that too.

Immediately, I started receiving invitations to join the faculties of university writing programs either on a trial basis or as a writer in residence—even Oberlin College extended an offer to me, which I found amusing, as it would be the same position Stanford Dane had occupied until recently, when he and the college had had a parting of ways, based, rumor had it, on some of his unorthodox ways and his harvesting and ruining of promising young men students.

I now had choices on where to go—a luxury I'd never had before. And, most particularly, I had options that didn't include a dominating mentor I would be at the mercy of. Or at least that's what I told myself, never having been able to break those bonds for any length of time before.

As I was mulling the position offers, though, I received a telephone call that trumped all else.

"Charles? Charles Bairr?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"You don't know how difficult it was for me to find you. I almost gave up. But one really can't give up with these things."

"Excuse me. Who is this?"

"Abraham Jackson."

I couldn't speak. It had seemed like a hundred years ago that I had last heard his voice, last moaned to his ebony cock working wonders inside me—and yet it also seemed like it all was just yesterday. My ass started twitching at the mere memory of him—and of that black cock.

"Abraham Jackson. We used to—"

"Yes, I know who you are," I managed in a weak voice. I had been standing to answer the telephone, the box of which was hanging on the wall. My knees started to buckle, and I slid down the wall into a heap on the floor, still holding the receiver to my ear.

"I wrote, Charlie. Again and again. From Howard. And you never answered. Oh, shit, I'm sorry. That's not why I called. This is business. I told myself I would stick to business. Sorry."

"I never received any letters from you, Abe," I whispered into the telephone. "I thought it was just a fling—that you found others in Washington. Didn't need anything from me anymore."

"I did write."

"Yes, I'm sure you did. I found that Mrs. Childress had been holding other mail back from me. I'm sure yours—"

"Time is cruel, isn't it, Charlie?"

"Yes, it is," I agreed.

"I've heard you have a blockbuster novel out. All of the residents of Asheville are rushing to the bookshops for a copy—checking to see if they're in it—especially the men, some of whose knees are knocking at the possibility they are in it."

"They have to go to Paris and know how to speak French for that edition," I quipped weakly.

"I don't understand."

"Perhaps you will someday. You are a whole chapter, and I would hope you would be happy with what was written. You won't have a problem finding that chapter. The pages will be smoking."

"I still don't understand, but perhaps you can tell me about it in person."

"Now I don't understand."

"You aren't the only one who has moved on and up, Charlie. I got a law degree from Howard and I have my own firm already in Asheville. I even have some clients who aren't black—my athletic contributions to the city's history apparently have given me some cachet here. Apparently also money talks ever louder as time goes by. My father made some very good investments in Asheville. And, of course, we still have the dairy."

"That sounds terrific, Abe. I'm happy for you."

"One of my white clients is why I called. How do you know a Stephen Bander?"

"To my knowledge, I don't."

"Well, he's left you a house. Here in Asheville. It's a very nice house. Small, but very private. On the slopes overlooking the city. It's set back from the street it's on with a thick stand of bamboo screening it from the street and the neighbors. A two-story framed wood cottage in excellent shape. Charming arts and crafts décor. A room off to one side that's all windows with great views down into the city too. I think it would be a good place to write."

"I don't understand. You lost me at Stephen Bander. Why would he give me a house? I don't know a Stephen Bander."

"The papers he left with me indicate the house was bought for him by a man. A man with your father's name. And in a note Bander said he was just returning to you what was really yours. I don't understand, either, Charlie. But it's all in order legally, the house is yours. And as I said, it is very, very private. And it has an ideal place for writing."

I was beginning to understand about the house. I think there were times my father even tried to tell me about his life—and why I was an only child. And worse, that I wasn't really his child. And I now understood why he and my mother didn't sleep in the same bedroom—or spend that much time in each other's company, for that matter. And why he was gone on "business" so much up until the day he died.

But that was all something to think about later. Now there was even more than that I was finding confusing in what Abe was telling me.

"I'll work out the Bander connection later, Abe. Why are you repeating what you are about the house."

"I don't know—just my imagination running wild ever since I knew you had inherited a house here and I saw it. I've never married, Charlie. And after you, I've never managed a serious relationship with another man, either. Charlie, I'm saying what I am about the house here because it's someplace a white man and a black man could live together comfortably and still have separate lives in the city and no one in Asheville would be the wiser for it."



Homeward Bound Ch. 08



I was overwhelmed by my reception when I returned to Asheville. Suddenly people wanted to speak to me and associate with me who never had the time of day to give me when I lived there and worked in boarding houses. Everyone scrupulously avoided speaking of my origins in the city—especially the men, some of whom I recognized all too well. But I was invited everywhere and quizzed not too subtly about who was and who wasn't depicted in The Boarding House—and whether there was another book forthcoming. There was, of course, but not one they would think of in their wildest dreams. And everywhere I turned I was subjected to family stories that would be worthy of writing about.

I shouldn't snort at these offerings—and indeed I have not. I was grateful for them and had sufficient notes within my first week back in Asheville to serve as inspiration for three novels—all of which have been quite successful, I might add.

I referred to being back in Asheville for a visit, though, as at that point I couldn't consider the city as home nor could I contemplate returning there—although the University of North Carolina had offered a very enticing position where I could work at least half the year anywhere I wanted outside of Chapel Hill—including Asheville, of course.

I told no one that I was there to inspect a property I owned but had never seen—I almost feared the property and what it might mean if I moved into it. In fact, I wasn't sure I wanted to look into it at all. And perhaps if Abe hadn't told me that it irreversibly was mine and I'd have to start paying taxes on it whether or not I acknowledged it was mine—and that I was famous enough in Asheville now that putting it on the market would turn a spotlight on how I had acquired it—I might not have returned to Asheville to inspect it at all.

While I was on the train from New York down the Eastern Seaboard into the upper south, I had to acknowledge to myself that I had heard the name Stephen Bander before. He had been that nervous almost client at Mrs. Childress's boarding house who had paid for my time and services but who had been so reluctant and strange and had left without getting what he'd paid for. It wasn't the name that led to the revelation as much as it was the coal dust I remembered he had under his fingernails no matter how clean his body seemed to appear. It was just the same as my father had. And when I remembered that Abe had said that the house had been in my father's name before Bander had it, suddenly all sorts of possibilities—no, probabilities—started to fall into place.

Shortly after I arrived in Asheville, one of my first stops, of course, was Abe's law offices on South Market Street. They were very well appointed, and I was both surprised and glad that he had become established so well. If anything, he was more handsome and robust now than when I had known him so completely just a few years previously.

"It's a good property. In the Beaverdam area above Grove Park. Stunning views of the city from there. And it's completely furnished. You've inherited it lock, stock, and barrel."

"When will we—?"

"I believe you should go up there the first time or two by yourself, Charlie. Here are the address and directions and keys to the place. I will lend you my automobile, if you know how to drive."

"I will have a hotel conveyance take me up," I said, taking what he was handing me. "I'm staying at the Battery Park, and they can't seem to do enough for me. Quite a change. I couldn't have gotten into the servants' entrance when I last lived here. But, why—?"

"The house is intact. Bander died quite suddenly, with little warning to himself. If there are reasons and truths for you to find up there, I think it best if you are alone with them until or unless you want to talk about them."

"I suppose you're right," I answered. "But you haven't mentioned anything about what you said over the telephone."

"I know. I regret I said anything at all. I was just so surprised and happy I'd finally gotten you located—and finding out that you hadn't purposely not answered my letters pushed me over the edge. And I don't want to push you over that edge, Charlie. The idea is out there, in the open, but it's completely up to you now whether or not you act on it."

I sat there for a moment, both wanting to commit—I couldn't think of anything that I would ever want to do more than live and love with Abe—but still confused and conflicted. "Thank you, Abe. That means a lot to me—that I'll be given time to think about this. I haven't really had this opportunity to make my own choices before, you know."

When I checked with the concierge at the hotel, he said that, of course, a hotel automobile could take me up to Beaverdam, but did I know that there was a streetcar that went to within a few blocks of the address I showed him?

"No, I didn't know that," I answered. "I think I'd like to do that instead. The fresh air and a walk will be good for me. And it will give me time to think."

Abe had been right. Except for the narrow lane leading into the property, no one other than the resident would know there even was a cottage there. But there it was, perched on a steep slope and surrounded by trees and stands of bamboo, thickly planted, and with just a swath of clearing between the two-story back of the house and the view down into the Asheville city center. Off to the side was a carriage house large enough for two auto cars to be parked well out of sight.

He also was right about the enclosed, window-lined side porch on the house. It was well insulated and also had a fireplace for winter warmth. But most of all it had stunning views—down into the city and across to a ring of mountains. My father's desk was there. I hadn't even thought about where the furniture had gone that he had insisted on bringing from Pennsylvania but that my mother had almost immediately replaced. It was all here, and, surprisingly, I remembered it and instantly felt comfortable in its presence—far more comfortable than I'd ever felt in the Asheville house my mother had enlarged and opened to lodgers.

A photograph on the desk confirmed my suspicions. It was a group of men—at the Pennsylvania mine entrance. But one of them was unmistakably my father. And standing beside him in the picture was the man who had visited me at Mrs. Childress's and had acted so strange and couldn't perform. My father's arm was on the much younger Bander's shoulder.

It has always amazed me that men who love men can immediately recognize poses in photographs—or in male couples walking down a street—that clearly signal a personal, sexual relationship between two—or more—men. At the same time, women and straight men only seem able to see comradeship. In looking at the photograph, I instantly recognized that my father and the man his arm was around had been lovers.

I took the photograph out of the frame and found names inscribed on the back of it. The name next to my father's was Stephen Bander. So much was understandable now, and I found myself actually being relieved rather than upset—relieved that my father, the man who wasn't really my father but who really was—had had some pleasure in a life where I had seen little from the perspective of my innocent child's eyes.

I walked around the cottage, trying my best to find something that would tell me that I couldn't possibly live here. I went up the stairs and found two bedrooms and a bath up there—the bath quite modern for the time period in which this cottage was acquired by Bander. One bedroom was large and well appointed; the other one was small and Spartanly furnished. The bed in the large bedroom was a double of large proportions and heavy mahogany head and foot boards. It also, I realized when I looked at it, was the bed that I had been told I was born in. The rest of that room, including the clothes in the wardrobe, screamed of my father's possession and touch. The smaller room, furnished only with a cot and a straight, straw-bottomed chair, and a wardrobe that had been in the servants' wing of our Pennsylvania house, spoke more of Bander.

All of the clothes were in the closet in the more opulently appointed bedroom. The sizes were for two differently built men. I recognized some of the clothes as my father's, and the familiar smell of the particular cigar he smoked permeated the closet. I thought it a little sad that Bander hadn't been able to bear to sleep in my father's bed after my father died but also could not bear to remove either my father's clothes or his own from the shared closet.

Bander's clothes reflected the possible difficulty he had had with this arrangement—which is the same impression he had given me when he visited me in the boarding house. The worn clothes were simple workman's clothes. There were finely styled clothes as well—like what he had worn to visit me at the boarding house. But these all appeared to be almost brand new. I could see in my mind my father gifting his lover with fine clothes and Bander humoring him, but not being comfortable in the life my father was trying to create for him. I smiled, though, at the thought that my father had loved Bander so much that he had made the effort.

If the clothes had been separated into different closets there would always be the nagging doubt that they had been lovers and companions to the end—that some estrangement might have existed that had sent Bander into the other room with what seemed to be temporary furniture. Strange as it might seem, I found myself hoping that Bander's occupancy of this room did not commence until after my father's death and being comforted by the evidence of the shared closet that this wasn't the case.

I felt my eyes watering at the knowledge that my father had died his lingering death down at our home in the city when this is where he should have been at the end—with Bander.

The rooms on the second story both saddened and stirred me, but they didn't entice me to reject the thought of living here.

I returned to the first floor and checked the principle rooms out—a parlor and dining room with an exterior balcony overlooking Asheville and the mountains beyond, on all sides. A small kitchen was set to one side, the utensils simple but neatly kept. But I found I was walking in circles, always coming back to the desk on the sun porch and looking at the photograph. At length, I gave in to the inevitable and sat down at the desk and opened the center drawer.

For some reason I intuitively knew what I would see there. It was a folded piece of parchment paper . . . and it had my name inscribed on it. My memory was telling me that I'd seen this before, and it didn't take me long to remember that the folded paper with my name on it that Stephen Bander had laid on the nightstand beside my bed when I was trying my best to earn my servicing fee from him—but that was not there any longer when he was gone.

Now, in stark contrast to then when I saw it completely outside any appropriate context, I knew in an instant that the handwriting was that of my father.

I hesitated at unfolding the paper, not wanting to intrude on the privacy of the two men, but then I laughed a hollow little laugh, realizing that I owned everything here now—and that, after all, my name was inscribed on the paper. And not least that I perhaps was the last person on earth to take umbrage at the choices my father had made or the preferences he had given into. In the ensuing months, I read what was written there so often that I could recite it word for word, but one passage, in particular, was burned into my consciousness before any other.

. . . As I'm sure you are aware, the relationship between your mother and me was built on a lie. If you are reading this, I am departed, and there is every reason to believe that your mother told you that you were not my true son—true in the sense of biological parentage—in every other respect I consider our father-son link to have been true. So true, that I suffered a thousand punishing denials to maintain that relationship—only becoming content with it almost too late in my life. But the marriage between your mother and me was no less respectful—certainly on my part—for the lie—your mother's lie—that it was built upon.

It even endured the lie that I brought to it. I cannot possibly describe the torture of my life in knowing that, for however long, you considered me your true father—and were given every reason to—and my knowing there was no biological relationship and growing to love you as I could not love your mother as you grew into a beautiful young man. Growing to love you as society would never condone me loving you. Growing to love you as I eventually did a young man—a substitute for you, I confess—who I met in the mines of Pennsylvania.

If you are reading this, it is because Stephen has done my bidding and met you and delivered this into your hands. Stephen Bander was to me what your mother could not be—did not want to be—even though she honored me, in her own begrudging way, for having honored her in accepting her and the burden she carried. And he was to me a substitute for what I never could consummate with you.

When I gave the Beaverdam house to Stephen for me to steal away to as I could, to be with him, he understood that the house was to come to you when he no longer had need of it. But beyond that I urged him to contact you—because as you grew into a man, I discerned that you wanted the same life that I wanted. And I found Stephen such a fine fulfillment of my needs that my fondest hope was that you two would meet and come to live in the little cottage I built for Stephen and that I loved so well—and was loved so completely in—that you could love, and be loved by, Stephen as well as I was.

Whatever you choose in life when Stephen contacts you, I entreat you not to waste what can be for you as I did. I don't regret leading a sham life with your mother—because I was leading a glorious life with you as well. But I fear I was not fair enough to myself in life. Home for me was not the house on Woodfin; it was the cottage on the slopes of Beaverdam. And for me Stephen Bander was home. So, I entreat you to find your home—sooner than I ever did. And to be true to your needs and desires, and society and the responsibilities foisted on you by others be damned . . .

I rose from the desk, letter still in hand, and walked into the entry hall, where I had seen a telephone box hanging on the wall by the front door. I wasn't surprised that it was in working order; Abe had told me that everything would be in working order. 

He answered on the first ring—whereas when I had initially called him when I arrived in Asheville, I had been filtered through a secretary. "It's home, Abe," I said into the telephone without further introduction. "It's our home. And I want you to come home too—if you are willing."

He was in my arms within twenty minutes, and he nearly carried me upstairs to the big bed that I had been born in. And I was born again in his enveloping arms, as he managed both to embrace me closely and undress me—and to slide that magnificent ebony cock of his home inside me and make me forget all of the other lovers I had ever had.

We lived happily and privately in the cottage for over a year, as I spent some time down in the Piedmont as writer in residence at the state university and Abe continued to build his practice. Each of us were accepted in Asheville society—which I clearly knew was more difficult for him than me, even though I had been the one to prostitute myself mercilessly when I lived here before and his family had—and still did—own and operate a very respectable and needed business. But, although we often were at the same functions, we were careful not to reveal that afterward we didn't go back to the separate homes we had established in the city—but up Beaverdam mountain to our own hidden cottage, where we fucked and laughed and gossiped about the rich and the ambitious people snoozing in their beds in the city below.

When I was in residence in the cottage, I confined myself to the sun porch—or the bedroom, of course, whenever Abe was there—and wrote furiously. Without even thinking about it—especially how it related to that first play I worked on for Stanford Dane several years previously—when I had the first sheet of blank paper before me, I wrote the title Homeward Bound at the top of the page—and then wrote my name, Charles Bairr, with two Rs, underneath.

What was flowing from my pen was a story of redemption and returning to one's roots and making the most of the rest of life.

I was only half way through it, though, when I received the telephone call that interrupted this idyllic life totally.

* * * *

"I haven't heard from you in almost a year. I hardly remembered that I had given you my telephone number here. If you need help with another script—"

"No," Stanford Dane said with a voice that was diminished from what I had known of him in years past, "what I need is you. I need you to come to me."

"That was another life, Stan," I said, although both my mind and my heart were racing. I was as weak before him as I ever had been, and this confused and shocked me. "I have moved on. And I don't really have the time—"

"You once pledged that whenever I called you would come to me," he said in an admonishing tone. "I need you now."

"Stan—"

"I am dying, Charles. I have cancer. Advanced. Nothing to be done. I need you to help me pass out of this life. There is no other who I want to see with my last breath."

Abe was so good about it that I wanted to scream. I wanted him to put his foot down and tell me I couldn't go. If ever I wanted someone to assert his will over mine, this was the time.

He didn't do that. When I left I told him he was welcome to use the cottage whenever he wanted—and that we would discuss the rest as circumstances unfolded. He was so reasonable about that too that I wanted to lash out and strike him down.

* * * *

"It won't be long now." I felt like I had said it aloud, but I must have just thought it.

I was hunched over the writing table in the center of the room, leaning over the top of the table from the straight-edged chair, and was just laying my pen down from having been writing intensely. I was trying to finish the manuscript—not yet knowing what I was going to do—but it was no use; there was just too much left to be written.

I heard a moan and something close to a menacing rattle from the shadows beyond and to one side of the table, where there was a narrow brass bed with a thin mattress. The figure on the bed was a man—emaciated and barely breathing, a mere shell of the flamboyant showman Stanford Dane had once been. He was laying on his back, bare torsoed, but with covers covering him to half way up his chest. He had an arm thrown across his face. I could see nothing of him except his broad, deep chest, covered in curly salt-and-pepper-colored hair and slowly, laboriously rising—and holding—before it contracted with a moan twisted into a hollow rattling sound.

And still the whole room—the whole world at the moment—focused on him.

I had been horrified when I got to Baltimore—not by the pecuniary straits he was living in—just two rooms two floors up from a bakery, but just across the street from a stage theater. Dane never could be far from his stage. The conditions he had sunk to weren't what horrified me, though. What horrified me was his explanation of what he'd meant when he said he needed me to help him pass out of this life.

"It was all in the first play we staged together, Charles," he said. "And I told you about it then. Don't you remember having struggled with me on the ending and I said the whole of the play focused on that ending—that it would be my ending as well?"