7 comments/ 12009 views/ 6 favorites The Temptation of Felice By: Hypoxia Author's note: This standalone story includes elements from the RON'S JOURNAL series, but reading the other chapters is optional. The tale contains seduction, betrayal, violence, and dust devils. The story is probably fairly fictional. All sexual acts involve live humans over age 18. Felice is mostly the McGuffin. Your feedback is appreciated. ***** The Temptation of Felice ***** -- early 1978 -- It was a dark and stormy night, no shit. Meters-deep snow piled around the tiny crazy-quilt mountain cabin near mile-high Lake Arrowhead, a hundred miles east of Los Angeles. The latest blizzard promised to block us inside for days; the lowest of the stuffy witch-house log-cabin's three narrow floors was already buried in frozen packed powder. The dark days passed all too slowly. We had edible and drinkable supplies for the three of us but we did not have space, or patience. We could not all stay in the big bed fucking and sucking the whole time. Taut nerves frayed. Squabbles boiled. I moved out of the cramped attic's king bed that Will and Cassie shared with me. The storm abated. Another black night swept over us. Cassie joined me in my sleeping bag on the parlor floor in front of the small brick fireplace sometime after oh-dark-thirty hours. She pressed her thin body's small breasts and dark fuzzy muff against me. We snuggled for warmth, and she opened up for sex. We fucked a nice, slow, almost tantric fuck. A farewell fuck, as it turned out. "This just isn't working, Ron. Will is, like, really, really disappointed that you couldn't talk Gwen into fucking us the other night." Cassie lay with her hips straddling mine, clutching my softened cock inside her with forceful PC muscles. I would miss her practiced skills as well as her London accent, long black ponytail, and dry, peppery-sharp scent. I shrugged in the dark. I would not make excuses for my old fuckmate. "Gwen said she was being faithful to her son's father, the bastard, even if they're divorced. I don't try to break a woman's promises. If a promised or married woman like you wants me, I don't object, fuck no. But I won't try to force her into anything. I don't set the rules. Gwen isn't my property." My hands massaged Cassie's cat-hammed cheeks. She purred. "I want you to stay, I really do." (She kissed me.) "You know Will is so tired all the time. I really love, no, I need fucking you when he can't." (My best pal and near-twin's as-yet undiagnosed non-Hodgkins lymphoma would kill him two years later at age thirty.) "But Ron, he feels threatened. And I really love him, and I'm having his baby." (The infant Charity would be a most troublesome child.) "I'm sorry, I really am. But..." I muzzled her words with my mouth. We breathed together. "I understand, Cassie. I'm tired of being stuck in the snow up here anyway. I've been thinking of moving out to the desert. All my books and stuff are already packed. I just have to schlep all the crates down that steep slushy slope from the cabin to my car. Probably break my leg trying." I reached to the woodpile and tossed another little spicy cedar log in the smoky fireplace. Cassie's proficient cunt muscles roused me back to hardness. Our lazy fuck continued until dawn threatened the darkness. Then Cassie climbed the narrow, twisting staircase, back to her slowly-dying husband, my best friend. And I stared into the flames. --- Will and Cassie, and their cabin and bookstore, were my refuge after I left the US Army and my years in goddam barracks. I did join the Army Reserves; I could stand monthly meetings as a weekend warrior and I could sure use the pay. But right now, I was weary of living close to others, even with a shared wife and free rent. I wanted space. I got it. I found a cheap rental, eighty-five bucks a month, a twenty-seven-foot-square cinder-block cabin far out on the high Mohave Desert past Joshua Tree village. The agent from Jack B. Renfro Realty was disappointed; he thought I meant to buy the place. Not on my limited budget: Reserves pay, unemployment for a few more months, and eventually some G.I. Bill money. [A note for spelling Nazis: MOHAVE is a Yuman Indian word and that's how it's spelled in Arizona. MOJAVE is the Spanish rendering and is legal in California. But dammit, MOHAVE is NOT a Spanish word! I always spell the desert name as MOHAVE. I get like that with NAVAHO vs NAVAJO also. You do not like that? So sue me. But I digress.] The house's south side was screened from the crackled one-lane road by bulky dark-green creosote bushes taller than the shack's flat roof. I could step naked out the narrow side door, straight from shower to sunshine and my herb garden. The front door on the west side's tiny covered porch opened onto a dense cactus garden. The north side's gravel driveway obscured nothing. The kitchen door on the east faced sunrise and a zillion miles of open desert. My nearest neighbors were a half-mile away. Yes, I got the space I wanted. A water seep supported a small stand of cottonwood and palo verde mesquite trees to the south. I appreciated the shade, and the birds and wildlife they hosted. I hooked a web hammock between two trunks for a meditation space. A closed-off bathroom occupied one corner of the cabin. A block wall two-thirds down the middle separated a minimal kitchen from the main area. The cabin boasted three outside doors and, except for a portal over the kitchen sink, the scattered glass windows were all covered with tinfoil to reflect the merciless sun. Yes, a simple jackrabbit shack, better built than most. Back in the day, citizens could homestead open desert land by 'proving' it and erecting a minimal residence, a jackrabbit shack. Not quite luxurious... Concrete cinder-blocks are poor insulation. I ignited a clattering fuel-oil heater in cold weather; a ninety-buck fill-up lasted two winters. I slept on the shack's flat roof under sharp, bright stars on hot nights. Desert nights soothed me. Roadrunners zipped across the roof (and me) at sunrise for a unique alarm clock. No, roadrunners do not go 'beep-beep'. I possessed many books, hauled and stored in many stolen (I mean liberated) wire milk crates. I built a desk-and-shelf structure of concrete blocks and milk crates, pine planks for shelving, and a four-by-eight-foot plywood sheet painted bright orange for a desk - a study area along one wall. Just what every impoverished student needs! A king-size bedframe boosted on stacked milk crates filled the front corner; plenty of storage underneath. I threw sleeping bags on top of the mattress's fitted sheet. A cheezy formica-and-tube-steel kitchen set supplied me table and chairs. A not-too-unsanitary easy chair with escaping stuffing, a beat-to-shit Danish-style coffee table, and a yard-wide electric fan to ease the hot times comprised the rest of the furnishings. I loved the high desert. My cheap 10-speed bike loved long, straight paved roads and gentle grades. I pedaled endless frugal miles; I only drove my car when necessary. I ate too little and drank too much but kept my body trim and tight. --- I moved from the mountains to the desert in January - still winter. Those early days' weather did not suit bicycling. On my second day in the J.T. jurisdiction I drove my big old caca-brown Dodge station wagon to the village market on the barren town square behind the statue commemorating Joshua Tree's DESERT TORTOISE RACES festival. Every village needs a festival, right? The clerk was a lean chestnut girl in a well-filled tee, denim overalls, and combat boots. She said her name was Zandra, after Zanzibar. I liked her. Her light blue eyes appraised me. "You're new. Don't look like a tourist. You passing through, camping out, or what?" "You've got me pegged already?" I teased her. She looked serious. "It's las ondas, guy, the vibes. You just don't feel, like, insubstantial. I catch a vibe like you're going to be around a while." "Well yeah, I rented a shack out past the Orgasmatron dome." The Orgasmatron. That is what locals call it. You may have seen photos of its futuristic geodesic architecture menaced by lightning. It's even cooler than the Mentalphysics pyramid down the road. "Why here? What do you do? I'm catching an 'escape' vibe." "I guess I escaped, yeah. I'm just out of the Army. I'll go full-time in school, then see what happens. Why here? It's cheap and quiet and the sky is clear. I can watch the stars; can't do that down in sluburbia." "You been here much before?" "Lots. I grew up the other side of San Bernardino just a couple hours away. Dad brought the family up here at least once a month. I've hopped all over the Wonderland of Rocks, skidded all over the dry lakes. How about you?" "Me? Not much to say. I'm from San Diego. I came up here to meditate and it all just sucked me in. Really great vibes around here, y'know, especially at the UFO beacon at Giant Rock, and up in the Wonderland of Rocks. Those boulders are mystical - strong ju-ju. So now I paint and sculpt my visions, and do dreamwork. But what did you do in the Army? See any combat?" "I worked in commo, that's communications electronics, and photography, and now I'm in the Reserves, training to be a medic. Nope, no combat, and I'm pretty happy about that. I look forward to student life." The county's junior college had a branch campus down the road in Twentynine Palms. Locals called it Twentynine Stumps because, y'know, drunk tourists drove into the palm trees and knocked them over, leaving only stumps. Right. If you believe that, I have a rock to sell you. "The 'student' vibe, sure, I'm picking up that vibe now." I am sure the "impoverished student" vibe was hard to miss. She rang-up my purchases. My diet was obvious. I would be eating lots of spaghetti with thin marinara sauce and cheap sausage washed down with raw jug wine. Eggs and potatoes, beans and lentils, onions and coffee were my other staples. I splurged on artichoke hearts, fresh produce, cheap Mexican spices, two bloated avocados, and the best olive oil in the store. Zandra eyed me again. "You know what to do with this stuff?" she asked, waving at the spices and oil. I grinned. "My folks divorced when I was fourteen and I was sent to live with my dad. I had to learn to cook out of self-defense. Care for a taste?" She appraised me again. "I just might, Ron; I just might. Ask me next week." My grin widened. "Why wait?" I could work magic right at the cash register. I pulled my knife from its belt sheath and sliced one fat avocado in half. I pulled the big seed and set it aside on the counter, atop the local free advertiser paper. (Always minimize messes.) My carefully-honed razor-sharp blade swiftly halved a tomato. I sliced the tomato into small chunks and scored the avocado's flesh. I nipped the corners off spice packets and sprinkled doses of ground chili, cumin, onion powder, and something secret. I poked a hole in a lemon and squeezed a couple of splashes, and eeked-out a drachm of olive oil for each. I stirred each half-avocado's contents into chunky mushes. "Got any chips?" I asked. Zandra wordlessly opened a small bag of Fritos - horribly over-salted, but they would work with my impromptu guacamole. She dipped a chip. A thin nose sniffed the offering. A red tongue snaked out to taste my concoction. Pink lips pursed around the loaded chip. White teeth nibbled, then crunched the construct. A tanned throat swallowed. A rosy wet tongue licked wet lips. Zandra nodded and turned to the cooler behind her. She extracted a quart of Burgomeister beer, popped its cap, and took a swig. She looked into my eyes. "You don't mind sharing slobber, I hope, Ronny." She slid the bottle across the counter to me and dipped another chip. "Not at all, not at all. More spice, Zanzi." I dipped and munched a chip and took my own first swig. I tasted her on the bottle mouth. Yes, we quickly reached the 'Ronny' and 'Zanzi' stage of our relationship. We lunched on chips and dip, a chunk of cheddar, and more beer, donated by Zandra. We chatted about the area: the desert, college, Marine Corps base, National Monument (now Park), whatever. We discussed current culture, arts and music. My guitar was at my cabin but I pulled a chromatic harmonica from my pocket and played LIGHT MY FIRE and BESAME MUCHO. Zandra took that last as an invitation, I guess; BESAME MUCHO {BESS-ah-may MOO-choh} translates as "Kiss me a lot". She pulled my head across the counter to her oval face and gave me a deep, corn-and-salt, beer-and-guacamole-spiced kiss. I returned her tangy flavors. Our tongues danced. She pushed off me, walked to the little market's front door, and flipped the sign from OPEN to BACK IN 1/2 HOUR. I slid my grocery bags aside and scraped our lunch debris into a trash can behind the counter. She walked back to me. "I'm catching some other vibes from you, Ronny. C'mere." Zandra took my hand and led me through a KEEP OUT door. We climbed rickety stairs to a thin alcove over the back of the market. The small resting space contained a bed on citrus crates, a table and chair about as rinky-tink as my kitchen set, and a bookshelf with magazines and a Bakelite radio. She switched the just-audible radio to a jazz station and looked at me. "I'm not usually like this on a first date, believe me." She sat on the edge of the bed and stuck her feet out. "Give me a hand, hey Ronny?" Would I assist? Duh. I helped pull off her combat boots. She stood, dropped her overalls, kicked them away, and stood erect and lean in white panties, white socks, and clean white tee, no bra underneath. "You're overdressed, Ronny." Smiling, she jiggled. I quickly remedied the situation, at least down to the briefs-and-tee level. My size sixteen sneakers and honestly-faded denim jeans and jacket hit the floor. I stood straight. From there, we undressed each other, not too slow, not too fast. Tops first, tees peeled overhead, faces kissed, chests handled, then underpants pushed down and off, and bodies touched and admired. Jazz softly filled the air. All was revealed. Her chestnut ponytail reached her kidneys. Her athletic body was like mine, lean and muscular with winter's faded tan lines, but a bit shorter, curvier, and infinitely more feminine. A thin silver choker circled her alluring neck. Her cantaloupe breasts were topped with pop-tart nipples awash in wide areolas. A flat tummy and an inny navel pinnacled her fluffy muff. And me? I showed Reserves-short black hair, a neatly shaved face, thick curly pubes, and a measured eight inches of hard boner. My round wire-rim glasses were cast aside. My silver-and-stone Navaho ring remained. From there, we tasted each other. Our mouths remained corn-salt-and-beer-infused. Her skin was salty, her navel musty. Her engorged nipples burst with flavor. On her back on the bed, her legs spread, my head between her thighs, her pussy tasted sweaty and salty and also musty but oh! so rich. After her first two loud orgasms on my tongue (well, my fingers assisted) she had me lie back. She kissed down my body as I had hers, and licked and nibbled my sensitive nipples, and tongued my sweaty navel. Her tongue teased my cock before she swung around atop me and took me in her mouth with her pussy back in my face. I resumed clit-licking. She came again. I came close. From there, we fucked. Not spiritual joining, and not slow, infinitely intimate lovemaking, but not frenzied animal pounding, either; only steady, respectful mating, her long legs wrapped around me, my long lingam deep inside her, our lips joined, our fingers locked, music swirling around us. The trembling of her fast-approaching orgasm triggered my grunt and spasm. My cock became a flamethrower shooting burning love into her willing womb. Her legs tensed; her body froze; she screamed into my mouth, long and harsh. "Welcome to Joshua Tree," she panted. Okay, so it was a bit more than a half-hour. Someone banged on the market's front door, louder than we had been banging. "Guess it's time to re-open," Zandra said. "I hope it's not my husband. Maybe you should go out the back way." "Umm, I have a few bags of groceries on the counter downstairs, Zanzi. I'd kind of like to leave with them." Husband? She was off the bed and dressing after a fast towel-down. My togs were back on a moment later. Clothed, we hugged. Her combat boots were loosely laced. "So leave out the back, then come around front and pick them up like you'd called in an order, okay?" She kissed me and pushed me toward the stairs. "Turn left at the bottom. It's the door with the NO EXIT sign." I skipped out the rear as Zandra moved to flip the OPEN sign and unbar the glass front door. I eased my door shut, no banging now, and walked around the little market to the bar next door, just to use the urinal. A bit of beer to get rid of, yesssss... I pushed through the market's front door. Zandra, her supple body encased again in plain tee and overalls, waved her pointed index finger in the face of a pale, short, husky man wearing a gray fire-fighter's coat. "I don't need this shit, Harry. You're sending out really bad vibes. I took a lunch break, and a nap, that's all. Oh hi there, are you Ron? Here's your stuff." Her eyes warned me to play along. "Uh yeah, thanks, I'll just haul it out now." I grabbed two full grocery bags to tote to my station wagon. I returned for my other two bags; Harry had Zandra backed into a corner and was whispering in her ear. He did not seem to notice that I left without handing over any money. (I paid earlier.) I was Zandra's regular customer from then on but we never repeated our WELCOME TO J.T. fuck. Only a few kisses, nothing more. She was a good wife. --- My next day was busy. I rolled my clunky ten-speed bike to the community college in Twentynine Palms to enroll in the winter session. The dusty, barren branch campus was an old Catholic day school the county leased till a real campus could be budgeted. That would not happen for a long time. The school spread on the southwest edge of Twentynine Palms's thin sprawl, across from the Oasis of Mara (where the palms were) and the then-National Monument headquarters. The craggy, fried, mile-high Pinto Mountains rose a couple miles south; east was a 150 mile run of open desert to the Colorado River, and Arizona, and yet more desert. This was the rim of civilization. I waved my veteran's papers and signed up for classes: English and Spanish, Desert Botany, Rock Climbing / Backcountry Rescue, Geology / Earth Science, pre-med Biology, and Anatomy. The pre-med stuff was important. I had taken an EMT (Emergency Medital Tech) course the previous autumn to fill out my Army Reserves medic training. The Reserves promised a full ride through medical school if I qualified. Play my cards right and I would jump from Sergeant Carson to Doctor Carson! The next days were even busier. Get organized, learn the layout, buy books and stuff I forgot, dash around till it becomes routine. And start classes. My Spanish teacher was a plump Cubana, a physician's wife. They were of the elites that ran from Castro's revolution. Mexicans laughed at my accent. I practiced Spanish with fellow student Jenny, a freckled Scandinavian girl-next-door a little younger than me. On warm days we lay on the town park's shaded lawn with flash cards, memorizing vocabulary, exercising diction. We practiced other oral actions, too, in bed, not the park. She had obviously practiced a great deal already. I thought I did her well when she repeatedly screamed '¡Caramba!' under my tongue and fingers. Alas, Jenny Lynde proved too insatiable for me alone. She moved in with five Marine Corps cooks from the nearby base. I do not know what languages she screamed in for them. The Temptation of Felice And then there was Felice Burns. I was gob-smacked the moment I walked into the well-worn portable classroom housing Anatomy and Biology labs. What stopped me was not the rich organic miasma but the vision of loveliness that was Felice. Felice: Chin-high to my six-foot-four. Fluffy dirty-blonde curls brushing exposed shoulders. A heart-shaped face (and ass); high, rosy cheeks, muddy blue eyes, and enough flaring nose; lips like a Celtic harp. Bouncy breasts exactly the right size on her hourglass body. Toaned legs descending from an off-the-knees (and off-the-shoulder) op-art sundress to open-toed sandals. She looked like an ad for tanning butter. Official anatomy study had not yet started, but I was fascinated with her skeletal structure. The construction of her facial bones, yes, but also her sleek collarbones, and the articulation of shoulder, elbow, hip, and knee joints when she moved, and her long, nervously-wiggling toes. A chunky onyx necklace adorned her taut throat. Engagement and wedding rings defiled her left hand. Of COURSE, a beauty like her would be taken already. I stood in the doorway like a granite lump and stared at her. A guy behind me tapped my shoulder. "Excuse me, we're trying to get to class." I snapped out of my Felice-trance and moved inside. I took a seat at a lab bench and pretended to sort through my books and papers while I calmed. Energetic, bald little Jon Adams was typical of faculty at the bare-budget junior college. He had a day job teaching high school math and moonlighted with miscellaneous sciences here; I would later sit in his Physiology, Calculus, and Astronomy classes. Jon called us to order; we ran through quick introductions and were reassigned seats in alphabetical order. Guess what? The names Burns and Carson were adjacent in the rolls. Felice sat next to me. Big blond Dave Allen and slim dark Kim Asterias were just ahead of us on the rolls. All others ranked behind us alphabetically; it mattered. "Listen up, people," Jon said. "This is an Anatomy class and lab. You need more than just books and models to learn anatomy. You need to cut up cats. Dead cats. Preserved cats. Yes, you'll actually use scalpels. And you'll get used to the smell, I promise." Sounds rose from the scattered students: groans, hisses, clicks, mutterings. "But you don't each get your own cat. You people should know what the school budget is like. Preserved cats aren't cheap. So you'll get to share cats, four of you on a team for each cat." More groans and mutterings. Too bad. Felice was on my cat-dissection team in Anatomy class along with Dave and Kim. Four students shared each preserved cat, taken to a different home on alternate days. Felice smelled much better than a dead cat. Ha! She was also married to a Marine Corps lieutenant, an aggressive guy who did not really like seeing his wife hanging around with an Army Reserve puke like me. We will get to that. I know Felice was attracted to me. I know she liked my attention, those few hours each week when we were together - for classwork. We also met at set times to exchange the preserved cat. Your car or mine, Felice? I took care to casually brush against her. She sometimes brushed back. She did not object much when I rubbed her neck and shoulders. I had hope. "Ron, you've got to..." Felice leaned back against me. My thumbs dug into the hollows at the bottom of her marvelous neck. "Ron, that's enough now. I've got to..." My hands moved further, strong but not groping - no tit-grabbing. "Ron, I have GOT to get home. Thanks for that. I'll see you tomorrow." I watched her drive away. My erection subsided. --- I also knew other women in other classes. College was more than dead cats. Trina was a park ranger and one of my constant Desert Botany classmates. Her tasty little daughter Leonie, headed for university at semester's end, as cute (and as hot) as a bunny, was another classmate. She intended to genetically track historic Central American and Californian opuntia cactus hybrids - that would grow into a PhD project. Leonie and I shared many intensive scientific discussions; at least that is what we called them. My stamen was glabrous for Leonie. (That means my dick was slick and stiff, especially when she slurped me.) A hitchhiking trip down to Palm Springs was necessary one weekend. The coupe that stopped for me in Joshua Tree village looked familiar - Trina's Volvo. "Hop in, Ron. I'm glad I saw you here. How's it going?" Chatter and more chatter. And then: "Ron, we need to talk." Uh oh. "You and Leonie have been having a good time, haven't you?" She smiled but kept her eyes aimed straight ahead. I mumbled. She laughed. "Don't be shy, Ron. Mothers and daughters do still talk, y'know." I got honest. "Yes, Trina, Leonie and I have fun every now and then." "And she says wonderful things about you." She does? I mumbled again. Trina glanced at me and then back at the narrow highway. "Ron, I'll be straight with you. I've been so lonely since Pete went into a coma. You heard about his jeep rollover? That was four years ago. He was only forty then, same as I am now. I have busted my little ass since then to keep the house together and Pete in hospital and Leonie in school. I'm so proud she got that scholarship!" Trina took a deep breath. "But I concentrated so much on all that and not at all on myself." Her right hand left the steering wheel to settle on my denim-covered thigh. "Ron, my daughter says you are a very kind and considerate lover, as well as being red-hot. Ron, could you be a kind lover to an old lady?" Trina was not a large woman. She was compact, wiry, and extremely fit. Park ranger work kept her outside on her feet all day. She was tanned, not aged and weathered, not dried out. Her hair had silvered prematurely - her long locks flowed like mercury. Her face was lean. Her breasts protruded nicely. I had seen her in uniform shorts - tight ass, taut calves. She looked good. And her husband Pete was comatose. What the fuck was I doing? Big head and little head argued briefly. Little head won. My hand rubbed her khaki trousers. "You're not so old." Her hand moved up my thigh. She cupped my crotch. "You're not too young." My hand brushed the side of her uniformed breast. "I'm twenty-eight. I'm not that far behind you." She squeezed my balls. "We'll just have to see how far behind, then." I rubbed her throat. My fingers eased into her cleavage. "Not too far, no." Trina abruptly spun the Volvo's steering wheel to the left, up a rocky track, twisting between stands of creosote bush and cholla cacti and stray jojobas. I bounced. My head hit the coupe's ceiling. "Ouch." "Sorry. I didn't want to waste time getting home." Dust rose behind us as she skidded before a very organic looking house. Rock and timber and glass, nothing else, crouched into the desert hillside, a sturdy ark nestled to earth. Trina jumped out. I was a little slower. She ran around the car, grabbed my hand, and dragged me through the house's front door, a massive slab of ruddy mesquite with a thick porthole set like a cyclop's eye. She hauled me along a narrow bookshelf-lined hallway past kitchen, dining, living, other rooms, straight to a master bedroom filled with a bed sculpted from huge oak limbs. "We built this house by hand," Trina said. She was already out of her uniform blouse and very non-uniform pink lace bra. Her delightful breasts quivered at me. "We cut the trees up by Big Bear and hauled them down here." Her trousers and panties hit the floor. "Pete quarried the stone. Everything here, we did it." She looked straight at me. And I regarded Trina. Her fat-free body showed her age, her experience, her motherhood, her work. Not the smooth softness of youth; not stand-up-on-their own boobs, but only slight sagging, slight roughening. She was a mature woman. She reached for me. I had already skinned out of my jeans and boxers, tee and overshirt. She pulled me to her with a firm hand on my cock. I did not delay. "Ron, I want-" Trina stood only shoulder-high to me. She probably had half my body weight. I was strong from military exercise and back-country rambling. I picked her up and turned her upside down. I hooked her legs over my shoulders, her thighs spread wide. I nosed into her pale spicy muff. Ahhh... I used my tongue. "Ohhh, urrgh, ohhh..." Trina's voice quieted when my stiff cock swung into her face. She opened her mouth and quit trying to talk. I'd had many pleasant 69 experiences over the years. I was mostly on my back for those. Sometimes, if the girl was not too small, I was on top. If she was long and lean we might be sideways, heads nestled between taut thighs. This was my first standing 69. I had to lean my back against the cedar-paneled wall to support us without a painful strain. Ah, stabilized! I pulled her pussy closer to my face. My tongue probed deep into her. Her mouth engulfed my throbbing cock. I flipped Trina around and held her off the ground. "Are you ready, old lady," I jibed. Her arms encircled my neck. "Ready for-" she gasped. One of my hands guided my cock to her velvet tunnel. The other held her little butt steady and then dropped her slowly onto me. "Oh," she whispered. "Oh. Oh yes. Oh..." Her legs were lithe and strong but even wrapped tightly around me she could not crack my ribs. She tried. She could not move far vertically. She tried. A standing fuck is invigorating but not really satisfying. I walked us to the massive bed, flopped her down, slid out of her. pushed her up to the top, and settled between her sinewy thighs. I pulled her legs onto me. "What-" "No talk," I growled. My tongue re-engaged her slit, her labia, her sweet vagina, her sensitive clitoris. Her feet were on my back. Her little ass cheeks snuffled my shoulders. My arms wrapped over her hips. My hands were on her perfectly proportioned breasts. "Oh," she murmured again. "Oh yes. Oh fuck. Oh..." I licked and probed and sucked and nibbled. Her juices soaked my moustache. Her clitoris stiffened and throbbed. Her voice wailed to the ceiling. Her body shook under the tender assaults of my tongue and fingers. Her wail died to a moan, then a low growl, and then to gasps. "Oh fuck, stop, stop that, oh fuck..." I did not stop till she reached a hand down and linked her fingers in my hair. She pulled my head up. Her grey eyes burnt into mine. "STOP, you fucker. Oh shit, oh..." I slid up to her face and kissed her mouth, my face wet with her tangy cum, my tongue tracing inside her, behind her lips, across her teeth, and then out and over her cheeks. down her chin and neck, to those small perfect breasts with diamond-hard nipples cutting into me. I sucked each lovingly. I rose to capture her eyes and mind. "What now, Trina? Do you ride me or do I ride you?" "What? Oh fuck, I'm so dead, I am just fucking DEAD. Do what you want..." "Yes, ma'am," I said. Her thighs were already open beneath me. I repositioned slightly and calmly inserted into her sopping-wet pussy. One long smooth stroke and I was in her, balls-deep and bottomed-out. I stayed there. I lowered my face. Her lips took mine. Our tongues moved - nothing else. Then I moved my hips out, and then back in, and out again, no hurry, no strain, no expectations, only a slow pace. In. Out. In. Out. Her calves hooked over mine. Her arms circled my neck. She drew me in closer, closer. Her mouth vacuumed mine. I moved faster. I shifted my angle for deeper penetration. She gasped and pulled me tighter. Another angle change - and then I released her mouth, unwrapped her legs from mine, and pulled her ankles up to my shoulders. She groaned. "Oh fuck Ron, what is that, oh fuck..." Trina was a supple, well-exercised mature woman but she had likely not had her body bent nearly double for some time. I took care not to strain her too much. Well, maybe only a little... I was positioned for maximum penetration. My eight inches of meat completely filled her - I almost expected to see my dickhead poke from her nose. I moved deeper, and faster, and faster. Now I was an inexorable machine - a machine with a speed governor. I slowed when I felt the tide rise in me. I did not want to cum too soon. Slower, more deliberate, calm down... Surprise! I pulled out of Trina and flipped her over onto her belly. "Hey, what-" I picked her butt up so she crouched on elbows and knees. Mmmm, nice smooth cheeks! I opened her slightly and knee-walked behind her. She looked over her shoulder with brightly glazed eyes. Her liquid-silver hair swirled. "You're going to-" I did. Straight in. All the way in. With my hands on her shoulders to pull close and then on her breasts to hold her closer. I returned to machine mode, a steadily faster pace, never slower, always a little quicker, a little deeper, a little harder. "Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh..." A little cry with every thrust. Little cries that ran together into a longer wordless cry, and then another wail, the low cry of a desert creature being fucked or eaten. "Aaaawwwwww..." I felt her hand frigging her clit. I felt her vaginal walls grasping at me as I pummeled in and out. I felt her stiffen and contort. "Oooohhhh fuck..." I felt her writhe on my penetrating penis. And I felt my reaction, my hot eruption, my donation to her hungry womb. I felt the burn. I felt the joy. I came like a motherfucker into this compact married woman. I collapsed on top of her. Those tight cheeks pressed into me. I did not try to crawl away - I was still embedded deep inside her, my cock caught in her smooth vaginal folds beyond those luscious labia lips, deep inside, oh fuck yes, deep... Eventually my spent spear popped out, yes, with an audible pop. Eventually I rolled off her back. Eventually we cuddled. "Oh damn you Ron, fuck you..." I held the crying woman in my tired arms. "That was so... oh, fuck you... fuck me... I haven't cum like that since... oh fuck..." "Do you want this to happen again?" I dared to ask. "Oh fuck, I haven't felt... Yes. No. I don't know. Oh fuck. Just hold me, hold me, oh fuck..." We snoozed. I got to Palm Springs quite late. But it was worth it. --- My next sessions with Leonie were worth it, too. The front screen door creaked as I sat at my makeshift desk in my cinder-block desert-rat shack that warm afternoon. I turned around to see Leonie walk in. She peeled her green FLOWER POWER tee over her head. She did not wear nor need a bra. "Mom says you were real nice to her, Ron." She kicked off her sandals and dropped her knee-length denim skirt. She did not wear panties. Her light brown pubic thatch marched toward me. "Mom would like to see you again, Ron." I stood as she approached. I wore only cut-off shorts and moccasins. She reached to open my belt and fly; my shorts hit the ground. She dropped to her knees in front of me. "Thanks for being a nice guy for Mom, Ron." Her tongue snaked out and licked around my dickhead. She was very talented. I stood patiently for several minutes before I picked her up, threw her onto my bed, and ravished her sweet young body. Then she rolled me on my back and ravished my not-so-sweet, not-so-young body. The usual mutual ravishment occurred. The usual grunts and cries of satisfaction sounded. We had fun. Leonie once admitted she took a personality exam that pointed her toward a career in pornography - but she'll stick with science, thank you. Entertaining Trina in the organic desert house became a regular weekly event. Leonie always stopped by afterwards to thank me. The simultaneous mother-and-daughter scenes came later. But the two made certain to sandwich me in Desert Botany class seating. Trina always cried after we fucked. I was not a total clod. I thought about why she cried but I knew better than to ask her. Was it for the joy of her ecstasy, her relief from sexless loneliness? Was it for her weakness, her betrayal of a long-comatose husband? Was it of combination of these and other reasons? I do not know. Did I want to know? I noted a steady progression of her cries shen we sucked and fucked. The Temptation of Felice Rafe stepped back. I slumped, only upright because of restraining hands. "Now, I have a little problem. I should kill you. I should just haul you out into the desert and cut your fucking Jody throat and let the coyotes and ants chew on you. But you are also government property, and I have been trained not to destroy government property. I can't even smash your fucking face because you would probably go whining to the sheriff. But I can fuck you up in other ways." He slapped me again. I could not resist as he scientifically beat me to a pulp. Repeated gut punches did the trick. No broken bones, little bruising, not quite any internal injuries; merely debilitating pain. I passed out. I crawled back to consciousness - and wished I had not. A siren woke me, the siren of the sheriff's patrol car that rolled toward me on the narrow desert highway just after sunrise. I was tied to a folding steel chair beside the highway. I was naked except for a sign tied around my neck. A sign that said, 'Jody'. The sheriff was not the bad part. Being tied naked to a chair beside the highway was not the bad part. Hurting was not the bad part. No, the bad part was when cameras started flashing, clicking, whirring, capturing images that made the regional news. The chunky detective leaned against a wall in the Desert Medical Center emergency room and watched me being prodded and ointmented and taped. "So you didn't see anything, huh? Didn't recognize any voices? Don't have any enemies who'd want to do this to you? Uh huh." He handed me a business card. "Call me if your memory improves, okay?" He walked off. "Dork," I heard him mutter. Trina and Leonie retrieved some clothes from my shack so I did not have to leave wearing only a hospital gown and robe. I did not really need to be rolled in a wheelchair to and from Trina's car but they insisted. They also insisted on laying me in my bed naked (except for the medical tape), undressing themselves, crawling on each side of me, and giving me a long, languorous double blowjob. They snuggled me. I slept. Trina left for her ranger work. Leonie stayed beside me and answered my phone. The ambulance association no longer needed my services; they would send someone to retrieve the emergency VHF radio. Various media outlets wanted to interview me; no, I had nothing to say. Various cranks called to say cranky things. And on and on. Trina returned that evening. I received another full-flesh double blowjob for pain relief. And another in the middle of the night after I stood on my own to empty my bladder. And another in the early dawn before Trina left again. I felt much better by that evening, especially when Trina rode my tongue while Leonie rode my cock. And then they swapped. Yes, much better... Rafe and friends whomped me the night before the long Memorial Day weekend. I was pretty ambulatory and not-scary-looking by Tuesday. End of semester was only a couple weeks away. I had my AA degree in hand. I was unemployed. It was time to get out of Dodge, i.e. amscray, i.e. book it, i.e. move on. I packed light - only my station wagon and a smallish U-Haul rental trailer. The trailer was loaded with milk crates filled with books, duffels of clothes and bedding, a chunk of kitchenware, shelving, and not much else. My bike was strapped to the back of the station wagon. Inside, with the back seats down, were layers of sleeping bags, blankets, pillows, a clothes bag and snack box - a rolling bedroom. I wasted no cash on motels. Those last weeks passed. Trina and Leonie left me alone occasionally. I fucked them goodbye two days before my departure. Friday, my (hopefully) next-to-last day in the Mohave Desert, I was at my kitchen table finishing my paperwork for (un)employment, landlord, school, and the county. I had arranged a transfer to an Army Reserve unit up north near Santa Cruz, on the coast below San Francisco, and to enroll in college there. My local affairs were wrapped. A hand knocked on my front screen door. I turned to see Felice peering in. I rose from my chair and regarded her through the screen. "Hello, Felice." She looked nervous. "Ron, can we talk?" Two suitcases stood beside her. I shrugged. What did I have to lose? "Come on in." I was not helpful. She left the suitcases on the porch. She scanned the nearly-empty building and then looked at me. She nicely filled her lemon-rellow sundress. A big floppy handbag dangled from her arm. She stepped close but not too close, a yard away. She set the handbag on my table. "Ron, what Rafe did to you was awful, terrible. I never knew he had such violence in him. Ron, he's an animal! I can't stay with him. I left him." I stared into her face. "I'm leaving." "I know." She did not smile. "Take me." "Just like that?" I stared harder. "Take you? Take you where?" "Wherever you're going. Wherever you're staying. Just take me." She bent to slip off her white tennis sneakers. She reached behind to unsnap her dress's neck strap. The dress fell away. She stood naked. She twisted her wedding and engagement rings off her hand and set them on my table next to her handbag. Her blue eyes pierced me. "This is what you wanted. This is what you can have. Take me. Fuck me." Did I still want her? Had my obsession for Felice been beaten out of me? There she stood, the object of my desire for so many months, naked, an arm's length away, sweating slightly. A paranoid thought intruded. "What about Rafe? Where is he now? Won't he come here and kill me?" She shook her head. Her dirty-blonde hair fluttered. Her breasts jiggled. "He's at a training base in Panama for a week. His unit left last night." So I am safe for now, am I? Did I still want her? Yes. --- Were this a Just Plain Bob story it would end right there. I am not JPB so I have a postscript. --- Felice took a step closer. I did not move. Another step, right into my face. I half-smiled. She reached to unbutton my summer shirt. I did not stop her. She undid the buttons, pulled the shirt off me, undid my fly, and pushed my pants and boxers down. We stood naked a foot apart. I had been frozen away from this woman for months. I felt her heat. I melted. We reached for each other, embraced, kissed, merged. Our hands moved across the other's shoulders, arms, back, butt. I pulled her ass closer. Her arms wrapped me; her hands locked behind my back. Our mouths communicated non-verbally. Yes, THIS is what I want. Yes, I need THIS. Yes, our flavors are right, our textures, our chemistries. Yes. We want to fuck. Each other. Now. And we did. Nothing fancy the first time. Well, except the beginning. I picked her up, one arm under her back and the other under her knees, and carried her to the remaining sleep space, a blanketed and pillowed pad on the concrete floor beside the fuel-oil stove. I knelt and set her down. She scooted over and opened her creamy thighs to me. "Take me. Fuck me." She blinked. Only a straight missionary position fuck, but slowly, tenderly. I took her and filled her. I fucked her with care. Our mouths joined, and our groins, and our hearts. I felt her heat and spirit flow into me. Her arms and legs wrapped me. Her mouth devoured me. Her pussy contained me. I moved deliberately. She whimpered. I moved faster. She cried. I pounded, and squirted, and roared. She wailed, the loveliest sound on Earth. "Oh Ron..." That was the next-loveliest sound - a woman moaning my name. We held together. My cock slipped from her. We cuddled. She handled my wet, limp penis, fondled it, explored it. No, not it; ME! She fondled me, explored me. And me responded. I was erect again, and wet. Her hand stroked me, tickled me, enraged me. Yes, enraged, and engorged. I growled and rolled her over. I entered her lubricated love-tunnel from behind. I slammed into her bouncy ass. I pulled up her thighs to the right pose and shoved as deep as I could. A woman often groans "oh oh oh oh oh oh..." when I rhythmically piston into her depths. Felice did not. Her voice was a long steady moan, "oohhhhh..." with rising and falling pitches. Her song drove me onwards. I pounded. Her hand moved between her thighs as I slammed into her. She cried. She wailed. I grunted. I felt my orgasm approach. I roared. I spewed. We left a wide wet stain on the sleeping-pad's crumpled sheet. We rolled to another position and clung together. Felice's eyes magnetized to mine. "Oh fuck, Ron. Thank you. Thank you." After the mandatory cuddling-murmuring-kissing period, I crawled up and pulled Felice from the bed. I stripped the sheet, soaked it in the kitchen sink briefly with a squirt of detergent, wrung it tightly, and stepped naked from my kitchen door to hang it on the clothesline outside. The desert wind would dessicate it in minutes. I stepped back inside. Felice held me tightly, still wearing only skin and her erotic heat. I had another paranoid thought. "Are you sure there is absolutely no way Rafe can get back here before tomorrow morning? That's when I planned to leave." She looked up at me. "Well, that's not really..." "Uh huh. Tell ya what. I do not need to stay another night. Let's get the fuck away from here now. I mean, NOW." I unwrapped her arms. "C'mon, time is wasting. Who knows what the afternoon will bring?" We dressed. I gathered the last of my gear and stowed Felice's suitcases into the trailer. A last-minute check, and we were off. Santa Cruz is 500 miles due northwest of Joshua Tree. As the crow flies, yes. But if the crow has to walk and push a flat tire... The ride goes faster when the crow is being blown as he drives. Once away from Joshua Tree I was in no hurry. I had left no forwarding address, only a post-office box. I did not fear a Marine Corps husband's pursuit and vengeance. Three basic routes were possible. 1) North along the dry east side of the High Sierras 2) Up the great wide Central valley 3) Along the coast The coast route possessed the most campgrounds. I chose that way. Felice argued persuasively for the middle route. "No matter where else we go I would really like to take US-99 north." (The classic Central Valley route.) "I really want to stop in," she named a town, "and see my family, tell them what's up, pick up some stuff, y'know." "Is this really important? Why there?" "Well, my family sort of runs the place." The name of her family and the town was that of a prominent agricultural brand. "Look. I have money. I can pay for gas to get us anywhere - don't worry about that. I can pay for rooms too so we don't have to camp constantly. We could go up the coast if you want, and then cut over and see the folks and our lawyer, and then continue on..." What? I was driving an heiress? With deep pockets? Hot to file for divorce? I smiled. This could be a fun journey. THE END? ***** Author's note: This story by Hypoxia is copyright (c) 2015 and was derived and expanded from Ron's Journal 07. Your constructive comments are welcome. If you like this, join the 1%ers and VOTE!