Storiesonline.net
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                          The Accidental Gigolo
                             by Marsh Alien

Copyright© 2006 by Marsh Alien


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Description: Accidents happen to everyone; they're just part of life. High school student Terry Martin seems to have more accidents than most people, though, the poor guy. His latest accident is a direct result of his mother's decision to tape her three best friends confessing to sexual indiscretions. On second thought, maybe he's not so poor after all.

Codes: MF mF FF 1st teen cons Blkm Mdom span lght group size toys food
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Chapter 1: Accidents Will Happen

I am a genuinely nice guy. To take just one example, I never needed to be reminded that there was a community service requirement we'd have to meet before we graduated; I'd fulfilled it before I got to eleventh grade. Mostly to get out of the house, true, but also because I really enjoyed working with the deaf kids at the public library. My cousin Martha was deaf, and the fact that my mother couldn't be bothered to learn Ameslan made it all the more attractive to me. Martha and I could sit there and "chat" right under my mom's nose. Mom's younger sister Penny knew exactly what we were saying, but she apparently had her own issues with Mom. I saw her biting her lip on more than one occasion to keep from laughing. The kids at the library were just delighted that I knew it, and we had a great time each week.

It's true that I am just a teensy bit accident-prone. And that some of those accidents were at least partially my fault. Although to hear my mother talk about it, you'd think that it was entirely predictable that a truck carrying maple syrup would crash at 4:15 p.m. on a road that I would be driving at 4:17 p.m. I mean, they weren't even going to raise our premiums for that. But no, I'd be riding my bike for the foreseeable future. And I could see where some of our neighbors might have thought, solely as a result of a complete accident, that I wasn't a nice guy. Although I still can't believe that Old Lady Willingham thought I hit her dog on purpose with that baseball; she nursed that grudge even after his cast came off.

So I think it ought to be understood, right up front, that I am a nice guy. And in that light, you have to believe that blackmail wasn't the first thing I thought of while I was watching the videotape. It wasn't even the second thing. As nice guy as I am, it actually wasn't something I thought of at all. It was an accident. That's right, an accident. If you want to point a finger of blame at somebody, I say let's start with the tape:

My mother, Deirdre Martin, peered at her friends over top of her undersized wire-rim glasses.

"All right, girls," she grinned, "but you have to swear that not a word of this will ever leave this room."

"Swear," Laura Stone gave a hesitant smile.

"Swear," Pamela Lee said.

"Swear," Natalie Winston echoed.

"Good," Mom said as she leaned forward to begin the round of tales. "Well ladies, remember last summer when I treated myself to a weekend at that fancy health spa?"

The other women nodded.

"I think I told you all about the golf and tennis, but I didn't tell you about the tennis instructor I treated myself to," Mom grinned wolfishly. "Twenty four years old, six feet two inches tall, 200 pounds of muscle, and a cock that never got soft."

"How big?" Pam asked, unconsciously licking her lips.

"Big enough," Mom snickered. "It's the only seven inch prick I've ever had."

As Mom poured another round of wine, Laura took a deep breath and began her own story. Since her divorce, she'd dated very little and engaged in sex even less frequently. As her friends gasped, she told them of the evening when her son had been out of town on a camping trip and one of his young friends had dropped by. Before she knew it, the two were upstairs in bed.

"How old was he?" asked a shocked Natalie.

"Seventeen," Laura admitted.

"Well hung?" Pam asked.

"Average," Laura shrugged.

"How'd you finally get rid of him?" Mom asked.

Laura smiled.

"It wasn't really a question of my getting rid of him," she sighed. "I'd have kept doing it the whole rest of the summer. We did it a few more times, and then he pretty much told me he was moving back to younger stuff."

"Speaking of younger stuff," Mom smiled, "Pam?"

"I need to start a little further back," Pam began. "When I was 21, I was a little short of cash. So I posed for a few pictures in a magazine."

"Any magazine we'd know?" Mom asked.

"Not unless your son collects some pretty obscure stuff," Pam chortled. "Anyway, about six years ago, one of my students found the magazine. Scared the shit out of me. Finally, he agreed to give me the magazine, but of course he had a price."

"Drive a hard bargain, did he?" Natalie giggled.

Pam laughed along with the other women.

"Hard?" she grinned. "Yes. Good? No. Big? No. After a while I just couldn't do it without laughing. So I decided to toss him out. By that time, I'd gotten him to give me all the pictures from the magazine, and I'd bought up the only two copies left in the local porn store. Once he didn't have anything on me anymore, I basically threatened to go to the police with his little blackmail."

"You hypocrite," Laura looked a little shocked. "Wasn't it you who tossed your husband out a few years ago cause you caught him doing his secretary?"

Pam simply gave the older woman a smug smile.

The women turned to Natalie, finding it hard to believe that the youngster had already cheated on her husband after only three years. She hadn't. But on the morning before the wedding, while her prospective groom was sleeping off his hangover, the prospective bride was having her fun with the prospective best man.

"Nothing since then?" Mom asked.

"Nope," Natalie said as the phone in the kitchen began ringing.

"Excuse me," Mom said as she rose from the table.

"Although not because I'm really satisfied at home," Natalie muttered after a healthy gulp of wine.

"Oh, come on," Pam growled. "You're married. You can have it any time you want."

"Tell you what," Natalie said. "You find me someone who can really do it well, and you can have him any time you want."

Pam smiled and leaned forward.

"Yeah, I know what you're going to ask, you slut," Natalie giggled. "It's a little above average. The problem is it comes too fast and it ends too soon."

"Well, you can keep him then," Pam said. "Laura?"

"Yeah, right," laughed the brunette. "Who'd wanna screw a 39-year-old divorcee with a college age kid and a size 12 ass?"

"Someone who likes that Double-D rack!" Natalie offered cheerfully.

"Oh, sure, I can probably get some boy to come over," Laura said. "But not the kind of man I want."

"Somebody man enough to keep that ass in line, huh?" Pam said bluntly as Laura flushed a deep crimson.

"Anyway what do you care, Pam?" Laura interjected. "I wouldn't think you'd have any trouble getting laid!"

"My husband may have been a bastard," Pam said with toss of her hair, "but after his seven-inch cock, anything smaller doesn't even seem like fucking."

"I wonder how good Deirdre's son is," Natalie said, raising her eyebrows. "He's turned into quite the little muscle boy."

"Terry? He is cute," Laura agreed. "But I'll bet momma has him a little too "whipped," if you get my meaning. All that 'yes, ma'am, ' and 'no, ma'am' stuff."

Pam smiled.

"And I'll bet we know who'd like to be whipped instead," she said, making Laura blush again. "But she's right -- you're out of luck, Nat. He's in my French class this year, and I doubt he's any different than the rest. At least when it comes to size."

"And how would you know?" Laura asked slyly.

"At least once a week, I wear one of those tight little dresses that produce a hard-on in every boy in that class," Pam gloated. "And I haven't had a good look at Terry's bulge, but this year's jocks are a pitiful little bunch. Hell, as long as it's been since I've been laid, if I thought any of 'em even had a good thick six inches I'd be conjugating all the verbs he wanted for him after school."

"Hey, you're the quantity queen," Natalie giggled. "I just want quality."

Mom breezed back in the room just then.

"Well, ladies, I'm afraid we have to call it quits," she said. "That was my office. They just made an arrest in that forgery case I've been working on and I've got to go downtown."

Mom walked out of the room behind her guests, a faint smile playing across her lips.

I shut off the videotape and my first thought, I swear to God, was that I couldn't believe my mom was such a bitch. I mean, I could, because she was, but really, taping her friends talking about sex? After she'd steered the conversation in that direction? What a fucking bitch! My second thought? Did Laura Stone really think I was cute? I mean, I'd heard her say it, but did she really think that? I reminded myself of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer ("She things I'm cuuuuute!"), not for the first time.

I'd returned to an empty house just a few minutes after Mom and her friends had left. Almost by reflex, I'd begun to clean up the table where they'd been sitting, when I noticed that something in the room was out of place. It took me a while to identify the video camera sitting on the bookcase, pointed directly at the table. Moving closer, I noticed black tape over the red light that glowed to signal that the camera was on. And sure enough, the camera was on. I turned it off and ejected the tape. Obviously, Mom had been taping her friends, and didn't want them to know it. But why? On second thought, who the hell cared why? I had a tape of three of my mother's beautiful friends, three women who'd starred in more of my fantasies, waking and sleeping, than all the other women in the world combined.

At age eighteen, of course, it wasn't like I had a huge database of fantasies. I mean, it's not like I did it every night or something. Maybe every other night, but not every night. And there were girls at school that I liked, and actresses, of course. Hell, that chick on the Today Show looked real good some days. The one that read the news, not so much the one that took Katie's job. But these three women — Laura Stone, Natalie Winston, and Pamela Lee — were the stars. I dug through the cassettes on the shelves and found a defective tape that I'd tried to use a few weeks ago. I slipped it in the camera and put the camera back where I'd found it. Then I turned it back on in the "record" mode, so that Mom would simply assume that she'd put a bad tape in the camera. By the time she returned late that afternoon, I had already downloaded the tape into the hard drive of my PC and hidden the video file in a very safe folder in my hard drive. Erasing the tape was even easier.

I played the video the next weekend, when both of my parents were at work. It started out as an ordinary card game, with the four women still just chatting, but I'd already pulled down my pants and begun stroking my cock. Mom had deliberately taken the seat — almost pushing Natalie out of it when she tried to sit there — with her back to the camera. That was good for two reasons. The first was that I had a good view of the other women. The second was that I didn't have a good view of Mom.

Because, believe me, the last thing I wanted was to find myself jerking off to pictures of my mom. My friends would have paid good money for a video like that; they had all confided to me, at one time or another, that my mother was the first one they thought about when they were doing it. Like I really needed to know that. Some of them, the little pervs, had even thought of her when they were fucking their girlfriends. I really wish that they hadn't told me that part. But it explained why my house was one of the more popular hangout places. At family get-togethers, where you didn't actually have to be friends with anyone, 'cause you were gonna get invited back next year no matter how much you pissed 'em off, Mom was fond of boasting that she had the same figure that she had had in college. And her face hadn't changed much, either. The only difference was that the long blonde hair she'd had then was now styled into a short professional look that suited her job as an Assistant District Attorney. She knew perfectly well the effect she had on my friends, and lapped it up like a cat, teasing them with shorts that were too short and tops that weren't quite top enough. They just ate it up and came back for more.

On her left in the video was Mrs. Stone, my "Aunt Laura." Laura Stone had been Mom's best friend ever since she'd invited her, as a young college sophomore, to share a suite of rooms with the suite that Laura and two other senior girls had snagged. She was now 39, the oldest of the four women who had sat down around the table, ostensibly to play hearts. She was the shortest of the three women and perhaps the heaviest (although by no more than 10 pounds), but her chest was easily the biggest of the bunch. A few years ago I'd peeked into Mrs. Stone's closet when I took a break from mowing her lawn and went into the house for a drink while she was out grocery shopping. There it was, a 38-D bra in her hamper. Maybe she swelled to a Double-D in the fall, like Natalie said; was that possible? In any event, I was very pleased to see her in profile on the tape. And because it was still only the end of September, with unusually warm temperatures, Mrs. Stone was wearing a very tight cotton T-shirt. Awesome.

I turned my attention next to Natalie Winston, sitting on the right of my mother. Ms. Winston — "oh, please call me Natalie," she was always saying — had moved in next door, with her husband, about eighteen months ago. She was 28 or so, a number I'd arrived at by piecing together some clues she'd given me about her college days. With her bouncy auburn hair and beautiful blue eyes, I just knew that she'd been a cheerleader then, and she'd been the main subject of my jack-off sessions over the summer, when she started visiting our pool. In the tape, she had on pair of much-too-long shorts as well as a pink sleeveless shirt. Natalie also had a very nice pair.

The final woman, Pam Lee, had been the subject of my fantasies for most of the last school year. She'd taught French at the high school for the last five years, and the locker room scuttlebutt put her age at 31. I'd first seen her when I was a tenth grader last year, when my French teacher had been the gruesome Mrs. Lee. And I'd spent many afternoons last year daydreaming about her long black hair, long legs, and dark complexion. She was the tallest of the three women, and the least endowed, but was exotically beautiful. I couldn't believe it when she and my mom became friends over the summer, and I couldn't believe it when I found out she was my new French teacher this fall. I was salivating at the prospect of seeing those fashionable suits and short skirts every day. Boy, talk about mistakes. She might be a goddess, but in class she certainly earned the nickname passed down in the boys' locker room over the past few years: la garce Française. The French bitch never missed an opportunity to put down the boys in her class, particularly those involved in sports, and I hadn't been spared just because my mom was a friend of the teacher. A month into the semester, I found myself wondering how quickly I could learn Spanish.

I shot my load ten minutes after I started the tape, but decided to see just how long it lasted, and whether I was going to get any better views. At that point, they were still just playing cards, gossiping about the woman across the street who'd gotten herself pregnant in spite of her husband's vasectomy. Then I watched in amazement as my mother deliberately steered the conversation to sex, and my mouth fell open as each of the women — including my mother — admitted to their past indiscretions. My cock was already starting to rise again.

Up until that point, my sexual experience had been limited; if Natalie Winston was hoping I'd be good, she'd be well advised to wait until I got out of this place. Because basically since I was old enough to talk, my mother had taken advantage of every opening to remind me what she'd given up to raise me, that she had stood first in her law school class when she'd become pregnant, and that she would have been able to earn even more than my father earned if she hadn't had to suspend her education to take care of my baby, and that I owed her. In truth, she seemed to enjoy her work, especially her occasional appearances in the newspapers and TV news as she prosecuted yet another of the city's sex crimes. But she would never admit it to me or even my dad. In fact, she would sometimes remind my dad of her former class standing as a subtle put-down, although his large paycheck meant that she couldn't treat him like she did me.

Hell, Laura was right. I was whipped. My mom had left me with the self-esteem of a rabbit. The first couple of girls I'd gotten up enough nerve to ask out had fled the house giggling when I brought 'em over, as ordered, to meet Mom and Dad. They'd been treated to my baby pictures first, and then to a discourse on how sickly I'd been when I was growing up. I had finally grown into my tall, gangly body, thank God, sporting what I thought of as a decent set of muscles honed by my daily swimming practice. But I still saw myself, through my mother's calculating eyes, as a perennial weenie.

Since then, I'd manage to sneak out with a girl once or twice. But the girl with whom I'd gotten the farthest had taken one look at my cock and drawn the line at a hand job. Although I knew I had the biggest cock on the swim team, it was apparently one of the biggest in the school, and she wanted nothing to do with it. Maybe Ms. Lee wanted some, though, huh? I grinned as I recalled her remark about her need for a big cock. Hey, you want some of this, bitch? Well, maybe not, but I was entitled to dream. I rewound the tape to a point where Ms. Lee had stretched across the table for a card, giving the camera a tantalizing peek down her low-cut blouse, and froze it. I was surprised I could come again that quickly, too.

It took me two weeks to find the magazine. The problem was that if you just put "Pam Lee" into Google, you got Pam Anderson. "Pamela Lee" was even worse. And "Pam Lee" with "nude," with "naked," and with "posing" weren't (obviously) any better. "Pam Lee" and "coed" — that turned out to be the answer. And oh my God, that particular issue was still available from the publisher. Yeah, of course I ordered it. I invariably picked up the mail, even on weekends, because Dad got home late and Mom couldn't be bothered. The magazine was a bit pricey at this point, being ten years old, but ya gotta do what ya gotta do. So I did it.

And it wasn't until I got it that I realized that I had a problem. My mom, the bitch, was constantly searching my room, looking for signs of the steroids that she was convinced that I must be using in order to develop muscles. Nobody on my father's side had muscles like that, she pointed out. And it was obvious that I hadn't inherited anything worthwhile from her side of the family. So obviously I was taking steroids, and she scoured the place every other week. And it's not like she even pretended to do it while she was putting away the laundry. Hell, I did the laundry in the house. I was the one who made sure her 36-C underwires got hung up to dry instead of going in the dryer and her size 4 panties were nice and fluffy soft. Yeah, I know. Fuck off.

Keeping it at school was a similarly bad idea. By order of the School Board, prodded and supported, I suspected, by crusading Assistant District Attorney Deirdre Martin, we were subject to completely random locker searches at the whim of the principal, the assistant principal, and the head of the art department, who was a reformed drug addict who was assumed to have special insight into the hiding places that we secretive druggies used. The three of them together had a lot of whims, so my locker was out.

I finally just said the hell with it and threw the magazine out. Oh, of course, I kept the pictures. I'm whipped, I'm not stupid. Once again, I scanned 'em onto my hard drive, where they were hidden in a file that you'd have to be a computer genius to find. Occasionally, though, I'd download one to my cell phone, where I could easily hide it from view with the press of a button, and where two other buttons would permanently erase it. Until I downloaded another one. In retrospect, of course, that wasn't the brightest thing to do. I will accept responsibility for that. But I'm not going to beat myself up over it. After all, I was probably the most wildly successful accidental blackmailer in history.



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Chapter 2: The Accidental Blackmailer, Part One


"Bonjour, Monsieur Martin," said Ms. Lee as she opened the door of her apartment one Friday evening. "Avez vous les papiers legaux?"

"Oui, Madame," I answered. Barely a month into the semester, Ms. Lee had no intention of letting up on her rule that her students could address her only in French, even if they met out of class. My father had prepared some document or other for her as a favor, and my mother had asked me — told me — to take it over to Ms. Lee's house to have her sign it. A four-mile trip by bike that had taken me the better part of a half-hour.

"Etes-vous prêt pour l'examen?" Ms. Lee asked as she closed the door behind me and sat down at her dining room table with her pen.

"Oui, Madame," I answered. We had an examen coming up on Monday, and while I wasn't really ready for it, I figured I'd get in less trouble this way than if I said I intended to spend Sunday night cramming for it.

I fished the papers out of my backpack and put them in front of her. Standing beside her, I couldn't help but notice once again the way that her hair had been pulled back into a bun, which had made her look more severe during today's French class but which, from this angle, exposed her long, supple neck when she bent over to look at the papers. I couldn't help but inhale the subtle fragrance that her body gave off, whether natural or not I had no way of knowing. I couldn't help but peek down her blouse, which hadn't appeared to have any buttons when I'd tried not to stare at it under the jacket she'd worn during school. Now, with the jacket thrown over one of the other chairs, it was obvious that the two sides of the blouse connected somewhere near the little bow on the white mesh bra that she wore —

"Voilá," she concluded as she signed the last of the indicated pages and prepared to hand the documents back to me.

As a result of all my earlier helplessness, I also couldn't help spilling the contents of my backpack onto her table when I went to replace the papers. Smirking at my clumsiness, she helped me pick up a couple of notebooks, and then reached for my phone, which had flipped open on its skid across the table top.

"Where did you find this?" she hissed.

"Madame?" I asked. At that point, I was on my hands and knees fishing for my pen, and I popped my head up over the table to find out what she was talking about. "Le — le téléphone?"

I was racking my brain. It was a pretty standard Motorola, I thought, from that store in the mall. What the hell was the French word for shopping mall?

"This picture, Terry," she said, turning white and starting to tremble. "Where did you get this picture?"

I was about to offer to get her some water, because she looked like she was about to faint, when I realized what she was talking about. Oh, shit.

I sat down at the table.

"The, uh, the Internet?" I said softly, more of a question than a statement.

"This picture is on the Internet?" she was clearly horrified, and was starting to shake.

I took the phone from her. It was actually a cropped version of the full picture, just showing her head and her right tit, because the full picture would have been too small on the little screen.

"Uh, yeah," I said. "This magazine? College Spread? They have a —"

"Oh, God," she started to gasp for air. "It's going to be all over school."

"Well, no," I said, trying to calm her. "It's a kind of obscure site. You know, you could probably hack into it and change it so your name wouldn't come up on the search engines."

"Search engines?" she cried. "You can just goggle this?"

"Google," I told her. "It's called googling it."

That didn't help.

"Terry, I don't know anything about the Internet," she wailed. "I don't even own my own computer. I can't do anything like what you're describing."

"I could do it," I volunteered. Maybe. "But not from my computer."

That's all I'd need, to have Mom find out I did that.

I could see her eyes light up as she grasped at the admittedly slender straw. Then she slammed her palm on the table. "Damn, that stupid science fair has the school computers tied up all weekend long. I could sneak you in there next weekend. But shit, it'll be all over the school by then."

"It's pretty hard to find," I said. "So it's not very likely that anyone else will find it."

"Anyone else?" she asked coldly. "You mean unless you tell them?"

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"And what is the price of your silence, Mister Martin," her voice was growing hard. "An "A" in French?"

"I thought I already had an "A" in French," I was puzzled. I'd aced both the quizzes so far, and I wasn't any worse in conversation than anyone else.

"What, then?" she was screaming at me. "Do you know how much trouble you could get me in, you little prick, when you show this to your fucking little jock buddies in your French class?"

That pissed me off a little. I mean, there weren't any other swimmers in her class. The other jocks were soccer guys, with a few football players scattered around because they enjoyed the scenery. It's not like we had a club or anything, and I didn't appreciate being lumped in with the rest of them.

"Look, ma'am," I said, my peevishness starting to show. "I don't have any fucking jock buddies, little or otherwise, in your French class. But hey, yeah, maybe they would like to see their teacher spreading herself all over the back of a chair."

"You have the whole picture?" her eyes grew wide as she dropped to her knees. "Oh, God, Terry."

"You're upset," I nodded, thinking that a restatement of the obvious would help as I stood up and started to back away slowly. "I can understand that. I'm just gonna go home now."

I turned and ran for the door.

"Terry!" she called after me.

"Keep the phone!" I yelled as I slammed the door behind me and raced for my bike.

She was already at the house when I got there, her hot-looking Trans Am parked in front of the closed garage doors. She was pounding on the front door as I cycled up the drive.

"You wanna see the site?" I asked.

"Terry!" she jumped and clutched at her chest. Apparently she hadn't heard me coming up the walk. "Where's your mother?"

"Bar convention," I told her. "So, the website? With the pictures?"

"Pictures?" she gripped my arm. "I thought it was just one."

"Uh, no," I admitted. "I think there are two of 'em."

"Oh God, Terry," she wrapped her arms around me and I could feel her trembling. I unlocked the door and kind of pushed her into the house. Fortunately, it was fairly dark by then, and I didn't think that anyone had seen us. Ms. Lee appeared to be sort of numb at this point, and she just kind of followed me upstairs to my room.

"Look," I said, pulling out the chair at my desk for her and firing up the computer and its internet connection. "I'll show you how hard it is to find."

My home screen, the Google search page, popped up.

"What do I do?" she asked helplessly.

"Okay," I said, "First of all, I want you to type in your name there."

She typed "Pam Lee," and, again at my instruction, pressed "search."

"What does it mean?" she stared helplessly at the screen. Honestly, how could you be 30 years old and know this little about computers?

"It means that you'd have to look through 45,000 websites before you found the one with your pictures on them," I told her. "You're fortunate you have the same name as Pam Anderson. In fact, try Pamela Lee.

"See, three hundred thirty thousand hits," I said. "So the chances of somebody running across the site between now and then are like, infinitesimal."

Her breathing was a little less ragged now, a little calmer. Her chest was going up and down in regular, measured intervals, almost hypnotically —

"All right," she said, "show it to me."

"Oh, yeah, the site," I said. "Okay, type in, um, Pam Lee and, uh, coed."

"Nine results," she read the screen, "meaning only nine sites?"

"Yeah," I told her, pointing to the screen. "This first one leads to the second so let's go there first. Put the cursor on the title and click. Here, with the mouse."

I thought she was tense when I took her hand to guide the mouse. But when the site finally appeared, she was board-stiff. It was entitled "College Spread," the same as the title of the magazine in which her picture had appeared. I placed my hand over my teacher's and scrolled down to "Back Issues."

"Oh, God," she said, tears welling up in her eyes. There it was, Volume 3, Issue Number 5, May 1997. Her name jumped out at her: "Coed of the Month: Pam Lee."

"Why is my name in blue?" she asked.

"The highlighted names are links to other pages on the web," I explained. "With this magazine, you can preview a couple of the pictures in each of the issues. Click on it."

Pam numbly put the cursor over her name and clicked.

It was the full version of the picture I had on my phone, with her kneeling on a chair, her perfect butt in full view. She was smiling back at the camera over her shoulder, turned just enough so that her right breast came into the picture. Pretty tame stuff. The caption was relatively mild, too: Maybe a quick trip to the library will help her calm down.

Unfortunately, that was only one of the pictures. I put my hand over hers on the mouse and put the cursor over the "Pic 2" at the bottom and clicked it.

She gasped as the picture appeared. It was perhaps the most obscene of the whole photo shoot. Lying on her back, her eyes half-closed and her lips parted, Pam's left hand was under her left thigh, pulling her legs wide open. Her right hand was cupping her pubic mound, her index and ring fingers prying apart her labial lips while her middle finger was knuckle-deep inside her pussy. Her arousal was evident from the thin glaze covering her right thigh and her erect nipples.

She looked at the caption: The young romance language student knows exactly what she wants: "A nice young stud with his big, fat, hard cock deep inside me. Yours looks perfect."

"Oh, God. Oh, God." the trembling teacher repeated. "Anybody could find this."

She slumped forward in a faint, and I barely managed to keep her head from hitting the computer screen. I pulled her back and tried shaking her, and then tapping her lightly on the cheek. She was dead to the world, although her breathing — there was that chest again — suggested to me that she was probably just sleeping. At this point I figured that's what she needed, anyway. So I very gently lifted her in my arms and carried her to my parents' bedroom. They were away all weekend, and this was the most comfortable bed in the place. Covering her with a comforter, I turned off the lights and returned to my room. I watched a movie on television, watched another movie that I hadn't realized had even made it to HBO yet, and finally went to bed myself.

Having finally gone to bed at around two, I was dead to the world the next morning, burrowed beneath my sheet and blanket and bedspread. But did that prevent someone from putting their hand on my shoulder and shaking it? It did not.

"Terry," a voice was hissing. "Terry, there's somebody at the door."

"Uh-huh," I pulled the covers up further.

"Terry," the voice said, "get the fuck up and answer the door."

I felt the covers being yanked out of my hands and then the much cooler air of the room.

"Do you mind?" I asked Ms. Lee as I started to wake up. Normally I slept naked, but last night, in deference to the fact that I had a guest in the house, I'd kept my gym shorts on when I finally turned in. I'd also had the sense not to jerk off last night, on the theory that she might have woken up and heard me, although it had never actually occurred to me that she'd come barging in my room like this. I sat there for a minute, yawning. She was dressed in a robe of my mom's, and just stood there staring at me.

"The door," she finally said. "There's someone at the door."
"Okay," I told her. "So when you leave, I'll get dressed and go answer it. Okay?"

That seemed to be a plan to her, so she retreated. I pulled on a pair of sweats and a size XXL T-shirt. I heard the insistent knocking as I descended the stairs, and I pulled open the front door to reveal Mrs. Patty Parsons, all 200-plus pounds of her, and behind her as large a crowd of people as I'd ever seen on our street milling around like they were at some sort of fair. I scratched my head and stared at her.

"Is your mom home?" she gushed.

"Uh, no," I said, "she and Dad are at some lawyer convention thing. What's, uh, what's goin' on?"

"The neighborhood block party," Patty enthused. "We've been planning it for a year. You must have heard about it. We've had fliers all over!"

"Oh, yeah," I said. I had heard something about it, but who pays attention to crap like that?

"Anyway," Patty just bowled over my lack of matching energy, "your mom said she was going to do a cake for the bake sale. Do you think she might have left it in the kitchen?"

"I can check," I shrugged. "Come on in."

I left her standing in the hallway while I shambled off to the kitchen to see if Mom had actually remembered having made that sort of commitment. I was very, very doubtful. I found Ms. Lee in the kitchen, hiding behind the door. She had changed as well, putting on a pair of my mother's shorts — a pair of those long shorts that end just above the knee — and a long-sleeved flannel shirt.

"What the fuck is happening out there?" she demanded.

"Block party," I said. "Excuse me, I've gotta look for something. And you might want to keep it down a little. I left Mrs. Parsons in the foyer."

She gave me a horrified look and her voice dropped to a whisper.

"Inside the house?" she hissed.

"That's where we keep the foyer," I agreed. "Well, I'll be damned. There is a cake in here."

I smiled at Ms. Lee and brought it out to Patty. She seemed equally surprised, but also curious.

"Do you have a guest here this weekend?" she asked, trying to peer around me into the rest of the house.

"A guest?" I asked.

"I thought I heard another voice," she said.

Patty Parsons was the biggest gossip in the neighborhood, behind my mother anyway, and it was obvious to me that Ms. Lee had been a little troubled by the idea that someone might think that she was here in the house. This morning. With me. Without my parents. I could see she might have a point there.

"Nope," I gave Patty a lascivious grin. "How'm I supposed to take advantage of my folks being gone when the whole neighborhood is watching out there?"

"Oh, you," Patty slapped me on the arm. "We'll be closed down by tomorrow noon. Depends on how fast you are."

I gave her a polite chuckle, and she turned around to leave. With her hand on the door, she stopped and looked back at me over her shoulder.

"Oh," she said with all the nonchalance of a bloodhound, "whose car is that in the driveway, Terry? It looks like Pam Lee's."

She didn't really have that kind of Columbo subtlety down.

"Uh, yeah," I agreed. "I guess she must have gone to that convention, too. I think her boyfriend's a lawyer in Sausalito, so she probably hitched a ride with Mom and Dad. Between you and me, I don't know how much conventioning they actually do at these things, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, you," Patty tittered as she slapped me again and left.

"So now that busybody bitch thinks I have a boyfriend in Sausalito?" Ms. Lee demanded as I reentered the kitchen.

I stared at her for a few seconds before responding.

"You're right," I deadpanned. "I'll go tell her you spent the night in here with me."

I pretended to turn and head for the front door. Apparently I have to work on my deadpanning.

"Terry, no, I'm sorry," Ms. Lee spun me around and flattened me against the door. "I'm sorry, please don't tell her that."

"I was kidding," I told her.

"Yeah that was really funny, you little prick," she spat at me.

This French bitch was really getting on my nerves at this point with her yo-yo pleading and screaming. The worse thing was that I was going to be stuck with her all day now. There was no way she was getting that car down the driveway without killing scores of people. And what was probably worse from her point of view, she'd also be alerting Patty Parsons that she'd spent the night. In fact, since this party actually did go all the way around the block, I didn't even think we could sneak her out the back. I couldn't hold myself back.

"You know," I said, "some time soon you're gonna have to decide whether I'm worth being nice to. Guys you're nice to might say, yeah, I'll go ahead and break a coupla' laws, and try to hack your name off the internet. Guys you're a bitch to might say, fuck, why don't I just make things easier on myself now and e-mail your site to everyone at school."

I turned on my heel and left her staring at me as I walked back to my room. It was only once I got there that I remembered that I was starving, and that the reason I'd walked back into the kitchen in the first place was to get myself a bowl of cereal. I decided to wait a bit; once you've taken the moral high road you don't want to have to pull off at the next exit and head the other way. If I showed up in the kitchen now, she'd think I was willing to apologize.

I waited about fifteen minutes or so, until my stomach started to growl. And I was about to stand up when she suddenly appeared in my doorway, her arms folded in front of her chest. She had on a shorter pair of shorts now, also my mother's, and she'd tied the flannel shirt under her chest. She had an odd expression on her face, as if she was there against her will. Which, in a manner of speaking, she probably was.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Oh. Well, that was actually a nice surprise. I couldn't remember the last time anyone had been sorry to me.

"Okay," I said. "Thank you."

"See, I'm not a garce française after all, am I?" she asked, her face softening just a little bit.

"Well, yeah, you are," I said.

"I'm not," she protested.

"Oh, come on," I said. "At least once a week, you wear one of those tight little dresses just because you wanna look at hard-ons."

"I do not," she said, although her face said she was clearly surprised that I'd caught on.

"You do so," I insisted.

"You boys just can't keep your minds off of sex, can you, you little prick?" she hissed. "Everything's always our fault."

"It is when it is your fault," I argued with impeccable logic. "You know, that's that the third time you've called me a little prick. Once last night and twice today. What is your problem?"

Her eyes flashed down to my crotch.

"So is that the deal?" she said coldly.

"What?" I asked.

"I blow your teeny weenie, and you do your magic computer shit," she sneered.

I was actually speechless. Not for long, no.

"Yeah," I said. "That's it. But a nice one."

She raised her eyebrows.

"I mean, not that it wouldn't be nice," I stammered. "With you and well, you know. But I want it from someone being nice, not some French bitch.

She rolled her eyes and pushed herself off the door jamb.

Shit, I was actually gonna get a blow job. My incredibly hot French teacher slowly sauntered over toward me. I was hypnotized by the way her hips approached me in those shorts, first the right one swinging forward and then the left. I knew she had beautiful legs —attached to the hips if I remembered the song right — and then there was that bare midriff underneath her knotted shirt. But my eyes were glued to those two hipbones, to the point that she had to physically push my legs apart in order kneel down between them.

Her warm fingers slid up my pants to the elastic waistband of my sweatpants, and I sat there in stunned silence as she tugged at them.

"You wanna maybe push your ass off the chair a little?" she asked with a bemused expression.

"Sorry," I said. I grabbed hold of the armrests and boosted my hips into the air, allowing her to drag my sweats and shorts and boxers down my thighs. My oversized T-shirt still hid all the good bits, and Ms. Lee looked up at me with a kind of faint half-smile as she began slowly sliding her right hand up my thigh, the fingers slipping underneath the T-shirt and then finally meeting and encircling my cock.

Her expression changed, a wave of bewilderment washing over her face as her fingers worked their way up to the tip, and then back down again. She wrapped her right hand around the base, and then reached in with her other hand.

"Jesus Christ," she whispered.

I reached down and yanked my T-shirt over my head. She continued to stare at my dick, her two hands wrapped around it, one atop the other.

"So are you going to, uh, suck it?" I asked. "Or are you just going to choose up sides?"

She leaned forward, her eyes locked on her target, and I felt her warm lips engulfing the head, coming to rest an inch or two beneath the ridge. Then, without moving her head, she began making these pulsing sucks, as if my cock led to a milkshake that was still a little too frozen.

I groaned. This was going to be the shortest blowjob that Pamela Lee had ever given. Just as I was about to lose it — actually, just as I was about to tell her I was going to lose it; that's just polite, right? — she pulled off herself.

And then she began licking the shaft, looking up at me all the while with her eyes sparkling. And then she began sucking my balls into her mouth, one after another. And then she took my dick into her mouth again, and went lower. And lower. And lower. Holy fuck! Try as she might, she couldn't go all the way, so when she was down as far as she thought she could get, she started bobbing her head up and down, letting her lips glide up to the crown and then back to her starting point. And up. And down. And... 

"Ms. Lee," I said. "I'm gonna... Madame, je suis, er... oh, fuck!"



-------

Chapter 3: The Accidental Blackmailer, Part Two


I sat back in my chair, having just exploded into my French teacher's mouth. Well, mostly into her mouth. I actually hadn't jerked off for the last week, so I did have a lot in storage, so to speak. She eagerly drank down what she could, though, allowing only a little bit to leak out between her lips. Most of that slid down my cock to pool above my balls, although some spurted out a little further, landing on her upper chest.

I just sat there watching, as she pulled every last ounce of fluid out of me and then let her lips slide down my cock, where she sucked up the cum clinging to my balls.

Finally, she looked up at me, her face wholly undecipherable.

"I suppose you're going to want to fuck me now," she said.

If I were a little bit more experienced, I like to think I would have recognized the Coy Lover, and tossed off an appropriate response, like "I suppose I am," or "I suppose you want me to, don't you?" or something really obnoxious like, "Yeah, I think you've earned it, baby." Well, no, I couldn't pull that one off, but maybe something with sophistication and style, like "How 'bout I give something back to you first?"

I was still light years away from any of those answers, though, because I didn't even see that woman. The woman I saw was the Angry Blackmailee, and my response was entirely different.

"No, no, no, no," I held up my hand. "We had a deal. You sucked my, um, my weenie, and I'll hack into the school computers for you. Wow, that was incredible, Ms. Lee. You were amazing."

"Um, but seriously," she started, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and then licking that clean. "Don't you want to —"

"You know what I want to do?" I interrupted her. Honestly, did she think I had no principles at all? "What I want to do is spend the afternoon out by the pool. I can study French, and if I have any questions, you'll be right there to answer them. I mean, it's not like you can leave, huh?"

"The pool?" she asked skeptically.

"Yeah, don't worry, nobody can see in," I told her. "We've got one of those privacy fences."

She still looked skeptical.

"I'm sure Mom won't mind if you borrow a suit," I told her. "Come on. It'll be fun."

By this point, I'd stood up, stepped around her, and pulled my sweats back on. She stood up and, with a final puzzled look at me, went down the hall to my parents' room. By the time I got down to the pool, with a tray full of sandwiches I'd thrown together in the kitchen, she was already there, in a white bikini that complemented her long dark hair and her dark skin. Her tits, as I would have guessed, were swimming in my mother's top, but hey, was it my fault she didn't think to bring her own bathing suit?

"I'm sorry, Terry," she looked over at me. "This was the best fit. So I'm afraid you'll have to put up with some skin. Is that a problem?"

"Not at all," I said calmly. "Help yourself to a sandwich."

We spent the afternoon by the pool, me with lemonades, Ms. Lee with a series of gin and tonics that looked to my untrained eye as if they were getting lighter and lighter on the tonic as the sun started down toward the horizon.

By six o'clock, I was done with my studying.

"I thought I'd grill some shrimp tonight," I said. "How does that sound?"

"I'm sorry," Ms. Lee yawned and stretched. "I guess I fell asleep. What did you say, honey?"

Honey?

"I, uh, said I thought I'd grill some shrimp," I said. "But I've got to go get some charcoal from the store, so can I ask you to start the salad while I'm gone? Everything's in the fridge. I'll be back in like twenty minutes."

"My pleasure," Ms. Lee smiled at me.

I cycled down to the store and returned with a bag of charcoal strapped to my handlebars. The block party was still going strong, so I had to weave my way in and out of various neighbors as I returned. I threw the bike into the garage, and as I walked toward the kitchen door, I took a quick glance in through the window.

Oh, my fucking God. Ms Lee was standing at the kitchen island with her back to me. She'd started the salad; ranged around the countertop were little cut up piles of peppers and carrots, and a bowl of shredded lettuce. It was the zucchini that had evidently proved too much for her. Because there she was, her knees slightly bent, her feet spread about two feet apart, the crotch of her bathing suit pulled aside with one hand, fucking herself with the little green guy. She held the slimmer end in the tips of her fingers and alternately thrust it inside herself and then expelled it back out with what must have been some incredible internal muscles.

I could have watched her all day — nobody could see through the window unless they were actually standing in the driveway — but pretty soon people on the street were going to notice that I was standing outside my own house just looking inside. With one last look, I shook my head and headed for the kitchen door.

She must have heard me coming; she was standing at the sink washing her hands when I walked past her with the bag of charcoal. The zucchini, oddly enough, was nowhere in sight.

"Hey," I greeted her as I set down the bag.

"Oh, hi," Ms. Lee answered in what seemed to me to be a strained tone of voice. She turned to give me a smile as she grabbed for a towel. She took a quick glance down at my swim trunks, though, and I remembered that while I was cycling I'd unbuttoned the shirt I'd been wearing when I left. I hadn't re-buttoned it when I got back home, so Ms. Lee could clearly see the tip of my rock-hard dick poking its way through the waistband.

"Oh, my God," I said, "I'm so..."

Before I could finish my apology, she'd evidently gotten so flustered by my immaturity that she knocked over the plastic salad bowl, spilling lettuce on the floor.

"Here, let me help," I offered.

"No, don't bother," she answered, still clearly flustered, "I'll just..."

Ms. Lee had dropped to a squatting position to retrieve the lettuce, and I watched as her eyes glazed over.

"Oh, shit... ," she squeaked.

"Are you okay?" I asked, taking a step closer as I noticed the odd flush on my teacher's face.

"Oh, I," she moaned, wrapping her hands around my right knee and pulling her face tight against my thigh as she began to tremble. "I'm... I'm..."

"You're... ?" I said.

"Unnngggghhhhhhh!" Pam groaned, her body shaking violently.

I was shocked to find that my beautiful French teacher was rubbing her crotch up and down against my shin, kind of like our old German Shepherd, Lucky, used to do, before Mom made Dad take him to the shelter. And then I felt it, something hard in her swimsuit, just like there was something hard in mind.

Oh, shit, I thought, she's one of those, those, um, she-males. Oh, gross... NO, WAIT! It's the zucchini. She's still got that fuckin' zucchini in her! My entry must have surprised her more than she let on, and she couldn't get the little feller out in time.

"OH, God," she murmured, "Oh, I — "

My cock was even bigger now, a full inch protruding above my shorts against my stomach. She was looking directly at it, and to my shock, she suddenly turned her head sideways and tried to take it into her mouth.

The funny thing is, I'd watched that videotape of the card game probably ten times all told. I'd heard Natalie Winston call Ms. Lee a "quantity queen." Hell, I'd even heard Ms. Lee tell the other ladies that if she thought any of her students had a good six inches she'd be — how was it she put it? — conjugating all the verbs he wanted for him after school. And I knew that I had a good eight, maybe even nine inches.

But until that point, I swear it had never occurred to me to put the two of them together, or, quite honestly, to interpret her behavior earlier this afternoon as anything but a response to my accidental blackmail. Yeah, I know, give me a fucking break. I already admitted I was whipped, right?

That ended the day of the Norton Avenue block party. Increasingly confident that I had what Ms. Lee wanted, what Ms. Lee claimed she needed, I slowly pulled her upright by her upper arm.

"No, I —" she whimpered.

Without speaking, I bent my beautiful teacher over the countertop, forcing her curvy ass outward as she braced herself with her hands.

"Qu'est que çe, Mademoiselle?" I teased her.

I reached down with my free hand and squeezed her bikini-covered ass, eliciting a moan of arousal. I slowly slid my hand downward until I felt the bulge that I'd noticed against my leg. I pushed against it, feeling it disappear inside her. She moaned again, her strong muscles involuntarily pushing it wantonly back out. I pushed twice more, watching with interest as Ms. Lee — hell, we were friends, right? — as Pam sank to her elbows, her breasts pressing against the countertop.

"Oh, God, I," she groaned.

"So what is this, Mademoiselle?" I asked.

"Please, I..." Pam was pleading with me.

"Tell me," I insisted.

"It's — it's a zucchini," she choked.

"A zucchini?" I chuckled. "And ou est la?"

"In my — my pussy!" Pam moaned as I kept teasing her by pushing against the vegetable.

"Have you been teasing this innocent little zucchini?" I smirked. "Like you tease all the guys in your French class?"

"I... , " the teacher whimpered.

"You're pretty hard on us, aren't you, you little French bitch?" I insisted.

"I'm sorry, oh God," Pam moaned.

"Maybe you should give the zucchini a blowjob first, to make up for teasing it," I suggested instead, pulling the crotch of Pam's bikini aside. The vegetable popped out and I slowly, tantalizingly, pulled it free and held it in front of my teacher's lips.

"Mmmmfffff, mmmmffff, mmmmffff," Pam groaned, opening her mouth and sucking her juices off as I slid the zucchini in and out. She groaned again when I pulled the zucchini away and once again brought it down to her dripping cunt. Slowly, I pushed it inside of her, pushing my middle finger in along side of it.

"Oh, shit!" moaned my pretty French teacher.

"Is that what the young romance language teacher really wants in her pussy?" I asked.

"No," Pam flushed.

"What does she want?" I asked her.

She knew the answer I wanted; we'd both seen the website last night.

"A big, fat, hard cock," she whimpered.

"You like big, fat, hard cocks, don't you Pam?" I demanded.

"Yesssss," she hissed. "Fuck me with your big cock, Terry!"

"Not yet, you little cockteaser," I answered, tossing the zucchini to the floor. He'd done his part, the little tease. I let go of Pam's arms and tangled my fingers in her long, dark hair. Yanking her backward, I shoved her back to a squat position before me.

"Now take it out and suck it," I ordered.

Pam grabbed my swim suit with both hands and yanked it down to my knees, exposing my erect cock. Eagerly, she leaned forward and opened her mouth to take the head inside.

Is it big enough for you?" I teased.

"Mmm-hmmm," Pam growled around her mouthful.

"Is it fat enough for you?"

"Mmm-hmmm."

"Is it hard enough for you?"

"Mmm-hmmm," Pam agreed with enthusiasm.

Seeing my teacher squatting in front of me, her tits fully exposed in the cavernous cups of my mom's top while below them her pussy lips shone with wetness between her opened thighs, would by itself have been enough to make me come. But having her dark red lips wrapped around my cock for the second time today was just too much. Without warning, I blew my load down Ms. Lee's gullet, watching in stunned amazement as she gulped down one blast after another.

Finally, Pam pulled her mouth away and wiped off a bit of cum that had escaped her lips. Licking her finger clean, she looked up at me and smiled.

"Well, I guess we're even now, huh?" she asked. "I've done my teasing and you've done yours."

"I guess so."

"So now we'll get this big bad boy back to full strength and get down to some serious fucking," she said eagerly, giving my cock one last swipe with her tongue before she stood up.

We moved upstairs to my bedroom, where I watched in silent awe as Pam Lee danced in front of me to strip off the top and bottom of her bikini. Licking her lips, she lay back on my bed and spread her arms and legs, inviting me into her very core. I eagerly pulled my unbuttoned shirt off — I'd stepped out of my trunks after she blew me, leaving them on the floor of the kitchen — and crawled onto the bed between her thighs.

"Terry," she whined, reaching for me. "I need to suck him again."

"Not yet," I grinned. I remember another picture in the magazine, of her posed almost identically to the way she was displaying herself for me, with the caption, "This hot college twat wants your nice strong tongue inside it."

"Does your hot college twat want my nice, strong tongue inside it."

Pam froze in place, suddenly slapping her hands over her sex.

"That wasn't on the website," she said coldly.

I laughed.

"Do you honestly think that after I found that website, I wouldn't turn over heaven and earth to get the whole magazine?

"You little shit," she said, but she was smiling at me.

"Shut up, bitch, and take your hands away before I'm forced to tie them above your head."

"Oh, Terry," she whispered, her hands slowly tracing a path up her stomach, stopping only to knead her sensitive breasts and squeeze her nipples.

Navigating my way around my first pussy wasn't hard; I'd found a few maps on the internet before, and the more sensitive areas were marked with alarms, like when Pam screamed out "oh God, Terry," and grabbed my hair the first time I sucked her clit in between my pursed lips. Or when her thighs locked themselves around my head, cutting off all sound from the outside world, the first time that I pressed my fingers against the sides of her labia, forcing the inner lips to rise to my furiously working tongue.

I like to think I gave her as good a time as she'd given me, but it was nothing, for either of us, compared to the feeling we got when I slid my dick into her wet, grasping sheath.

"Oh, God, Terry, you're so fucking big," she moaned as her body convulsed beneath me.

"And you're so fucking tight," I grunted back at her as I pushed another inch inside.

As I suspected, she did indeed have powerful muscles there, and she'd learned to use them well in the ten or fifteen years since she'd first lost her cherry. I, on the other hand, lost mine that very instant, a fact that I had no intention of letting her know if I could possibly avoid it. And since she'd already made me cum twice that day, I thought I had a pretty good chance of keeping that a secret.

And I don't think she ever did catch on. Every time I felt her talented muscles begin to pull me to a climax, I would change the pace of my fucking, sometimes slow, sometimes fast, sometimes ramming her hard, sometimes just letting the tip of my cock play against her opening.

"Fuck, Terry," she screamed. "Just fuckin' fuck me!"

I kept a hard, steady pace for the next ten minutes, finally feeling my cock twitching at the same time she started shaking and sank the fingernails of both hands into my upper arms. When I rolled off her, we just lay there for ten more minutes, letting our bodies cool down.

Afterwards, she propped herself on an elbow and looked at me.

"I suppose since you have the magazine," she said, toying with my nipple, "that I'm going to pretty much have to do whatever you want until you graduate."

"I think so, madame," I smiled at her in the deepening twilight that suffused my room. "But I'll handle my own grades."

"I'll just have to handle everything else, right?" she smiled.

"That's true," I said.

"And you'll give me the pictures at the end of the year?" she asked.

"I'll give 'em to you now," I told her.

"No," she blew in my ear, "this way I get to pretend you're blackmailing me. I like it better that way."

"Then so do I," I agreed.

Fortunately, my folks weren't scheduled to get home until very late on Sunday evening, so we were able to smuggle Pam out of the neighborhood after dark that night. By then, of course, the sheets had been cleaned, the house had been aired out, and we'd eaten the shrimp. The zucchini we just threw out.

With my bike in the back seat of Pam's car, and Pam herself crouched down in the passenger seat, I slowly backed it out of the driveway.

"God," she said, when we were finally out on the main street. "I didn't think my legs could take that kind of position for much longer."

"Which position?" I asked. "Oh, the car. I get it."

"This is going to be a long year, isn't it, Terry Martin?" she laughed.

"Long and hard, Pam Lee," I said. "Long and hard. Why don't I pull over here and cycle home? Next weekend, right, or the pictures go to the school board."

"Yes, sir," she hung her head before lifting it and giving me a glorious smile. "I think you left some papers at my house. I'll remind your dad on Friday."

"And the school on Saturday," I said as I mounted my bike. "That'll be even more fun."



-------

Chapter 4: The Accidental Dominant, Part One


"All right, you bitches, let's get to work."

I received no answer from the girls. That was as it should be. The less trouble they gave me, the less abuse they'd get. Because right now, as I pulled my gloves tightly onto my hands, I was ready to take the misery of the last week out on every single one of them in turn.

I honestly don't remember when I'd decided to name all of the gas-powered machines in Laura Stone's garage. I'd obviously been angry at something, and found that it was more fun to imagine Diane mowing the grass, and more fun to have Liza rototilling the soil. They all had names, oddly enough the same names as my mother and my aunts. Those would be my mother's older sisters. The rototiller was my favorite, because as far as I knew, my Aunt Liza hadn't come within twenty feet of any actual soil for her entire life. I had never been allowed to set foot in her house, because teenage boys were the living embodiment of dirt.

The others? Aunt Diane, Aunt Caroline? I hated them, too. I might have mentioned earlier that the one thing my mother liked about going to her family reunions was a chance to boast about her unchanging figure. What she didn't like was the chance it gave all of her sisters to boast about their children. Compared to the ones in Harvard, and Yale, and M.I.T., the ones who were already doctors, the ones who were concert pianists, the ones who just missed last year's Nobel Prize in chemistry — compared to all of them, my cousin Martha and I were the family failures. And since Martha was deaf, my aunts stored up all of their taunts — "oh, is Terry still in high school? Isn't he eighteen? By eighteen, my son Conrad was already..." — for those occasions when my mom and I visited my grandmother. And my mom — "poor Deirdre" — would be forced to shake her head and hold up her hands and sigh, "I know, I know."

My completely impotent response was to name Mrs. Stone's garden machinery after them. Hell, I even named the chain saw after her mother — Bitch Barbara. In person, I call her "Grandma." She calls me "poor Terry." Bitch.

Not that I was allowed to use the chain saw, of course. Mrs. Stone had assured me that the fire I'd ignited with the leaf blower hadn't done any permanent harm to the lawn, and that the grass would grow back next year, but my mother had declared the chain saw off limits. I don't care; I abuse it anyway. As for the other machines, I like to think that they work better after being kicked around a little.

You'd think that after I'd had my knockout French teacher Pam Lee writhing beneath me on my bed last Sunday, it would pretty much take a dead relative or a natural disaster to put me in any kind of a bad mood on the following Saturday. And not just any dead relative, either. My Aunt Caroline, for example, after whom I'd named the leaf blower on the theory that both were full of hot air — she could have died on Friday afternoon without having any serious effect on my weekend.

So I was pretty stoked early in the week, when I was still looking forward to Friday night. That was when Ms. Lee was planning on asking me to come over to pick up the legal papers that I'd left there the previous weekend. And to Saturday, when Ms. Lee would no doubt find some way to express her gratitude for the computer program that I'd written to hack into the website containing her youthful indiscretions, a series of pictures in the aptly titled "College Spread." If I was right, my program would turn "Pam Lee" into "Pat Lee." Yes, I expected that Pam Lee would be very grateful that her pictures would no longer turn up on a Google search. Pat Lee, on the other hand, I hoped never to run into.

I didn't need a natural disaster or a dead relative, as it turned out. My mother was good enough. On Wednesday, when I'd proudly displayed the results of my latest trig test — an A-minus, coupled with a "good job" scrawled across the top of the paper — she'd sniffed that of all the skills I could possibly acquire in high school, I had unfailingly managed to pick the least useful. When I showed my folks the B I'd gotten on an English essay the next day, she looked at my father and sighed, saying that it just proved her point. Apparently she'd never gotten anything less than an A in English, which to her was the very epitome of useful subjects.

A little later on Thursday evening, she had reminded me that my Saturday was booked. Mrs. Stone's lawn was overdue for its fall clean-up, and Mom had already committed me to spending as long as it took to get everything ready for winter. Pam was disappointed when I instant-messaged her the bad news later that night, but reminded me that she still had the "papiers legaux" that I'd left at her house the weekend before. She told me she was still planning on calling on Friday evening to ask that I come over to pick them up.

Yeah, that was another great plan. My mom always answered the phone when it rang because she assumed, usually correctly, that it was always for her. So when the phone rang on Friday as I prepared dinner, it was my mother who strode into the kitchen to take the call before I could even get within spitting distance of the phone.

"So you mean he just left the papers there?" she asked, looking at me in disgust.

"Pam, don't make excuses for him. No, I'm not going to have him come over. John's just going to have to learn not to send a boy to do a man's job. I'll have John stop by on his way home from work."

She pressed a few buttons on the phone and asked — told — Dad to pick up the papers. Then she turned to me with a sneer.

"Honestly," she said sarcastically, "you'd think that you could show just a little more courtesy toward my friends."

As I was leaving to bike over to Mrs. Stone's the next morning, she reminded me not to set anything else on fire. So by the time I got there, I was in a pretty foul mood. I managed to smile at Mrs. Stone, and she smiled back at me, but when I got out to the garage, somebody was going to pay. I decided to start with Dierdre. My mother, the weed whacker. I topped off the gas, checked the string, and Dierdre spent the morning doing what her namesake did, cutting down anything that got in her way.

That took until about noon. Deirdre and I had had our fun, but now it was Diane's turn. Diane was a temperamental push mower whose blades I kept almost as sharp as my Aunt Diane's tongue. I had a particularly hard time getting Diane going that day, the complete opposite of my Aunt Diane, who was able to start abusing me almost the second I showed up. It was always hard to get Diane the mower started for the first time. For one thing, you had to yank the starter cord with one hand while the other held down the deadman lever, the switch that killed the engine of you let go of it. And Diane needed to have her starter cord pulled in just the right way before her engine caught. Her only saving grace was that once you got her started the first time, she would roar right back to life without any effort at all.

Part of my problem today was that we simply hadn't had much rain recently. So it had been about three weeks since I had needed to start Diane to mow Mrs. Stone's lawn. Another part of it, though, was my attitude. As much fun as Deirdre-ing the weeds had been, it still wasn't the same as spending your morning in a computer lab at a high school that would have been deserted except for two people, one of them an amateur computer hacker and the other an appreciative French teacher and former magazine centerfold. So I probably wasn't giving Diane my full attention. And the little bitch's willful failure to do her job was pissing me off.

"Fucking bitch!" I screamed on the fourteenth pull as the engine finally roared to life.

I released the deadman lever, and put my hands on my hips as the engine sputtered to a stop.

"That's right, bitch!" I exulted in smug triumph. "On your fucking knees! It's time you did some fucking work around here for me."

The tinkle of breaking glass was not normally a sound I associated with lawn care. I turned around very slowly, mortified that somebody might have heard me heaping transferred abuse onto a defenseless set of lawn machinery. Laura Stone was ten feet away, amid the small puddles of lemonade and shards of drinking glass that now littered the concrete floor. She was staring back at me, her face a montage of fear and apprehension and panic and something else that I couldn't recognize. Or to be more accurate, she was staring up at me from underneath the brim of a white baseball cap, staring up at me from the spot where she'd dropped to her knees.

"Mrs. Stone?" I asked tentatively, as if there was some chance that she might deny it at this point.

"Laura," she said quietly. She stared at me for another second or two and then bowed her head.

I stood there, frozen in place, looking down at Laura Stone. She was dressed in a faded button-down men's shirt whose ends she'd knotted underneath her chest. The top two buttons were undone as a concession to the unusually warm weather, and they afforded me a splendid vista of the top of her ample chest. Her shorts were surprisingly short, not the knee-length variety I would have expected from a 39-year-old mother of an 18-year-old kid who was just starting his first semester of college. But then, there was very little about Laura Stone that reminded me of a 39-year-old mother of an 18-year-old kid. In particular, today I really liked the way that her shoulder-length blonde hair was pulled into a short ponytail that stuck out the back of her cap. And I really liked the way that brought her hair off of the elegant curve of her neck as she studied the garage floor in front of her.

Even as recently as two weeks ago, I would have responded to this scene in one of two ways. I would have run down the street, terrified that Mrs. Stone would tell my mother. Or I would have dropped over in a dead faint.

Two things had happened since then, of course. One, I'd bedded Pam Lee. That took care of the fainting. Second, I'd seen the videotape my mother had made of her three unwitting friends. Suddenly, all the teasing that Laura Stone had endured from Pam that day became clear: the reference to keeping her ass in line, the snide little comment about liking to be whipped.

And I also remembered another clip from that show, too, one I'd replayed countless times on my computer: Laura laughing as she answered Pam's question about her love life: "Yeah, right. Who'd wanna screw a 39-year-old divorcee with a college age kid and a size 12 ass?"

Natalie Winston, our next-door neighbor, had suggested that Laura could easily find "someone who likes that double-D rack." In my view, that would more accurately be anyone who likes that double-D rack. Or still more accurately, anyone. I had studied those stupid Venn diagrams all my life in various math classes, the little circles that overlap to show the joint membership of certain individuals in two sets, like tennis players and people who own Fords. And as far as I was concerned, the little circle that contained the universe of people who would appreciate Laura Stone's rack was precisely identical to the little circle that contained the universe of people known as "males." Count me in.

I realized that Mrs. Stone was looking up at me now, and I sensed that she was just seconds away from getting up in tears and running into the house at the way she had embarrassed herself in front of her college roommate's teenage son. In another minute, the front door of the Stone house would be locked and no amount of pounding or yelling would get it open again any time soon.

"Laura," I accepted the responsibility of her first name.

"Terry?" she asked hesitantly.

I gave her just the tiniest hint of a scowl.

"Sir?" she tried again.

"Go wait inside."

"Yes, sir," she said, the ghost of a smile playing across her face.

"And leave the hat on," I said as she got up and began running across her lawn. I watched her until she reached the house, the twin spheres of her ass bouncing up and down inside her tight khaki shorts as she ran.

Fuck, I thought to myself, running my hand through my hair. What the fuck do I do now?

Oh, I'd surfed the Net. Why, yes, I am 18, my birthday is January 1, 19-whatever year comes up first; thank you for letting me into your well-guarded, age-appropriate website. I knew the divorcee and the garden boy routine. The young guy comes to work on the lawn, the older lady offers him some lemonade, they start fucking like rabbits. Hell, I could do that. I liked lemonade. And I'd demonstrated just the past weekend that I liked fucking like a rabbit, too. I was even pretty darn good at it, if Pam Lee had said so herself. Although what she'd actually said was "Il était magnifique, monsieur," but we had understood each other. Mostly. It was magnificent, sir. I'd originally thought that the "it" referred to the sex. Looking back on it the next day, though, I recalled that she had been staring at my crotch when she'd said it, right before she had reluctantly kissed me goodbye. So maybe "it" referred to something else, something more specific. Whatever. I was fine with that, too.

But the websites that I had visited hadn't covered the submissive divorcee. It was always the divorcee who was in control. It was always the divorcee who led the poor, unsuspecting garden boy down the path that led toward sin and temptation. That was not the scenario we had here. No, if we went down that path this afternoon, I was either going to have be pushing Laura Stone in front of me or, more likely, dragging her behind me. And she apparently was going to be loving every minute of it.

Unless, God forbid, the real Terry Martin made an appearance. That was the Terry Martin who would be inclined to ask the submissive if she'd liked to be disciplined now, or maybe she'd prefer to wait. I'm going to tie you up now, bitch, or would you really rather I not? After a few of these pathetic attempts at dominance, she'd probably just start laughing at me. Then we'd be back to my first two choices, running down the street or fainting. Oh, God, I was in trouble.

I probably spent ten minutes dithering over the issue of whether I was really capable of pulling this off. I finally decided that the overriding question was did I want to fuck Laura Stone? After that, to which the answer was an obvious yes, everything else was just a detail. The first detail, after I'd settled the basic metaphysics, was that I was covered in tiny clippings of grass, as I always was after an hour or two of whacking weeds. I ineffectually brushed at my jeans and my T-shirt, and then took a look in the side mirror of Laura's car. My face was even worse. I grabbed a rag from a box in the garage and succeeded only in adding a greasy shine to the grass. Didn't this woman know not to keep oily rags around her garage?

I finally said the hell with that, too. I'd just ask her if I could take a — no, wait, I'd tell her I was going to take a shower. God, I was never going to get this right. I nervously approached the house, convinced that this afternoon was another disaster in the making. I stopped my fist inches away from knocking on the door, and simply pushed it open. I walked through the elegantly furnished living room, the seldom used dining room, the neat, tidy kitchen, and the aptly named mudroom that led from the kitchen to the backyard. I found no sign of Laura, and walked to the foot of the stairs.

Once again I stopped myself just short of a Terry Martin moment — "Laura, are you upstairs? Can I come up?" Instead, I simply ascended the steps, quietly and deliberately. The first bedroom I passed was that of her son, Tom, furnished in sports posters. The second was obviously a guest room, painted in bright pastel colors with fresh flowers on the dresser. So Laura's was the last bedroom.

I stopped in the door of the bedroom in spite of my dick's effort to pull me in before the scene changed. Completely oblivious to my approach, Laura Stone was squatting on her heels, her knees spread wide apart, her left hand gripping the wooden frame of her bed, her right hand furiously playing with herself. Her head was bent to watch, her face hidden by the brim of her cap, the only clothing she was wearing. The only clothing that I had specifically ordered her to keep wearing. And then there were those incredible breasts, the large, fat nipple of each one gloriously erect.

"Laura," I said calmly.

Her head snapped back, her eyes wide, her right hand suddenly motionless where before it had been almost a blur. I raised my eyebrows, and a frisson of something — fear, arousal — coursed through her.

"I — I," she began. "I couldn't wait. It started to feel so — so..."

"So?" I started to prompt her and then realized that I probably shouldn't care how it felt. I changed it back into a declarative.

"So I need a shower," I finished abruptly.

"Yes, of course," she said, pulling herself erect with an effort. "A shower."

She ran toward the bathroom and once again I watched her, this time without any shorts to spoil my view. I could hear the water running, and I began to strip off my clothes. By the time I got to the bathroom, she was obviously already in the shower. I stepped in and saw her at the back of the shower, once again squatting on her heels. Her head was down, the hot water pouring off of her baseball cap.

"Shall I wash your hair?" she asked without looking up.

I turned my back and almost missed the whispered "sir." I felt her full breasts momentarily pressed against my back as she reached around me for the bottles on the shower caddy, and then I felt her lathered hands in my hair, diligently scrubbing at the accumulated dirt and grass and sweat. At her prompting, I bowed my head to rinse it off. Then it was time for conditioner, which she left in place for a minute as she once again reached around me, replacing the bottles and picking up the soap. After I rinsed off the conditioner, I felt her full breasts against my back again, remaining there as her soap-filled hands began roaming my hairless swimmer's chest.

Her hands went lower, and lower, and lower, and I closed my eyes as she got closer, and closer, and closer to my —

"Oh, my fucking God!" she yelped, her fingers having finally found and encircled my dick.

I turned around to face her, still only able to see the top of her ball cap as she was staring at my engorged cock. She reached both soapy hands forward, wrapping them around my dick, and began to sink to her knees. I was only seconds away from blasting my load onto her chest. Or, if she got any lower, her face. It wouldn't be as big a load as the first one that Pam Lee had taken the previous Saturday, because I'd spent a good bit of time since then looking at my Pam Lee picture collection. And every time I did that, my imagination was unable to avoid putting me in those pictures. And every time I did that, my cock was similarly unable to avoid discharging its contents into a wad of Kleenex.

So I didn't have much to offer Laura Stone today. But then, did she really deserve that much?

I stopped her from sinking any further by cupping her chin with my hand. She looked up, unsure of what to do next, and let me pull her back erect.

"Back where you started, Laura," I said, nodding at the back of the shower stall.

She reluctantly released her grip and backed up the two steps it took to put her back against the tiled wall that surrounded the tub.

"Finish," I ordered her.

"Finish what?" she asked in a breathy voice.

"What you started before I came," I said, trying to deepen my voice. "You started without me, didn't you?"

"I —" she looked at me wildly.

"Didn't you?" I asked more sternly.

"Yes," she hung her head.

"So finish," I said.

"But —" she looked horrified.

I wrapped my fist around my soapy cock and gave it a slow tug. That was enough. What cum I had came streaming out, flying into the air and landing unimpeded floor of the shower. I watched Laura as she watched the strings of semen get caught in the swirling water and then slowly disappear down the drain.

"Now you," I said.

Her eyes snapped back up to mine.

She began to play with herself. I probably should have kept my eyes locked with hers, but the temptation offered by the rest of the body proved too great. Just the way she braced herself between the shower mat and the back wall, her muscled legs flexed to hold her in position, was amazing. And then there was the way she played with herself. She was gentle at first, as if she needed to bring herself back to where she'd stopped. She rubbed her pubic mound with one hand, and just one of the fingers of that hand occasionally slipped inside her slit. Then she brought the other hand into play, using the index and middle fingers of one hand to hold her lips apart, while her other began to rub faster and harder against her clit.

It was hypnotic. I'd watched Pam play with herself last weekend, but this was ten times better. For one thing, I wasn't outdoors, looking into the kitchen trying not to get caught by the neighbors peeping into my own house. For another, I had a full-frontal view, not the rear view I'd had when I'd watched Pam do herself. The only downside was that Laura didn't have a zucchini.

I suddenly remembered I had a job to do, and I slowly returned my eyes to Laura's. The captain was once again on the bridge. Laura's eyes were still looking directly at me, although they had lost a little focus.

She was whimpering now, soft little gasps and hisses and "fucks." My eyes drifted back downwards, lingering on the plump tits that had been the subject of so many of my fantasies. She obviously noticed my attention, because her left hand left her pussy and squeezed her tit, pinching the nipple between thumb and forefinger. The right hand, meanwhile, was getting serious about its task. I watched three fingers thrusting in and out of Laura's pussy, turning her breathing into a series of sharp rhythmic exhalations.

"Oh, fuck," she suddenly screamed, her left hand with a death-grip on her tit, her right hand pressed hard against her thick brown bush. Her eyes were no longer open, and she just stayed there, in place, letting her orgasm consume her for as long as it could, her torso trembling and her legs locked rigidly in place.

When she finally opened her eyes again, I offered her a hand and pulled her toward me, catching her in my embrace and spinning her into the shower. The water was only lukewarm now, and I hurriedly lathered her up and rinsed her off. We stepped out of the shower together and took up the oversized towels that she'd laid on the sink for us.

When we were dry I reached forward and pulled the wet cap off of her head, throwing it in the sink.

"I have another one," she said, shyly adding "master."

"Get it," I said.

She dropped the towel on the floor and ran to comply. I threw my towel on top of hers and walked back into the bedroom, climbing onto the bed. The second hat wasn't identical but its effect was no different. Watching Laura Stone return, out of breath, and stop in the doorway at my silent command wearing nothing but a pink baseball cap had my dick twitching.

I looked at it and then down at Laura. I nodded toward my dick, and in a matter of seconds it was engulfed in her warm mouth. It was still soft, but not for long. Laura finally pulled herself off and began caressing it with her hands.

"Are you going to fuck me with this, master?" she giggled.

"Should I?"

"It might be too big."

"You mean you might be too small," I replied.

She stared at me for a second before breaking out into a big smile.

"Of course, sir," she laughed before returning to work with her mouth. "I might be too small."

After she spent another minute or two licking and sucking, I reached down and tugged on her ponytail, pulling her off me. She sat back on her haunches, and I realized that she was waiting to find out what we were going to do next. Hell, so was I. But apparently, I was going to have to think it up all by myself. I got off the bed and moved behind her.

"Get your ass in the air," I said, belatedly adding a "bitch" for effect.

It was a wonderful ass, size 12 or not. I caught myself staring at it, admiring once again the muscles she'd developed in her thighs.

"Master?" she asked after I'd apparently been admiring it too long.

"Shut up," I slapped one of her cheeks with an open palm. "Move forward."

She crawled forward onto the bed, all the way to the top. I climbed back on behind her, giving her ass another slap just because I liked to see it jiggle. Then I put the tip of my cock against her slit.

"So you want this, bitch?" I asked her.

"Please, master," she begged.

Good enough for me. I thrust forward about halfway. It turned out Laura wasn't too small after all. But her guttural "oh, fuck" made me think that it wasn't a comfortable fit for her either. I slowly backed out, and slowly pushed in again, just a little farther. I slowly backed out again, and pushed forward another time. It was a fun game, and I didn't appear to be the only one enjoying it. Each of Laura's hands clutched a knot of twisted pillow, and she turned her head to the side to apprise me of her own desires.

"Oh, God, master, yes," Laura moaned. "Harder, master, harder."

I started picking up the pace and then thought to myself, hey, who's making the rules here anyway? I backed off again, to hear a whiny "nooo."

I smacked her again. I'll give you no, bitch.

I slowly worked my way back to my former pace, watching the way her right eye — the eye that was turned toward me — rolled up into her head as she got closer and closer.

And then the phone next to the bed started ringing. Surprisingly, it didn't bother me at first. In fact, I thrust forward twice more before the answering machine picked up and I heard the voice of my mother.

"Laura?" she asked. "Are you there?"

Hearing her voice during the actual act of coition was not only enough to stop me in mid-thrust, but it started my erect cock on a quick trip back to limp-land.

"Bitch," Laura muttered.

"I tried calling before to get hold of Terry," my mother was saying. "I certainly hope you're just outside somewhere, because you know I don't like you leaving Terry alone with all those machines. Anyway, I'm on my way over there now, so I'll see you in just a few minutes."

"No!" Laura screamed. She reached for the phone but the line had already gone dead.

"Fuck!" I growled, pushing myself off of Laura's ass with both hands.

"Terry," she moaned, wiggling her ass at me. "What about my cum? I need to —"

"You need to shut up and get dressed," I gave her one last smack.

I hurriedly yanked on my clothes and tore down the stairs, sliding into the garage just as I heard my mother's car pulling into the driveway.

"Terry?" she yelled after slamming the door. "Where are you?"

"In the garage, mom," I said.

She found me sitting down next to the lawnmower, fiddling around with the sparkplug. What my mother knew about combustion engines could be reduced to the phone number of the garage that serviced her Mercedes, so she had way of knowing that the sweat that covered my face wasn't the product of good, honest labor.

"Did you hear the phone ring?" she asked me.

"In Mrs. Stone's house?" I replied. "Yeah, just a couple of minutes ago."

"Is Mrs. Stone here?" she asked. She had a habit of referring to her friends by their full name when she was talking to me, as if it would be inappropriate for me to even hear her address them as Laura, or Pam, or Natalie.

"She's, uh —"

"Right here, Dee," Laura came around the corner of the garage. She was wearing a T-shirt and overalls and carrying a potted plant and a small shovel. The expertly smeared dirt on her face was perfect.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I just couldn't get inside to the phone on time. I should probably set it to ring a little longer."

"Whatever," my mother dismissed it as no longer important. "I need Terry to come home. John and I have to go out tonight and I'd like to get his father's car washed first."

Laura raised an eyebrow.

"Can't you just take it to a carwash?" she asked.

"John says they're terrible," Mom answered. "And they never apply the wax evenly. And since he's at work all afternoon..."

That left me.

Laura sighed and her shoulders drooped.

"So you can come back tomorrow to finish, Terry?" she turned to me, drawing out the word "finish."

I opened my mouth to answer and my mother beat me to it.

"No," she said to me. "Mrs. Lee called and wants you to work on some computer thing for her at the school tomorrow."

"But —" Pam started to protest.

"At least it's a skill," My mother sighed. "Now come on. Put your bike in the car."

This was the SUV, of course; if she'd brought the Mercedes I would have had to leave the bike here and walk back for it. And I would have been required to put a towel on the seat before I could plant my filthy, sweaty butt in it. Laura watched me load up the bike, her face a tapestry of sexual frustration, anger, and resentment. She was very close to just stamping her foot on the ground.

"Whoa, almost forgot my wallet," I said after Mom had climbed in the driver's seat.

"Hurry up, Terry," Mom said impatiently as I trotted to the garage.

I stopped right next to Laura on my way back to the car.

"Hey, Mom," I said. "Mrs. Stone's TV is busted. Since you're not home tonight, maybe she can watch that PBS series on ours, huh?"

"Sure, Laura," Mom smiled sweetly, her impatience becoming more and more evident. "Come on over. You can keep an eye on Terry. We're not leaving until eight o'clock or so. Now are you coming, Terry?"

"Yeah," I nodded, trying not to smile.

I turned to Laura, who was having to try even harder not to smile.

"No panties," I muttered under my breath. "Bitch."



-------

Chapter 5: The Accidental Dominant, Part Two


I figured that it would take me a little less than an hour to wash and wax my dad's car to my mom's satisfaction. That would still give me five hours or so to get online and learn everything I could about Mrs. Stone's unusual, er, preferences before she arrived.

That was the theory, anyway. Subtracting the time that my mother insisted I spend mowing our lawn so that it looked nice when Mrs. Stone was going to arrive — arrive after dark, mind you — left me with three and a half hours. Minus the weed-eating left me with two and three-quarters hours. Minus the time it took me to prepare dinner left me with two hours. Minus the time we actually spent eating dinner, during which my mother developed a wholly unexpected and very poorly timed interest in my computer programming skills, which might after all be marketable if Pam Lee wanted to use them at her high school, left me with a little over an hour. And then you have to subtract the time I spent doing the dishes, the time I spent tidying up the den, and the time I spent showering, the only activity of the bunch that was my idea.

"Terry!"

My mother's voice cut through the bathroom door, the sound of the fan, and the towel with which I was drying my hair. I pulled the door open an inch.

"Yeah, mom?" I yelled back.

"Mrs. Stone is here. We're leaving. We'll probably be quite late. So whenever you can tear yourself away from your shower, maybe you can lower yourself to come down and say hello."

My mother is one of those rare people whose sarcasm loses none of its effectiveness when she screams. Bitch.

"Have a good time!" I yelled.

"I'm serious!" she yelled back.

"Me, too."

That one was more or less a whisper, of course.

I wrapped the towel around my waist and walked down the hallway to the window overlooking the driveway. From there, I watched my father, in his tuxedo, hold the door of the nicely washed and waxed Jaguar open for my mother, dressed in a strapless black gown. The car purred down the driveway, and I went back to the bathroom to finish up. I shaved, I blew my hair dry, and then I tried to decide what to wear. What did the well dressed master wear, anyway? If I had managed to get fifteen damn minutes to myself this afternoon, I'm sure I would have found some sort of website. Jeans? Too informal. Sweats? Too high school. A tux? I actually owned a tux. No, too James Bond. She'd probably just start laughing. She was probably down there laughing anyway, come to think about it. I mean, this was a successful business woman down there. After her divorce, Mrs. Stone had started her own interior decorating firm, and currently employed half a dozen people. She was probably waiting downstairs right now to rip me a new one unless I agreed never to breathe a word of what had happened this afternoon to anyone, ever. Damn it.

I pulled on a pair of humble khaki slacks and a nice, freshly laundered button-down shirt, and I headed downstairs.

When I got to the last step, I just stopped and stared. Laura hadn't heard me approach, and was sitting on the couch. She was dressed in a white shirt and a short, plaid pleated skirt. She was wearing kneesocks and a pair of shiny black patent leather shoes. I couldn't believe she had worn that outfit here. Then I saw a little tote bag in the corner of the room, with a pair of jeans thrust into it. That was what she had worn here. She had changed after she arrived.

Even more unbelievable was what she was doing. Her left hand was holding a magazine. I could tell right away that it wasn't one of our magazines, because it had a centerfold. And if Mom ever found a magazine with a centerfold, Dad and I would both be looking for work as eunuchs. Laura's right hand was underneath her cute little skirt. Her eyes were slightly unfocused as she studied the centerfold, and the tip of her tongue was pressed against her upper lip. My tentative conclusion, from all of the evidence in front of me, was that this successful businesswoman had dressed up like a little school girl and was getting herself off on a Playboy magazine. Holy shit.

And then suddenly she looked up as if she had heard me, thrust the magazine under the couch cushions, and jumped to her feet before turning to look at me.

"Mr. Martin," she said. "I'm sorry, I didn't think you were getting home until later."

Later than what? And when did I become Mr. Martin?

She tried to surreptitiously wipe her hand on the back of her skirt, and offered it to me as I walked into the room. I took it, still slightly sticky, and she eagerly shook my hand.

"I'm Laura, the new babysitter your wife hired," she smiled. "Didn't she come home with you? She said she planned on getting a little tipsy to celebrate your new promotion. So what, she was afraid of ralphin' in the car? Did you just get her a room at the hotel and come back to take care of the boys? You could have just called. I would have been happy to spend the night."

At this point in my life, I had never heard about role-playing, and I certainly had never given even the smallest consideration to acting out sexual fantasies. With the damage my mother had done to my psyche, I figured that I was lucky just to have the fantasies. So I was completely mystified by her references to my wife and "the boys." Still, there had been a Playboy involved earlier.

"Um, yeah," I slowly answered the last question that I could remember her asking. "The boys."

"Oh, they're fine," she said. "I put Billy to bed right after his bottle, and little Terry Junior went to bed at his normal time. Well, almost his normal time. We had to have a little discussion first. That's a pretty advanced little ten-year-old ya got there, Mr. Martin. If ya know what I mean."

I had no idea what she meant.

"So everything else was, um, okay, Laura?"

"Oh, yeah," she smiled. "I was just sittin' here, like doin' my homework. Oh God, speakin' of homework. Mrs. Martin said you were like a history major. That is just so amazingly weird. 'Cause I got this homework question, and ya know, like, I could go home and get on the 'Net to find out, but then my mother will hear me, and she'll think I'm in one of those lezzie chat rooms again. Oh, it's not like I'm like that, you know, a lezzie, but the girls there are just real nice, ya know? And God, they know so much. Anyway, I didn't know how else to find out, so if I could just ask you, that would be so cool."

She looked at me expectantly, while I tried to figure out which of her statements had been actual questions and which were just regular sentences that she had ended with a question mark. There were lots of girls at my school who talked just like that. In the meantime, I glanced around the room. The living room was full of books, including two different sets of encyclopedias, that my mother had purchased to make us look intellectual.

"Oh, yeah, books," Laura saw my look. "I just can't do books, ya know. Too big, too old, too boring, too much extra crap in 'em, ya know? So anyway, I know, like, George Washington was the first president, and Abraham Lincoln was the second, but who was like the third? At first I thought it was that guy on the twenty — Jackson? — but then I was like, well, maybe it's the guy on the ten. You know, one, five, ten, twenty? But I didn't have any tens. Do you know? It wasn't Kennedy, was it?"

By this point, I was actually biting my tongue to keep from laughing.

"Um, Roosevelt," I said.

"Cool," she gave me a grateful smile. "Let me just write that in."

She walked to the corner of the living room and dropped to her knees in front of her tote bag, thrusting her butt back at me.

"God, where did I put that?" she muttered, tossing her jeans to one side as she rummaged through the bag. "Was that Franklin or Freddy?"

"I'm sorry?" I choked.

"There were two Roosevelts, right? Was it Franklin or Freddy?"

She was still looking through the bag, and a pair of handcuffs came flying back at me as I told her it was Franklin.

"Oh, God," she turned to me with her hand covering her mouth, her eyes wide with surprise. "God, I'm so embarrassed you saw those. They're my mom's."

She crawled toward me to pick up the handcuffs.

"Your mom's?" I asked. "Is she a police woman?"

"God, no," Laura giggled. "She and Daddy use these when they, you know, do it?"

"The handcuffs?"

"Yeah. I drilled a little hole in my closet so I can watch 'em. Anyway, I was takin' 'em to school to show my girlfriends, and I guess I just forgot they were in here. I'm so sorry, Mr. Martin."

"That's, uh, fine, Laura," I said. "You should be more careful, though. Your teachers could see them."

"Oh, God," her eyes grew wide again. "They would like have a shit fit. Oops, I'm sorry. Except Ms. Lee, of course, she's my French teacher. She'd probably soak one of her little thongs if she saw something like this. I swear, she is such a slut."

"Ms. Lee?"

"God, yes. She is such a cocktease. And she is really pretty. Although not much in the boob department, ya know."

She looked down with regret at her own breasts.

"'Course, some of us got a little too much, if ya know what I mean. I guess it all evens out, huh? Anyway, she would go apeshit for these things. Do you want to see 'em? Maybe Mrs. Martin would like to, you know."

"I don't think Mrs. Martin would like to lose that much control," I said. But I took the cuffs from her anyway.

"Oh, well, you can get out of 'em," she eagerly snatched them out of my hands to demonstrate. "See, you just press here, on the outside of the cuffs, at the same time, and they just pop open. So you can actually get 'em off yourself if you have to. 'Course, you're probably right. Mrs. Martin doesn't really look like the type."

"No," I agreed. "Probably not."

"Although she apparently has no trouble bein' on the other end, huh? I mean, spanking little Terry."

She clapped both hands over her mouth this time, as if she had said a little too much. And by this time, I was getting a little more comfortable in our little improv.

"How do you know that, Laura?"

"I, um, I..." she let her voice trail off.

"I can find out, Laura. Mrs. Martin had this little security camera system installed."

"Oh, God, please no," she said. "He was just, you know, acting up, so I, you know, spanked him. It was pretty clear he knew the drill. I mean, pullin' his pants down for me and everything."

"So you spanked my son?"

"It's not like he hasn't been spanked before," she protested.

"By my wife," I pointed out. "Did she give you permission to spank him?"

"No," she hung her head.

"Then, um, why did you do it?"

"I, um, God, I'm so embarrassed, Mr. Martin, please don't make me say."

"You have to tell me, Laura. Otherwise I'll have to tell Mrs. Martin, and then she'll end up showing this video to your parents."

"Oh, God, no, please, please," she wrapped her arms around my knees. "Couldn't you just, like, punish me yourself, and then we could just, like, you know, forget the rest?"

"And how should I punish you, Laura?" I asked with a smile.

"You could, like, spank me?" she slowly offered her suggestion.

"You might like being spanked," I said. "In fact, I think you do like being spanked. Do any of your boyfriends spank you, Laura?

"Gawd, they're such babies. Little babies, you know? I mean, Gawd, Terry Junior's bigger than — ohmyGod, I'm sorry."

"Come here, sweetheart," I said. I backed up and took a seat on the couch. She started to get up.

"Stay down, honey," I instructed her. She began crawling towards me. "And bring the cuffs with you."

She crawled back for the cuffs and started to return. Feigning difficulty crawling, she put the cuffs in her mouth and finished the journey, dropping them into my outstretched hand. She remained kneeling between my legs.

"Take off your shirt, Laura."

She sat back on her heels and made a production of unbuttoning her shirt, interrupting her progress every other button with a fearful glance at me. She tossed the shirt aside and reached put both hands behind her back.

"Did I tell you to take off the bra, Laura?"

"No, sir," she yelped.

She jerked her hands back in front.

"Did I tell you to move your hands?"

She quickly put them in back again. I picked up the cuffs and pressed the catches. Laura bowed in front of me, and I cuffed both hands behind her back. Standing up, I yanked her to her feet and pushed her towards the stairs.

"Hold on," I commanded when she was halfway up. From the step beneath her I reached up under her skirt. She had ditched her panties, as well.

"Good girl, Laura."

"Thank you, sir," she whispered.

I escorted her into my bedroom, and stopped just short of the bed.

"Wow! Is this where you and Mrs. Martin... ?"

"Where Mrs. Martin and I what, Laura?"

"Fuck?" she whispered.

"Mrs. Martin fucks with me all the time in this room," I answered honestly, suppressing a smile. "And this is where I'm going to fuck you, Laura. Get on the bed."

She crawled onto the bed with some difficulty and finally arranged herself against the headboard, her legs spread. Turning my back on her, I kicked my shoes into the closet. My socks quickly joined them. I took off my shirt, and hung it up. I took off my pants, and hung them up, too. Finally, I turned around, and slipped my fingers into the waistband of my briefs. Laura's eyes were locked on my crotch as I nonchalantly exposed it.

"Oh, fuck, I can't," she hissed.

"Can't what, Laura?" I asked.

"Can't possibly fit that inside me," she snapped her legs together, her face taking on an aspect of panic, her voice starting to tremble. "God, you're fucking enormous, Mr. Martin."

"I think you can handle it, Laura," I said.

"Um, I don't think so," she started to slide toward the left-hand side of the bed as I approached the right. "NO!"

I reached forward and grabbed the handcuffs, jerking her back into the middle of the bed. Her loose, pleated skirt had flown up, over her rear, and she buried her head into my bedspread and scrambled to pull her knees underneath her.

"Please be gentle, Mr. Martin," she whispered.

I clicked open the handcuffs again.

"Put your hands between your legs, Laura."

I cuffed her wrists again.

"You were playing with yourself earlier tonight, weren't you, Laura?"

"Mr. Martin," she whined, tugging just a little at the cuffs I held in one hand.

"Stop squirming, Laura," I gave her a swat with my other hand.

"Sorry," she whimpered.

"Wait here, Laura."

I went downstairs and fetched her magazine from underneath the cushions of the couch. When I returned, Laura was in exactly the same position I had left her. I got up behind her again, and opened the centerfold in front of her.

"Do you like her, Laura?"

Her body twitched but she just stared at the centerfold.

"OW!"

It was more a cry of surprise than of pain. My little swat hadn't been hard enough to hurt, just to bring her attention back to me.

"Laura?"

"Yes, I like her. Yes, I was playing with myself. Please, Mr. Martin, this is so humiliating."

"Is it? More humiliating than it was for Terry Junior to have to pull his pants down in front of you so you could take a good look at him?

"OW!"

"Well, you little bitch?"

"OW! I didn't mean to. He just turned around when he was pulling them back up. I never touched him, I swear. OW!"

"Like I give a fuck, you little slut. Now let's see you play with yourself some more. Come on, isn't she pretty? Imagine having her do this."

I drew a finger up her exposed slit. Laura moaned.

"Or imagine a nice big dick in here," I added, pushing two fingers inside of her.

"Yessss," Laura whispered.

"I don't care what you imagine, honey," I leaned down to whisper in her ear. "But you better start doing it."

I pulled back and pulled her cuffed hands between her thighs. Her fingers quickly replaced mine, and I sat back on my thighs to watch this beautiful lady pleasuring herself for the second, no, the third, time that day. God, was it really still the same day? Eight hours ago I had showed up at Mrs. Stone's house hoping for a payday of thirty bucks or so. Now here she was at my house. She could keep the thirty dollars.

"Ummmmm," she moaned, driving two fingers in and out of herself. "OW!"

She dropped her hands to the bed when I spanked her, and I lifted them again.

"Did I tell you to stop?"

"No, but you..."

"Punished you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Should I add an extra punishment for stopping?"

"No, sir, I promise, I'll be good."

Her hands were working furiously again, and when I delivered the next smack on her upturned cheeks, she didn't break stride once. If anything, she started to expect it, and to incorporate it into her little self-service session. So I changed the tempo, waiting a little longer to deliver the next one, and then adding two short swats in quick succession. It didn't take her long to reclaim the state, just on the precipice of satisfaction, that I had left her in when my mother had cut us off a few hours earlier.

"Oh, fuck, Terry, I'm coming. Oh, God, I'm —"

"Stop."

"Terry," she whined.

I yanked her hands down, watching the way her whole body quivered, whether in expectation of another blow or because I had denied her fulfillment I couldn't tell. I knelt behind her, determined to finally bring that deferment to an end.

"Hands behind your neck, honey," I ordered. She obeyed immediately.

"Oh, fuck, Terry," she moaned as I thrust forward.

I pulled back.

"Terry?" she wiggled her butt at me.

"Terry?" I asked coldly.

"OW! I'm sorry, Mr. Martin. Please, Mr. Martin, ooooh, yes."

After a minute or so, Laura decided that it was too hard to remember to say "Mr. Martin" on each stroke forward, and simply settled on "sir." After another minute, it became "oh, sir," and then "fuck, sir," and then she dropped the "sir" entirely and just groaned the word "fuck" every time I buried myself deep inside her. And then finally I picked up the pace to the point that she could only manage to grunt. I didn't last long, of course. After our afternoon foreplay, I was probably even more eager than she was. But I did last long enough to hear her muffled scream of "Yessss!" as her muscles contracted around me, which was certainly more than enough to cause me to lose it inside her. I added a few groans of my own as I passed through an extraordinarily extended version of that delicious sensation that occurs just before ejaculation, and then I held her hips in place until I was completely drained.

I reached forward and realized suddenly that this woman had actually tired me out. Me, a high school athlete. And her, my mother's 39-year-old college roommate. I grabbed hold of her bra strap and yanked her upright. She waited as I opened the cuffs, and briefly rubbed her wrists before turning back to me with a big smile.

"You know, I have to tell you that you were even better than I thought you would be," she smiled at me.

"Well, then I have to tell you that the whole thing fell a little short of what I had always imagined," I told her.

I watched her face fall. In a few seconds, her chin would start to quiver, and then a small tear would appear in the corner of one of her eyes. She would take a deep breath, and tell herself that she couldn't expect any more than that, and then she would smile at me and say that she hoped I had enjoyed it a little, at any rate.

"Yeah," I said before she had a chance to start. "If you had told me that I would fulfill my dream of doing Laura Stone without ever having had a chance to enjoy those amazing tits, I would have found that very, very difficult to believe."

A whole range of emotions played across her face, the disappointment ultimately being replaced by an almost child-like delight.

"Snot," she grinned at me. She reached around behind her back and found the catch of her bra. Bringing her hands back in front of her, she held the cups over her breasts and gave me a surprisingly shy, but nonetheless eager, look.

"So you've dreamed about these?" she asked. "They're awfully big."

I laughed.

"I don't think I've heard the expression 'awfully big' applied in that context," I smiled. "I think they're perfect. You do remember I saw them this afternoon, don't you? When you were squeezing that one there as you played with yourself?"

She flushed a bright red, but she offered no resistance when I reached forward and slowly pulled the bra out of her hands and away from her chest.

"God, I can't believe this," she gasped after I had pushed her back onto the pillows behind her and I had fastened my lips around her left nipple.

"Shut up, Laura," I took them off long enough to give her that order.

"Yes, sir," she smiled.

It was a soft, sublime substitute for actual sex, but after I had learned my way around her breasts, and after she had performed a similar examination of my cock, we both knew what was going to happen next.

"Ready?" I asked her.

She smiled and nodded, and crossed her hands in front of her.

"Behind, you little slut," I said. She eagerly complied, and when she was ready I flipped her onto her back, her hands cuffed beneath her, and sat between her spread legs.

I gave her a light slap with the back of my hand, right between her thighs.

"Oh!"

"What do you want to do now, Laura?"

She gave me a coy look and kept her mouth shut.

I slapped her again, and got another "Oh!" She smiled at me. We played a few more rounds, and finally she had had enough.

"Fuck me," she whispered.

"OW! I said 'fuck me," she whined after I had slapped her again.

"And you think that's good enough?" I asked with another slap.

"OW! Terry!"

"You think your little silent act doesn't merit some punishment all by itself?" I let my voice get harsher and slapped her one more time.

"OW! Jesus, Terry. Please now, honey, please."

I spread her thighs just a little bit more and slid inside of her. Her eyes rolled upward into her head and she locked her legs around me. Using one hand to steady us on the bed — there were still a lot of mechanical aspects of this whole thing that I needed to work out — I reached forward with the other and began to knead one of her wonderful breasts.

"Harder," she hissed after a few minutes of fucking.

She had said that this afternoon, and I wasn't really sure what she meant by it. "Faster" would have been pretty obvious, but "harder?" Did she mean deeper? I can't go any deeper, lady, it's not like a TV antenna.

"Harder, you little fucker, harder."

I started slamming my pubic mound against hers.

"My tit, you bastard," she gasped. "Pinch my — oh, fuck!"

Her body started shaking and her legs stiffened around my waist. Her arms strained against the cuffs, revealing her well-muscled biceps.

"Terry!" she screamed.

I hadn't come, but she looked exhausted. Pleasantly exhausted, to be sure, but exhausted nonetheless. I pulled out and lay on the bed, pulling her head onto my shoulder and cradling her in my right arm. I left the cuffs on, of course, and after another half hour or so I reached down to grab them.

"Terry!" she awoke from her little nap.

"Slut," I hissed. "Did you come that time?"

"Yes, master," she smiled.

"Did I?"

Her smile vanished.

"I'm sorry, master," she pleaded. "Please, let me do it again. I didn't realize."

"I guess not," I chuckled. I pulled her onto her knees once more and got behind her. For a while, I just enjoyed the view: Laura Stone on her knees in front of me with her hands cuffed behind her back, her hair sweated and disheveled on the pillow. It was, I smiled to myself, a pillow that had never come close to producing a dream as good as real life was turning out to be. And right in front of me, of course, was that magnificent ass. I reached down and slowly traced my middle finger down the crack, pausing briefly when I reached her crinkled hole.

"Terry, no," she was suddenly wide awake, her head turned to the side, her eyes wide with alarm. "You can't."

I didn't like being told I couldn't do something. My mother had told me that too many times, sometimes right here in this very room. But I had no idea what I was being told I couldn't do. I froze. Maybe she'd give me a hint.

"Terry, my ex-husband only put it in there once," she said with as much sternness as a handcuffed woman could muster. "And he wasn't anywhere near as big as you."

Put it in — oh my God. OH MY GOD! Did this woman really just tell me that her ex-husband had fucked her in her, well, her butt? Was she serious? I grabbed the handcuffs and pulled her back toward me, until her ass was just in front of my very stiff cock.

"Oh, God, Terry," she groaned. "At least get some lube."

"Some what?"

"Lube," she panted. "I know your mother's got lube somewhere."

Lube? Did she mean like grease? By this point, of course, I was unwilling to ask, and I was certainly unwilling to borrow some sex aid my mother might have somewhere.

"You want this lubed, bitch?" I asked her. "Is that what you want?"

"Please," Laura begged me.

"I got some lube right here," I said, reaching down to push the head of my dick a little lower, until it lined up with her slit. I pushed forward and gave her ass a slap.

"Now, cum, bitch."

"Oh, fuck," she screamed, writhing beneath me once again. I could actually feel myself getting wetter as she climaxed, and after a few more seconds I pulled out and returned my dick to its earlier location. I shoved it into her, and she screamed again, not in pain but in the same tone she had used when her climax first started. God, it was tight, and I found myself spraying in less than ten seconds. I pulled out and this time opened the cuffs.

Laura instantly turned on me, jumping up to her knees.

"God damn it, you fucker, if you ever do that again, I'll... I'll..."

"You'll what?" I laughed at her.

"I'll bring some real lube," she smiled. "If you'd gone a couple more seconds it could have gotten real painful for both of us."

"I don't think we have to do it again," I said. "It was more of an experiment."

She smiled and lay back down on the pillow.

"Some experiments need to be repeated in order to ensure you got the proper results," she purred, stretching her arms toward me. "Now give me a half hour of hugging, and then I have to go."

"Don't want to run into Mom?" I snuggled into her.

"Looking and smelling like this?" she giggled.

"Good point," I said.

"I wish you could come over tomorrow and finish the lawn," she reached down to toy with my limp cock. "I have a bush that needs a lot of attention."

"I'll be over Saturday, little girl," I said, tracing my finger around her nipple. "You'll just have to be patient."

"Fuck patient," she pouted.

"That'll be fun," I agreed. "You can be the nurse and I'll be the fuck patient."

I could see the wheels starting to turn in her head already.

"That would be fun, wouldn't it?"



-------

Chapter 6: The Accidental Blackmailer, Part Three


As I cycled to the school late on Sunday morning, I was starting to have doubts about whether I was going to be able to survive this entire weekend. Laura had left at eleven last night, and I had finished tidying up and airing out the room just before my parents breezed back into the house. In fact, I had only spotted Laura's handcuffs underneath the bed less than twenty seconds before my mother showed up at the door to my bedroom. Laura had obviously forgotten them in her departure. In any event, I had quickly stuffed them in my bookbag. I could cycle by her house on my way home from school and drop them off. The only potential problem with that plan was that Laura might want to make it hard for me to leave. Or just make it hard, period. After my upcoming meeting with Pam Lee, I wasn't sure whether anything, even Laura Stone, would be able to make it hard that quickly.

Pam was waiting for me outside the school, nervously switching her weight from one foot to the other. A cold front had come through overnight, the first real sign of fall. She was looking the other way when I approached, studying the other cars in the parking lot. I had a nice, long look at her black, leather motorcycle jacket and skin-tight jeans. She finally turned as I coasted toward the bike rack.

"It's about time," she hissed.

I gave her a sideways look as I locked the bike to the rack.

"Phone call for you, Ms. Lee."

I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and tossed it to her. She opened it with a quizzical expression on her face, and then shut it just as quickly as a deep flush spread over her dark complexion. It was a full, uncropped picture this time. She was reclining on a sofa, naked of course, her legs spread but with her hand between them. She had an eager expression on her face that clearly evidenced her desire for something. It wasn't the best picture of her "College Spread" spread, but it was my favorite caption: Maybe we can come to some sort of arrangement. A little tit for tat? Or how about a little tit for a nice, big that? The phone's screen wasn't big enough to let her read it, and I'm sure she didn't remember what it said. But I would be happy to remind her. She followed me, silently, into the school, only speaking once we got closer to the computer science room.

"Are you sure you can do this, Terry?

I found her tone annoying, the way she emphasized the word "you."

"Well, gosh, let's hope so, Ms. Lee," I smiled. "Cause if I can't, I'm gonna have to start sharing you with assholes like Tony Carboneau and Mikey Portman, the guys who flunked shop last year. Or little Joey Turner — you know, the kid with the big glasses who hands out the water at the football team's timeouts. I bet all three of those guys are surfin' the net, lookin' for porn, every day."

"I'm sorry, Terry. I'm just nervous," she confessed as we reached the computer science room. "I had to steal the key to this place from Mrs. Carson's desk and the old battleaxe could come in any minute."

"On a Sunday?"
"What else has she got to do?"

Evidently Ms. Lee shared the student body's opinion of our principal's secretary-slash-gatekeeper-slash-guard dog. She was really more like one of those bridge trolls because there were times when she would let you pass. We just had no idea when those would be.

Pam unlocked the door, and I located one of the newer, faster computers and sat down to get to work. I was going to be there a little while, setting my program up, testing it, actually running it, and then removing it from the computer without leaving any footprints. Pam, on the other hand, was going to leave a very definite set of footprints. She spent the first fifteen minutes pacing from one side of the room to the other. At first, she would glance over my shoulder when she passed, but after she realized that what was on the screen was as incomprehensible to her as, say, French is to some other people, she went back to straight pacing.

"Didn't you bring a book or something?" I asked, trying without success to hide my annoyance.

"I thought it would only take like fifteen minutes," she explained.

"It's gonna take even longer if I have to listen to you walking around like that."

"I'm sorry," she said as she pulled out a seat.

She just as suddenly got up and announced she was going down to the teacher's lounge. She returned in 15 minutes with a magazine and took a seat behind me. That lasted maybe another fifteen minutes, until she started drumming her fingers on the desk.

"You're not helping," I said as sweetly as I could.

"Well, what do you want me to do?"

I turned and gave her a big smile.

"Don't you have an office? A room of your own? Shouldn't you be there, getting ready to show me how grateful you are?"

"Here?" she squeaked. "At school?"

"Here," I nodded. "At school."

"But there are other people..." she started to protest.

"Who could come in at any minute and see me using the school's computer for something highly unethical and possible illegal," I interrupted her.

I watched her think about it a minute, and then she smiled.

"Okay," she chirped.

"Now go," I said over my shoulder as I turned back. "Put the key back in Mrs. Carson's desk. I'll lock the door when I'm done and then I'll meet you. Room 218. Oh, and here, take my bag."

It took me another half an hour, but by the time I was finished, I was satisfied that the only inappropriate pictures that a Google search for "Pam Lee" would turn up would be the blonde former Playmate and home video star. I was also satisfied that there was no way anyone would know that I had been here today. Slipping the disk into my pocket, I pulled the locked door shut behind me and headed upstairs.

I peered into her darkened room through the window in the door to her room on the Language Arts hallway.

"Pam?" I said softly as I pushed open the unlocked door. "Ms. Lee?"

She had clearly been there. Her leather jacket was draped over the back of her chair. Maybe she had to visit the ladies' room. After about five minutes I was starting to get worried. I went back into the hallway, and when I pulled the door closed behind me, I realized my mistake. This was Room 221. I had a very distinct recollection of telling her that I would meet her in Room 218. But I also remembered telling her she should be in her office, "getting ready." Well, where the hell was Room 218? I walked down the hall. Room 222, across the hall, was Mrs. Valentine's room. Room 220 was Ms. Nelson's room. Room 219 was Miss Sanchez's room. There was the little boys' room. Room 217 was Mr. Storey's room. Oh, shit.

I walked back to the boys' room, still not quite believing that the school administration had actually assigned it a number. Other than Freddy Richardson, who had cornered all the drug-dealing at the school, who needed to identify a specific bathroom? But there it was in small numerals, two-one-eight. I hesitantly pushed the door open and saw my bag beneath the two sinks.

"Madame?" I said quietly.

"Fuck, Terry," she hissed, "what the fucking hell were you doing?"

She came out of one of the stalls, wearing nothing but the tiniest of thongs. Damned if Laura Stone hadn't pegged that.

"I, uh, I thought you were going to be in your office," I stammered.

"No, I'm here in fucking room 218 where you fucking told me to be. How do I get these fucking things off?"

I had actually been so surprised to find her in the boys' room, wearing a thong and nothing else, that I hadn't noticed that her wrists were handcuffed together.

"How did you get them on?" I was desperately trying not to laugh.

"I opened up your book bag to put my clothes in to get ready, like you, um..."

"Requested."

She gave me a snippy smile.

"And these things just fell out. And opened up. I saw the catches on them and I figured they'd be really easy to get off, but they're fucking not."

"Actually, they fucking are," I said, pushing myself off the door and walking toward her. "You have to press them at the same time."

She tried to twist her wrists around to press the two catches simultaneously, but by that point I was already across the room. I grabbed hold of the little chain between the two cuffs in one hand and backed her up against the wall.

"Terry," she murmured, squirming helplessly as she felt my other hand exploring her body, caressing her stomach, squeezing her breast, tickling her thigh, and then finally diving inside her thong. "Terry, yes."

I pushed her hands down behind her head, and lowered my mouth to her chest. I would like to think that just the touch of my lips on her nipple sent a shiver through her body. On the other hand, the fingers of my right hand could have accounted for that, too. My index and ring fingers were gently squeezing her labia lips together, while my middle finger slowly stroked the inner lips that pressed through.

"Oh, God, baby," she whispered, as I pulled back to look at the wet, hard nipple of her left breast.

I stood up again and raised her arms over her head, this time turning her around. I gently pushed her forward to the wall, flattening her breasts against the cold tile. I slipped my hand under her thong again, noticing how much of her nice little ass it left exposed. I held her in place and slid my fingers down between the two round cheeks until I could once again touch her wetness. I slowly pushed my middle finger inside her, and then let go of the cuffs to free my other hand to work her thong down her legs. I pocketed the thin cloth and reached up for her cuffs again. It was at that point that we both became aware of somebody whistling in the hallway.

The parking lot had had very few cars when I arrived, and there was nothing scheduled at school that day, so the odds of somebody walking all the way up to the Language Arts hallway to use the boys' room were infinitesimal. Even so, they were probably higher than the odds that a high school senior would have been in that same boys' room with his naked French teacher. And they were probably higher than the odds of any of the, er, incidents that seemed to plague my life. Like the time that the woman with the baby stroller knocked me off the bridge and into the lake in Prospect Park.

So the whistling was good enough for me. I hustled us into a stall and locked the door. I quickly pushed my pants to my ankles and took a seat. Pam climbed atop me, standing on my thighs and leaning back against the door. At my suggestion, she looped her handcuffs over the clothes hook on the inside of the door to help support her and keep her motionless.

The whistling stopped when the mystery whistler pushed open the door, probably about the time that he saw my bookbag and realized that he wasn't the room's only occupant.

"Bonjour?" he asked in a hideous French accent that made the word sound more like "conjure." "Qui est là?"

I looked up to see Pam rolling her eyes.

I cleared my throat.

"Why are you speaking French, man?"

"Sorry," he laughed as he unzipped himself. "Who's that?"

"Terry Martin," I said.

"Martin!" he acknowledged me cheerfully. Pam and I listened as he started to relieve himself. "Chris Cannon."

Chris Cannon was one of the football players in my French class.

"Yeah," he spoke up again. "That bitch has me trained, buddy. Every time I get anywhere near the pleasure palace I start thinkin' up French conversation in case I meet her in the hall. I saw her little Tranny in the parking lot, so she must be around somewhere."

I couldn't help but ask the question that both Pam and I were thinking.

"The pleasure palace?"

"Pammy's pleasure palace," he laughed.

"I didn't think you were having that good a time in French," I said.

"Hell, no. Except for the scenery, that place is the closest thing this school has to hell, dude. Naw, that's Jack Cranston's name for it. You know those go-go girls that Pammy's got?"

"No," I said, although Pam's glower told me that she had a pretty good idea what he was talking about.

"You know, she's got those chicks running all over, doing her errands? Go for coffee, go for supplies. We call 'em Pam's go-go girls. Anyway, one day Trish Mason discovers that Pammy's forgotten to lock the bottom drawer of her desk and she finds this vibrator engraved with the initials P-P-P."

Pam's whole body, of which I had a very good view, was turning beet red.

"So after we finish with the jokes about 'pounding Pam's pubes' and 'pleasing Pammy's pussy, ' Jack invents this whole shit about 'Pammy's Pleasure Palace.' He's got this hysterical video of her just walkin' around the school where he starts narratin' about her real career as a hooker who's fuckin' everybody she talks to. He just finished it last week. You know, dude, I think you're in it. He got this clip of her walkin' down the hall, and Jack's like, 'That's right, Pam Lee is happy to meet the demands of faculty, staff, and students. Here she is talking to Principal Harper, reminding him about his 2:30 blowjob appointment. Next it's Ms. Maryanne Nelson, who's gonna get a nice piece of pie to munch on at three. And finally, star swimmer Terry Martin, scheduled to have his big pipe organ cleaned at three-thirty.' Jack's girlfriend Sherry's like 'what do you mean big pipe organ?' You may be gettin' some action soon, dude. She's got some nice-lookin' friends."

"Uh, thanks," I said.

"You bet," he laughed.

Pam was glowering once again.

Chris was done now, of course, and had moved over near the sinks. I doubted he had any intention of using one, but that was where he was standing.

"So what are you doin' here, dude?" he asked.

"Um, actually stuff for Ms. Lee," I said, watching Pam's eyebrows widen in surprise. "She wants to try some software feedback stuff for class, and my mom — she's friends with my mom — suggested she ask me to help."

"Shit, man, I knew she was here somewhere. You ain't gonna tell her about the palace, are you?"

"Not a word," I said. "Nothin' leaves this room, Chris."

"Thank, dude, I'll get Jack to burn you a disk. So you mean Pammy's like been to your house?"

"Yeah, a couple of times last summer," I nodded.

"So like, what was she wearing? I bet you got some awesome views, huh?"

"No," I was grinning broadly as I looked at Pam perched on my thighs, her legs spread in front of me. "Pretty much the same as at school, in fact."

She stuck her tongue out at me.

"Bummer," Chris said. "Well, I better go. Coach is gonna be lookin' for me."

"You had Sunday practice?" I asked.

"Nah, it's this community service shit. I been scrubbin' off graffiti. I just came up here to make a final check."

"Oh, yeah. The graduation requirement," I nodded. I had already completed mine.

"Shit, no," he said. "They caught me paintin' it, so they're makin' me clean it off."

I smiled and looked up at Pam. She was angrily mouthing the words "shut up" to me. I smiled and mouthed back, "bite me."

"See ya dude," Chris laughed. We heard the door bang open and then close behind him.

"What the fuck were you doing?" Pam hissed.

"Just chattin' with the man," I smiled. "Guess we better head back to the palace, huh?"

She blushed again as she got off me, and I pulled up my pants. I quickly uncuffed her and headed for the door.

"Can I have my thong back, please?" she whispered.

"Later," I said. "Let me make sure everyone's gone first."

Leaving her there, I picked up my bag and walked down to the window at the end of the hall, which had a nice view of the parking lot. I waited five minutes while the coach and a couple of other fuckups got into the only other cars in the lot, finally leaving Pam's Trans Am all alone. I walked back to the bathroom and pushed open the door.

"Let's go," I yelled in.

"Give me my clothes!" she yelled back.

"I'll be at the palace! There's nobody else in the school right now, but I can't guarantee they won't arrive later, you know."

I was sitting at her desk when she finally slipped into the room. She had left her keys in her pants, of course, and her pants were in my book bag with all her other clothes. So I had taken the liberty of unlocking her desk drawer. She glared at me as I pretended to inspect the vibrator.

"God damn you, Terry," she said, standing there with her legs spread and her hands on her hips. She looked absolutely nothing like the authority figure she would have been if she had given me that look two weeks ago. Of course, she would have been clothed two weeks ago.

"So, which is it?" I asked, looking at the pink initials on the vibrator's base, "the pounding one or the pleasing one?"

"Terry, give me that," she advanced on me sternly with her left hand out.

"I intend to," I said, holding it out of her reach. That stopped her short just as she reached the corner of the desk. Her outstretched hand dropped to rest on the desk, and her other hand appeared to clutch at her thigh. I smiled as I watched her rising and falling chest attest to the increased rapidity of her breathing.

"You like that idea, don't you?" I asked her.

"I, um," she stammered.

I flicked it on, and the effect was astonishing. Not on the vibrator, of course. The vibrator just buzzed a little in my hand. But Pam's knees almost buckled. The muscles of her left arm tightened as she sagged against the desk.

"Terry," she whimpered.

I turned it off again.

"Ms. Lee?"

"Terry, oh, fuck! You little bastard," she said when I turned it off again.

This was not only incredibly surprising, it was also a lot of fun. Not to mention incredibly erotic. I mean, God, this woman was getting off on the sound alone. Evidently she had been doing a lot of practicing. I held it up in front of me again.

"Well?" I asked. "The initials?"

"They're mine," she sighed. "Pamela Piper Post. Post is my maiden name."

"So you have a monogrammed vibrator?"

"Yes."

"A gift, I assume."

Her silence was answer enough.

"From?" I prompted her.

She bit her lip.

"Do you remember the caption of that picture on my phone? An arrangement? A little tit for tat? Or I can just turn this on again. Kind of like that Pavlov guy, you know?"

"Bastard. It was Maryanne Nelson."

"Ms. Nelson gave you a vibrator?"

Seriously? Could this get any better?

"But you were married when you started teaching here," I pointed out as I scratched my chin. "So the only reason she would use your maiden name is if..."

"I was a student here. Class of 1994. She was my French teacher. Are you happy now, you little — Terry!"

"So I guess you must have been one of her go-go girls," I turned it off again. "Or more likely one of her cum-cum girls, huh?

"So this part obviously goes in — there," I nodded toward her pubic mound. "And this little guy does what?"

I flicked the smaller extension with my finger and looked over to see Pam redden once again.

"Ms. Lee?"

"Stimulates my..." she trailed off.

"Your?"

"My clit, you bastard."

"Well, gosh, you know I'm sorry our zucchini didn't have one of these last week for you. On the other hand, you did seem to like him anyway, didn't you?"

"Terry," she whined. The hand that had been on her thigh was slipping around to her front.

"Before you play with yourself," I stopped her, "I think Mr. Vibrator deserves what Mr. Zucchini got, don't you?"

I held it in my lap, and after the tiniest of delays she bent at the waist and began to blow "me." The clit stimulator poked her in the jaw on her first trip down, so I turned it to one side. On her next trip down, I turned it on, and I swear she came right then and there. She grabbed at my pants with both hands, and her body trembled as she moaned and did her best to breathe through her nose. Finally, she pulled herself off with a loud gasp. I grabbed hold of her hair and held her in place as I slipped out of the chair.

"You stay right there," I smiled. "I'm just gonna lock the door and lower the blind on this window."

"Oh, God," her head started to come up. I pushed it back down.

"Stay," I said again. "Don't make me handcuff you to the desk, Pammy."

She was there when I returned, her hands resting on her chair, her ass still pointed toward the door, her long legs still slightly spread. I pulled off my own clothes and moved to stand directly behind her.

"I guess now that Mr. Vibrator's had his blowjob, I suppose you're going to want to fuck him."

"I'd rather fuck somebody else," she said softly, wiggling her ass at me.

"I don't know," I said. "Mr. Somebody Else hasn't had his blowjob yet. I think we should finish taking care of Mr. Vibrator first."

I slowly pushed it inside, listening to Pam moan. I pulled it almost all the way out, and pushed it in again. I pulled it completely out, watching how her ass followed it ever so briefly before accepting that it was finally gone. And then I gave her something else. It actually felt pretty good to know that I was longer and thicker than her vibrator.

"Terry!" she squawked, pushing herself erect as she leaned on the desk.

"Yeah, Mr. Somebody Else decided to do without his blowjob for the moment. Here."

I put the vibrator on the desk in front of her and got down to business.

"Knock yourself out, lady."

She groaned as I started fucking her in earnest, but she wasn't so far gone that she didn't pick up the little guy, flick the switch, and reach down to touch him to her clit. I could feel the vibrations as I stroked her, an unusually pleasant sensation that had me on the verge of climaxing within less than a minute. Fortunately, Pam herself was on the verge of climaxing, and as soon as she felt me start to shoot deep inside of her, she dropped the vibrator on the desk and simply spread herself forward as she started to shake.

"Oh, God, Terry. Oh, God. Oooooh!"

That's right, my little vibrator pal, let's see you do that to her.

We remained in place for another minute or so, both of us enjoying the delightful little aftershocks that Pam "suffered" from after sex. Finally, I pulled out and reclaimed my seat.

"Now it's my turn," I smiled.

She still hadn't moved yet, so she just looked back at me over her shoulder.

"One more," she whispered. She closed her eyes one last time and shuddered again. "Oh, yes.

"Now it's your turn," she dropped to her knees in front of me. "Oh, boy, is it your turn. I can't believe how turned on I am by this, Terry."

She was talking now in between long licks of my shaft.

"Your big cock, the school, the handcuffs, even that fucking little Chris Cannon."

"Actually, he is kinda little," I nodded. "I've seen him in the locker room. So's Jack, for that matter. Maybe Sherry herself will pay me a visit."

"You don't need Sherry," she smiled at me.

"True," I said. "I have you."

And Laura, I thought.

"And when I'm nice and hard again, we're gonna get dressed," I told her.

Her face fell.

"And then we're gonna check the parking lot, and if there's nobody in it, I'm going to take you down to the teacher's lounge and handcuff you to the big ol' couch that's supposed to be in there."

Pam smiled at me and pulled her mouth off my cock one last time.
"You mean the couch where Maryanne and I sixty-nined two weeks ago during the football game?" she teased me before returning to her task.

That was enough. I was ready. Apparently I was just another potential subject for one of Mr. Pavlov's experiments.



-------

Chapter 7: The Accidental Casanova


With the last two weekends under my belt, I was actually quite disappointed with the way that this one was starting out. My plan to visit Laura and trim her bushes was scotched when her son announced that he was coming home from college for the weekend. My backup plan fell through, too, when Pam informed me that she and Maryanne Nelson had a day of shopping planned. She laughed at my invitation to bring Maryanne; a vibrator was apparently as close to a naked man as Ms. Nelson was willing to get.

Quelle dommage, as we say in Français.

It was a particular dommage since Pam and I hadn't been able to finish our little schooling session. There was another car in the parking lot when I went to look, and it turned out to belong to Mrs. Carson, the ogre who worked in the office that was right next to the faculty lounge. After we learned that, we decided to just call it quits for the afternoon, because I knew that my mother would be calling Pam soon to find out where I was, and Pam's house would be the first place she would start looking. To top if off, Laura wasn't even home when I stopped by to drop her handcuffs off, so I left them in the garage, and left a message for her on her answering machine.

And it was even more of a dommage because I had the house all to myself for the whole fucking weekend, and for the rest of the week as well for that matter. Dad was upstate, preparing for some big trial. Mom had left on Saturday morning to attend a week-long district attorneys' seminar. It didn't officially start until Monday, but she wanted to get there early to network and to polish the talk she had to give, "A Paradigm for Pedophile Prosecutions." She was very excited by it. I decided to wait until it came out on DVD.

By noon on Saturday, without any of my playmates available, I had cleaned the house and finished the laundry. This weekend's college football games were unusually boring, and by two o'clock, I was fast asleep in front of the television in the den. The first thing that penetrated my consciousness was sound. It wasn't enough to wake me, but I was able to piece together later the sounds of the sliding door to the patio being pulled open and slammed shut, and of a voice muttering, "Old and saggy? Old and saggy? I'll show her fucking old and saggy!"

It was at that point that I opened blinked open my eyes, filling my brain with the vision of Natalie Winston as she stepped in front of the television and yanked open her shirt to reveal a floral bra whose lacy half cups were nearly filled to overflowing.

"Do these look old and saggy to you?" she demanded. "Oh, shit, Terry! Oh, God, I thought your mother was here all alone this weekend."

She yanked the sides of her shirt across her chest, but by that time I'd already shattered the American and world records for going from zero to sixty in the human male reproductive system. I was, you might say, full of myself.

"Uh, no," I finally found my voice. "She went to a conference. I'm the one who's alone this weekend. Um, sorry."

"You're sorry?" she uttered a slightly hysterical laugh. "God, I'm so embarrassed. Oh, shit, I popped the buttons. Did you see where they went?"

Was she serious? Did she actually think that I was going to spend any precious seconds looking around for buttons while she dropped to her hands and knees on the floor? If anything, this angle was even better. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was nowhere near long enough to interfere with my view of those nice, plump breasts hanging beneath her, breasts whose tips were just barely covered by fabric. Finally, she realized that I wasn't being much of a help on the button front, and looked up at me to see what I was doing instead.

"Oh, God," she sank back to a seated position and covered her face with her hands. "What next?"

I was tempted to stare at the gorgeous legs extending from the hem of her short, denim skirt, but she was sobbing, and I instinctively dropped down beside her and took her into my arms.

"It's okay," I said, pulling her into my chest. "It's okay."

"It's not okay," she sniffled. "My hus-hus-husband just ran off with some little slut from one of his classes, and she-she-she said that he probably wanted a-a-a —"

"The answer is no," I interrupted her.

"The what?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"The answer to your first question," I said, with more confidence than I felt. I swallowed hard and continued, mindful that if I screwed this up I could get slapped back into next week. "They're not old, and they're not saggy. They're wonderful. They're exquisite. They're absolutely perfect."

She shyly lifted up her face to look into my eyes, and finally managed a little smile.

"Yeah, and how many have you seen?" she teased me.

"You'd be surprised," I said in all honesty. "Your husband is an ass, and his girlfriend is a whore who'll dump him as soon as she gets her final grade. Now, how 'bout I get you a sweatshirt and a cup of tea, and you tell your neighbor what happened."

Ten minutes later, her with a cup of tea and me with a new pair of shorts, we were sitting together on the couch. She haltingly told me about catching her husband and his student the night before, and how the little slut had unerringly zeroed in on the single body part that Natalie was most sensitive about.
"So, I'm sorry," I interrupted her. "But in the interest of being open and honest here, are you serious?"

"About what?"

"About thinking that your, that your..."

"Boobs," she giggled.

"All right, that your boobs are anything less than perfect? I mean, what, you don't have any mirrors in your house?"

She giggled again.

"Well, they used to be perkier, you know, like her-her-hers, and Tad used to like to-to-to..."

I saw her through the next crying session, having armed myself while I was upstairs with a box of Kleenex.

"So where was I?" she finally asked after one last honk of the horn.

"I think you were about to confirm my already low opinion of your husband by telling me that he didn't like to play with your, um..."

"Boobs," she said again. "Don't you like that word?"

"I, uh, sure," I nodded stupidly. "But they're yours, so I didn't want to, um..."

"Insult me by calling them hooters or jugs?"

"Exactly."

"Don't worry, honey. I've heard much worse. For an English professor, Tad can be surprisingly crude."

"Okay. So he won't play with your boobs. He's an idiot."

"You're very sweet, Terry. Thanks for letting me vent like this."

"No problem."

"You know they say that men reach their sexual peak at age twenty," she shook her head, "and in his case it's been a long, quick fall from there during the last ten years."

"Seriously?" I asked. "I've only got two more years?"

"That's right, sweetie," she giggled. "Better get out there and start putting it to use before it falls off."

"Really? Shit."

"Oh, it's just a lot of crap," Natalie laughed before suddenly looking down at her lap. "But I tell you it sure feels like it's true."

"So when's a woman's?"

She tilted her head to give me a look sideways look.

"Thirty," she said slyly.

"So you're, um..." I trailed off again, something I'd done a lot of this afternoon.

"Two years short, just like you," she said. "Sorry, whenever I have a good cry, I always end up a little... Well, anyway, tell me about it."

She took another sip of tea.

"About what?"

"Your love life," she giggled. "All the teenage girls you've been boinking."

"Actually, that would be a grand total of, um, none."

"You're a virgin?" she yelped in surprise. "Oh, I'm sorry, Terry. There's nothing wrong with that. I think it's great when people wait. It's just..."

"Okay, first of all, no, I'm not a virgin. And it's just what?"

"Well, it was just hard to imagine a guy as cute as you was still a virgin," she batted her eyes at me. "See aren't I terrible? I told you a good cry makes me horny."

Well, she had started to tell me that, but she had stopped before she ever got to the horny part. I would have remembered that. I did remember the videotape, where Natalie had said I was cute. No, wait, that was Laura. But hell, if Natalie thought I was cute, too, I could live with that.

"So how many older women, then?" she interrupted my reverie.

"Two," I blurted out, ever the soul of discretion.

"Two," she raised an eyebrow. "College girls?"
The best way to end this discussion at this point would have been with a "yeah, college girls." An answer that would have been both impressive and believable. Unlike, for example, my answer.

"Uh, no, a little older."

"Get out."

"I'm serious," I said defensively.

"Men are such liars," she shook her head. "Next you're going to tell me you're this great lover who has older women pounding on your door to get you to fuck them."

My cock gave a little jump. Hearing Natalie Winston say the word "fuck" was a definite new direction in this conversation. I decided on humor.

"Hey," I said. "I'm here alone this weekend. You see any women? You hear any pounding?"

"They're probably taking their kids to the park," she said, narrowing her eyes as her voice grew more suspicious. "Then they'll take them to their fathers for weekend visitation and they'll show up here right after supper."

"Both of them, together?"

I was smiling, but my cock was doing more than jumping now. In the shorts I was wearing, my bulge was going to become obvious in a matter of —.

"Somebody likes that idea," she was looking directly at my crotch as she giggled again. "Guess you haven't had them together then, huh?"

"No," I said.

"Not yet," she answered. Her voice had taken on a softer, huskier timbre, and a deeper pitch. I shifted ever so slightly on the couch.

"Am I making you uncomfortable, Terry?"

"No," I snapped at her. "All right, yes."

"Good," she licked her lips.

"Good? You're trying to make me uncomfortable, Mrs. Winston?"

"Haven't I told you to call me Natalie?" she said with surprising heat.

"Natalie. Sorry."

"I'm sorry, Terry," she smiled again. And then her chin started to quiver. "It's just that — just that — I don't feel much like a married woman right now."

That started another full-fledged crying jag. I pulled her close for a hug. She finally blew her nose again, and looked me in the eye.

"After the first cry, I was only a little horny," she said bluntly. "But that's the third."

She paused, leaving me to guess whether there was some sort of commutative property that applied here.

"So if you don't want to fuck me," she answered the question for me, "you'd better make that pretty clear in the next couple of seconds."

I was lost in those beautiful blue eyes.

"Good," she nodded. "I'm gonna teach you everything I know, Terry Martin. So when those women come over tonight, you can rock their little worlds."

She was busy working my shorts and briefs down over my hips as she talked, and when she had them on the floor, she told me to stretch out on the couch. She kicked off the little canvas tennis shoes she was wearing, and straddled my legs. I was doing my best to look her in the eye, but my eyes eventually drifted down to where her skirt was bunched up around her waist, exposing the cutest little pair of robin's-egg blue panties that I had ever seen.

"Now first," she interrupted me by pushing my T-shirt up my stomach, "we're gonna... oh, fuck."

"Natalie?"

She tentatively reached forward with one hand to touch it. 
"Oh, my God," she said as she slowly started to stroke it. "Oh, my fucking God."

"Yeah, but you can call me Terry," I joked.

She didn't laugh, but she did give me a crooked little smile.

"For the moment," she finally said.

She pulled the sweatshirt I had given her over her head, and reached behind her back to unhook her bra.

"So what do you think now?" a worried look passed across her face as she tossed the bra across the room.

They were even better now. Two round globes of smooth, white flesh that ended with perfectly proportioned circles of light pink, which were in turn topped with hard, elegant nipples pointed directly towards me.

"Terry, you're staring."

The word "sorry" came into my brain, but only half of it successfully navigated the sex-fogged road to my mouth.

"So?" I blurted out.

She laughed, and a broad smile spread across her face.

So, boobs?" she asked. Apparently we were going to resolve my little nomenclature problem first.

"Too comic," I shook my head. "It's those two o's."

"Hooters?"

"Same problem."

"Tits?"

"That's still not it."

"Jugs?"

"Gross."

"Headlights, fun bags, knockers, melons, tatas?"

She was sort of knee-walking forward, with one knee on each side of me, as she spoke. By the time she finished with her list, she was close enough to lean forward and press them together between the palms of her hands inches away from my face.

"Breasts," I said. I kissed the nipple of her right one. "It's a soft word. Those esses and the soft e. Peaceful, too. Rhymes with rest."

I moved over to suckle the left nipple.

"We're not going to be resting peacefully much longer if you keep that up, Terry," she moaned, pressing herself against me.

I would have told her that was fine with me, but I found it difficult to talk with a mouthful of perfection. Instead, I reached around to cup her butt. I pulled her down toward me, and she moaned again, slowly rubbing herself against me. Smiling up at her, and without warning, I slipped my hands underneath her thighs and suddenly sat up, flipping her onto her back with her legs pressed against her torso.

"Terry!" she squawked.

"Natalie?" I asked her. I gently held her in place as I scrambled to a kneeling position.

"And just what do you expect to do here?" she asked, looking up at me between her thighs, over the hem of her skirt.

"Admire."

"Admire how good a pretzel I'd make?"

"All right, worship then," I said.

"Worship what?" she asked, her voice catching.

"Promise not to move?"

"Okay," she agreed in a girlish whisper.

I released her thighs and reached for the zipper in back of her skirt. Unzipped, it came off with the briefest of tugs, and once I had it to her knees, Natalie helped me by pulling it the rest of the way. I looked down at the panties that had attracted my attention before. I lowered my hands, splaying the fingers across her pubic mound as I rested the thumbs on the crotch that pointed up toward the ceiling.

"What are you doing?" she whimpered as I began slowly began tracing one thumb after the other down the center of the fabric.

"Turning you on?" I said hopefully.

"I'm already turned on," she squirmed. "Don't you want to fuck me?"

I smiled. I remembered perfectly that part of the video where Natalie explained her husband's bedroom shortcomings: "The problem is it comes too fast and it ends too soon." I had no intention of starting too fast, and I had gotten much better over the last few weeks at making sure that it didn't end too soon.

I massaged her through her panties, using the cloth as my ally. I watched her face, trying to discern by a smile, a softening around the eyes, and a fluttering of the eyelids when I was successful. She seemed to particularly enjoy it when I thumbed her clit with the fabric.

"Terry," she moaned after a while. "Take them off."

I spent another minute touching her, but I acceded to her request and pulled the panties down her thighs. Once again she took over and pulled them off, only to find that it was now my head that was pressed between her thighs.

"Oh, Terry," she sighed as I licked the inside of her left thigh and then the inside of her right.

"Mm-hmm?" I murmured, my lips now covering the same ground where my tongue had just blazed a trail.

"Oh God, Terry, put it in, baby."

By now my tongue and lips occupied the high, middle ground, doing their best to prepare the field for the requested assault.

"Terry," she whined.

I reached down and yanked my T-shirt over my head, slowly allowing her hips to rotate back toward the couch. That finally brought her into direct contact with my cock, and I slowly rubbed the shaft up and down against her.

"Terry!" She was growing more and more insistent.

I spread her legs just a little more and leaned forward, easily sliding inside of her. Up to a point, anyway. After that, it was a question not so much of sliding it in, and certainly not of forcing it in, but of pressing through a sort of resilient force field that activated and energized every nerve I had on my cock. That goal I had set for myself — of making sure that Natalie's experience didn't end too soon — was now in mortal danger. There were few things in my life that I could use as a distraction. Visions of Laura and Pam weren't likely to help. Visions of my mother would probably help too much. Finally, I settled on swimming, that slow rhythm I tried to use once I'd mounted the starting blocks, the way I had of rocking back and forth, back and forth, trying to anticipate the starting horn but not letting myself be too far out of position if I failed.

"Oh, Terry, oh God!" Natalie gasped. I felt her relax into the cushions of the coach. And then I suddenly found myself overtaken by my own climax, groaning as I held myself inside her. As I finished, the briefest of thoughts flitted through my mind. Maybe sex was always like this. Maybe each time was always better than the time before, just because it was this time. Or maybe I was just in love with my married neighbor. I wondered what she had thought about. I blinked open my eyes, and smiled down at her. That was when I realized that I had been making love to an unconscious woman.

I jerked myself out of her, horrified at what I had just done. Fortunately, as I stared down at her with eyes the size of salad plates, I could see the faintest of smiles on her lips. Maybe I hadn't screwed up after all. I went to the kitchen and fetched a glass of water. I sat down beside her on the couch, watching her chest slowly rise and fall, until she slowly opened her eyes and saw me.

She smiled, a beautiful smile that revealed two even rows of perfect white teeth and that made her eyes even more beautiful than they had been before. It was a smile of radiant happiness, and I tried to pay her back with one of my own.

"You okay?" I said softly.

"I'm wonderful," she said. "Thank you, Terry."

"No, thank you," I said, trying to sound as adult as I possibly could.

"You don't mind if I take a little nap now, do you?" she asked. "I didn't sleep at all last night, and then I spent this morning alternating between anger and despair."

"Uh, no," I said. "You want to use my bed?"

"That would be nice," she agreed. She took a couple of sips of water, and I led her upstairs to my room, the one with the sheets that I had just washed that morning.

"Just give me a couple of hours," she smiled after I had tucked her in. "Then I'll be ready for round two."

I smiled back.

"Sweet dreams, Natalie."

"I think I'm going to have a religious dream," she said sleepily.

"Religious?"

"I'm going to dream about my fucking god."

She was asleep before I shut the door and it dawned on me that she was talking about me.

I was sitting in the den around five o'clock, watching the second football game of the afternoon, when Natalie padded in wearing one of my T-shirts and the gym shorts that I kept by the bed for those late-night raids on the refrigerator.

"There it is!" she exulted.

"There what is?"

"My sweatshirt," she said. She picked it up off the floor.

"I think that's my sweatshirt," I told her.

"Used to be, maybe," she laughed. Without a thought, she whipped my T-shirt over her head — wholly unconcerned that her bra was still lying somewhere on the other side of the room — and pulled the sweatshirt on in its place. I looked at her expectantly, probably a little too expectantly. Evidently, I was an open book.

"How about some dinner first?" she giggled.

"First?" I feigned confusion.

"Before round two, silly boy," she said. She sat down next to me on the couch. "I came over here this afternoon to bitch to your mom about my life, and you made me forget, for a little while, that I had anything to bitch about. I decided to teach you about sex, and I found out that there's not that much left for you to learn. So after I change my clothes and buy you dinner down at the Sizzler, we're coming back here so you can teach me everything that you know."

I probably reacted with alarm. Trust me, Natalie Winston did not want to learn everything that I knew about sex.

She giggled again.

"And then," she whispered, "we'll be ready for when your two other older girlfriends get here tonight."

I honestly didn't think she wanted to be here for that, either.



-------

Chapter 8: The Accidental Menage, Part One


I awoke the next morning to the sound of pounding on the door. I stole a quick look at the clock. Seven-thirty. Seven-frickin'-thirty on Sunday morning. What kind of person would just show up at the house at seven-thirty on Sunday morning?

Natalie just turned over in my slightly undersized bed, facing the wall and using her butt to push me out. Hey, lady, I'm tired, too. Nine o'clock, eleven o'clock, three o'clock — who did she think I was, Superman? I had to admit, though, it was my house. If either of us were going to answer the door at this hour, it should probably be me. I sighed, slipped out of the covers, and pulled on my shorts. After I tiptoed out of the room, I strode down the stairs into the foyer, not even bothering to turn the lights on.

"Yes?" I said impatiently as I yanked open the door.

I was propelled back through the darkened hallway by a force of nature. She kicked the door shut behind herself.

"Your mom called me last night," Laura said giddily as she shrugged herself out of the trench coat that she had worn and let it drop to the floor. The thin pieces of cloth she was wearing underneath, a dark silk teddy and matching pair of panties, stunned me into continued silence. "She said you would be all alone this week and asked me to check up on you. David finished his laundry last night, and he left first thing this morning. So I decided to check up on you second thing."

By now I had retreated nearly all through the hallway and into the kitchen. I was vaguely aware that she held something in her hands. The door jamb stopped me, and I watched Laura drop to her knees in front of me and reach toward me, toward the waistband of my shorts. Oh, God. Even with a gorgeous woman sleeping upstairs, I had no more self-control than a dog presented with a T-bone. I closed my eyes. I felt Laura's hands on my wrists, and heard a quiet, unexpected click. I opened my eyes to find Laura staring up at me with a smile on her face. Then I realized my hands were cuffed behind my back.

"Laura?" I said sternly.

And then the pounding on the front door resumed.

"Who the fuck is that?" Laura looked toward the foyer and then back up at me. "I mean, what kind of person would just show up at your house at seven-thirty on Sunday morning?"

I executed a classic double-take.

"You did," I hissed.

"Besides me," she stood up and patted my cheek. "How many me's are there?"

That's what I was afraid of.

"Just ignore it," she advised. "It'll go away."

But I hadn't locked the door, and both of our eyes widened as we heard the door begin to open. Laura ducked back out of sight, leaving me standing there in a pair of shorts and a pair of handcuffs. In the dim light, I could only tell that the newcomer was wearing a trench coat like Laura's. And when she dropped it on the floor next to Laura's I could tell that she was wearing a teddy and panty set like Laura's. And, also like Laura, she held something in her hands.

"I came to check up on you," Pam said as she stared at my shorts. "But I see you're already up. I knew you'd be an early riser. I brought Mr. V and Mr. Z."

Laura stepped out to join me in the door.

"Well, why don't you just take your two friends and go on back home, honey?" she snapped.

"Laura?" Pam asked.

"Pam?" Laura leaned forward to try to penetrate the darkness.

The only thing lacking at this point was Natalie, who announced her arrival by switching on the lights in the hallway. She was completely naked.

"What is all the noise?"

She looked around at the frozen tableau, the three people blinking in the bright light.

"Your two older girlfriends are these... fossils?"

The way Natalie giggled out the word "fossils" broke the spell. Pam started giggling as well, and Laura joined right in.

"This is very funny, ladies," I tried to be the adult. "Now could someone please take these off?"

I turned to show Pam and Natalie my handcuffs.

"You own a pair of handcuffs?" Natalie asked me.

"They're hers," I nodded at Laura.

"I see. And what did you bring?" Natalie turned on Pam, who slowly brought out the hands she had been trying to hide behind her back. "A vibrator and a zucchini?"

Natalie walked over to where I was standing and took hold of the handcuffs.

"All right," she said. "Everybody upstairs. You two first. No, wait. Did you both park in the driveway?"

Pam and Laura nodded.

"Honestly," Natalie sighed. "What do you suppose Mrs. Parsons will say when she sees that? Go pull your cars into my driveway. I'll meet you upstairs.

Natalie propelled me up the stairs, and when I started to make the turn into my room, she stopped me with a jerk on the cuffs.

"Not there. Bed's too small. Down the hall."

"But that's Mom and Dad's room," I pointed out.

"No!" Natalie giggled. "Come on, studly. According to your mom, the bed probably needs the business. I'm sure the sheets are clean."

Of course they were. I'd done them yesterday, hadn't I?

We waited there for the others to join us, and in another minute, we were all settled on the bed. Pam and Laura efficiently stripped off the bedspread and blanket. Natalie efficiently stripped off my shorts, and pushed me to a seated position against the headboard. She was sitting to my left, with Pam and Laura in front of us.

"Leave the cuffs on, naughty boy," she waggled her finger in front of me as she saw my arms moving behind my back. "Or your friends will have to take their toys and go play at home."

She wrapped her slender right hand around my cock and slowly began stroking her thumb all the way from the base up to the crown of the head.

"Whereas if you're nice, maybe they'll find something to play with here."

I stopped struggling.

"First of all, ladies," Natalie looked at my new guests. "I'd like to thank you for training my new playmate. I'm a little hurt that neither of you mentioned it last month, when we were, uh, dishing the dirt in the living room. But since I'm obviously the new girl in the group, I'll tell my story first."

Natalie proceeded to relate, in explicit, often pornographic detail, all of the events of the last thirty-six hours of her life. Pam and Laura sympathized up to a point: the point at which Natalie told how she had announced her intention to teach me to satisfy my older lovers. After that, they started laughing. They stopped quickly, though, when she described the deliciously slow way that I had gotten her ready, the rhythmic in-and-out of our coupling, and finally her release into blissful oblivion.

Halfway through, Pam pulled aside her panties and pushed her vibrator inside herself.

"Hey," Laura complained.

"You can have the zucchini," Pam held it out with a nasty grin.

"I don't want your fucking zucchini," Laura said as I started shaking with laughter.

"Girls, girls, girls," Natalie shook her head. She reached out with her left hand to my mother's bedside table. Pulling the drawer open, she fished out a similar vibrator and tossed it to Laura.

"How did you know that would be there?" I asked in shock.

"Oh, come on. Deirdre?" Natalie said. "Puh-leeze. Can I finish now?"

By the time she was finished, both Pam and Laura were breathing hard. Both were staring at my cock, the one still playing hide-and-seek with Laura's fist, with undisguised lust.

"God, I wish I'd been there," Laura gasped after licking her lips.

"Me, too, girlfriend," Pam whispered.

Hell, by the time she was finished, I had started to wonder if I had been there. It sounded too good to be true. But my cock remembered it. I felt it begin to swell.

"Ladies," I said, "I'm gonna — ah, Natalie!"

As I announced my intention to climax, both Laura and Pam dove forward, mouths already open. Natalie took a different, slightly more painful, slightly less enjoyable approach. Her right hand squeezed my cock, effectively shutting me down. Her left hand shot forward, catching both Laura and Pam by the hair as their heads came together to try to catch my spending. Both of them came to a quick halt inches away from me, emitting little squeals of pain.

"Now girls," Natalie said, "we're not finished telling our stories, are we?"

"No," the two women said in unison.

"No what?" Natalie giggled.

"No, ma'am," Laura said.

"No, Ms. Winston," Pam said.

"Very good, girls."

Natalie finished her story quickly and decided that it was Laura's turn next.

"First of all, you don't owe me any thanks," Laura began. "He only fucked me once, well, for most of one day really. That was only last Saturday, when he came over to do some yardwork."

"And you seduced him?" Natalie asked.

Laura blushed and stared at the sheet.

"And he seduced you?" Natalie allowed a little surprise to creep into her voice.

Laura blushed harder.

"He, um..."

"Laura?" Natalie said softly.

The words rushed out of the older woman's mouth.

"He told me to get on my fucking knees, and that it was time for me to start doing some fucking work for him for a change. So of course I, um, complied."

I became aware that Pam and Natalie were both staring at me, their mouths open, their eyes wide.

"How did you guess," Pam started, "that Laura was... ?"

"I didn't," I said. "I was, um, talking to the lawn mower."

Amid roars of laughter, Laura and I finished telling "her" story, and we turned to Pam. Pam's story actually produced tears of laughter, both when she explained how she'd made friends with "Mr. Z," as she called him, and when she described the position she had been forced to take in the stall of the boys' room last Sunday.

Finally, the three women turned back to me.

"So let me see if I have this straight," Natalie said. "Two weeks ago on Friday afternoon you were a virgin."

"Well, yeah," I agreed.

"And since then you've become so good at sex, not to mention adept at vibrators, food, bondage, role-playing, and anal sex, that you can satisfy a bisexual and a submissive, as well as a horny housewife?"

"Well, I wouldn't say adept," I countered.

"That's true," Laura said. "He still needs some practice. Oh shit, I forgot the lube."

She turned bright red as she realized what she had said.

Pam calmly leaned forward and yanked open the drawer in Mom's bedside table again. Rummaging through it, she finally sat back and tossed a tube to Laura.

Natalie raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, come on. Deirdre?" Pam said to general laughter. "Although I have to take issue with the word satisfy. I think a more appropriate word would be satiate."

"Or in my case, stupefy," Laura giggled.

"So are we just going to sit around talking all morning?" Pam asked. "I mean, this naked, handcuffed stud's parents are gone all week long, and he's just sitting here in front of us, threatening to waste something we could all put to very good use."

"I'll be happy to use it first," Laura smiled.

Her suggestion did not meet with universal approval.

"I was here first, girls," Natalie pointed out.

"And got more than your fair share last night," Pam said. "I was the first overall, so I have seniority."

"And have already had him twice," Laura argued. "I'm the oldest, and he's wearing my handcuffs."

"I'm not putting it in me after it's been in your ass," Natalie shook her head.

"Fine," Laura said, crawling forward. "I'll save that for my second time."

"Your second time?" I choked out.

"Shut up," all three said together.

"Come on, blondie," Laura nodded. "Bottom of the bed. I left you my vibrator."

"You left me Deirdre's vibrator," Natalie complained as she took the place Laura had vacated. "Wet, too."

"Pick, pick, pick," Laura said. "Pam's fucking zucchini is still available."

"No," Pam explained, "actually we threw the fucking zucchini out. That's just a regular zucchini I bought at Safeway yesterday."

"Thanks anyway," Natalie picked up the vibrator.

By then, Laura had yanked her teddy over her head and slid her panties down her legs. Turning around to show me her ass, she straddled me and reached between her legs for my cock.

"Come on, baby, scoot down," she punctuated her order with a gentle but firm pull.

I scooted, enough so that I was finally lying on my back with my head on a pillow. And my hands still cuffed behind me. I was in no position to complain, of course. This was exactly the same position I had had Laura in a week earlier.

As cute as Laura's butt is, it isn't transparent. The only clear sight line I had was when she finished rubbing the tip of my cock against herself and raised herself up to make sure that Tab A went into Slot B. I could feel her riding up and down on me after that, of course. I could hear the buzz of the vibrators. I could hear Laura offer the other women a taste, of what I wasn't sure. But from the kissing and the moaning and the generally wet smacking noises, I had a pretty good idea. The blonde head visible on the right of Laura's chest and the dark head visible on the other side simply confirmed it. God damn these handcuffs.

Although the sight of Natalie Winston on one of Laura Stone's breasts and Pam Lee on the other would have been incredible, the thought of it alone was enough. With one more flex of Laura's well muscled hips, I moaned and emptied myself inside her.

But Laura wasn't finished. Pulling my limp cock out a few minutes later, she offered it around, and I felt my other lovers take her up on that offer as well. I had no idea which one was sucking my cock at any given moment. But they were very good at it.

After that, I was just a toy. A plaything. A sexual object.

It wasn't so bad.

We had contests to see who could take me deepest into her throat (Laura), and contests to see who could take me deepest in her butt (also Laura). When Laura tried to generate interest in a contest to see who could bury the most of my cock in her boobs, she was attacked and forced to service Pam and Natalie simultaneously with the two vibrators.

We did get a short break for lunch. Natalie's attempt to get us some breakfast had been voted down 2-1. People in handcuffs, I was informed, were not entitled to vote. Pam took over after lunch, and our activities changed a little bit. With me sitting against the headboard and Pam sitting astride me, we watched Natalie and Laura pleasure each other with their tongues. Natalie only needed a little convincing, Laura none at all. Laura was much better at that, too, and soon had little Natalie wriggling helplessly. Right before she fainted.

"Kids," Laura said, shaking her head as she looked at Pam and pushed herself up on her elbows.

"She does that," I added.

"Shut up," the two women said.

"Think I should just leave her?" Laura asked.

"No," Pam answered, "I think you should find Deirdre's strapon and put it on her and give yourself a good fucking. I'll race you."

"My mother's what?!" I asked.

"Strapon," Laura said. "Probably in the closet."

"She doesn't have a —" I started to protest.

"Oh, come on," they said in unison. "Deirdre?"

No doubt some sort of feminine intuition is necessary to find the hiding place of other women's sex toys. Natalie was wearing it in less than five minutes.

"Huh?" she shook her head, slowly waking up to see the same sight I had seen earlier in the morning: a Laura Stone moonrise. "What are you doing?"

"What you couldn't, honey," Laura said over her shoulder. "Now be a good girl. If I win, Mama will reward you with another session with Terry's nice big dick. Ready, bitch?"

"Go!" Pam yelled.

The room was soon filled with moaning, grunting, and finally screaming. Laura screamed first, and Pam shortly thereafter. Pam apparently considered that to be some sort of moral failing on my part. A sexual failing, at any rate.

"I'm sure if you had taken the handcuffs off, I could have given you a better ride than Natalie," I said huffily.

"Maybe," Natalie giggled. "And maybe not. Now, if you don't mind, how about we take a little break to watch Pammy's Pleasure Palace, and then it's my turn."

"Watch what?" Pam asked.

"Oh, you know he already got the video from his friend in the boys' room," Natalie nodded at me. "Where is it, Terry?"

"Yes," Pam said acidly. "Where is it, Terry?"

"In my, uh, computer," I confessed.

Laura gleefully ran to my room and returned with the DVD. Mom and Dad had a combination TV/DVD player, and in a few minutes we were all enjoying the show. Well, Natalie and Laura were enjoying the show. Pam was glaring at me, as if this too was somehow my fault, and I was wilting under her gaze. Then Laura decided to make up her own, even more explicit, narration, and she and Natalie got to laughing so hard by the end that they fell off the bed onto the floor. Even Pam had to admit that Laura's was the funnier of the two. The video had a slightly different effect on me, and when Natalie climbed back onto the bed, she glanced down at me with a smile.

"Oh, goody," she said. "Out of the way, girls."

"No, no, no," Pam said. "I want to see him do it again."

"Do what?" I asked.

"What you did yesterday."

"Yesterday?"

"When you made Natalie faint."

"Me, too," Laura chimed in.

"Okay," Natalie said shyly.

"I wasn't handcuffed then," I pointed out.

Laura reached behind my back and unsnapped them.

"She was wearing panties," I continued. "And a sweatshirt."

"Skip the shirt," Pam ordered. "As for panties..."

She got up and opened my mother's underwear drawer, pulling out a pair that was nearly devoid of fabric. They all looked at me expectantly, so I felt I had to oblige them.

"Those are my mom's?" I asked woodenly.

"Oh, come on," all three laughed. "Deirdre?"

Eventually, though, they found a pair closer to what Natalie had been wearing, and she slipped them on.

"Now," Pam said. "Let's take it from when you finally got his pants off."

"He had a shirt on," Natalie pointed out.

"For God's sake, just pretend," Laura said.

"No, it was important," Natalie insisted. So Laura fetched a shirt from my room and I pulled it on, making sure it covered my cock just as it had the afternoon before.

Fortunately, we remembered all the good lines: the "fucking God" line; the discussion about naming her breasts; my intention to worship her. I wouldn't say we duplicated it perfectly, but it was about as close as we could come without an actual script or a videotape. When Natalie fainted again at the end, I looked up, fully expecting a round of applause. And if it were possible to applaud with one hand controlling the buzzing vibrator buried inside your pussy, I'm sure I would have received one. As it was, I ended up with three unconscious women. I accepted that as a sort of fainting ovation.

Two hours later, we were just enjoying the last of Natalie's delicious dinner, made with the steaks that my mother had been saving for when she was in a good mood, and the red wine that she had been saving for when she was in a bad mood. We were all cleaned up by then, of course. Nobody was more surprised than I was, in fact, to learn that my parents had a shower big enough to hold four people. I know, I know — Oh, come on. Deirdre? And we were all dressed, in assorted gym shorts and T-shirts. We sat around the kitchen table, dividing the "checking up" schedule for the week. Natalie would take Monday, Pam Tuesday, and Laura Wednesday. I had a math test on Friday, so they decided that I should be allowed to study on Thursday night. Other than that, I was told, my homework had to be done by six o'clock every afternoon.

And then we started quarreling over who would be in charge on Friday night. I told them that the handcuffs were all well and good, but I had no intention of being the slave again next weekend. Finally, Pam decided we should play cards for it.

"You mean like gin rummy?" I asked.

"I mean like poker," she grinned.

"Sounds good to me," Laura said.

"I'm in," Natalie added.

"I don't know how to play poker," I pointed out.

"We'll teach you," Pam said. "Starting tonight."

"How about crazy eights?" I suggested.

"We'll just teach you tonight," Pam said softly, "and then play strip poker next Friday."

That was enough. It wasn't the idea of having them strip, of course. I figured that by this point I could probably get them to do that without the poker. But the idea of playing strip poker with Laura Stone, Natalie Winston, and Pam Lee was just too good to pass up.

"I'll get the cards," I nodded.



-------

Chapter 9: The Accidental Menage, Part Two


In retrospect, any rational person would have realized that a week-long district attorney conference wouldn't really last an entire week, from Monday to Sunday. If I'd thought about it at all, I would have known that, duh, it was only a work week, and that Mom would be back on Friday night. And I certainly wouldn't have invited the girls over to play on Friday night.

They had been "checking in" on me all week. Monday was Natalie, Tuesday was Pam, and Wednesday was Laura. I had Thursday night off. They all called, of course. I could hear Pam's vibrator through the phone.

Anyway, playing is exactly what we were doing when Mom walked through the front door on Friday night, just after nine o'clock. Five-card draw. By the time she arrived, Natalie had run out of chips and was out of the game. She was in the kitchen making popcorn. Laura was seated to my left and Pam to my right. All three of us looked up when we heard the door open. We were just as surprised to see Mom as she was to see us.

My mind was whirling. Two weeks ago, I probably would have fallen on the ground and begged her forgiveness for even considering having friends in the house when she and Dad were both away. Please, Mom, don't beat me. But two weeks ago I had a completely different set of friends. A younger set. A more immature set, perhaps. I was a much more confident kid now.

And I was a kid with a plan. That moment represented the very first instance that I even thought of blackmail in connection with the video that my mother had made. I had had it for over a month, a video with my mother and my new friends admitting transgressions that could have gotten them fired or blackballed or divorced. Such as, in my mother's case, divorced from a man who provided most of her disposable income. Before it had only been a source of knowledge, perhaps of inspiration. Now it was something different.

"Stay cool," I muttered to my guests.

"Ladies," Mom said cautiously as she walked in. She was wearing one of her DA power suits, a gray jacket with a matching short gray skirt. I could always tell when she had a bad case, because she always used that outfit to focus the jury's attention on the legs perched atop the three-inch heels rather than on the actual facts. Underneath the jacket was a tight white shirt primly buttoned at the collar.

"Deirdre," Laura and Pam acknowledged her together.

"What's going on?" Mom asked.

"Poker," I said, gesturing to the rather obvious pot in the middle of the table and the piles of chips, Laura's smallish pile and the more or less equal piles belonging to me and Pam.

"Since when have you played poker?" she asked.

"Monday, right?" I looked around the table. "No, it was Sunday. You guys?"

"Since college," Laura said as she studied her cards. "I'm gonna raise you thirty."

"Since high school," Pam laughed. "I'll see you and raise another thirty."

"I'm out," I said.

Laura called, and Pam showed her the three jacks in her hand.

"Damn it," Laura slapped down her cards. "All right, my deal, right?"

She picked up the cards and started shuffling. Mom, meanwhile, had slowly sidled around the table and slid into the seat opposite me.

"So, is this seat open?" she asked.

Pam and Laura looked at her and burst into laughter. My mother frowned. Nothing could have been better calculated to bother her than being the subject of laughter.

"Come on, deal me in," she insisted.

"Why don't you watch a hand first?" I asked.

"Just let me use the powder room and I'll be right back," she said.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Pam hissed after Mom had left the room. Laura just looked worried.

I was very proud of myself. I didn't say a thing. Just stared them into silence.

Mom came back and Pam dealt the cards. The hand was over quickly. Our rule was that if one person put all their chips into the pot, the others could call, and then everyone had to show their cards. Laura pushed all her chips in, and Pam and I called. Laura had two pair, Pam a pair of kings, and I had a full house.

"Fuck," Laura said.

"Laura," my mother chided her as if she were about to go get the soap.

"Oh grow up, DeeDee," Laura said, using the nickname my mother had hated in college.

Meanwhile, she was looking over at me nervously. I looked her directly in the eye and nodded. A broad grin spread over Laura's face as she reached for the hem of the green polo shirt she had on.

"So what am I bid?" she said.

"I don't want it," Pam laughed.

"Me, neither," I said. "Guess it's five hundred from the bank."

I watched my mother's eyes widen in horror as Laura pulled her shirt over her head to reveal her unharnessed breasts.

"What the hell is going on?" Mom asked as I counted out five hundred in chips from the "bank" and threw Laura's shirt onto the couch.

"Strip poker, Mom," I said. "But you're gonna have to buy in since you're late."

Mom rose to her feet in high dudgeon, her hands on her hips.

"All right. First off, I want you two bitches out of my house," she glared at Pam and Laura, "and then my son and I are going to have a very long talk."

I looked at Pam and Laura, both of them looking to me for guidance.

"Well, it is her house," I pointed out. I turned to the kitchen and raised my voice. "Natalie!"

"I'm coming," Natalie said impatiently, her voice growing louder as she got closer to the living room. "God, I think one of those unpopped little fuckers burned my boob. Sorry, tit. No wait, breast."

She was naked, of course, having run out of chips and then out of clothing earlier in the game. She walked in carrying a bowl of popcorn in one hand and applying an ice cube to her right breast with the other. Her head was bent to look at the injured flesh and it wasn't until she was within ten feet of the table that my mother finally found her voice.

"What the fuck!" Mom yelped.

Natalie froze.

"DeeDee," Laura gleefully scolded her with a finger, perfectly echoing the tone Mom had used on her.

"Mom's kickin' us out," I explained to Natalie. "So you better get dressed. Unless you still want to play, Mom?"

"Look, you little son of a bitch, I —" she began.

"Maybe you should sit down, Mom, and let me explain the stakes."

Stunned by the unexpected authority in my voice, Mom sat down.

"Okay, so me and the girls," I started.

"Women," Mom hissed, almost as a reflex.

I stared at her and then continued.

"Me and the girls were playing for the right to be master or mistress of the house for the rest of the weekend. But since you're here, that job's already taken, isn't it? So I'll tell you what, since you're already mistress, you can wager that. And if you win I'll give you back your tape."

"My what?" she asked.

"The tape you made of the girls last month when you played hearts together, where you confessed to sleeping with some tennis coach."

Mom flushed a bright red.

"There's no such tape," she sputtered.

"Oh, but there is," I insisted. "The one where Pam confesses to posing naked."

"That's where you learned about the magazine from," Pam stared at me before turning on Mom. "You fucking bitch."

"And Laura confesses to doing one of her son's friends."

Laura was just glaring at Mom.

"And Natalie says she slept with her husband's best man, although, seriously, Nat, you weren't even married yet."

Natalie's glare was equally as murderous as Laura's.

"I've never showed the girls the tape, but I'm sure they'll admire the way you maneuver them into their seats in front of the video camera on the shelf back there, and then sort of steer the conversation over to sex."

My mother was speechless for the first time in my entire life.

"So do they stay or go?" I asked. "'Cause if they go, I gotta tell you that after you finish yelling at me, I'm gonna go up to my room and e-mail a copy of the tape to Dad. Not the whole thing, of course. Just the part with you."

"You wouldn't dare," she hissed.

"I think he would," Pam chuckled.

Laura and Natalie joined her as the laughter grew.

"And if I win you give it to me," Mom raised her voice to override the laughter.

"That's right," I agreed.

"And your little skanks here crawl on home."

"My guests will leave, yes, mother."

There was a long pause as the lawyer in her weighed her options. None of them were really that good.

"All right, you bastard, deal the fucking cards."

"Okay," I said. "First, all the other girls started with four items of clothing, just like I did. "So you need to lose the jacket and shoes and the pantyhose."

She angrily stomped off to her room.

"I can't believe you're really gonna pull this off," Laura said giddily.

"Shut up, bitch," I growled.

"Sorry, sir."

Mom returned with the proper attire a few minutes later.

"Now," I explained as she took her seat. "As I said, since you came late, you're gonna have to buy in. The rule is that if you have no chips, you have to sell a piece of clothing to the bank for five hundred in chips. Or, you can put it up for bid if you think you can get more from me or the girls. If you don't, you can take the five hundred from the bank. And the good news is once you start winning, you can buy your clothes back any time you like."

"Well, isn't this just your adolescent fantasy run amok," Mom said.

"Yeah, I guess it is," I agreed.

"Mine, too," Pam smiled.

"And mine," the other two chimed in.

"Bitches," Mom muttered.

I smiled and continued.

"If you sell it to the bank, you can buy it back later for what you paid. That's how Laura got her shirt back. Once you put it up for bid, though, you have to pay the buyer twice what they paid to get it back. So like if Laura wants her bra back, she has to pay Pam what, twelve hundred in chips?

Pam pulled Laura's bra out from underneath the table.

"'Course it's a little wet," she giggled.

"It's wet?" Laura squealed.

"Sorry, since Nattie bought my panties, I had to use something to keep my skirt dry. This is very expensive leather."

"You slut!" Laura said.

Pam smiled and stuck her tongue out.

"See, Pam could buy her panties back from Natalie for eleven hundred, but that would let Natalie back in the game," I said, ignoring the girls and continuing my explanation. "So you ready? What are you selling?"

"My panties," Mom said after a very long pause.

She stood up and slipped her hands underneath her skirt, pulling an incredibly tiny piece of fabric down her legs.

"Five hundred please," she said, throwing it at me. It was a black thong, which I held up for everyone to see.

"Sure you don't want it out for bid?" Pam laughed. "I'll give you six hundred."

"I won't have it off long, bitch," my mother snarled. "And if you think I would pay you anything to buy it back... just deal the fucking cards, Terry."

Laura won a small pot, and then Pam won a fairly sizeable pot. Mom had dropped out early both times, but Laura's chips were once again getting a little low. Mom was actually a fairly smart player, and in the third hand, we ended up going head to head on a series of raises that seriously depleted both of our stacks of chips. She finally called me, and I laid down a flush.

"Shit!" she threw her cards down.

Laura went all in early in the next hand, and we all called. Mom gleefully pulled in the smallish pot with three twos. Laura sold her jeans to the bank for 500, leaving her sitting at the table in just her panties. Mom gave her a couple of looks, and then snidely asked her if she'd been dieting.

"Just getting a lot of exercise recently," Laura smirked, as Pam and Natalie burst into laughter.

Once again the laughter bothered Mom. Even better, it affected her play. She was all in on the next hand, and I picked up a modest pot. Mom stood up and pushed her chair back.

"Where do you think you're going?" Pam asked her.

"To go remove my bra," Mom muttered.

"Nuh-uh, lady," Pam said. "You want to sell your bra, you do what everybody else does, take off your shirt, and then take off your bra. Then you can put your shirt back on. Or you can try to take it off without taking your shirt off."

"Yeah," Laura smiled. "You used to be pretty good at that in college."

Mom stared at Laura for a few seconds before giving in. Maybe in a polo shirt like Laura's she could have, but not in one of her work shirts.

"All right, my fucking shirt. Five hundred."

She undid the buttons from top to bottom, holding the sides together as she went. She glared at each of us in turn, and then whipped the shirt off her shoulders to reveal a lacy black bra. I was counting out the chips when the shirt hit me in the face.

"What kind of conference was this?" Pam asked. "That's a nice set of undies for a lawyer conference, isn't it, DeeDee?"

Mom flushed bright for a second time.

"Just deal," she muttered.

"Actually, it's your deal, dear," Pam plonked the pack in front of her.

The game went back and forth, luck running in and out as we went around the table. I paid seven-fifty for Laura's panties, and she was now sitting at the table completely naked. Natalie just sat on the couch, equally naked, occasionally reading a magazine or the newspaper, until she finally got bored.

"So anyone want head?" she chirped.

"Want what?" my mother nearly got whiplash from turning that quickly. By then she'd bought back her shirt, although she hadn't bothered to button it up. And she never had bought back her thong. The bank owned my ball cap (Laura had loaned me hers so that I would have four pieces of clothing), and Laura had bought my shirt. But I owned Pam's bra, and the bank had her shirt. Unlike Mom, Pam could care less about sitting there topless. She was determined to accumulate chips at the sacrifice of her clothing, although the only thing she had left to sell if things went south now was her nice leather miniskirt.

"Well, I'm not busy," Natalie said.

"You're a little too distracting for me," I smiled at her. "I don't want to lose my edge."

"Is that what you guys are calling it now?" Pam asked, leaning backward to look at my crotch under the table. "You can't have produced all that much edge in the last two days."

Laura and Natalie both giggled, and my mother slowly came to understand what Pam had been saying.

"You've been fucking my son?" she spat at Pam as she jerked herself to her feet. "You've earned yourself a real quick trip to jail, you fucking slut."

"Your son's been blackmailing me, Deirdre," Pam smiled. "With the pictures he apparently learned about from your taping session. That'll make a fun trial, huh?"

"And you?" Mom slowly turned to look at Laura, who gave her a small smile.

Mom looked at Natalie without speaking, and the younger woman just eagerly nodded her head.

"Of course, Laura and Natalie aren't my teachers," I said. "And I am eighteen, Mom. So all you can do to them is throw them out of your house. Oh, but that's right. That's when the tape will get sent to Dad. Now shut up, sit down, and finish the game."

Apparently, I was getting very good at that. She shut up. She sat down.

Laura dropped out after the next hand, and joined Natalie on the couch. Natalie was delighted to have someone to play with, and in a few minutes, Laura was leaning back against one of the arm rests, with Natalie's lips locked around one of her fat nipples.

"Oh, my God!" my mother exploded in righteous indignation after following my gaze over to the couch.

"Oh, it's not like you didn't like this in college, DeeDee," Laura grinned over at her. "'Ooh, Laura, I could suck on these all day.'"

We went back to playing cards. Pam followed Laura about twenty minutes later. Mom was missing her shirt again, and I had a very substantial pile of chips in front of me. Two hands later, we were down to what would probably be her last hand before she had to sell off her bra.

At that point, though, she got serious. And pretty damn lucky. Chips started flowing her way, and my clothes started flowing toward the bank. I was getting nervous. I was starting to sweat. Finally, I had to stand up and pull down my briefs for my last five hundred chips. Mom refused to watch me. Instead, she just smugly sat there, putting her chips in colorful little piles, buying back her shirt one more time. I won the next hand from her, doubling my pile to a thousand. I won the next hand as well, although Mom dropped out when the pot reached five hundred. That gave me an even twelve hundred.

"Why don't you save yourself the embarrassment and give me the tape now?" she sneered as she collected the cards for the next hand.

"You mean the embarrassment of jumping up every time you give an order?" I asked. "The embarrassment of doing all the cleaning, and cooking, and laundry? The embarrassment of having you insult me in front of every single date I bring over here? The embarrassment of having you parade yourself in front of all my buddies when they come over? The embarrassment of me having to listen to you call your best friends skanks? Am I gonna be able to save myself all that if we stop playing right now?"

She glared at me. I glared back. Her chin started upward.

"And you think having me run around the house, doing your cleaning and cooking and laundry, and insulting me in front of my so-called friends this weekend is going to be embarrassing for me, little boy?" she said haughtily. "You don't have the balls."

"You know, I actually do," I said as I stood up. She couldn't help but look, and was obviously surprised that her "little boy" wasn't so little anymore. "But I think I'd rather use 'em somewhere else for the moment. Laura."

"Yes?" she said languidly. She was sitting in the middle of the couch, with one of Natalie's fingers tracing circles around her left breast, and Pam's palm between her legs.

"I need my shirt."

"I'm busy," she whined. "It's under my chair."

"The shirt you bought for six hundred chips," I pointed out. "I want to buy it back."

"But I'm out," she protested.

"Rules are rules, babe. While I'm in the game, I have an absolute right to buy back my clothes for twice what you paid."

"Fuck."

The girls disengaged themselves. Laura stood up.

"But you won't have any chips," she pointed out as she reached the table.

"Funny, huh?" I smiled.

"All right, then, I'll buy back my panties."

"You can't yet. That'll cost you fifteen hundred."

"Bastard," she muttered.

I leaned down to whisper in her ear as she reluctantly took a seat.

"If she wins, she's gonna either chuck you all out or spend the weekend whipping your cute little asses. If you buy back your panties and get me back in the game, I might give her the whip anyway if I win. But if you win..."

The start of a smile spread across Laura Stone's face.

"Bastard," she chuckled.

"I'll try to make sure she gets a little distracted," I added.

"Are you in or out?" Mom demanded.

"Deal the cards, DeeDee," Laura smiled.

They started playing in earnest as I took my seat on the couch between Pam and Natalie. My cock was already erect, and it didn't take long for the girls to decide it needed to be sucked, with the two brunettes, one light and the other dark, taking turns.

"Do you mind?" Mom asked, staring over at us.

"Oh, they're just practicing," I said. "They're afraid that Laura's gonna have another deep throat contest when she beats you."

Mom angrily turned back to the game. I looked down to see the girls whispering to each other, each with one of their hands gripping my cock as if they were about to get into an argument over who got to sing the next song at a karaoke bar. Finally, though, they both nodded. Natalie stood up, Pam dropped to the floor.

"Oh, God," I moaned. Natalie had straddled me, facing the table of course, and as Pam held my cock in place, she had slowly dropped down to my lap. Pam released my cock as Laura's pussy swallowed it, and now I could feel my beautiful French teacher's lips encircling one of my balls and starting to suck.

"Terry!"

"Mother, shut the fuck up. If you win you can give all the fucking orders you want. How's it going, Laura?"

I peered around Natalie, trying not to do anything to interfere with her rhythm. I was very pleased to see my mother down to her bra and skirt again. Laura, still naked, had a sizeable pile of chips in front of her.

I had watched all three women play poker, both during our Sunday game and during the individual tutorials during the week. Natalie was an indifferent, mostly uninterested player, as happy to win as she was to lose. Pam was far more aggressive, but not quite as good at bluffing as the others and certainly not as good at calculating the strength of her hand. Laura was by far the best, and I could think of only one reason for her early exit from this evening's game. She actually wanted to lose. She didn't want to be in charge for the entire weekend. Where's the fun in being a dominant submissive?

But there was one person she would play seriously, one person to whom she desperately wanted not to lose. And now she had a chance to play her. For years, she had watched my mother, the woman with the better figure, the better job, the seemingly better marriage. This was Laura's weekend. And as I watched, she gleefully raked in yet another pot, forcing my mother to strip off her bra in disgust.

"Mmm, nice boobies, DeeDee," Natalie said from in front of me. "Sorry, I meant breasts."

"Yours are breasts, love," I kissed her on the back of her neck. "Hers can be boobies."

"Or hooters," Natalie giggled.

"That's it, bitch," Mom jumped to her feet, her hooters jiggling back and forth. "Get off my son, you little whore."

"Sit down, DeeDee," Laura said sharply. "Trust me, your son has absolutely no interest in fucking you. But if you don't park your ass in that chair in the next ten seconds, when I win this game, I'm gonna go upstairs and flush your little tube of K-Y down the john, and then I'm going to take your little strapon and fuck the shit out of it."

Clearly taken aback by her former suitemate's venom, Mom parked her ass as instructed.

"Good girl," Pam applauded Laura.

"Don't you girls have something more important to do?" I asked.

Laughing, Pam and Natalie went back to what they were doing before. In another ten minutes my mother was sitting naked at the card table. Ten minutes after that, Laura gave her first order.

"I want to see the tape," she said.

"Why?"

She raised an eyebrow at me.

"Sorry, ma'am," I said. "Excuse me, ladies."

Laura, Pam, and Natalie watched the tape with growing disgust. I watched Mom, sitting on the floor in front of the three women on the couch. Laura was right, I really didn't have any interest in becoming sexually involved with my mother. That was just kind of, well, gross. Seeing her humiliated and punished? I could do that. But fucking her? No way. I did have to admit, though, that my buddies were right. She was a very attractive woman. A nice firm butt, well-toned legs, and nicely sized, er, boobies. And she was a woman who owned a tube of lube, a vibrator, and a strapon set. This could actually turn into a rather enjoyable weekend.

The ladies were seething by the time the tape ended. So maybe it wasn't going to be that enjoyable for Mom.



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Chapter 10: The Accidental Menage, Part III


"God damn it," I screamed at her. "Just bend over and fucking stick it in!"

"I can't," my mother turned her tear-streaked face toward me and sobbed in abject humiliation.

"Of course you can," I sneered at her. "Pam can, can't you Pammie?"

"Oh, sure," Pam chuckled as she sat cross-legged on the floor watching us.

"Natalie?"

"Since I was twelve," the hot little housewife giggled.

"Laura probably used to do it two or three times a day," I pointed at the fourth member of my little group. She was sitting between Pam and Natalie and, like them, enjoying this immensely.

"For seventeen years," she smiled.

"It doesn't go that way!" Mom screamed.

"Of course it 'goes that way, '" I screamed right back at her. "Women have been making it 'go that way' for hundreds of years."

"But I never have," she wailed.

"Well, it's about fucking time you learned, isn't it?"

She sniffled.

"I said, isn't it, bitch?"

"Yes," she said.

"I'm sorry?" I held my temper in check.

"Yes, sir," she exhaled.

"Good," I said. "Pam, show her one more time."

Pam jumped to her feet, grabbed my mother by the hair, and pulled her back onto the floor.

"Now look, bitch," she was using her teacher tone of voice, pitched to the level of a six-year-old. "You tuck the end of the top sheet under the mattress like this. Then you grab the side of the sheet about nine inches from the bottom of the bed. That's a little bit smaller than your son and a little bit larger than that strap-on you were enjoying so much last night. Okay? You pull it up so it looks like a sail, you tuck the back of the sail under the mattress, and then you fold the sail down and under so you have a nice neat corner. Now there's one more corner left. One last chance, bitch. Try not to fuck it up."

That was probably my favorite moment of the entire weekend, although I really wish I had been the one to say that last bit.

You've got one last chance, bitch. Try not to fuck it up. Like you did the laundry. And the breakfast.

Sorry. I got a little carried away there. That little bit of theatre didn't take place until the middle of Sunday afternoon, after Laura had turned control of the household over to me. So perhaps I had better go back to Friday evening.

For your average guy, seeing his mother stark naked on her king-size bed would have at least been mildly titillating. Seeing her resting her weight on her forearms and knees, her ass high in the air, probably would have been enough to produce a nice little boner. Seeing her hands cupped around the ass of her very attractive young neighbor while her face is buried between that little cutie's thighs, all the while being fucked from behind by her son's exotic-looking French teacher? Let's just say it wouldn't stay a boner for very long, particularly if his mother looked even half as good as mine did.

For me? Eh, not so much.

Not that I didn't have a boner, too, of course. And not that I wasn't in danger of shooting any second now. But that was because Laura Stone was right next to my mother, in virtually the same position, and I had my cock buried balls deep inside her. Since Laura's mouth wasn't buried in Natalie's muff, she was free to narrate her experiences for my mother's benefit.

"Your son —" Laura grunted in rhythm with my thrusts, "is so big — and so thick — and so good at this. — Bet you wish — you had a nice warm cock — about to shoot its load — in your dried up little cunt. — OW!

She turned her head to look back at me.

"What the hell was that for?" she demanded.

I couldn't really tell her. I didn't really know. I was enjoying the whole scene, right up until she took that last jab at my mother.

"Cum, bitch," I growled at her, slapping her one more time on the ass.

"Oh, fuck!" Laura groaned, twisting the sheets in her fists as her body twisted beneath me in response to my command.

I looked over at Pam and smiled. Laura might be the mistress of the house for the weekend, but she still responded to her master.

Then we both looked down at Mom. Natalie had opened her eyes and was looking down at her as well.

"Oh God, yes," my mother moaned.

Natalie spread her knees so that we could better hear Mom's muffled whimpers.

"Oh, fuck yes. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Yes!"

"That's a pretty good talent," Pam whispered.

"Yeah," I agreed. "I got two orgasms with one order."

We watched our respective partners finish climaxing, and then Laura announced that it was bedtime.

"But I haven't cum yet," Natalie protested.

"Like I really care, honey bitch," Laura smiled. "Besides, when I said 'bedtime, ' I meant that my old college suitemate and I are going to go take her son's bed and re-enact the 'good old days.'"

"Terry's staying here?" Natalie's face lit up.

"Terry's staying here," Laura agreed. She pointed a finger at me.

"And when we get together, I want to find these two bitches just as well trained as your mom and I are."

"I'll do my best, mistress," I tugged on my forelock. "Two more climaxes on demand coming up."

"Good man," she said.

"Good man," my mother panted, finally pushing herself off the bed and shaking her head to clear the cobwebs. Laura had already fetched the handcuffs from the floor. She cuffed my mother's hands behind her back and led her out of the room.

"What are you doing?" I looked over at Pam.

"Taking off the strapon?"

She stopped and looked back on me.

"But Natalie hasn't come yet," I pointed out.

Both women got wicked grins on their faces. Natalie eagerly spread her legs as Pam moved between them.

"What are you doing?" Pam asked me over her shoulder after she pushed the strapon into Natalie's sopping wet slit. I had centered myself over Pam, and was taking advantage of the fact that the straps that held the strapon in place did absolutely nothing to prevent my access to my pretty French teacher.

"You and I haven't cum yet either," I pointed out. "Now are you going to start taking this training seriously or not?"

When I awoke the next morning, I had Pam Lee snoring lightly on one shoulder, and Natalie Winston drooling happily on the other.

"So what's on today's agenda?"

I opened my eyes to see Laura standing in the doorway. My mom was at her feet, a leather collar around her neck and a leather leash leading from it to Laura's hand.

"Breakfast," I said excitedly.

"No, I mean for this one," Laura gestured at Mom.

"Breakfast," I repeated. "I want her to make breakfast."

"Breakfast?" Pam whined as she stretched and woke up. "Anyone can make breakfast."

"She can't," I pointed at my mother.

"What do you mean she can't make breakfast?" Natalie said from the other side.

"Dad and I have split the breakfast duties for the last five years," I explained. "So it would really make me happy to see Mom do it for a change."

"How happy?" Laura grinned.

I looked down to where Mr. Happy was already starting to make himself a nice little tent in the bedsheets. Laura followed my gaze.

"Come on, bitch," she yanked on the leash. "Let's go make some breakfast."

The girls took turns with my Mom for the rest of the day. Laura liked having her boobs licked and kissed, and Mom liked to lick and kiss them. Natalie liked having her pussy played with, and Mom was more than happy to oblige. And Pam liked using the strapon that we had found buried in Mom's closet last weekend. It apparently wasn't the only thing Mom had buried. It would never have occurred to me, and perhaps not even to her, that she would have been that responsive, that willing to lose control of herself. By the end of Saturday afternoon, her hair matted with sweat, her muscles tired from her earlier effort, she was still screaming at Pam to fuck her harder, faster, more, more, more.

Dividing the girls into those sessions still left two girls for me each time. I did my best to keep up my end of the bargain. Keeping anything of mine up proved harder and harder, though, as first Pam and then Natalie took my smaller and smaller loads deep inside of them. Finally, when Laura announced that she was taking me back to my bed for the evening, I had to tell that it would likely prove a disappointment to her.

"Honey," Laura whispered as we left an exhausted trio of women in Mom and Dad's bed, "right now I just want to fall asleep with you at my breast. Then tomorrow morning I'm turning control of this little zoo over to its rightful master.

"And I'm hoping," she concluded as we climbed into bed, "that his first order of business is to fuck the shit out of his best little slave."

I could do that.

And after I did that, we taught Mom a little bit more about how to make breakfast. Then we taught her how to do the laundry. Then I watched her push the vacuum cleaner around the house and dust the furniture. All of it naked, of course. The girls just watched in bemusement, entertaining each other when they felt the need.

-------

"Why?" I asked Mom as she sat motionless on the edge of the bathtub.

"Why what, honey?"

It was still strange to hear a voice that meek coming from my mother's mouth.

"Why did you tape the girls?"

The other girls stopped their work to await the answer: Pam, busy with her razor between Mom's thighs; Laura, giving her a manicure; and Natalie, mascara pencil in hand.

"Please," Mom looked away, her fair skin turning red.

"We could always send Laura out in your place when Dad gets home," I smiled gently.

"No!" she said quickly. "It was because I wanted..."

We could be very patient.

"I wanted them," she finally whispered.

"You wanted what?" I asked.

"Pam, Natalie, Laura," she pointed at the girls. "I wanted what you have."

"You mean you wanted to suck these?" Laura asked as she cupped a boob in her free hand.

"Or lick this with your nice, long, fat tongue?" Natalie giggled as she stuck a finger in her pussy.

"Or have me hammer your wet slit with that nice big strapon," Pam smiled.

"Yes," Mom hung her head. "And yes and yes."

"Wait a minute," I interrupted. "You mean to tell me that even after I took the tape away from you, I still accidentally managed to give you exactly what you wanted?"

Mom looked at me with a sly grin on her face.

"'Fraid so, honey," she said, sending the other girls into hysterics.

"Take it off," I told Pam in as petulant a tone of voice as I could summon.

"All of it?"

"You said a landing strip," Mom protested.

"Landing strip," I muttered. I took the crop that I held in my hand and slapped it against my open palm. "I'll land you a nice little strip in a minute."

"I'm so scared," Mom laughed. "You haven't touched me all weekend."

"No, but I have good help," I said with a vicious smile. "I'll give it to Pam."

"I'm sorry, honey," she said instantly. "Come on, Pam. You heard the boss. Shave it clean."

All of them were finished in twenty minutes, and after ten more minutes of waiting we heard the front door open up and Dad's voice call out.

"I'm home!"

I smiled at my mother, naked except for the leather collar she wore around her neck. I took her leash in my hand and paused.

"Now what are you going to do?" I asked, as if we hadn't been planning this ever since Dad had called in the middle of the afternoon to tell us when he would be getting home.

A shiver of anticipation coursed through her.

"I will crawl out to my husband on my hands and knees," she answered breathlessly, "my collar around my neck, and I will beg him to make me his."

"Just as?" I prompted.

"Just as I will be his for the rest of our lives, until death do us part," she finished. The smile on her lips told me that her hesitation was not from fear or unwillingness, but from a joy that she had located deep within herself over the past weekend.

"Good girl," I said, turning her around and slapping her on the butt. That was the first time I had touched her, and she rewarded me with another shiver.

"Hands and knees," I ordered.

She dropped to the ground, and I put her leash in her mouth.

Pam opened the door and Mom began the crawl out to the foyer.

We all waited in silence until we heard my father.

"Deirdre?"

"Mafter," my mother mumbled around the leash.

All three girls turned to me, their faces wreathed in smiles.

"Mafter?" they asked me in unison. "What next?"

-------

As a general rule, I think an aunt should be older than her nephew. Just as an example, you don't want to be a senior in high school, and have your Aunt Betty in the junior class. So even though the difference in this case was only fifteen minutes, I was happy that Terry Martin, Jr. was born after Laura Pamela Martin. Although it was touch and go there for a while, because both moms went into labor at pretty much the same time. And, of course, that was supposedly all my fault. And, of course if I hadn't had such a nice, big, talented cock, Natalie wouldn't have forgotten to take her birth control pills that weekend in the first place. Uh-huh.

As I had predicted, Natalie's husband had come crawling back as soon as his little student-aesthete had gotten her B-plus. Once he found Natalie pregnant, with her neighbor's kid growing inside her, he had crawled away again. The divorce had gone quickly, and well from Natalie's standpoint. It seems that he thought his employer would react much more harshly to the news of his little dalliance than anyone at all would react to the news of his wife's.

Still, they did have to sell the house. By then, though, Dad and Mom were quite resigned to the fact that Natalie and I were in love, and they allowed the two of us to finish a basement apartment to live in until we left for college the following fall.

It was at my graduation that all the excitement began. I strode eagerly across the makeshift wooden stage to accept my diploma. I shook the principal's hand and, as I headed off the stage, I looked down into the face of Pam Lee, sitting in the front row of the faculty chairs right next to the woman that she would be sharing an apartment with starting next month, Maryanne Nelson. Both women were smiling at me. I smiled back at them. And completely missed the first of the two steps that led down to the floor.

I flew forward, watching as my face came closer and closer to Mrs. Nelson's lap. And then there I was, sending her flying backward and collapsing her folding chair.

There was a collective gasp from the audience.

"Are you okay?" Pam was down beside me.
"I'm fine," I mumbled. For a guy with a mouthful of Maryanne Nelson's dress.

"I'm fine, too," Mrs. Nelson started chuckling.

"He's fine!" I heard Pam shout to everyone.

"I thought I told you, Terry" Pam whispered. "She's not interested in any of that."

Beneath me, Mrs. Nelson squirmed a little bit.

"Oh, I don't know," she said in an equally low voice that only Pam and I could hear. "I mean, if he's as good as you say he is..."

"OH, SHIT!"

And suddenly I was no longer the center of attention.

The whole gathering turned to look at my mother. She and Natalie had both stood up when I went down. Now Mom stood there looking down at her belly. She turned to whisper to my father.

Then the same expression came over Natalie's face. Next to her, Laura Stone burst into laughter. Her new boyfriend, a very nice architect who'd been to our house several times for dinner, had to hold her in place to keep her from sliding between the gaps in the bleachers.

So somehow it was my fault that both of them had their water break while the eyes of the entire graduation crowd were upon them. I left the ceremony with them at that point, and Dad drove us all to the hospital. I was with Natalie for her labor, and Dad was with Mom for hers.

It had been really neat to watch my parents over the last few months. I could see now what had attracted them to each other in the first place; they both adored each other. And the business-like demeanor that had characterized their relationship for as long as I could remember was replaced with a touchy-feely playfulness that was sometimes downright sickening.

It was true that they also had to put up with Natalie and I displaying exactly the same sort of behavior. And with Laura coming over to visit us on occasion before she made her new architect friend. The last time that Laura had visited us, though, wasn't to play with me and Nat. I had been quite surprised to find her at the door one Sunday afternoon, late in Natalie's eighth month.

"Hi," I said, giving her a kiss on the lips. "What brings you here?"

"A phone call," she said, her eyes twinkling as I closed the door behind her.

"From Natalie?"

I was a little surprised. Natalie had been particularly uncomfortable the last few weeks, and hadn't been in a real playful mood. Maybe, though, she'd arranged an alternative treat for me.

"Nooo," Laura drew out the word.

"Then... ?" I asked.

"Laura," my mom waddled into the room and gave Laura another full-mouth kiss.

"Thanks for calling, Deeds," Laura smiled.

"Oh, well, I'm not feeling very playful myself right now, so I thought I'd give John an alternative treat."

"Son of a bitch," I blurted out.

The two women turned to look at me and started giggling.

"Oh, I don't think John would mind if you joined in," Mom said.

"Yeah, but Natalie —" I started to say.

" — has always liked watching her stud in action," Natalie whispered as she wrapped her arms around me from behind.

Natalie and I are going to be married before we leave for Boston in the fall, where I'll be attending Boston College. So the only thing bothering me at this point is the wedding itself. On the way out of church, after we had met with the minister to arrange the service, I heard Mom asking him if it were possible to hold the ceremony without me actually being there.

I stewed about that all day and finally asked her about it over the supper table.

"Honey, I want my new daughter-in-law to have the best wedding she possibly can," she said sweetly. "Why take the chance on ruining her day with some sort of accident?"

I love my mom now. But she's still a bitch.


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The End
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Posted:  2006-12-01
Last Modified: 2007-05-04 / 11:11:05 am
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