Hotwife Chapter 3A The Continuation Of My Hotwife s Weekend
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The quotidian fuckfest that was the Suzie Bowen Experience continued apace. Unfortunately, the time we spent together that didn’t involve sex seemed more pointless than ever. Not that there was a lot of it. Her affinity for orgasms at someone’s hand other than her own was probably equal to mine
Often we had to limit ourselves to quick blowjobs, handjobs, and finger fucks. One night, while her mother sat in the living room watching a “Hawaii Five-O” rerun, Suzie made us grilled cheese sandwiches in the tiny Bowen kitchen. Sitting at the square Formica kitchen table, she scooted her chair up close to the corner and said “Take it out.” I unzipped and pulled out my cock under the table. She took it in her hand and started jerking it, eating her half of grilled cheese sandwich with the other hand, looking past me over my shoulder toward the kitchen doorway.
“You need to give me your load. I’m really horny,” she said. “Feed it to me.”
“Then get ready,” I breathed.
She put down her sandwich, ducked her head under the table, took my cockhead between her lips, and sucked me. I pressed the heels of both hands onto the seat of my kitchen chair, raised my hips, and started pumping cum into her mouth.
After she swallowed it down and I repacked my half-hard dick in my pants, she sat on my lap so I could put my hand inside the leg of her shorts and slide two fingers inside her.
“What if she comes in?” I whispered.
“Just take your fingers out.” She was already panting lightly. “But she won’t.”
I finger-fucked her through the leg of her shorts until she hunched forward, grabbed the edge of the table, and came.
When I removed my hand, my fingers painted a glistening red trail along the skin of her thigh.
“Oh, damn,” she said. She grabbed a paper towel to wipe her leg, then jammed it down the front of her shorts and hurried off to the bathroom. I washed up at the kitchen sink and sat back down to finish my sandwich. Soon I heard the voices of Suzie Bowen and her mother in the other room, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying, their words swept up in the murky wash of music and noise from the TV.
I was pressing my pinky finger into the few sharp sandwich crumbs on my plate, one by one, when Suzie Bowen came back into the kitchen wearing a different pair of shorts. She sat down and took a bite of her cold sandwich.
“Guess the pool is closed for a few days,” she said.
.:.
The next Wednesday was the hottest day of the summer by far. The sun was a milky smear beneath the morning’s humid pall. The haze burned off by the time I finished my first yard. I spent long time at the Cameron’s garden hose, and then again at the Jankewicz’s, both drinking from it and letting the water run over my head. By the time I got to Mrs. Fulton’s yard I was feeling overmatched by the heat, but fortunately she had a stately, sprawling crimson maple dominating her yard that kept the sun off my head for a while.
Ed and Eleanor Kaminski’s yard was a different story, treeless and hot as a parking lot beneath the fierceness of the afternoon. Eleanor Kaminski greeted me briefly before ducking back inside to get out of the heat. She was wearing a bright pink ribbed tube top, the integrity of the fabric stretched nearly to the point of compromise, and a pair of denim cut-offs.
I pulled off my sweat-soaked t-shirt and tied it around my head. I worked fast, as much to get out of the heat as quickly as anything else. We were in the midst of such a rainless stretch that their grass barely needed mowing, and large patches of it were already turning brown. Ed Kaminski couldn’t be bothered to run a sprinkler now and then.
I finished and rolled the mower back into the shed. I wondered if I should stay in there a while, if she expected me to, and if she would come out and look for me there, try to catch me at what I was sure she knew I’d done in there the previous two weeks. I waited a bit, but not too long, not wanting to be too obvious. When I finally came out, she was standing on their tiny back porch, waving me over.
“You should have a glass of iced tea,” she said.
“That would be great,” I said. I unwound my t-shirt from my head, wiped my face, and slung it over my shoulder.
“Come on into the kitchen. It’s too hot out here.”
A rattling panel fan in the kitchen window pushed around a lot of warm, soupy air. The room smelled of cigarette smoke, cooking oil, and a faint undertone of bananas rotting somewhere. I stood there uneasily, hands jammed in the pockets of my painter’s pants—one of which held the rubbers I bought last week—my heart beating fast, while Eleanor Kaminski dumped a scoop of powder into a tall glass, added tap water, and stirred it all up into a murky, swirling brown. She went to the freezer and took out an aluminum tray of ice, yanked the handle to free the cubes, then dropped a couple into the glass.
She leaned against her kitchen counter while I drank my iced tea, asking me the usual inane questions: yes, I was excited about going to college; no, I didn’t have a serious girlfriend; right, it was better not to be tied down to anyone just now.
Then, Eleanor Kaminski took one of the ice cubes from the tray gleaming wetly on the counter and began rubbing it lightly over her throat and around to the back of her neck while she talked. She closed her eyes and smiled as she ran that ice cube back and forth across her chest.
“So hot today,” she said. “This feels so good.”
The chill of it made her nipples light up. A pulse of lust surged through me. This was the moment. I could lean in and lick the cool water that was trickling down her neck and chest. I could pull down that tank top and release those rich tits.
And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The blood was beating in my temples and I felt that damnable trembling start rattling me. I set my glass of brown sugar water on the counter.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but can I use your bathroom.”
She opened her eyes, still smiling a little. “Of course,” she said. “It’s at the top of the steps.” She pointed out toward the living room.
I felt like I was drunk. The room seemed to pitch and tilt. I barked my shin against the corner of her coffee table as I passed through the living room to the staircase. My face was burning up. I needed to splash some water on it and take a moment to collect myself. I thought, maybe then…
I don’t remember pulling myself up the stairway but I did, because that’s where I came to, on the carpeted hallway floor in front of the bathroom. There was a wet washcloth on my forehead, and Eleanor Kaminski was kneeling next to me, sitting back on her heels, pressing another washcloth to my cheek and neck.
“What happened?” I croaked.
“You fainted,” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m glad you didn’t make it into the bathroom. You might have cracked your head on something.”
I lay there for another minute or two, letting her press the washcloth around my neck and throat. I turned over and got to my knees. Eleanor Kaminski rose up on hers.
“Better?” she said, nodding.
I took the front of her tube top in both hands—it was taut as a drumhead—and peeled it down. Her tits jounced joyfully free and hung almost brightly, compared to the sepia of her other tanned areas, in the humid ache of her second floor landing.
“Perfect,” I said, and kissed her. She accepted that kiss and moaned into my mouth as I cupped her heavy breasts in my hands, and began her long, curious tumble down the rabbit hole.
Which brings us to the moment where this tale began: my introduction to Eleanor Kaminski’s lavish bush and how I ate licked and tongue-fucked her to a whopping orgasm on the floor, the likes of which, I was certain, she’d never experienced.
Even though I was still light-headed, I had recovered sufficiently to realize that the fainting was my cover. If she screamed, or pushed me away when I pulled down her top, I could claim temporary insanity from my heat stroke. But she didn’t do either of those things. Instead, she kissed me back as I fondled her large breasts, both of us on our knees. Then I bent my head sideways to take one of her nipples between my lips and sucked it, and ran the tip of my tongue in circles around it.
“I know what you did in the shed,” she whispered.
I didn’t respond, just kept licking and sucking.
“I saw your sperm,” she said, bracketed between little grunts.
I put a hand between her legs, over her jeans.
“Oh,” she flinched a little, but didn’t push me away. So I opened the button and peeled down the zipper.
It was strange at first, eating another pussy other than Suzie Bowen’s. It was like listening to a live version of a song you really like: exciting when you hear those opening chords and you know what’s coming, but then slightly different in its contours. Familiar, but still a piece unto itself.
Eleanor Kaminski was still panting on the floor, with her eyes closed and a hand at her throat. Her big, luscious body was naked but for the tube top girdling her mid-section. The upstairs was oppressive from the summer heat, and only dimly lit by mid-afternoon sun leaking around a drawn blind at the end of the hall. Lines of sweat were running down my chest and ribs. I was worried that, having had a powerful orgasm, she might experience some in-rush of conscience, and I didn’t want to miss my chance to fuck her.
Still kneeling between her spread legs, I fished a condom out of my pocket and quickly opened and shoved down my painter’s pants and Jockeys. My cock immediately thanked me with an appreciative bob of the head as it sprang free of the elastic. It had been pinned to the floor beneath me the entire time I’d been eating out Eleanor Kaminski. It was stone hard; she’d have chipped a tooth on it had she a mind to suck it. I fitted the rubber over my cockhead and rolled it down the shaft. Mrs. Kaminski was probably on birth control, but this wasn’t the time to ask, and I wanted a second line of protection anyway, though I had no plan to finish inside her.
I had imagined her unsatisfying sexual life extended no farther than standard missionary position with Big Ed speed-banging on top her for two minutes before he shot his load, giving her a thank-you smack on the ass, and then going off to take a piss. I’d fantasized about her riding me, and then pounding her pussy from behind, slamming into that big body, those big breasts swaying massively. But I wasn’t about to try to roll her over at that moment. And I wanted to see her, wanted to see the expressions on her face, wanted to see her breasts, big and soft and pale as cream. She was there, open and ripe, her legs spread and knees bent. I leaned down and gave her pussy another long, salutatory lick, and her hips jerked. I straightened up and put my hard, sheathed cock inside her.
“Oh!” she said when the head of my dick disappeared into her hairy cunt. I put my hands under the crooks of her knees and spread them apart slightly so I could lean in over her and take the nipple of one of her breasts into my mouth, rolling my tongue around it again and sucking on it. She whimpered and squirmed, sliding away from me slightly, but I yanked her back and thrust forward at the same time until my erection was to the hilt. She grunted, like she was trying to open pickle jar.
I began fucking her. Her pussy was almost frictionless, it was so wet. Or maybe it was the 70s era condom that minimized the sensation to my prick. I welcomed it, though, because I figured it would help me go awhile. I started pumping vigorously, fucking her, driving my cock in and out of her, hoping that this would be a worthy and memorable alternative to her husband just bouncing shallowly atop her.
During the time eating her out, I had fully recovered from my little fainting attack. I felt good, strong, practically vibrating with energy. My cock was as hard as it would ever be. I was average in size, but the unrelenting hardness made me feel huge. I fucked her hot, juicy cunt harder and harder. The only truly unpleasant thing was the trembling. It was back, and the shaking in my legs was getting hard to control.
I pounded her. We were both grunting boisterously at my every thrust. I tired of holding her heavy legs, so I let them down and leaned forward, planted my stiffened arms into the carpet on either side of her. This steepened the angle of my penetration and I tried as best I could to bring the top of my very hard shaft close to her clitoris as I slid in and out of her, something that worked beautifully when I fucked Suzie Bowen.
I hadn’t really thought about Eleanor Kaminski coming again. That wasn’t my goal. I was happy to have helped with the first one; now I was just focused on getting myself off with the help of her slick pussy and bouncing tits. But my penetration technique turned out to be effective. A second orgasm was building in her. She fell out of rhythm with my pumping, her body clenching up as she held her breath for several seconds before going slack to take in more air and tightening up again. I wasn’t going to be able to hold out much longer at that point, so I stopped thrusting, held my hard cock deep inside her, and placed the pad of my thumb against her clit and pressed.
That was the last little bit she needed. She bowed upward, her bottom lifting off the floor and the little pouch of her belly jiggling as her hands grabbed my ass roughly and pulled me into her as deep as I could go—and I mean roughly; she was gripping fistfuls of my ass cheeks so hard I almost yelled.
She finally loosened her grip enough that I could continue thrusting into her. I looked down at her big, quivering, mostly naked body, and thought I’m actually fucking this big-titted housewife, and my orgasm then came barreling down so quickly that I knew I couldn’t hold it back, even if I stopped pumping. I sat back on my haunches and pulled off the condom.
“Oh, Mrs. Kaminski,” I grunted, squeezing the head of my cock hard before finally letting it go. A thick, hot stream of semen spurted almost the entire length of her torso, laying a white ribbon of cum that stretched from the top of her pubic mound to the base of her throat. Then another, and another, as I kept breathing her name aloud while I ejaculated. The jizz spurted out of me with diminishing strength until her curvy body was streaked and splattered with what seemed to me a remarkable quantity of hot sperm.
Remarkable, perhaps, for a couple reasons. I didn’t get to see those cumshots very much anymore; they were usually taking place in Suzie Bowen’s mouth or pussy. Sometimes she would ask me, or I would just decide on my own, to finish on her tits, but often that was the third or fourth load of a morning session, so the volume wasn’t impressive. Just enough for her to smear around and coat her nipples with a slippery sheen. Also, since her period started, I hadn’t been able to fuck her for a few days. I had purposefully stayed away from Suzie Bowen’s house the day before this. I’d wanted to make sure that lust and horniness might grow to actionable levels. And if Mrs. Kaminski was getting turned on from spying my cum on her shed wall, I wanted to make sure she got a load equal to her masturbation fantasies.
My cock was still half hard as I knelt there looking down at her, sweat-shimmering, cum-streaked, flush-necked—hard enough that I could have resumed fucking her. She was still in something of a post-orgasmic fug until she hoisted herself up on her elbows and saw all the milky spunk decorating her body and tube top that was still wrapped around her mid-section.
“Oh my god,” she breathed, and started backpedaling away from me like she was afraid my cock might start shooting sparks.
“Hey, Mrs. Kaminski, it’s okay,” I said softly. “It’s okay.”
But she snatched up her shorts and panties and hurried into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. I heard the shower sputter on.
I pulled up my pants, with some effort. I was drenched, and had to struggle to get on my still-soaked t-shirt. The hallways smelled like sweat and cunt and musty carpet.
I’d envisioned this as an entirely dispassionate and serviceable encounter, a satiation of long-building and rapidly boiling lust for both parties. I wasn’t thinking of it as turning the tables on the cock-tease and “give her what she wanted,” but rather as something truly satisfying, something better than perhaps she could ever imagine, or that both of us could. Regarding my newly acquired experience, though much of it was strictly mechanical, I had come to realize that your partner’s pleasure in the enterprise added a dimension of excitement and abandon to your own pleasure; it pushed all these acts of sex toward something that had a more transcendent quality. I didn’t think about it in quite those terms back then, but I sensed it.
Maybe it was all much more than she could ever have imagined. Way, way more, considering her haste to get away from the scene of the crime. While I did not think she was expecting me to wait around her for—on the contrary, I’m sure she intended to remain in her bathroom until she was certain I’d gone—suddenly I didn’t like the idea of leaving without another word between us. That would have seemed too… shitty, I guess. Sport-fucking the hot housewife and then being on my way. La-di-da, thanks for the screw, Lady. See ya’ around.
If this was a considerate act on my part, it was a small one, and self-serving. I was feeling twinges of guilt that began almost immediately after I’d squirted my cum all over her—funny how that happens. Because, that quickly, my first thought was, Okay, what now? My fantasies about fucking Eleanor Kaminski, like most sexual fantasies, did not extend beyond the long imagined, satisfying release.
I listened outside her bathroom door for a second, then gave it the faintest tap of knuckle.
“Mrs. Kaminski,” I said softly. “Mrs. Kaminski, I want you to know that that was the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me, and I promise, I promise that I’ll never tell anyone. Ever.”
And I never did. Until now.
She didn’t answer, but I knew that she was listening on the other side because I didn’t hear her blubbering or crying or anything like that. The sound of the shower spray remained steady, unbroken, as if it was just running rather than someone standing in its stream. Maybe she was admiring her curvy, decorated body in the mirror. Maybe she was swallowing a bottle of Sominex.
I’d said my piece, I wasn’t going to push it. I took the stairs down quietly and hurried through the living room to the kitchen. There was a memo board hanging on the wall next to the yellow rotary phone: a miniature cutting board with a note pad glued to it and a pencil dangling from a piece of yarn. I thought about leaving a note, something thanking her for all her generosity. I remembered then that I hadn’t gotten my ten dollars for the day, but that was the least of my concerns. What to say? My unfinished glass of brown sugar water was sweating on the little kitchen table, next to her cigarettes and ashtray.
I decided not to say anything. Everything that came into my head seemed weird, and what if her husband came home and found it before she emerged from her bathroom seclusion. I just needed to get the fuck out of there. I shook two cigarettes from her pack of Parliaments, took her book of Candlelight Lounge matches, and let myself out the back door.
I parked myself in the little apron of lawn between the back of the Kaminski’s outdoor shed and the bushes that shielded the back of their property from the alley. My hands shook as I tried to light the cigarette. I worried that I pushed things too quickly with Eleanor Kaminski. That maybe her cock-teasing was the extent of her adventure, that she wasn’t interested in anything more but once it started, she couldn’t bring herself to stop it. Or that maybe I should have—we should have—continued with the dirty little dance a bit longer, that I’d forced us to leapfrog over some baby steps that would have made her desire to fuck the lawn boy something she had to slake rather than resist.
But that, had it come to pass, might have happened only once. There were only so many weeks left in the summer. Hell, I thought, even fewer opportunities, really, since her daughter would probably be coming home from camp in a few weeks if not sooner.
It was too late now. The deed was done. I lit the second cigarette off the butt of the first but only managed a few searing drags of it before I had to get up and moving. My anxiety was turning into paranoia. If she told her husband, I was fucked. Or what if it turned into something even worse? I considered Eleanor Kaminski somewhat dim but mostly benign. What if I was all wrong about that? What if she was a more dangerous kind of dumb? What if she pretzeled the whole thing in her mind into a, oh shit, a rape?!
I was worse than fucked. I was fucked and dead.
.:.
My shift that night at the A&P seemed like the longest five hours of my life. I kept looking out the storefront windows, waiting for a police cruiser to pull up to the curb. I tried to work quickly when bagging groceries so people might not register my hands shaking. But I left most of the bagging chores to Jim and Sally and voluntarily took the shit assignments, like restocking bags, mopping the employee bathrooms, sweeping the aisle of all the cigarette butts, and rounding up carts.
A few hours in, when the sun was finally going down and no one had come to haul me away, I began to feel a little better. Maybe there would be no criminal consequences, but I still had an awful case of the yips about the personal ones.
I finished emptying all the trash cans beneath the registers, and hauled my green plastic sack of garbage back to the Shithole. The employee-only parts of the store were empty at night; all the dairy and produce people were long gone, and those spaces were sparely lit. But the light was on in the short hallway that led to the trash room, and when I turned the corner, Sally Speaker was there, leaning against the wall and smoking.
“Hey,” I said. “What are you doing back here?”
“Waiting for you. Smoking.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want a drag?”
“No. I mean, yeah. Sure.”
She held out the cigarette. “Don’t make it all hot.”
I dropped the trash bag and took the smoke.
“Are you okay?” she said.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Because you’ve been looking jumpy as a rat all night. And you haven’t noticed any of the faces I’ve been making behind The Mormon’s back to his jag-off comments.”
“I just don’t feel good tonight. I was out mowing lawns all afternoon and I just… it was too hot. Think my brain got a little bit fried out there.” I handed back the cigarette.
“Huh. You got a lot going on, don’tcha?”
“I guess. Maybe too much.”
“Yeah. Well. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. One more hit?”
“No, I’m good.”
“One more,” she said. She took a long drag and her eyes shined with the orange of the burning coal. She stepped toward me, put her hand on my shoulder, tipped up on her toes, put her mouth to mine, and slowly breathed the hot smoke into my mouth. Her lips felt smooth and soft against my dry ones.
We parted. I tipped my head back and exhaled. Sally dropped the cigarette on the concrete floor and ground it out with the toe of her sneaker.
“Back to the salt mine,” she said.
I don’t remember much from the remainder of that shift. My mind was elsewhere. Or, not just elsewhere, but in different places simultaneously: one place dark and anxious, the other bright and thrilling. The cumulative effect was not pleasant. By the time I got home, I had an ache in my skull like something trying to kick its way out above my left eye. My mother was watching a “Vega$” rerun and working a crossword puzzle. My dad was asleep in his lounger.
“I’m just going to bed,” I said as I passed through the living room.
“Wait a minute,” said my mother. “What happened at the Kaminski’s today?”
I felt like the top of my head was about to blow off. The shakes were back, in earnest. Shit, shit, shit…
“What do you mean? Nothing, nothing happened. I mowed the lawn.”
“She called here after you’d already gone to work. She said you passed out.”
“Ahh… yeah, well. I think I may have had a bit of heat stroke. It was brutal out there.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Are you okay?”
“Sure. Just, like I said, a little too much sun on my head. I was fine after I cooled down.”
She looked concerned but didn’t press it.
“Well,” she said, “She said that she’d ask you to help her with something, something about cleaning some things out of their shed after you were done cutting the grass. I don’t remember exactly, I couldn’t follow the woman, she was babbling. But then you fainted from the heat. And you left without taking your money.”
“Yeah, I, um… I guess I did. I was still a little woozy.”
“Anyway, she wants you to come by in the morning, around 9, she said, to help her with whatever it is she needs. I said I’d let you know. I didn’t know if you had to work or not.”
“Okay,” I said. “I guess I can do that. All right, I’m heading up.”
“Wait. Your girlfriend called, too. She told me to tell you that the pool is re-opened.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, right. Okay.”
“The pool was closed? Why was the pool closed?”
“Some… maintenance,” I said. “I don’t know.”
“Hottest day of the year,” said my mother, shaking her head. “Figures.”
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