Bildungsroman II free porn video

Bil·dungs·ro·man
ˈbildo͝oNGzrōˌmän,ˈbēldo͝oNGks-/
noun
1. a novel dealing with one person's formative years or spiritual education.


Chapter 2
Mrs. Hardinger

Rusty bedsprings groaned when Lucy shifted her weight. She latched onto the shaft of my cock, holding it like a microphone. “That was hot an all- ” she gently ran her teeth over the dickhead twice, shooting erotic jolts through my body- “but when did you fuck your s1ster? That night? That's the one I want to hear, you sick fuck.” She giggled.

The city's clamor- the squawks, the squeals and the shrieks, the tosspots and the traffic- had dwindled. Two cats screeched and howled in the alley five floors below, fucking or fighting, it was hard to tell. I wiped my forehead on a pillow and then tucked two sweaty strands of blonde hair behind both of Lucy’s ears as she gazed up at me with expectant blue eyes.

“Patience, darling,” I said. “Patience. Why don’t you get started on that- " I circled the base of my cock with my index finger and thumb and wiggled my unit teasingly in her face- "and I’ll tell you all about the second part?”

“Second part?” Lucy ran a casual hand up and down my shaft, the tip centimeters from her full, juicy lips. God, I love when women are that comfortable with my penis, an expert insouciance that only comes with hundreds of encounters, thousands. The warmth of her breath was palpable on my penis even in the apartment's stifling night air. “You mean this isn’t how you lost your virginity to your s1ster? Is this about her and your unc- ”

I didn’t let her finish the question. She squealed, gulped, gagged, and slapped my stomach in protest after I palmed the back of her head and rammed my b**st down her throat. “Oh, fuck, that’s hot,” I groaned.

Lucy eventually found her rhythm and then forgave my brutishness by re-engaging eye contact.

Looking down, I said, “No, sweets, this is about the first time I jerked off- oh shit keep doing that- I think it’s hot.” I ran my hand over the glowing perspiration of her forehead and hair and down her cheek, where the outline of my cock bulged through as her head bobbed. I caressed her jawbone and said, “This was probably the most amazing, formative, instructive week of my life. I need to tell it my own way, in order. So, no, this next part isn't about Katie. It's about my neighbor. You're just gonna have to deal.”

I rested both hands on Lucy’s shoulders as she sprucely slurped and sucked my stick and proceeded with the second part of my sordid story despite the pouty disappointment I thought I saw in my latest conquest's eyes.


____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________



To say the day after Devon Cardello fucked his s1ster in front of me in their family pool was different and surreal would be an exercise in understatement. A new confidence and curiosity had swept over me. I mean, I was like three-quarters of a new person. I felt like an intrepid explorer, that some discovery- good, bad, raunchy, twisted, or otherwise- was lying in wait with every moment.

I noticed things that morning I had never bothered with before, like the shape and overall arboreal beauty of the maples in our back yard, how they swayed majestically and their leaves susurrated in the soft August breeze; cottony, friendly, cumulus clouds ambled along the sky's azure path; my s1ster's panties, a multi-colored variety bouquet of pinks and blues and stripes and neon and different light materials, fluttered on the clothesline, drying in the sticky August afternoon heat. Even my cherished Froot Loops, once considered a breakfast delicacy, were now a sugary starchy mass in my mouth that I had trouble chewing and swallowing. The taste had morphed over night into a cloying c***dish sensation, and I wanted to dump the bowl into the sink and try for the first time my dad's more sophisticated adult breakfast of champions, cigarettes and coffee. But that just wasn't an option in that small house under my mother's watchful gaze.

I had entered a world of delights and dangers I hadn't even known existed. The rules of the game changed, the price of poker went up, whatever. Injected with an accelerated dosage of wisdom and sexual experience beyond my years, a youthful confidence had sprung forth. My brashness screamed to trot out this new self, to show the adult world that, hey, I’m one of you now. I’m hip. I’ve seen some shit myself, let me in. I'm down. I've orgasmed at someone else's hand. I totally want to do that again. I'm no longer a little k1d. I know the horrors humans are capable of committing. Come on, now.

But I knew I needed to tread carefully, to take it slow. I was petrified to appear even the slightest bit different in case my suspicious parents or even my s1ster traced any personality shift back to the Cardello's pool. They'd ask questions, they always did, fucking good, caring parents that they were and still are.

The day before had me freaked out. I still wasn't sure if anyone had seen Devon fucking Mandy giving me head. It was looking like I was okay but nauseous guilt dr@ped and fluttered about me like a tattered black banner every time the kitchen phone's ringer trilled. I kept waiting for the hammer to fall, for my mother to turn to me after every clanking replacement of the receiver, her face contorted into pain and confusion, wailing, "How could you do it, Benjy? How could my baby do such things?"

So I did my best to appear as the same little Benjy everyone knew and loved, and not as the paranoid, sexually experienced, deviant teenage freak I turned into overnight. Playing it slow would be the prudent choice. Little did I know, my cover would be partially blown within a week.

The day was annoying; the seconds crawled. The heat, ignoring the weatherman's prognostication of a cool spell that day, sweltered. My mood wavered between listless and introspective. I loitered about the house and mostly the backyard that afternoon sheened in guilt and sweat and an angsty anticipatory feeling for nothing specific. I especially fretted running into Mandy or Devon and the potential awkwardness dripping from that little encounter. Also, erections, on the tens with the frequency of a news radio drive-time traffic report, became harder and harder to ignore.

Despite my precautions, almost everything that day served as a reminder of my filthy encounter with the Cardellos not 24 hours prior. Constant yet subtle reminders. My senses were bombarded and the feelings of danger and excitement, so new and enticing the day before, returned.

Cicadas buzzing in the maples transported me to Mandy first dropping her tiny bikini top behind that screen. An hour later, while reading a Sports Illustrated in a futile attempt to distract myself with baseball, my shorts rubbed me in a way that wooshed Mandy’s tawny, goosebumped thighs, bordering the wet yellow pussy mound of her bikini, into the forefront of my imagination. 20 minutes after that, a nest of baby birds, chirping for their mommy, engorged me. Mandy’s squeaks of delight as her br0ther hammered her in the sloshing wet of their pool still rich in memory. And 10 minutes after that, as I weeded around my mom’s rhododendrons, voluntarily in order to distract myself, Mr. Cox tended to his pool next door. Once he added the scoop of chlorine and that bleachy, somehow-clean-yet-now-somehow-dirty scent wafted to my nose, I was done for. I still find that chemical fragrance captivating to this day, but that Tuesday afternoon in our backyard, the recall of Mandy getting railed was so strong and so tremendous that something needed to be done.

The lots on our street were a bit different than the ones on Mark's and the Cardello's street: they had larger houses with smaller yards, whereas our street had much smaller homes situated on parcels about 2 or 3 times the size of the lots on neighboring streets. Our south forty sloped slightly upward and away from our 3 bedroom split-level ranch home. My dad's dinky, rusted aluminum Sears shed hunched in the far back left corner of our yard where the ground leveled out again.

Up the hill to this semi-secluded spot behind the shed is where I hurriedly and awkwardly rushed, pulling the front of my t-shirt down in a futile effort to hide my tumid tool, praying that Mr. Cox, a nosy bastard if there ever was one, didn't notice my surreptitious dash as he skimmed his pool. It was a shadowy foreign place to me, the most cloistered spot in our yard, a place I only rarely visited only to occasionally mow the clumpy grass- soft, muddy, splotchy- so unlike the other parts of our lush lawn. Bees, gnats, and wasps patrolled the area with a militant vigilance, but it was really the only place to where I could retreat for privacy, avoiding the prying adult eyes of my mother inside and Mr. Cox, fumbling about his pool, next door.

As cruddy and un-ideal this spot was for what I was about to do, Mandy’s lips and taste buds on my cock and her special technique- slowly swallowing the top of my dick, stopping just as her lips reached the ridge of my head, sucking three or four times in a rhythm and then slowly raising up again, my dick stinging in ecstasy as it almost escaped her mouth, the humid air still feeling cool after her warm wet mouth almost let go but always, always kept contact- unfolded in my brain. She had repeated this little motif and then deepthroated me, gagging a little, blowing my cock like a banshee for 30 seconds and then repeating the whole delectable process all over again. My hand worked on autopilot, darting into my shorts straight for my trembling penis, a first for me.

As I mentioned last time, I hadn't even jerked off or felt any kind of deliberate sensual pleasure up until less than 24 hours before that moment behind the shed, most likely because Sunday school had imbued me with the fear of a vengeful watchful lord. But as my dick pulsed in my fist, I realized that after my maiden sexual encounter with a br0ther and s1ster and breaking like 17 Commandments in less than an hour yesterday, to continue to abstain from wanking myself was just hypocritical to the point of being silly. Self-gratification was so far down my list of transgressions, could it really count against me? I was probably going to hell on an express elevator if Deuteronomy and ole Leviticus were in any way accurate, so why not gather my rosebuds while I may?

Ever since I came to that rationalization behind the shed that day among the sweet heady fragrance of honeysuckle and the drone of various insect wings that jerking off wasn't a sin, self-delusion has been a powerful tool in convincing me that almost anything can be a good idea if looked at from the correct angle. No, witnessing an i****tuous encounter where a s1ster lost her virginity to her br0ther in their pool as she sucked me off hasn’t warped me or my thinking in any way. Why do you ask?

As I stroked my johnson, replaying the deliciously sordid details of the previous day's exploits, the first time ever really enjoying the pleasure of my hand- which knew exactly where to touch for maximum sensation- the distinct sound of ice rattling in a rocks glass wrenched me away from Mandy's lithe body.

My jacking hand froze. My head snapped toward the clanking ice. My interest piqued. Well, this was interesting.

I was so distracted by old Cox and, especially by the vivid, chlorine-fume induced recall of Devon gripping his little s1ster's slim hips and ramming her tan, lean body and tiny pale ass, I hadn't even considered the Hardingers, whose back property line, a dense 5 foot tall honeysuckle hedgerow, abutted ours.

Mrs. Hardinger, sunbathing in a semi-reclined position on a cheap folding lounge chair situated on a 10-foot square cement slab not five feet from me, clunked a clear sweating drink on a small table next to her. I quickly and quietly crouched, hoping she didn't see or hear me. Curiously, there was a perfect gap about a foot in diameter in the bushes at my eye line, as if someone had cleared the branches and twigs away for the very purposes of spying while on one's knees.

Behind the shed, up against the honeysuckle, I was hidden from both my house and Mr. Cox next door tinkering with his corrugated hoses and caustic cleaning agents, but if Mrs. Hardinger happened to look at that particular spot, I'd be busted with no other excuse than the obvious. The danger of the moment captivated and thrilled me.

She was older, Mrs. Hardinger, in her early to mid-50s and a grandmother. Just like Mandy, I had never really given the high school vice principal's secretary much thought. All she ever was to me was an old neighbor lady behind tall hedges. Our only real interaction was during trick or treating or when she'd call over my friend Mark and me during whiffle ball games of more innocent summer's days past to pass us popsicles and Push-Ups and, now that I think about it, other suggestively phallic-shaped treats over the hedge. And now, also like Mandy the day before, my perceptions of a previously semi-anonymous neighborhood female altered drastically.

Mrs. Hardinger's head was positioned on the chaise lounge at 10 o'clock and her feet at 5 o'clock to my 6 o'clock position in the bushes a mere 5 feet way, giving me fantastic views of both her profile and front basking in the suburban sun. I drank in and memorized every microscopic detail of her curvy body, hoping to add it to my mental highlight reel.

Mrs. Hardinger was tan. Holy Moses was she tan. Like way more tan than Mandy. Shit, way more tan than Lena Horn and Lisa Bonet. This was a deliberate, punch-the-time-clock, deep, even, most unnatural natural tan that would make you think, without looking at her face, that my neighbor was from Latin or South America or India or even a light-skinned black woman. Mrs. Hardinger's physique and aura were in stark opposition of Mandy Cardello's slight, slim build and fresh burgeoning sexuality, but just as equally pleasing and arousing. Mandy was growing into it, ramping up for it, and Mrs. Hardinger had seen it all and was in the autumn of her sexuality. There was something risky and mysterious and provocative about her that Mandy had yet to cultivate.

Dark round sunglasses perched on her head, nestled amongst a spiky swirling salad of very short, platinum-frosted-sun-bleached hair shot through with dark gray roots. Her thirsty face- leathery and craggy from decades of ultra violet rays, steady alcohol consumption, and smoky bars while looking for some action on a Tuesday night- squinted against the noon sun striking directly overhead. Branching crow's feet etched the outer corners of her hooded, heavily blue shadowed eyelids; deep folds arched from the sides of her nostrils and rutted to the corners of her thin lips, lending her a severe German look. She was not what one would consider a beautiful woman or a looker or even plain. She ran in the ugly spectrum. And this is what I'd always seen of her.

But now there was a different Mrs. Hardinger on full display, her now visible body incongruent with her stern face. This was a summertime version, one I'd never knew existed, one who'd been lurking behind the honeysuckle every June through August of my life. How'd I miss it? Oiled to a high sheen, her curvy, glistening bronze body held me rapt. Her figure called to mind a sexy sausage casing- plump, shiny, about-to-burst skin tightly encasing a pleasant smooth alluring layer of granny chub. It wasn't fat; it wasn't gross. It was a wonderful display of womanhood. Trashy womanhood, but sexy, alluring womanhood nevertheless.

Cheesy cheap mini sand dollar earrings, no doubt a souvenir from her most recent trip to the shore, dangled from her lobes. A heavy, gaudy braided gold chain dr@pedd from her neck, ran over two elegant clavicles that I now had an urge to suck, and rested on the coffee-colored, freckled, starting-to-wrinkle hide of her upper chest.

Mrs. Hardinger's wonderfully fat, brown, heavy and squishy 40 DD breasts- big dark tawny bowling balls slightly deflating, slightly sagging, straining mightily against the triangles of a very bright turquoise bikini bra that popped off her glistening, oiled, sun-slobbered skin- mesmerized me. The bikini's straps narrowed as they ran behind her neck, cutting slightly into her plump flesh, revealing a stunningly bare expanse of shiny, oiled, battle-hardened buxom chest. Mrs. Hardinger was a total cougar to Mandy Cardello's nymphet.

Holy shit! Those fucking tits. They, like, defied the physical laws of the natural universe. Both should’ve been much saggier considering their profound dimension and weight but somehow they remained full, bottom to top, despite years of relentlessly tugging gravity. I wanted to do things to those tits. I'd never before considered putting my dick in anything other than a woman's vagina (or Mandy's mouth as of the day before), but I now had the sharp sudden urge to feel my hard 13-year-old penis gliding through the forbidden valley situated between those heavily lubed, somehow saggy while somehow still firm tits.

As skimpy as Mrs. Hardinger's top was, the bottoms damn near disappeared into the soft, rounded curves of her golden-brown belly and thighs. Having only ever been swimming with other k1ds and their homemaker mothers, I'd never seen a skimpy bikini much less one that tied on the side like that. The vibrant, aqua meridian, knotted strings, almost like dental floss against her sexy girth, dug into the brown, lubricated to a high sheen flesh of her ample hips.

I realized that only one simple tug would peel away enough of her bikini panties to reveal a wizened experienced vagina, which is what I really wanted to spy that afternoon. This notion that the only thing separating me from my first bare pussy was a simple slight exertion on a flimsy string forced me to tug my shorts down, get on all fours, grip the shaft of my twanging cock, and squeeze rhythmically, squishing spurts of tingling bl00d-flow to my sensitive tip. I couldn't help it. This was Category 10 horniness, DEFCON 1 horniness, call out the National Guard because I may not be responsible for my uncontrollable urges horniness. I started calculating if it was possible for anyone to clear those hedges in a jump, like I'd know what to do once I got over there.

Small pink bumps of razor burn and dark stubble bordered the side of the front panel of her minuscule bottoms. A good 2-3 inches of coco-buttered skin were visible from the crease of her thigh to the edge of her panty front. There was something very adult about that age-worn topography that lured me in even further. A narrow yet very bushy line of dark pubic hair sprouted about half an inch past the top of her waistband.

Various rings of shapes and sizes adorned pudgy wrinkle fingers. A thick, glimmering gilded band, 3 or 4 inches wide, hugged her left wrist. A gaudy silver charm bracelet dangled noisily from her right. Mature slut jewelry.

Long, elegant, bright white manicured nails, rounded perfectly to an acute arc, extended from her swarthy stubby digits. I wasn't sure how she managed simple secretarial skills for the vice principal with alluring talons like that, but now that I saw Mrs. Hardinger in her bikini, it was definitely a possibility that she wasn't valued necessarily for her typing and filing skills.

Mrs. Hardinger then bent her knees slightly, drawing her heels closer to her meaty thighs, offering me a clear view of a pussy mound starting with a springy nest of groomed pubes and on down to the outline of a pair of meaty labia. There was something much more serious and adult about the mass of Mrs. Hardinger's vagina compared to Mandy's the day before. My schoolmarmish backdoor neighbor was now my suddenly sexy, suddenly slutty, grandmother of three, flesh-and-bl00d masturbatory fantasy.

Speaking of her grandk1ds, the little savages- no older than 7, no younger than 4- tore around the yard like Apaches despite her half-hearted hungover admonitions to be quiet while Gammy was trying to get some sun and to be careful around Gammy's drink and could they please stay out of Gammy's sun. She flipped through a copy of Glamor- the Super Fall Fashion Guide whose cover boasted "5 Wrong Reasons To Choose A Man" & "Body Confidence: How To Get It, How To Use It"- with a long, elegant brown cigarette constantly burning between the index and middle fingers of her right hand, those exotic nails catching the beating sun's rays.

The little brats ran from the leafy borders of my frame towards the Hardinger house. Voluptuous Mrs. Hardinger thwacked her magazine on the table and took another adult-sized gulp from her highball and replaced it. She then leaned back in the lounge chair and locked her sight on to something to the left, out of my view. She brought her tanned hands, roped with veins and wrinkles, to her lips and slowly pinched an ice cube from her mouth with the wondrously dexterous jutting fingernails of her pointer and middle fingers and thumb of her right hand. She slowly drew the cube down into the imperceptibly wrinkled gateway of her cleavage canyon, now quite pronounced due to the tightness of her bright green-blue bikini bra. The cube danced down her hefty décolletage, leaving a trail of evaporating water on her cooking coffee skin, and then slowly slid right, over the bikini top, to circle around her nipple. Circle. Circle. Circle, until a half-inch ball bearing pushed through the stretch of her tight aqua bra. As she did this with her right hand, she slid her left downward, in a coordinated effort, over the shapely belly to the brightly-hued triangle of her bottoms, which were doing their level best to contain that prominent pussy mound and lips nestled amongst those tanned sexy round thighs and fat firm hint of a belly.

She lightly and tenderly pinched and twisted and pulled the visible pubic hair poking from her waistband. She squirmed a little, barely shifting, but the hard, slightly dimpled chub of her under-thighs still wiggled. Her hand then drifted lower, still over the bikini bottoms, and thumped her pointer and middle fingers, at the spot I would find out in a couple days was the clitoris, in a rhythm. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. She breathed deeply so that those copper melons of hers taunted me when they expanded with her lungs and her almost imperceptibly arching back. Something or someone had Mrs. Hardinger's attention and was turning her on as much as she was turning me on.

I peered ahead and strained my eyes- there may have been a sharp slim stiletto of white skin and the crescent of the top of a brown areola poking from the top of her aqua bikini bra. I picked up the pace of my strokes. I didn't dare shift anything else lest I be detected and forced to abscond from yet another sex-fueled spectacle in my sleepy suburb. A gnat buzzed in my ear. Mr. Cox whistled The Lovin' Spoonful's "What a Day For A Day Dream."

Steve McMasters, a 17 year-old high school junior, who, according to Devon Cardello, almost fucked 14 year-old Mandy Cardello on her den couch the week before, entered frame-right, pushing an empty wheelbarrow. Clad in only jeans and work boots, his sweating ropy muscles and veins shone in the sun. His skin, reddish-brown from working outside without a shirt all the days, still paled compared to Mrs. Hardinger's russet complexion.

Jesus, was this old lady getting hot over someone almost 30 years her junior? Fuck, just knowing someone my age might have a chance made my prick howl with desire.

Steve shoveled the last remnants of a pile of dark brown mulch baking on a tarp next to the concrete slab on which Mrs. Hardinger roasted her lustrous tawny skin.

"So, are you about done, Stevie?" Mrs. Hardinger tucked the sliver of ice cube into the deep fold between her bulbous tits and turned her head up toward her freely perspiring day-worker, shielding her eyes from the early afternoon glare- the better to, as I was about to find out, see her prey with. "Everything looks great. Like a whole new flower bed." She rasped a sooty laugh, knocking loose phlegm.

Her voice, scored deeply by years of gaspers and gimlets, a sultry throaty voice, recalled to mind the Scooby-Doo episode guest starring Phyllis Diller. There was a commanding experience in that voice that contrasted wonderfully with the playful nature of her diction. Words and sounds clashed, confusing and exciting me even further. Was it right for me to lust after an older woman like this? Sure, the whole Cardello escapade was fucked up, but that was mostly on them. Only two years difference between Mandy and me, teenagers were supposed to be attracted to each other, or so I'd been led to believe. But what I had before me was another befuddling bundle of emotions and strong, really fucking strong desires.

"Last load, Mrs. H.," Steve said. He wiped beads of sweat from his brow with the ubiquitous red bandana dangling from his and every other teenage boy's back pocket a la Bruce Springsteen's Born In The USA album cover. Like Devon the day before, I envied Steve his hardened physique, so much more defined and powerful than mine.

"Look," the 17 year old continued, "I really appreciate you throwing me some work again. Anything helps the college fund."

Mrs. Hardinger lit one of her long, elegant cigarettes. I was awed by her ability to negotiate the pack and her gaudy gold lighter with those perfectly filed and buffed-to-a-shine ivory talons. "Oh, sure. I just wish I could give you more, Stevie. You know that." She blew a jet of smoke through her nose and shooed a gnat away from her glistening brown thigh. "Mr. Hardinger says the flower beds are my project, so I have to pay with my own money. But since school doesn't start for another few weeks- " she sighed dramatically- "I'm short."

There was something off in their speech. It seemed stilted. Rehearsed.

"Oh, that's okay, Mrs. H. Anything you can do helps. And I mean anything."

This seemed to annoy Mrs. Hardinger because she sucked her teeth and took her attention from the sleek, hairless teen abs a foot away and drew it toward her spread fingers, now at arm's length. The baubles of her bracelet bangling as she inspected her perfectly white manicure. Had Steve gone off-script?

Steve then looked over his shoulders to locate the Hardinger grandch1ldren directly behind him about 30 feet away, happily slopping and making mud pies in a puddle forming beneath the leaky hose mounted to the side of the garage. Once he was sure the little tatterdemalions were focused on the disgusting culinary task at hand, he unzipped his jeans and removed a rather full, though not necessarily long, limp dick and balls and let them hang in front of the opening of his pants.

Mrs. Hardinger looked from her nails and gasped when she finally saw his pendulous cock waving inches from her face. "Are you crazy, you little shit?" she said with a hiss." The 50+ shapely mound of curves shot a glance toward her afternoon charges. "My daughter's k1ds are right there!"

Steve grinned and wiggled his unit in her face so that it, his unit, swelled a bit. He silently cocked an eyebrow looking down on Mrs. Hardinger with an, "Oh, come on now, really?" kind of look.

"Put that thing away!" she rasped quietly but also sharply and urgently. She shifted to draw her face closer to his penis. Her voice then softened, running her eyes up and down the thickening rod: "God, you know what that does to me. Wow, is that terrific. It's really terrific, you know that?" She was using some kind of 60s or 70s lingo or something. I was waiting for her to spring a groovy on him. "God, what it does to me. It really sends me, you know?"

Once again I found myself privy to an intimate moment between two neighbors not meant for other eyes. Except this time the participants were ignorant of my presence; I hadn't been invited, even tacitly, like yesterday. This was as hot and thrilling and dangerous than the previous day's encounter with Mandy and Devon but also different. Both scenarios were perilous and taboo for different reasons.

I mean, yesterday had been thrilling, dangerous, and hot, but there was something about the sexy, erotic mileage on my 50 year old neighbor's curvy, dark brown, glistening body and Steve's boyish cockiness that just had me enthralled and turned on and guilty and, well, feeling just a whole fucking confluence of conflicting, confusing, bouillabaissey emotions.

"Oh, god, you know just what that does to me," Mrs. Hardinger continued. She then reached toward Steve's quivering pole with those chubby tanned wrinkly hands and her long nails, but then pulled it back quickly. "No, we can't anymore." She groaned a regretful whine. "Oh, gosh, I really want to. It's really something. You know what it does to me. But we can't," she whispered into the tip of his cock like she was telling it a secret. "We just can't anymore. Not anymore."

"Anymore?" Steve barked a laugh. "We've never really done anything."

Mrs. Hardinger seemed offended by this. "We've done plenty, mister," she said. "So much." Her gravelly voice then softened again: "Too much. I could get into so much trouble. What would everyone think?"

"Think about what? Get into trouble for what? Giving me blue balls every time? We keep getting interrupted, Mrs. Hardinger. Or haven't you noticed because I give you yours every time?" He flexed his dick so that it shot up twice and then fell again but stiffening to almost full tumescence. "Come on, Nancy. Please just finish me this once? Please."

The vamp bristled at the use of her Christian name. "Mrs. Hardinger will do fine, Steve." The ice in her voice cut through the afternoon humidity. She then added just a little bit warmer upon closer inspection of the 17-year-old dick inches from her face, "We can't."

"Come on, Mrs. Hardinger," the 17 year old whined to the 50 year old, "please finish me just once this summer. Please. It's been torture."

As I slowly stroked my swollen prick and the wrong-but-exciting feeling I got when Mandy and Devon ignored me the day before returned and intensified, I wondered how long these unconsummated trysts had been occurring between old Mrs. Hardinger and the young sly Steve McMasters.

The 17 year-old wiggled his cock in the sweltering sun, which must have melted the cougar's defenses because Mrs. Hardinger then casually ran her long shapely nails lightly over his unit while checking to make sure her grandk1ds weren't looking that way. There was a nonchalant action born from familiarity and comfort. She rasped another whisper, "Hurry. Go finish that last load and I'll get rid of them, you little brat." She playfully shooed him away with a slap to his ripped abdominal muscles.

Steve didn't need to be told twice. He quickly manned the barrow and scurried away. So eager had he been, that he'd forgotten to put his now slowly softening dick back into pants, and it slapped and dangled as he exited frame right.

Mrs. Hardinger stared wantonly after her teen boy toy, her lips puckering and unpuckering slightly. She then shrieked a whistle through her teeth so sudden, so piercing and shrilly, that various neighborhood dogs yowled. "You three!" she shouted to her grandch1ldren. "Get over here!"

The three grimy lawn urchins toddled toward their grandmother as she dug into her tacky knock-off Gucci purse. "Gammy has a special chore and treat for you."

"Yea!" The three whippersnappers cheered in unison.

She handed the biggest a wrinkled 20-dollar bill produced from a long worn snakeskin wallet. "Take this money, go into the house and get Gammy's special note hanging on the refrigerator for the man at the store. Go get Gammy her cigarettes in the red pack, the More 120's. Then you can each have one- " Mrs. Hardinger eyed to her left, presumably at Steve- "two, two popsicles each. But only if you eat them in Mr. Miner's store, okay?"

"But, Gammy. You have popsicles in the freezer."

Again, Mrs. Hardinger looked toward Steve spreading mulch in the unseen flowerbed. "Yes, darling, that's true. But I don't have the banana ones you like so much."

"Yes, you do, Gammy," the oldest continued. "I saw em. You have- "

"Mikey!" Mrs. Hardinger snapped.

The little runt shut his yap. His bottom lip protruded wetly. Tears were developing.

Mrs. Hardinger softened. "I'm sorry, sweetie. I just wanted to reward you for going all the way to the store for Gammy again." Scott Joplin's "The Entertainer" tinkled from an ice cream truck in the far distance. Mr. Cox picked up the tune next door and shifted his whistling. "Tell you what," Mrs. Hardinger said. "Once you finish your popsicles, you can wait on the corner for Mr. Softee and each get ice cream sandwiches, which I know I don't have in the freezer. Wouldn't you like that?"

"Yea!" they all shouted again and bolted toward the gate in the 8 foot privacy fence separating the front and back yards and running along the sides of their backyard, occluding the next door neighbors' views. But not the back door neighbor's view, thank the fucking lord!

"Make sure you hold hands the entire way!" Mrs. Hardinger shouted after her flesh and blo0d scampering through the closing gate. You know, because she was such a doting, caring grandmother.

Mrs. Hardinger and Steve McMasters now thought they were completely alone save the fragrant mid-August honeysuckle, the cardinals' chirps, the wasps' buzz, and Mr. Cox's whistle. No way they would ever believe that little Benjy Covington, that sweet k1d next door who just turned 13, who was skulking on all fours, who was trying to contain his breathing, furiously worked his perverted crank not five fucking feet away from this unfolding spectacle of mature-teen lust. The tension and anticipation brought precum, which I had never felt before but quickly realized made a great lube.

The experienced woman sucked her cheeks yearningly and then reached for her brown bottle of Hawaiian Tropic tanning oil. She unscrewed the lid, hidden now beneath the claws of her pearl manicure. The prominent, perfectly shaped ends of her nails popping off her dark buttery skin and the bright aqua of her bikini lent an exacting air to my neighbor. There was something precise and authoritative about those nails, and long, shapely, well-tended manicures and pedicures still drive me nuts today, especially on a mature woman of waning beauty and sexuality.

An elegant manicure on a woman of advancing years lends an air of sexual wisdom as well as a certain level of desperation to stay desirable, to stay in practice in the bedroom, or backyard. Those sexy nails are the one thing they can keep of their youth, without invasive surgery, reminding all those young studs they used to trawl so easily, that I am still sexy, and I will do what it takes to convince you of that. All of this, along with a lot of my other turn-ons and fetishes, stemmed from that second week of August in 1988.

After unscrewing the lid, Mrs. Hardinger squeezed a stream of translucent brown viscosity all over her sexy rotund torso, filling up her deep navel. She kept her eyes fixed on Steve, still out of frame, as she slowly and deliberately spread the oil into every exposed crease and fold of her smooth sun-bronzed skin. I wanted to do it for her so badly. I wanted to see my fingertips and thumbs depress in her squishy yet firm, oiled skin. I wanted to feel her stiff bulbous nipples at the center of my palms as I caressed and squeezed and explored the slippery expanses of her leathery smooth skin. She lit another cigarette somehow with those nails and oily hands with a practiced expertise that clearly indicated that this was, in fact, not Mrs. Hardinger's first rodeo.

My eyes pored over the dark folds and creases of her pleasingly plump body until Steve's erect cock came back into my view. He stepped it right up to her nose.

Mrs. Hardinger whimpered, her voice moving up an octave. She then drew a long drag deep into her polluted lungs off the cigarette burning between the pointer and middle fingers of her right hand and then reached for Steve's Johnson, now standing at full attention, with the ring finger, pinkie and thumb of the same hand and began sliding up and down his shaft. This woman was so skilled, working her hands like that with a burning ember so close to Steve's sensitive cock. Where does one learn something like that? Her left hand then came into play on the other side of the shaft. Sexy white, perfectly manicured talons encaged the teenager's dick and she lightly and expertly ran the fingertips of both hands up and down the shaft as her cigarette smoldered in the afternoon heat.

"Oh," her voice scratched, mostly to herself rather than to Steve, and most definitely not to me. "It's so fat and young and hard. God, I love it." She gently offered a kiss on the tip of his pecker and then said again much more breathily, passionately and with a little less control, "God, I really love it, you know that?"

Steve planted his hands at the small of his arched back, tuned his closed eyes toward the burning sun, and groaned, "Oh, Mrs. H. Oh, Mrs. H, Jesus is that good. Oh, god, just finish me this time. Please just finish me."

The quinquagenarian smiled slyly. Rather than take her cigarette hand from Steve's dick to her face, she leaned forward and waited for her fingers to slide up to the tip of Steve's fat rod and then take a drag from the long brown cancer stick. She then kissed the tip of his penis again and exhaled smoke around it and continued stroking, never removing her hand from the 17-year-old's shaft.

Steve shuddered. I shuddered. Mr. Cox whistled. Mrs. Hardinger? She had that same look Mandy had the day before when her br0ther and I drooled over her tight teen body. The old bat was in total control, she totally knew it, and absolutely relished it. She cooed a smoky, "Oooohhh," as her claws rhythmically slid down, up, down, up, down, up pausing occasionally for another hit of the cig and a kiss of the tip, which drove Steve to further spasms.

Mrs. Hardinger drew her non-cigarette hand to her bountiful left bosom and tickled the turquoise fabric until she found purchase on her dark poking nipple with the nails of her pointer and middle fingers and thumb; she tenderly pulled and tugged and moaned. I was amazed at how much she all could do with those ivory pincers jutting from those brown wrinkly stubs.

She moaned, "Ah, jeeze, baby. You're really terrific. This is sensational. Oooooh, my sweet young baby." She leaned her head back a little to get a better view. "He's so excited, isn't he? Wow, look at how hard. So great. So excited, aren't you?"

"Oh, fuck yeah, I am," Steve groaned, "fuck yeah. Just finish. Please just finish."

"Oh, are you worried, baby? Don't you worry. Mrs. H. will take care of it this time."

"Oh, fuck. Promise?"

Mrs. Hardinger ceased her expert handjibber and flicked her cigarette butt into the yard. She swung her feet to the cement and stood, her shiny thigh muscles flexing in the basking sun.

"Wait! What? No! What are you- " Steve stammered just like I had with Mandy the day before when she pulled the same fucking stunt with me, the magnificent little fucking tease.

Steve's elder gently clamped her hand over his protesting mouth. "Shhhh." She took Steve into her hand and whispered, "Take these down, baby. Take these down," referring to his jeans.

Steve all but shoved his Levi's to his ankles, baring pale legs and ass due to wearing his landscaping pants all day, every day.

Mrs. Hardinger led him by the dick a few feet to the lounge chair. "Oh, baby. You lay down, okay?" She released his cock, roughly massaged her left tit with one hand while the alabaster nail of the middle finger of her other hand diddled her clit through the bright, bluish-green bottoms like the frenetic pendulum of a grandfather clock gone haywire. "Oh, fuck. Oh, oh, oh, I wanna grind you. I wanna grind you. I really wanna grind you, know that?" She drew out the verb "grind" and moaned passionately as she annunciated it.

I prayed to god they wouldn't see me. This was getting so hot. Maybe I'd actually get to see Steve's dick pound Mrs. Hardinger's pussy unlike the submerged genitals of Mandy and Devon the day before.

"Grind? Oh, no. No way," Steve said. "That's what we always do and it's fucking torture. We never get around to me."

"Oh, my poor baby." Mrs. Hardinger stepped closer to Steve and worked his cock with a twisting motion I then mimicked on my own pulsing dong and loved. She threw her other arm around his neck and drew him closer. He kissed the leathery hollow created by her protruding collarbone. "Touch me," she whispered. "Come on, baby. Touch me. Ooooh, that's it, just like that." Steve cupped a heavy breast and hefted it up and away from the very top of her sexy rounded abdomen.

"Oh, that's it, little Stevie. Uh-oooooooohhhh- uh ooohhhhhhhhh, god, that's terrific. I mean really, really terrific. Uh-uh touch me, baby. Touch me. That's it. Touch Mrs. H. where she loves it."

His hand slid down and over the hard pleasing bit of fat muffin-topping from her bottoms. The tips of his fingers slowly invaded the waistband of aqua Lycra, pulling it away slightly, revealing thick wiry wisps of a mature granny bush. "Oh, my gosh. Oh, my gosh. Oh fuck, Stevie, that's it. Mmmmm-hhhmmmm, that's it, play with it. That's the way Mamma likes it," Mrs. Hardinger growled in her Lucky Strike drawl. "Oh. Lay down, Stevie. Oh, god. Just please just lay down."

She was pleading now, and her tactical switch from domineering to begging increased the speed and pressure of my strokes. This was so fucking hot! Like the day before, there was no way I could've foreseen the events of that afternoon. This one didn't make me feel as weird…not any hotter or less than yesterday but for a different set of reasons. Yesterday, !ncest. Today, adultery and under@ge sex. Two completely separate spots on the creepy spectrum.

Steve awkwardly flopped himself on the lounge so that he was completely straight due to the constricting nature of the bunched dungarees around his ankles, his head positioned at the foot of the cheap piece of K-Mart lawn furniture. His dick visibly pulsing as it lay flat on his belly.

"That's it, sweetie." Mrs. Hardinger's words were tender and soothing despite her smoker's rasp- she was kind of babying Steve.

Then Mrs. Hardinger, facing Steve, straddled the chaise lounge. The muscles in her thighs and ass flexed through the sexy layer of fat and then her tits and butt and belly and the slight, only slight, those oh so sexy and slight dimples of cellulite of a mature experienced woman who knows and gets what she wants, jiggled and quivered when she set her right foot down. She then slowly lowered herself down onto the underside of Steve's pulsing erection resting on his taut belly.

She rocked her hips forward with a slow deliberate motion, sliding the smooth aqua meridian Lycra of her bikini forward and back, forward and back, up and down Steve's swollen unit. "Oh ohhhhhhhhh oooooooohhh," she rumbled with pleasure. "That's it, baby." I had to slow my own hand's calisthenics because I had felt that distinct pang of thunder in my chest and the start of a dry throat that announced the explosive orgasm given to me yesterday by Mandy's expert 14-year-old mouth.

My sexy neighbor, totally in command of her teenaged lawn jockey, slid back so that it appeared as if Steve's short fat cock was her very own erection. Mrs. Hardinger then pushed it against her bikini front so that the tip of his dick touched the underside of the slight roll of brown lustrous chub above her bikini's waistband. "Oh, look how far it could go in. Ooooooohhhh, look at that Stevie. Ohhhhh, it would be sooooo deeeep," she whispered to herself.

The old lady then made an OK sign with her right hand, and ran the ring, connected by those sexy ivory nails, up and down his squat hard on, seemingly jerking her own cock. She pumped faster and faster until Steve would moan and arch his back a bit, and then she would slow down. "Hhhhmmmm-hmmmmmm," she giggled throatily in acknowledgement of his growing excitement, drunk on her edging control, "not yet, baby. Not yet."

I almost matched the tortured groan that slid from Steve's mouth, but I managed to stay quiet somehow.

Mrs. Hardinger then rocked back and twisted away to her left for a few seconds, reaching behind her. The string of her bikini bottoms, only a little wider than dental floss it seemed, dug further into her mature, shiny oiled hips. Her love handle almost touched the top of her firm round thigh, giving her the appearance of almost being nude. Ribs poked through her lustful girth. She turned back around with another lit cigarette between those sexy fingers.

Steve's probing hand slid up the slight round of her stomach to those fantastic, fat tits barely contained in the bright aqua fabric of her bikini bra. He fondled them coarsely, which they seemed built to take, and Mrs. Hardinger groaned in a whisper, "That's it. Oh, yes, that's it, Stevie." His hands then went to the ends of those strings holding her tiny bottoms together and began to tug. A bright white tan line emerged as the bikini's Lycra shifted.

Excitement surged to the back of my throat but Mrs. Hardinger reached down, still moaning, and said, "No, sweetie, no. We have to leave them. We have to leave them. What if someone comes? The little ones will be back soon," and then stopped Steve's busy fingers.

"Nooooo, not again," groaned Steve. "You're doing it again."

But Mrs. Hardinger, that fucking sumptuous, tanned, mature, haggard, butterface slut, stood a little, reached down, and pulled aside the tiny front panel of her bikini, revealing an amazing set of meaty pinkish-brown labia, set in a tiny bright pale triangle of unsunned skin, slowly unfurling and unwrinkling to their natural hanging state in the thick humid air now that they'd been freed from their sexy turquoise restraint.

It took a lot of control preventing myself from blasting through that honeysuckle, grabbing my 50-year-old neighbor's hips and running my lips over the gorgeous hanging labium one at a time and flicking them with my tongue, feeling their action and weight. I wanted to spelunk her pussy with my mouth, but I somehow managed to keep quiet and in place.

This was it, my first vagina, and it was wonderful. I'm sure there's something poetic or funny or weird that my first tits were 15 years old and my first pussy was 35 years older the very next day, but I can't formulate it. I'll leave that up to you. But life sure is funny though, isn't it?

My sexy GILF neighbor slowly lowered herself without the benefit of her hands for balance, her thigh muscles glistening with definition in the afternoon glare, and gently ensconced the shaft of her teen lover's cock with her meaty brown lips, which took some skillful and sexy gyrating hips on her part. Once her lips were wrapped around Steve's dick as far as they could go, she took a deep inhale from her fresh lung dart. A stream of smoke shot from her nose and she moaned a moan that started in her toes.

Steve gasped, "Oh, Mrs. H., you're so fucking wet."

Hips rocking adroitly, assuredly and in rhythm, her hands planted on Steve's belly, the high school's vice principal's secretary slid along the underside of the student's cock. Cardinals, wasps, Mr. Cox whistling, and a squishy squirmy sound I had always associated with gross things but have ever since linked it to joy and ecstasy were all I heard. Along the rail of Steve's dick, Mrs. Hardinger's granny pussy left sticky filmy strands of natural lubricant gone white with the churning friction of young penis and old vagina.

"Oh, shit. Don't you like that baby? Don't you love it? Uhhh-uh-oooooohhhhh, Uhhh-uh-oooooohhhhh. I can feel it on my clit, I can feel it on my clit, Oh, jezzus, I can feel it on my clit," she repeated this sentence in a throaty whisper maybe 15-20 times. I can't really remember, the old lady had me so enflamed and focused on the firm rolls of plump and her deep soft creases and shiny curves glistening with sweat and tanning oil and forbidden pleasure I could barely sense anything around me.

Steve's hands glided smoothly around her rotund thighs and belly and over and around her squishy, pendulous tits as she rasped moans of pleasure with her sexy smoker's voice. I had to hand it to Steve, he persisted with his attempts to tug Mrs. Hardinger's bikini strings to reveal that last bit of pale prominent tan line poking and pushing from her audacious bra and panties as he massaged her. But she kept thwarting his attempts, whispering reminders the k1ds will be back soon and that she needed to leave it on, she needed to leave it on. Oh, dammit, she needed to leave it on.

He also, god bless him, kept trying to slide his dick inside her pussy every time her wrinkled lips reached the tip of his cock.

She said, "No, Stevie. Oh-oh-oh-ohoho, No we can't oh-uh-oh, It wouldn't be right, it wouldn't be right. Not for my husband. Ooooohhh fuck, I wish it were right."

Christ, was there something in the water in this fucking neighborhood that prompted people to warped rationalizations? Devon saying that intercourse with his s1ster didn't count because they hadn't looked at each other was just as bizarre as Mrs. Hardinger's last statement. Bitch was cheating and thought she wasn't? How was a cock sliding between your meaty vagina lips not considered adultery? Did that last inch of real estate really make all the difference between caprice and lurid affair? Or have I been misled and this was just the way the rational adult world worked? Should I too adopt this delusional attitude when it came to unleashing my raging id upon the world?

Steve whimpered a whining groan, and Mrs. Hardinger covered his mouth, the diamond from her wedding ring catching the sun's slanting rays. "Shhhh-oh-oh-oh-oh."

"Fine." Steve's hands left Mrs. Hardinger's body and pulled the hair at the sides of his head a little in frustration. "Fuck. Fine then. Can you just go faster so I can finish this time?"

"Oooh, does baby want to cum? Does baby want Mrs. H. to make him feel good?" I nodded my head behind the hedges agreeing for Steve. Abiding her lawn boy's request, the older vixen picked up the pace of her rocking. "Oh, that's it, baby. Mmmmm-hmmmm, I'm gonna make you cum. Oh, god-uh-uh-uh-I'm gonna make you cum. God, I can't wait to finally make you cum." She rattled off a Tommy gun laugh. "I'm finally gonna make you cum, baby. Is that what you want? I'm gonna make you cum. I'm gonna make you cum. Oh, god," her neck snapped back, "I'm gonna cum. I'm gonna cum," she said in surprise. The older woman really started rocking, deeper and harder, pressing down heavier on the underside of Steve's hard-on to create more friction for her now sopping wet cooze.

She'd quickly grind backward and repeat, "I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum," rapidly and then she'd slow her ample hip rocking and press down hard and slowly and rhythmically grind forward with a fucking real purpose saying more slowly, "Oh. I'm. Gonna. Cum." Slide back to Steve's retracted balls and then, "Oh, I'm gonna cum," on the slow sexy return trip to Steve's fat, purple, pulsing dickhead. Slide back: "Ooooooohhhhhhh." Slide forward slowly: "Oh, I'm gonna cum." She'd do that 4 or 5 times and them repeat the whole multi-speed, multi-pressure cycle over again.

Over those two afternoon encounters, Mandy and Mrs. Hardinger each gave me a crash course on the value of patterns for a woman during sex. Paying as much attention as possible to the rhythm and breathing and the signals- some subtle, some screamed- and adjusting your pressure and speed and locations accordingly was crucial when it came to pleasing a woman. This knowledge would end up serving me well that coming weekend, when my sexual awakening took a really fucked up turn.

Steve continued to groan and run his hand over the shining, light-cocoa expanse of Mrs. Hardinger's luscious tits, belly and thighs. That's all she'd let him do. I was whimpering myself, I wanted to her to go those last 2 yards over the goaline and get full-on naked. Fuck, she was almost there. But she continued to knowingly tease Steve and unknowingly tease her lecherous teen neighbor.

"Oh, shit. Please just finish. Oh, god, Mrs. Hardinger. Please just finish me this time."

Slide back: "Ooooooohhhhhhh." Slide forward slowly: "Oh, I'm gonna cum."

My hand matched her pace, and I began to whisper along with her.

Slide back: "Ooooooohhhhhhh." Slide forward slowly: "Oh, I'm gonna cum."

Steve all but let his hands dangle at his sides, giving the experienced woman all the control of the moment.

Slide back: "Ooooooohhhhhhh." Slide forward slowly: "Oh, I'm gonna cum."

Soon, Mrs. Hardinger's raspy grunting and groaning changed pitch, somehow deeper and throatier. An outbreak of sweat beads hydroplaned on the oiled surface of her skin. She eschewed the quick portion of her routine and concentrated on really fucking grinding slowly and methodically on the thick tumescent teenaged cock.

Finally, she slapped both palms on Steve's hairless chest, the cigarette still burning between her pointy manicured fingers so that smoke twined into his eye. Mrs. Hardinger then rocked forward hard three times, each time howling in surprise, "I'm cumming! I'm cumming! Oh my god, I'm cumming!" Her entire body wracked with spasms curling forward and back with each declaration. She collapsed forward in a chubby, sweaty bronzed heap, arms around Steve's neck and her panting belly pressed firmly against his.

I had wondered if Mandy had come the day before and reached the conclusion that I wasn't sure. Mrs. Hardinger left zero doubt in my mind what a real orgasm looks like, and I've carried that knowledge with me to this day.

But fuck that was loud. Well, it wasn't so much loud as it was an unusual sound, a primal muffled howl cutting through the staid suburban quiet. It stood out. I know I would've probably gone to investigate if I'd heard it. This put me on alert.

Mr. Cox stopped whistling and shouted, "Anybody back there?"

This caused Mrs. Hardinger to focus on something other than Steve's cock and balls for the first time since I'd been there, and her darting eyes freaked me out. I scurried back from my peephole in the honeysuckle as quickly as the shorts around my thighs would allow. I fell back on my ass, blades of grass itching and irritating by butt, and almost slammed into the aluminum shed, which would've really got Cox curious. I tried to tug my shorts up as fast and quietly as possible. This was the consequence of voyeurism, the huge risk that matches the huge payoff. I was literally and figuratively in the tall grass.

Steve said, "What? What are you doing? Don't stop. Don't stop. Finish!"

I dared not move lest I be detected, a situation in which I would find myself again in but a few days with someone much closer than the backyard neighbor.

I heard Mrs. Hardinger slap Steve's chest again, but this time not in pleasure. "Shut up," she rasped in one of those almost stage-whispers nervous people make that calls more attention than just regular conversational volume. "I think someone's there. Stop it, Steve, I'm serious. The bush just moved."

"The bushes? Oh, come on, it's a fucking cat or chipmunk or something. Now please hurry, Mrs. Hardinger, please," the desperate teen pleaded. "The ice cream truck is getting closer."

The tinkling, clanging theme from The Sting was drawing nearer now that my hearing wasn't focused on Mrs. Hardinger's low, raspy, guttural groans of pleasure and the wet smacking of her cultivated vagina. Steve said, "They'll be back soon. Hurry. Hurry. Oh that's it. Oh shit, that's it. So close."

This interruption did prompt me to stop jacking off causing my nads to throb in a dull-yet-sharp and very unpleasant way. But do you find it sick that I was still willing to stick around to listen through the bushes to Mrs. Hardinger's groans and Steve finally getting his orgasm?

Well, I did. And then several things occurred in quick succession:

The Hardinger's back patio door sliding open.

Mr. Fucking Hardinger's voice shouting: "Honey? Hey, are you out here? Nancy? I'm back early. Where're the little squirts?"

Mrs. Hardinger gasping.

Steve groaning: "Oh, are you fucking serious?"

The cheap aluminum frame of the chaise lounge scr****g on the cement slab.

Mrs. Hardinger saying, "Get up. Not that way! Not that way!"

Steve's body flying over the honeysuckle hedges and almost crumpling on top of me with a grunt.

We locked eyes for I can't tell you how many very, very long very, very quiet seconds, both of us flabbergasted that we were staring at each other in this cloistered place, in this beyond-awkward moment, both of us charging toward orgasms one second- my first solo, his first at the hand of the vice principal's secretary- and then being snapped back to a dangerous reality the next. I was afraid I was going to get another ass whipping like the one Devon gave me in parting yesterday, or worse.

It appeared Steve processed everything in those pregnant seconds, the scenario, who the fuck I was, why I was there, how long I'd been there, how much I'd seen, because a rakish grin slid across his face. He finally moved to his butt to pull up his jeans. "Hmmph. Guess it wasn't a chipmunk," he muttered to himself. He then chuckled out, "Little pervert," with an almost approving, or, at least, an understanding shake of his head.

Then the dipshit's back hit the shed tugging up his jeans. An aluminum shed. A cheap one. A metallic shotgun blast had reverberated up and down the backyards of Longwell Drive.

"Hey, who's back there?" Mr. Hardinger and Mr. Cox shouted simultaneously.

I felt comfortable enough with Steve, somehow now a br0ther in sexually deviant arms, to give him a "Smooth fucking move, Ex-Lax," look with bulging eyes.

He shrugged and buttoned his jeans. This wasn't his first rodeo either, was it? He put his pointer finger to his lips. "Not a word, Covington." He smiled again. "Tell your s1ster I said what's up." He ducked and scampered toward our neighbor's yard to the left with his blue balls and I belly crawled to the front of the shed with my blue balls just as it sounded like Mr. Hardinger was at the hedges right at my hiding spot.

"Coulda sworn I heard a bang. Hey, the flowers look great, Nance. But I hope he didn't charge too much." I heard a loafer kick a shovel and the mulch tarp wrinkle. "He left the yard a mess."


____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


I looked down at Lucy, my cum dribbling down her chin. That disappointed look still haunting her face. "You didn't like it?"

"No," she said with a mouthful of my jizz. Lucy leaned across the bed, her firm ass cheeks flexing into two beautiful round bubbles, and spit into the wastebasket. She tugged a tissue from the far nightstand. She laid on her side of the bed, wiping. "It's not that I didn't like it."

"I sense a but coming." I collapsed next to her and shook my Camel pack, detecting only a few remaining throat daggers.

"It's just that it was frustrating. It was a tease. No one came."

"Mrs. Hardinger came." I leaned over and kissed her chin. "I came."

Lucy slapped me playfully. "You know what I mean. The first story was better."

"You didn't like it? Fuck she was hot. Shit, I sometimes still think about that old bag whenever a chick isn't doing it for me in bed."

Lucy elbowed me.

"Not you." I went to the refrigerator, my sweaty soles sticking to the peeling linoleum tiles.

"Well, like I said, I have to tell this my own way. The first story was the grabber. My slutty butterface sexpot neighbor was just the second act." I leaned down into the refrigerator, luxuriating in the weak chill it offered among the odor of leftovers about to turn. "That day I had become a tit man" I shouted over my shoulder as I rooted among the meager provisions. "But that night, the next few nights actually, my s1ster would turn me into an ass man."


To Be Continued…




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