The Origin of Millie Marie and her Housewives
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JANE
"My cock is six inches long. Not much compared to many guys, I admit, Jane, but those six inches are very willing to take care of your little problem."
I had just barely opened the store. My wife had shut me off the previous evening, 'tired from taking care of the children', - believe that and I have a bridge for sale - and my quick jerk-off into the toilet had not really been satisfying. Well, no more than usual, anyway.
Some people think that being a pharmacist is nothing but reading the arrogant scrawls of physicians who think that they are too important to write legibly. But fortunately one also gets to meet people like Jane, to whom the first paragraph was addressed.
I'm Dr. Hal Riley of Pleasantville, New Jersey, down near Atlantic City. My Birth Certificate calls me Hawthorne, but I've always hated that name. When I was finally able to understand the story, my older brother told me that I had been named after Uncle Hawthorne Riley of Red Bank, farther upstate. Uncle had won the New Jersey Lottery and my parents hoped that my name would somehow influence him to leave some large sum to me or to them. As it happened, my dear uncle was banging a stripper (actually a polite word for whore) named Nicole in Atlantic City when he died in the saddle, leaving everything he had to said tearful Nicole. They were crocodile tears, of course. Except for the grief that it might cause my wife and children, it's not a bad way to go. Truth be told, I envied his last moments inside a wet cunt.
My wife Ramona, another rarely used name, is really OK. She's no movie star in the looks department, but I'm not embarrassed to walk down the street with her either. She's a good mother, and her folks have lots of money. The trouble is, she's not much fun in bed. She only believes in fucking missionary style, and barely moving at that. 'Oh look, dear, the bedroom ceiling needs a painting.' Once in a blue moon she'll give me a hand job with a tissue and very occasionally, I'll get the special treat of her riding me cowgirl style.
Sucking my cock? You must be kidding. Taking it up the ass? She'd rather cut her own head off or at least cut my cock off, either one with a dull knife. But the worst part is (are?) her constant headaches.
Listen carefully, all you married women out there – or even those just playing house with some special man. When a guy wants to fuck, it means that he's got some sperm build-up that he needs to get rid of. You may really have a headache. Fine; he'll just go into the bathroom and flog his log. Then you may have a second headache. OK, he'll find some soft porn on the television and get himself off to a video of bare tit and make-believe fucking. But by the third time, forget it. He'll be on the prowl full time for real live cunt.
But we're not talking about me; we're talking about Jane. At the privacy window of the pharmacy, five minutes after opening, my six feet towered over her five foot two. She had to look up to ask me her question, while I looked down at her chastely-covered but clearly delicious rack. She and her husband were no strangers to my store, he for condoms and blood pressure medication, she for tampons and, surprisingly at the beginning, pussy spray.
"Dr. Hal, do you have something over the counter to help my husband's ED (Erectile Dysfunction)? He can't take any of those advertised prescriptions because of his blood pressure. Damn it, I'm getting horny."
I realized that he must have been getting some on the side, because of his frequent purchase of rubbers. And Jane must have suspected it also because her husband was too young for ED. Oh sure, he might have been too tired, coming home after late hours in his furniture store, but I doubted it. I took my time, moving my eyes from her tits to her own face. She didn't blink, so I made the suggestion.
"My cock is six inches long. Not much compared to many guys, I admit, Jane, but those six inches are very willing to take care of your problem."
She smiled. "I was kind of thinking that might be so."
I kept a straight face. She continued. "I know when a man is trying to undress me with his eyes. I'm sure you wouldn't mind doing it for real."
"Will you be free at lunch time, Jane?"
"You have my address," she said. "Twelve o'clock?"
I nodded.
She lived in a small three-bedroom starter home in a quiet neighborhood. The home had a two-car garage with a wide driveway, but discretion being the better part of valor, I chose to take my personal car rather than the little store vehicle with the advertising on it, and to park on the street around the corner. After all, some of the other bored housewives might spend some of their time looking out their front windows.
The door opened immediately before my finger was off the bell, but barely wide enough for me to slide in. The reason was obvious. She wore a black lace teddy that barely covered her snatch. In a second, I realized that the skimpy garment should have gotten her husband as hard as a rock, even with true ED.
She lifted the hem for just a brief glance, revealing a neatly trimmed blonde patch and wet labia. Most of the customers that I've fucked usually want to start out with a kiss, but Jane didn't bother with that nicety, simply taking me by the hand and leading me to the guest bedroom. The covers had been turned down on the single bed. She released my hand and got onto the bed, her back against the headboard and her knees bent to each side, the teddy riding up and exposing her inviting pussy.
Her fingers lightly rubbed her slit, dipping inside as I watched her. She was concentrating on her clitoris, yet to my (well-trained) eyes, she wasn't masturbating, she was simply warming herself up for me. Her eyes dipped down to view the lump in the front of my slacks, silently inviting me to get that lump out into the daylight.
I took my time. It wasn't like I was in the back of my sister's car, rushing to get my cock out so that I could fuck some fifteen year old virgin before she changed her mind. No doubt that the horny Jane had her mind made up, and that if I for some reason chickened out, she'd kill me before she'd let me walk out. So I slowly unbuttoned my shirt like a stripper, watching her hungry eyes leave my bulge and follow my fingers as they uncovered my pecs.
My belt was next. After the unbuckling, I bothered to pull it free of the loops, a totally unnecessary step when a guy is in a hurry to get his pants off. Next to go was the top button and then the zipper, with a quick pull. If I had been too slow with the zipper, she might have thought that I was deliberately yanking her chain, and I didn't want that. Gravity took my slacks down to the floor, leaving me with just my undershorts.
Her hand came up to my groin. Her fingers deftly spread the front opening and reached inside to find the goal of their search, my baseball bat, my tool, my schlong, my prick, my Johnson, my pecker, my thingy, my Peter. As the wonderfully literate Bard of Avon might have said, 'that which we call a cock, by any other name, would taste as sweet.'
But Jane wasn't ready for tasting, not yet. She pulled my cock free, gave the crown the merest peck of a kiss, and said "Eat me."
Silly woman. Though she said it as a command, rather than a request, it was unnecessary. It had been years since I'd fucked a woman without eating her first. I just love the aroma of cunt – yes, she had used the spray she'd bought in my store – the taste of her juices, the feel of her clit on my tongue. And the screaming yell, the slamming of her fists on my head, the humping of her loins as that first orgasm hit her while my cock waited patiently for his turn in her mouth, or in her cunt, or sometimes, though I rarely started there, in that tight forbidden opening where the cock goes in the wrong direction.
And so I honored her request. Except that she didn't scream when she came, she wept. Nor did she punch my head when I didn't pause; she just tried to push it off of her cunt. And she didn't hump up at me either, but instead simply spread her legs even wider that I would have imagined.
I lifted my head to look at Jane's face. She was perspiring, the slightest of sheens barely disturbing her cosmetics. And she was glowing, the pink reddish color wordlessly conveying her thanks for a job well done.
Rarely do I feel any affection for the woman who allows my cock the use of her five various openings – that's counting hand jobs and tit fucks – but I always wish her to be pleasured enough so that if our paths ever crossed again, she be willing to allow my cock, and hands and tongue, inside of her for another round of fucking. And while I'm not stupid enough to correct a woman when she says 'making love', for me, it's always just plain fucking. No more, no less.
By then my cock was ready for some of that fucking. I stood up and shucked my shorts; there was no reason for me to come home at night with Jane's fluids all over my underwear. She reached out to touch my swollen meat. Her hands didn't squeeze, nor even hold, no caress, no strokes. I expected her to guide me toward her soaking grotto, but I guessed that she expected that I would be able to find it on my own.
My purple crown pressed against her slit. Her labia spread in welcome without the need for her fingers, or mine, to open them. And then I was inside her, easing into her slippery warmth, the proverbial hot knife through butter. My cock was deep almost instantly, my pubic hair rubbing against hers. I pulled back and as I thrust again, she humped up against me; we were fucking each other. That's ever so much better than fucking a woman who lays there like a dead fish.
Since there's no emotion on my part, I've learned to control my orgasms. I can go a full thirty minutes with no effort whatever and I enjoy it, making them beg for me to let go. My own personal record is almost two hours, but I've never hit that target again, nor come even close. That was the one woman for whom I really felt affection. Correction, she was the only one I ever loved.
But I could tell that there was no affection on Jane's part either. She had never flirted with me nor dressed in any provocative manner. She was just a horny lonely housewife who needed a cock to remove the tension in her life.
So there was no reason for me to hold out any longer than it would take to give her one more orgasm before filling her cunt with my little soldiers – not that I would have minded doing it again if she had the time. (I was already sure that she had the desire and the stamina). Therefore, as I fucked her, I slid a thumb inside her, above my cock, so that it would give better friction against her clit. It worked quickly, and as she began to cum, she gave a low moan instead of weeping.
And when I then let go, she grabbed my hand, holding my thumb tightly inside her so that my sperm was soon soaking that finger. By the time that I had finished my five or six spurts, we were both grinning. She pulled my thumb out – Little Jack Horner – gave one side a quick lick and then pushed the digit toward my mouth.
Strange. A lot of women seem to think that making a guy taste his own cum is some sort of payment or maybe punishment for allowing him to use her body. But many of the guys I've spoken to say that they don't care, it doesn't bother them, and a few candid ones admit that they've tasted their own jizz after masturbation.
I happily took her offering and sucked my thumb clean. It was my way of saying that I'd be delighted to fuck her any time she wanted slash needed it. Actually, it turned out to be two or three times a week for almost two years, until her husband found us with my mouth between her legs. When she counter-attacked by accusing him of having a lover – which I was sure was true – I put on my pants and left. She doesn't answer my calls anymore.
But the worst part is that it cost me two good customers.
ANA
"Are you Dr. Riley?"
Although my name was prominently displayed on the front awning and the window, and I was the only person behind the drug counter, and I was wearing the traditional white lab coat, for the shy woman in front of me it was a perfectly logical question. I looked at her quickly.
She was plain, neither good looking nor ugly. Neither slim nor overweight. Neither short nor tall. Had she pointed a weapon at me and taken the entire contents of the cash register, all I could have told the police was that she had white skin and mousy brown hair.
"Hal Riley, at your service. May I help you?"
"No, Dr. Riley. My name is Ana O'Connor and I just came here to thank you."
Her last name sounded vaguely familiar but I couldn't pin it down.
"You're quite welcome, Mrs. O'Connor, but I actually can't remember what I did to deserve your thanks."
"I thought you might not. Does the name John Brown ring a bell?"
Hesitating, I nodded. She smiled.
"He's my son. His real name is Franklin O'Connor."
Of course I remembered. It had been about a year and a half earlier. He was the eighteen year old punk who came into my store with a prescription for oxy, obviously forged on a doctor's stolen prescription pad. A quick phone call to 911 and he was soon led from the store, his hands newly adorned with shiny cuffs.
"Why are you thanking me, Mrs. O'Connor?"
"Because," she said, and then began to cry like a baby, "because the arrest scared the hell out of him. He's been clean and sober for eighteen months, something neither my bum of a husband nor I have been able to do for years."
Bum of a husband, that's what she said. And she can't stop crying. Damn, I'm gonna fuck this one.
"Mrs. O'Connor, why don't you come around the counter and go into my office. My assistant is doing paperwork in there and I'll have her make you a cup of coffee. Her name is Sally. Then we can talk while she works the counter temporarily."
When Sally came out to tell us that the coffee was ready, Mrs. O'Connor was still sobbing, but she was sobbing into my chest, with my arms around her. She (Sally) was always available for a quick blow job when I needed it, but she was happily married and didn't care whether or not I face-fucked anyone else. Still, she gave me a quizzical look, for Ana was not one of the hotties I usually tried for. What Sally didn't think about at that moment was that when a man's balls are full of sperm, he doesn't much care who – or what – is at the other end of his piss slit.
And my balls are always full.
As it was, Sally and I had come in fifteen minutes early that morning and she had cleaned my pipes quickly. But it was a good two hours before Mrs. O'Connor walked into the store.
We talked, Ana and I; yes, we were on a first name basis by then. It wasn't difficult to bring her around to the discussion of her husband and her blaming him for their son's conduct. From there it was easy to get her talking about him neglecting her, to which she added "if you know what I mean."
That gave me the opening to say "The man must be a fool."
To which she accepted the bait, continuing to defend herself with "I take pretty good care of him when he gets around to it, you know."
I smiled. "No, I don't know."
We stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, maybe ten seconds. Then I put my hands on her shoulders and pulled her toward me. We kissed, her tongue invading my mouth and her hand groping the lump in my slacks. Her tongue work was kind of sloppy, suggesting that she and her husband didn't do that much foreplay. I leaned toward the door and reached down to lock. It gave an audible click and I imagined Sally standing at the counter, laughing to herself. Go for it, Hawthorne. Let me know if she sucks cock better than I do. Sally always uses the name on my pharmacy license when we talk about sex.
The mind works ever so much more quickly than do the fingers on a keyboard – or under a blouse. For one thing, I had no doubt that she would be glad to swallow my cum right there. But I was equally sure that if I didn't give her an orgasm the first time we fucked she'd regret it and I'd never have another shot at it. And while she was no beauty queen, I wouldn't mind keeping her in my stable – sorry, sis, but that's the way I feel about all of them – when I need to see who's available to give me a quick ride.
But the problem was that my small office, though quite suitable for a blow job, was not equipped for a good fucking. Sure, I could bend her over my desk and do her doggy style, but that would definitely make her feel like a slut. And even if deep down she needed to feel slutty, I'd learned way back that if I treated them properly, I'd never want for wet openings.
Jane
- 22.12.2022
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