When I got home, I parked the mower in the garage. Mom's car was gone. Thank God, it was Friday, she was out getting groceries. I put my shirt, shorts, and the rest of my clothes into the washing machine and started it. Next, a long hot shower with plenty of soap to get rid of any remaining evidence. Then, those towels to the washer. I was taking no chances there would be anything left to rat me out.

After dinner, I drove to the pavilion near the town mall. Usually we're cruising for girls, but tonight I wasn't. Not that there weren't plenty there. But it was mostly us watching them watch us. Just talking, nobody crossing over to "cut the herd." There were plenty of quail, though. You know, San Quentin quail. If you're unfamiliar with the term, Google it. Or search "Five Short Minutes" on YouTube. The one with lyrics.

I got home a little after ten. Mom said Mrs. Overstreet had called, asking if I could help her move some furniture in the morning, and she had told her okay. Uh oh. I was trying to come up with an idea for choosing number two, and hadn't considered a request for an encore.

I got to her house about 8:30 the next morning. She met me at the door and ushered me in. She said her husband left earlier for his regular Saturday golf game, and she wanted the furniture moved before he returned. I followed her through the foyer and up the stairs, into what appeared to be the master bedroom. That's when she turned to me. She blushed, took my hands and placed them on her breasts. Her big, heavy, braless tits. Whose nipples were crinkled and hard. She reached around and grabbed my ass, pulling my crotch into hers and actually humping me.

"I just can't forget what happened yesterday and wanted to see you again," she whispered. Then she put her mouth on mine, licking her tongue over my lips until they parted, allowing entry. I guess if any furniture was going to be moved that day, it would be that king-sized bed hopping across the room.

We made short work of our clothes. Today she wore no underwear. I met her on the bed. She lay back with her arms above her head, one thigh demurely covering the gateway to paradise. I crawled to her, placed a hand under her head, and lifted it for a kiss. Her hands moved to the back of my neck, holding me as her mouth feasted on mine. I shifted around, ready to enter the Tunnel of Love, when she said, "Wait."

She saw my look. "I want you to do that thing with your mouth again. You know, how you licked me down there and all. It was just so wonderful. Won't you please do it again? Please?" Pleading eyes, petulant frown. Licking those luscious lips.

What the hell. Mr. Johnson was ready to go, but with a naked, good-looking woman with that little-girl pout, asking you to munch her rug, you just gotta do it.

So after a little more kissy-face, I headed south. I spent some time on the twin peaks, moved to the naval station, finally crossing the equator and arriving at the swamp.

It looked a whole lot better than the last time I saw it. Everything was neat and tidy, although I could see there was some fluid leakage. Something else was new. The smell. Like fresh strawberries. A lick confirmed strawberries. She had used some type of feminine product that smelled and tasted of strawberries, to make a pleasant job even more pleasant.

I started slow and easy, tongue moving up between the little lips to her clit, a couple of quick flicks of the tip there, down the outside of the big lips, then starting all over again. Her fingers brushed through my hair, her hips shifting side to side. Her thighs would clamp over my ears, and I could feel her shiver; then they relaxed. I thought I heard her purr like a cat. Slow and easy wins the race.

It was easy to know when she wanted to pick up the pace. Her fingers gripped my hair, and she pulled my face into her vulva as she humped it. The slow and easy had wakened the sleeping tiger and kitty wanted petting.

I locked a vacuum over her clit and attacked it with my tongue. At the same time, I inserted two fingers into her vagina, searching for that patch of rough skin on the anterior wall, her "G" spot.

About two seconds later, she exploded. She must have been a dancer or run track, because her thigh muscles clamped my head so hard I thought my skull would crack. My face was locked into her vulva, and when her pelvis shot up off the bed, my head went with it. When it dropped back to the mattress, my head followed that, too. And not slowly. It was up, down, up, down, up, down, about once a second. And even though my ears were covered, I could still hear her screams. One long, loud wail like she was being murdered. Thank God, I could still breathe through my nose. If she lost control of her bladder, I would have been in serious trouble.

It finally ended. Her thighs released my head, her arms fell to her sides, panting to catch her breath, face and chest flushed from the climax. That dreamy, fresh-fucked look women get. A sultry smile on her face, she reached a hand to me.

Then the doorbell rang.

"Ignore it," she said. "They'll go away. Come up here."

I was kissing my way back to the naval station when it rang again. And again. Then pounding on the door.

"Damn them, anyway." Putting on her robe, she said, "Wait here. I'll get rid of them and be right back."

At first, I sat back, waiting. Then my curiosity got the better of me, and I went into the hall, standing just behind the edge of the wall by the stairway landing. I peeked around the corner and saw...

Mrs. Morrison. They were trying to be quiet, but I could still hear everything they were saying.

"Look, Candy," she said, "I was running by and heard you screaming blue murder. You didn't answer the door and I was worried. What happened?"

Clutching the robe to her (she hadn't tied it tightly enough to keep it closed), she answered in a stage whisper, "It was nothing. I thought I saw a mouse. We'll have to set some traps tonight."

Glancing up the stairs, Mrs. Morrison said, "Why is the pussy wagon in your driveway?"

Candy followed her glance. "I'm having some furniture moved. I wanted it done before hubby gets home tonight."

"Bullshit."

I glanced around the corner again to see Marilyn step up to Candy.

"I've seen enough of myself in the mirror to recognize the look of a woman who's just had her ashes hauled. Don't deny it, your expression says it all. And what's that running down your leg? It looks like pussy juice. Are you having carnal relations with that young man? OH MY GOD, YOU ARE! CANDY OVERSTREET, YOU CRADLE-ROBBING SLUT!"

Me: Well, it seems the cat's out of the bag. Or the pussy.

Brain: What are you going to do now?

Me: Me? You're the brain, you're supposed to figure that out.

Brain: Dude, it was all I could do to keep you from drowning in pussy juice.

Me: Well, that's over now. What do we do?

Brain: Get back into bed and play innocent.

Not much of a plan, but jumping out the window would likely lead to broken bones and a trip in an ambulance with police escort. So I got back into bed, placed a pillow against the headboard, leaned back and covered myself to the waist with the top sheet.

A stampede of footsteps on the staircase. They were racing to the bedroom. Who won? I should have known it would be Marilyn. She's the more athletic of the two.

She slammed the door open, stopping as she stepped inside. Her eyes got big, her jaw dropping as she looked at me, leaning against the headboard, legs crossed at the ankles, right hand crossed to left hip, looking as innocent as I could under the circumstances.

"Oh my God, it's true! Oh my God."

Candy was only a second behind her. She came around and tried to push Marilyn out the door.

"Okay, you've seen it, you've seen my shame. Now get out and don't you dare tell anyone!" And she started crying.

A sweeping arm brushed Candy aside as Marilyn advanced to the bed. I tried to brazen it out and stare her down, but I couldn't hold her gaze. I knew I was blushing, which only made it worse. She stood at the bed, looking down at me, but she spoke to Candy.

"Was he any good?"

If someone had stuck one of those electric cattle prods up my ass, I could not have been more shocked.

I couldn't see through her to Candy, but she had to be as shocked as me.

"Well, was he?"

Still no answer.

She reached for the sheet. "Let's take a look under here and see what you got."

She pulled the sheet back before I could grab it, and there was Mr. Johnson. He had gone from his ready-for-action position to only slightly inflated. Semi-erect, you might call it.

Her eyes got big again. Her jaw dropped again.

"Oh, my God! You've been packing that much meat round here, and I didn't know?"

She kicked off her shoes and socks, took off her blouse and sports bra, and shimmied out of her running shorts. The thong went with them. Another prime example of MILF-age.

"We're going to get to know each other in the biblical way."

She hopped onto the bed, pushing me off the pillow, onto the mattress. She lay full-length on me, attacking my mouth with hers. Her knees spread mine, and her hips wiggled against Mr. Johnson. Of course, he got the idea she wanted to play and started to reinflate.

She lifted her head from mine. "Is that her pussy juice on your face? Well, if you'll eat her pussy, you sure as hell are gonna eat mine!"

She spun around, her vulva over my face. Her vagina was surprisingly wet, given the short time it took us to get to this point.

"Don't just lay there, grab my ass and get busy. Luncheon is served."

With that, she lowered herself onto my mouth as she engulfed my cock.

It was the classic 69.

Now there are two inherent problems with this position. First, it's impossible to give and receive simultaneously. You're trying to give the best oral presentation possible, while at the same time enjoying the your partner's lingual skill. Something has to give. At best, your performance is mediocre and your enjoyment stunted. Second, but equally important, there's the real possibility that an unfortunate incident might happen that ruins it for everyone. There's this old saying, "Why did God put the diner so close to the outhouse?" At the moment of climax, the passage of a little gas, or something more substantial, will most certainly be a buzz kill.

Brain: Hey bub. Open your eyes. See what's just above your nose?

Me: The brown star?

Brain: Yup. You okay with that? You do remember what it does.

Me. Sure, I do. But it's kind of hard to do anything about it when Mr. Johnson is looking at her breakfast.

Brain: Roll her over. Then you can lift your head, and maybe she'll get the hint.

So I did. She tried to roll back, but I got my knees wide and held place. My cock left her mouth as she slithered out from under me. Then her mouth was back on mine, she rolled us over and her body was on me again.

She raised her head, looked me in the eye, and breathed, "Time to make you a man."

I didn't want to tell her that she was late to that party, so I kept my eyes locked on hers as she reached back, grasped my cock and placed it at the entrance to Nirvana. She pushed down hard, trying to take it all at once. That turned out to be a bad idea. As lubed up as she was, it got only about halfway in before it jammed. Not so bad for her as it was for me. I was fondling her breasts when it hit. Maybe my yowl of pain didn't stop her, but the FBI will be able to lift my fingerprints from her tits for the next three days. She switched to a slow up and down motion, and gradually it was fully seated. A sigh, and she was off and running.

Her face was a study in concentration. Eyes closed, lips pursed, neck muscles tense. I was just along for the ride. Then I looked across the room and saw Candy. Her robe was open, otherwise she was still nude. She was leaning back in a chair, butt on the edge of the seat, knees locked, legs spread, eyes wide open, mouth agape, watching us on the bed. She had some type of marital aid and was violently fucking herself with it. I could hear the sloshing from across the room.

That woke the beast in me. Using her tits as handles, I rolled Marilyn over onto her back while still coupled, ending up with me on my knees, her on her back. I hooked my arms under her knees. She was limber enough I could get them up near her ears. And I began the power stroke.

Not a minute later, she exploded. Those muscular thighs almost launched me. She started chanting, "Fuck. Me. Harder. FUCK. ME. HARDER." Then she locked her ankles behind my neck and lifted her ass off the bed. She shouted, "YESOHGODYESOHGODYES," over and over. And when she came, she squirted. No, not pussy juice, it was urine. A lot. All over me and the sheets.

I had another epic orgasm. It seemed like I pumped a quart into her. I didn't realize she had peed until that warm feeling got cold. Marilyn thought it was funny. I was angry. Candy was pissed.

"God damn you, now I have to wash the sheets and probably the mattress pad before he gets home. Get your clothes on and get the fuck out!"

It wasn't going to be that easy. Marilyn and I went to shower while Candy took the bedding to the basement. While in the shower, Marilyn ("Call me Mare, honey") entertained me again with her amazing oral skill. Not enough time for me to return the favor, though.

I got home a little after one. Mom was heading out and as we passed, asking, "Did you get her job done?"

"Yup," I answered. "And I think she's happy with the results."