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Long, Hot Summer - Ch. 3

No relief from the heat in sight. Thank God.

My other employers booked no daytime hours for me on Wednesdays so I could service my yardwork clientele. I mowed five different lawns all within a few blocks of each other. I started around nine in the morning, and it usually took me about six hours or so. The Kaminski’s yard was the last one the list; it’s promise as well as the extra adrenalin it incited helped me push through the tedium and fatigue of it all.

I finished Mrs. Fulton’s yard around two o’clock, crossed the street to the Kaminski’s, and went around back. No Eleanor. Maybe she was inside admiring her big tits in the mirror, I thought. Like I wished I was doing. In the shed, the evidence of last week’s load had evaporated. I propped open the shed door for more light, gassed up their shitty Sears Craftsman mower, and by the time I brought it clattering out onto the lawn, Mrs. Kaminski was standing at the top of the back porch steps.

She was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans, even though the day was warm. They were tight, but not Sally Speaker tight. More enticingly, up top she had on a white button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled up above the elbows and the tails knotted up under breasts, showing off a nice expanse of flat, tanned belly. The top three buttons were open and the closed ones were strained from the pull of her braless breasts. It was a good look for her. Thought I can’t say that I’d seen a bad one yet.

The night before, I’d worked the closing shift at the A on my way home, I stopped at the Sinclair gas station, gassed up my parent’s car, and bought a couple condoms from the machine in the men’s room. Now they were in the pocket of the painter’s pants I was wearing. I had no intention of using them today. Or, I should say, I had no intention of making any kind of move today, if I ever would. But I didn’t discount the possibility that she might. My imagination may have been pushing the boundaries of plausibility. There wasn’t anything like good judgment taking place here. But it was better to be ready for something that had no chance of happening, then of something happening that I was in no way ready for.

She had a big Styrofoam cup in her hand, and as she came down the porch steps, big tits bouncing, I realized that it was for me.

“You look hot,” she said, biting that lower lip.

Was that an opening? I ignored it.

“It’s pretty humid today,” I said.

“It’s just ice water.”

“That’s perfect, thanks,” I chugged down half of it and immediately felt like someone just clocked me in the forehead with a baseball bat.

“Oh, you’re welcome,” she hooked her thumbs in the front belt loops of her jeans. “Well, if you need anything else, just come find me.”

I got to work. I’d considered a bunch of different scenarios with her, of how this might go, or at least come about. Maybe she would step into the shed, with feigned innocence, when I was putting things away at the end. There was really no place to fuck her in there, no bench or table, just some shovels and racks hanging on one wall, and an old bookshelf that held the Kaminski’s old rusty paint can collection. It could start in there, however. I could get my hands and mouth on those tits and suck away. And maybe that would be all, the next step in the progression. She sees my cum from jerking off one week, the next she lets me suck her tits, but only that, because she thinks she can’t go all the way with this. But all she thinks about afterwards, in the intervening week, is how she let this young boy suck her boobs, and she finds herself getting more and more agitated. Finds herself contemplating more. But it can’t, she thinks, it can’t go beyond that. Not realizing that it’s already too late. It’s a rabbit hole, after all, and the gravity of lust is bearing her down, down. She imagines him putting his hand between her legs.

Or maybe I reach out, put a hand on her breast, and she slaps me, tells her husband, and he runs me over with this shitty Impala the next day.

I finished the work and stowed the mower in the shed. I went to the same spot in the back, unzipped, and pulled out my already half-hard cock. I imagined kissing the smooth, exposed plane of Eleanor Kaminski’s bare stomach. I thought about the inner curve of bare breast that I could peak through the gapping of those strained buttons on her white shirt. I thought about her on her knees on the dirt floor here in this shed, making soft little grunts of pleasure as her lips glided back and forth over my swollen cockhead, wanting nothing more than a lush load of warm teenage cum filling her mouth, like the horny housewives in Suzie Bowen’s porn stories—with their pool cleaners and house painters and, yes, lawn mowing neighbor boys; “I can’t believe this really happened to me…”—who talked about their insatiable need to drink down the potent offerings of creamy young seed, to feel the erect cocks pulsing in their mouths and spurting thick gouts of salty sperm down their throats. Please, they said. I have to have it, they said. I want to taste it, I want to swallow your hot, sweet cum. And just like the week before, I pumped my load against the shed wall.

I made myself decent quickly. I didn’t want to be caught doing it, just to have done it and leave it there. I knew that once the sound of the mower running had stopped, she’d soon be out, and she was already halfway across the yard on her way to the shed when I stepped out and slammed the door behind me.

“Well, that was quick,” she said. Was she talking about me jacking off? Was she on her way to try to catch me at it? I told myself she was.

“Was it?” I said. “I don’t think it took much longer than usual.”

Two could play at this game.

She extracted the folded up square of the ten-dollar bill from the little change pocket sewn in the top her jean pocket. I took it, and put it in my pocket with the condoms.

Even though I’d just gotten myself off, my spent cock still had a twitch in it. Her big tits beneath that knotted white shirt were calling me, plump and wanton sirens on the carnal shore, beckoning me to find harbor atop that big, soft body. I felt the urge to move in, to call her bluff now. If I hadn’t just spent the last week in an intensive study sex course with Suzie Bowen, I wouldn’t have felt any such thing, of course: just that old, persistent, unrequited lust that required a follow-up tug in the shower.

But I needed a little more certainty about Eleanor Kaminski. I wanted the desire to build up further in her, if it was indeed there at all. I couldn’t say for certain why she went into the shed the previous week after I’d gone. Maybe she was just looking for a can of shellac.

I peeled off my sweaty t-shirt right in front of her and used it like a towel to wipe my face and neck. “So hot today,” I said, looking straight at her, purposely eliding any subject and verb in that sentence. My gaze flicked down to her breasts for the merest second, then back up to her face. She bit her lower lip and nodded.

“Well, I’ll see you next week,” I said, turning and striding off. I disappeared behind the shrubs at the rear of the property like I was taking the back alley. Once I was out of view, I eased back in through the bushes to the spot behind the shed and waited.

After some seconds of silence, I heard her go into the shed. She was quiet in there. If she found the spot of the deed, where my white cum clung thickly to the wall, then she was less than a foot away from me at that very moment, on the other side of the rusted wall. Then I heard that most glorious of sounds, that breath-catching prelude to incipient pleasure: the soft, low purr of a zipper.

I backed away as quietly as I could, across the grass and around the bushes instead of through so I wouldn’t make any noise, and took off down the alley. I thought about staying to listen. I thought about taking out my cock back there and stroking it while she masturbated in the shed, if that’s what she was going to do. But I was afraid she would hear me, and I didn’t want to spook her. I’d gotten what I wanted from that day.

 

I had worked the closing shift at the grocery on Tuesday night, mowed lawns all morning and afternoon on Wednesday, then worked the closing shift again that night. So by the time Thursday morning rolled around, Suzie Bowen and I had gone almost 48 hours without fucking. I’d hoped that she would be as horny as I was, and I wasn’t disappointed. She answered the door in a towel, her hair dark, lank, and wet, and dropped to her knees to blow me right in the entryway. She ran her tongue around the head of my cock several times, and up and down the underside of my shaft, before spending a little time licking and sucking my balls. Her cocksucking techniques were polished by now. Whenever she was ready for my load, she knew exactly how to finish me off, using that snug fingers-and-lips combination, applying the right amount of pressure and stimulation to the frenulum that made holding back simply impossible.

This morning, however, she plainly wanted to suck for a while. I pulled open her towel and let it fall so I could play with her tits and pinch her nipples. She had her hands on my thighs, just using her mouth, moving up and down my shaft lightly. I told her to suck it, to take it, to fill her mouth with that hard dick, to run her lips up and down the shaft of that thick cock.

She put her hands on my ass and pulled me toward her, so I started pumping my hips slightly. She stopped moving, holding the head just between her lips, and I started thrusting more forcefully. She made a surprised little moan of pleasure; her hand shot down between her legs. I left off her tits, took her head in my hands, and held her still while I fucked her mouth. She grunted softly with each thrust. I watched my cock pumping back and forth between her lips, and her hand rapidly jiggling her clit. She was digging it, she was into getting her mouth fucked, and I was into fucking it. She wasn’t going to have to employ her finishing move this morning; seeing how turned on she was was going to make me shoot.

“Oh, yeah, take it, Suze,” I said. “I’m fucking your mouth, baby. I’m fucking your hot little mouth like I’m going to fuck your hot little cunt.”

The hand down between her legs became a blur. She was going to make herself come with my cock in her mouth. I thought about Eleanor Kaminski on her knees, sucking me desperately, ravenous for young cum, ready to come herself as I filled her mouth with jet after creamy jet. That put me over the edge.

“Fuck! I’m gonna come,” I said. I backed out a little and stopped thrusting. “Take my load. Take my hot fucking load!”

I pumped cum into Suzie Bowen, grunted and pumped, and she made muffled little squeaks at each spurt. When I finally stopped shooting, she let my cock drop from her mouth. She bowed her head and started shaking, coming, the fingers rubbing her clit slowing and pressing hard against it. Dollops of semen fell from her lips and made little pearlescent domes on the carpet.

My legs were shaking like mad, as usual. I knelt on the floor, and then stretched out on my back, my jeans bunched down around my ankles. Suzie Bowen lay down on her side, naked, her knees tucked up. We were both catching our breath.

And that’s the way we were when the front door opened and then boomed thunderously against the chain.

“Suzie!” Stella Bowen’s reedy voice made my balls shrink up into my insides. “Suzie, why is the chain on?”

To save us from final damnation, for one thing. I yanked up my pants, rolled over and, on all fours crawled into the Bowen’s living room, then got up and bolted down the hall to The Imbecile’s bedroom. She grabbed up her towel and headed back down the hallway as well, and then shouted that she was just getting out of the shower. She waited a few beats, trussed up her towel, and went back to unchain the door and let her mother in.

Her bed wasn’t high enough for me to hide under it, so I just lay on the floor next to it, on the far side. Her mother wouldn’t be able to see me unless she came all the way into the room and walked around the bed, and Suzie Bowen wouldn’t let that happen. I heard them talking but couldn’t hear what they were saying. My heart was still trying to punch a hole through my chest. I tried not to think about the scene if the door hadn’t been chained. Or, unbelievably worse, if she’d have banged open that door a few minutes sooner, when I was shooting cum between Suzie Bowen’s lips and loudly exhorting her to take my big load in her hot fucking mouth. My testicles felt like they wouldn’t be descending any time soon.

Suzie Bowen came in and locked the bedroom door. She turned on her clock radio to a local rock station. She knelt next to me, sat back on her heels.

“What’s going on, why did she come home?”

“Her car broke down. She never made it to work. She had to call Triple-A to tow her to the Boron, then bring her home.”

“So she’s not going to work?”

“One of her friends at the bank is going to pick her up on her break in an hour or so.”

“An hour?”

“Or so.”

“So what do we do in the meantime?”

She reached for the radio and cranked up the volume.

 

With her mother pottering about the house for the next "hour or so," Suzie Bowen sucked my cock back to a respectable hardness, then climbed atop me and rode it on the floor of her stuffy, close bedroom. She fucked me with determination. Rivulets of sweat ran down her ribcage. She sat up straight and crossed her arms above her head as she bounced on my dick, her tits flopping. The radio blared. She leaned in close and said in my ear, “Pump your hot cream in my fuckhole.” That was a new one, and it had me spurting another load in her in no time.

After I’d finished coming, she climbed off my dick, knee-walked up to my face, and lowered her pussy to my mouth. I knew that if she could, she would be telling me to eat her cum-filled cunt while she fucked my face. In fact, she probably was saying it, though I (nor her mother) could hear it over The Cars’ “Let’s Go” blasting. Neither did I get to hear her tell me that she was coming, but I could certainly tell, her rhythmic face-fucking of me going rapid and erratic, the slightly metallic tang of her orgasming pussy overpowering the flavor of semen I’d deposited there. I felt fluid—the heady admixture of orgasming teens—run down my cheek and onto my neck.

After she finished, she climbed up on her bed and lay curled on her side, as she tended to do, and left me on the floor, my face and cock still wet with the au jus of mutually satisfying sex. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and closed my eyes.

I fell asleep. The next thing I remember, she was kneeling on the floor next to me, idly stroking my cock.

I sat up to get close enough for her to hear me. “Did she leave yet?”

Suzie shook her head, then turned around and got on all fours, tipping up her ass to me. She wanted me to fuck her again while her mother was still in the house.

My dick was not fully hard, but hard enough. I rose to my knees and entered her from behind. I took my time, still a little muzzy from the fog of sleep. After I-don’t-know-how-long—probably only five minutes, but it seemed longer; I’d come to understand that sex time was not like ordinary time—I began to think that I might not be able to come again. But then I wanted to, didn’t want to leave the deal undone. I started pounding her hard and fast. I stopped briefly to reposition myself, getting up onto my feet and in a crouch overtop of her ass so I could use my legs as well as my hips to drive my cock into her. She folded her arms on the carpet in front of her and laid her head on them. The skin of her ass and hips where my fingers dug into her went white. I hammered her pussy as hard as I could, trying to get off. I got no objection from her.

“Suzie!” her mother pounded on the door and I paused, panting, trying to catch my breath as quietly as possible. “Suzie, I’m leaving!”

Suzie Bowen slammed her ass back against me, then looked back at me over her shoulder.

“Don’t stop,” she said through clenched teeth. I wiped the sweat from my eyes and resumed fucking her.

“What?” yelled her mother.

“I (Unhh) said, O-kay (unhh), bye,” yelled Suzie Bowen.

A couple more hectic minutes passed. I grabbed a fistful of her hair, still damp at the roots, and pulled her head back. My heart was hammering. I was fucking her as hard and fast as I could. I felt almost out of control, pounding my cock in and out of her savagely. I was determined to come and nothing was going to make me stop until I did.

Uu-unhh… fuck,” she spit, then again, “fuck!” I’d hoped her mother was really gone by now, because the radio volume probably wouldn’t have drowned out that. “You’re going to make me scream!”

“Fucking scream,” I gasped. “Fucking scream while I fill this cunt.”

I felt it then, that turning of the corner, that purling swell of sensation that demands to have its way. If Jesus Christ appeared in front of us requesting a word at that very moment, he’d have had to wait until I finished shooting that load. I don’t know how much I pumped into her. It couldn’t have been much at that point. And I don’t recall if she came. But my spasms were powerful: so hard won, after such a long climb, that there was something akin to an ache at the moment of climax.

Suzie Bowen lowered herself to lay flat on the floor. My cock slipped out, slick-shiny and red like something newly born. I lay on my back next to her, still breathing hard, my heart still jackhammering, exhausted. I felt like I could sleep for the rest of the day.

 

Sometimes after these morning sessions, I left feeling like I’d had my fill. Not just for the day, but for a very long time. That it would be awhile before I needed to fuck again, or wanted to. Mostly because I was tired, but also because it seemed like there was nothing left in me.

But it never lasted as long as I thought it might. The desire always crept back in, and always far sooner than I would, physically, be able to act on it, or so it seemed. But who knew? I might not be able to get it up for Suzie Bowen again so soon, but if little Sally Speaker, that sweet, calm minx, dragged me back to the Shithole during break and told me she wanted to suck my cock and swallow my cum, would I really have a problem giving her something hard to work with?

It all still seemed slightly unreal to me. I’d gone from thinking about fucking all the time to fucking all the time, like I’d slipped into a parallel universe where everything was exactly the same except that now I was getting laid. Decisively laid. But I figured that was probably the way it went with a lot of things in this life.

I tried to find something negative in it but couldn’t. I considered the possibility that the whole Suzie Bowen Experience might be bad in some way. I knew enough to realize that what we were doing was not run-of-the-mill teenage sex. Maybe not even run-of-the-mill mature adult sex, either. When it stopped—because it would at some point, everything does—would I be disappointed with the next partner? I was going to meet women with inhibitions, women who were modest, women with whom there would presumably an emotional component (at least for her if not for both of us). Well, of course I would. Women who were not going to say to me, at least not spontaneously, “Pump your hot cream in my fuckhole.” There was little chance that anyone would make that particular request of me in quite that way ever again, I was pretty sure of it.

Realizing that, however, was half the solution. From this point, I thought, I was never going to be the clumsy, rutting man-child just trying to stick it in someone. With the shy girls, the inexperienced ones, I knew enough now to take care with them. With the more experienced ones, I wouldn’t be the panting oaf shooting off before he got the rubber on.

 

Sally Speaker’s shift began when the store opened that day. I punched in a couple hours after her, along with another of our fellow baggers, a kid named Jim something-or-other. He was a nice enough guy but a little on the vain side with his perfect teeth and blond, feathered-back hair with the center part. Half the time he quizzed me about Sally, wanting to know if she ever said anything about him, or if I thought she liked him. The other half was spent telling me that he knew she did, he could tell she dug him, and that he would ask her out if he didn’t already have a super-hot girlfriend. I just pled ignorance. There was nothing to be gained by telling Jim that Sally referred to him, alternating, as “Blow-dry” and “The Mormon.”

I still had two hours left on my shift when Sally punched out that day. I was in the parking lot herding carts and wrangling a train of them back to the storefront when she pulled up alongside me in her pumpkin-orange Chevy Vega, its rear quarter panels practically lacy from rust, the whole machine shimmering in the heat rising from the asphalt.

She leaned toward the open passenger window to say something to me. Having had no such intention until that very instant, I licked my dry lips, stuck my head in, and kissed her on the mouth. She received it so naturally, so without surprise, that I couldn’t help think that she half-expected it or even intended it herself. It wasn’t a peck, and it wasn’t some gaping, sloppy, tongue-slithering thing: just lips, slightly parted, gently but unambiguously conjoined, and ending on the downbeat. Like the kiss of greeting or parting between a couple who had done it often.

To this day, I don’t know why I did it, or even how I did it. That was a kind of spontaneous forwardness that I wasn’t much good at.

“Do you need a smoke?” she said as we parted.

“Nope, I’m good.”

“Okay,” she smiled. “See you later.”

She drove off. I turned back to my rough beast of nested carts. The wide world was a flood of heat and light.

 

 

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