The following evening, about eight o'clock, the door bell rang.
I was sitting down on my bed, watching my portable television. The Mets were playing L.A., and I was watching the pre-game interviews.
My mind, though, wasn't on the game. I was thinking back to yesterday, with Sandi and Gail. I had enjoyed being with them and making love to them. It had been the first time in my life that I had two women together. We had spent the entire afternoon together, varying the positions, and ended the afternoon by my watching the two women making love to each other. They were sixty-nining each other to orgasm and I was standing above them masturbating. When they began to cum, I shot my cum against their writhing, naked bodies, splashing them with the final deposit of my aching balls.
We lay together on the bed, mutually exhausted, and slept for perhaps an hour. Then Gail awoke abruptly and ushered both Sandi and I out. Bob, her husband, would be home soon, she had said. Sandi was in a hurry also, for her husband would be expecting dinner, and she hadn't prepared his meal.
We said our goodbyes, promised to get together again soon, and the two wives went back to their normal routine. I drove home alone.
I thought of Patti on my way home. In a strange way the two women reminded me of her. She, too, was a housewife estranged from her husband. I wondered whether Patti might also be like them: seeking men out for sex and orgies. Not that I would have minded; I wouldn't. It's just it was a strange thought. I couldn't help wondering.
I was still thinking of the two women and Patti, half-concentrating on the ball game, when the bell rang and interrupted my thoughts.
I lowered the volume on the television.
"Who's there?" I called out.
I heard a muffled reply, but I didn't recognize either the voice or the words.
"Coming!" I said.
I slipped on a shirt to cover my bare chest and walked to the door without my slippers. I opened the door and peered out into the hallway.
There was a tall blond woman standing there. She wore straight blond hair down past her shoulders, and had sharp, angular features. I judged that she was about twenty-three or four.
"Are you Allen Dawson?" she asked. Her voice was oddly soft and lush compared to the severity of her looks.
"Yes," I answered, puzzled.
"Oh, good!" she said. "Am I late?"
I thought for a moment. A memory was spinning about in the back of my mind.
"I'm Ellen Marshall," she offered. "I called you last week about your ad…"
Oh my God! I thought. I remembered now. She had called! She had been one of the first women to answer. I had forgotten about her because she had insisted that she come to my apartment. Over the telephone she wouldn't even give me her number or address. We had made the appointment – for tonight – and I had forgotten completely about it, believing that she would never meet the date.
But here she was.
"Come in! Come in!" I said. "I'm sorry if I seemed rude. It's just that I had pictured you differently in my mind. The telephone sometimes does that…"
I tried lying: it seemed the only way out without completely shattering her ego.
"I hope I didn't disappoint you…" she began.
"NO! No!" I said quickly. I was sure my voice dripped with insincerity. "Actually," I added, "I'm quite pleased. Quite pleased, indeed."
She smiled at me, shifting the lines and angles of her face. The smile was warm enough, but there was something cold and distant about her. Hard almost.
I offered to take her coat and bag, but she gave me the coat only. She carried her pocketbook with her into the living room. It was a big white, square thing, and she placed it on her lap when she sat down.
"Would you like a drink?" I asked.
She said she would, and I hurried to make one for her. She looked about the living room while I was making the drink, and she seemed quite at ease. I remembered my first time in a strange house, with a strange woman. But she didn't seem nervous at all. Perhaps it wasn't her first time.
She was looking at the ball game on the television when I returned with the drinks. I had made myself a large, stiff drink too, preparing myself to get into the swing of the night. I shut the television off and sat across from her in an arm chair.
We saluted each other's health, and sipped our drinks. I tried making small talk with her, but the conversation died in my mouth. Not that she seemed quiet or self-conscious. It was just the opposite. She was cool and calm; cold even. She stared at me with her icy blue eyes and her dispassionate long, blond hair and sipped her drink. She was beginning to make me feel uncomfortable.
"Shall we begin?" she asked.
"Sure," I answered. She was giving me the feeling that she was used to running things. She reminded me of several women supervisors I had had in the past: hard, cold bitches. Besides, it was strangely disquieting for me to have the woman initiate the first move. I didn't know whether I liked the idea or not, although I had always had a preference for aggressive women.
We walked towards the bedroom, and she carried her white square pocketbook with her. I watched her as we walked: she led the way. She was quite tall; taller than I with her heels on. At first she had given me the impression that she was thin, but as she walked I saw that I had misjudged her. Her ass was full and solid, and jutted out through her skirt with no trace of thinness or bones. Her legs, too, were solid and well proportioned: her calves were well-shaped and tapered, and her thighs curved and smooth, reminding me of the toned, muscular limbs of a dancer. She was wearing a solid blue mini, and her body moved subtly under it, like a sleek cat.
She sat on the edge of the bed, placing her pocket-book down next to her. I sat beside her and slipped my arm around her shoulder. Her muscles seemed tense or rigid. I applied some pressure to her chin, attempting to tilt her head back so that I could kiss her.
She stiffened her neck and pulled away, "I'd rather you didn't," she said.
"Isn't that what we're here for?" I asked. I didn't like feeling as though she were admonishing me.
"As I explained on the telephone," Ellen Marshall said, "it has to be my way or nothing. Those are my terms."
I considered this for a moment. I didn't like being dictated to, especially in my own house. Yet she was so damned attractive! Her coldness seemed to make me want her even more than if she had been willing. I sensed a passion under that coldness; a fire like none I'd ever been turned onto.
I accepted her condition for the moment. I would wait and see what would happen.
I didn't have long to wait. She put her hand on my cock and began to stroke me through my pants. Her hands were large yet soft, and she moved them with assurance up and down my crotch until she had stoked my cock into a state of solid erection.
"You're big," she said, playing with me through my pants. "I like big men." She said it as though it were a condition that had nothing at all to do with sex.
"Take it out," she said.
I unzipped my pants and pulled my cock out.
She inspected it with her eyes, staring at it for perhaps thirty seconds. Then, apparently satisfied, she returned her hand to the shaft of my cock and began to jerk me off. Her hand moved slowly but steadily, as though her intentions were thoroughly professional. Her hand was like velvet steel: cold and unyielding, but warm, smooth and soft. Her fingers curled around my shaft, and she stroked up and down, turning her fist into a hollow tube through which she guided my cock. Her rhythm was unbroken, and I found myself matching her with slow, sensuous humps upward against her fist.
I put my hand on her breast. Her hand stopped moving and she gave me a long, cold look. I tried to knead passion into her by squeezing her tit, but she didn't respond. All she did was stare at me, holding my cock in her hand, pausing in midstroke. She reminded me of a stern teacher.
I let my hand fall away from her. It wasn't much fun anyway since she wasn't reacting in a way I was used to. As soon as ray hand left her body, she dropped her eyes and resumed her smooth stroking of my cock.
As cold as her exterior was, she was good I've never felt a hand do to me what hers did. Perhaps it was the effect of her coldness weighed against the passionate work she was doing: the contrast made each extreme more intense.
No, I thought, considering that possibility. It wasn't that. She was good. Damn good.
I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes. She continued to move her hand up and down my cock. It was beginning to remind me of a cunt… a warm, humping, pulling, fucking cunt…
Her hand stopped.
I opened my eyes.
"I have to make a telephone call before we can continue," she said.
"A telephone call?" I asked. My cock felt strange now that her hand was no longer touching it.
"To my husband," she explained. "I have to call my husband."
She had a distant look in her eye as she spoke, and I knew there was something very odd about her request. I sensed it had nothing at all to do with me. It was something between her and her husband.
I showed her to the hallway, where the telephone was. I slipped my cock back into my pants and began to walk away. She certainly was enigmatic.
"Don't go," she said. "I want you to stay here with me. Take your cock out again."
I looked at her a moment but her attention was centered in the telephone. I stared at her while she dialed, and she motioned to me to come closer when she had finished.
I stepped closer and could hear the telephone ringing on the other side. There was a click and I heard a muffled man's voice.
"Hi!" she said. "It's me."
She put her hand down against my crotch and pulled my cock out and began to run her hand casually up and down its length.
"I'll be a little late tonight… something came up… something important… no, I don't know when I'll be home… just give Jeff his bottle at nine… I'll change him when I get home…"
She stopped and was listening for a moment. She took her hand from my cock and licked the space between her thumb and index finger. She ran her tongue up and down the curved space several times until her hand glistened with wetness. Then she put her hand back down against my organ and commenced running her hand up and down my cock again. Her hand slid along my cock, making a wet sound.
"No!" she finally said. "I told you… when I'm finished… not sooner… the longer you spend talking to me the longer it's going to take… I'll be home when I'm finished…"
She lifted my hand and placed it on her cunt, on the outside of her skirt. She spread her legs, taking a firm stance, and hunched her cunt against my hand. Her body felt wide under my hand, and I trailed my fingers up the crease of her body, pressing around the curve of the edge.
"None of your business," she said, again picking up the thread of the conversation. "I have my life and you have yours… it was your idea…"
She began to pull her skirt up. Her cunt was framed in a pair of pale blue silken panties. The bulge of her pussy made the front of the panties swell. I could see a thread or two of blond pubic hair curling down from under her panties.
She took my hand and slipped it down her panties, pressing my fingers against her cunt. I felt her hair, and the warmth of her body against my fingers. I began to play with her clit with my finger, but she shrugged her hips and I pushed my hand further back until I found the entrance to her body. I pushed my finger up into her, feeling the sudden wet heat of her cunt. Her body was rather dry and closed, but I continued to push my finger in and out while she continued to jerk me off with her wet hand.
"Look…" she said. "If you must know… I'm with Sue… we're just going to go for a drink or two… that's all…"
I pushed my finger up into her cunt, feeling the flap of fat, hairy flesh press against my knuckles.
"No, John!" her voice was exasperated. "Nothing like that… yes… you can believe me… I'm not like you…"
Her hand was working against my crotch rapidly now, fingers sliding, clutching, grasping pulling. My cock moved in and out, pumping to her rhythm, twisting around slowly, and permitting my hips to complete a humping circle.
"I won't be home too late," she continued. "As soon as we have the drinks… then I'll come right home… You know I will, John! Have I ever not come home?"
Her cunt was growing wetter, and I could feel trickles of moisture running down my finger, making my hand wet.
"I'm not out that much!" she insisted. "Only as much as you… I need some time for myself, too, you know!"
She squeezed my cock hard.
"Yes, John!" she said. "I will… don't worry… I'll be home soon… yes… goodnight… yes, I love you, too…"
She squeezed my cock again.
"Goodnight," she said again. "Goodnight."
She hung up the receiver. Her eyes were cold blue, and an icy flicker of something shone through.
"Let's go into the bedroom," Ellen Marshall said. "We can do it now…"
We walked slowly into the bedroom. My hand was still wet from her cunt, and my cock was like a rigid flagpole as I walked, swaying from side to side through the open zipper of my pants. Ellen walked just ahead of me, leading me into my own bedroom.
Pure hatred, I thought, thinking back to the conversation. He must have hurt her very badly for her to go to these lengths to get even. I wonder what it was he did?
Her hatred made me feel strangely passionate. I felt as if I were her tool. Her tool of revenge. It wasn't me that she was making love to, it was her own hatred. My cock was a disembodied instrument for her, and I doubted whether she cared much that it was attached to my body or to my personality. It wasn't me she wanted; it was any man, any cock. And judging from the conversation, mine wasn't the first.
Yet, strangely, I found myself not objecting to her treatment. I felt excited by the idea, by the coldness of her deliberation. There was something almost dispassionate about my growing passion, about my knowledge that she was using my body – my cock – for revenge.
"Take your clothes off," she instructed.
"What about you?" I asked. I felt like a puppet who wanted to have his strings pulled. Did I want to be used?
"Look!" she said. "It's got to be my way or nothing at all! It doesn't make any difference to me."
I knew it didn't make any difference. If I didn't fulfill my role, she would simply find someone else. It certainly would be a waste to lose her. For all her coldness, Ellen Marshall was a fantastic piece of ass.
"How are you going to make love with your clothing on?" I asked.
"We are not going to make love," she said. "We're not even going to fuck…"
Her hair looked so straight and blond; soft almost, and her eyes burning coldly. "What then?" I asked.
"I'm going to suck your cock," she said. Simply.
I touched my own hard-on and caressed it as I looked at her. "Suck it?"
"Until you cum," she said.
My cock was still wet from her coating of saliva. I moved my hand slowly up and down, feeling small washes of excitement tickling through my loins.
"Until I cum in…"
"Yes," she said. "In my mouth."
I looked at her. "What about you?"
"Don't worry about me," she said. "Now, take your things off."
I followed her instructions. I unbuttoned my shirt and placed it on the bed next to me. Then I unbuckled my belt and stepped out of my pants. My cock was almost red against the paleness of my stomach.
"Your socks, too," she said.
I pulled them off. I was completely naked now. I had nothing at all on.
"Lie on the bed," she instructed.
I sat on the edge of the bed. My hard-on was against the flesh of my thigh, running parallel to my legs.
"Lie back," she said.
I did, feeling the cool touch of the sheets under my shoulders. The bed supported me firmly, comfortably. I placed my folded arms under my head, supporting my neck, and my cock popped to stiff attention from between my closed legs. It stood away from my body like a handle in the middle of my stomach. Down, between my parted legs, standing next to the edge of the bed, I could see Ellen Marshall.
She reached forward and wrapped her fingers around my cock. Her hand was still wet, and she began to slide it up from the base. My cock slid through her soft hand. When she reached the end of the cock, she squeezed the head, then returned her hand to the base and commenced her upward motion again.
"Open you legs more," she said.
I did, and she stepped closer to me, moving between my legs. She pressed her thighs against the mattress. I watched the hemline of her skirt rise slightly as she leaned forward to touch me. Her thighs were very pale, and parted slightly. I could see just the faintest shadows between the flesh of her thighs. She moved her left leg closer to me, and I felt the swell of her leg pressed lightly against the inner part of my thigh, just above my knee. The secret caress made my cock twitch.
She continued to move her hand with the same deliberate tempo, slowly bringing me to peak after peak of intense excitement. She opened and closed her fingers, gripping with various amounts of pressure as she moved her hand up and down my cock. She tangled her fingers into the dark jungle of pubic hairs at the base of my cock, pulling the hairs as her hand moved, bringing stings of pain to heighten my level of pleasure.
I brought my knees up, placing the flat of my feet on the bed, so that my cock was in the valley of my body. I began to press upward with my middle, bringing my stomach up to greet the downward thrusts of Ellen's hands along the fat path of my moist cock. My back began to curve upward, towards her, but she continued with the same, slow and intensely stimulating pumping of her hand.
"If you don't put it into your mouth soon," I said, gritting my teeth, "I'm going to cum from this…"
She nodded. Whether it was to herself or in acknowledgment of what I said, I didn't know. But she nodded, then squeezed my cock, and finally stopped.
"Stay there," she said. "Don't move or don't touch me. If you do I'll stop."
That was enough for me. I watched her through my legs.
She stepped back from me and put her hand up to the side of her blue skirt. She undid the button, and then unzippered the short zipper. She slid the skirt down her long legs until it was at her ankles. Then she stepped out of it… Her hips swelled widely across the middle of her body, and the blue material of her panties were stretched over the bumps and curves. She slipped her hands into the waistband of the panties and began to pull them down her legs, over the wide swell of her hips. The panties began to roll slightly, revealing the blond patch of her pubic hair.
She stepped out of the panties and touched her cunt. Her fingers curved under her mound, and she grabbed herself and squeezed. Her cunt was wet, and I heard the soft crunch her hand made against her pussy hair. She opened her legs more and rubbed her hand up and down between her thighs.
The sight of her cunt made my hard-on grow harder and longer. Her cunt was wide and full, and stretched between her thighs like a golden meadow of summer wheat. Her hair was downy soft, and her cunt lips hung down full and richly, like the soft folds of heavy drapery. Her belly was flat, and the tails of her blouse flapped erotically against the splashed sunlight of her crotch.
She bent forward, placing her head over my crotch. She supported herself with both her hands, and stood for a moment, poised above my hard-on, with her lips wet, her mouth parted slightly.
Then she moved down. My cock slid into her mouth.
I moaned at the contact. Her mouth was like warm water, like a pool of wet heat bathing the flesh of my cock. I could feel nothing but the wetness of her mouth; not her teeth, not her tongue: only her wet mouth. She took the complete length of my organ down her throat. I felt the nuzzling scrape of her lips against the base of my stomach. It was as though she were eating me entirely; balls and all.
Then her mouth began to move. Her tongue tightened around the shaft of my cock, wrapping itself like a moist membrane against it. Her tongue stretched, molded itself against me so that the complete length of my cock felt the sexy, elusive wet pressure of her tongue, from swollen round head, to thick base. Her tongue was like a glove filled with Vaseline that had been plunged around my cock: soft, sensual, thick, slippery.
I felt her teeth biting at the base of my cock. She ground them back and forth, grinding their sharp edges into the hard flesh of my cock. She moved her head around, completing the biting circle at the base of my stomach. I felt the dribble of her saliva running like a fountain down my cock.
Still holding herself up with her arms, Ellen began to push herself up and down, allowing her mouth to follow the path against my cock. I felt the tingling scrape of her teeth scratching up against the sides of my cock, then, as she neared the tip, nuzzling under the crown of the head. All the while she moved, I felt the soft, liquid melted wetness of her mouth all over my cock. I was immersed in her heat and wet.
She moved her lips and mouth as she had moved her hand before: slowly, deliberately, bringing pressure and then loosening it, hard then soft, sucking and pulling, moving with a dispassionate precision. The only difference was that her mouth was better than her hands; better than any mouth I had ever felt. Better, even, than any cunt I had ever felt.
She lifted one hand from the mattress and pushed my bent knees down until they were flat against the bed. As my body moved down, she lowered herself against me, keeping my cock in her mouth, never lessening the level of pleasure her mouth was bringing. My legs were both flat, and she was lying on the bed, against the mattress, leaving her body next to mine. She curled her legs up onto the mattress, opening her thighs as she rested on the bed.
Ellen moved her hand from the side of the bed, sliding it across the thickness of my leg, and plunged her hand between her parted thighs. Her hand cupped her mound with an easy familiarity, and her index and middle fingers came together and pressed her clitoris. Her fingers began to move slowly, in a short, shallow circle, and she began to masturbate herself.
Her head moved up and down on me, and my cock went in and out of her mouth. I felt her lips and her tongue and her teeth. My cock was like a well-lubricated sword slipping in and out of a wet scabbard. Her tongue moved and licked as continued against the shaft of my cock, her unhurried pumping.
I watched her own hand against her cunt. She knew what she was doing, and I could see her reacting to her own pleasure. She hunched her own hand against her cunt, and squeezed it tightly. Once I watched her bury the two fingers into her cunt. The fingers came out glistening, and she returned them to the bud of her clit, reapplying pleasure and pressure to herself.
"I'm going to cum soon," I told her. "I can feel it building… I'm close…"
She made no acknowledgment of my reaction. Her mouth continued to move against me, sucking and pulling my cock into her wet depths.
I could feel a tenseness in my balls, and a tightening in my cock. I felt as though I had to piss. I held the feeling back, allowing it to build. Pleasure began to make my cock swell, and I hunched my stomach up and pushed it against her face.
She moved. Her hand came away from her cunt and grabbed for her large, square pocketbook. Her fingers fumbled with the flap of the pocketbook, and her hand disappeared inside. A second later, it reappeared, and she was holding something in her hand. It was a picture frame.
She placed the frame against my stomach, near the base of my cock. It was cold and I shivered. Ellen Marshall's eyes were open now, and she was on her knees, bending over me. She hunched back on her legs, and continued to move up and down on my cock. All the while, her eyes were wide open, and she was staring at the picture within the frame. A flicker of something ugly flashed in her eyes.
I looked down at the picture.
"My God!" I said aloud. It was her wedding picture!
I began to cum. My cock began to pump its scum into her mouth: short, hot bursts of sperm splashed against her tongue and teeth. I could feel the flow moving up the shaft, then exploded in her mouth.
Her mouth began to move, and her cheeks hollowed. A patch of color touched her cheeks, and her eyes remained open and staring at the picture. Her throat moved rhythmically, and her lips tightened around the shaft of my cock. A milky trickle of sperm oozed from between her lips and dribbled down my cock.
She's swallowing it! I thought. She's swallowing my cum!
She began to suck upward on my cock, using it as though it were a straw and she were drinking my sperm. I felt her tongue nuzzle into the open hole of my cock, licking and digging down into the canal, seeking the final traces of my sperm to quench her thirsting hatred. My cock was finally dry, but she continued to suck on it, like a vulture picking clean a bone.
A long while later, she let my cock drop. Her mouth was open and I could see traces of the milky white fluid still in her mouth. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, cleaning away the dribble that had run down her chin.
For the first time I noticed that there were tears in her eyes.
Ellen Marshall didn't speak another word. She dressed quickly and departed. I lay in my bed, my mind swirling. I had never even walked her to the door.
My cock was almost in pain from her sucking. I was completely drained, both physically as well as emotionally. I was satisfied, yet there was a new hunger growing inside of me. An ache of guilt and loneliness.
A moment later I was at the telephone.
"Hello, operator," I said. "I'd like to make a long distance call to Smithtown, Long Island… I'd like to call my wife… yes, operator… that's Mrs. Dawson… yes… Mrs. Patricia Dawson."