Ted jerked back to reality. She felt a puff of wind but it was from the wrong direction. She glanced seaward. "Oh, shit!" she muttered. A solid wall of fog was drifting in. The wind had shifted. She wondered if she dared run for the mouth of the harbor. She might make it. And with wind and currents gone funny she just might pile up on the rocks to one side of the harbor entrance.
"Are we in trouble?" Albert asked.
Ted shook her head. "We're out of the shipping lane. Not much danger of getting run down. The only thing is we have to play safe and wait here till the fog lifts."
"When'll that be?"
Ted shrugged. "An hour, maybe a week."
"A week!" the boys chorused.
"Not really. But I wouldn't be surprised if we had to spend the night out here."
"Oh, shit!" It was the smallest boy. Already there was a speculative look on the older boy's face. Suddenly Ted was acutely uncomfortable. She had only been playing with those ideas. She didn't really want to have to fend off a couple of horny boys while she tried to sleep.
"We'll have to stand watches," she said. "First we lower sail and drop the anchor. Then we'll take turns staying on deck."
"Why?" John asked.
"Maritime law. See that bell?"
The boys nodded.
"Somebody has to ring it at least once a minute. Besides-" She pointed at a switch. "If you hear another boat's engines or whistle, flip this and it lights us up so we don't get run over."
The boys did their clumsy best to help her take in sail. Finally everything was tied down. "Two hours," she said and pointed at little John. She peeled off the parka and helped him put it on. Then she went below, and began closing the cabin slide. Albert slipped in behind her. "Wish I'd brought a heavier jacket," he mumbled.
"It would help," she agreed.
"But there are other ways of getting warm," Albert continued.
On deck she heard John ring the bell. The fog closed in and the portholes began misting over. The boy on deck could not see in, she knew. And as long as he rang the bell regularly… She wondered what she really intended to do. It was insane to think about anything like this with two boys on her boat, both under aged, and both probably ready to shoot their mouths off to every stud and probation officer in the ghetto the instant they stepped ashore. It was crazy. And here she was in shorts and halter in a cabin so small it was impossible to sit beyond the fourteen-year-old's reach. He sat on the settee berth across from her and their knees touched. "Is it all the dancing that makes your legs so nice?" he asked.
What's wrong with me? she asked herself. If I had a dime for every time some stiff pricked male admired my legs, why I'd own several yachts.
Nevertheless, this awkward fourteen-year-old was making her whole body tingle as if she had never heard of fucking. They sat facing each other in the crowded cabin and she cursed herself for not having maneuvered somehow to get more clothes on before the boy came below. And she was going to have to put up with two hours of this before Albert went topside and was replaced by a chilled but equally horny thirteen-year-old. The bell rang again.
The boy was waiting for an answer. "I'm old enough to be your mother. Stretching a point or two, maybe even your grandmother," she said.
"You've still got nice legs."
"Yes, I suppose I have. It's partly what you're born with and partly what you do with your body. Eat right, plenty of exercise, and don't abuse it."
"Abuse," the boy said in a mocking tone.
Ted knew what he was thinking. She remembered her youth when whole cities had been plastered with pamphlets warning of everything from beri beri to feeble-mindedness resulting from self abuse-whatever that was. Was it self abuse to get a drink of water or go pee when you had to? She wondered who ever made up all those crazy rules. Surely it had not been some fourteen-year-old in the prime of his sexual vigor and with no release in sight.
But Ted knew her body well enough to understand that it had been exercise-plain hard work that had kept her too exhausted for 'self abuse' or whatever anybody wanted to call it back when she had been struggling to make a career for herself. But now she was thirty-nine, still young and healthy. And she wasn't twisting herself to panting exhaustion at the exercise bar every day any more. Probably that was why she had energy to spare-energy to lavish on this hot-blooded fourteen-year-old who sat across from her and kept alternating his stare from her tits to her crotch.
What would happen if she let him do what he wanted? Would she ever see him again? After all, he couldn't have much money. His part of town was a long bus ride from here. And this was a locked marina. The guard wouldn't even let him on the dock. She could probably give the boy a night to remember and never suffer any consequences. After all, boys were, inclined to brag and exaggerate. If he said he had screwed her, would anybody believe him?
You're damn right they would! She was a retired dancer and everybody knew what dancers were! And she was a woman who lived alone on a boat so she had to be some kind of a weirdo and every son of a bitch from one end of the waterfront to the other would be hanging around, his bifocals all fogged with passion if he thought she was putting out. "I'm sorry," she said.
"For what?" Albert asked.
"I'm afraid I let you think something that just isn't possible."
"Like what?"
Ted shrugged. "Oh, forget it. I'll make some coffee."
"Don't make it for me."
Still they sat facing one another. Ted could feel her whole body blush under the boy's scrutiny. Why in hell had she put on a baiter and shorts?
Outside the bell rang again. Somehow the boy's knee had gotten further between hers. She tried to sit farther back in the settee but it didn't do any good. This is crazy, she thought. All I have to do is get up and start cooking something. But she couldn't. She wondered if this was how a bird felt staring at a snake. The boy was wearing a T-shirt and tight-fitting, faded Levi's. She could see the bulge at his crotch. It was less than a foot from her own crotch. She could feel her crotch tingle and ache. How long had it been since…
It had been three years since Virgil died. And he had been sick for nearly a year. My god, she thought. I'm thirty-nine and I haven't had a man in me for four years! No wonder I feel funny when I get close to this concentrated essence of horniness.
Was there anything on earth more randy in its rampant male need than a fourteen-year-old boy? She wondered how many times the boy could cum-how many times he could get it up in a twenty-four-hour period. She suspected something had been irretrievably lost from her life. All those years she had been twisting her ass into a pretzel at the practice bar-those were the years her schoolmates had been finding out how many times a fourteen-year-old boy could cum. And what had she been learning apart from how to flick her legs in an entrechat? The only interesting thing she could remember at all from that period had been the feel of Mr. Hammel's eager tongue darting around her twelve-year-old virginal clitoris.
She remembered the day on his casting couch when she had lain back clad only in black patent leather shoes, white ankle socks, and a pink hair ribbon. Mr. Hammel was surprisingly delicate for so large a man. Like butterfly kisses, his hands ranged over her thin muscular body, inventorying her thighs, her ass, her tiny waist, the just growing swell of tits behind her tiny virginal nipples. But mostly, his tongue was memorizing her cunt, lapping gently up and down her thick hairless lips, stopping to lick a lascivious circle around the swollen hump of her clit, tickling her till she was ready to dissolve into giggles, then sliding its lubricious way down past her hymeneal membrane to dart its tip through the tiny virginal opening and give her a titillating preview of what it would be like someday when she hung up her slippers and settled down to a life of fucking.
His hands had been so soft, so gentle in their caresses that Ted seemed actually to be floating right up off the couch. His mouth was locked firmly over her gaping cunt, sealing the cold air away, leaving-room for his tongue to tickle her to the edge of ecstasy. One hand crept over her breast until a thumb covered one tiny tender nipple and a finger the other. Tenderly, he teased her nascent tits into rock-hard rigidity. Ted felt warm waves of passion radiate from her tits, from her cunt where suddenly he had stopped licking and was gently nibbling at the swollen throbbing knot of her clitoris. She felt something strange inside her belly, a growing building tension as if a rubber band were being stretched and twisted, stretched and twisted farther and farther until soon now it would snap and she would flutter and run down like some broken toy.
The way he was nibbling ever so gently around the knob of her clit felt so good she could feel herself starting to melt, to deliquesce and flow into unfamiliar shapes. She couldn't remember ever having felt so good. Not even the hottest bath after the longest session at the practice bar had ever loosened her tired body the way his marvelous tongue was doing it. She wondered if it would be possible to have Mr. Hammel do this for her every afternoon before she put on her street clothes and went home from the dusty practice hall. It seemed such a wonderful way to end the day.
She could feel her legs moving as her thighs clasped and unclasped. Abruptly she realized that her body-the thing she had spent all these years perfecting-was suddenly out of control. She was not moving her body, her body was moving her. She felt her thin muscual thighs close tight over Mr. Hammel's ears. The warmth of her thighs over his ears provoked some extra spurt of activity from him. She felt his agile tongue dart deeper under the edge of her maidenhead. It felt so good it made her close her legs tighter around Mr. Hammel's ears and her legs over his ears made Mr. Hammel drive his tongue in deeper and faster and harder and…
She shook herself from her reverie and tried to decide what she was going to do now. She was no longer twelve. Now she was thirty-nine, built like a brick pagoda with more tits, more ass, more sheer sex appeal than she had ever had in her dancing days. And she was clad in only shorts and halter, sitting on a settee berth facing a fourteen-year-old who was thinking what all the fourteen-year-old males think twenty-four hours out of every day. What was she going to do?
Ted knew what she wanted to do. But she was not quite insane yet. She wondered though, what it would be like if she just let him touch… the boy was so hair-triggered all he needed was a suggestion of fulfillment and he would, explode and that wonderful lump in the crotch of his Levi's would dissolve into ignominious ejaculation. She was tempted to reach out and touch it. It would be one way to put an end to this crazy situation. The boy would be so humiliated he would not bother her again. Outside little John rang the bell again. She toyed with the idea. It was so outrageous she wanted to laugh. She knew the boy would be more outraged than she. It would serve him right too. Twice now he had managed to grab her ankle under some pretext. What kind of an excuse could she offer for grabbing his cock, holding it long enough, squeezing it maybe, milking it a couple of times until she felt him exploding into gallons of goo? She needed some kind of an excuse so she could draw back horrified, all prim and every inch the uncomprehending lady as the little bastard came all over his pants.
Somehow he was slouching down in the berth, getting his knees ever deeper between her own. Damn him! He was only fourteen. What business did he have fooling around this way with a grown woman? She wondered if this was the way they did things in the ghetto. She supposed it must be awfully crowded in those small apartments. Life must be very like it had been around the studio with everybody undressing in front of everybody else. Or was it? She supposed people had to share the same bed long after time to go their separate ways. Was that why 'mother fucker' was the deepest, darkest insult among ghetto dwellers? Somehow this boy had gotten the idea in his head that he was going to fuck a woman twice as old as he was. She wondered where.
Twice as old hell! She was only three years short of being three times as old as this boy. But… she supposed ghetto women aged sooner. Did the boy believe her. "Do you know how old I am?" she asked.
The boy across from her shook his head.
"How old is your mother?" she persisted.
"Thirty."
"I'm nine years older than your mother," Ted said.
"Sheeeiiiiitttt!" the boy said. "You ain't even old's I am."
Suddenly somewhere deep inside her Ted knew the boy was right. She had lived a sheltered life even if the boys around the studio had been possessed of unusual appetites. Even in spite of Mr. Hammel Ted had managed to keep her virginity until she was twenty-five. She wondered how many adventures were already behind this virile fourteen-year-old product of an urban jungle.
"You ready?" he asked.
Outside the bell rang again.
"Ready for what?" she asked in a strained voice.
"Ready to fuck?" he said. "What the hell you sittin' around half naked for?"
Ted didn't know. Or rather, she suspected that her body had known hours ago something her mind was still unwilling to admit. This was only a boy-only fourteen. But she knew with a sinking feeling that if he were to reach over and untie the bow of her halter she would be helpless. She would just stand there and let him expose the superb contours of her late-grown tits. If this boy were to stand her up and peel off her shorts she knew she would be helpless to resist. She had never felt-that way before.
Fucking with Virgil had been fun. But it had been a shared fun. She had never felt owned. This boy, she knew instinctively, could do whatever he wanted with her and she would be powerless to resist his will. She wondered if he knew it. Probably he did. She had never seen a fourteen-year-old with this masculine assurance before. Chances were this boy had dominated every woman within blocks of his own standing ground. He had the touch. She could feel it. She knew what he would feel like even before he touched her.
But my God, she thought, in this little cabin, with another boy up there who could come bursting in any minute! The bell rang again. She glanced at the portholes. Socked in solid. How long would this fog last, she wondered. Probably all night. Wouldn't burn off till near noon tomorrow. She wondered if these boys' parents were going to get all shook up and have the Coast Guard choppers out whacking around. Probably somebody at the marina would be able to talk them out of that. But meanwhile, what was she going to do? The boy reached across and slipped a finger under the cloth of her halter. He pulled her toward him.
It was-just like a bad dream. Ted knew she was stronger than the boy. With her dancer's body she could twist him into a pretzel if she wanted to. She wanted to. Why couldn't she? Helpless, she felt herself move toward him until she could feel the warmth of his body against her. He put his other arm around her, then she felt both hands fiddling with the knot where her halter tied.
"Hey, Missus Stickles!"
The boy's voice from the topside broke the spell. Ted pulled away. She gave her halter a quick check and darted up through the scuttle. "What's wrong?" she asked. Then before the boy could answer she sensed it. There was a different feel to the water. At first she thought the anchor was dragging. Then dimly through the mist she saw the shadowy bulk of an aircraft carrier clipping past less than a hundred yards away. "Jesus!" she muttered.
"Doesn't sail have the right of way?" John asked.
"Theoretically, yes," she said. "But this sloop is twenty-five feet long. That flat top is nearly a thousand. Which one do you suppose could run the other down and never even notice?"
The boys were both wise in the ways of the ghetto. They needed no further explanation.
"What do we do now?" John asked.
Ted wondered. The flat top must have some shitheaded pilot to be this close to the edge of the channel. Chances were a pack of destroyers would be coming through here any minute now. If she got under way it would be just as easy to run into one as to avoid it. "You boys go below and rest," she said. "I'll stand the next watch."
She repossessed the parka from John and rang the bell. It was still early afternoon but the fog had turned every-thing to darkness. All she could do was ring the bell and pray. She had never been very good a praying. In a way she supposed though that she had been saved by that goddamn bell. Another minute and fourteen-year-old Albert would have had her spread-eagled on the bunk, shoving his fid up her grommet.
Abruptly both boys appeared on deck again, each wrapped in a blanket. "Cold down there," Albert explained.
"Colder up here," she said.
"Not if we all sit close together." It was the younger boy with curly hair. She was suddenly ashamed of her suspicion. This boy didn't know the score. He just wanted to cuddle up to somebody warm. Ted had never considered herself the motherly type but she, wouldn't mind the warmth of his body next to her.
John sat on her left and Albert scooted down the cockpit bench to her right. They opened out their blankets until the three of them were enclosed in a bubble of warmth. Ted could feel the burning maleness of Albert's hard young body through his tight-fitting Levi's. Both boys scooted closer until the outer surface of each of her bare thighs lay hard-pressed against Levi's-clad male flesh. Inside the blanket she felt Albert's arm struggle up from its confinement between them to drape itself naturally over her parka clad shoulders. Ted guessed she couldn't complain. After all, it was a natural thing to do.
Little John kept wriggling closer. She supposed he must have taken a real chill standing watch alone up here. Then abruptly she sensed that his hand on her bare thigh had lain there too long to be accidental. Sonofabitch! she thought. While she had been preparing defenses against the older boy the young one had already grabbed himself a handful. She supposed she ought to slap him but it would stir up the blanket and let the cold in and besides, it wasn't the first tune she'd had somebody's band on her leg. It felt rather nice after all these years alone. And she was curious to see just how far the boy would go if she pursued a strict policy of non-intervention.
Boys' minds worked in weird ways, she knew. Probably he was so befogged with lust that he could believe anything. At the moment the boy seemed convinced that she didn't know where he had his hand, or how he was creeping slow as an hour hand around to get his probing hand between her legs, savoring the feel of her soft inner thigh as he explored his cautious way toward her crotch.
If she hadn't been so scrunched up between the two of them she would have let her thighs fall open to help him. But the boys had her boxed in till she could hardly move. Albert's arm slid off her shoulder and a moment later began snaking its way back up-this time underneath her parka. Sonofabitch! she thought. This must be what every other girl my age was learning how to handle in high school while I was off twisting my ass into a pretzel for some bull dyke of a ballet teacher! She wondered what she was supposed to do now.
This whole maneuver, she suspected, was as formalized as any other ritual. She was supposed to struggle, to resist, but not too much. And there would be a certain point at which she would draw the line and the game would be over. What, she wondered, would happen if she violated the rules of the game by doing something outrageous like grabbing their cocks? Probably scare them both shitless. She wondered what kind of an idealized dream situation these boys were creating in their minds. Probably each was heartily wishing the other would fall overboard. There was safety in numbers, she guessed. Or did thirteen and fourteen-year-old ghetto boys go for gang bangs? The hell of it was, she didn't know.
Her education, Ted decided, had been sadly neglected. Apart from Mr. Hammel when she was twelve, and a few other aging stage door types all prepared to respect her virginity, Ted had a lived a life as empty as a nun's. She remembered that first time on the casting couch in Mr. Hammel's office when she had been twelve and he had been anything-maybe even a hundred-with his mustache wedged firmly into the cleft of her still hairless crotch.
She had held his cock in her hand, not knowing what to do with it. Mr. Hammel on the other band had seemed to know exactly what to do, where to lick, where to kiss, where to stick his tongue in places that would reduce a trim, hard-muscled twelve-year-old ballerina's budding body to giggling Jell-O.
It had felt so good she couldn't do anything except just lay back on the couch and enjoy the wonderful warm feel of his mouth over her cunt licking, sucking, nibbling at her clit until it swelled to rock hardness. Warm waves of passion radiated from her cunt, through her belly through her just curving breast to turn her whole body pink with passion. She could imagine herself, clad only in black patent leather shoes, white anklets and a pink hair ribbon, flat on her back, knees flexed and thighs spread wide to make room for Mr. Hammel's head. She felt so nice, so warm she was willing to bet her whole body was pink as her hair ribbon-pink as the tiny areolas of her just-sprouting tits.
His tongue was running up the tender inner surface of one hairless cunt lip and down the other, stopping occasionally to touch her clit, then to dart unexpectedly into the tiny opening at the bottom of her hymeneal membrane. It was the first time Ted had ever felt anything inside her virgin vagina. It felt-she couldn't find words to describe how warm and soft and cuddly wonderful it felt. It was like a hot bath after hours at the practice bar-only ten thousand times better, warmer, more relaxing.
She couldn't understand how anything that was twisting and tearing, tying her in passionate knots could be relaxing but at the same time she could feel opposing forces within her slight taut body struggling for control. One half of her wanted to lock thighs over Mr. Hammel's head in a scissors, pull him in deeper, harder, faster. The other half of her struggled to do nothing-to relax and let it happen-let Mr. Hammel do it all.
His wonderfully knowledgeable tongue seemed to know every secret of her inner being. He was tickling her, delighting her, turning her on, melting her down into a puddle of girlish giggles as he touched triggers she hadn't even known her twelve-year-old body possessed. It felt so gooood!
Gentle as kissing butterflies, his hands caressed her tits and ass. Ted was used to hands on her body pushing, pulling twisting her this way and that. But she had never before experienced soft caressing hands that were there for pleasure and not to twist her into some new and painfully aesthetic shape.
She felt him moving, gently insinuating his body closer to hers. She didn't have to worry. He was still kneeling on the couch beside her. As long as he didn't try to get up on top of her-so long as he didn't get between her legs… Finally she realized he was taking off his clothes, working blindly as he kept his face buried in her crotch, never missing a stroke as his wonderfully supple tongue pushed and probed its knowledgeable way up and down the seething slot between her legs. How, she wondered, had she gotten through twelve years without ever discovering the capacities for joy within her body? She wondered what it would be like nights alone when she couldn't sleep to experiment with her own gentle finger down there trying out all the nice things Mr. Hammel's tongue was doing…
But Ted knew that as long as she lived in the world of ballet she would go to bed each night far too exhausted to have time for fun and games. If she hadn't missed practice this morning… if she hadn't spent the morning waiting in Mr. Hammel's outer office… She wondered if ever there would be a day in her life when she would not be so bone tired she was beyond thinking of anything but sleep.
And now twenty-seven years later the day had come. She sat on the narrow cockpit bench of her sloop, crowded between a thirteen and a fourteen-year-old boy. Which one, she wondered, would grab for her crotch first? She wore shorts and halter, with a parka over all. Each of the boys had brought a blanket against the chill fog. Little John's hand was already creeping slow as an hour hand around to the inner surface of her thigh. Albert's had dropped from her shoulders and was creeping up under her parka.
She felt the older boy's hand encounter the knot of her halter. She wanted to move, slap him or something but she was jammed so close between them that any move would send the blankets flying and what would it look like if Albert saw John's hand between her legs. Something had to be done. But what? Ted suddenly realized she had let herself drift into something that was going to prove exceedingly awkward getting out of.
It was even more awkward deciding whether she wanted out. She considered the alternatives. Were they armed. Ghetto boys might carry switchblades but she really didn't know. So far neither had threatened her. If the two decided to gang up on her and she decided to resist, what would happen? She knew the boat, knew every possible purchase for hand and foot. She was still hard as a bridegroom's pecker from a life of dancing. If it came to a free-for-all Ted knew she could probably dump one boy overboard, deal with the other, and fish out the first one at her leisure if he hadn't drowned first. But why was she thinking about fighting and resisting when actually it was quite warm under these blankets and she had firm male flesh pressing against her from both sides?
The real problem, she guessed, was an abundance of boys. Alone with either one of them Ted knew she could have an enjoyable hour of dalliance. But two together? She had heard about such things. In show business one heard about everything sooner or later. But though she was widowed and thirty-nine, Ted had never learned to consider sex as a spectator sport. Somehow she had to… She wondered if either of these boys was suggestible to seasickness.
Forget it! With her luck if she started talking about greasy food or the usual nauseous subjects they would both get sick on her. Albert's hand was creeping farther up under her parka. Instead of going around in front to grab for a tit he, was fiddling once more with the knot to her halter. She tried to contain her annoyance when he managed to get one end through a loop of the bow and pull the works into a hard knot. While fourteen-year-old Albert muttered to himself and struggled one handedly to unfasten the hard knot she dedicated herself to what the other boy was up to.
Thirteen-year-old John was still playing possum, trying to convince her and himself that his hand was not really between her legs, that he was not reveling in the sensation of soft feminine skin sliding beneath the smooth glide of his palm up her thigh toward the 'no trespassing' sign of her shorts. She wondered what he would do when be got there.
The boy was so excited at his boldness that he was breathing raggedly. She glanced covertly from the corner of her eye at his curly head. The boy's eyes were almost glazed as he stiffened with the effort to control himself. Looking down she could see the magnificent bulge in the crotch of his Levi's. The boy needed only the slightest touch or tickle to set off that Roman candle in his pants.
She kept her gaze straight forward, pretending not to notice what either of the close crowding boys were trying to do. But as she leaned forward slightly to catch the bell rope she managed to get a good look at the fourteen-year-old who was still struggling with the knot of her halter. It was hard telling which of these Would-be studs was going to cum first.