Ethel was drunk. She wobbled unsteadily, cursing herself for letting her husband off so easily. She slammed her empty glass down on the end table and gave the remote control unit a finger snap. The color TV came on. She stared into the tube while a news announcer stared back giving her the updated version on a riot in Uganda.
She snapped the unit off and cursed the announcer. Why didn't they give Africa back to the colonists? Fucking people couldn't run the country anyway. She didn't understand all the bullshit about self-rule.
But Ethel didn't understand a lot of things. Like why were the lips of her cunt itching underneath her panties? And why had she been wet all day?
Through the alcoholic haze, she pondered her future. Why did she drink so much? Was it because of Janet or Biff? Or was it something deeper than that? She forced herself to stand in front of the mirror. The reflection of the woman staring back at her surprised Ethel. The deep lines at the corners of her mouth, the crow's feet flaring back at the corners of each eye seemed grossly distorted. She stepped back and struck a model's pose. Her body had held up well. Her breasts jutted proudly against the cotton blouse. And her stomach still was flat and small and the round curve of hip and buttocks would still turn a man's eye.
"You're not finished," Ethel said to the mirror. Though the booze was making inroads, it had not won the war. She pumped in the mirror, watching her tits jiggle, and her hips undulate, trying to figure out where she had gone wrong. What was the cause?
Why was she falling apart in the prime of her life? It was a thorny question and one which had no snap solution. She had not gotten up one morning and felt neurotic. It had been a long process, going back years and years. And now the mirror seemed to be an omen of things to come. First the facial lines and then the body. She placed her hands on her breasts and paused. A tear trickled from her eye. Ethel didn't want to turn into a hag. She didn't want her breasts to sag and her hips to fatten out like a cow's. God, she didn't want to be ugly. She loved being pretty. It made her feel assured and confident. Youth, as the saying went, was too valuable a gift to waste on the young. Oh, how true, she thought. The ability to walk into a bar and turn a man's head was a real turn-on.
Her nerves prickled just at the thought. Knowing she could draw men to her was beautiful. It had always been that way for Ethel. In high school she found it hard walking down the hallway without a boy asking her for a date. She had had her pick of the most eligible boys, and all because of her ravishing beauty, a priceless gift bestowed on Ethel at birth. And one that was slowly being recalled.
"No," she cried. It was not Ethel talking through an alcoholic blur. She was stone sober.
She pulled off her blouse and unhooked her bra, spilling her tits. Eagerly she lifted them up, holding the nipples with her fingertips. They were large and firm as melons and the ends stood out like fresh strawberries.
But that was not enough. She unzipped her dress and pulled off the panties that clung tightly to her hips. Her eyes went over every contour. Her milky white skin spread over her abundant charms. She followed the delicate curve of thigh up to the thick sporran of curly pubic hair that formed a golden triangle over her cunt mound. She turned and checked out her buttocks. They were firm and tight. When she flexed her buttocks, she didn't jiggle, so why was she trying to destroy herself?
Thoughts of her own weakness and lack of confidence shrieked at her. She needed a drink to calm her nerves and think things out.
Naked, she ran to the kitchen looking for the chilled Vodka in the vegetable bin. A magical voice screamed in her ear. Where was Biff? Why wasn't he here to help? She opened the refrigerator door and looked inside, wishing Biff were behind her, stroking her rump. Oh, how she needed him now! She wanted him growing hard against her leg and making her cunt wildly wet with his tongue and finger.
Ethel wiggled her thighs together and was surprised at the wetness in her crotch. A blast of cold air from the refrigerator sent a shower of goosebumps cascading down her breasts and across her belly.
She turned away shaking. Her body ached for sex like an open wound. It was terrible. She was nervous as hell. Just thinking of Biff's torpedo-size cock set her nerves off.
She reached for the Vodka and, bending over, the door swung gently back and hit her in the crease of her buttocks. A shower of pleasant warmth rushed into the furry center of her crotch.
"Ohhhh!" she gasped.
She was whimpering now like a naughty child after a spanking. That husband of hers treated her so mean. She balled her fists and cried out. It was terrible the way he ignored her. Other men didn't!
Ethel turned, not knowing what to do. She gripped the refrigerator door and brought her cunt down on the metal edge. It was cold against her thighs, but that didn't stop Ethel from hunching against the metal edge. She wanted Biff to be working her cunt. But the door was all right. She rolled her hips and felt the spasm of pleasure jump from the end of her clitoris. She hadn't masturbated since her twelfth birthday. It felt good to rub her spongy mound again. The door was not like a cock, but the metal edge was wedged between the slipping lips of her cunt and that wasn't bad. It made her jingle like a dinner bell. The faster she humped, the more stimulation shot through her cunt. Faster and faster she moved, rolling her hips, humping her thighs, squeezing her cunny.
"Yaaaa!" she gasped.
The woman was ecstatic. She was quivering all over from the door as the orgasm was slowly building at the rear of her womb. She could feel it trembling in her belly like a huge vibrator. Even her asshole tickled with anticipation. Goodness, the feeling was sensational! Ethel didn't know how to stop. She closed her eyes and dreamed Biff was behind her, his huge cock pointed like a spear under the V of her spread thighs. A huge, hungry cock and she was going to squat down and suck the beast into quavering cunt.
It made her knees weak just thinking about it. Her asshole twitched and she ran her parted cunt up and down against the door. The metal was warm from her hot, wetting crease.
She was frantic for sex. Had to fuck! Needed desperately to fuck! She rubbed her cunt harder and harder, but it wasn't enough. There was nothing in the refrigerator that would satisfy the frantic stirring within her womb.
She pulled away, looking around in wild haste, and then her eyes landed on the broom propped up in the corner. Her heart skipped a beat.
"You can't," she said out loud.
It was a vile thing to do. One of Biff's girlie magazines showed a woman getting off on the end of a broom and the picture was so repugnant that it had nearly made her sick.
Then, but not now. She grabbed the broom and ran into the living room and lay down on the soft rug. She pulled her thighs up to her chest and parted her knees.
Ethel wondered what Biff would say if he walked in now and saw her about to feed the broom handle into her cunt. She would be humiliated. But she had no control over the distress signals coming up from her sweltering cunt hole. Her twat was all gooey. Maybe it was dirty and filthy to fuck herself this way. A man would be much better – she would give anything for the urgent thrust of hard cock right now. Just anything! But she didn't have the option. So she stretched her thighs and snaked a hand between her legs and rubbed the mound of flesh like an overripe piece of fruit.
Her gash was a gleaming strip of pink. With her legs apart a nice dark hole formed for the broom. Awkwardly, she gripped the end and laid the wood handle across her slit. It felt so good she nearly had an orgasm!
A draft of wind rushed through her spread thighs, causing the pink buttonhole in her rump to tingle. She was so hungry for sex that she wanted something to go back there. For a wild instant she remembered there were carrots in the ice box. But it was too late for that. Eagerly, she prodded her cunt with the broom, bringing it through the webbing of her split crack and slowly up the tight, sweltering channel.
"Ouuuuuu!" Ethel gasped.
She was dizzy. The artificial cock was going up, up, up! The handle was thick and filled her hole nicely. The sexual stimulation was sizzling. Her cunt felt like an oven. Swinging her hips, she bounced the broom handle off her pussy walls.
Ohhhhh! It was something. She closed her eyes and stretched her thighs wide apart, bringing them down off her sweating chest. Now she was arching off the ground. Her buttocks were clear of the floor, the hunks of flesh working back and forth. Her asshole spasmed. The broom was deep inside – way inside – and she was humping to get more up her cunny because it felt sooo damn good.
She gripped the stout pole and jammed her gash. Sparks ignited. The pole went so deep! She bent backward until her backbone almost broke. The rod flashed silvery, in and out, in and out. The whole motion of the broom was violent, awkward, and that's what made it so exciting. She screamed again in her private joy.
Joy, because the broom handle felt so Goddamn good up her cunt. She was fucking her own hole, moving the artificial dick where it felt good inside her cooze. It was fantastic! It gave her a wonderful sensation of joy.
But it was frustrating too! Because no fake dick could replace a real man hunching inside. No amount of Vodka, no amount of sucking and licking could ever replace a surging, eager penis. It just couldn't – the broom handle was not going to shoot white hot sperm into her breech.
The cunt walls were crashing down around the big wooden dong that fucked a trail through her twat. Spasm after spasm of joy roared through her hole. It was like a live volcano going off.
"Ooooooh… ahhhhh!" she cried. Her cunt squeezed and electric sparks ran through her body and her insides got all wet and sticky and finally went soft as her back came off the ground one more time.
Her juice poured out of her feverish slit and ran like a river through the ravine of her fluttering butt cheeks. She wanted the damn thing going off down there too! Spasm after spasm rocketed through the dark channel of her womb. The handle was foot deep in her cunt. Maybe two feet! She had never gone so deep. It was sensational. Oh, she didn't want it to stop. Ohhhh! Indeed she didn't.
Ethel kicked her legs in the air and her toes pointed at the ceiling and the most intense feeling of pleasure she had ever known engulfed her.
She snapped her eyes open, determined to watch the wild sight of her cunt going off like a Roman candle. She was a pornographic movie for her own enjoyment. And if she were the only view, well, she was going to get her money's worth.
But she wasn't the only viewer. Because half a dozen kids stood around, watching intently. It must be a dream, thought Ethel. Then she remembered that the front door was unlocked and that the picture window was not shuttered and her belly went tight as she fought getting sick. The humiliation was intolerable. It came in wave after wave, like a terrible disease sweeping through a city.
Ethel started weeping out loud. And then she felt something sticky on her breast. And she looked up.
Just in time to see the round head of Fred's cock shooting creamy sperm all over her!