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From: kellis <kellis@dhp.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} The Mistress {Kellis} (Fb oral fist) [3/4]
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Date: Mon, 26 Feb 2007 21:10:03 -0500
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The Mistress
by Kellis


Part 3 of 4


We passed through our gate to the sidewalk and Mom just stopped, 
standing straight with her purse strap in on hand and a large manila 
envelope in the other.  We were wearing our Sunday best.

"Which way?" I asked.

"It's ten miles in the country, too far to walk.  They're sending a 
car."

Where we lived was not really a town, though we called it that -- "Just
a wide place in the road," according to Mr. Paulson, the grocer.  It had
neither a bus line nor a taxi and Mom had sold Dad's old car.  So we 
waited, shaded by the oak tree next to our gate, on a sunny Friday 
afternoon.

A black '41 Ford came slowly along the street.  It had been waxed and 
looked good.  I could see the driver, a man in a billed cap, craning 
left and right to see the house numbers.  He stopped beside us and asked
through the open passenger window, "Can you point out the Cronin house?"

Mom said, "I'm Mrs. Cronin."

His expression eased.  "Great!  Hop in the back, please."

Mom leaned down a bit and asked in a tight voice, "Are you from the 
Laville estate?"

"Jimpson, the Laville chauffeur, at your service."

"Thank you."  She glared at me as if I had done something wrong.  I 
figured out why, opened the back door for her and followed her into the
car.

He let out the clutch and did a three-point turnaround before starting 
back the way he had come.  I was impressed with his smoothness in 
shifting gears.  He drove much better than Mom had when we still owned a
car.

"Nice day," he said over his shoulder, studying Mom in the mirror.

"Yes, it is," she agreed.

"Is the boy your son?"

"Of course."

His eye shifted to me but he said nothing.

Mom was curious.  "Have you worked for the Lavilles a long time?"

"Fourteen years.  I was four-F because of my leg."

"I'm sorry."

He chuckled.  "Well, I am and I ain't."

"What ..."  She hesitated.  "What are they like?"

"Good people.  They paid to straighten my leg."

"That's remarkable!"

"I thought so."

They were silent for most of the ride, which soon left the town on the 
winding road.  After awhile the car turned off and stopped before a tall
wrought-iron gate, which Jimpson got out to open.  When the car had 
passed, he got out again to close it.  He limped.

As we continued up the long paved drive, overhung with tree branches, he
said, "This job won't be exactly what you expect."

Mom's eyes widened.  "Whatever do you mean?"

"Of course I could be wrong."

"It's just domestic service, isn't it?"

"Not _just_."

"How's it different?"

"You'll see.  Here we are."

The car pulled into a wide garage.  I had a glimpse of a large, 
slate-roofed stone house at the end of an enclosed passageway.  Two 
other cars, one a big new Cadillac, still left room for a couple more.
Jimpson came around and opened our door.  "Follow me, please."

At the end of the passageway we entered the house.  He led us to a large
room with tall windows and a very high ceiling.  Landscape paintings 
covered the three walls that were windowless, lit by lamps in overhangs.

"Please have a seat," he said, indicating one of the several couches 
along the walls.  "Mrs. Tate will be along shortly."

"I thought I'd be working for the Lavilles," said Mom with a note of 
surprise.

"You will.  Tate's just ..."  He grinned for some reason.  "She calls 
herself the mistress's secretary."

He turned around and left the room, footfalls muffled by the thick 
carpet.

I asked, "What's in the brown envelope?"

"My references."

"'References?'"

"Attesting to my good character.  Rev. Grant wrote me a nice one."

"They should ask _me_."

She smiled.  "Thank you, son."

I was wondering if you needed references for any kind of job when a door
across the room opened and a woman entered.  She was tall and slim, 
maybe younger than Mom.  She wore a silky blouse and a skirt half-way 
down her calves.  Mom's was barely below her knees.  Long skirts were 
fashionable since the war but Mom couldn't afford them.

She crossed the room, high heels thudding on the carpet, and stood 
before us with her hands on her hips and no hint of a smile.  She 
glanced from me to Mom.  "You're Ethel Cronin?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Mom, getting to her feet with a nervous fidget.

"I'm June Tate, the mistress's secretary.  I'm to interview you and make
a recommendation.  Please take a seat at this table."

She backed away, rounded a table the size of our folding card table 
though made of carved wood, and dropped into a chair.  Mom followed and
took the facing straight chair.  The table only had two chairs.  I 
stayed on the couch.

Mrs. Tate frowned and said, "You are 31 and a widow, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"It's my understanding you never worked as a housemaid."

"That's right," said Mom, "though I've certainly cleaned house and 
cooked."

"So there's no point in asking for your maidservant references."

"I do have character references."

"Let me see."

Mom opened the manila envelope and passed over some sheets of paper.  
The Tate woman glanced through them and looked up.  "The reverend Grant
is your pastor?"

"We ... attend his church occasionally.  My son goes to the school his 
sister teaches."

"In the church building?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Tate thought a moment before asking, "Do you drink?"

I saw Mom's shoulders stiffen.  She hates personal questions.  She 
answered in a lower voice.  "A glass of wine with some meals."

"Are you healthy?"

"Oh, yes."

"Do you smoke?"

"No."

"That's good.  The mistress disapproves of women smoking.  Do you 
entertain men?"

I saw Mom's cheek redden.  "No.  But of course I might do so."

That didn't seem to faze Mrs. Tate.  "Let me tell you a bit about the 
job.  We need a full time maid who, in addition to her assigned duties,
would be on call to assist the mistress and her guests.  When not busy,
you'd wait in the kitchen or your room for the in-house telephone.  The
pay is $20 per week, paid in cash every Monday morning."

"'$20 a week?'  Isn't that rather ..."

"Low?  Not for a housemaid today.  But in fact it's the probationary 
salary.  It includes room and board."

Mom sat straighter.  "I see.  How long is the probation?"

"Two full months.  If the mistress judges your service satisfactory you
are then made a permanent employee with a salary of $30 per week."

"That's a _little_ better."

"Higher than average these days for a housemaid, I assure you."  Her 
eyes narrowed.  "But that's a _base_ figure, a minimum.  You can 
actually make a lot more than that."

"How?"

"By personal service to the mistress's guests."  The woman stared 
unblinkingly into Mom's eyes.  "I emphasize 'a lot more.'"

"Good heavens!" Mom exclaimed.

Tate's eyes glittered.  She smiled just the slightest.  "Of course that
part is entirely voluntary.  I understand you don't own a car."

Mom took a deep breath.  "That's right."

"Then staying in town would not be an option."

"No, but you offer room and board."

"For you."  Her cold gaze shifted to me.  "This is your son?"

"Yes.  His name is Frank Junior."

"Why did you bring him today?"

Mom sighed.  "To show you how much I need this job."

"You have to support him alone?"

"That's right."

"He'd have to live in your room."

"Occasionally."

"You have other arrangements?"

"Rev. Grant has offered to board him for $10 per week."  This was news 
to me, but not unwelcome.  I had shrunk from thinking about the 20-mile
roundtrip to Cardiff Hill.

Tate eyed me with a peculiar expression.  She actually grinned.  "I'll 
bet he has."

"Well, he did!" Mom said huffily.  "He's a very kind man."

"Not many know just how kind," said Tate with a curious smirk.

"I suppose not."

I heard the click of a door latch off to the left, in a wall with no 
window, and realized the overhang that concealed the picture lamps was 
actually a railed balcony high on the wall.  Two doors, both closed, 
were visible in the dimness behind the rail.

The grownups ignored the sound.  Tate said, "The boy could be a problem.
We need a maid whose service here would be her main concern."

"It would be a main concern," said Mom quickly.

"But not _the_ main concern."  Tate shook her head slowly.  "The Laville
estate really has nothing for children.  I doubt it would work out."

Mom took breath to argue.  "That's a premature judgment!"

"Perhaps."  The woman rose to her feet.  "Thank you for coming, Mrs. 
Cronin.  You know how to get back to the garage, don't you?"

Mom and I both stood up.  Mom said, "When will you let me know?"

Tate cocked her head.  "You still want the job?"

"Oh, yes.  I _need_ it."

"I have your telephone number.  I'll call you later today."

"Th-thank you."

Mom came to me, took my arm and guided me out of the room.  When the 
door was closed behind us and we entered upon the passageway, I said, 
"You won't get it, will you?"

She sighed.  "Doesn't look like it."  A moment later she said musingly,
"Personal service to the guests!  Oh god, could I really _do_ that?"

I realized she wasn't asking me.  I wondered if it meant like helping 
them get dressed, but her expression forbade inquiry.

She muttered something that made no sense at first.  "Big Frank never 
complained!"  Now she seemed to be smiling in a distant sort of way.  
_Big Frank_ was her name for my father.  Something to puzzle on later.

We were almost to the end of the passage when a woman called behind us.
"Mrs. Cronin!"

We spun around.  Tate stood in the open door of the house.  She gestured
toward herself.  "Would you come back for a moment, please?"

We returned to the house.  As we neared the secretary, she tilted her 
head back and said with a curiously strained expression, "You're a well
set-up woman.  I'm authorized to make you a specific offer: $25, then 
$35, two rooms for your residence and the use of a car to take your boy
to school."

Mom's eyes widened.  "You want Little Frank to live here?"

"The mistress believes you'll be happier."

"Oh, I will!  It's very generous of her.  I accept."

"Very good.  Can you begin Sunday morning?"

"Well, I ...  Yes ... yes, I can, except ..."

"Jimpson will be at your place at nine a.m.  Do you wish to move any 
furniture?"

"N-no, just our clothing and personal effects."

"Very good."  Tate's lips actually smiled, though her eyes didn't.  
"Thank you, Ethel.  Until Sunday, then."

"Thank you!  And please thank the mistress."

"Certainly."

Mom's face showed her pleasure as we retraced our path to the garage.  I
hung back.  How could I possibly meet Joy on Monday afternoon?


* * *


Mom was strange Saturday -- much more cheerful than she had been.  She 
was giggly and actually goosed me -- poked me at my asshole, through my
pants of course -- when I bent over to lift a box of books for the 
attic.  I guess getting this job relieved her worries.

Sunday morning was rainy.  When we got to the Laville garage, we had to
carry all our bags down the long passage and up the back stairs to the 
second floor.  It took two trips, even with Jimpson's help.

He paused at Mom's door.  "You're to report to Tate in the kitchen.  
Come on and I'll show you the way."

Mom said, "Frank, you wait here while I find out what you're allowed to
do."

"Can I go outside and explore?"

"It's raining, silly.  I noticed some magazines in your room.  Why don't
you hang up your clothes?"

An inside door connected my room and hers.  I went through it to get 
acquainted with my room.  It had a closet, so I spread my stuff between
it and the chest of drawers.  A door was in each of the four walls: one
to the hall, one to her room and one to an outside balcony that was wet
today.  The fourth wouldn't open though it had no keyhole.

Beside the bed sat a small desk and straight chair.  The magazines were
stacked on the desk, year-old copies of _Life_.  I sat in the chair and
thumbed through them, looking at the pictures.  One felt stiff.  I found
a medium-sized manila envelope tucked inside it, the kind with a brass 
clasp under the flap.  I straightened the clasp, opened the flap and 
slid out two photographs.  The first was a close-up of a girl's face in
profile, with ...

I recognized it at last.  The tuft of hair on one edge gave me a clue.
Her lips were stretched apart over a thick cock.  A whole lot of it was
in her mouth.  A jewelry stud, barely showing in the bottom of her ear,
verified her gender.

A cocksucker, as Joy had put it!  I studied the photo in rapt 
fascination.  This dick was thicker than her upturned eyeball.  No small
boy there!  My own little dick rose.

The next picture was the same profile, though most of the dick had been
withdrawn out of the picture.  Half its big head was still inside her 
lips.  A blob of spunk dangled below her chin.  She was smiling and 
still looking up.

Oh, god!  Out came my dick just in time.  I caught the spunk in my hand
and froze, knowing I'd spill it on the chair, my pants or the carpet if
I tried to go through Mom's door to the bathroom.

When you need to be different, you can be.  I popped the handful into my
mouth, swallowed it and sucked the rest off my fingers.  At least I'd 
tasted it before!

I checked the photo backs.  Someone had written on them with a pencil:
_7-43_.  I guessed they were dates.  Cooler now, I studied the girl's 
profile.  She looked, I don't know, twentyish maybe.  She would be four
years older now.  She was pretty with dark eyelashes.  I studied her a 
long time, dreaming of her mouth around my dick.  I'd know her if she 
and I ever met.

I heard Mom next door and quickly put the photos back in the _Life_.  
The magazine was still in my hand when she came through the connecting 
door.

"Does everything suit you, dear?"

"It's okay, Mom."

"What in the world is that odor?"

"Odor?"  I blinked.

She shrugged.  "I see you hung up your clothes.  That's good.  I have to
change, then I'll take you around and show you where you can go.  Why 
don't you put on your everyday pants?"

"Can I go barefoot?"

"Not yet."  She smiled.  "Let me get to know the people better."

When she led me out in the hall, Mom wore a black dress very short above
the knee with a white apron a little shorter.  Her legs were covered in
sheer hose.  Her hair was pinned up under a little lace hat that sure 
wouldn't keep off the rain.

"How do you like my uniform?"

"Your what?  Are you in the army?

"No.  In a nice place like this maids wear uniforms."

I looked her up and down.  "Your skirt's way too short."

"That's what _I_ said."  She imitated Tate's sneer.  "'The mistress sets
the fashion around here.'"

It was a big house, at least twenty rooms, according to Mom, with three
stories.  I was allowed on the third floor, which was servants' quarters
-- for all except Mom and me? -- and on the second floor, but only to 
our rooms and the hall.  Downstairs was off limits, Mom said, except for
the back stairs, the kitchen, its bathroom and the passageway to the 
garage.

"Mainly you have to stay out of sight.  Don't bother anyone, 
particularly the mistress and her guests."

The kitchen was warm, huge and smelled great: sinks, stoves and 
refrigerators at one end, a long table and several chairs at the other.
Tate and Jimpson sat at the table.  She had a yellow notepad and a 
pencil poised over it; he was sipping a cup of coffee.  A strange fat 
woman was stirring something on the stove.

We stopped at the stove.  Mom said, "Hazel, this is my son, Frank."

I said, "Pleased to meet you," as I had been taught.

The woman turned to me.  "You like peach cobbler, Frank?"

I thought I'd heard of it: a kind of deep pie.  "Yes, ma'am!" I declared
with enthusiasm.

"Some was left last night.  Sit down and I'll bring you a bowl after I 
heat it up a little."  She turned away to the refrigerator.

"That's kind of you, Hazel," said Mom, adding to me, "This is where 
we'll eat.  Hazel or I will call you to your meals."

"Didn't you say I could hang around here?"

"Well, don't make a nuisance of yourself.  Go sit down and wait for your
cobbler.  I've got to find the library and dust it."

I took a chair across from Tate.  She ignored me.  Jimpson grinned and 
patted his stomach.  "Hazel makes a great cobbler."

I smiled back and sat still, not wanting to be a nuisance.  Jimpson 
studied me thoughtfully.  "What do you know about cars?"

"I like them."

"Of course you do, but what do you know about 'em?"

"Well, I can recognize the models."

"Any red-blooded boy can do that.  Do you know what makes them go?"

"The engine."

"Yeah, but where does the engine get _its_ go?"

"From gasoline."

"And how does it do that?"

Wasn't it obvious?  "You pour gas in the tank and step on the starter."

The man chuckled and said to Tate, "I'll bet you'd give the same 
answers."

She snapped, "Well, it's obvious."

His chuckle became a laugh.  To me he said, "And what do you do if it 
doesn't start?"

Mom had that trouble more than once.  "You call Mr. Henderson."

"'Mr. Henderson,' is it?  What if he's gone on vacation?"

I spread my hands.  "I guess you wait."

"And if you can't wait?"

Call someone else?  I thought of putting it back on Jimpson.  "I don't 
know.  What?"

"How about fixing it yourself?"

I blinked.  "Can you do that?"

"_I_ can.  You can't."

"Why can't I?"

"Because you don't have the foggiest idea where to start."  He got up 
from the table.  "Come around to the garage when you get bored.  You're
not too young to learn it."

I stared after him as he left the room, pausing to take his hat from a 
rack by the door.  I looked at Tate.  "Do you think he meant it?"

She sniffed.  "Some people like pretty boys."

I guess she meant me.  "But not you?"

"Pretty is as --"  Her words faded out as she stared at me.  She turned 
partly away, bending over her notepad.  After a moment she got up and 
left the room.

Hazel arrived with a bowl of ... peach cobbler, I guess.  Peach slices 
were recognizable in brown and white mush.  I chanced a spoonful on my 
tongue and fell in love.  "Oh, golly!" I cried.

Hazel hovered.  "You like it, do you?"

"Oh, golly!"  The next spoonful filled my mouth with the rich fruity 
aroma in my nose.

She nodded knowingly.  "That's why I didn't let it get too hot."  She 
laughed.  "At least one male around here is easy to please."

I nodded vigorously, chewing madly.

She returned to the stove, still laughing.  When my eating slowed, she 
brought me a glass of cold milk.  Heaven!  I caught her hand and kissed
it.

She tousled my hair and sat down beside me.  "I hope your mother likes 
it here, Frank, so you'll stick around.  I like having an active boy in
the house."  She added thoughtfully, "Although Tate probably didn't tell
her much."

Here was my chance.  "Tate said she could make extra by doing personal 
service.  What's that, Hazel?"

She looked at me thoughtfully.  "Do you think your mother understood 
it?"

"She ... she said she didn't know if she could do it.  Then she said my
father never complained.  And she was grinning."

Hazel nodded.  "She understood it."

"I guess I'm the only one who didn't."

Hazel grinned.  "But you won't be asked."  Her face went solemn.  "Not 
until Rev. Grant spies you."  Her eyes were serious.  "And watch out for
Jimpson."

"What about him?"

"He was thick with the son that went in the army."  She took my bowl and
glass, both empty.  "You don't have anywhere to go, come here and talk 
to me.  I'm not worried about you being a nuisance."

What I actually did for most of the afternoon, of course, was stay in my
room and jack off over those two photographs.  My school protractor had
an eight-inch scale along one side of it.  The girl's face -- twenty is
still a girl, I decided -- measured about three and 1/2 inches from chin
to hairline.  My face was about seven in the mirror.  The cock head 
half-way out of her mouth in the second picture was over 3/4 inch thick
from bottom string to back flap edge.  Seven divided by three and a half
is two.  I wondered, whipping it like mad, if my knob, measured 
vertically, could ever grow to match the picture's one and a half 
inches!


* * *


Mom, driving the '41 Ford not nearly so smoothly as Jimpson, dropped me
off in front of the church Monday at eight a.m.  She said, "Tell Miss 
Grant to thank the reverend for his offer but I've made other 
arrangements."

"Yes, ma'am."

It was still raining, actually more of a drizzle, so I felt a little 
better about not seeing Joy that afternoon.  What could we do on wet 
grass anyway?

The preacher's sister only nodded when I gave her the message but later,
when school was out, she stopped me at the door with a slip of paper.  
"Your mother wants you to call.  Here's the number.  You can use the 
phone in the office."

It only rang twice before a woman answered, "Hello."

"This is Frank.  Mom left a message for me to call her."

"I know about that."  It was Tate.  "Jimpson was sent on an errand in 
the work car.  She can't pick you up until after three."

"Could I speak to her?"

The woman made a strange sound, almost a giggle.  "She's busy right now
with Cole's breakfast."

"Cole who?" I demanded.

"Laville, of course, the mistress's stepson.  She should get there by 
three-thirty.  Or maybe Jimpson will pick you up."

"Okay.  Thank you, ma'am."

"At least you're polite."

We both hung up.  I couldn't imagine someone eating breakfast at noon.
"Must be sick," I said aloud.  I wondered if he was much older than I.

"Who's sick?" asked a voice behind me.

It was Rev. Grant, a bulky man in a gray suit standing in the office
doorway.  He came around me and dropped into the chair behind the desk.
"Not your mother, one hopes."

"No, sir.  Wouldn't you have to be sick not to eat breakfast until 
noon?"

He grinned at me.  "Many people have a temporary sickness called a 
_hangover_.  Certainly we're not speaking of your mother."

"No."

"So who's sleeping till noon?"

"Cole Laville."  I regretted telling him as soon as I said it.

"Poor Cole!  I can just imagine his condition right now.  Ah, yes.  I 
understand you've moved in with the Lavilles."  He patted the desk top 
to his right.  "Come here, take a seat and tell me how that's working 
out."

This was a large man who was always sweating.  Water flew off his head 
when he got worked up in a sermon.  Now beads of it stood on his 
forehead.  He liked to hug Mom and me when he came to visit us.  He had 
even kissed my forehead not so long ago.

I held my ground across the desk beside the telephone.  "We only moved 
in yesterday morning."

For a moment he frowned at me before his face smoothed out.  "Have you 
met any of the family yet?"

"No, sir.  Only some servants."

He looked me up and down.  "I'm sure you've met Jimpson, the chauffeur.
He's an interesting man who loves to show boys how to really have fun."

"He offered to teach me about cars."

"None better for that -- and another subject you'll love.  Get him to 
show you what he keeps in his little room behind the garage."

The thought made me curious.  "Like what?"

He grinned.  "Oh, Jimpson's a collector.  I think you'll find his art 
works to be very interesting."  He glanced at his wristwatch.  "When you
meet her, give my regards to the mistress."

"Yes, sir."

I turned away, took some books from my desk and left the church.  To my
surprise the sun was shining and the street was actually dry.  The rain
must have stopped right after I arrived.  I realized I was free until 
3:30.  Joy had a wristwatch and could warn me to return in time.

I set off straightaway to climb Cardiff Hill.


* * *


She was waiting for me.  As soon as my head cleared the bushes I saw her
sitting on an oilcloth about as big as the tablecloth in the Laville 
kitchen, leaning back on her picnic basket.  Both our faces blossomed 
with big smiles.

"Oh, Narcy," she cried, "I wondered if you would come!"

I hurried to her, threw down my books and fell upon her breast.  When we
finally broke from our kiss, I said, "I had to come when I saw it had 
quit raining.  I didn't think _you_ would."

"You didn't?  I said I would.  You haven't seen me in four days.  Did 
you miss me?"

I had and I hadn't.  Life had got busier.

"You have to think about it, do you?"

"We moved this weekend."

"Which put something else on your mind, did it?  Well, I missed you, 
especially when I was alone.  You have a winsome face, Narcy, a face to
dream on.  And that's not all by any means!"  Her hand undid the top 
button of my shirt.  "What are you waiting for?"

Again she had worn only a long housecoat.  She lay back naked, pulled me
down atop her and put my hands on her big tits.  She let me play for a 
minute then pulled my butt up over them and caught my stiff dick in her
mouth.  I had jacked off over the photos so much that I went straight to
sleep last night and had lots of spunk for her today.  She stopped with
my entire dick in her mouth and swallowed as fast as I squirted.

Out came the cold cream.  Into her quim went my hand and wrist.  She 
moaned and shuddered today as much as she had Thursday before she 
finally flopped, gasping for breath.

"You learn fast, Narcy," she said after we kissed.

"You teach fast, Joy," I said and we laughed.

"Hungry?"

"I didn't bring any lunch today.  Mom's late picking me up."

"Late?"

"She's coming at 3:30.  Will you let me know when it's three o'clock?"

She glanced at her wristwatch.  "That gives us a good hour.  Unload the
lunch basket."

As we ate, she said, "You said you moved?  To a house not too far away,
I gather."

"Ten miles from our old one.  Joy, can I ask you a personal question?"

"Ten miles!  You can ask me anything."

"Did you suck a cock here before mine?"

She smiled slightly.  "Well, yes.  I sucked my first one right here when
I was about your age.  I nearly puked."

"You did?  But I thought ..."

"I told you: spunk is an _acquired_ taste.  In fact, though, I don't 
think it was the taste that disgusted me.  It was the idea of taking it
from where a boy pisses.  And the whole act.  Even at twelve I 
understood the world thinks fucking is a dark and dirty business."

I blinked.  "Is that why nobody talks about it?"

"Almost right.  We all think everyone else hates it, though in fact just
about everyone loves it for herself and hates it for others."

"Does that make sense?"

"Very few of our sex customs make sense.  Why should they?  It's not a 
sensible act."

"It isn't?"

"Come now, Narcy.  What do you gain by shooting my mouth full of spunk?
Yet I know very well you love it to death.  What do I gain by letting 
you?  Or by having you fist my womb till it whimpers?  I love both acts
as much as you do squirting in my mouth.  But neither is sensible."
She cocked her head at me.  "Why do you care where I sucked my first 
cock?"

"I was trying to find out ... how young a girl could be and like it."

"Well, a girl does it first to please her boyfriend and to imply he 
should return the favor, not for the taste.  Ha!  Do you have hopes for
one of your schoolmates?"

"No.  I ...  I ran across a couple photos of a girl sucking."

Her eyes twinkled.  "Did you indeed!  In your new hacienda?  Was the 
girl familiar?"

"She was familiar with that big dick!"

"A big one, was it?  Was she very young?"

I shrugged.  "Pretty old.  I guess twenty."

"Oh, yes, ancient!"  She laughed loudly.

"And her eyes were smiling up at the man."

"I'm sure she was proud of herself."

That hadn't occurred to me but it was reasonable.

Joy asked, "Where did you find the photos?"

"They were in a brown envelope stuffed in a magazine."

"That sounds like a dangerous place to hide them."

"I guess it was.  _I_ found them."

As we sipped the coffee, she said, "So you've moved.  Will that 
interfere with our hilltop pleasure, Narcy?"

My eyes fell.  "I was wondering how to tell you."

"Your mother picks you up -- is supposed to pick you up -- when school's
out?"

"At noon."

"And takes you ten miles away.  I won't ask you where.  But that does 
create a problem for us."

"I don't see how ..."  My voice trailed away.

"How you can get here every afternoon?"

"I _have_ to ride with her."  I looked up hopefully.  "Maybe not every 
day.  Ten miles isn't too far to walk."  My voice rose.  "She's making 
more money now.  Maybe she'll buy me a bicycle."

"Maybe you could borrow one.  Would you really pedal ten miles and back
so you could meet me, Narcy?"

"Oh, yes!"

"But _why_?  You'll soon get tired of blowjobs.  Even men do."

I put down my coffee cup, sidled against her and cupped a big nipple.  
"Joy, you're the greatest person I ever met.  Who else would let me do 
this?  Who else would tell me how young she was when she started sucking
dicks?  Who else would answer all my questions and tell me about 
fucking?  I haven't met many people yet, but I can still guess how ... 
one of a kind you are."

She smiled.  Her eyes glistened.  "You're a very perceptive lad, Narcy,
in addition to which you have a sweet little cock."  Her eyes 
brightened.  "I've figured out a way for my quim to enjoy it.  Want to 
see?"

"Sure!"

"It takes work to get into the position.  I suspect any man without a 
hard-on would find it ludicrous.  Yours is quite hard, isn't it?"

"Almost always, when it's near you."  I pumped it a couple times.

"Well, give me room."

I backed off a couple steps, but I think she was just being stagy.  She
lay flat on the ground.  Her heels came up and up and up.  Her back 
arched, raising her broad butt.  First her hands then her arms and 
finally her shoulders wiggled out on top of her back-drawn thighs.  She
locked her ankles behind her head, holding her red  face forward, and 
grinned at me.  Forefingers pulled her quim lips open, exposing the 
bright red gash.

"What do you think?"

I could never imagine a quim so exposed!  "Golly!  It looks ... 
uncomfortable."

"Well, it's better in a soft bed, but the grass under the oilcloth isn't
bad.  This position is called the _Viennese Oyster_, presumably because 
it was invented in Vienna and because you're supposed to slurp the 
juice.  I'll never understand why some people think quims smell like 
seafood!  But you can check that out the next time.  Right now I want 
you to lean over me and stick your cock where it belongs."

Getting in position to do that was tricky, but I managed with one hand 
on her shoulder to keep my balance.  I couldn't believe how tight she 
was all over, from her big belly to her grip on my dick.  Soon as I was
well in, her finger came between us to rub her nub.  No longer needing a
hand to guide my dick, I used it to squeeze a nipple.

"That's better," she said, eyes glittering.  "What do you think?"

"It's really tight.  Makes me want to squi-- to come."

"Then you hold still.  I'm not quite ready."

I obeyed while her finger jiggled faster.  I could feel the vibration in
my dick, which felt good too.  I was lying on a whole lot of woman, a 
tangled hill of white flesh.  Her turned-up bottom with her thighs bent
back beside her belly was about three times wider than my little butt.
I had a whimsical idea of falling into her, butt and all, and giggled.

"Oh, god!" she cried and began to shiver.  I started pumping into her 
again.  She began screaming.  I came with a strong, sharp pang.  In just
a moment I couldn't stand the tightness any longer and fell back away 
from her.

She sort of unraveled.  Her heels came down and her legs spread around 
me where I was sitting on my feet.  She raised a red face and grinned at 
me.  "Well, Narcy, I finally got you to squirt where it belongs."

"Can anyone do that?" I asked.

"You mean the Viennese Oyster?  You have to be limber.  At my age you 
need to have been doing it a lot."

I wondered who else she had done it for.

"Why don't you try it?" she asked, rising on an elbow with an interested
expression.  "It should be easy for you."

I lay down beside her and brought my heels up.  She put a hand behind 
them and helped me get them beyond my head.  "Now bring out your arms 
and shoulders.  That's it.  Ah, what a sweet display!  Believe me, 
Narcy, with it all hanging out a hairless boy looks a lot better than a
man or even a woman."  She chuckled whimsically.  "I guess we should 
call this the _Viennese Lollipop_."

She sat up, bent over me and slurped up my balls and cock all together 
into her mouth.  Without letting them go, she scurried her hips around 
until she could look at my face.  It was a strange sight: her green eyes
twinkling at me, holding everything in her mouth that makes me a boy.  
She giggled nasally and tickled my ribs, which made me unwind in a 
hurry.

"What was funny?" I asked.

"I told you: it's ludicrous to anybody without a hard-on.  You thought 
so even with one."

"I did?"

"You giggled when I was the oyster."

"I thought of falling into you," I said, giggling again.

"Don't you think you've returned to the womb enough?" she asked dryly.

"Oh, no."

"In fact you're right."  She pulled me into her big breasts and murmured
in my ear, "Narcy, Narcy, I don't think I can get enough of you."

My mouth found hers and we traded tongues for a while.  I've learned to
love that.  It's so much more interesting than a dry peck.  I almost 
kissed Mom that way last night.  Would she have liked it too?

Joy had asked me _why_.  I wanted to understand her motives also.  I 
asked, "What makes you like me so much?"

She chuckled.  "I told you: I'm reliving my youth.  You have the sweet 
body and adventurous spirit of my first boyfriend."

"What happened to him?"

She sighed.  "As usual, we grew up and found other lovers.  And you will
too, Narcy."

"I wish I could buy this hill and build you a house on it."

"Why, Narcy!  That sounds a lot like a proposal."

"Would you marry me, Joy?"

"No, silly, but I love the idea."  She palmed both my cheeks and tongued
me again.  Her hands dropped to my butt and lifted me up to where she 
could kiss my hard little dick and suck it for a few strokes.  Then she
sat me down, sighed heavily and stared into my eyes.  "What shall we do,
Narcy?"

"I'll find a bike."

"Aren't you getting tired of me even a little bit?"

I blinked.  "No!"

She chuckled fondly.  "I guess not in only three meetings."  Glancing at 
her wristwatch, she sighed again.  "Better get dressed, my dear.  It's 
almost three."

I helped her fold the oilcloth and stuff our leavings back into the 
basket.  Standing fully clothed and shod, we took the time for a long 
last kiss.  Somehow water got in my eyes.

"Good-bye for now, sweet Narcissus," she told me as she turned away.

I dared to say, "I love you, Joy."

She paused but didn't turn back.  In a moment she was over the crest.

On my way down the hill I finally realized we hadn't arranged a next 
meeting nor even a way to get in touch.  Dropping my books, I ran back 
up to the crest, but of course she was nowhere in sight.

The black Ford was parked in front of the school.  Jimpson was driving.
"You're late," he groused as I plopped into the passenger seat.

"Only a little.  Where's Mom?"

"Still with Cole, I expect."

"Three hours to eat breakfast?"

"When you get personal service."  He made a face.

I started to ask him what that meant but he looked too unhappy today.  
We rode to the estate without another word.  He didn't mention teaching
me about cars.


End Part 3 of 4
Contact kellis@dhp.com

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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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