by Bill Rowe
After it was over, she reached down and pulled the condom off, dropping it near the edge of the bed, and cupped her hand over my soft wet snail of a cock. “By the time I’m finished with you,” she said, “you’ll be able to do a thousand push-ups in a row.” Then she whispered, “I love you.” And she said those words about twenty more times, not one following quickly after the other, but after about thirty seconds of silence each time, until my penis stirred and stood at attention again. This would be the third climax so far tonight and I was raring to go.
She rolled over to her condom diary and took one out. She didn’t waste time passing it to me to fumble with, but without even looking at it gave it a little rip, took out the ring, and rolled it down over me, all in jig time. “You certainly have naturally good hand-eye coordination to learn to do that so quick,” I said.
“I’m motivated,” she laughed and got up on all fours and leaned down on her elbows and presented that beautiful high ass to me. Her vulva was slightly open under the upward push and her pink anus looked small, tight, and perfect. In fact, the whole ensemble was exquisitely inviting. I touched her anus and delicately pushed my forefinger in a half-inch. “That’s nice,” said Rosie. “Everything you do is nice.” She reached back between her thighs for my cock and pulled it forward and in.
With my hands on her hips as I thrust and thrust into the centre, I looked around. I didn’t think I had a foot fetish, but her feet on my shoulders earlier, and now the sight of them resting on their insteps on the bed with their soles upward and the toes clenched, were a powerful aphrodisiac to me. Leaning slightly to the sides, I could see her breasts swaying. I reached ahead and cupped them as they hung down vertically. The feel and thought of handling them like that turned me into a jackhammer as I pounded and pounded. When I started to slow down a little, Rosie said, “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” and began moving faster and faster. I shifted one hand to her pubic hair and fondled the area of her clitoris. On one hand, she lifted her upper body to the length of her arm and reached the other hand back to my hand and guided its movements there to suit herself. Sometimes, she would let the tips of her fingers graze my penis as it went in and out. When I was coming, she thrust her backside against me hard half a dozen times, intensifying beyond belief my release.
We slept like babies in the late afternoon sunshine and the cool air from the window, spooning tight together under the sheet. When I woke up with another hard-on pressing against her bum, she reached back, gave it a confirmatory squeeze, and rolled over again to her condom cache. I said, “How many do you have left?”
“Just this one.”
“I don’t think there’s anything left in me. We could do it without one. And I’ll pull out just in case. Otherwise, what are we going to do for tomorrow?”
“All we need is one little bugger to reach the egg and—that’ll look impressive on our resumés: mom and pop at fifteen. Here, let’s stick the safe on today and let tomorrow look after itself.”
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, Rosie always came up with the condoms. She told me that Suzy got some for her, but so as not to embarrass her too much during her visits to Planned Parenthood, she also filched some from Rothesay’s stock in the drawer by his and her mother’s bed.
The next year and a half comprised the happiest months of my life or, I was sure, anyone’s life. Energetic, strong, and horny, and crazy about each other, Rosie and I lived to make love. We took every opportunity we could. Mutual masturbation or fellatio, if that’s what the circumstances permitted in my house, say, when Mom and Dad went out for a short time. A fully clad quickie down in the entertainment room, if there was presence or movement upstairs. Long languorous bouts on Rosie’s bed if her mother and stepfather went away or if we were certain they were out for the afternoon. The first Christmas of our intimacy presented a challenge to prolonged sex because Pagan was home for the holidays. But Rosie and Suzy concocted a routine whereby she and I would go to Suzy’s house when her mother was working a four-to-midnight shift and we would use the second bed in Suzy’s room, a single bed put there for Rosie to sleep in when she stayed over. There we copulated and struggled not to fall over the sides of the jiggly bed, and laughed like two loons whenever one of us did. Meanwhile, good sport Suzy stayed downstairs or went to the supermarket or the pizzeria and she shook her head when we came down starved for our lions’ shares of an extra-large pizza.
We thought we knew how lucky we were as we traced our fingers on the firm, smooth skin, muscles, and turns of our young bodies and praised each other’s beauty. I loved how Rosie’s breasts, even though they were full, would point straight up when she was lying on her back, with no sag to the side whatever, and when she was standing, there was no fold or crease where the bottoms joined her ribs. But we had no idea how lucky we were, because that realization only came with remembering how we looked and felt back then, years later, with scarred hearts.
We were very careful not to be caught, or at least Rosie was. It was almost as if she had practised her caution. Absolutely abandoned in our lovemaking when she felt we would not be discovered, she resisted any impulsively risky moves by me. Only once were we actually caught out. I should have realized from the time my semen nearly dropped on her head that it would involve my mother. Rosie said back then that the universe was under the control of an evil jokester; she might have added that his chief lieutenant on earth was her Auntie Gladys, my mom.
Chapter 7
AS SUMMER A PPROACHED, MOM and Dad decided to spend the long weekend of May twenty-fourth cleaning up around a little rustic house they’d bought in the town of Dildo, Trinity Bay, about an hour out of the city. Dad had bought the house for the name of the town. He even had notepaper letterhead printed up with his name and Dildo as his place of residence, which he used for communications intended to shock or amuse his colleagues and friends.
I told them I couldn’t go out with them that weekend because I needed the time to prepare for exams less than a month away. Okay, then I could stay with Brent, they suggested. But I said no, we’d only spend the time gabbing and watching sports on TV. I wanted to study and do assignments. So they made the big decision: since I was nearly fifteen, they would trust me as a responsible young man to stay home for the first time by myself all night for these two nights. I could get Brent to come here just to sleep for company. Mom made it clear that she absolutely trusted Rosie and me not to do anything untoward. She could tell from observing our behaviour together in the past, she said, that we both had too much dignity to treat each other with anything but the greatest respect.
Rosie was pleased when I told her. She had been fantasizing about having her way with me in my own bed, she said. She was thinking of some different acts we could perform in honour of the occasion. I told her I couldn’t imagine what might be left to do. And she replied, touching her buttocks, “Sometimes you put your finger in. Would you like to go all the way with that K-Y Jelly stuff?” I closed my eyes and leaned against the wall so that I wouldn’t faint. She was talking about something I’d fantasized about myself but considered so far from possibility in my naive mind that I’d dismissed it. “I know,” she said, pretending to hold me up. “I felt the same way when I thought about us doing it.”
That Friday night, I didn’t call Brent to come over. I wanted it all to Rosie and me. She arrived in a taxi and went immediately upstairs to my room. “It’s just like I remember it,” she said, beginning at once to disrobe. “There’s no chance of your mother and father coming back all of a sudden tonight, is there?”
“None whatsoever,” I said. “They are there for the weekend.” I didn’t know that for certain. Perhaps they might come home for some unforeseen reason. The house in Dildo could burn down, for all I knew. I didn’t think Mom would come home just to make sure that I wasn’t doing to Rosie what I was about to do and had sworn I wouldn’t do. Mom wasn’t that sneaky and deceitful. And anyway, I didn’t give a sweet shag. There was no way I was denying myself t
his opportunity.
Rosie had a big handbag, and she needed it. She took out of it her locked diary full of safes and her tube of lubricant. “So, if you’re okay with it,” she said earnestly, “I would like you to put your bird up in my bum. Every time you caress it and put your finger in there it really feels good. So what do you say?”
I was quivering: “I’m okay with it.”
Lying there naked on her side, one knee bent and her foot resting on the calf of her straight leg, a little glistening in the cleft, matter-of-factly taking the cover off a condom, she said, “I thought you would be. It’s really erotic to do that, isn’t it? The very heights of intimacy. Now this condom is already lubricated. A middle-aged mother comes in handy. But on top of that, we’ll put a nice bit of K-Y Jelly on it, and you can put some jelly in my bum. We don’t want to do any damage there.” She looked at me. “I don’t want to be wearing diapers for the rest of my life.” She collapsed on her elbows in giggles, the condom in one hand and the tube of K-Y Jelly in the other. I put my arm around her and kissed her laughing mouth. God, I loved my girl. I took the tube from her and proffered my penis, upon which she rolled the condom, received a handful of jelly from me, and smoothed it on with both hands as if she were moulding a masterpiece. Then she turned over and pushed her backside high in the air and I daintily applied jelly in and around the puckered pink. Keeping from coming was my greatest challenge.
Then slowly I poked my penis in. Rosie raised her head and sighed heavily. I asked her how it felt. “It’s, ah… okay,” she replied. She reached back and took one of my hands off her hip and placed it on her pelvis. When I started to caress her clitoris she said, “That’s better.” But after a few more strokes she said, “Tom, let me turn over and try it from the front.”
She lay on her back and spread her legs wide with her feet in the air and she put her hands under the small of her back, hoisting her bottom to give me easy access. After a few more strokes in that position, with me playing with two fingers a couple of inches above, she said, “That’s good, that’s good, that’s hitting a good spot.”
When we finished with mutual orgasms, mine twenty seconds ahead of hers, which felt like a very long time to me, she got up immediately without our usual cuddle. “I’m going out to the bathroom to examine things,” she said.
Lying there, I looked at the condom, still on and filled with semen and appearing rather soiled. Gingerly, I took it off and carried it at arm’s length to the bathroom in my parents’ room, dropped it in the toilet, and flushed. I was amazed at the difference in my mental attitude towards lower bodily functions, hers and mine, immediately after my ejaculation compared to immediately before. Before, I had never felt such excitement and desire at what I was doing. Now all I wanted to do was jump into my parents’ shower. I swiftly did so.
When I came out, she was lying on the bed on her side. I stretched out near her and rested back on my elbows. “You had a shower,” she said. “That’s good thinking. You’re not supposed to mix up the orifices without a thorough cleaning.” She cupped her hand over my penis. “Even after using a condom, because something might be left on the base of your buddy here and then transferred to my chummy-thing. Especially when someone is so well endowed, the condom doesn’t go all the way to the base.” My penis stiffened and she gave it a squeeze. “My goodness, a short pit stop and then zero to a hundred in two seconds again. You are something.”
“Don’t blame me,” I said. “You’re the cause of it, you’re so sexy and beautiful and I love you so much.” She closed her eyes and brought her face nearer for a long, motivating kiss. “Did you want a shower too?” I asked. “Before you force me to race around the track again.”
“No, thanks.” She made a wiping motion between her legs. “I had a whore’s bath.” She giggled at me and lay her cheek on my thighs and gently caressed my penis, looking at it cross-eyed she was so close. “What did you think of what we just did?”
“It was good.” And truth to tell, I wouldn’t have minded doing it again, right now. “How about you?”
“It was fine,” she said. “It wasn’t as excellent as the regular way. It felt more like an internal massage than making love. I’ll tell you what, though. It’s a good thing to keep in reserve for when we want each other and I’m menstruating. Then we won’t have to wait four or five days or pull out the tampon and risk leaving a mess.” Up to then, if we happened to go to bed when Rosie was menstruating, she would rub her pelvis against mine until she climaxed. “And I thought of something else in the bathroom, too. Sure, we don’t even have to use a condom when we do it that way. So if we ever run out, we’ll still be all set. And you’ll be able to come right inside me then, too. That’ll be interesting, won’t it?”
“Very.”
She lifted her head and took the top of my straining penis into her mouth. Then she got up on all fours and pushed her mouth further down over it, but abruptly stopped. Removing her lips, she looked up at me and said, “Jesus, I almost gagged then. I’ve got to learn how to deep-throat you properly.”
“Deep—? You mean that dirty movie. Where did you hear about that?” I had thought that that movie was restricted boy-talk. One of the guys in grade ten gabbed about his father having a copy of it hidden on the top shelf of his closet under his sweaters.
“What did you think, girls don’t read fashion magazines?” She got out another of her condoms and rolled it on. Then she kneeled on either side of my neck and held herself open for my tongue, after which she walked back on her knees, deftly put me inside her, and sat down on her haunches, smiling contentedly down at me as I reached for her breasts.
MY BLISSFUL REMINISCENCES OF the night in my morning dreams were disturbed by my mother’s voice. When I opened my eyes, she was standing in the door to my room. “Tom, wake up, Tom. What is that in our toilet?”
I glanced at my clock. Ten after ten. After I had brought Rosie home by taxi at eleven-thirty last night, I came back here and flicked on the TV. My Darling Clementine was about to start on the Late Show, and I watched the movie and about a hundred commercials till it ended at two-thirty. “What are you talking about… toilet?” I asked, before the horrible possible truth dawned on me.
“Come out here and look.”
“What are you doing home, anyway?” I tried to inquire confidently, padding down the hall after her.
“That’s not the issue here. You are. But just to be clear. It was raining so hard that we couldn’t get anything done outside, so we came home. Okay? Are you satisfied with my explanation? Now you explain to me what that is in my toilet.”
A blind person could explain what it was. It was a crumpled used condom resting placidly on top of the water, still full of semen and still flecked with tiny pieces of shit. Evidently, it had failed to go down when the toilet flushed. “I don’t know,” I said on the forlorn hope that she didn’t either.
“It’s a used condom full of semen and with bits of feces adhering to it,” she said. Damn that unerring nurse’s eye.
“Huh?” I said.
“Don’t try to play dumb, young man. I want you to tell me what that used condom is doing in there.”
“I have no idea. The backstroke?”
As I might have anticipated, she did not smile at my tired Groucho-Marxism. “Who was here in this house last night, Tom?”
“Uh, me, and Rosie, and Brent, and Roy, and Suzy, and Trevor, and Vicky, and I forget. We had a little party. Played some music. They were all gone by eleven.”
“Who’s Roy, Trevor, and Vicky? I never heard of them.”
“Kids from school. You don’t know them.”
“Which one of you left that in there?”
“I don’t know if anyone left it there. Maybe Dad did.”
She looked at me. It was not so much an “I only wish” look. It was more of an “Are you completely off your goddamned head altogether?” look. Quietly, she asked, “How come Brent went home? Why didn’t he stay here as you planned?
”
“For the same reason I didn’t go over there for the night. He had something he had to do with hockey. You may be aware he’s a hockey freak.”
She was really keeping her cool. “Did you and Brent have a fight?”
“No, why would Brent and I have a fight?”
“Tom. Tell me the truth. Did Brent throw that in there?” She looked directly into my eyes, not in anger, but in sympathy, in understanding. Suddenly I got it. My mother thought Brent and I were gay lovers and that Brent, because he was the bigger and stronger of the amorous couple, had spent the evening bumfucking her son silly.
“What are you talking about, Mom? We’re not fruits or something.”
“Did I say you were? What time did Rosie go home? How long was she here after the rest left?”
“She left at the same time as the rest. She and I got a taxi to her place before eleven-thirty.”
As I spoke, Mom walked down the hall and into my bedroom. She took hold of the duvet and removed it from the bed with one snap. Then she leaned over the mattress and examined the bottom sheet. Even from my distance I could see them: at least four short curly hairs proving beyond any reasonable doubt that Rosie’s head of auburn hair was entirely natural.
Mom slumped down in my easy chair and looked at me in pain. “My good God, Tommy, you’re only thirteen,” she breathed.
“Mom, I’m nearly fifteen.”
She sprang to her feet and stepped towards me and roared, “Thirteen, fifteen. There’s no bloody difference. And your attitude about that only proves how bloody immature you are. You are a child. Rosie is only a child. She may have breasts and hips”—she gestured towards the bed— “and goddamned pubic hair, but she is only a child. You may have ten pounds of cable between your legs, for all I know, but you are only a child. And you betrayed my trust. And you exploited that poor girl’s vulnerabil—” Her hand flew up out of nowhere and smacked me hard across the face. It was the first time in my life my mother had ever struck me, either in anger or as punishment. I stood there looking at her immobile, my hands by my side. She glared back for thirty seconds. “Now listen. I’m not telling your father when he comes in from the garage, because it will hurt him so badly and he’ll lose all respect for the piece of garbage his trusted and beloved son turned out to be. It’s bad enough that I will never be able to depend on your word again. But at least now I know.” She turned around to walk out.