She cupped her splayed jugs and pinched and rolled her nipples, looking me in the eye and hissing, “Fuck me!”
I steered my fat hood into her damp bush, penetrating her slickness and plunging inside, grunting with satisfaction as her pussy lips gripped my shaft, hot and wet and silky. I started moving my hips, sliding my cock back and forth in her slit, motherfucking that sprawled-out fortysomething right out there in the open for all the world to see.
Barbara moaned, her body, her breasts bouncing in rhythm to my thrusting. I brushed her hands away and clutched at her tits, bending her legs backwards with my body, her boots riding my shoulders, pounding cock into her pussy. Sweat poured off my face and down onto hers.
I fucked that spectacular MILF faster and faster, pistoning away inside her, the sun scorching the two of us, the wet smack of our bodies slamming together filling the electrified air. She bit her fingernails into my arms and her mouth broke open in a silent scream. She stared blindly up at me, her slick, brown body quivering with all-out release.
“Fuck, yeah!” I bellowed, my cock exploding. I sprayed sizzling semen deep into Barbara’s velvet cunt, hips flying, coming with a primal force I’d never experienced before, over and over.
When the frenzy finally ended, I leaned against the lady’s legs, struggling to get my breath and my bearings back, gazing down into her smiling eyes.
She had to remind me what it was all about, saying, “Maybe we should hit the road, huh?”
We made it to Adelanto by ten, the time and the miles flying by as I gushed all over Barbara like a teenager, all about my LA dreams. She listened, patiently and soothingly, like so many women before hadn’t.
I pulled into the Pinewood Motel on the outskirts of town, buzzing with energy and excitement. We rented a shack of a cabin in a scraggly clump of trees that passed for a forest. And as soon as Barbara set her backpack down, I was all over her.
I gathered her in my arms and kissed her, babbling about how beautiful she was and lucky I was. She wriggled free, ran off into the bathroom, yelling behind her that she needed a shower and I needed to cool off.
But there was no way I was letting her escape that easily. I stripped off my clothes and then waited impatiently for the water to start running, for her to get nice and lathered up. Then I burst into the bathroom and tore the shower curtain aside, jumped into the tub with her. I greedily kissed her soft, moist lips, swallowing her protests, grabbing onto her slippery butt cheeks and squeezing, cock burning into her belly.
“I can’t get rid of you, can I?” she said, when I finally let the both of us come up for air.
“Not a chance, Mrs Ferguson.”
Her auburn hair was loose and wet about her shoulders. She looked even prettier that way, reminding me of a friend of my mother’s when she’d come out of the water one hot summer day, dripping and wonderful, after swimming with us at our cottage.
We kissed some more, and our tongues collided. We frenched, the bathroom steaming up with the spray and our heat.
Barbara dropped to her knees. She captured my twitching cock in one hand and my tightened balls in the other, started stroking the one while squeezing the other. I groaned and tilted my head back. Jerked my head back down when I felt her lips on my hood.
She popped my cockhead in and out of her warm, wet mouth, before sliding her lips over top of it and down. My cock glided into her mouth, and she began sucking on it with the practised skill of a knowing woman – no scraping or biting or gagging or spitting up. She took me down almost to the hairline, fingering my balls, tugging on my sac, then slowly pulled back, silky lips sliding up veined, pulsating shaft.
I rode her bobbing head with one hand and gripped the curtain railing with the other, the water splashing against my heaving chest and cascading down, Barbara wet-vaccing my cock. She reached up and played with my nipples, lightly raked her nails down my stomach, always sucking and sucking on my cock.
“Fuck that feels good!” I gasped, balls tingling and dick throbbing.
She suddenly grabbed my ass and jerked me forward, slamming cock all the way down her throat. I hung on for dear life, staring down at her staring up at me, my prick buried to the hilt in her mouth and throat.
She pulled back, and the pressure eased – a bit. Then she disgorged my cock, the meat oozing out of her mouth thick and raw and dripping. She left me quivering in front of her lips, before saying, “Fuck me up the ass!”
I pulled her to her feet, and she spun around and bent forward, facing the jetting water. I scooped up the soap and used it on my cock, her crack, then shoved my bloated hood up against her tiny pucker. She pressed her hands flat against the tiles, her arms shaking, as I punched my cap into her bum.
“Oh, God!” she whimpered.
I took hold of her waist and pushed forward, squeezing my big, hard cock into her hot, tight opening, till my balls kissed the twin fleshy mounds of her violated bottom.
“Fuck me! Fuck my ass!” she screamed, twisting her head around, her face streaming.
I pumped that mature babe’s gripping chute, slowly and surely, my body surging with sexual electricity. I moved faster, getting a good, hard, wicked rhythm going, sawing in and out of her ass.
She pushed back, matching my strokes perfectly. Like we were made for each other, meant for each other. Her bum rippled deliciously as we banged together, as I plunged deep inside her. Steam was everywhere, water flying all over the place. I desperately fucked Barbara’s ass, knowing it was too good to last for too long.
She reached down between her legs and frantically rubbed her pussy. We were a well-oiled machine, my cock rocking back and forth in her vice-like butt, her fingers flying on her clit, our bodies shuddering with the impact of our ferocious lovemaking.
“I’m coming!” she screamed into the spray.
“I’m coming!” I hollered back, churning my hips in a frenzy.
She was jolted by brutal orgasm just as I was, dancing around on the end of my cock as she came and came and came, as I blasted torrents of come into her ass.
We lay together in the utter blackness, completely drained, only the whisper of an occasional car on the highway breaking the perfect, contented silence. She traced a fingertip over my chest, a nail around my nipples, and I hugged her close.
“Why don’t we stay here awhile – get even better acquainted?” I said, softly kissing her hair.
Her finger stopped. She lifted her head off my chest, and I could feel her fever eyes on my face. I opened my mouth to say something more, but her finger pressed down on my lips, quieting me.
And when I woke up the next morning, she was gone. The note reading simply: “No stopping.”
I’ve been searching for two weeks now. Aimlessly. Desperately. Up and down the blistering highways of Nevada and California and Arizona, back and forth over the dusty, sun-baked backroads. Searching for Barbara.
Everything else is on hold – my meetings with the movers and shakers of La-La Land, my ambitions, my momentum – until I find Barbara. I’ve just got to find that brown-haired beauty, you see, tell her what she really means to me. Convince her to slow down and give it a try – she and I.
My money’s running low and I haven’t slept in days. I’ve logged ten thousand miles and a hundred truck stops. But I’ve got to find her. I know she’s just around the corner, waiting for me, wanting me.
Have you seen her?
The Stocks
by Roger Frank Selby
‘Ah, there you are, Mr Finch.’
Finch lifted the plane from his work, mentally noting where the last shaving had been cut from the table leg he’d been squaring off for Smythe Minor, one of his less able students. He was glad his female visitor had chosen break time; his woodwork classes tended to be somewhat noisy and chaotic. A previous visit by the voluptuous drama teacher
had generated anonymous embarrassing remarks and even wolf-whistles from the class. Unfortunately, he’d been unable to deal with the situation effectively until her glare and natural authority had silenced the room.
He brushed the shavings from his apron. ‘What can I do for you, Miss Curzon?’
‘I was wondering if you could make a prop needed for our forthcoming play?’ She sounded slightly breathless.
‘Just a single prop?’ Not hordes of swords and axes like you had me making last term? ‘Shouldn’t be a problem. What is it exactly?’
‘Well, it’s quite a big item – a set of stocks, actually. You know, a sort of plank thing, holding one’s head and hands …’
He immediately imagined the woman before him bent well over, her wrist and neck clamped in broad, polished mahogany, her round backside raised high… Finch stopped his rampaging imagination when he found himself looking intently at her… She was blushing!
‘What an interesting project. Do you have a drawing or picture I can work from?’
‘Well no, Mr Finch … Perhaps, you could sketch something?’
Finch grabbed his 2B pencil and flipped to a virgin page on his pad. He sketched rapidly, hearing her sharp intake of breath as the drawing of device and captive took shape. As a hard-up student, he’d made money on the streets of Paris and London from his swift artistry. He resisted the strong temptation to impart Miss Curzon’s likeness on the captive wench. ‘Is this what you have in mind?’
‘Oh, Mr Finch! That’s it – exactly!’ She blushed again.
‘Well, technically, this is a pillory. I believe stocks just hold the ankles when seated – but that would not be so suitable for the play, I’d imagine.’
‘I agree … The script does, actually call for “stocks” but I think I rather like the idea of being … I mean, I had imagined something just as you have so ably drawn, and that would work far better with an audience, I should think.’ The woman seemed to have come alive with that sketch, showing – not too explicitly – the vulnerability of one so captured.
‘So, Miss Curzon, we’ll continue to call our pillory “stocks” just in case some spoilsport makes me build ankle restraints instead?’ He allowed himself a small grin.
‘Quite!’ She laughed into his eyes, then looked up as the bell rang. ‘Oh dear, I have to go. Is that enough for you to get started?’
‘What about the size of the thing. Is it for the seniors? I could do with seeing the actor who’s to fit in to it – make it bespoke for him … or her.’
‘Must dash. Can I see you about that later?’
‘After school?’
‘Yes.’
She was late. She saw him through the corridor windows, lounging against his desk with his pad, sketching in the empty classroom. He cut a fine figure but always looked happier without his class. She knew he had trouble keeping order, sometimes. If only she could show him how she controlled a class. A matter of confidence, really.
But he also had this reputation of being something of an artist. She had seen one or two of his caricatures in the staffroom, and that sketch of ‘stocks’ and captive confirmed it. She wondered just what he was drawing now.
‘Hello. So sorry I’m late.’
He closed his pad rather quickly. ‘Hi. No problem.’
‘Have you been doing some more sketching?’ She lounged beside him, conscious of his height, maybe a little too close, as her breast brushed against the hairs of his bare forearm.
‘I have.’ He opened the pad at an early page, showing a drawing of an empty device.
‘Wow! Look at all that detail. Hinges, clasps …’
‘I’m assuming you want a robust, realistic device, with things working just as they should.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And have you decided on the size?’
‘Well,’ she smiled, ‘could you make it bespoke for me?’
He glanced at her, eyebrows raised.
She felt herself reddening again. ‘Well, the lead actor is just about my height …’
‘No problem.’ He straightened and faced her. ‘Just lean your elbows on my desk for a start …’
She bent over and did just that, feeling the stiffening tips of her breasts jab the wooden surface.
‘This gives us a general idea. I would guess that you probably want your back to be lower than that…’
‘Shall I bend lower? Perhaps my wrist and neck should be close to desk level?’ Her bosom flattened, spreading out against the ancient wood.
‘Do you want your back to be horizontal then?’ He rested his hand on the small of her back.
‘Oh!’ she jumped a little at his touch. The touch was not out of place in the circumstances, she decided. ‘You mean level? Ah yes, that would be ideal.’
‘It won’t be very comfortable bent over that much with your legs straight.’
‘Well, I would guess that comfort is not the idea of the device, besides, I’m quite flexible.’
She was. And she knew her bottom stood out quite nicely too. He pulled out a pocket tape measure and began taking measurements centred around her pose, muttering as he wrote them down on his sketchpad – how long and wide the base would have to be, the height of the neck and wrist holes and so on.
‘Now, how wide apart do you want the wrists?’
She showed him.
‘About a metre, then.’ He came up close to her and carefully measured around her neck and wrists, presumably to work out the best diameter for the holes. Finally, he walked around to her side. She felt her heart give a lurch as he leant over and patted her bottom. ‘That’s it, thanks, Miss Curzon.’
For a second she considered objecting to the familiarity, but she knew her bottom was sticking up quite outrageously and his touch had been so light and natural, almost thoughtless – an artist dismissing his model, perhaps.
‘Oh, I’m sorry! I wasn’t thinking …’ He’d noticed her hesitation.
Her heart was still beating noticeably as she straightened. She decided she did not want to be dismissed. She raised her arms and stretched her shoulders. The natural action emphasised her jutting breasts and set his eyes on them. He quickly glanced down to the pad and his notes. Her eyes followed. ‘Can I see some more of your sketches, please, Mr Finch?’
‘I guess so, but …’
‘Let me see.’ She flipped over the pad pages and he didn’t stop her.
This time his latest sketches showed an unmistakable Miss Curzon held captive. Several views – one from in front, her head slightly drooped and a view from the side and behind. He must have seen her in the swimming pool: his artist’s eye saw how she would look in the raw, and here she was. They were roughly sketched nudes, however, outlines and details rather blurred but unmistakeably her – with her full breasts hanging down. He had them almost right.
She breathed in sharply. ‘Oh!’
‘I’m sorry if you’re offended. I used to do figure drawing …’
‘I can see that. But this is not from life, this is …’
‘… just my imagination, unfortunately. Do you like them?’
She kept her eyes down on the drawing. She knew she was blushing yet again. ‘I do, actually. They are marvellous.’ Then she looked him in the eye. ‘When did you last draw from life?’
He laughed, his eyes sparkling. ‘It’s been a few years.’
She didn’t speak for a moment. ‘A pity … You are very good, in my humble opinion, but I expect it’s pretty difficult finding a model?’
‘There’s the rub!’ He grinned.
She closed the pad with a dismissive gesture. ‘I know the sketches are strictly personal to you, but I’m a little worried about the students seeing these stocks being made. You know how they are about such things. Their imaginations will run
riot!’
‘I’ll be doing the main assembly work out of hours. I can keep the project securely locked up in my storeroom.’
‘Excellent! It’s really very kind of you to do this for me Mr Finch … When do you think they’ll be ready?’
‘I have all the wood I need in stock but some of the hardware I’ll have to shop around for. Give me a week.’
It took him slightly longer, but the play wasn’t for another month. She’d walked by his classroom after hours once or twice and seen the light coming from under the storeroom door. Then one day in the staffroom, he whispered discreetly, ‘They’re almost finished – just the varnish drying. After school tomorrow night?’
‘Right.’
She chose a longish dress for her visit. Perhaps a rather similar one to the wench depicted in his first drawing. She found her breath coming more quickly as he led her straight into the spacious storeroom and closed the door.
There in the centre were the stocks – a sinister construction of polished mahogany and black wrought iron fittings, solid and stable on a low platform, a powerful icon of mediaeval punishment. Real hide cushioned the open neck and wrist slots. There was a sharp smell of wood, leather and varnish.
‘Oh! They are quite beautiful, Mr Finch!’
‘Would you like to try them for size, ma’am?’ he smiled.
‘Yes, I would.’
‘Once I close them on you, you will be locked in and helpless, you do realise that, Miss Curzon?’
She knew that. That was precisely what excited her, ‘But you will be here with me. Just promise that you won’t leave me alone.’
‘I can promise you faithfully that I will not leave you alone.’
She met his gaze and he held it. She felt her heart thumping.
She stood on the platform and bent her head low, placing her neck and wrist in the slots. He swung over the heavy top half of the board, carefully closing the lock. She found that her neck and wrists were loosely but securely held, while her view to the rear was cut off completely. The feeling was quite different to being bent over Mr Finch’s desk. Her breasts touched no surface, but hung free, constrained only by her bra. Her bottom felt even more stuck out and exposed than before.
Sex, Love & Valentines Page 5