Fur

by Vanessa de Sade

  Charlene Honey Rose

  Her name wasn’t really Charlene Honey Rose, and she’d never even been to Nashville when she first burst onto the country scene all those years ago, her plaintive little voice sugar-sweet and singing Daddy, Don’t You Be Bad to Me Now like her tiny heart was going to break. Though she’d been performing in pubs and clubs for years before that, a fragile little thing in her signature white Stetson and the diminutive denim waistcoat that she’d laboriously adorned with glittering rhinestones.

  That was before she met Harvey Raymond, of course. Burnley’s answer to Justin de Villeneuve was Harvey, with his big white American car and loud double-breasted suits. He was the one who had taken her out of pub gigs and got her her first record deal, taking a hefty commission and assuming the right to shove his cock in her mouth for the privilege, of course. But, to give the man his due, he had helped her to take her shot at the big time, and today, seven albums and three international tours where she’d opened for Dolly Parton and Tammy Wynette later, she was comfortably off in her North London luxury flat, if not the superstar that she’d dreamed of being.

  Back then, though, when she’d just been plain old Loraine Moon, the world had been a place filled with glittering possibilities and she’d sat almost nightly at her little Olivetti typewriter, pounding out the heartfelt ballads that had so endeared her to - my god, was it that many - three generations of fans.

  And it’s not like she was washed up or anything. The phone still rang and there were gigs on cruise ships and - god forbid - holiday camps to be had in plenty. And her name was up there on the Grand Ole Opry wall of fame in Nashville, though she’d never managed to headline there. But poor old Harvey was gone now, of course, found dead from multiple gunshot wounds by a pool in Vegas. Which, as deaths go, would have probably pleased him. He certainly went out on the front page which was more than she would do when she passed away quietly in some seedy Butlin’s chalet between afternoon gigs.

  Oh, come on, Charlene, you’re being morbid again, she scolded herself. Life isn’t all that bad. After all, Harvey had got her out of Burnley like he’d promised. And she’d been to Nashville and still got a hand-signed Christmas card from Dolly every year - though she doubted that the woman even remembered her now, being as how that tour was a lot of years ago. Charlene, she cautioned herself, you know what we agreed about self-indulgent thoughts.

  And she had the apartment, bought and paid for, and the people who came and kept it clean. Always a different maid, though, and none of them spoke much English or were allowed to stop for so much as a cup of coffee with her as they polished and Hoovered their way reverently around her furniture. Not that she had much in the way of personal effects to disturb, anyway. Her guitar and her laptop - her faithful Olivetti had popped its clogs on her many years since - and her rhinestone cowboy costumes and, of course, that signature white Stetson. Sort of a nun’s cell with a wardrobe, she thought with a rue chuckle. Not like that Lottie Peterson next door. Heavens, that woman’s house was like a theatrical museum with every programme from every not-quite-West-End production she’d ever played a bit part in framed and hung on the hideous flock-papered walls like she was the Mona-bloody-Lisa.

  And so that, it seemed, was what life was like for a faded country star just pushing sixty. She had her comfort, she had her old records and she had an eager - if aging - public who still turned out to her gigs. She couldn’t really ask for more at fifty-eight. And yet she did, oh, she really did.

  And before Harvey it had been under-paid gigs all over the place, casual groping behind pub walls and crashing out with strange men - and even a couple of strange women - in run-down flats all over the north west, sucking cock and getting fucked hard and long until her cute little ass felt like it was red raw. Probably highly irresponsible and a risk to her health, of course, and she wouldn’t do anything like that now. But it had been fun, for fuck’s sake, and she’d felt like she was alive, not like now in her hermitically sealed box with its immaculate lawns and spectacular views of Alexandra Palace.

  Not that she spent much time to appreciating those particular views on Tuesdays when the lawnmower man was here. And, fuck was he a fine specimen. Not all waxed chest and ripped like those bland pin-up boys that young girls seemed to get all steamed up about, but thin and wiry with tightly knotted arms from real work, not bench presses, a pugilist’s face with a heavy five o’clock shadow and thick down on his chest and arms, weathered complexion from his outdoor work, hair a bit of a mop but thick and unruly on his head. A total dreamboat, in other words.

  She thought about him a lot when she masturbated. In her big empty bed at night with the comforting hum of the soft latex vibrator tracing the slippery wet contours of her cunt, or with her nimble fingers in the bath, imagining his vibrant tongue getting in there and really giving her a good time. Though she thought only girls could do that, and she still shivered with pleasure when she remembered that chubby little hippy with the big tits who licked her out so beautifully in some scruffy northern bedsit somewhere in the seventies, her little pink cat’s tongue flicking so expertly at her big throbbing clit. And, fuck, had she come and come that night, going down uninhibitedly on her lover after she’d finally stopped climaxing and rubbing her face in the girl’s fat hairy cunt and revelling in all the salt-sweet taste of her hot juices.

  But best of all, though, was what she called her weekly treat wank. She’d always shaved her bush, even as a teen when it wasn’t fashionable and girls were walking around Nashville in sleeveless maxi dresses with unconcealed furry pits - not to mention untamed jungles in their panties - and, even today, she still kept her chubby pudenda absolutely silky smooth.

  And there was a strict order to the ritual. First, she would lie and soak in the bath, and usually play with herself, loving the feel of her cunt in the warm water as her low-slung pussy lips puffed up with pleasure and her big clit went hard as a pecan. She always promised herself that she wouldn’t come in these opening sessions, though she usually did, but even she had to admit that, despite her reservations, it made the final climax even more piquant.

  Then, once she’d slithered out of the tub, she’d dry off lightly and sit on the stool in front of the big mirror and open her legs as wide as she could, her pussy splayed like a split fig and all her sugar-pink layers of plump labia on display. Then she would lubricant her pudenda and inner thighs with that pungent tea tree oil from Culpepper’s before finally applying the razor - always a new blade for this job - and shiver as she felt its cool steel glide all over her most intimate skin and leave her as smooth as glass when she was finished. Finally washing everything down and then applying a cooling mango and pomegranate lotion while she watched herself, cat-like, in the mirror, giving her big stiff clit the occasional flick to appease its demands until she finally gave in and pleasured herself to orgasm.

  ***

  After nearly a week of unceasing rain, Tuesday dawned clear and bright, and, by eleven o’clock, a hot sun was burning in the cloudless cornflower-blue August sky. The lawnmower man was there as usual, causing his customary ripples in the net curtains of every flat in the block, and Lottie Peterson from next door had been down there three times already, flirting desperately and giggling away like some decrepit Lolita, pressing glasses of her homemade lemonade - which Charlene knew for a fact was bought from Waitrose - into the poor man’s hands.

  Lottie was currently playing Grandma in a series of TV adverts for Oxo, and she never missed an opportunity to elbow this new-found fame into every conversation she engineered, so the poor boy must be running fairly low on bland platitudes for her by now, Charlene thought, watching the performance with a cynical sneer. But there was only so much mileage to be got out of a thirty second commercial, and eventually even Lottie was forced to concede defeat and teeter back up to her apartment, the boy tugging the cord on his big machine and trudging slowly up and down the close-cropped turf.

  Charlene watched him, cat-like, as he came close
r, noting the sweat on his brow and the tension in his muscular arms as he kept the powerful mower in an unwavering straight line. There was real power there, and she imagined what it would be like being held tightly by him as he meticulously fucked you, his shirt pulled half undone and his jeans open at the front but tight round his hips, just his huge cock and a shock of thick pubic hair over the elastic of his tight white underpants. Or maybe boxers? No, he wasn’t a boxer-shorts type. Definitely tight white y-fronts. And what kind of a cock? Circumcised? This wasn’t far from Golders Green, after all... No, she decided firmly, this one was intact. And would he fuck you or what? She could see the power in those thighs form here, imagine him thrusting into her like a powerhouse, his come shooting out of him like a hose, still oozing out of him as he withdrew and dribbled it like white icing all over the smooth skin of her bald little fanny...

  Charlene wiped her brow and steadied herself against a chair back. She was shaking and her cunt was pulsing and sopping wet. For heaven’s sake, get a grip, she whispered to herself. You’re as bad as Lottie, lusting away over the hired help. But she still wanted to slide her hand up her skirt and pull her little panties to one side and touch herself while she watched him. Maybe just a little tweak or two?

  But the boy was dead level with her window by now and, even though she was invisible through the beeswing of her Nottingham lace curtains, her courage deserted her at the last minute and she kept her hands where they were, though she pushed her pussy up against the chair back, liking the feel of its hardness pressing into her.

  He’ll turn in a moment, she whispered to herself. He’ll turn and I can watch that tight little arse as he leans into the mower... But the boy didn’t turn, he fiddled with something on the machine and the drone of its powerful engine ceased with a gentle thud, the whole thing coming to a halt and settling into the cool shade of the building’s shadow with a contented sigh.

  There was some dense shrubbery at the side of the flat block, and, concealed from the lawn but visible only from her window, was a small strip of untended earth where a mouldering heap of cut grass lay, slowly turning into compost for next year’s flowerbeds. Of course, the boy was emptying the grass box on his mower, and Charlene watched as he carefully unhitched it and hefted it over to the pile, mentally inhaling the heady scent of chlorophyll as he tipped his thick loamy bounty into the fragrant heap.

  But he didn’t turn once he’d completed the task, and she watched puzzled as he carefully laid the grass box down and stood, facing her, his back to the lawns and his body concealed from the rest of the world by the bushes of the shrubbery. God, he was beautiful, she thought with a heartfelt sigh. A pure Caravaggio angel in the rough. There was maybe a new song in that one...

  And then her heart skipped a beat as he pulled his belt out and unfastened his jeans, didn’t just unzip them but unfastened the stud and yanked the zipper right down, letting them sit low on his powerful hips the way he did in her fantasies, and pulled his underpants down. Which weren’t snowy white but some terrible cartoon character pattern, but not boxer’s - she had that bit right at any rate - and then took his cock out. Oh my god, I’m going to come without touching myself, she breathed as her heart fluttered like a caged bird in her heaving chest.

  He’s going to pee, she thought breathlessly as she watched him neatly draw back the foreskin on his big soft cock, not completely flaccid, but not erect either, just content and a little aroused by the heat of the day and the vibrations of the big mowing machine. The shaft soft and silky like old suede, a warm velvety nap in his work-hardened fingers, the head all vulnerable and exposed, a dark purple colour like a ripe plum, enjoying the feel of being exposed and feeling the caress of the sun.

  Then the urine came in a huge impatient gush, making the little hole in his cockhead, where his hot come would also erupt from, open up like a chorister’s mouth, and she realised that she was pressing hard into the chair in a slow and heavy rhythm as she watched what seemed like a prolonged ejaculation, his cock light against the animal black of his bush as the crystal clear fresh pee formed a steaming lake in the earth at his feet.

  And then Charlene sat on the floor and masturbated...

  ***

  The boy comes into her room. She’s on the floor, fully dressed but with her panties pulled down round her ankles. She’s worn her tiniest pair today, little more than a gusset and a strip of elastic, and her skirt’s rucked up round her thighs so that her pussy shows if you look at her face on.

  “You saw me,” he accuses and she nods.

  “And that’s why you’re doing this. What you saw aroused you?”

  She nods again, still touching herself.

  “I liked that you saw me,” he admits, his hand playing with the belt on his jeans, which hangs loosely, not properly fastened.

  She gulps, embarrassed, but speaks anyway. “Would you like to see me?’

  It’s the boy’s turn to swallow, but he nods, his breathing laboured. “Take the dress off, but leave your panties where they are,” he whispers and she complies.

  She’s tall and thin but with womanly hips and a prominent cunt, shaved smooth. Her breasts are still pert and sweet, small but with big nipples, nestled snugly in a lacy bra that’s no more than a ribbon, and her belly button’s pierced with a diamond stud.

  “More,” he breathes, eating her up with his eyes, but she shakes her head.

  “You’re turn,” she whispers. “Take off everything. ”

  He nods and kicks off his shoes, then yanks the shirt out of his trousers and pulls it over his head, quickly stepping out of his jeans and standing for a moment in the ridiculously patterned - but deliciously tight - underpants, the huge swollen shaft of his enormous cock clearly visible beneath the flimsy fabric, the red and angry head showing above the waistband.

  Charlene groans and slips a finger deep inside her own slippery wetness as he slides his pants down and stands naked before her, his dick up like a satyr’s and his hot hairy balls like something from a stud ranch. And she’s reminded momentarily of Tom of Finland drawings with their exaggerated genitals and bull-like bollocks.

  “Now you,” he says, flatly, his eyes boring into her slippery wet pussy, and she slides her thong over her ankles and then unfastens her bra, letting her little breasts tumble out for his approval, her legs open and her cunt splayed like a porn model.

  “I want to fuck you,” he whispers, half a statement, half a question and she nods.

  “I want to fuck you too,” she replies, making to get up but he pushes her back down and kneels over her, his huge cock sticking out like a yard arm.

  She wants him, and she wants him now, but she can’t get his cock into her cunt from where she’s lying so she raises herself up on her elbows and takes him in her mouth instead and starts to suck.

  And he tastes of salt and sweat and the outdoors, and she can feel his big dick swelling up in her mouth as he tries to cram it all in and realises that he’s about to come any second, and she quickly lets him slide out, all wet and slippery, but he’s already started thrusting and his come shoots out of him like thick glutinous jism, creaming all over her lips and face, gallons of the stuff dribbling all over her breasts and belly as his cock thrusts into the air and shoots out more and more of it.

  And then he’s on top of her and sliding it in, his big prick still pulsing with the last dregs of his first ejaculation, and her cunt moulds itself to him as he slides effortlessly inside, stretching her just a bit as he starts to thrust.

  “Don’t you need to rest?” she asks, amazed, and he laughs.

  “I’m only twenty-two,” he grins back, as if this explains everything, and she accepts it and lies back to enjoy the hard shafting he’s meting out.

  They haven’t kissed yet, and she rectifies this now and finds his mouth hungry for her own, ravenous but restrained, she thinks as he eats her up, letting her probe him with her tongue as he grinds relentlessly into her.

  “I like that you’re shaved
,” he says softly. “It’s sexy...”

  “I like that you’re hairy,” she purrs back, hands clawing at his flanks and ass, feeling his fur.

  “Feel it all,” he whispers, reading her mind, and she lets her fingers explore the heat of his ass-crack and stroke the hair around his snug little anus as he pounds into her.

  “I want to push in and finger-fuck you,” she whispers. “Can I?”

  He nods, yes, and kisses her face. “Wait till you’re ready to come,” he advises.

  And she knows that she should make it last, but, like a glutton with a gateau, she wants it all and she wants it now, and she grips his ass tightly with one hand while the other sends a probing finger deep inside him and she feels his tightness and his heat as he starts to pile-drive into her in real earnest.

  “Harder,” she moans.

  “Deeper,” he begs, his cock huge and slithering in and out of her as he thrusts faster and faster.

  And she rams her finger home as she hears him yell, and then she feels his cock spurting into her and she falls over the edge and gives herself up to her own orgasm, letting it wash over her in wave after tsunami-like wave until she can come no more and lies there, throbbing.

  ***

  And downstairs she can hear the rhythmic sound of the mower coming to a halt. Then there’s the creaking sound of it being wheeled into a trailer and the slam of van doors as the heavy vehicle pulls away, and she knows that another Tuesday is over. But, kicking her knickers off and hastily pulling her dress down, she goes quickly to her laptop and begins to write the words of the song which will prove to be her biggest hit to date and elevate her career out of cruise ships and back to the concert halls of the world where she truly belongs, Stetson and all - I’m Just a Simple Lady, But I Hunger for that Lawnmower Man.

  The Widow

  He carried her photograph in his pocket for the last long months of the war, as they burned villages and bayoneted the wounded, waiting for the day when it would finally all be over and he would receive his discharge. And he would gaze at her clam face in the lantern light of his tent, using her quiet beauty to ground himself, reassuring his screaming conscience that he was not, in fact, the monster that his commanders asked him daily to be.