mature xxx

I am a genuinely nice guy. To take just one example, I never needed to be reminded that there was a community service requirement we’d have to meet before we graduated; I’d fulfilled it before I got to eleventh grade. Mostly to get out of the house, true, but also because I really enjoyed working with the deaf kids at the public library. My cousin Martha was deaf, and the fact that my mother couldn’t be bothered to learn Ameslan made it all the more attractive to me. Martha and I could sit there and “chat” right under my mom’s nose. Mom’s younger sister Penny knew exactly what we were saying, but she apparently had her own issues with Mom. I saw her biting her lip on more than one occasion to keep from laughing. The kids at the library were just delighted that I knew it, and we had a great time each week.

It’s true that I am just a teensy bit accident-prone. And that some of those accidents were at least partially my fault. Although to hear my mother talk about it, you’d think that it was entirely predictable that a truck carrying maple syrup would crash at 4:15 p.m. on a road that I would be driving at 4:17 p.m. I mean, they weren’t even going to raise our premiums for that. But no, I’d be riding my bike for the foreseeable future. And I could see where some of our neighbors might have thought, solely as a result of a complete accident, that I wasn’t a nice guy. Although I still can’t believe that Old Lady Willingham thought I hit her dog on purpose with that baseball; she nursed that grudge even after his cast came off.

Anyway, I think it ought to be understood, right up front, that I am a nice guy. And in that light, you have to believe that blackmail wasn’t the first thing I thought of while I was watching the videotape. It wasn’t even the second thing. As nice guy as I am, it actually wasn’t something I thought of at all. It was an accident. That’s right, an accident. If you want to point a finger of blame at somebody, I say let’s start with the tape:

__________________________________________

My mother, Deirdre Martin, peered at her friends over top of her undersized wire-rim glasses.

“All right, girls,” she grinned, “but you have to swear that not a word of this will ever leave this room.”

“Swear,” Laura Stone gave a hesitant smile.

“Swear,” Pamela Lee said.

“Swear,” Natalie Winston echoed.

“Good,” Mom said as she leaned forward to begin the round of tales. “Well ladies, remember last summer when I treated myself to a weekend at that fancy health spa?”

The other women nodded.

“I think I told you all about the golf and tennis, but I didn’t tell you about the tennis instructor I treated myself to,” Mom smiled wolfishly. “Twenty four years old, six feet two inches tall, 200 pounds of muscle, and a cock that never got soft.”

“How big?” Pam asked, unconsciously licking her lips.

“Big enough,” Mom snickered. “It’s the only seven inch prick I’ve ever had.”

As Mom poured another round of wine, Laura took a deep breath and began her own story. Since her divorce, she’d dated very little and engaged in sex even less frequently. As her friends gasped, she told them of the evening when her son had been out of town on a camping trip and one of his young friends had dropped by. Before she knew it, the two were upstairs in bed.

“How old was he?” asked a shocked Natalie.

“Seventeen,” Laura admitted.

“Well hung?” Pam asked.

“Average,” Laura shrugged.

“How’d you finally get rid of him?” Mom asked.

Laura smiled.

“It wasn’t really a question of my getting rid of him,” she sighed. “I’d have kept doing it the whole rest of the summer. We did it a few more times, and then he pretty much told me he was moving back to younger stuff.”

“Speaking of younger stuff,” Mom smiled, “Pam?”

“I need to start a little further back,” Pam began. “When I was 21, I was a little short of cash. So I posed for a few pictures in a magazine.”

“Any magazine we’d know?” Mom asked.

“Not unless your son collects some pretty obscure stuff,” Pam chortled. “Anyway, about six years ago, one of my students found the magazine. Scared the shit out of me. Finally, he agreed to give me the magazine, but of course he had a price.”

“Drive a hard bargain, did he?” Natalie giggled.

Pam laughed along with the other women.

“Hard?” she grinned. “Yes. Good? No. Big? No. After a while I just couldn’t do it without laughing. So I decided to toss him out. By that time, I’d gotten him to give me all the pictures from the magazine, and I’d bought up the only two copies left in the local porn store. Once he didn’t have anything on me anymore, I basically threatened to go to the police with his little blackmail.”

“You hypocrite,” Laura looked a little shocked. “Wasn’t it you who tossed your husband out a few years ago cause you caught him doing his secretary?”

Pam simply gave the older woman a smug smile.

The women turned to Natalie, finding it hard to believe that the youngster had already cheated on her husband after only three years. She hadn’t. But on the morning before the wedding, while her prospective groom was sleeping off his hangover, the prospective bride was having her fun with the prospective best man.

“Nothing since then?” Mom asked.

“Nope,” Natalie said as the phone in the kitchen began ringing.

“Excuse me,” Mom said as she rose from the table.

“Although not because I’m really satisfied at home,” Natalie muttered after a healthy gulp of wine.

“Oh, come on,” Pam growled. “You’re married. You can have it any time you want.”

“Tell you what,” Natalie said. “You find me someone who can really do it well, and you can have him any time you want.”

Pam smiled and leaned forward.

“Yeah, I know what you’re going to ask, you slut,” Natalie giggled. “It’s a little above average. The problem is it comes too fast and it ends too soon.”

“Well, you can keep him then,” Pam said. “Laura?”

“Yeah, right,” laughed the brunette. “Who’d wanna screw a 39-year-old divorcee with a college age kid and a size 12 ass?”

“Someone who likes that Double-D rack!” Natalie offered cheerfully.

“Oh, sure, I can probably get some boy to come over,” Laura said. “But not the kind of man I want.”

“Somebody man enough to keep that ass in line, huh?” Pam said bluntly as Laura flushed a deep crimson.

“Anyway what do you care, Pam?” Laura interjected. “I wouldn’t think you’d have any trouble getting laid!”

“My husband may have been a bastard,” Pam said with toss of her hair, “but after his seven-inch cock, anything smaller doesn’t even seem like fucking.”

“I wonder how good Deirdre’s son is,” Natalie said, raising her eyebrows. “He’s turned into quite the little muscle boy.”

“Terry? He is cute,” Laura agreed. “But I’ll bet momma has him a little too “whipped,” if you get my meaning. All that ‘yes, ma’am,’ and ‘no, ma’am’ stuff.”

Pam smiled.

“And I’ll bet we know who’d like to be whipped instead,” she said, making Laura blush again. “But she’s right, I think you’re out of luck, Nat. He’s in my French class this year, and I doubt he’s any different than the rest. At least when it comes to size.”

“And how would you know?” Laura asked slyly.

“At least once a week, I wear one of those tight little dresses that produce a hard-on in every boy in that class,” Pam gloated. “And I haven’t had a good look at Terry’s bulge, but this year’s jocks are a pitiful little bunch. Hell, as long as it’s been since I’ve been laid, if I thought any of ‘em even had a good thick six inches I’d be conjugating all the verbs he wanted for him after school.”

“Hey, you’re the quantity queen,” Natalie giggled. “I just want quality.”

Mom breezed back in the room just then.

“Well, ladies, I’m afraid we have to call it quits,” she said. “That was my office. They just made an arrest in that forgery case I’ve been working on and I’ve got to go downtown.”

Mom walked out of the room behind her guests, a faint smile playing across her lips.

__________________________________________

I shut off the videotape and my first thought, I swear to God, was that I couldn’t believe my mom was such a bitch. I mean, I could, because she was, but really, taping her friends talking about sex? After she’d steered the conversation in that direction? What a fucking bitch! My second thought? Did Laura Stone really think I was cute? I mean, I’d heard her say it, but did she really think that? I reminded myself of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (”She things I’m cuuuuute!”), not for the first time.

I’d returned to an empty house just a few minutes after Mom and her friends had left. Almost by reflex, I’d begun to clean up the table where they’d been sitting, when I noticed that something in the room was out of place. It took me a while to identify the video camera sitting on the bookcase, pointed directly at the table. Moving closer, I noticed black tape over the red light that glowed to signal that the camera was on. And sure enough, the camera was on. I turned it off and ejected the tape. Obviously, Mom had been taping her friends, and didn’t want them to know it. But why? On second thought, who the hell cared why? I had a tape of three of my mother’s beautiful friends, three women who’d starred in more of my fantasies, waking and sleeping, than all the other women in the world combined.

It wasn’t like I had a huge database of fantasies. I mean, it’s not like I did it every night or something. Maybe every other night, but not every night. And there were girls at school that I liked, and actresses, of course. Hell, that chick on the Today Show looked real good some days. The one that read the news, not so much the one that took Katie’s job. But these three women — Laura Stone, Natalie Winston, and Pamela Lee — were the stars. I dug through the cassettes on the shelves and found a defective tape that I’d unsuccessfully tried to use a few weeks ago. I slipped it in the camera and put the camera back where I’d found it. Then I turned it back on in the “record” mode, so that Mom would simply assume that she’d put a bad tape in the camera. By the time she returned late that afternoon, I had already downloaded the tape onto my PC and hidden the video file in a very safe folder in my hard drive. Erasing the tape was even easier.

I played the video the next weekend, when both of my parents were at work. It started out as an ordinary card game, with the four women still just chatting, but I’d already pulled down my pants and begun stroking my cock. Mom had deliberately taken the seat — almost pushing Natalie out of it when she tried to sit there — with her back to the camera. That was good for two reasons. The first was that I had a good view of the other women. The second was that I didn’t have to look at my mother.

Because, believe me, the last thing I wanted was to find myself jerking off to pictures of my mom. My friends would have paid good money for a video like that; they had all confided to me, at one time or another, that my mother was the first one they thought about when they were doing it. Like I really needed to know that. Some of them, the little pervs, had even thought of her when they were fucking their girlfriends. I really wish that they hadn’t told me that part. But it explained why my house was one of the more popular hangout places. At family get-togethers at Grandma’s house, where you didn’t actually have to be friends with anyone because you were gonna get invited back next year no matter how much you pissed ‘em off, Mom was fond of boasting that she had the same figure that she had had in college. And her face hadn’t changed much, either. The only difference was that the long blonde hair she’d had then was now styled into a short professional look that suited her job as an Assistant District Attorney. She knew perfectly well the effect she had on my friends, and lapped it up like a cat, teasing them with shorts that were too short and tops that weren’t quite top enough. They just ate it up and came back for more.

On her left in the video was Mrs. Stone, my “Aunt Laura.” Laura Stone had been Mom’s best friend ever since she’d invited Mom, as a young college sophomore, to share a suite of rooms that Laura and two other senior girls had snagged. She was now 39, the oldest of the four women who had sat down around the table, ostensibly to play hearts. She was the shortest of the three women and perhaps the heaviest (although by no more than 10 pounds), but her chest was easily the biggest of the bunch. A few years ago I’d peeked into Mrs. Stone’s closet when I took a break from mowing her lawn and went into the house for a drink while she was out grocery shopping. There it was, a 38-D bra in her hamper. Maybe she swelled to a Double-D in the fall, like Natalie said; was that possible? In any event, I was very pleased to see her in profile on the tape. And because it was still only the end of September, with unusually warm temperatures, Mrs. Stone was wearing a very tight cotton T-shirt. Awesome.

I turned my attention next to Natalie Winston, sitting on the right of my mother. Ms. Winston — “oh, please call me Natalie,” she was always saying — had moved in next door, with her husband, about eighteen months ago. She was 28 or so, a number I’d arrived at by piecing together some clues she’d tossed off about her college days. With her bouncy auburn hair and beautiful blue eyes, I just knew that she’d been a cheerleader then, and she’d been the main subject of my jack-off sessions over the past summer, when she started visiting our pool. In the tape, she had on pair of much-too-long shorts as well as a pink sleeveless shirt. Natalie also had a very nice chest.

The final woman, Pam Lee, had been the subject of my fantasies for most of the last school year. She’d taught French at the high school for the last five years, and the locker room scuttlebutt put her age at 31. I’d first seen her when I was an eleventh grader last year, when my French teacher had been the gruesome Mrs. Lee. And I’d spent many afternoons last year daydreaming about her long black hair, long legs, and dark complexion. She was the tallest of the three women, and the least endowed. But she was exotically beautiful. I couldn’t believe it when she and my mom became friends over the summer, and I couldn’t believe it when I found out she was my new French teacher this fall. I was salivating at the prospect of seeing those fashionable suits and short skirts every day. Boy, talk about mistakes. She might be a goddess, but in class she certainly earned the nickname passed down in the boys’ locker room over the past few years: la garce Française. The French bitch never missed an opportunity to put down the boys in her class, particularly those involved in sports, and I hadn’t been spared just because my mom was a friend of the teacher. A month into the semester, I was wondering how quickly I could pick up Spanish.

I shot my load ten minutes after I started the tape, but I kept the tape running. There might be some even better views to use next time. At that point, they were still just playing cards, gossiping about the woman across the street who had gotten herself pregnant in spite of her husband’s vasectomy. Then I watched in amazement as my mother deliberately steered the conversation to sex, and my mouth fell open as each of the women — including my mother — admitted to their past indiscretions. My cock was already starting to rise again.

Up until that point, my sexual experience had been limited; if Natalie Winston was hoping I’d be good, she’d be well advised to wait until I got out of this place. Because basically since I was old enough to talk, my mother had taken advantage of every opening to remind me what she’d given up to raise me, that she had stood first in her law school class when she’d become pregnant, and that she would have been able to earn even more than my father earned if she hadn’t had to suspend her education to take care of my baby, and that I owed her. In truth, she seemed to enjoy her work, especially her occasional appearances in the newspapers and TV news as she prosecuted yet another of the city’s sex crimes. But she would never admit it to me or even my dad. In fact, she would sometimes remind my dad of her former class standing as a subtle put-down, although his large paycheck meant that she couldn’t treat him like she did me.

Hell, Laura was right. I was whipped. My mom had left me with the self-esteem of a rabbit. The first couple of girls I’d gotten up enough nerve to ask out had practically fled the house giggling when I brought ‘em over, as ordered, to meet Mom and Dad. They’d been treated to my baby pictures first, and then to a discourse on how sickly I’d been when I was growing up. I had finally grown into my tall, gangly body, thank God, sporting what I thought of as a decent set of muscles honed by my daily swimming practice. But I still saw myself, through my mother’s calculating eyes, as a perennial weenie.

Since then, I’d manage to sneak out with a girl once or twice. But the girl with whom I’d gotten the farthest had taken one look at my cock and drawn the line at a hand job. Although I knew I had the biggest cock on the swim team, it was apparently one of the biggest in the school, and she wanted nothing to do with it. Maybe Ms. Lee wanted some, though, huh? I grinned as I recalled her remark about her need for a big cock. Hey, you want some of this, bitch? Well, maybe not, but I was entitled to dream. I rewound the tape to a point where Ms. Lee had stretched across the table for a misdealt card, giving the camera a tantalizing peek down her low-cut blouse, and froze it. I was surprised I could come again that quickly, too.

It took me two weeks to find the magazine. The problem was that if you just put “Pam Lee” into Google, you got Pam Anderson. “Pamela Lee” was even worse. And “Pam Lee” with “nude,” with “naked,” and with “posing” weren’t (obviously) any better. “Pam Lee” and “coed” — that turned out to be the answer. And oh my God, that particular issue was still available from the publisher. Of course I ordered it. I invariably picked up the mail, even on weekends, because Dad got home late and Mom couldn’t be bothered. The magazine was a bit pricey at this point, being ten years old, but ya gotta do what ya gotta do.

And it wasn’t until I got it that I realized that I had a problem. My mom, the bitch, was constantly searching my room, looking for signs of the steroids that she was convinced that I must be using in order to develop muscles. Nobody on my father’s side had muscles like that, she pointed out. And it was obvious that I hadn’t inherited anything worthwhile from her side of the family. So obviously I was taking steroids, and she scoured the place every other week. And it’s not like she even pretended to do it while she was putting away the laundry. Hell, I did the laundry in the house. I was the one who made sure her 36-C underwires got hung up to dry instead of going in the dryer and her size 4 panties were nice and fluffy soft. Yeah, I know. Fuck off.

Keeping it at school was a similarly bad idea. By order of the School Board, prodded and supported, I suspected, by crusading Assistant District Attorney Deirdre Martin, we were subject to completely random locker searches at the whim of the principal, the assistant principal, and the head of the art department, who was a reformed drug addict who was assumed to have special insight into the hiding places that we secretive druggies used. The three of them had a lot of whiMs. So my locker was another poor storage place.

I finally just said the hell with it and threw the magazine out. Oh, of course, I kept the pictures. I’m whipped, I’m not stupid. Once again, I scanned ‘em onto my hard drive, where they were hidden in a file that you’d have to be a computer genius to find. Occasionally, though, I’d download one to my cell phone, where I could easily hide it from view with the press of a button, and where two other buttons would permanently erase it. Until I downloaded another one. In retrospect, of course, that wasn’t the brightest thing to do. I will accept responsibility for that. But I’m not going to beat myself up over it. After all, I was probably the most wildly successful accidental blackmailer in history.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Martin,” said Ms. Lee as she opened the door of her apartment one Friday evening. “Avez vous les papiers legaux?”

“Oui, Madame,” I answered. Barely a month into the semester, Ms. Lee had no intention of letting up on her rule that her students could address her only in French, even if they met out of class. My father had prepared some document or other for her as a favor, and my mother had asked me — told me — to take it over to Ms. Lee’s house to have her sign it. A four-mile trip by bike that had taken me the better part of a half-hour.

“Etes-vous prêt pour l’examen?” Ms. Lee asked as she closed the door behind me and sat down at her dining room table with her pen.

“Oui, Madame,” I answered. We had an examen coming up on Monday, and while I wasn’t really ready for it, I figured I’d get in less trouble this way than if I said I intended to spend Sunday night cramming for it.

I fished the papers out of my backpack and put them in front of her. Standing beside her, I couldn’t help but notice once again the way that her hair had been pulled back into a bun, which had made her look more severe during today’s French class but which, from this angle, exposed her long, supple neck when she bent over to look at the papers. I couldn’t help but inhale the subtle fragrance that her body gave off, whether natural or not I had no way of knowing. I couldn’t help but peek down her blouse, which hadn’t appeared to have any buttons when I’d tried not to stare at it under the jacket she’d worn during school. Now, with the jacket thrown over one of the other chairs, it was obvious that the two sides of the blouse connected somewhere near the little bow on the white mesh bra that she wore —

“Voilá,” she concluded as she signed the last of the indicated pages and prepared to hand the documents back to me.

As a result of all my earlier helplessness, I also couldn’t help spilling the contents of my backpack onto her table when I went to replace the papers. Smirking at my clumsiness, she helped me pick up a couple of notebooks, and then reached for my phone, which had flipped open on its skid across the table top.

“Where did you find this?” she hissed.

“Madame?” I asked. At that point, I was on my hands and knees fishing for my pen, and I popped my head up over the table to find out what she was talking about. “Le — le téléphone?”

I was racking my brain. It was a pretty standard Motorola, I thought, from that store in the mall. What the hell was the French word for shopping mall?

“This picture, Terry,” she said, turning white and starting to tremble. “Where did you get this picture?”

I was about to offer to get her some water, because she looked like she was about to faint, when I realized what she was talking about. Oh, shit.

I sat down at the table.

“The, uh, the Internet?” I said softly, more of a question than a statement.

“This picture is on the Internet?” she was clearly horrified, and was starting to shake.

I took the phone from her. It was actually a cropped version of the full picture, just showing her head and her right tit, because the full picture would have been too small on the little screen.

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “This magazine? College Spread? They have a —”

“Oh, God,” she started to gasp for air. “It’s going to be all over school.”

“Well, no,” I said, trying to calm her. “It’s a kind of obscure site. You know, you could probably hack into it and change it so your name wouldn’t come up on the search engines.”

“Search engines?” she cried. “You can just goggle this?”

“Google,” I told her. “It’s called googling it.”

That didn’t help.

“Terry, I don’t know anything about the Internet,” she wailed. “I don’t even own my own computer. I can’t do anything like what you’re describing.”

“I could do it,” I volunteered. Maybe. “But not from my computer.”

That’s all I’d need, to have Mom find out I did that.

I could see her eyes light up as she grasped at the admittedly slender straw. Then she slammed her palm on the table. “Damn, that stupid science fair has the school computers tied up all weekend long. I could sneak you in there next weekend. But shit, it’ll be all over the school by then.”

“It’s pretty hard to find,” I said. “So it’s not very likely that anyone else will find it.”

“Anyone else?” she asked coldly. “You mean unless you tell them?”

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“And what is the price of your silence, Mister Martin,” her voice was growing hard. “An “A” in French?”

“I thought I already had an “A” in French,” I was puzzled. I’d aced both the quizzes so far, and I wasn’t any worse in conversation than anyone else.

“What, then?” she was screaming at me. “Do you know how much trouble you could get me in, you little prick, when you show this to your fucking little jock buddies in your French class?”

That pissed me off a little. I mean, there weren’t any other swimmers in her class. The other jocks were soccer guys, with a few football players scattered around because they enjoyed the scenery. It’s not like we had a club or anything, and I didn’t appreciate being lumped in with the rest of them.

“Look, ma’am,” I said, my peevishness starting to show. “I don’t have any fucking jock buddies, little or otherwise, in your French class. But hey, yeah, maybe they would like to see their teacher spreading herself all over the back of a chair.”

“You have the whole picture?” her eyes grew wide as she dropped to her knees. “Oh, God, Terry.”

“You’re upset,” I nodded, thinking that a restatement of the obvious would help as I stood up and started to back away slowly. “I can understand that. I’m just gonna go home now.”

I turned and ran for the door.

“Terry!” she called after me.

“Keep the phone!” I yelled as I slammed the door behind me and raced for my bike.

She was already at the house when I got there, her hot-looking Trans Am parked in front of the closed garage doors. She was pounding on the front door as I cycled up the drive.

“You wanna see the site?” I asked.

“Terry!” she jumped and clutched at her chest. Apparently she hadn’t heard me coming up the walk. “Where’s your mother?”

“Bar convention,” I told her. “So, the website? With the pictures?”

“Pictures?” she gripped my arm. “I thought it was just one.”

“Uh, no,” I admitted. “I think there are two of ‘em.”

“Oh God, Terry,” she wrapped her arms around me and I could feel her trembling. I unlocked the door and kind of pushed her into the house. Fortunately, it was fairly dark by then, and I didn’t think that anyone had seen us. Ms. Lee appeared to be sort of numb at this point, and she just kind of followed me upstairs to my room.

“Look,” I said, pulling out the chair at my desk for her and firing up the computer and its internet connection. “I’ll show you how hard it is to find.”

My home screen, the Google search page, popped up.

“What do I do?” she asked helplessly.

“Okay,” I said, “First of all, I want you to type in your name there.”

She typed “Pam Lee,” and, again at my instruction, pressed “search.”

“What does it mean?” she stared helplessly at the screen. Honestly, how could you be 30 years old and know this little about computers?

“It means that you’d have to look through 45,000 websites before you found the one with your pictures on them,” I told her. “You’re fortunate you have the same name as Pam Anderson. In fact, try Pamela Lee.

“See, three hundred thirty thousand hits,” I said. “So the chances of somebody running across the site between now and then are like, infinitesimal.”

Her breathing was a little less ragged now, a little calmer. Her chest was going up and down in regular, measured intervals, almost hypnotically —

“All right,” she said, “show it to me.”

“Oh, yeah, the site,” I said. “Okay, type in, um, Pam Lee and, uh, coed.”

“Nine results,” she read the screen, “meaning only nine sites?”

“Yeah,” I told her, pointing to the screen. “This first one leads to the second so let’s go there first. Put the cursor on the title and click. Here, with the mouse.”

I thought she was tense when I took her hand to guide the mouse. But when the site finally appeared, she was board-stiff. It was entitled “College Spread,” the same as the title of the magazine in which her picture had appeared. I placed my hand over my teacher’s and scrolled down to “Back Issues.”

“Oh, God,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes. There it was, Volume 3, Issue Number 5, May 1997. Her name jumped out at her: “Coed of the Month: Pam Lee.”

“Why is my name in blue?” she asked.

“The highlighted names are links to other pages on the web,” I explained. “With this magazine, you can preview a couple of the pictures in each of the issues. Click on it.”

Pam numbly put the cursor over her name and clicked.

It was the full version of the picture I had on my phone, with her kneeling on a chair, her perfect butt in full view. She was smiling back at the camera over her shoulder, turned just enough so that her right breast came into the picture. Pretty tame stuff. The caption was relatively mild, too: Maybe a quick trip to the library will help her calm down.

Unfortunately, that was only one of the pictures. I put my hand over hers on the mouse and put the cursor over the “Pic 2″ at the bottom and clicked it.

She gasped as the picture appeared. It was perhaps the most obscene of the whole photo shoot. Lying on her back, her eyes half-closed and her lips parted, Pam’s left hand was under her left thigh, pulling her legs wide open. Her right hand was cupping her pubic mound, her index and ring fingers prying apart her labial lips while her middle finger was knuckle-deep inside her pussy. Her arousal was evident from the thin glaze covering her right thigh and her erect nipples.

She looked at the caption: The young romance language student knows exactly what she wants: “A nice young stud with his big, fat, hard cock deep inside me. Yours looks perfect.”

“Oh, God. Oh, God,” my trembling teacher repeated. “Anybody could find this.”

She slumped forward in a faint, and I barely managed to keep her head from hitting the computer screen. I pulled her back and tried shaking her, and then tapping her lightly on the cheek. She was dead to the world, although her breathing — there was that chest again — suggested to me that she was probably just sleeping. At this point I figured that’s what she needed anyway. So I very gently lifted her in my arms and carried her to my parents’ bedroom. They were away all weekend, and this was the most comfortable bed in the place. Covering her with a comforter, I turned off the lights and returned to my room. I watched a movie on television, watched another movie that I hadn’t realized had even made it to HBO yet, and finally went to bed myself.

Having gone to bed at around two, I was pretty tired the next morning, burrowed beneath my sheet and blanket and bedspread. But did that prevent someone from putting their hand on my shoulder and shaking it? It did not.

“Terry,” a voice was hissing. “Terry, there’s somebody at the door.”

“Uh-huh,” I pulled the covers up further.

“Terry,” the voice said, “get the fuck up and answer the door.”

I felt the covers being yanked out of my hands and then the much cooler air of the room.

“Do you mind?” I asked Ms. Lee as I started to wake up. Normally I slept naked, but last night, in deference to the fact that I had a guest in the house, I’d kept my gym shorts on when I finally turned in. I’d also had the sense not to jerk off last night, on the theory that she might have woken up and heard me, although it had never actually occurred to me that she’d come barging in my room like this. I sat there for a minute, yawning. She was dressed in a robe of my mom’s, and just stood there staring at me.

“The door,” she finally said. “There’s someone at the door.”

“Okay,” I told her. “So when you leave, I’ll get dressed and go answer it. Okay?”

That seemed to be a plan to her, so she retreated. I pulled on a pair of sweats and a size XXL T-shirt. I heard the insistent knocking as I descended the stairs, and I pulled open the front door to reveal Mrs. Patty Parsons, all 200-plus pounds of her, and behind her as large a crowd of people as I’d ever seen on our street milling around like they were at some sort of fair. I scratched my head and stared at her.

“Is your mom home?” she gushed.

“Uh, no,” I said, “she and Dad are at some lawyer convention thing. What’s, uh, what’s goin’ on?”

“The neighborhood block party,” Patty enthused. “We’ve been planning it for a year. You must have heard about it. We’ve had fliers all over!”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. I had heard something about it, but who pays attention to crap like that?

“Anyway,” Patty just bowled over my lack of matching energy, “your mom said she was going to do a cake for the bake sale. Do you think she might have left it in the kitchen?”

“I can check,” I shrugged. “Come on in.”

I left her standing in the hallway while I shambled off to the kitchen to see if Mom had actually remembered having made that sort of commitment. I was very, very doubtful. I found Ms. Lee in the kitchen, hiding behind the door. She had changed as well, putting on a pair of my mother’s shorts — those long shorts that end just above the knee — and a long-sleeved flannel shirt.

“What the fuck is happening out there?” she demanded.

“Block party,” I said. “Excuse me, I’ve gotta look for something. And you might want to keep it down a little. I left Mrs. Parsons in the foyer.”

She gave me a horrified look and her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Inside the house?” she hissed.

“That’s where we keep the foyer,” I agreed. “Well, I’ll be damned. There is a cake in here.”

I smiled at Ms. Lee and brought it out to Patty. She seemed equally surprised, but also curious.

“Do you have a guest here this weekend?” she asked, trying to peer around me into the rest of the house.

“A guest?” I asked.

“I thought I heard another voice,” she said.

Patty Parsons was the biggest gossip in the neighborhood, behind my mother anyway, and it was obvious to me that Ms. Lee had been a little troubled by the idea that someone might think that she was here in the house. This morning. With me. Without my parents. I could see she might have a point there.

“Nope,” I gave Patty a lascivious grin. “How’m I supposed to take advantage of my folks being gone when the whole neighborhood is watching out there?”

“Oh, you,” Patty slapped me on the arm. “We’ll be closed down by tomorrow noon. Depends on how fast you are.”

I gave her a polite chuckle, and she turned around to leave. With her hand on the door, she stopped and looked back at me over her shoulder.

“Oh,” she said with all the nonchalance of a bloodhound, “whose car is that in the driveway, Terry? It looks like Pam Lee’s.”

She didn’t really have that kind of Columbo subtlety down.

“Uh, yeah,” I agreed. “I guess she must have gone to that convention, too. I think her boyfriend’s a lawyer in Sausalito, so she probably hitched a ride with Mom and Dad. Between you and me, I don’t know how much conventioning they actually do at these things, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, you,” Patty tittered as she slapped me again and left.

“So now that busybody bitch thinks I have a boyfriend in Sausalito?” Ms. Lee demanded as I reentered the kitchen.

I stared at her for a few seconds before responding.

“You’re right,” I deadpanned. “I’ll go tell her you spent the night in here with me.”

I pretended to turn and head for the front door. Apparently I have to work on my deadpanning.

“Terry, no, I’m sorry,” Ms. Lee spun me around and flattened me against the door. “I’m sorry, please don’t tell her that.”

“I was kidding,” I told her.

“Yeah that was really funny, you little prick,” she spat at me.

This French bitch was really getting on my nerves at this point with her yo-yo pleading and screaming. The worse thing was that I was going to be stuck with her all day now. There was no way she was getting that car down the driveway without killing scores of people. And what was probably worse from her point of view, she’d also be alerting Patty Parsons that she’d spent the night. In fact, since this party actually did go all the way around the block, I didn’t even think we could sneak her out the back. I couldn’t hold myself back.

“You know,” I said, “some time soon you’re gonna have to decide whether I’m worth being nice to. Guys you’re nice to might say, yeah, I’ll go ahead and break a couple of laws, and try to hack your name off the internet. Guys you’re a bitch to might say, fuck, why don’t I just make things easier on myself now and e-mail your site to everyone at school.”

I turned on my heel and left her staring at me as I walked back to my room. It was only once I got there that I remembered that I was starving, and that the reason I’d walked back into the kitchen in the first place was to get myself a bowl of cereal. I decided to wait a bit; once you’ve taken the moral high road you don’t want to have to pull off at the next exit and head the other way. If I showed up in the kitchen now, she’d think I was willing to apologize.

I waited about fifteen minutes or so, until my stomach started to growl. And I was about to stand up when she suddenly appeared in my doorway, her arms folded in front of her chest. She had on a shorter pair of shorts now, also my mother’s, and she’d tied the flannel shirt under her chest. She had an odd expression on her face, as if she was there against her will. Which, in a manner of speaking, she probably was.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Oh. Well, that was actually a nice surprise. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had been sorry to me.

“Okay,” I said. “Thank you.”

“See, I’m not a garce française after all, am I?” she asked, her face softening just a little bit.

“Well, yeah, you are,” I said.

“I’m not,” she protested.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “At least once a week, you wear one of those tight little dresses just because you wanna look at hard-ons.”

“I do not,” she said, although her face said she was clearly surprised that I’d caught on.

“You do so,” I insisted.

“You boys just can’t keep your minds off of sex, can you, you little prick?” she hissed. “Everything’s always our fault.”

“It is when it is your fault,” I argued with impeccable logic. “You know, that’s that the third time you’ve called me a little prick. Once last night and twice today. What is your problem?”

Her eyes flashed down to my crotch.

“So is that the deal?” she said coldly.

“What?” I asked.

“I blow your teeny weenie, and you do your magic computer shit,” she sneered.

I was actually speechless. Not for long, no.

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s it. But a nice one.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“I mean, not that it wouldn’t be nice,” I stammered. “With you and well, you know. But I want it from someone being nice, not some French bitch.

She rolled her eyes and pushed herself off the door jamb.

Shit, I was actually gonna get a blow job. My incredibly hot French teacher slowly sauntered over toward me. I was hypnotized by the way her hips approached me in those shorts, first the right one swinging forward and then the left. I knew she had beautiful legs — attached to the hips if I remembered the song right — and then there was that bare midriff underneath her knotted shirt. But my eyes were glued to those two hipbones, to the point that she had to physically push my legs apart in order kneel down between them.

Her warm fingers slid up my pants to the elastic waistband of my sweatpants, and I sat there in stunned silence as she tugged at them.

“You wanna maybe push your ass off the chair a little?” she asked with a bemused expression.

“Sorry,” I said. I grabbed hold of the armrests and boosted my hips into the air, allowing her to drag my sweats and shorts and boxers down my thighs. My oversized T-shirt still hid all the good bits, and Ms. Lee looked up at me with a kind of faint half-smile as she began slowly sliding her right hand up my thigh, the fingers slipping underneath the T-shirt and then finally meeting and encircling my cock.

Her expression changed, a wave of bewilderment washing over her face as her fingers worked their way up to the tip, and then back down again. She wrapped her right hand around the base, and then reached in with her other hand.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered.

I reached down and yanked my T-shirt over my head. She continued to stare at my dick, her two hands wrapped around it, one atop the other.

“So are you going to, uh, suck it?” I asked. “Or are you just going to choose up sides?”

She leaned forward, her eyes locked on her target, and I felt her warm lips engulfing the head, coming to rest an inch or two beneath the ridge. Then, without moving her head, she began making these pulsing sucks, as if my cock led to a milkshake that was still a little too frozen.

I groaned. This was going to be the shortest blowjob that Pamela Lee had ever given. Just as I was about to lose it — actually, just as I was about to tell her I was going to lose it; that’s just polite, right? — she pulled off herself.

And then she began licking the shaft, looking up at me all the while with her eyes sparkling. And then she began sucking my balls into her mouth, one after another. And then she took my dick into her mouth again, and went lower. And lower. And lower. Holy fuck! Try as she might, she couldn’t go all the way, so when she was down as far as she thought she could get, she started bobbing her head up and down, letting her lips glide up to the crown and then back to her starting point. And up. And down. And. . .

“Ms. Lee,” I said. “I’m gonna. . . Madame, je suis, er. . . oh, fuck!”

I sat back in my chair, having just exploded into my French teacher’s mouth. Well, mostly into her mouth. I actually hadn’t jerked off for the last week, so I did have a lot in storage, so to speak. She eagerly drank down what she could, though, allowing only a little bit to leak out between her lips. Most of that slid down my cock to pool at the base, although some dribbled down her chin and landed on her upper chest.

I just sat there watching as she pulled every last ounce of fluid out of me and then let her lips slide down my cock, where she sucked up the cum clinging to my balls.

Finally, she looked up at me, her face wholly undecipherable.

“I suppose you’re going to want to fuck me now,” she said.

If I were a little bit more experienced, I like to think I would have recognized the Coy Lover, and tossed off an appropriate response, like “I suppose I am,” or “I suppose you want me to, don’t you?” or something really obnoxious like, “Yeah, I think you’ve earned it, baby.” Well, no, I couldn’t pull that one off, but maybe something with sophistication and style, like “How ’bout I give something back to you first?”

I was still light years away from any of those answers, though, because I didn’t even see that woman. The woman I saw was the Angry Blackmail Victim, and my response was entirely different.

“No, no, no, no,” I held up my hand. “We had a deal. You sucked my, um, my weenie, and I’ll hack into the school computers for you. Wow, that was incredible, Ms. Lee. You were amazing.”

“Um, but seriously,” she started, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and then licking that clean. “Don’t you want to —”

“You know what I want to do?” I interrupted her. Honestly, did she think I had no principles at all? “What I want to do is spend the afternoon out by the pool. I can study French, and if I have any questions, you’ll be right there to answer them. I mean, it’s not like you can leave, huh?”

“The pool?” she asked skeptically.

“Yeah, don’t worry, nobody can see in,” I told her. “We’ve got one of those privacy fences.”

She still looked skeptical.

“I’m sure Mom won’t mind if you borrow a suit,” I told her. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

By this point, I had stood up, and stepped around her. I pulled my sweats back on. She stood up and, with a final puzzled look at me, went down the hall to my parents’ room. By the time I got down to the pool, with a tray full of sandwiches I’d thrown together in the kitchen, she was already there, in a white bikini that complemented her long dark hair and her dark skin. Her tits, as I would have guessed, were swimming in my mother’s top, but hey, was it my fault she didn’t think to bring her own bathing suit?

“I’m sorry, Terry,” she looked over at me. “This was the best fit. So I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with some skin. Is that a problem?”

“Not at all,” I said calmly. “Help yourself to a sandwich.”

We spent the afternoon by the pool, me with lemonades, Ms. Lee with a series of gin and tonics that looked to my untrained eye as if they were getting lighter and lighter on the tonic as the sun started down toward the horizon.

By six o’clock, I was done with my studying.

“I thought I’d grill some shrimp tonight,” I said. “How does that sound?”

“I’m sorry,” Ms. Lee yawned and stretched. “I guess I fell asleep. What did you say, honey?”

Honey?

“I, uh, said I thought I’d grill some shrimp,” I said. “But I’ve got to go get some charcoal from the store, so can I ask you to start the salad while I’m gone? Everything’s in the fridge. I’ll be back in like twenty minutes.”

“My pleasure,” Ms. Lee smiled at me.

I cycled down to the store and returned with a bag of charcoal strapped to my handlebars. The block party was still going strong, so I had to weave my way in and out of various neighbors as I returned. I threw the bike into the garage, and as I walked toward the kitchen door, I took a quick glance in through the window.

Oh, my fucking God. Ms Lee was standing at the kitchen island with her back to me. She’d started the salad; ranged around the countertop were little cut-up piles of peppers and carrots, and a bowl of shredded lettuce. It was the zucchini that had evidently proved too much for her. Because there she was, her knees slightly bent, her feet spread about two feet apart, the crotch of her bathing suit pulled aside with one hand, fucking herself with the little green guy. She held the slimmer end in the tips of her fingers and alternately thrust it inside herself and then expelled it back out with what must have been some incredible internal muscles.

I could have watched her all day — nobody could see through the window unless they were actually standing in the driveway — but pretty soon people on the street were going to notice that I was standing outside my own house just looking inside. With one last look, I shook my head and headed for the kitchen door.

She must have heard me coming; she was standing at the sink washing her hands when I walked past her with the bag of charcoal. The zucchini, oddly enough, was nowhere in sight.

“Hey,” I greeted her as I set down the bag.

“Oh, hi,” Ms. Lee answered in what seemed to me to be a strained tone of voice. She turned to give me a smile as she grabbed for a towel. She took a quick glance down at my swim trunks, though, and I remembered that while I was cycling I’d unbuttoned the shirt I’d been wearing when I left. I hadn’t re-buttoned it when I got back home, so Ms. Lee could clearly see the tip of my rock-hard dick poking its way through the waistband.

“Oh, my God,” I said, “I’m so. . .”

Before I could finish my apology, she’d evidently gotten so flustered by my immaturity that she knocked over the plastic salad bowl, spilling lettuce on the floor.

“Here, let me help,” I offered.

“No, don’t bother,” she answered, still clearly flustered, “I’ll just. . .”

Ms. Lee had dropped to a squatting position to retrieve the lettuce, and I watched as her eyes glazed over.

“Oh, shit,” she squeaked.

“Are you okay?” I asked, taking a step closer as I noticed the odd flush on my teacher’s face.

“Oh, I,” she moaned, wrapping her hands around my right knee and pulling her face tight against my thigh as she began to tremble. “I’m. . . I’m. . .”

“You’re?” I said.

“Unnngggghhhhhhh!” Pam groaned, her body shaking violently.

I was shocked to find that my beautiful French teacher was rubbing her crotch up and down against my shin, kind of like our old German Shepherd, Lucky, used to do before Mom made Dad take him to the shelter. And then I felt it, something hard in her swimsuit, just like there was something hard in mind.

Oh, shit, I thought, she’s one of those, those, um, she-males. Oh, gross. . . NO, WAIT! It’s the zucchini. She’s still got that fuckin’ zucchini in her! My entry must have surprised her more than she let on, and she couldn’t get the little feller out in time.

“OH, God,” she murmured, “Oh, I — ”

My cock was even bigger now, a full inch protruding above my shorts against my stomach. She was looking directly at it, and to my shock, she suddenly turned her head sideways and tried to take it into her mouth.

The funny thing is, I’d watched that videotape of the card game probably ten times all told. I’d heard Natalie Winston call Ms. Lee a “quantity queen.” Hell, I’d even heard Ms. Lee tell the other ladies that if she thought any of her students had a good six inches she’d be — how was it she put it? — conjugating all the verbs he wanted for him after school. And I knew that I had a good eight, maybe even nine inches.

But until that point, I swear it had never occurred to me to put the two of them together, or, quite honestly, to interpret her behavior earlier this afternoon as anything but a response to my accidental blackmail. Yeah, I know, give me a fucking break. I already admitted I was whipped, right?

That ended the day of the Norton Avenue block party. Increasingly confident that I had what Ms. Lee wanted, what Ms. Lee claimed she needed, I slowly pulled her upright by her upper arm.

“No, I —” she whimpered.

Without speaking, I bent my beautiful teacher over the countertop, forcing her curvy ass outward as she braced herself with her hands.

“Qu’est que çe, Mademoiselle?” I teased her.

I reached down with my free hand and squeezed her bikini-covered ass, eliciting a moan of arousal. I slowly slid my hand downward until I felt the bulge that I’d noticed against my leg. I pushed against it, feeling it disappear inside her. She moaned again, her strong muscles involuntarily pushing it wantonly back out. I pushed twice more, watching with interest as Ms. Lee — hell, we were friends, right? — as Pam sank to her elbows, her breasts pressing against the countertop.

“Oh, God,” she groaned.

“So what is this, Mademoiselle?” I asked.

“Please, I. . .” Pam was pleading with me.

“Tell me,” I insisted.

“It’s — it’s a zucchini,” she choked.

“A zucchini?” I chuckled. “And ou est la?”

“In my — my pussy!” Pam moaned as I kept teasing her by pushing against the vegetable.

“Have you been teasing this innocent little zucchini?” I smirked. “Like you tease all the guys in your French class?”

“I. . ., ” the teacher whimpered.

“You’re pretty hard on us, aren’t you, you little French bitch?” I insisted.

“I’m sorry, oh God,” Pam moaned.

“Maybe you should give the zucchini a blowjob first, to make up for teasing it,” I suggested instead, pulling the crotch of Pam’s bikini aside. The vegetable popped out and I slowly, tantalizingly, pulled it free and held it in front of my teacher’s lips.

“Mmmmfffff, mmmmffff, mmmmffff,” Pam groaned, opening her mouth and sucking her juices off as I slid the zucchini in and out. She groaned again when I pulled the zucchini away and once again brought it down to her dripping cunt. Slowly, I pushed it inside of her, pushing my middle finger in along side of it.

“Oh, shit!” moaned my pretty French teacher.

“Is that what the young romance language teacher really wants in her pussy?” I asked.

“No,” Pam flushed.

“What does she want?” I asked her.

She knew the answer I wanted; we’d both seen the website last night.

“A big, fat, hard cock,” she whimpered.

“You like big, fat, hard cocks, don’t you Pam?” I demanded.

“Yesssss,” she hissed. “Fuck me with your big cock, Terry!”

“Not yet, you little cockteaser,” I answered, tossing the zucchini to the floor. He’d done his part. I let go of Pam’s arms and tangled my fingers in her long, dark hair. Yanking her backward, I shoved her back to a squat position before me.

“Now take it out and suck it,” I ordered.

Pam grabbed my swim suit with both hands and yanked it down to my knees, exposing my erect cock. Eagerly, she leaned forward and opened her mouth to take the head inside.

Is it big enough for you?” I teased.

“Mmm-hmmm,” Pam growled around her mouthful.

“Is it fat enough for you?”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

“Is it hard enough for you?”

“Mmm-hmmm,” Pam agreed with enthusiasm.

Seeing my teacher squatting in front of me, her tits fully exposed in the cavernous cups of my mom’s top while below them her pussy lips shone with wetness between her opened thighs, would by itself have been enough to make me come. But having her dark red lips wrapped around my cock for the second time today was just too much. Without warning, I blew my load down Ms. Lee’s gullet, watching in stunned amazement as she gulped down one blast after another.

Finally, Pam pulled her mouth away and wiped off a bit of cum that had escaped her lips. Licking her finger clean, she looked up at me and smiled.

“Well, I guess we’re even now, huh?” she asked. “I’ve done my teasing and you’ve done yours.”

“I guess so.”

“So now we’ll get this big bad boy back to full strength and get down to some serious fucking,” she said eagerly, giving my cock one last swipe with her tongue before she stood up.

We moved upstairs to my bedroom, where I watched in silent awe as Pam Lee danced in front of me to strip off the top and bottom of her bikini. Licking her lips, she lay back on my bed and spread her arms and legs, inviting me into her very core. I eagerly pulled my unbuttoned shirt off — I’d stepped out of my trunks after she blew me, leaving them on the floor of the kitchen — and crawled onto the bed between her thighs.

“Terry,” she whined, reaching for me. “I need to suck him again.”

“Not yet,” I grinned. I remember another picture in the magazine, of her posed almost identically to the way she was displaying herself for me, with the caption, “This hot college twat wants your nice strong tongue inside it.”

“Does your hot college twat want my nice, strong tongue inside it.”

Pam froze in place, suddenly slapping her hands over her sex.

“That wasn’t on the website,” she said coldly.

I laughed.

“Do you honestly think that after I found that website, I wouldn’t turn over heaven and earth to get the whole magazine?

“You little shit,” she said, but she was smiling at me.

“Shut up, bitch, and take your hands away before I’m forced to tie them above your head.”

“Oh, Terry,” she whispered, her hands slowly tracing a path up her stomach, stopping only to knead her sensitive breasts and squeeze her nipples.

Navigating my way around my first pussy wasn’t hard; I’d found a few maps on the internet before, and the more sensitive areas on Pam were marked with alarms, like when Pam screamed out “oh God, Terry,” and grabbed my hair the first time I sucked her clit in between my pursed lips. Or when her thighs locked themselves around my head, cutting off all sound from the outside world, the first time that I pressed my fingers against the sides of her labia, forcing the inner lips to rise to my furiously working tongue.

I like to think I gave her as good a time as she’d given me, but it was nothing, for either of us, compared to the feeling we got when I slid my dick into her wet, grasping sheath.

“Oh, God, Terry, you’re so fucking big,” she moaned as her body convulsed beneath me.

“And you’re so fucking tight,” I grunted back at her as I pushed another inch inside.

As I suspected, she did indeed have powerful muscles there, and she’d learned to use them well in the ten or fifteen years since she’d first lost her cherry. I, on the other hand, lost mine that very instant, a fact that I had no intention of letting her know if I could possibly avoid it. And since she’d already made me cum twice that day, I thought I had a pretty good chance of keeping that a secret.

And I don’t think she ever did catch on. Every time I felt her talented muscles begin to pull me to a climax, I would change the pace of my fucking, sometimes slow, sometimes fast, sometimes ramming her hard, sometimes just letting the tip of my cock play against her opening.

“Fuck, Terry,” she screamed. “Just fucking fuck me!”

I kept a hard, steady pace for the next ten minutes, finally feeling my cock twitching at the same time she started shaking and sank the fingernails of both hands into my upper arms. When I rolled off her, we just lay there for ten more minutes, letting our bodies cool down.

Afterwards, she propped herself on an elbow and looked at me.

“I suppose since you have the magazine,” she said, toying with my nipple, “that I’m going to pretty much have to do whatever you want until you graduate.”

“I think so, madame,” I smiled at her in the deepening twilight that suffused my room. “But I’ll handle my own grades.”

“I’ll just have to handle everything else, right?” she smiled.

“That’s true,” I said.

“And you’ll give me the pictures at the end of the year?” she asked.

“I’ll give ‘em to you now,” I told her.

“No,” she blew in my ear, “this way I get to pretend you’re blackmailing me. I like it better that way.”

“Then so do I,” I agreed.

Fortunately, my folks weren’t scheduled to get home until very late on Sunday evening, so we were able to smuggle Pam out of the neighborhood after dark that night. By then, of course, the sheets had been cleaned, the house had been aired out, and we’d eaten the shrimp. The zucchini we just threw out.

With my bike in the back seat of Pam’s car, and Pam herself crouched down in the passenger seat, I slowly backed it out of the driveway.

“God,” she said, when we were finally out on the main street. “I didn’t think my legs could take that kind of position for much longer.”

“Which position?” I asked. “Oh, the car. I get it.”

“This is going to be a long year, isn’t it, Terry Martin?” she laughed.

“Long and hard, Pam Lee,” I said. “Long and hard. Why don’t I pull over here and cycle home? Next weekend, right, or the pictures go to the school board.”

“Yes, sir,” she hung her head before lifting it and giving me a glorious smile. “I think you left some papers at my house. I’ll remind your dad on Friday.”

“And the school on Saturday,” I said as I mounted my bike. “That’ll be even more fun.”

“All right, you bitches, let’s get to work.”

I received no answer from the girls. That was as it should be. The less trouble they gave me, the less abuse they’d get. Because right now, as I pulled my gloves tightly onto my hands, I was ready to take the misery of the last week out on every single one of them in turn.

I honestly don’t remember when I’d decided to name all of the gas-powered machines in Laura Stone’s garage. I’d obviously been angry at something, and found that it was more fun to imagine Diane mowing the grass, and more fun to have Liza rototilling the soil. They all had names, oddly enough the same names as my mother and my aunts. Those would be my mother’s older sisters. The rototiller was my favorite, because as far as I knew, my Aunt Liza hadn’t come within twenty feet of any actual soil for her entire life. I had never been allowed to set foot in her house, because teenage boys were the living embodiment of dirt.

The others? Aunt Diane, Aunt Caroline? I hated them, too. I might have mentioned earlier that the one thing my mother liked about going to her family reunions was a chance to boast about her unchanging figure. What she didn’t like was the chance it gave all of her sisters to boast about their children. Compared to the ones in Harvard, and Yale, and M. I. T., the ones who were already doctors, the ones who were concert pianists, the ones who just missed last year’s Nobel Prize in chemistry — compared to all of them, my cousin Martha and I were the family failures. And since Martha was deaf, my aunts stored up all of their taunts — “oh, is Terry still in high school? Isn’t he eighteen? By eighteen, my son Conrad was already. . .” — for those occasions when my mom and I visited my grandmother. And my mom — “poor Deirdre” — would be forced to shake her head and hold up her hands and sigh, “I know, I know.”

My completely impotent response was to name Mrs. Stone’s garden machinery after them. Hell, I even named the chain saw after her mother — Bitch Barbara. In person, I call her “Grandma.” She calls me “poor Terry.” Bitch.

Not that I was allowed to use the chain saw, of course. Mrs. Stone had assured me that the fire I’d ignited with the leaf blower hadn’t done any permanent harm to the lawn, and that the grass would grow back next year, but my mother had declared the chain saw off limits. I don’t care; I abuse it anyway. As for the other machines, I like to think that they work better after being kicked around a little.

You’d think that after I’d had my knockout French teacher Pam Lee writhing beneath me on my bed last Sunday, it would pretty much take a dead relative or a natural disaster to put me in any kind of a bad mood on the following Saturday. And not just any dead relative, either. My Aunt Caroline, for example, after whom I had named the leaf blower on the theory that both were full of hot air — she could have died on Friday afternoon without having any serious effect on my weekend.

So I was pretty stoked early in the week, when I was still looking forward to Friday night. That was when Ms. Lee was planning on asking me to come over to pick up the legal papers that I’d left there the previous weekend. And to Saturday, when Ms. Lee would no doubt find some way to express her gratitude for the computer program that I’d written to hack into the website containing her youthful indiscretions, a series of pictures in the aptly titled “College Spread.” If I was right, my program would turn “Pam Lee” into “Pat Lee.” Yes, I expected that Pam Lee would be very grateful that her pictures would no longer turn up on a Google search. Pat Lee, on the other hand, I hoped never to run into.

I didn’t need a natural disaster or a dead relative, as it turned out. My mother was good enough. On Wednesday, when I’d proudly displayed the results of my latest trig test — an A-minus, coupled with a “good job” scrawled across the top of the paper — she’d sniffed that of all the skills I could possibly acquire in high school, I had unfailingly managed to pick the least useful. When I showed my folks the B I’d gotten on an English essay the next day, she looked at my father and sighed, saying that it just proved her point. Apparently she’d never gotten anything less than an A in English, which to her was the very epitome of useful subjects.

A little later on Thursday evening, she had reminded me that my Saturday was booked. Mrs. Stone’s lawn was overdue for its fall clean-up, and Mom had already committed me to spending as long as it took to get everything ready for winter. Pam was disappointed when I instant-messaged her the bad news later that night, but reminded me that she still had the “papiers legaux” that I’d left at her house the weekend before. She told me she was still planning on calling on Friday evening to ask that I come over to pick them up.

Yeah, that was another great plan. My mom always answered the phone when it rang because she assumed, usually correctly, that it was always for her. So when the phone rang on Friday as I prepared dinner, it was my mother who strode into the kitchen to take the call before I could even get within spitting distance of the phone.

“So you mean he just left the papers there?” she asked, looking at me in disgust.

“Pam, don’t make excuses for him. No, I’m not going to have him come over. John’s just going to have to learn not to send a boy to do a man’s job. I’ll have John stop by on his way home from work.”

She pressed a few buttons on the phone and asked — told — Dad to pick up the papers. Then she turned to me with a sneer.

“Honestly,” she said sarcastically, “you’d think that you could show just a little more courtesy toward my friends.”

As I was leaving to bike over to Mrs. Stone’s the next morning, she reminded me not to set anything else on fire. So by the time I got there, I was in a pretty foul mood. I managed to smile at Mrs. Stone, and she smiled back at me, but when I got out to the garage, somebody was going to pay. I decided to start with Dierdre. My mother, the weed whacker. I topped off the gas, checked the string, and Dierdre spent the morning doing what her namesake did, cutting down anything that got in her way.

That took until about noon. Deirdre and I had had our fun, but now it was Diane’s turn. Diane was a temperamental push mower whose blades I kept almost as sharp as my Aunt Diane’s tongue. I had a particularly hard time getting Diane going that day, the complete opposite of my Aunt Diane, who was able to start abusing me almost the second I showed up. It was always hard to get Diane the mower started for the first time. For one thing, you had to yank the starter cord with one hand while the other held down the deadman lever, the switch that killed the engine of you let go of it. And Diane needed to have her starter cord pulled in just the right way before her engine caught. Her only saving grace was that once you got her started the first time, she would roar right back to life without any effort at all.

Part of my problem today was that we simply hadn’t had much rain recently. So it had been about three weeks since I had needed to start Diane to mow Mrs. Stone’s lawn. Another part of it, though, was my attitude. As much fun as Deirdre-ing the weeds had been, it still wasn’t the same as spending your morning in a computer lab at a high school that would have been deserted except for two people, one of them an amateur computer hacker and the other an appreciative French teacher and former magazine centerfold. So I probably wasn’t giving Diane my full attention. And the little bitch’s willful failure to do her job was pissing me off.

“Fucking bitch!” I screamed on the fourteenth pull as the engine finally roared to life.

I released the deadman lever, and put my hands on my hips as the engine sputtered to a stop.

“That’s right, bitch!” I exulted in smug triumph. “On your fucking knees! It’s time you did some fucking work around here for me.”

The tinkle of breaking glass was not normally a sound I associated with lawn care. I turned around very slowly, mortified that somebody might have heard me heaping transferred abuse onto a defenseless set of lawn machinery. Laura Stone was ten feet away, amid the small puddles of lemonade and shards of drinking glass that now littered the concrete floor. She was staring back at me, her face a montage of fear and apprehension and panic and something else that I couldn’t recognize. Or to be more accurate, she was staring up at me from underneath the brim of a white baseball cap, staring up at me from the spot where she’d dropped to her knees.

“Mrs. Stone?” I asked tentatively, as if there was some chance that she might deny it at this point.

“Laura,” she said quietly. She stared at me for another second or two and then bowed her head.

I stood there, frozen in place, looking down at Laura Stone. She was dressed in a faded button-down men’s shirt whose ends she’d knotted underneath her chest. The top two buttons were undone as a concession to the unusually warm weather, and they afforded me a splendid vista of the top of her ample chest. Her shorts were surprisingly short, not the knee-length variety I would have expected from a 39-year-old mother of an 18-year-old kid who was just starting his first semester of college. But then, there was very little about Laura Stone that reminded me of a 39-year-old mother of an 18-year-old kid. In particular, today I really liked the way that her shoulder-length blonde hair was pulled into a short ponytail that stuck out the back of her cap. And I really liked the way that brought her hair off of the elegant curve of her neck as she studied the garage floor in front of her.

Even as recently as two weeks ago, I would have responded to this scene in one of two ways. I would have run down the street, terrified that Mrs. Stone would tell my mother. Or I would have dropped over in a dead faint.

Two things had happened since then, of course. One, I’d bedded Pam Lee. That took care of the fainting. Second, I’d seen the videotape my mother had made of her three unwitting friends. Suddenly, all the teasing that Laura Stone had endured from Pam that day became clear: the reference to keeping her ass in line, the snide little comment about liking to be whipped.

And I also remembered another clip from that show, too, one I’d replayed countless times on my computer: Laura laughing as she answered Pam’s question about her love life: “Yeah, right. Who’d wanna screw a 39-year-old divorcee with a college age kid and a size 12 ass?”

Natalie Winston, our next-door neighbor, had suggested that Laura could easily find “someone who likes that double-D rack.” In my view, that would more accurately be anyone who likes that double-D rack. Or still more accurately, anyone. I had studied those stupid Venn diagrams all my life in various math classes, the little circles that overlap to show the joint membership of certain individuals in two sets, like tennis players and people who own Fords. And as far as I was concerned, the little circle that contained the universe of people who would appreciate Laura Stone’s rack was precisely identical to the little circle that contained the universe of people known as “males.” Count me in.

I realized that Mrs. Stone was looking up at me now, and I sensed that she was just seconds away from getting up in tears and running into the house at the way she had embarrassed herself in front of her college roommate’s teenage son. In another minute, the front door of the Stone house would be locked and no amount of pounding or yelling would get it open again any time soon.

“Laura,” I accepted the responsibility of her first name.

“Terry?” she asked hesitantly.

I gave her just the tiniest hint of a scowl.

“Sir?” she tried again.

“Go wait inside.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, the ghost of a smile playing across her face.

“And leave the hat on,” I said as she got up and began running across her lawn. I watched her until she reached the house, the twin spheres of her ass bouncing up and down inside her tight khaki shorts as she ran.

Fuck, I thought to myself, running my hand through my hair. What the fuck do I do now?

Oh, I’d surfed the Net. Why, yes, I am 18, my birthday is January 1, 19-whatever year comes up first; thank you for letting me into your well-guarded, age-appropriate website. I knew the divorcee and the garden boy routine. The young guy comes to work on the lawn, the older lady offers him some lemonade, they start fucking like rabbits. Hell, I could do that. I liked lemonade. And I’d demonstrated just the past weekend that I liked fucking like a rabbit, too. I was even pretty darn good at it, if Pam Lee had said so herself. Although what she’d actually said was “Il était magnifique, monsieur,” but we had understood each other. Mostly. It was magnificent, sir. I’d originally thought that the “it” referred to the sex. Looking back on it the next day, though, I recalled that she had been staring at my crotch when she’d said it, right before she had reluctantly kissed me goodbye. So maybe “it” referred to something else, something more specific. Whatever. I was fine with that, too.

But the websites that I had visited hadn’t covered the submissive divorcee. It was always the divorcee who was in control. It was always the divorcee who led the poor, unsuspecting garden boy down the path that led toward sin and temptation. That was not the scenario we had here. No, if we went down that path this afternoon, I was either going to have be pushing Laura Stone in front of me or, more likely, dragging her behind me. And she apparently was going to be loving every minute of it.

Unless, God forbid, the real Terry Martin made an appearance. That was the Terry Martin who would be inclined to ask the submissive if she’d liked to be disciplined now, or maybe she’d prefer to wait. I’m going to tie you up now, bitch, or would you really rather I not? After a few of these pathetic attempts at dominance, she’d probably just start laughing at me. Then we’d be back to my first two choices, running down the street or fainting. Oh, God, I was in trouble.

I probably spent ten minutes dithering over the issue of whether I was really capable of pulling this off. I finally decided that the overriding question was did I want to fuck Laura Stone? After that, to which the answer was an obvious yes, everything else was just a detail. The first detail, after I’d settled the basic metaphysics, was that I was covered in tiny clippings of grass, as I always was after an hour or two of whacking weeds. I ineffectually brushed at my jeans and my T-shirt, and then took a look in the side mirror of Laura’s car. My face was even worse. I grabbed a rag from a box in the garage and succeeded only in adding a greasy shine to the grass. Didn’t this woman know not to keep oily rags around her garage?

I finally said the hell with that, too. I’d just ask her if I could take a — no, wait, I’d tell her I was going to take a shower. God, I was never going to get this right. I nervously approached the house, convinced that this afternoon was another disaster in the making. I stopped my fist inches away from knocking on the door, and simply pushed it open. I walked through the elegantly furnished living room, the seldom used dining room, the neat, tidy kitchen, and the aptly named mudroom that led from the kitchen to the backyard. I found no sign of Laura, and walked to the foot of the stairs.

Once again I stopped myself just short of a Terry Martin moment — “Laura, are you upstairs? Can I come up?” Instead, I simply ascended the steps, quietly and deliberately. The first bedroom I passed was that of her son, Tom, furnished in sports posters. The second was obviously a guest room, painted in bright pastel colors with fresh flowers on the dresser. So Laura’s was the last bedroom.

I stopped in the door of the bedroom in spite of my dick’s effort to pull me in before the scene changed. Completely oblivious to my approach, Laura Stone was squatting on her heels, her knees spread wide apart, her left hand gripping the wooden frame of her bed, her right hand furiously playing with herself. Her head was bent to watch, her face hidden by the brim of her cap, the only clothing she was wearing. The only clothing that I had specifically ordered her to keep wearing. And then there were those incredible breasts, the large, fat nipple of each one gloriously erect.

“Laura,” I said calmly.

Her head snapped back, her eyes wide, her right hand suddenly motionless where before it had been almost a blur. I raised my eyebrows, and a frisson of something — fear, arousal — coursed through her.

“I — I,” she began. “I couldn’t wait. It started to feel so — so. . .”

“So?” I started to prompt her and then realized that I probably shouldn’t care how it felt. I changed it back into a declarative.

“So I need a shower,” I finished abruptly.

“Yes, of course,” she said, pulling herself erect with an effort. “A shower.”

She ran toward the bathroom and once again I watched her, this time without any shorts to spoil my view. I could hear the water running, and I began to strip off my clothes. By the time I got to the bathroom, she was obviously already in the shower. I stepped in and saw her at the back of the shower, once again squatting on her heels. Her head was down, the hot water pouring off of her baseball cap.

“Shall I wash your hair?” she asked without looking up.

I turned my back and almost missed the whispered “sir.” I felt her full breasts momentarily pressed against my back as she reached around me for the bottles on the shower caddy, and then I felt her lathered hands in my hair, diligently scrubbing at the accumulated dirt and grass and sweat. At her prompting, I bowed my head to rinse it off. Then it was time for conditioner, which she left in place for a minute as she once again reached around me, replacing the bottles and picking up the soap. After I rinsed off the conditioner, I felt her full breasts against my back again, remaining there as her soap-filled hands began roaming my hairless swimmer’s chest.

Her hands went lower, and lower, and lower, and I closed my eyes as she got closer, and closer, and closer to my —

“Oh, my fucking God!” she yelped, her fingers having finally found and encircled my dick.

I turned around to face her, still only able to see the top of her ball cap as she was staring at my engorged cock. She reached both soapy hands forward, wrapping them around my dick, and began to sink to her knees. I was only seconds away from blasting my load onto her chest. Or, if she got any lower, her face. It wouldn’t be as big a load as the first one that Pam Lee had taken the previous Saturday, because I’d spent a good bit of time since then looking at my Pam Lee picture collection. And every time I did that, my imagination was unable to avoid putting me in those pictures. And every time I did that, my cock was similarly unable to avoid discharging its contents into a wad of Kleenex.

So I didn’t have much to offer Laura Stone today. But then, did she really deserve that much?

I stopped her from sinking any further by cupping her chin with my hand. She looked up, unsure of what to do next, and let me pull her back erect.

“Back where you started, Laura,” I said, nodding at the back of the shower stall.

She reluctantly released her grip and backed up the two steps it took to put her back against the tiled wall that surrounded the tub.

“Finish,” I ordered her.

“Finish what?” she asked in a breathy voice.

“What you started before I came,” I said, trying to deepen my voice. “You started without me, didn’t you?”

“I —” she looked at me wildly.

“Didn’t you?” I asked more sternly.

“Yes,” she hung her head.

“So finish,” I said.

“But —” she looked horrified.

I wrapped my fist around my soapy cock and gave it a slow tug. That was enough. What cum I had came streaming out, flying into the air and landing unimpeded floor of the shower. I watched Laura as she watched the strings of semen get caught in the swirling water and then slowly disappear down the drain.

“Now you,” I said.

Her eyes snapped back up to mine.

She began to play with herself. I probably should have kept my eyes locked with hers, but the temptation offered by the rest of the body proved too great. Just the way she braced herself between the shower mat and the back wall, her muscled legs flexed to hold her in position, was amazing. And then there was the way she played with herself. She was gentle at first, as if she needed to bring herself back to where she’d stopped. She rubbed her pubic mound with one hand, and just one of the fingers of that hand occasionally slipped inside her slit. Then she brought the other hand into play, using the index and middle fingers of one hand to hold her lips apart, while her other began to rub faster and harder against her clit.

It was hypnotic. I’d watched Pam play with herself last weekend, but this was ten times better. For one thing, I wasn’t outdoors, looking into the kitchen trying not to get caught by the neighbors peeping into my own house. For another, I had a full-frontal view, not the rear view I’d had when I’d watched Pam do herself. The only downside was that Laura didn’t have a zucchini.

I suddenly remembered I had a job to do, and I slowly returned my eyes to Laura’s. The captain was once again on the bridge. Laura’s eyes were still looking directly at me, although they had lost a little focus.

She was whimpering now, soft little gasps and hisses and “fucks.” My eyes drifted back downwards, lingering on the plump tits that had been the subject of so many of my fantasies. She obviously noticed my attention, because her left hand left her pussy and squeezed her tit, pinching the nipple between thumb and forefinger. The right hand, meanwhile, was getting serious about its task. I watched three fingers thrusting in and out of Laura’s pussy, turning her breathing into a series of sharp rhythmic exhalations.

“Oh, fuck,” she suddenly screamed, her left hand with a death-grip on her tit, her right hand pressed hard against her thick brown bush. Her eyes were no longer open, and she just stayed there, in place, letting her orgasm consume her for as long as it could, her torso trembling and her legs locked rigidly in place.

When she finally opened her eyes again, I offered her a hand and pulled her toward me, catching her in my embrace and spinning her into the shower. The water was only lukewarm now, and I hurriedly lathered her up and rinsed her off. We stepped out of the shower together and took up the oversized towels that she’d laid on the sink for us.

When we were dry I reached forward and pulled the wet cap off of her head, throwing it in the sink.

“I have another one,” she said, shyly adding “master.”

“Get it,” I said.

She dropped the towel on the floor and ran to comply. I threw my towel on top of hers and walked back into the bedroom, climbing onto the bed. The second hat wasn’t identical but its effect was no different. Watching Laura Stone return, out of breath, and stop in the doorway at my silent command wearing nothing but a pink baseball cap had my dick twitching.

I looked at it and then down at Laura. I nodded toward my dick, and in a matter of seconds it was engulfed in her warm mouth. It was still soft, but not for long. Laura finally pulled herself off and began caressing it with her hands.

“Are you going to fuck me with this, master?” she giggled.

“Should I?”

“It might be too big.”

“You mean you might be too small,” I replied.

She stared at me for a second before breaking out into a big smile.

“Of course, sir,” she laughed before returning to work with her mouth. “I might be too small.”

After she spent another minute or two licking and sucking, I reached down and tugged on her ponytail, pulling her off me. She sat back on her haunches, and I realized that she was waiting to find out what we were going to do next. Hell, so was I. But apparently, I was going to have to think it up all by myself. I got off the bed and moved behind her.

“Get your ass in the air,” I said, belatedly adding a “bitch” for effect.

It was a wonderful ass, size 12 or not. I caught myself staring at it, admiring once again the muscles she’d developed in her thighs.

“Master?” she asked after I’d apparently been admiring it too long.

“Shut up,” I slapped one of her cheeks with an open palm. “Move forward.”

She crawled forward onto the bed, all the way to the top. I climbed back on behind her, giving her ass another slap just because I liked to see it jiggle. Then I put the tip of my cock against her slit.

“So you want this, bitch?” I asked her.

“Please, master,” she begged.

Good enough for me. I thrust forward about halfway. It turned out Laura wasn’t too small after all. But her guttural “oh, fuck” made me think that it wasn’t a comfortable fit for her either. I slowly backed out, and slowly pushed in again, just a little farther. I slowly backed out again, and pushed forward another time. It was a fun game, and I didn’t appear to be the only one enjoying it. Each of Laura’s hands clutched a knot of twisted pillow, and she turned her head to the side to apprise me of her own desires.

“Oh, God, master, yes,” Laura moaned. “Harder, master, harder.”

I started picking up the pace and then thought to myself, hey, who’s making the rules here anyway? I backed off again, to hear a whiny “nooo.”

I smacked her again. I’ll give you no, bitch.

I slowly worked my way back to my former pace, watching the way her right eye — the eye that was turned toward me — rolled up into her head as she got closer and closer.

And then the phone next to the bed started ringing. Surprisingly, it didn’t bother me at first. In fact, I thrust forward twice more before the answering machine picked up and I heard the voice of my mother.

“Laura?” she asked. “Are you there?”

Hearing her voice during the actual act of coition was not only enough to stop me in mid-thrust, but it started my erect cock on a quick trip back to limp-land.

“Bitch,” Laura muttered.

“I tried calling before to get hold of Terry,” my mother was saying. “I certainly hope you’re just outside somewhere, because you know I don’t like you leaving Terry alone with all those machines. Anyway, I’m on my way over there now, so I’ll see you in just a few minutes.”

“No!” Laura screamed. She reached for the phone but the line had already gone dead.

“Fuck!” I growled, pushing myself off of Laura’s ass with both hands.

“Terry,” she moaned, wiggling her ass at me. “What about my cum? I need to —”

“You need to shut up and get dressed,” I gave her one last smack.

I hurriedly yanked on my clothes and tore down the stairs, sliding into the garage just as I heard my mother’s car pulling into the driveway.

“Terry?” she yelled after slamming the door. “Where are you?”

“In the garage, mom,” I said.

She found me sitting down next to the lawnmower, fiddling around with the sparkplug. What my mother knew about combustion engines could be reduced to the phone number of the garage that serviced her Mercedes, so she had way of knowing that the sweat that covered my face wasn’t the product of good, honest labor.

“Did you hear the phone ring?” she asked me.

“In Mrs. Stone’s house?” I replied. “Yeah, just a couple of minutes ago.”

“Is Mrs. Stone here?” she asked. She had a habit of referring to her friends by their full name when she was talking to me, as if it would be inappropriate for me to even hear her address them as Laura, or Pam, or Natalie.

“She’s, uh —”

“Right here, Dee,” Laura came around the corner of the garage. She was wearing a T-shirt and overalls and carrying a potted plant and a small shovel. The expertly smeared dirt on her face was perfect.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just couldn’t get inside to the phone on time. I should probably set it to ring a little longer.”

“Whatever,” my mother dismissed it as no longer important. “I need Terry to come home. John and I have to go out tonight and I’d like to get his father’s car washed first.”

Laura raised an eyebrow.

“Can’t you just take it to a carwash?” she asked.

“John says they’re terrible,” Mom answered. “And they never apply the wax evenly. And since he’s at work all afternoon. . .”

That left me.

Laura sighed and her shoulders drooped.

“So you can come back tomorrow to finish, Terry?” she turned to me, drawing out the word “finish.”

I opened my mouth to answer and my mother beat me to it.

“No,” she said to me. “Mrs. Lee called and wants you to work on some computer thing for her at the school tomorrow.”

“But —” Laura started to protest.

“At least it’s a skill,” My mother sighed. “Now come on. Put your bike in the car.”

This was the SUV, of course; if she’d brought the Mercedes I would have had to leave the bike here and walk back for it. And I would have been required to put a towel on the seat before I could plant my filthy, sweaty butt in it. Laura watched me load up the bike, her face a tapestry of sexual frustration, anger, and resentment. She was very close to just stamping her foot on the ground.

“Whoa, almost forgot my wallet,” I said after Mom had climbed in the driver’s seat.

“Hurry up, Terry,” Mom said impatiently as I trotted to the garage.

I stopped right next to Laura on my way back to the car.

“Hey, Mom,” I said. “Mrs. Stone’s TV is busted. Since you’re not home tonight, maybe she can watch that PBS series on ours, huh?”

“Sure, Laura,” Mom smiled sweetly, her impatience becoming more and more evident. “Come on over. You can keep an eye on Terry. We’re not leaving until eight o’clock or so. Now are you coming, Terry?”

“Yeah,” I nodded, trying not to smile.

I turned to Laura, who was having to try even harder not to smile.

“No panties,” I muttered under my breath. “Bitch.”

I figured that it would take me a little less than an hour to wash and wax my dad’s car to my mom’s satisfaction. That would still give me five hours or so to get online and learn everything I could about Mrs. Stone’s unusual, er, preferences before she arrived.

That was the theory, anyway. Subtracting the time that my mother insisted I spend mowing our lawn so that it looked nice when Mrs. Stone was going to arrive — arrive after dark, mind you — left me with three and a half hours. Minus the weed-eating left me with two and three-quarters hours. Minus the time it took me to prepare dinner left me with two hours. Minus the time we actually spent eating dinner, during which my mother developed a wholly unexpected and very poorly timed interest in my computer programming skills, which might after all be marketable if Pam Lee wanted to use them at her high school, left me with a little over an hour. And then you have to subtract the time I spent doing the dishes, the time I spent tidying up the den, and the time I spent showering, the only activity of the bunch that was my idea.

“Terry!”

My mother’s voice cut through the bathroom door, the sound of the fan, and the towel with which I was drying my hair. I pulled the door open an inch.

“Yeah, mom?” I yelled back.

“Mrs. Stone is here. We’re leaving. We’ll probably be quite late. So whenever you can tear yourself away from your shower, maybe you can lower yourself to come down and say hello.”

My mother is one of those rare people whose sarcasm loses none of its effectiveness when she screams. Bitch.

“Have a good time!” I yelled.

“I’m serious!” she yelled back.

“Me, too.”

That one was more or less a whisper, of course.

I wrapped the towel around my waist and walked down the hallway to the window overlooking the driveway. From there, I watched my father, in his tuxedo, hold the door of the nicely washed and waxed Jaguar open for my mother, dressed in a strapless black gown. The car purred down the driveway, and I went back to the bathroom to finish up. I shaved, I blew my hair dry, and then I tried to decide what to wear. What did the well dressed master wear, anyway? If I had managed to get fifteen damn minutes to myself this afternoon, I’m sure I would have found some sort of website. Jeans? Too informal. Sweats? Too high school. A tux? I actually owned a tux. No, too James Bond. She’d probably just start laughing. She was probably down there laughing anyway, come to think about it. I mean, this was a successful business woman down there. After her divorce, Mrs. Stone had started her own interior decorating firm, and currently employed half a dozen people. She was probably waiting downstairs right now to rip me a new one unless I agreed never to breathe a word of what had happened this afternoon to anyone, ever. Damn it.

I pulled on a pair of humble khaki slacks and a nice, freshly laundered button-down shirt, and I headed downstairs.

When I got to the last step, I just stopped and stared. Laura hadn’t heard me approach, and was sitting on the couch. She was dressed in a white shirt and a short, plaid pleated skirt. She was wearing kneesocks and a pair of shiny black patent leather shoes. I couldn’t believe she had worn that outfit here. Then I saw a little tote bag in the corner of the room, with a pair of jeans thrust into it. That was what she had worn here. She had changed after she arrived.

Even more unbelievable was what she was doing. Her left hand was holding a magazine. I could tell right away that it wasn’t one of our magazines, because it had a centerfold. And if Mom ever found a magazine with a centerfold, Dad and I would both be looking for work as eunuchs. Laura’s right hand was underneath her cute little skirt. Her eyes were slightly unfocused as she studied the centerfold, and the tip of her tongue was pressed against her upper lip. My tentative conclusion, from all of the evidence in front of me, was that this successful businesswoman had dressed up like a little school girl and was getting herself off on a Playboy magazine. Holy shit.

And then suddenly she looked up as if she had heard me, thrust the magazine under the couch cushions, and jumped to her feet before turning to look at me.

“Mr. Martin,” she said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think you were getting home until later.”

Later than what? And when did I become Mr. Martin?

She tried to surreptitiously wipe her hand on the back of her skirt, and offered it to me as I walked into the room. I took it, still slightly sticky, and she eagerly shook my hand.

“I’m Laura, the new babysitter your wife hired,” she smiled. “Didn’t she come home with you? She said she planned on getting a little tipsy to celebrate your new promotion. So what, she was afraid of ralphin’ in the car? Did you just get her a room at the hotel and come back to take care of the boys? You could have just called. I would have been happy to spend the night.”

At this point in my life, I had never heard about role-playing, and I certainly had never given even the smallest consideration to acting out sexual fantasies. With the damage my mother had done to my psyche, I figured that I was lucky just to have the fantasies. So I was completely mystified by her references to my wife and “the boys.” Still, there had been a Playboy involved earlier.

“Um, yeah,” I slowly answered the last question that I could remember her asking. “The boys.”

“Oh, they’re fine,” she said. “I put Billy to bed right after his bottle, and little Terry Junior went to bed at his normal time. Well, almost his normal time. We had to have a little discussion first. That’s a pretty advanced little ten-year-old ya got there, Mr. Martin. If ya know what I mean.”

I had no idea what she meant.

“So everything else was, um, okay, Laura?”

“Oh, yeah,” she smiled. “I was just sittin’ here, like doin’ my homework. Oh God, speakin’ of homework. Mrs. Martin said you were like a history major. That is just so amazingly weird. ‘Cause I got this homework question, and ya know, like, I could go home and get on the ‘Net to find out, but then my mother will hear me, and she’ll think I’m in one of those lezzie chat rooms again. Oh, it’s not like I’m like that, you know, a lezzie, but the girls there are just real nice, ya know? And God, they know so much. Anyway, I didn’t know how else to find out, so if I could just ask you, that would be so cool.”

She looked at me expectantly, while I tried to figure out which of her statements had been actual questions and which were just regular sentences that she had ended with a question mark. There were lots of girls at my school who talked just like that. In the meantime, I glanced around the room. The living room was full of books, including two different sets of encyclopedias, that my mother had purchased to make us look intellectual.

“Oh, yeah, books,” Laura saw my look. “I just can’t do books, ya know. Too big, too old, too boring, too much extra crap in ‘em, ya know? So anyway, I know, like, George Washington was the first president, and Abraham Lincoln was the second, but who was like the third? At first I thought it was that guy on the twenty — Jackson? — but then I was like, well, maybe it’s the guy on the ten. You know, one, five, ten, twenty? But I didn’t have any tens. Do you know? It wasn’t Kennedy, was it?”

By this point, I was actually biting my tongue to keep from laughing.

“Um, Roosevelt,” I said.

“Cool,” she gave me a grateful smile. “Let me just write that in.”

She walked to the corner of the living room and dropped to her knees in front of her tote bag, thrusting her butt back at me.

“God, where did I put that?” she muttered, tossing her jeans to one side as she rummaged through the bag. “Was that Franklin or Freddy?”

“I’m sorry?” I choked.

“There were two Roosevelts, right? Was it Franklin or Freddy?”

She was still looking through the bag, and a pair of handcuffs came flying back at me as I told her it was Franklin.

“Oh, God,” she turned to me with her hand covering her mouth, her eyes wide with surprise. “God, I’m so embarrassed you saw those. They’re my mom’s.”

She crawled toward me to pick up the handcuffs.

“Your mom’s?” I asked. “Is she a police woman?”

“God, no,” Laura giggled. “She and Daddy use these when they, you know, do it?”

“The handcuffs?”

“Yeah. I drilled a little hole in my closet so I can watch ‘em. Anyway, I was takin’ ‘em to school to show my girlfriends, and I guess I just forgot they were in here. I’m so sorry, Mr. Martin.”

“That’s, uh, fine, Laura,” I said. “You should be more careful, though. Your teachers could see them.”

“Oh, God,” her eyes grew wide again. “They would like have a shit fit. Oops, I’m sorry. Except Ms. Lee, of course, she’s my French teacher. She’d probably soak one of her little thongs if she saw something like this. I swear, she is such a slut.”

“Ms. Lee?”

“God, yes. She is such a cocktease. And she is really pretty. Although not much in the boob department, ya know.”

She looked down with regret at her own breasts.

“‘Course, some of us got a little too much, if ya know what I mean. I guess it all evens out, huh? Anyway, she would go apeshit for these things. Do you want to see ‘em? Maybe Mrs. Martin would like to, you know.”

“I don’t think Mrs. Martin would like to lose that much control,” I said. But I took the cuffs from her anyway.

“Oh, well, you can get out of ‘em,” she eagerly snatched them out of my hands to demonstrate. “See, you just press here, on the outside of the cuffs, at the same time, and they just pop open. So you can actually get ‘em off yourself if you have to. ‘Course, you’re probably right. Mrs. Martin doesn’t really look like the type.”

“No,” I agreed. “Probably not.”

“Although she apparently has no trouble bein’ on the other end, huh? I mean, spanking little Terry.”

She clapped both hands over her mouth this time, as if she had said a little too much. And by this time, I was getting a little more comfortable in our little improv.

“How do you know that, Laura?”

“I, um, I…” she let her voice trail off.

“I can find out, Laura. Mrs. Martin had this little security camera system installed.”

“Oh, God, please no,” she said. “He was just, you know, acting up, so I, you know, spanked him. It was pretty clear he knew the drill. I mean, pullin’ his pants down for me and everything.”

“So you spanked my son?”

“It’s not like he hasn’t been spanked before,” she protested.

“By my wife,” I pointed out. “Did she give you permission to spank him?”

“No,” she hung her head.

“Then, um, why did you do it?”

“I, um, God, I’m so embarrassed, Mr. Martin, please don’t make me say.”

“You have to tell me, Laura. Otherwise I’ll have to tell Mrs. Martin, and then she’ll end up showing this video to your parents.”

“Oh, God, no, please, please,” she wrapped her arms around my knees. “Couldn’t you just, like, punish me yourself, and then we could just, like, you know, forget the rest?”

“And how should I punish you, Laura?” I asked with a smile.

“You could, like, spank me?” she slowly offered her suggestion.

“You might like being spanked,” I said. “In fact, I think you do like being spanked. Do any of your boyfriends spank you, Laura?

“Gawd, they’re such babies. Little babies, you know? I mean, Gawd, Terry Junior’s bigger than — ohmyGod, I’m sorry.”

“Come here, sweetheart,” I said. I backed up and took a seat on the couch. She started to get up.

“Stay down, honey,” I instructed her. She began crawling towards me. “And bring the cuffs with you.”

She crawled back for the cuffs and started to return. Feigning difficulty crawling, she put the cuffs in her mouth and finished the journey, dropping them into my outstretched hand. She remained kneeling between my legs.

“Take off your shirt, Laura.”

She sat back on her heels and made a production of unbuttoning her shirt, interrupting her progress every other button with a fearful glance at me. She tossed the shirt aside and reached put both hands behind her back.

“Did I tell you to take off the bra, Laura?”

“No, sir,” she yelped.

She jerked her hands back in front.

“Did I tell you to move your hands?”

She quickly put them in back again. I picked up the cuffs and pressed the catches. Laura bowed in front of me, and I cuffed both hands behind her back. Standing up, I yanked her to her feet and pushed her towards the stairs.

“Hold on,” I commanded when she was halfway up. From the step beneath her I reached up under her skirt. She had ditched her panties, as well.

“Good girl, Laura.”

“Thank you, sir,” she whispered.

I escorted her into my bedroom, and stopped just short of the bed.

“Wow! Is this where you and Mrs. Martin…?”

“Where Mrs. Martin and I what, Laura?”

“Fuck?” she whispered.

“Mrs. Martin fucks with me all the time in this room,” I answered honestly, suppressing a smile. “And this is where I’m going to fuck you, Laura. Get on the bed.”

She crawled onto the bed with some difficulty and finally arranged herself against the headboard, her legs spread. Turning my back on her, I kicked my shoes into the closet. My socks quickly joined them. I took off my shirt, and hung it up. I took off my pants, and hung them up, too. Finally, I turned around, and slipped my fingers into the waistband of my briefs. Laura’s eyes were locked on my crotch as I nonchalantly exposed it.

“Oh, fuck, I can’t,” she hissed.

“Can’t what, Laura?” I asked.

“Can’t possibly fit that inside me,” she snapped her legs together, her face taking on an aspect of panic, her voice starting to tremble. “God, you’re fucking enormous, Mr. Martin.”

“I think you can handle it, Laura,” I said.

“Um, I don’t think so,” she started to slide toward the left-hand side of the bed as I approached the right. “NO!”

I reached forward and grabbed the handcuffs, jerking her back into the middle of the bed. Her loose, pleated skirt had flown up, over her rear, and she buried her head into my bedspread and scrambled to pull her knees underneath her.

“Please be gentle, Mr. Martin,” she whispered.

I clicked open the handcuffs again.

“Put your hands between your legs, Laura.”

I cuffed her wrists again.

“You were playing with yourself earlier tonight, weren’t you, Laura?”

“Mr. Martin,” she whined, tugging just a little at the cuffs I held in one hand.

“Stop squirming, Laura,” I gave her a swat with my other hand.

“Sorry,” she whimpered.

“Wait here, Laura.”

I went downstairs and fetched her magazine from underneath the cushions of the couch. When I returned, Laura was in exactly the same position I had left her. I got up behind her again, and opened the centerfold in front of her.

“Do you like her, Laura?”

Her body twitched but she just stared at the centerfold.

“OW!”

It was more a cry of surprise than of pain. My little swat hadn’t been hard enough to hurt, just to bring her attention back to me.

“Laura?”

“Yes, I like her. Yes, I was playing with myself. Please, Mr. Martin, this is so humiliating.”

“Is it? More humiliating than it was for Terry Junior to have to pull his pants down in front of you so you could take a good look at him?

“OW!”

“Well, you little bitch?”

“OW! I didn’t mean to. He just turned around when he was pulling them back up. I never touched him, I swear. OW!”

“Like I give a fuck, you little slut. Now let’s see you play with yourself some more. Come on, isn’t she pretty? Imagine having her do this.”

I drew a finger up her exposed slit. Laura moaned.

“Or imagine a nice big dick in here,” I added, pushing two fingers inside of her.

“Yessss,” Laura whispered.

“I don’t care what you imagine, honey,” I leaned down to whisper in her ear. “But you better start doing it.”

I pulled back and pulled her cuffed hands between her thighs. Her fingers quickly replaced mine, and I sat back on my thighs to watch this beautiful lady pleasuring herself for the second, no, the third, time that day. God, was it really still the same day? Eight hours ago I had showed up at Mrs. Stone’s house hoping for a payday of thirty bucks or so. Now here she was at my house. She could keep the thirty dollars.

“Ummmmm,” she moaned, driving two fingers in and out of herself. “OW!”

She dropped her hands to the bed when I spanked her, and I lifted them again.

“Did I tell you to stop?”

“No, but you…”

“Punished you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Should I add an extra punishment for stopping?”

“No, sir, I promise, I’ll be good.”

Her hands were working furiously again, and when I delivered the next smack on her upturned cheeks, she didn’t break stride once. If anything, she started to expect it, and to incorporate it into her little self-service session. So I changed the tempo, waiting a little longer to deliver the next one, and then adding two short swats in quick succession. It didn’t take her long to reclaim the state, just on the precipice of satisfaction, that I had left her in when my mother had cut us off a few hours earlier.

“Oh, fuck, Terry, I’m coming. Oh, God, I’m —”

“Stop.”

“Terry,” she whined.

I yanked her hands down, watching the way her whole body quivered, whether in expectation of another blow or because I had denied her fulfillment I couldn’t tell. I knelt behind her, determined to finally bring that deferment to an end.

“Hands behind your neck, honey,” I ordered. She obeyed immediately.

“Oh, fuck, Terry,” she moaned as I thrust forward.

I pulled back.

“Terry?” she wiggled her butt at me.

“Terry?” I asked coldly.

“OW! I’m sorry, Mr. Martin. Please, Mr. Martin, ooooh, yes.”

After a minute or so, Laura decided that it was too hard to remember to say “Mr. Martin” on each stroke forward, and simply settled on “sir.” After another minute, it became “oh, sir,” and then “fuck, sir,” and then she dropped the “sir” entirely and just groaned the word “fuck” every time I buried myself deep inside her. And then finally I picked up the pace to the point that she could only manage to grunt. I didn’t last long, of course. After our afternoon foreplay, I was probably even more eager than she was. But I did last long enough to hear her muffled scream of “Yessss!” as her muscles contracted around me, which was certainly more than enough to cause me to lose it inside her. I added a few groans of my own as I passed through an extraordinarily extended version of that delicious sensation that occurs just before ejaculation, and then I held her hips in place until I was completely drained.

I reached forward and realized suddenly that this woman had actually tired me out. Me, a high school athlete. And her, my mother’s 39-year-old college roommate. I grabbed hold of her bra strap and yanked her upright. She waited as I opened the cuffs, and briefly rubbed her wrists before turning back to me with a big smile.

“You know, I have to tell you that you were even better than I thought you would be,” she smiled at me.

“Well, then I have to tell you that the whole thing fell a little short of what I had always imagined,” I told her.

I watched her face fall. In a few seconds, her chin would start to quiver, and then a small tear would appear in the corner of one of her eyes. She would take a deep breath, and tell herself that she couldn’t expect any more than that, and then she would smile at me and say that she hoped I had enjoyed it a little, at any rate.

“Yeah,” I said before she had a chance to start. “If you had told me that I would fulfill my dream of doing Laura Stone without ever having had a chance to enjoy those amazing tits, I would have found that very, very difficult to believe.”

A whole range of emotions played across her face, the disappointment ultimately being replaced by an almost child-like delight.
“Snot,” she grinned at me. She reached around behind her back and found the catch of her bra. Bringing her hands back in front of her, she held the cups over her breasts and gave me a surprisingly shy, but nonetheless eager, look.

“So you’ve dreamed about these?” she asked. “They’re awfully big.”

I laughed.

“I don’t think I’ve heard the expression ‘awfully big’ applied in that context,” I smiled. “I think they’re perfect. You do remember I saw them this afternoon, don’t you? When you were squeezing that one there as you played with yourself?”

She flushed a bright red, but she offered no resistance when I reached forward and slowly pulled the bra out of her hands and away from her chest.

“God, I can’t believe this,” she gasped after I had pushed her back onto the pillows behind her and I had fastened my lips around her left nipple.

“Shut up, Laura,” I took them off long enough to give her that order.

“Yes, sir,” she smiled.

It was a soft, sublime substitute for actual sex, but after I had learned my way around her breasts, and after she had performed a similar examination of my cock, we both knew what was going to happen next.

“Ready?” I asked her.

She smiled and nodded, and crossed her hands in front of her.

“Behind, you little slut,” I said. She eagerly complied, and when she was ready I flipped her onto her back, her hands cuffed beneath her, and sat between her spread legs.

I gave her a light slap with the back of my hand, right between her thighs.

“Oh!”

“What do you want to do now, Laura?”

She gave me a coy look and kept her mouth shut.

I slapped her again, and got another “Oh!” She smiled at me. We played a few more rounds, and finally she had had enough.

“Fuck me,” she whispered.

“OW! I said ‘fuck me,” she whined after I had slapped her again.

“And you think that’s good enough?” I asked with another slap.

“OW! Terry!”

“You think your little silent act doesn’t merit some punishment all by itself?” I let my voice get harsher and slapped her one more time.

“OW! Jesus, Terry. Please now, honey, please.”

I spread her thighs just a little bit more and slid inside of her. Her eyes rolled upward into her head and she locked her legs around me. Using one hand to steady us on the bed — there were still a lot of mechanical aspects of this whole thing that I needed to work out — I reached forward with the other and began to knead one of her wonderful breasts.

“Harder,” she hissed after a few minutes of fucking.

She had said that this afternoon, and I wasn’t really sure what she meant by it. “Faster” would have been pretty obvious, but “harder?” Did she mean deeper? I can’t go any deeper, lady, it’s not like a TV antenna.

“Harder, you little fucker, harder.”

I started slamming my pubic mound against hers.

“My tit, you bastard,” she gasped. “Pinch my — oh, fuck!”

Her body started shaking and her legs stiffened around my waist. Her arms strained against the cuffs, revealing her well-muscled biceps.

“Terry!” she screamed.

I hadn’t come, but she looked exhausted. Pleasantly exhausted, to be sure, but exhausted nonetheless. I pulled out and lay on the bed, pulling her head onto my shoulder and cradling her in my right arm. I left the cuffs on, of course, and after another half hour or so I reached down to grab them.

“Terry!” she awoke from her little nap.

“Slut,” I hissed. “Did you come that time?”

“Yes, master,” she smiled.

“Did I?”

Her smile vanished.

“I’m sorry, master,” she pleaded. “Please, let me do it again. I didn’t realize.”

“I guess not,” I chuckled. I pulled her onto her knees once more and got behind her. For a while, I just enjoyed the view: Laura Stone on her knees in front of me with her hands cuffed behind her back, her hair sweated and disheveled on the pillow. It was, I smiled to myself, a pillow that had never come close to producing a dream as good as real life was turning out to be. And right in front of me, of course, was that magnificent ass. I reached down and slowly traced my middle finger down the crack, pausing briefly when I reached her crinkled hole.