His mother had gone shopping, and she told him to watch for the mailman. Paul sat there reading a Newsweek magazine hoping his mother would be back soon. Either that or the mailman, because he had a tennis match in 40 minutes. His mind wasn't on the magazine, and he wished it had more sexy pictures in it. Just politicians and professional athletes making tons of money, and bullshit opinions. Opinions are like assholes — everyone has one. The magazine used to be much thicker, as if the editor didn't want to offend anyone with photos of the wrong people.
He lived with his mother for the time being, in the first floor of a duplex. The duplex was in a crowded city outside of Boston, not Cambridge, but next to Cambridge. House were packed so close together the thought of having a yard was ridiculous. In the back of each house there was a two-car garage, and you could get two cars into it if the cars were small. If you owned a big Cadillac, you'd have to park it on the street. Nobody owned Caddy's on the street where Paul lived.
Living in Boston was the pits. He hated Boston and he especially hated living in this crappy apartment. It was five rooms, all on one floor. His mother's bedroom was large and the living room was large, but the bathroom was small. Most times he pissed out in the back yard. But the good thing about the apartment was the landlady left them alone. Just pay the rent and the landlady didn't care if there were dead bodies in there. The landlady was an awesome Italian woman, and she lived with her daughter, a spinster 30'ish kind of woman with zero sex appeal and who spent too much time in the basement listening to what Paul was doing. When Paul fucked a woman, assuming his mother was out, the spinster would yell, "I know what you're doing in there. This is no whore house! Fuck the bitch somewhere else!"
When Paul complained to the landlady, the Christian lady told him sweetly, "God told me He misses you. Why don't you come to church?" And Paul found it hard to believe God didn't want him fucking his dates.
Paul Hayden, recently having been medically discharged from the Navy, had just come back from two years in Japan, where his carrier, the USS George Washington, was docked at Yokosuka. He was a radar guy and he thought he knew everything about radar. At least he knew about stuff like boresight and range. The circuits were in a black box and he didn't know shit about the circuits. It wasn't Paul's job to know about circuits and it was just as well. When he had classes on circuits, which were in San Diego, he spent most of his time checking out the chicks taking the class, attractive Navy females attempting to concentrate on microprocessors while their pussy's throbbed. Paul knew more about pussies throbbing than CPU's and that's where his mind was.
He was tall, about six feet, with short brown hair. It was almost a crew cut, but he wanted some hair on his head. He was 19 years old when he got himself assigned to radar school and he fucked every woman in the class. He preferred housewives mostly because they were so happy to serve their country and get laid by Paul. The older women he met at church, where he attended every Sunday. It was a Full Gospel church in San Diego, where people spoke in tongues, being in the Spirit as it were, and women became overheated and some ripped their bodices open to bare their luscious boobs. It was doubtful that the Lord gave a hoot about their titties, but Paul sure did. He pretended to be praying but he was taking video clips of these voluptuous females, until the fucking pastor kicked him out.
These housewives, some were in their 30's and a few in their 40's. The gals in their late 40's reminded him of his mother. Luckily, women enjoyed fucking servicemen, as it made them feel patriotic. More so than those women who didn't put out for sailors. Paul never had to approach horny women, because they approached him. Paul was young, good looking; the women had sharp eyes and could see the lump in his white bell bottoms. But in Paul's mind, nobody was as hot as his mom. He called her a fox, but kept it to himself.
Rita was Paul's busty mother. We'll see more of her later, but she doted on Paul. Since her husband was cheating on her, it was natural she'd turn to Paul for solace, especially during the times she was very horny and her weeping pussy was driving her to distraction. She had asked Paul to sleep with her while she pretended to cry herself to sleep. He gave her comfort, lying beside her. She was fingering herself because Paul felt the bed shaking and he was too cool to say anything. If he did dare complain about the shaking bed, she'd probably send him back to his own room. And when she cried out, she clutched his arm, and then went stiff when she exploded, Paul pretended he was asleep, although he knew damn well what she was doing.
It happened one morning when she was awoken by a ecstatic burning sensation in her tits. Arching sleepily she let her hands drift down to sooth the aching tingle soaring from her nipples, and came in contact with a man's head.
Awareness swept through her, drawing her awake with a sexy smile as she curled her fingers in his thick dark hair and urged him on. "Paul, oh honey …such a sweet way to wake up!"
Paul didn't say much, he grinned at her, then went back to work devouring those big stiff nipples until he had her moaning and lurching up to push more and more of her mammoth tits into his face. He loved sucking her big nipples and though she played with his cock while he sucked her, that's as far as it went. She reminded herself without much conviction she was his mother.
From his intimacy with his mother he learned how easy it was for a young man with a big dick to have any woman he wanted. All he had to do was put the woman's hand on his cock so she could feel the huge lump in his pants, and she'd clutch it, and without much thought, unzip his pants and haul it out.
Paul had a problem, which led to his being discharged. The medics called it Nocturnal Lagophthalmos — he talked in his sleep. He was considered a security risk, so he was given a medical discharge. In laymen's terms, they kicked his sorry ass out.
At this point in our story, he was 23 years old. He didn't have a job, and had no intentions of getting a job. He did apply to Wal-Mart and was turned down as overqualified. They had no openings for ex-radar technicians. Maybe his making inappropriate remarks to the HR manager — telling her he loved her boobs — was the reason. He was forcibly removed from her office by security personnel. Tina, a hot-assed female, was aroused and ashamed because she allowed him to feel her up. As it were, her office was being monitored by surveillance cameras. Not to be deprived, the HR manager had to get herself off in the restroom. It would take months before she forgot about Paul. But she did tell Paul she'd keep his resume in the active file.
* * *
He was relieved to hear the doorbell ring because he wouldn't have to watch for the mailman any more. When he opened the door he was surprised to see what was standing there. It was a cute female, about early 20's, and she was carrying a clip board. She was about mid height, with auburn hair that was tied back in a pony tail, and she wore red lipstick, with just a bit of eye liner.
"Hello, sir, sorry to bother you …" he was still clutching his magazine.
"Oh, no problem …"
He looked her over and liked what he saw. She was wearing a knee length skirt, with a very tight red cashmere sweater that emphasized her boobs. She was wearing a Bali bra, and he saw her thick nipples punching against the sweater.
"I'm doing a survey for the county. Do you have time to answer a few questions?" she asked, fluttering her lashes.
"Sure, c'mon in."
He moved aside while she stepped into the living room. He noticed her ass was nice, with long legs. But she was obviously a housewife, donating her time to helping the homeless. Or ostensibly something like that …
He indicated she should sit on the sunken sofa, which she did, smiling up at him. She immediately crossed her legs showing him a lot of thigh. Her calves were shapely and he figured she did a lot of rep's to get calves like that. Her thighs were full and muscular. He visualized those thighs wrapped around his ears. She did not wear stockings because her legs were her best feature.
He told her he liked her legs and she smiled, showing him nice even teeth. He told her he liked her sweater, and how it showed off her boobs and she smiled again, sitting up straight so her boobs would be more prominent. And when he said she had a nice ass there was no doubt in her mind what he wanted. But she smiled again.
"Would you like a cup of coffee?" he asked, hoping she'd say yes.
She thought about it, giving him the impression she didn't have a lot of time, and this wasn't a social visit. She glanced down at the tiny watch on her wrist and smiled again. "OK …"
Paul prided himself on being able to size up situations very quickly. This innate ability had saved his ass when the Shore Patrol (SP) raided a whorehouse in Yokosuka. He had his Bible with him, and told the Chief he was there to save souls and was doing the Lord's work, when in truth he was saving himself a trip to the brig.
Returning to the lady with the clipboard, Paul went into the kitchen to boil some water, mumbling about how long it took for the water to boil, and finally carried a cup of instant to the woman on the sofa, who was by now a bit nervous. His acute powers of perception arrived at the following conclusion: first, the woman was horny, and was desperately looking to get laid. The clipboard allowed her to add possible candidates for fucking at a later date. She had already put an asterisk besides his address, 44 Hall Avenue. The woman was married because she wore a tiny wedding ring. This meant she was not the wife of an MBA type who made big bucks working for Goldman Sachs. Her husband was probably a UPS driver. Obviously if she were single, she wouldn't be wearing a wedding ring.
Next, she wore a sweater which clearly indicated she had good mammaries. If a woman is flat chested they usually wore flannel shirts. And third, she was open to fooling around, depending on his approach, or his line of bullshit. Who spends time canvasing the neighborhood unless she wants to get laid? She obviously wasn't an afternoon wife, a housewife who hangs out at a hotel bar hoping to meet a salesman in the afternoon. Paul knew women like that who hung out at the Officer's Club in Japan, while their husbands were deployed in some rice paddy in Korea.
The lady with the clipboard — her name was Gloria, and it fit her. Paul, being a pseudo-Christian felt the Lord has sent Gloria in his time of need, as he was about to jerk off anyway. And Gloria's perspiration on her upper lip meant she was in heat. He admitted to himself, all women were in heat, no matter how they acted overtly. Even the Salvation Army tambourine player called him a pervert just because he told her he'd put $5 in the bucket if he could fuck her. Maybe he should have offered her a ten spot, but what the hell …
Gloria by now had finished her coffee, she actually gulped it down because she was a proactive type and wanted to disperse with the amenities. She had noticed the tent in Paul's pants when he brought the coffee, and it appeared more like the kind of tent evangelists used for revival meetings. A huge tent. It's a wonder he could walk!
Paul had sat back down with her, and he immediately put his hand up her legs, and grabbed her pussy. That's what he always did. No kissing, no blowing in her ear. No nibbling on her neck. There was no small talk about the plight of the homeless. She was very wet as he knew she would be, because Paul was a good looking guy, with a huge dick. Her panties were soaked and he could feel her pubic hair on her thighs, because she was hairy, and probably didn't shave. He, like most men, liked hairy women, and didn't waste time on gals with bald pussies.
He learned way back that women prefer to be eaten, and so he dropped to his knees, spread her legs apart, ripped her panties aside, and preceded to chew and lick and tongue her hair fringed pussy until the poor woman shuddered over and over and finally became almost hysterical. Paul felt that if she allowed herself to be eaten, just to get a signature, he'd gladly sign whatever petition she wanted him to sign.
His cock was as stiff as a crowbar, and she had reached for it when he started eating her. She was staggered by the thickness of it, and kept up the action, rolling his foreskin and using her thumb to smear his leakage. Playing with his tool made her hot as hell, and as she pulled on it, he got more motivated to attack her stubby clit. They didn't talk much, he grunted and she sighed and sighed, more often when she exploded again. By her responses Paul figured she wasn't getting much action at home. She told him her husband never licked her pussy because he was a Christian and there was nothing in the Bible about going down on a woman. That was the problem with fundamentalists, they did only what was literally in the Bible.
But Gloria felt sucking off a woman was an act of charity and that Jesus said to do unto others — like getting them off — as you would have them do unto you. That was the reason Jesus was so popular!
She considered herself highly intuitive. Gloria offered to blow Paul, because she knew about blue balls, having dating quite a bit before she married Harvey. She had a talented mouth as a public speaker, and at one time considered running for office. But she dismissed the thought because she felt spouting bullshit was a waste when she'd be much more useful delivering blowjobs. Not to suggest Gloria was a slut, but like most women who had their needs met, at least for the moment, a blowjob was better then sending a thank you note. Paul was nervous about his mother showing up, so he politely declined, telling her he would take a rain check.
After coming so much that she wet her panties, Gloria thanked Paul in a weak voice and promised him she'd see him soon. Paul gave her a big hug, grasping her bottom cheeks, and they traded spit for the last time. It was time for the mailman.
Rita sighed and gingerly laid half the length of the electric facial massager against that most needful part of her body, directly between her legs. It was the sensible, logical way for a young widow like herself to ease away tensions without involving herself with sticky relationships. The facial massager had been a wise purchase, discreetly done through the mail. With it, she could live a much more contented and tranquil life, puttering around in her tiny garden, doing her needlepoint, ignoring the neighbors who so pointedly ignored her.
She had been a widow for four years. Rita's husband was struck by a hit-and-run driver. At least that what the police report said. But in fact, Harvey was shot by a jealous husband, and the wife happened to be married to a police dispatcher. Harvey had incorrectly assumed the husband was working, but it was the guy's night off, and while the wife pleaded with Harvey to go home, Harvey was holding a rampant hard-on when he was shot in the groin by the irate cop.
Thinking about Harvey depressed her, so Rita devoted her attention to her new muscle 'relaxer'. That's what the box said, it was for relaxing muscles and her vaginal muscles sorely needed a massage.
She reached down and twisted the knob that set the massager to buzzing, and at once was amazed by the thing. Rita knew very well the red, tapered silicone cylinder in her hand was a dildo. It was a battery-operated cock expressly designed for the hot, aching cunts of horny bitches like herself. And shit, did her brand new electric cock ever feel good as it buzzed and purred against her pouting sex. She explored the carmine line of her sex, teasing, and stopping, teasing it more and stopping. Fuck it, she reamed it around and around, flicked it over her clit and exploded, splattering her juices across the floor near the sofa.
Rita had a nice pink prominent clitoris. It became more prominent still as she teased all around it with the tip of the buzzing red dildo. He could feel its vibrations up her spine, all through her buttocks and into her asshole, between the soles of her feet and in her lips. Her labia felt swollen, just like her nipples were, and she felt she needed to suck on a big fat cock.
Her posture on the sofa was obscene and she loved it. Leaning back against the cushions, she had her knees up and spread apart. Her cunt, smoothly fringed with fine black hair that rose to a tuft on her pubis had it's lips wide open and already juicing for more of the dildo's caress.
She needed to go to the toilet to relieve her bladder, and she still had to make dinner.
Passing by Paul's room she happened to notice his door was ajar. What she saw boggled her mind! Rita had never seen such a big cock. It appeared to be at least twelve inches–a foot long! Was it her imagination? However, the miracle was not just its length. She might have expected to see such a cock in a Ripley museum or a porno film, had she been the kind of woman who looked at such things. But never in the flesh. Never jutting from the muscular loins of her own son!
Of course, Rita had seen Paul's prick before. But in recent years, only brief glimpses of it when he was getting out of the shower or dressing, and never hard. Relaxed, Paul's cock looked pretty much like any other male's. It was only when it was engorged with hot blood that it stood out as exceptional. Rita had had no idea her son was so fantastically well-endowed.
Being a liberal — and somewhat proper — female, she continued on back to her room. She had no intentions of embarrassing him by rushing into his bedroom, and pretending what he was doing was a mortal sin; giving him a lecture about going insane from too much self abuse. She herself was going insane with delight over her new dildo. Paul's wanking she knew was normal. But coupled with the clitoral stimulation she was getting, and the picture in her mind of Paul's fat cock, sent her to la-la land over and over until she was exhausted.
He had called out in the night, apparently having a nightmare about a woman. Rita had been reading a fashion magazine in bed when she heard his strangled cry. Her mother's intuition had drawn her into his room to see what was wrong. That was when she saw it again!
It was hot and Paul was sleeping in the nude. The sheet had gotten tangled around his neck, which accounted for his cry. When Rita gently removed it and her son was completely uncovered, her eyes almost bugged out of her head at what she saw.
"What a beautiful cock," she whispered in awe, struggling with the impulse to reach out and touch her son's throbbing tool.
Paul moaned in his sleep. "Oh, baby, come on and do it to me." His feverish voice startled his mother. "There's nothing to be afraid of, and I want it so bad. You know you do, too."
It was clear. He was having a wet dream. Rita was so excited that she didn't know what to do.
"Put my cock in your mouth. Just try it," Paul persuaded the girl in his dream. "If you don't like it, you can spit it out." Then he smiled in his sleep. "But I guarantee you'll like it."
Fisting his hard-on, Paul held it straight up in the air, thrusting his hips. With a gasp, Rita realized that the fiery head was right under her nose. Even in the darkness she could see the little vertical slit at the tip peeking at her. A pearl of cum oozed to the surface, tempting her with its glistening sweetness.
"Come on, baby, suck it," Paul insisted. "What are you afraid of? You can't get pregnant by sticking a cock in your mouth!"
Rita felt her tongue pass over her lips. She was licking her lips in hunger, hunger for her son's massive limb. There was no use in denying it. She had an uncontrollable urge to give him the blow-job he craved. It had been too long since she had sucked a cock.
"If you're afraid, take it slow," Paul said. "Just lick it at first. I promise it won't bite."
As she closed her eyes, Rita's head fell forward. All of a sudden she could feel a hard knob of warm flesh against her trembling lips.
"Mmmm, that's it, baby," Paul sighed. "Now open your mouth and use your tongue." A tingling sweet and sour taste invaded Rita's senses. When she opened her eyes, the head of her son's cock was in her mouth.
"Deeper," Paul pressed. "Take it deeper." Rita's lips inhaled an inch. Then another. She could feel the head of her son's prick plugging her throat as her mouth slipped down the shaft. "More, more," Paul demanded. Instead of slipping as before, Rita's lips skidded halfway down her son's massive dick. She only stopped when she started to gag.
"Breathe through your nose …" Paul cautioned, alert even as he slept.
Rita automatically took his advice. It worked. Suddenly she realized that there was nothing stopping her from taking all of Paul's cock in her mouth, no matter how big it was. She was giddy with excitement as she began working downward toward his churning balls.
Less than a minute later, Rita was deep-throating her son. As her fingers tickled his soft nuts, Paul reflexively twitched his hips. Rita was no longer just sucking her son's cock. He was fucking her in the mouth.
While Paul's stiff prick rose and fell in her throat, Rita crawled on the bed with him. She straddled his face with her thighs, her nightgown bunching around her waist. She could smell her own cunt steaming with passion, as it peeled open to be eaten.
The sucking noises were music to Rita's ears. Paul's lips were nibbling toward her cunt. Then there was a hot, moist flash as his mouth engulfed her pussy. His tongue straightened and shot inside her. Lifting her ass in the air, Rita dug her knees into the bedding as her son reamed her quim. His active tongue was like an erotic snake within her, wriggling this way and that. She came in a blinding rush and made his face sticky with her escaping pussy juice.
Rita began using her mouth the way an artist uses a brush during the final stages of a masterpiece. Every movement was perfection. She knew just when to be gentle and just when to be outrageously bold. One moment she was lightly nuzzling the inflamed knob of her son's cock, and then in the next she was orally swooping down to his balls. Somewhere in the course of the action, she found his asshole with her index finger and probed all the way to the third knuckle.
"Shit, baby, I can't hold it anymore!" Paul groaned. "I'm gonna come in your mouth!"
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