by KT Morrison
She backed away, turned, trotted then stopped, knowing he would watch her bare ass, and she worried it jiggled. At the archway to the main house she turned and walked backward. Maceo followed.
“Don’t leave me, Janie,” he said.
“Maceo, what are you doing?—what are we doing?”
She walked backwards faster, but he gained on her, that long appendage between his legs bobbing, swaying, bouncing with his urgent steps.
“Don’t touch me,” she warned him, clothes clenched tightly against herself.
That stopped him and he stayed one pace away. He held a hand out, that big beautiful man’s hand, palm up, looking to take hers and hold it. “Janie, stay with me, talk with me.”
“I can’t, Maceo,” she cried, darted a look over her shoulder, saw the stairs to the second floor but knew if she went up them he would follow close behind, watching her bare bottom close up. The pantry door was open next to her, and she slipped in and closed it behind her.
“Janie, don’t—”
“No, Maceo,” she said, her mouth close to the door. His body leaned against it and she could hear his hand sliding the surface on the other side.
“Please, let me in, Janie,” he said, his deep voice came from the hall.
“No, Maceo, no,” she said and dropped her things on the floor after she’d found her panties in the bundle. She flicked the light switch on and the fluorescents flickered and then came on with their insect buzz. Panties wound around, she put her legs through the holes and pulled them up.
“Please, Janie, we don’t have to do anything, I just want to be with you, I want to know you’re okay…”
“I’m fine,” she said, and ran her hair back from her face with both hands, clamped them on either side of her neck, leaned against the corner of a shelf and slid her bare back down feeling the metal snag and scratch at her skin until she sat on the floor in the garish light.
A dreadful ache had begun in her middle, two hard knots swelling under her skin, deep in her core; throbbing points just above her hip bones. The flat of her hand pressed against the discomfort, against her stomach. The pressure brought a tickle of warm wet expulsion from the nest of wrinkled membranes between her legs. She groaned, tucked a thumb down the front of her panties and pulled them away. A dewy shine had been painted on the inside and drops sparkled in her pubic hair. Her hand slipped inside her panties and cupped her sex.
“Janie, come out, please...”
“I can’t, Maceo.”
“I’m coming in.”
Instead of saying no, she groaned and closed her eyes. The door opened, and he came in, walking on his knees, his prodigious erection wagging. She closed her eyes again. “We can’t, Maceo.”
She listened as he shuffled along, heard the clinking of glass jars of pickled vegetables from her garden this summer as he sat down across from her. The room was silent but for the fluorescent’s buzz. When she opened her eyes, she found him watching her. Even in the harsh light the boy was gorgeous; he sat like her, long hair hanging down on one side, watching her with smoldering eyes. His jaw flexed, his brow soft with compassion; he imitated her, slumped against the shelf with his legs crossed. She crossed an arm over her breasts and looked away; felt the aroused nubs of her nipples against the inside of her forearm.
Still he said nothing, and she struggled to think of something to part the silence; but was also comfortable in it, somehow felt better with him on this side of the door.
She scoffed now, a chuckle. She looked back. “You’re crazy,” she whispered. He smiled and cocked his head. She bit her lip and laughed again until her laugh became a groan. He laughed with her and the hand he rested on his thigh slid upward and held his erection.
She studied his hand on it; a truly masculine and beautiful sight—something she had never seen in her life. That hand she’d admired for its talent and beauty gripped on a totem of ultimate masculinity, a tremendous erection, a symbol of his manhood, engorged and swollen with the paths of thick veins tracing over; his object of sexuality, his huge implement of pleasure and reproduction. He began to stroke it.
She groaned and chuckled again, watching.
His eyes were on her, moving over her body while he pleasured himself a few feet away. Her hand was still inside her panties covering her slick sex. While she watched, her own fingers began to stroke, finding her opening as slippery as oil; her lubrication still seeped from her.
Maceo shifted, opened his legs wider, and she followed suit. Now they were angled in line toward each other, legs open and feet on the floor. His hand pumped up and down in slow strokes and she watched the large head of his cock, her own hand dancing under the thin cotton of her underwear bottoms, stroking and teasing at her opening.
Both of them watched the other pleasuring themselves for minutes until their heavy breaths came loud and quick and drowned out the buzz of the lights. The end of Maceo’s cock shone with wet and she could see clear excitement seeping from the slit in the end of his erection that looked big enough she could clamp a dime in its crease. She moaned and cried and gasped at that dirty thought, and her knees began to bow in and out as she masturbated for Maceo.
He slid his foot outward, purposely, with his eyes on hers until their ankles touched. At the feel of his body against hers she cried out again, moved her other foot until she could touch her other ankle against his.
“Oh, God,” she moaned out in a long dry sound and clamped both hands over her throbbing sex, one inside her panties, the other over top, squeezing on herself, trying to choke away its hungry need.
Maceo slowed his stroking, watching what she would do, tilting his chin up and resting the back of his head against a shelf. The light came down and cast shadows on his strong cheekbones.
She sat up, got on her knees, then changed her mind and sat on her heels. Changed her mind again and rose, crossed to his side, walking on her knee points. He let his cock go, and it rested against his stomach, long enough the crown of it touched his sternum. She kneeled between his open legs with her hands on her thighs, looking away from his arousal and meeting his gaze. He held his hand out again in that familiar way and she gave him hers. Her hand was dwarfed in his grip. She scooted her knees closer, touched his chest with her free hand. His cock flexed, and she saw it pulse lubrication over the hard edges of his torso. Her grip circled it. Even just under the head, her finger and thumb could barely meet. His hot skin was slippery with his excitement as she began to stroke him. The size of his erection made her movement clumsy and unsure; she’d never held anything like it.
His hand rested on her hip and she gasped with surprise. It was welcome though, and that deep toothache in her womanhood abated, thinking it might finally get some relief.
Steep Hills
Her breath trembled, her hand on his erection stilled—every bit of her narrowed to a fine focus on the feel of his fingers as they caressed her skin, her intimate skin, just above her panty line. And as though her own psyche commanded it, his fingertips turned downward and slid underneath. Her breath now came in soft but erratic trembling whispers as the tips of his fingers combed through her pubic hair, and her womanhood tingled with anticipatory static, desperate to be touched. Two of those big handsome fingers she’d admired slipped over her slit and she turned her chin down, found Maceo studying her face.
One hand on his manhood, her other stroked his neck and cheek as he began to slip his fingers back and forth. Her mouth stayed hung open, he bit gently on his lower lip; the two tips eased so gently inside her.
Slowly, his face went blurry and she let out an embarrassing moan. Deeper his fingers entered her, and she went hazy bright, and her eyes closed. She eased herself forward and rested her bare chest against his. The hard knob of his cock head pressed between her hanging breasts, its slippery tip sliding along her skin. A long whispering exhale breathed from her as she surrendered to his touch.
She eased higher, hiding her face in his neck and collar as he stroked his f
ingers in and out of her. Hips tilted forward, she turned her bottom up so he could penetrate her deeper. When he did, she fell against him fully and he cradled her as though she were fainting, and while she never lost consciousness the fluttering of it was real; her heart raced, her pulse along with it, the veins in her neck throbbed like downed wires and her core ached for him, ached to feel the hardness inside her that merely pressed against her stomach right now.
They rolled to the side, Maceo still supporting her, his hand cupped behind her head. Then he was over top of her and she was on her back, the cold of the pantry floor chilling her skin, but not extinguishing the heat that was cooking her insides. Maceo’s beautiful face was over hers, his thick hair in a tangled comber. Around him, extending upward and distant in a single point perspective right out of one of her art instruction books: the familiar angles of her stocked pantry shelves and the wet of gloss ivory she painted the ceiling when the kids were little.
Now his free hand was tugging on her panties and she rolled side-to-side as he worked them down.
“No,” she whispered but watched her hands smooth the angles of his face as her thumbs caressed under his dark eyes that held her gaze and didn’t want to let go. Her knees went wide and Maceo got between them, his long thick manhood tapping over her tummy.
“Tell me you want me,” he said, the fronts of his thighs patting against the backs of hers as he got himself in position to penetrate.
“I want you so bad, Maceo, I want you,” she sighed, thumbs feeling that beautiful face. The tip of his cock moved through her bush as he arched his back and dragged his erection over her skin. “But I can’t, I can’t…” she cried.
Then his hand was on her thigh, the inside, just above her knee, slipping in a warm sweep higher, going to her apex, cupping her sex—she let out a low howl and closed her eyes as he slid what felt like three of those artist’s fingers deep inside her, fully, feeling as large as a penis. She cried with regret and pleasure and curved her hands over the hard shapes of his shoulders.
She watched his eyes through narrowed blurry slits as he fucked her hard with his fingers. She squeezed her thighs against his waist, dug her nails into his flesh; the sound between her legs grew slushy and slick but she was far too gone to be shy, instead now reaching between them and gripping his huge, hard cock. Her fist closed around that fat, full head as big as a plum and the cushion of her thumb caressed the slit—when she found it slick and dripping she cried out again, knowing his body was proving to her how eager this gorgeous twenty-year-old man was to make love with her. The whole while he thrust long fingers through her insides, she met his gaze and began stroking him hard and fast.
“Yeah, do it,” she grunted.
He bit that lower plump lip again and met the pace of her stroke with the thrust of his fingers. They mated their syncopation staring into each other’s eyes. The feel of his hardness in her hand, the effect of his gaze—pinning her to the floor with his eyes—built unsustainable pleasure in her inner valves and pipelines and a warbling sound filled the room, but her ears had popped with pressure and it didn’t occur to her right away that it was her making the noise, that uncontrollable pleasure was producing cries of ecstasy.
Her hand stilled and squeezed on him hard, her grip squishing his plump round end with slick strength and now her butt curled and raised off the floor, the small of her back pressed the cold tile and her vision narrowed to a dim star point on Maceo’s face.
A rumbling that had threatened her from a distance, roaring in the distance, had warned her, came after her like a freight train now, shaking and rattling her tracks hard enough to loosen her joints, her teeth clamped down hard and she nipped the tip of her tongue. Breath snorted and scored her nostrils and she seized under Maceo, her body twisting and torquing, her hand tightened like a clamp on his cock, and she twisted her body, writhed on her pantry floor as pleasure expanded against all her seams looking to blow her to shreds. She had to cry out before she burst. Both her hands gripped his neck now, and she dragged her nails on his skin as she humped against his digital penetration—no, fucked against it—she fucked against him and came hard and huge and explosive in a dazzling phosphorescent orgasm that had her eyes shut so tight stars sparkled behind in the mental black like constellations.
The orgasm went through her like a thunderclap and it left her hairline pounding like someone knocked her forehead with a rubber mallet—but wet ecstasy still flooded her system and she made high moaning sounds, sucking her lips. She stopped his hand by grabbing his wrist.
Vision just a wet warbling slit, she watched him, trembling, panting, crying. Tears flooded her eyes and her hand fumbled around until it gripped his hard club and closed over the thick end. She cried and stroked, small hand jacking him up and down. He humped his hips, pushing his thing to thrust through her quick jerking movements—and it brought his breath faster and faster, and though she cried she encouraged him: “That’s it, yeah, okay?”
He grunted and groaned and the muscles on his arms flexed, raising up against the skin like cables, his torso tightened and twisted—he held his breath then made a low restrained roar in his throat. He ejaculated in thick jags that spurted her chest, the second one touching her chin; she slowed her stroke, turned it to squeezes and caresses while semen still pulsed from him and breath snorted. He hid his face against his shoulder.
“Look at me,” she whispered, “don’t look away.” Her voice was thick with sadness.
Maceo didn’t only look at her, he held her gaze and lowered his lips to kiss her. Hers parted in heart-racing anticipation and they kissed. His lips were as soft and damp as she imagined, cool and strong, and he pulled gently on her mouth. Her hand stroked down his slick manhood and cradled his hanging testicles. They were large, too, and settled in the cup of her palm with gentle weight. She closed her hand on them while they continued to kiss.
It was brief, contracted—two heartbeats before she whispered, “Let me up.”
Maceo did, backing off her and staying on his knees. While she sat up, she looked down. Thick wandering tracks of his semen ran over her breasts and the folds of her stomach in shining rivulets. Her right hand was streamed with his pearly expulsion. She used the back of both wrists to squish tears out of her eyes. Maceo’s large hand caressed her cheek and gripped her neck; her head tilted to press it against her shoulder. He slumped to sit next to her.
He asked, “Are you crying?”
“No,” she lied and looked away but still pinched his hand against her neck.
“I don’t want you to cry.”
“I’m not,” she said.
He traced her earlobe with his thumb. “Can I kiss you again?” he asked.
She chuckled, looked in his young eyes that had little wisdom, but lots of care and compassion and hope. “No,” she said. She looked down his body, in his lap. He was so beautiful; his muscle, his definition, the young, supple, tanned skin, that masculine grace; his incredible manhood resting over his ankle. “I have to get up. I have to get out of here before I scream.”
“Stay with me,” he whispered, pulling her closer by her neck. Her hands on his chest stopped him.
“No, Maceo,” she said.
His hand caressed her hair, cupped the back of her head and he tried to get her to look at him. She wouldn’t. She rose, left him sitting, opened the pantry door.
Beyond the kitchen window, the dashing snow and the tangle of trees that framed the yard where the kids used to have their trampoline pulsed in steady throbbing orange; the unexpected light traced all the polished and raised surfaces of her clean but darkened kitchen.
Running lights. Orange. The ones on the top of the F250. John was home...
* * *
Gear lever down to reverse again, he backed the F250 into the driveway’s turnaround, lurched forward pushing another shovelful of snow toward the tree line. Visibility was low, the snow was really coming down—not just down, but sideways.
Evan and Marissa
’s Yukon was parked up next to Janie’s pickup. He put the truck in reverse and rolled back again, truck beeping and dragging its shovel. He jammed on the lever to lift the blade, looking up at the vehicles. They had a young, strong kid staying with them, Janie would send him out with a shovel to clean around the cars and the walkways. He had about a dozen more driveways to do and then check up to make sure the big trucks were on the roads and doing okay before he would be home.
He put the truck in park, shook his head. It would be easier for him to do it, just take him a few minutes.
“Hold on, Sheba,” he said, and stepped out of the warmth of the cab into the blistering side-slashing cold. He hauled off the metal blade shovel from the back of his truck, pulled up the hood on his work coat and headed up the garden path. He shoveled it left and right, working up to the wraparound porch, then down again, getting around the cars. It would have to be done again, but maybe Janie would remember and send Maceo out.
He paused now at the mouth of the path that lead up to the homestead, one arm over the handle of the shovel. The windows were dark.
Why were they dark?
He smiled now, thinking of his wife in the addition with Maceo, back where the light wouldn’t be seen. The young guest had sparked something in her and he hoped they were both painting their butts off while he worked. But standing at the mouth of the walk, smiling into the snow that made his lashes flutter and collected in his beard, an ominous sort of dread droned through him like a far off klaxon’s call. While his smile faltered a moment, it returned. His eyes went over the blank windows, his hand came up to stroke snow from his beard. The darkness came with a foreboding, a warning, and it slithered and curled in his belly like an anfractuous coil.
