tagAnalJoanna

Joanna

byeast76th©

"Hold, Gil, right there. Let me get used to it."

I complied with a low, pleading moan, pulsing wildly inside the first asshole ever to grip the head of my erection.

Nerve endings I didn't know I possessed screamed for me to move, but I listened to Joanna Hathaway, who a scant half-hour prior to positioning herself prone on the floor and offering me her ass to plunder, had unbuttoned my plaid shirt and pilfered my virginity with a sweet vengeance.

Joanna exhaled rhythmically and lifted her pelvis off the green pile carpet. Like a delectable magic trick, her porcelain ass rose and stole another two inches of my engorged cock.

"Gil, God. You're stretching me baby, you're stretching my little ass. Yes, sweet boy, yes. More!"

Inflamed by her words, I tossed my head like a bull intent on charging and moaned. Sweat sprayed from my hair and dripped from my chin onto her back, where sinuous muscles writhed like snakes beneath her alabaster skin. I watched the sweat pool in the dimpled recess of her lower back then brought my gaze up to her long raven hair, strands of which were plastered to her flushed profile.

With a feverish prayer to the gods of longevity, I eased my 19-year-old cock into her perfect 39-year-old ass until my pelvis met the plushness of her cheeks, where I released a pent-up breath I hadn't known I was storing.

She led me from below as I held still as stone to avoid prematurely anointing her bowels with my cum, insinuating her ass against me in deliberately dawdling semicircles while I sucked on the back of her neck to keep from screaming.

I was in her power, and when I saw her teeth clamp down hard on her own slender forearm to avoid sobbing out her joy and heard her ragged breathing, I felt a measure of that power in me. She wrenched her teeth from her arm and bared them like an animal, her movement revealing a mold of perfect orthodontry on her skin.

"Please, Gil, fuck me," she rasped. "I need it so badly. Let yourself go, fill my ass with your cum. I want to feel it inside of me all night, moving when I move, drooling down my legs when I walk."

I heard her somehow above the roaring in my ears. Backing off a little, I thrust forward, forcing a small cry from her throat. Gaining confidence, I began pulling back even farther, leaving only the swollen head inside her ass before plunging in to the hilt. I kept up that rhythm as her cries became first guttural moans, then savage shrieks.

"Make me cum, baby, just like that, fuck my ass hard. Please don't stop, don't ever stop fucking me. Don't ever --!"

Her words proved too much, as with a half roar, half whine, I exploded deep in her ass as she began jerking spasmodically beneath me.

She went suddenly silent. Her mouth opened wide and her eyes grew huge as her spasms overtook her. She bucked hard in prolonged orgasm, her strong body twisting while her well-used asshole clenched and unclenched around me, milking me involuntarily.

I held her tight as she spasmed, until she was finally able to draw a breath. Our harsh breathing filled the room as we struggled for air.

I peppered her neck with wispy kisses as small aftershocks shook her body, squeezing my cock as it shrunk inside her enlarged hole. I was covered with sweat, utterly spent, and my knees were rubbed bloody from friction, but I was in love and lust and felt better than I ever did before or would after.

* * *

Rain runs in rivulets off my black umbrella and falls between my black loafers, which are a quarter-inch deep in muddy grass and as inadequate for this November funeral as my pornographic thoughts.

One hundred changes of season after last seeing, touching or talking to Joanna Hathaway except in dreams, I have crossed the Atlantic Ocean to see her buried. I stand on the periphery of the somber crowd as she is lowered into the ground, holding my solemn gray homburg in front of an enormously inappropriate hard-on. It has been so long, yet I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that above all others reactions to her passing, it's mine that Joanna would appreciate most.

I live in Italy. I am a successful writer. I am, essentially, what, in one glorious watershed week, Joanna Hathaway made me.

She was the first person to call me Gil. Until then, I'd progressed through Gilbert, the only son, Gilbert, the skinny kid, Gilbert the nerd with the glasses and finally, Gilbert the kid on scholarship.

It was as the last that I met Charles Hathaway in the fall of 1978 at Brown University. Whatever ironist in housing thought to pair the lower middle class, shabbily dressed Jewish boy from Coney Island with his rich, popular polar opposite unwittingly did me the biggest of favors.

As the saying goes, for the first two months I roomed with Charles' luggage. I occasionally caught a glimpse of him when I returned from a morning class, passing his body sprawled fully clothed across his bed as I went to record my thoughts in an ever-present journal. Sporadically, with a grunt hello, he'd wake and crawl into the shower, but he usually slept until after I'd left for my afternoon classes, and was gone when I returned.

Charles came to me for help with his neglected studies about two weeks before finals. Truthfully, I was flattered just to be in his orbit. But I coolly suggested that if he was serious, he go introduce himself to his professors and get back here so we could get started.

To my surprise, he was determined; and I found myself tutoring a diligent and hardworking student who somehow passed all of his final exams.

Either as a thank you or because he saw how lonely I was, Charles invited me skiing in Vermont over the weekend with him and his family. I opened my mouth to politely decline and heard myself agree to go.

The memory of that trip has outlasted two wives and more interludes than I care to remember.

Charles and I drove down together on a gray Friday afternoon, passing a silver flask bearing a monogrammed "C.H." between us. We chatted casually throughout the ride, neither too cautious nor personal. More like two people stuck on a slow line amiably passing time.

We finally arrived in front of the quintessential log cabin – if it had been built by the Astors. Smoke rose from one of the many chimneys. It looked, I wrote later, like someone had moved Buckingham Palace into the woods. There was a sleek, expensive-looking silver car in the long driveway.

"Looks like my parents are already here, put the flask in the dash." Charles said.

Before Charles could even kill the engine, the door flew open and a ponytailed 14-year-old Abercrombie & Fitch ad charged out the door screaming his name.

"Jenna!" Charles shouted, and caught her in his arms for a bear hug.

God, I thought. Are these people for fucking real?

In quick succession, I met his father – an amiable, tanned Charles with a slight paunch twenty years in the future, and two greyhounds, named Donner and Blitzen. Really.

We brought in our bags and were shown to separate rooms. Mine was as genuine a representation of wealthy rustication that has ever existed. I had my own fireplace, complete with burning fire, which lay across an expanse of hunter green rug so thick that it obscured my shoes.

I stretched out on the queen-sized bed and groaned in pleasure. So this is roughing it. Strange, it looked tougher on Little House on the Prairie.

I moved closer to the fire, pulled out my journal and wrote until Charles burst in, arms laden with skis, poles and other foreign paraphernalia. My stomach filled with dread and I began to protest.

"I don't want to hear it, Gilbert. You're here, you ski. House rules."

An unfortunately quick half-hour later, I had exchanged my glasses for goggles and my seat by the fire for a perch atop a windy, icy mountain. To my out-of-focus eyes, the slope before me looked precipitous, even as Charles and Jenna assured me that this was the one they'd learned on.

Jenna, in fact, was stunned to hear that someone my age had never skied. She looked at me like I was a rather fascinating museum exhibit.

"Really never?"

"It's OK, I'll be fine. I've played a lot of ski ball."

She gave me a vague look, then flashed a dentist's dream of a smile.

"Well then," she enthused, digging her poles in and sliding herself forward, "Let's go!"

* * *

The ride back from the hospital was rather pleasant, actually.

The pain pills left me in a sort of dreamy haze, which gave the nighttime foliage an ethereal quality they would have lacked had I been straight. All in all, I can't say I was too disappointed. A dislocated thumb – not my writing hand – was a small price to pay to avoid having to hurl myself down the side of a mountain every day for the rest of the week. I looked forward to long nature walks with the dogs, pages of writing and extreme country solitude while the others risked life and limb.

"Sorry I ruined everyone's day," I said.

Charles' father laughed. "Don't worry about it, we have all week. Besides, it truly was worth it to see you submarine Mrs. Nance like that. She's been altogether too smug since her second cousin married a Kennedy. But you know, you really should have told us you couldn't ski."

"Yes, how silly of me."

The ride home was no more than a half hour, but my hand had begun to throb a little by the time we pulled into the driveway, which was now home to a sporty red MG.

"Mom's here," Jenna singsonged.

The big wooden door to the house opened and I got my first look at the feast that was Joanna Hathaway.

Let me say that although I was a virgin, I'd had my fair share of sweaty gropes and desperate party bedroom fumblings. It was the 1970s, after all, not the dark ages, and even a nerd can find someone lonely enough to kiss from time to time. But none of my unformed fantasies centered around such mundane practices. I wanted wild, no holds barred porn sex. I was convinced that wild mirror-on-the-ceiling sex flourished everywhere that I wasn't.

But until then, mothers were as far from my sexual longings as the moon was from the window of my Brooklyn bedroom. Only once had I ever looked at a mother as anything except a source of a sandwich. Five years ago, doing homework over at Jason Pitkin's house, Mrs. Pitkin's housecoat slipped from a shoulder as she was dusting to reveal a perfect ruddy aureole.

Charles' mother stepped easily through the door and stood framed against the finished wood with hands on hips. But before I could even begin my gawking study, she let out a girlish giggle and came running down the icy steps, the salt crackling under her boots like seashells on a rocky beach.

Sitting in the back of the car – I was up front due to my injury – Charles pushed the seat and me forward, jostling my hand hard enough to cause me to bite off a gasp, and flew out the door to meet her halfway in yet another Hathaway bear hug.

By the time I was able to awkwardly eject myself from the car and hip-check the heavy door shut, Charles had apparently briefed his mother on my mishap.

Flushed and sweating from exertion and pain, I spoke to her for the first time. Well, kind of.

"Hello, Gilbert," she said in a strong, confident voice with her left hand – my right was swathed in bandages – extended. "I'm Joanna. But I guess you can call me Florence Nightingale."

I looked up into gray eyes that instantly pinned mine and fell irrevocably in love. It took all of one second to take her in, from the whiteness of her skin to the polished quartz luster of her long hair. A quarter of a century later, I can effortlessly recall her gray crew neck sweater that revealed the promise of an elegant, swan-like neck and the swell of her high breasts against the soft-looking fabric. She wore a long, khaki skirt – the kind that has recently come into fashion again among smart-looking New York women in wintertime – and tiny brown leather boots. A full head shorter than my 5-10, she was perfection in miniature.

Struck mute, I somehow managed to take her hand. It was soft, cold and alive with nervous energy. Mine, of course, was hot and sweaty. When we let go, she didn't try to surreptitiously wipe her palm, and my love doubled. She was kind.

She didn't seem to mind my silence, which became less conspicuous when Jenna began her latest version of my abortive jag down the mountain.

Inside, they settled in the living room before the fire with hot chocolate for Jenna and brandy for the rest. Still reeling from Joanna's impact, I pleaded tiredness due to the drugs and promised I'd be down in time for dinner after a nap.

Joanna's voice followed me up the stairs. "Rest well, Gilbert."

I could have rested better balancing on a jackhammer breaking through concrete. Journal pinned by my elbow, my hand struggled to form the words to describe Joanna. Instead, as the throbbing in my hand migrated south, I described in pornographic detail what I wished to do to, with and upon Joanna.

I wrote for an hour, until my raging erection would no longer be denied attention. Then I lay back on the bed with my jeans and underwear twisted around my skinny thighs and handled myself to orgasm with fantasies of her naked body under mine. As I came, I imagined her excusing herself from her family, and with impeccable timing slipping into my room and taking the head of my cock into her mouth to milk me dry. The vision was so real that it was a shock when a hot gush of cum overwhelmed my hand and drizzled onto my leg.

Too exhausted even to wipe myself, I kicked off my tangled clothing, pulled a cover over me and fell asleep for an hour.

Showered and shaved, I donned a thrift-store tweed blazer over a pair of jeans. I had to wait for my impertinent erection to subside. Masturbation apparently only agitated my desire for Charles' mother.

My mountainside waltz with death had triggered my appetite. That, combined with the fact that I've always eaten like a man three times my size, kept me from partaking in much dinner conversation, which was dominated mostly by Charles' tales of the grueling hardships inherent in pursuing a business degree. Catching snatches between bites, it sounded to me like my roommate was more suited to creative writing.

When I glanced up from my third plate of lamb to find that I was the only one still with food in front of them, I crimsoned. Jenna stared; mouth agog, Charles was grinning and even his parents weren't too polite to look highly amused.

"So Gilbert," Mr. Hathaway asked wryly, "How do you plan on feeding yourself when you get out of school? Or do your parents own a supermarket?"

"Howard," chided Joanna. "He's just teasing. He's jealous, he wishes he could eat like you. What are you taking in school, Gil?"

"According to my mother, space," I told them. "Mostly just some English classes. Not really sure what I want to do."

That was a lie, but I hated telling people I wanted to be a writer. It's like a fourth-grader saying they wanted to be a baseball player. Everyone smiles knowingly and tells you how great that is, then feels sorry for your parents.

"The sooner you know the better," Howard said. "That's the way you make your mark on this world. You have to outplan it."

"Yes," said Jenna with an innocent smile. "Daddy was six when he found out he was going to inherit forty million dollars from grandma."

Charles' laugh sprayed hot chocolate across the table.

"That's the way to outplan them, all right," he bellowed.

I listened to the banter and made all the right noises, but my senses were filled with Joanna – the way her lips curled around her spoon, and how her blood-red nails looked against the china white coffee cup. She was the most erotic object d'art I could possibly imagine.

The hour grew late and the throbbing in my hand more insistent, forcing me to excuse myself. I trudged upstairs, took a happy pill and slept to erotic snapshots of Joanna.

The next day, it took about a half hour of protesting that I would be perfectly fine on my own before the Hathaways would head to the slopes en masse. And fine I was; sleeping, writing and finally taking a long, strenuous walk up a hillside in a fruitless attempt to follow an icy stream to its source.

Half frozen, I returned to the cabin around 2 p.m. in anticipation of a hot shower. I stripped layers of clothes as I made my way up to my room. I went into the bath, turned the shower on and climbed in once the steam was thick. I lingered in there for at least thirty minutes, letting the water thaw me and picturing Joanna in a variety of electrifying poses.

Finally, I got out, dried myself and grabbed a soft robe hanging from a hook. The voluminous material didn't quite conceal my raging erection, but then again, there was no one to see it.

And then there was.

Perched with one delectable ass cheek on the corner of my bed, Joanna was flipping the pages of my journal.

She looked up, our eyes met, and apparently God was elsewhere, because my profuse wishes to die on the spot went unfulfilled.

She offered me a gentle, tentative smile.

"I came home early to see if you were well. This was sitting open on your bed." She took a deep breath. "No, actually, it wasn't. It was closed and under two books on the end table. I was nosy.

"Why didn't you tell us you were a writer, Gil?"

For a moment, my deep humiliation took a back seat.

"D -," I actually stuttered. Taking a deep breath, I plunged. "Do you like it?" I asked intensely.

"It's wonderful, Gil. Truly and deeply wonderful writing."

Until that moment, I had no idea how much I'd longed to hear those words from someone I didn't call mom or dad. It was a validation I'd been afraid to seek for the past ten years.

My next question held even more trepidation. "And some of the subject matter?"

She stood up and read in her strong, husky voice.

"I want to find her body's secret places and learn them like a blind man learns his lover's face. I want the language of Joanna's body to be mine.

"That's the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said about me, Gil. I think it's the most beautiful thing anyone has ever written about anyone."

She closed the book and carefully placed it back on the night table.

"But of course," and here she gave an impish, winning grin. "I am somewhat biased."

Slowly, as if not to scare me into bolting from the room, she shed her clothes. Even after all this time, I could intimately describe each millimeter of flesh as it came into view. The order it was revealed, what covered it, and how each bit contributed to the glorious whole. But such an in-depth analysis would detract from the entirety of her beauty, which was not the sum of its parts, but something more seamless. She just was.

Her body was a reason to believe in a higher power, magnificent in a way that puts all of the new millennium's surgically enhanced creatures to shame. A long, lean and strong womanly body full of peaks and valleys, coves and inlets.

She wriggled free of her bra and came boldly forward dressed only in a pair of sky blue panties. My breath grew more ragged with each step, until finally she was close enough for me to touch the flushed skin between her perfect breasts.

I tentatively reached up for her, but she shook her head. Taking my unhurt hand in hers – her fingers warm and dry, mine suddenly soaked with all the moisture that fled my desiccated mouth – she led me to the edge of the bed. With gentle pressure, she pushed me down into a sitting position.

She undid the sodden towel around my waist, and pushed on my shoulders.

"Lay back, Gil. I want to look at you."

Too close to exploding to be embarrassed, I stretched out on my back. My erection, a warm breath from spraying like an out-of-control fire hose, was the highest point of my body.

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