Anything for Mrs. Titball

"Oh, Mark! I didn't know you were still here," she said.

I stopped and looked up. She had ceased touching herself. All was safe. "I—uh—I had to use the bathroom," I muttered, continuing toward the door.

"Wait, dear," Mrs. Titball said, reaching for me.

"Hmm?"

Our eyes met, and she smiled broadly. "Come here," she called, and she pulled me in for a deep hug. Kissing my ear, she drew back and walked me the rest of the way. She thanked me, again, for the lemon bars.

"I know how you like them," I muttered, embarrassed.

Her long fingers rubbed my shoulder and slid down my back.

"Just very thoughtful of you," she said, opening the door with the other hand.

Our eyes met. She looked gorgeous and full of joy.

"Y—Yeah, I hope they're good," I stammered. "Well, good night, Mrs. Titball—and—and thanks for dinner and everything."

"Of course, Mark. I'm so happy that you're here." She held the door open for me and ushered me out, gently urging me forward with her large, soft hand on my buttock.

I thought about the way she touched me and the way she touched her own tits for the next year. I thought about her smile and her eyes, too. Hardly a day passed without me remembering her, imagining her.

I was still eighteen, and I had kissed one girl once in my entire life. It was after the Homecoming Dance when I dropped off the girl back home. Nothing much to it.

I am no judge of men's looks. I suppose I was alright-looking. I wasn't misshapen. I was in three sports during high school, so I was fit and strong. Good enough to play, I wasn't getting offered any athletic scholarships. I kept myself clean and tried to smell like soap and toothpaste.

I guess I was an average kid with average grades who would soon graduate high school and go to an average college.

Girls seemed complicated. One was supposed to talk to them, but it's hard to do that when their bodies are so close and when kissing and touching and sex is the ultimate goal.

Girls' smells, sounds, and sights would interfere with my train of thought. One minute, I would be talking to a girl I liked about the party the previous weekend. The next minute, I was staring at her chest, realizing she had asked me a question some time ago.

I wanted girls. I liked talking about them with my friends. I imagined doing lots of things with them. But, I didn't want to embarrass myself; I needed to be really good at sex stuff.

All of my friends seemed so experienced, and it just hadn't happened for me. The longer it took to get my own first experience, the more milestones and skills all of my friends gained. It was a hopeless, losing cycle.

I felt desperate and paralyzed. I was eighteen, horny, and frustrated; I was a young man poised to try something reckless.

I don't have a great reason why I was so fixated upon Mrs. Titball, but I was. I grew erect at night thinking about her. My fantasies should have included the beautiful girl, Shon-Elle, in my Chemistry class or the ass of that blonde, Kiley, who sat in front of me in Trig, but they didn't. It was Mrs. Titball; I wanted her.

Something about her struck me as intensely sexual. Maybe it was simply that she rubbed my head at the exact right moment in time. It could have been how she held my hand. It might have been those gigantic tits and the way she sighed. Or, maybe it was our story—I had let her down, and now I was redeemed. I'm not sure. It felt to me more like something in her eyes and the way she walked and talked—her carriage and attitude, her joy.

Is joy sexy? I asked myself.

Yeah, I responded after a moment's thought. I guess it kind of is.

I couldn't help but imagine that underneath the modest clothing and almost grandmotherly demeanor, there lurked a woman of desire.

As I sat in my bedroom, I wondered if, on the next hunting trip, I could find a way to spend time with her, just us.

Maybe, I thought, after the feast, I could stay behind while everyone else left. Maybe I could ask her to rub my head and who knows?

I thought about bringing her a gift, not just lemon bars.

Maybe get her sexy panties? I asked myself. Then, remembering how tall and large she was, I realized I had no idea what size to purchase or if she needed some kind of special order. To make a mistake on such a thing struck me as detrimental to my hopes.

I considered writing her a note and telling her how she made me feel.

I imagined leaving our hunting early and stopping by for a private visit.

As I let my mind wander into romance, I decided it would be more meaningful if I were injured, gored in the hip by a buck, maybe. Mrs. Titball would lead me to her bedroom. She would take off my shirt and clean the wound with her soft hands. Maybe she would rub my chest. I would feel her fingertip drag over my nipple. I would see her eyes take in my body, perhaps seeing the trail of new hairs under my navel. Her fingers would begin unbuttoning my trousers—.

Fuck, I wanted her. I wanted her so badly that I cringed at the thought of never having her.

I slammed my fist on my desk and told myself that I needed to get her to touch me again, to see me not as a boy but as a young man. If she could see how much I wanted her, if she could see how hard she made me—see or touch my cock, then maybe. Somehow. Fuck!

Then, I thought of the snake bite. It scared me a bit—the brazen daring of it.

Tentatively, I played out the scene in my mind, and it excited me beyond anything I ever found on the Internet. It began to seem plausible to my high school senior self. So, night after night, I imagined it. At first, the idea was mere fancy, but the more details I added to the scene, the more reasonable it seemed.

I smiled when I turned off my nightlight, knowing I would spend the next minutes dreaming about the snake bite and what would surely follow: my romantic and wonderfully sexual adventure with Mrs. Titball.

One morning in early January, I decided I needed to look my best for her, so I began a hard-core weightlifting regimen in addition to my regular basketball practices. One night in late May, just before graduation, I decided it would help if my dick tasted really good, too.

***

Prior to the hunting trip of my nineteenth year, I found a recipe online called "Sexaluscious Multiple Orgasm Lemon Bars." The dormitory had a community kitchen, so I made them there. It was a significantly more involved recipe, but when I tried the finished product—wow.

I also wrote a note to accompany the bars. It told her how much I'd been looking forward to seeing her again. It thanked her for being so welcoming. The note explained how often I thought of her, and that I tried a new lemon bar recipe that I hoped would please her. After a long internal debate, I signed it "Love, Mark."

She looked just as I remembered her when we arrived. There were hugs for us all, but mine didn't last longer than any others. She kissed my cheek after I gave her the bars, but she didn't read the note right away.

After the feast, I cleared and rinsed the dishes for her and then again after dessert. Mrs. Titball was very thankful. I didn't join the first card game. Covertly, I left a wrapped gift on her bed—a faux pearl necklace with a malachite center stone in the shape of a heart. There was no card, but I knew that after our romantic and wonderfully sexual adventure, she would know exactly who had given it to her. I liked that it would be a mystery until then.

I saw a nice ten-pointer on Sunday morning before anyone else. It was my kill, but I ignored it. Dad was the next to see it. He took the shot and the buck.

Mom, Dad, and my sisters returned home on Sunday afternoon. Sam and I stayed behind to get our deer.

At my suggestion, we split up on Monday morning, him taking the east side of the Loup, me taking the west. Dad wouldn't have approved, but it was safe. We'd been hunting here for years, and as long as we kept the Loup between us and stayed in our fields of fire, there was no risk of overlapping trajectories.

We left at five in the morning. I waited in a spot I liked until nine o'clock, never really looking.

Still, a pack of does and fawns crossed my kill zone at about 75 yards. There were five of them. The last one to cross was the biggest doe I had ever seen.

A typical adult female weighed around 100 pounds or so. I guessed this one to be well over 150 pounds. And tall. Geez. Forty-two inches to its shoulder, maybe.

I forgot about Mrs. Titball and watched the big doe.

She crossed behind her family. It was almost 20 yards of low dry grasses between two brakes of cottonwoods and shrubs. Scanning around herself, the doe stepped about halfway into the gap and stopped.

I stared at her profile and mouthed several curses. She was a beautiful creature.

We wanted bucks, but a doe this big would be a story and a half. It would definitely make the local news, and it might even get into the Sunday Outdoors sections of the Lincoln and Omaha papers. She was a huge whitetail.

Slowly and carefully, I sighted in on her with my rifle. She didn't see me. Scanning left and right, she took a step and presented me with the perfect shot. Without a sound, my thumb pushed the safety off.

Taking a long breath, I re-engaged the rifle's safety and rose to my feet.

She didn't dart. Her head turned directly towards me.

I waved.

Then she quietly crossed the last ten yards out of sight.

For a moment in time, the big, beautiful doe had made me forget my purpose. A wave of nervous excitement swept through me as I thought about Mrs. Titball. I set aside the rifle and began to prepare myself for the snake bite.

***

Mrs. Titball let my cock down and drew back her hand. "A rattlesnake? Are you quite certain?"

I nodded weakly.

"You saw him? You heard his rattle?"

I nodded, moaning.

"Mark."

"Yeah?" I groaned, avoiding eye contact.

A beat passed.

"Mark!" she snapped. Her voice was different. Not fearful or hysterical. Grave.

I opened my eyes and looked at her, still acting the part of the wounded.

"Snakes like the Prairie Rattler brumate this time of year," she said. "Kind of like hibernating. It's too cold for their bodies. They're just not out in November unless it's unseasonably warm, and it isn't."

It wasn't. I suddenly felt every bit of that cold.

"Are you actually hurt, dear?" she asked.

Guilt began to choke out my breath. Unwilling to concede the disgusting lie, I writhed weakly.

"Mark!"

I stopped and opened my eyes.

"Are you hurt? Did you do something to yourself down there?"

I couldn't speak. I had just annihilated my redemption. It was a nightmare; it had to be. I needed to wake up.

"Tell me that you lied about the snake bite," she demanded.

I gulped and nodded.

She looked at my penis.

I could feel the fucking thing. The cold air or the mounting fear had done its work. My nut sack was scrunched up into my groin. My cock was shriveled and pointy. Fuck, I thought, she's going to think I've got a cock the size of a lapdog's.

"Did you actually hurt yourself, though?" she asked. "Did you do something to your penis?"

I turned away, blinking. Then, I flinched.

Mrs. Titball's fingers were on my dick. She bent over it, examining the fake injury. I felt her thumb rub the tip, clearing away the blood. "Mark, I need to know if you're injured, so talk to me."

Too mortified to speak, I sighed. Just take the fucking rifle, I thought, and shoot me.

She licked her thumb and resumed wiping away the fake blood. "What are these marks?" she asked. "Is this fake blood?"

I said nothing.

"Markus Lee Baldwin!"

I turned to her.

"Tell me what you did this instant!"

I swallowed the gigantic, dry rock in my throat and told her. My voice quavered with fear. I told her about the ice pick. I told her about the Sharpie and the fake blood.

"You were hoping I would put my mouth on your penis to suck the venom out, weren't you?" she asked.

Hearing her say the words made the act seem exponentially worse. I turned away.

"Tell me!"

Still looking away, I nodded.

Her hands stuck to her hips, and she chided, "I am astonished at you, Mark! Lying and acting and using a fake injury to lure a woman into—into oral sex!"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Titball. I—." I had no more words, only shame. 'Bad boy,' I remembered her calling me once. I'd take 'bad boy' a hundred times over to avoid what I surely was now in her eyes—a 'perverted young man.'

Then she said, "And what is that?"

I didn't move.

"What is that, Mark?"

"Huh?"

"What is that I tasted just now on my thumb? Is that the fake blood?"

I shrugged before I realized the answer: she was tasting the lemon tea powder, the "dry-rub." I had no idea if it would work or not—a dry rub on a dick? Apparently, it had, but it didn't matter. The tea powder just made the scene even more unbearable.

I was caught. What would she do? Tell my parents? Then, Sam would find out. The story would be told. I would become the kid who tried to get his dick sucked by an old farm widow by pretending a venomous snake bit his cock. I would never live this down. Never.

Mrs. Titball licked her thumb again. "What in tarnation is that?" she asked herself. "I know that taste."

I remained prostrate and broken.

"Mark!"

I looked at her.

"Did you put something on your penis to make it taste funny? I can taste the fake blood. That isn't what I'm talking about. There is something else. What is it now?"

I sighed. "Lipton Southern Sweet Tea with Lemon."

"Excuse me?"

I repeated myself, adding, "The mix—the powder."

Her hands went back to her hips. "How?"

I was like a child again—caught red-handed and freely spilling the ugly truth to Mom; I explained to Mrs. Titball what I had done.

"Just now?" she asked. "Just now you put it on there?"

Shaking my head, I told her how I'd been putting it on there every night for over six months and rinsing it off every morning.

She eyed me suspiciously, and when I finished, her eyes bent to my withered, frightened cock. She suddenly bent toward it. Her nose mere fractions away, she inhaled the scent.

"Oh, my goodness!" she exclaimed, rising. Her eyes darted to mine. "It's the truth!"

I shrugged and faced away from her. I wanted to pull up my pants; the exposure was mortifying. I wanted to take Sam's car and never, ever return to this place. My mind tried to grasp the depth of my shame for a minute or so before I finally turned back to face Mrs. Titball.

She eyed me, blinking as if some interesting notion had pushed aside all other thoughts. "Mark," she said gently, "am I right in thinking that you have been trying all this time to show an interest in me, not as a friend, but as a woman?"

I couldn't respond.

She went on. "The special new lemon bars and the note, holding my hand under the table last year, helping me with the dishes, and—of course!—the necklace. It was from you, wasn't it?"

I shook my head in abysmal failure.

"You hatched this rattlesnake scheme, you put tea mix on your penis—sweet tea with lemon mix!—every night for half a year so that—so that when I put my mouth on it to draw out the venom, I would enjoy how your penis tasted."

"I'm so sorry, Mrs.—."

"Shush," she snapped, and she sat on her heels with her hands on her thighs for a long minute or so. At one point, I heard her whisper to herself, "All this time." Then, she turned to me. Her big eyes grew tender, and she quietly asked, "Mark, are you in love with me?"

I looked at her and swallowed. "Yeah," I said, and I tried to push myself to my elbows.

"Stay put," she said, pushing me back to the ground.

I opened my mouth to speak.

"Shush now, Mark." Mrs. Titball scanned the horizon around her. Then, she looked at me and cleared her throat.

Her eyes returned to my crotch. Then, she took my cold, pathetically shrunken cock between her index finger and thumb, and without another utterance, she bent over my belly.

I gasped. My stomach muscles clenched. Without warning, Mrs. Titball's mouth had engulfed my limp cock with ease, head to root. Her lips nestled into my pubic hairs.

Hot shock is what I felt. Every hair on my body thrilled as if teeming with static electricity.

Mrs. Titball's lips strangled the base of my limp cock. The suction in her mouth was machine-like in its unrelenting pressure.

But, the wetness and the heat. Fuck. And her tongue. Her tongue roamed about the shaft and tip, exploring and gathering.

She swallowed, and the brief tug I felt on the head of my cock was an aching pain. It ended before I could react. Mrs. Titball's mouth released me, and I looked down and saw that her suction—not the beginning of an erection, but her suction—had more than doubled its length. The thing glistened with her saliva.

Very slowly rising to her knees again, Mrs. Titball's eyes were tightly shut. She slowly shook her head from side to side for a second. Then she licked and smacked her lips. "Oh, that's heavenly," she murmured.

When she looked at me, she waved me down with her fingers and, again, told me to shush. Her eyes were hungry when they found my cock, and she glanced left and right once more before dropping down upon it for another helping.

Again, she pinched the base between her fingers, but this time I was much longer—still limp, but long enough so that my cock flagged in the middle. Her lips sought out the tip, and once she'd engulfed it, her mouth followed the bend until she had all of it once more.

"Mm!" she hummed briefly, almost as if her second taste was more delightful than her first.

I felt the suction and gasped, but it stopped. I felt my cock being ejected, spat out. I watched it emerge from her lips. Her head never moved, so the soft length curled onto my pubic hairs. When all but the knob had appeared, the suction resumed. Her lips drew the shaft back into her mouth with a wet slurp.

She continued this way for a half-minute, sucking and spitting, back and forth. My cock felt like it was in some kind of soft washing machine.

But, it felt good, and I began to harden. On the fifth or sixth iteration, I was hard enough that Mrs. Titball had to move her head to eject my cock. When she inhaled it again, her head plummeted to my tummy.

I swallowed. I pinched my eyes shut. I gasped at the wonder of it—a pleasure I didn't understand was even possible. My body sizzled with energy and strength.

Mrs. Titball had turned the frightened little pickle into a tower of steel. I watched her lips ride the length, and I'd never felt bigger down there. Even so, Mrs. Titball's broad face, generous mouth, and large head made me feel somehow small. It was like a blowjob from a giantess.

Every time her lips sunk, she took it all.

I cursed in my head. The feeling was too exquisite. I needed to say something to her. Soon.

But, she released me into the cool November air with a gasp.

My cock throbbed. I watched a bit of precum spill from the slit. Mrs. Titball saw it too, and she licked it off with a speed that astonished me.

She rocked back, remaining low, and looked at me. The pole of my erection bisected her face, and her dark eyes seemed young and feverish with desire. She cooed, "Relax, Mark, and give it all to me—the venom, I mean." With a wink and a smile, she swallowed the tip. Humming in enjoyment, Mrs. Titball gorged the rest of my cock with ease.

When I felt her lips secure me at the root, my jaw fell open and a shocked grunt escaped me. I watched her head slowly twist left and right. I saw her throat undulate, felt her gullet pinch, heard her gulp. Her lips never left my pubic hairs.

I could not have stopped what was coming. My cock began injecting. My muscles fired along with it, contracting as if the strength of my entire core wanted to help fuel the expulsion.