Carol Ch. 03

They lay entwined for long minutes afterward, breathing hard, their eyes not locked so much as merged into one gaze, filled with each other. His cock, half-hard, was still deep in her pussy.

They kissed, gently, sweetly. Their hands touched each other's faces, stroked each other's skin. They did not speak for more than an hour--only kissed, and touched, and began to move together languidly, again, as Charlie's dick grew hard once more inside her.

They fucked again, so tenderly, so filled with love, so warmed by each other's fire that they had no need to speak, but only move.

----

They talked or left each other messages several times each week. They sometimes went to movies, or even shopping; they had dinner out or in Charlie's apartment, talking like the old friends and lovers that they were. They cuddled, and they laughed, and they fucked. It went on for two or three years, and it was perfect.

His apartment became their special refuge, their hiding place. Charlie would often slowly strip her, completely bare, as soon as she arrived. He would kneel at her feet and remove her shoes and knee-high hose, caress her pretty feet, and then remove her earrings and her necklace. The rest would follow, with more touches and caresses as he slowly bared her beauty. If she wore a barrette or hairpin in her hair, he took that too.

Still fully dressed himself, he'd hang up all her clothes in his front closet, place her shoes and underthings on its shelf, and close the door. She'd have no clothes, no covering at all, where they could even see them.

He liked to keep her naked, with nothing on or even near her. She'd sit there on his couch completely bare, feeling very vulnerable and a little self-conscious at having not a thread or stitch to cover her. She was at his mercy, and she liked that. So did he.

The only thing he left her was her wedding ring. It would not come off anyway--her hands, too, were just a little plumper than when she'd put it on--and he never asked her to remove it. They never spoke of it at all.

Sometimes they would begin there, on the couch, and she would come into his arms to be held and kissed and touched for long before he undressed himself and they went into the bedroom.

Or she'd unzip his pants and find his hard and leaking dick, and kiss and suck it lovingly--till he was moaning and his hips moved slowly in the rhythm that they loved.

Or he would kneel and part her thighs as she whimpered in anticipation, and kiss her secret second mouth and lick her till her voice was like a child's. He loved to hear her tell him how she loved him in that tiny, breathless voice.

Then, often, he would tell her to go alone into his bedroom and prepare for him. He loved to watch her walk naked across his living room, submissively doing as he said, leaving all her clothes and prim and proper modesty behind. For those times, on those days, she was completely his.

He'd go in a moment later--sometimes to find her lying on her back, holding her knees high and wide apart, with her face turned shyly to her shoulder as she offered him everything she had to give. Or she would be kneeling at the edge of the bed, her cheek against the bedspread and her knees placed wide apart--her plump bare ass, so pale and big and perfect, split open wide and cocked back to expose her pink and open pussy, gleaming with her eagerness.

One afternoon when he found her that way--naked and wordlessly ready, trembling with her hot anticipation--he tried out something he had read about. He placed the head of his hard cock just at her opening, between her swollen, liquid lips, and slid it up inside her--But only just.

He gave her just an inch, and then withdrew. She moaned, a tiny sound of protest. He had just eaten her for half an hour, bringing her almost--but not quite--to orgasm, and she was hungry for it.

He did it again, and then again, slowly, very slowly, a full second between his shortened strokes. Eight times, exactly. She was whimpering with need, humping her drooling pussy back at him and moaning for it, but he would not give her more.

Seven more tiny strokes--and then he slid it in, all the way in, balls-deep, his belly against her sweet bare cheeks.

She spasmed and cried out, "Oh, yes! Give it all to me!"--and then he pulled it out again, went back to tiny one-inch pumps that had her whining piteously.

Six more of those, then all the way in again, twice this time, all the way in and all the way out. She moaned in ecstasy--

And then five more little ones, barely penetrating her twitching, dripping pussy lips.

He fucked her very, very slowly, taking his time. Slow cycles of eight strokes, and one more deep one every time. By the time he got to three shallow and five deep, she was gripping the bedspread in her fists, shivering and groaning, not in her child's voice, but in deep and gutteral grunts of animal need.

"Unhh.... Oh, Chahlie, please.... Unnngh..... Oh, fuck me hard.... Oh, please..."

When he got to six, he gave her one more tiny one, and then began to fuck her long and deep and slow with every stroke.

He was not done. Seven deep and slow--then one fast and hard, slamming his belly into her ass, his balls against her clit, then quickly out again--

And back to long, slow strokes, in and out, all the way to the end of her grasping pussy tube and back out again, with agonizing slowness.

Six slow, two fast and hard, banging against her quivering ass as if be wanted to hurt her--five long and slow and torturous, three pounding into her like he was driving a spike. Four long and slow--

She was pulling at the bedspread, beyond words now. She was biting her pillow, eyes clenched shut, saliva drooling from between her teeth as she chewed it in her desperation. She had given up trying to push back, and simply knelt there shivering and tried to keep her cunt cocked up at him, as far back as she could, wide open and exposed completely for his thrusts.

Three long and slow and deep, and her pretty hands came back to pull her asscheeks apart as hard as she could do it for his five deep-punching hammer blows into her pussy. Her tiny, pink, and shamelessly exposed bare asshole winked at him as her cuntmuscles clenched and squeezed around his sliding, slamming dick.

And finally, he was fucking her deep and hard, as fast as he could fuck, pounding her upturned, quaking ass with his pelvis like he was trying to break her in half.

He did. She was shuddering in waves, in rushing tides, of overwhelming orgasm, one after another--not electrically intense like when he sucked her clit for half an hour, but ocean-deep and wide.

Her mouth was open now on the wet and well-chewed pillow, and she made no sound but gasps and puffs and panting. Her face was relaxed and slack as her body shook and shuddered; she was broken open and shattered, riding the tidal surges and cyclonic winds of a class-5 continuous-orgasm hurricane. Her face, her soul, were its calm eye; the rest of her, her body and her world, was buffeted and battered by the storm.

He fucked her in that state for twenty minutes, and he felt like a god, the God of Fuck. She would not have disagreed.

He saw her pretty toes clenched as in tiny fists, and for some reason, that sent him over the edge. He grabbed her hips and drove in deep and shot her full, his jets and bursts of sperm seeming to start at his heart and pick up speed and pressure till they blasted from his dickhead like creamy, white-hot bullets.

Carol moved then at last and cried out, "Oh, yes, shoot it in me, shoot my pussy full, give me your cum," and worked her ass back at him, her still-orgasming pussy fluttering and vibrating around his erupting geyser. Each spurt felt like a gallon, long and hard, and there were many of them, more than he could remember afterward.

It took him long to stop, and Carol was begging for more of his sperm until the end.

He finally pulled out of her and collapsed onto the bed, exhausted. Carol kissed him, deeply, trembling, then bent to lick and suck the thick coating of his sperm and her own many climaxes from his softening cock, slurping it up from his pubic hair and licking it from his drained and aching balls.

They did this more than once. The technique, from Tantric Yoga, gave them the best sex either had ever had.

Her ass was turned toward him, and he looked in wonder at her bare and swollen, just-fucked pussy. It was hanging open redly, sloppy with their juices, with sticky strings of semen dangling from her distended lips and clit.

An hour earlier, her darling hole was tiny, pink and trembling in fear and eagerness; now it was slack and open and drooling with his cum. He gazed at it and marveled as her rosebud mouth slurped up the funky mess between his legs.

His prim and proper, then cold and distant, Carol--the one love of his life--was his shameless, naked fucking slut. And she loved it, and him. And he loved her.

Again, he thought; if he had dared to dream at all, he could never have dreamed of this.

----

The next two times, they went to movies. It was as if they knew the hurricane was there, waiting, and they waited long to savor its anticipation and plunge into its storms and tides again. They cuddled and were close and kissed and held each other, and loved and felt loved, and that was enough.

Another time, after he stripped her bare and put her clothes away and out of reach, he wrapped her in a cotton quilt fresh from the dryer, warm and snug. She lay naked and cocooned in comfort with her head in his lap while they watched a movie on his VCR. It was "The Bridges of Madison County." it resonated with them both.

He often wondered, later, what she thought and felt when it came on TV, and if she ever watched it again.

He stroked and fondled her throughout the movie, his hand beneath the quilt. He felt her heavy breasts and stroked her pussy, and fingered her gently to a sweet climax, or two, or three or four. She giggled once and whispered, "I can't think when I've enjoyed a movie more...."

It was Heaven, and remained so for some few years; the most wondrous and enchanting of his life. They did not meet often, but even when alone he felt surrounded by her love and warmed by it.

He was home. He hoped it could go on forever.

But it wouldn't.

(To be continued)