Dweeb Ch. 02 - Planning

Wilford Womack liked to look at new cars, and while he often test-drove them, he was not the kind of guy to actually buy one. That was also his general attitude toward women, which is why, at age forty-one, he was a bachelor with no aspiration to change his status. His job as a meter reader for the city utilities bureau was ideal for him in several respects. He had good pay, excellent benefits, no weekend or night work, and best of all, the opportunity, as he drove around various neighborhoods, to see all sorts of members of the fairer sex unsuspectingly active in their natural environments.

Over the years Wilford had honed his observational skills to an expert level, if not to perfection, and could ogle a girl to his heart's content without her ever realizing it. Now, after dropping in unannounced on his older brother's widow, he found himself seated on her couch opposite a female classmate of her eighteen-year-old son. The teenage girl sat quietly collected in her armchair with her hands holding a book in her lap and her ankles demurely crossed with her nearly closed knees angled to the side while his sister-in-law was elsewhere in the house advising her boy that he, too, had a surprise visitor. Until five minutes before, when they both parked their cars at the curb and coincidentally walked up to Colleen Womack's bungalow together, the two guests had never met.

Maximizing the moment's serendipity, Wilford slumped into the pillow against the sofa's armrest. His casual posture had a two-fold purpose. Not only did it serve to put his quarry at ease in his presence, it also substantially improved his line of sight to her modestly posed body. He now had a straight-on view to include the mysterious triangle where her sheer navy tights closed the gap between her minimally spread patellae.

Eighteen-year-old Suzanne Pomeroy neither knew, nor cared, that the reclined old guy across the coffee table was objectifying her. She was a veteran cheerleader at Theodore Roosevelt High School. After three years of shaking her boobs and doing splits in mid-air, she was inured to the leers she got from guys in the bleachers at the gym or in the grandstand at the football field. In fact, if she thought about it at all, she enjoyed the attention and was glad that she was cute enough to be eyeballed in that way.

Suzie's mom had told her, when she first began to blossom long ago, "It's nature, sweetie. You'll never be able to completely hide your feminine features, so you might as well accept them. It's simply a fact that boys, and later, men, will look. The secret is balance... you don't want to look trashy, but there's no reason you can't package yourself to your advantage."

While they stood side-by-side on the Womack front porch waiting for Colleen to come to the door, Wilford had accurately gauged Suzanne's height to be five-foot-six and her weight at about a buck twenty-eight, or so. He further estimated that, within her champagne long-sleeve stretch-knit sweater and cornflower-blue pleated linen skirt, her lithe hourglass figure was probably 34-23-34 with pert B-cup tits. Now, as he lounged with his right arm bent behind his head and his eyelids half-closed as if he were bored out of his mind, he played his favorite girl-watching game. Surreptitiously scrutinizing her mid-section from her mock turtleneck to the edge of darkness as high up her thighs as he could see under her skirt's hem, he pretended he had X-ray vision and made educated guesses about the unknown.

After Colleen returned with Charlie, then disappeared again to her bedroom to change clothes to go out to dinner with Wilford, Suzie left with Charlie for the kitchen. Alone in the living room, Wilford tuned the ancient Magnavox twenty-six-inch color television to the local news and then lay back down on the couch to chill. The kids' noises, as they put together the spaghetti supper that Colleen had previously planned to serve herself and Charlie, worked with the newscaster's monotonous voice like a sedative. The next thing he knew, he was being shaken from a dream in which Suzie happily drooled around his pink-lipstick-stained cock while she frantically gulped his never-ending fresh hot semen explosions.

Colleen called softly, as she jostled her dozing brother-in-law, "Hey! Ford! Do you still want to go out for dinner? Or do you want to finish your nap, while I throw more pasta in the pot?" She laughed lightly, then said, "Charlie and his friend wolfed their spaghetti and bread like they hadn't eaten for days. Now they're in his room discussing Mark Twain."

Wilford shook out his cobwebs and asked, "Uh, what time is it, Collie?"

Colleen glanced at the china mantle-clock over the electric fireplace and answered, "Ten 'til seven."

Ford sat up on the sofa and said, "Okay. Let's go, then. The reservation was for seven-thirty... they usually run a little behind schedule on Friday nights anyway. We'll probably have time to have a drink at the bar while we wait for our table to open up."

As Ford prepared to pull his red fourteen-year-old Monte Carlo away from the curb, Colleen buckled in and asked, as delicately as she could manage, "We're going 'Dutch', like in-laws, not like we're dating, right?"

Ford put the coupe back in park and gave Colleen a hard-to-read quizzical look, then replied, "Sure, if that makes you feel more comfortable. But I had an evening planned and my credit card has lots of room. I'm okay with picking up the tab, the same as if my date hadn't texted me that she was suddenly stricken with flu and couldn't make it." He paused as he glanced obliquely at the seatbelt dividing her full chest just above her ivory broadcloth blouse's deep V-neck. "By the way, you look terrific. All the other sisters-in-law at the restaurant are going to hate you!"

Colleen blushed involuntarily. "Um, thank you," she murmured, barely above a whisper. Then, in full voice, she added confidently, "Alright then, Mr. Warbucks, I mean, Mr. Womack, go ahead and spend your hard-earned money. I'll consider it a Mother's Day gift, even though, of course, I'm not your mother!" They both laughed aloud as Ford put the Chevy back in drive and goosed a throaty rumble from its motor.

At the same time that Colleen shut her front door to follow Wilford out to his car, Suzanne shut 'The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn' and leaned forward to toss the volume onto the maple study-desk in Charlie's bedroom. There was only one straight chair in the room and Charlie was in it while she sat nearby on his standard-size bed. Her movement pushed a tidal wave of strawberry-scented shampoo from her Swedish-blonde pony-tail hair to his nostrils and erotic-response center. Embarrassed by his feelings and afraid that his dick would stiffen, just like it did in seventh-period English class when she sat in her desk in front of him, he pushed back his chair as he choked, "Uh-h, you want a Coke, or something? I'm kinda thirsty."

Suzie asked, "Sure, you got any Diet?"

"Yeah, that's, like, all Mom'll drink," Charlie replied. Quickly turning his back, he hustled from the room, saying over his shoulder, "Bring your book."

"Okay," answered Suzie. She retrieved the ostensible reason for her visit from Charlie's desk and followed him out the door. As she entered the kitchen, she exclaimed, "Man! We really left a mess!"

Charlie turned from the old white Westinghouse side-by-side refrigerator/freezer with two Coke Zero cans and said, "Huh?" Then, as he set the sodas down on the nearest available surface, he looked about the room more critically than he usually did. Used cookware, an empty Ragú sauce jar, bread crumbs, a garlic salt shaker, dirty dishes piled with wadded paper napkins, all littered the Formica table, the range and the ceramic-tiled countertops. "Oh, yeah. I guess we did," he acknowledged.

"C'mon, Charlie," Suzie said brightly. "Let's get this cleaned up so your mom won't have to. I won't be able to think about anything else until it's done, anyway." Immediately, she began loading the Whirlpool dishwasher with their plates, glasses and silverware.

Charlie, who had very little experience with such things, hesitated, then gingerly picked up the garlic salt and returned it to the spice rack on the wall over the Hotpoint stove. "That's a big help," laughed Suzie. Then, taking charge, she ordered, "Throw out that old glass tomato sauce jar and scrub those pots with soap in the sinks! I'll take care of wiping down the counters and table."

Later, when the room was ship-shape again and the dishwasher was humming along, Suzie popped the tabs on the Cokes. Holding one out to Charlie, she asked, "Shall we sit at the table in here, or go out to the couch in the living room to study?"

Actually, Charles wanted to do neither. While they were cleaning the kitchen, he had been able to forget that he was alone with his secret crush, but now his pending hell was eminently clear. He wondered how he could get Suzanne Pomeroy to leave. Or, if she stayed, what was he going to do to keep his thoughts on schoolwork instead of on her personally? How long could he endure the torment?

Suzie got tired of waiting for an answer. "Hey! Charlie! Are you okay? It wasn't, like, the hardest question ever, you know!" She asked again, "Where do you want to sit?"

Snapping out of his quandary, Charles stammered, "Uh- umm, oh, yeah. Sorry to be slow." He pointed to the now gleaming sea-foam-green speckled Formica and chrome kitchen table. "Let's do it here." As he pulled out a plastic-upholstered chair and sat down quickly to hide his building boner beneath the table top, he shrieked to himself, "Oh my God! Did I really just say 'Let's do it here'? Please, please, don't let her think I meant 'DO it'!"

Rebelling, as if it had a mind of its own, Charlie's thickening prick twitched in his jeans. It didn't help matters that before she sat herself, Suzie stood close beside him and put his Coke can by his right hand. As she leaned in to set down the soda, her perfume again teased his nose while her left breast inadvertently squashed ever so slightly against his shoulder. He suppressed a groan, but couldn't suppress the pressurized blood petrifying his penis.

For the next ninety minutes, Charles was in a terrorized fog and functioning on auto-pilot. He had no sense of what Suzanne or he were saying or doing. It was a miracle that he didn't pass out, or worse yet, ejaculate in his underwear as he watched her face, and especially her fantastic full pink-glossed lips, while she talked. Suddenly, weirdly, he was aware of the mantle-clock in the living room chiming nine and he distinctly heard her say, "Oh gosh! I've got to get going! Thanks, ever so much, Charlie, I think I finally have an idea of what to say in my essay for Mrs. Krautheimer! Maybe we can do this again?"

Relief flooded through Charles as his angel prepared to take flight. "Um, yeah," he answered dully, hoping both that such a thing could happen and also that it never would. "Anytime I can help, I'm glad to do it." In a moment of belated rationality, he asked, "Butch doesn't mind you being here? I wouldn't want to cause any trouble."

Suzie scooted around the table, planted a sweet kiss on Charlie's cheek and bubbled, "Don't worry about Butch Carlson. He's just a big dope. You're smart and I like you!" Then, like that, she was gone. Charlie stood, stunned and immobile, until he heard her car start, then drive off. More tired than he had ever felt this early on a Friday night, he switched off the kitchen lights and went to bed without even removing his shoes.

An hour earlier, right on time, Butch Carlson rang the doorbell at the Pomeroy house. Suzanne's dad, Edgar, carrying a bowling bag, greeted Butch, "Oh, hi! My wife'll be right with you. I'm running late for my league." As he rushed by the eighteen-year-old boy, he waved dismissively and added, "Nice to see you. That was a great game you had against Western!" Then he climbed into his white Dodge Ram 2500 Crew Cab pick-up, with 'Pomeroy Plumbing and Heating' emblazoned on its doors, backed down the driveway and drove away.

When Butch turned back to the open door, Bernice Pomeroy was standing there waving at her husband's disappearing truck and saying, "Bye-bye, Ed." She looked the teen over from head to toe, then greeted him, "Hello, Howard. Are you here to pick up Suzanne for a date?"

Butch hated his given name, but never showed that when an adult used it. "Yes, Mrs. Pomeroy," he answered politely. "Is she ready to go, do you think?"

"Mmm, I'm afraid not," Bernice said smoothly. "She left the house for, oh, I don't know where. Was she expecting you?"

Butch could not contain his petulance. "Well, yeah! It's Friday night. And I told her I would be here at eight."

"Hmmm," mused Bernice. "That seems so unlike her, but if you're sure, why don't you come in the house and wait a while. Maybe she thought she would be back before you got here." Stepping backward into the entry hall, she ushered in the jilted kid while she said to herself, "I hope you know what you're doing, Suzie. This is a very handsome young man, and I know he comes from a good family with oodles of money. You could do worse, you know."

Then, aloud, Bernice added, "I was just going to have a drinkie-poo. There's lots of mixers, and I could make you a nice virgin something-or-other, if you want. Or there's plain Coke or Seven-up or Canada Dry, if you prefer. Whatever you like, just ask."

As Butch crossed the threshold, he caught Bernice squinting weirdly at him, like he was a bug under a microscope, or something. He thought he had seen her looking funny at him at the door, too. Now, as she offered him a drink when she was clearly alone, he wondered, "What's going on? Is she coming on to me? She has to be near forty, but her bod is tight and she's got an even nicer rack than her daughter."

Deciding that he could see what happens without risking too much, Butch answered, with what he considered to be a confident grown-up voice, "Yeah, Mrs. P... uh, do you mind if I call you that?... I'd like a 'virgin' whatever you're having."

Bernice looked over her shoulder and laughed heartily as she led the way to the living room. Approaching the wet bar near the stereo cabinet and big screen television, she explained mirthfully, "I'm having a Manhattan. If I made it a virgin for you, all you'd get is the cherry!"

Reaching into the small refrigerator, Bernice grabbed a jar of Maraschinos, pulled one out by its stem and handed it dripping to the startled youth. "You can call me 'Mrs. P.', if I can call you 'Howie' instead of 'Butch'. You're a lot cuter than a 'Butch', you know." Then, in a surprisingly firm tone, she ordered, "Open your mouth for me, Howie."

Butch did as he was told and Bernice held the fruit while he closed his lips around it. Then, tugging the stem, she stripped the cherry against his teeth and said, "There! You can chew on that while I pour you some Tom Collins mixer over ice. It's like lemonade, but sort of tart. Is 'tart' okay for you, Howie?"

Butch's dick had no doubt that Suzie's mom was making a pass, but his mind was reeling. He was eager to score but afraid he'd drop the ball. When he was a Freshman, first trying out for the football team, the coach had advised him, "Be cool, Carlson! Let the play develop. Don't over-commit, but be ready for anything!" Licking his lips unconsciously, he watched her build the Manhattan and fill her martini glass, then pour Tom Collins mixer over ice cubes in an old fashion glass for him.

Bernice's pale pink deep scoop-neck sleeveless cotton housedress barely contained her breasts behind her partly visible white 33C wideband rayon underwired bra. She danced to unheard music as she fixed the drinks. Her jiggling boobs chafed in their holsters until her nipples poked out to their maximum extension while her full thirty-six-inch hips swayed in slow circles and her skirt's front swished rhythmically against the bar counter's edge. Periodically, she cast her eyes upward and blew a puff of air at an errant blonde hair bang which threatened to stab her eye.

Butch was electrified as he stared. He knew his hard-on was obviously fat in his charcoal dress slacks, but he couldn't stop its growth and didn't want to. Bernice stepped around the bar, offered him his drink with her right hand while she lifted her own glass in her left and toasted, à la Bogart, "Here's looking at you, kid." Then she put down her cocktail, lowered her eyes to his grown-out groin and purred, "Wowie, Howie! Look at you!"

Butch was too embarrassed to speak. Bernice flattened her splayed hand against his throbbing member and squeezed him through his trousers. He spit his drink back into his glass and hurried to set it back on the bar beside hers before he spilled on himself. She didn't back off, but rather moved in closer, pushed her palm all the way down over his balls and through his legs, then tightly gripped his ass with her long strong fingers while she kept pressure on his entire package with her wrist.

Raising her left hand to Butch's mid-back, Bernice pulled his hardpan pecs into her soft boobs' rigid tips and buzzed in his ear, "Does my little girl know you have this nice big tool kit, Howie? Have you worked on her under her hood?" She squared her face away to his, brushed her mouth from his nose tip to his jutting chin, then nipped his lower lip sharply enough to break the skin and draw blood. "Answer me truthfully, Howie," she growled, while she dabbed his small wound with her tongue tip.

Butch panicked but confessed, "N-no, Mrs. P., honest! I want, umm, wanted to, and I've tried to make her want me to, too. But, we haven't, done, uhh, anything, except, you know, neck, maybe... a little."

Bernice kissed Butch slowly, probing her tongue past his gums and teasing his inside cheeks while she ground her torso on his black-and-gold houndstooth sport jacket. He groaned deep in his throat as she released his glutes and moved her hand back in front to his fly. While she unzipped and freed his ready log from its Jockey shorts prison, she broke their kiss and murmured, "I'm glad for that. She'll need an experienced guide on her first adventure."

Bernice stroked Butch's length from his spongy top to his hairy bag and then back again as she held his body fixed to hers and burbled, "You're a nice boy. I know. But you need seasoning, too. Don't you?" Her rubbing loose fist and flexing fingers took their toll. As she focused on his sensitive glans, she felt his lungs seize then release rapid spasmodic shallow breaths.

Butch was in an ecstatic agony beyond anything he could have imagined to this point in his life. He lost track of where he was. He only knew that if he died right then, he would be happy. Suddenly he cried out and let go.

Bernice palped her hand at the top of Butch's shooting cock and caught strand upon strand of thick warm goo with her fingers, then spread the curds down his stalk to his quaking balls. Returning to his spitting bulb, she squeezed its neck and cooed, "Good for you, Howie. Cum lots for me. Give me all the cream you have." Then she relaxed her vise-like grip and watched another fountain lift high into the air before falling back onto her forearm.

Butch shook from his shoulders to his ankles. He was certain that he would collapse if he hadn't been being held so tight. "Uhnnnn," he moaned in helpless wonder as his spunk spouted more profusely than it ever had when he had jacked himself off. When, at last, his well was truly pumped dry, he leaned into Bernice and coiled his arms about her, more for his benefit than hers. She smiled over his shoulder, then patted his back with her left hand like she used to do when she burped Suzanne as a baby.

"There, now, Howie," Bernice said quietly. "This is exactly what I meant when I spoke about seasoning. I'm glad you came so strong, but waiting longer is important too. I want you to do something. Will you do something for me?"