Dweeb Ch. 03 - Logistics

While Wilford pulled Colleen into a close embrace on the postage-stamp-sized square parquet dance floor, the keyboard player moved from the melody introduction into the lyrics and richly sang:

Fly me to the moon.

Let me play among the stars.

Let me see what spring is like on

Jupiter and Mars.

In other words, hold my hand.

In other words, baby, kiss me.

The sax-man took over, while the drummer softly brushed his snare, as the Womacks weaved and swayed, more in a fox-hug than a fox-trot. Wilford hummed along quietly with the tune and roved his right hand in small circles around Colleen's mid-back, then upward toward her scapulae. She began to melt under his sensitive grazing and voluntarily pressed herself ever tighter to him. She didn't know whether it was the rich food, wine and booze, or just the long lay-off from being lovingly held by a man, but she didn't want her building feeling to go away anytime soon.

Wilford was happily surprised by the swift response the mood and music were generating. Raising his right hand higher, he lightly scratched Colleen's neck just above her blouse button, then continued under her medium-length ash-blond hair to her scalp. She purred softly against his smooth-shaved neck. As the horn swung into the tune's verse-ending couplet, he half-sang and half-buzzed into her ear, "In other words, Baby... Kiss me..."

As if in a trance, Colleen tipped back her head into Wilford's supportive palm and turned up her face to his. He didn't need more inviting. Meeting her parted lips, he flattened their fullness and drank in her sweetness through his nose. She pulled at his mouth with her teeth and sighed as her spirit soared in her chest.

Neither Wilford nor Colleen was aware of the rest of the song. Or, for that matter, of the three numbers the band played after it. Their whole world was the tiny space taken up by his brown oxfords and her two-tone three-inch-heel tuxedo pumps as they rotated on an axis seemingly a foot off the ground. Eventually they touched down and returned to their booth.

Seconds later, Foghorn drifted by and casually complimented, "You sure looked like you were having a nice time out there. But I see your glasses are empty. Can I bring you two more? Can't fly on one wing, they say!"

Wilford knew when to say when, even if Colleen was spellbound and unable to make decisions. "No," he answered for both of them. "We just popped in for a nightcap. Time to head out, Foggy."

"Well, alright then," Foghorn replied. "But you hurry back. It does an old woman good to see young people enjoying themselves the way nature meant."

Colleen just smiled silently as she allowed Wilford to carry their coats together folded over his arm with her clutch purse tucked between his elbow and his ribs. Following him to the exit, she cordially waved her fingers in the air to let the bar owner know that everything was alright and that she wasn't out of her depth, even though, in her current confused state of mind, she didn't truly know this for a fact. In the car again, Wilford took a wild swing and asked, "So, that's dinner and dancing, now what?"

Colleen's heart leapt and her pussy tingled. Bursting with uncharacteristic heat, she declared, "Damn it, Ford, it's nowhere near midnight and I don't want to go home. Charlie's there, and maybe that Pomeroy girl is, too." She looked beseechingly at her brother-in-law and translated into words the fever signals that she had thought her body had nearly forgotten forever, but which were madly swirling from her belly to her brain. "Can we go to your place? I need you... to, umm... hold me tight some more... please!"

Wilford silently shouted euphorically, "HOME FUCKING RUN!" Keeping his cool, he started the Monte Carlo's motor, then checked his watch. "Sure thing, Collie, it's only just a little past ten-thirty. There's plenty of time for me to do that and I'm happy to. If that's what you want."

"Oh, cripes, Ford!" Colleen wailed in her exasperated frustration. "Don't toy with me. I'm not asking for a favor. I want to feel you. And you to feel me. Like one person; like when we were dancing. You did like it, didn't you? I mean, I'm not a washed-up hag, am I?" Angry with herself that she babbled non-stop like a nincompoop and couldn't just shut up, she stamped her shoe in the footwell and hissed, "Step on it!"

The red SS Chevy's supercharged engine snarled as Wilford raced to his house oblivious of other cars or possible cops. His bent-over boner throbbed painfully while his balls ached and his temples pounded. Colleen's words echoed in an unending loop in his ears: "Need you... hold me... want to... feel me..." Fifty yards from his driveway he frantically pushed the garage door opener's dash-mounted transmitter and was relieved when his big disc brakes slammed the sled to a lurching stop inches from this workbench.

Wilford hurried from the car to the kitchen entry, but not as fast as Colleen ran behind him on her clicking high heels. He only barely got through the door before she spun him about-face and plastered herself to him between the double chrome sinks and the satin-finished steel refrigerator-freezer. Fighting for air, he broke her kiss, but not her embrace, as he tried to get control saying, "Whoa, Collie, at least let me get to a light switch!"

"N-no!" Colleen half-whimpered, half-demanded, "D-dark is f-fine!" Recapturing Wilford's evading lips, she hissed through his teeth, "Hold me! Here! NOW!"

Wilford coiled his arms around Colleen's writhing tense body. The pearl button at her blouse's neck surrendered to his fingers while she tugged the broadcloth material loose at her waist and avidly chewed his mouth. He found her tight pencil-skirt's zipper, slid it to its bottom over her butt, then pushed past the opened metal to seize her flexing cheeks through her half-slip and panties. She wormed her hands to his beltless light-wool trousers' pleated front, breached their fly and continued through his boxers' vent to the grand prize that she so desperately craved.

Wilford groaned. Colleen moaned. Their tongues danced while they busily, if awkwardly, dropped or lifted impediments to their joint goal. Hopping up, she hung from his neck. Hobbling forward, he pinned her to the silver Frigidaire's cold flat double doors.

Colleen didn't know what had inspired her to forgo wearing tights when she dressed for dinner four hours earlier, but as she kicked away her drenched cotton panties and hooked her bare legs around Wilford's driving hips, she rejoiced at her choice. In the pas de deux, her boobs had both burst free from her plunge-bra's D-cups. Now, her itchy swollen areolae chafed wonderfully harsh against his starched dress shirt. Meanwhile his hard cock's velvet glans teased her excited clitoris before it split her lubed labia and lodged itself where they both wanted it to be.

Wilford grunted deep in his constricted throat and hitched his pelvis upward against Colleen's pubis. She yelped as she felt, for the first time in more than four years, a strangely familiar yet achingly welcome fullness in her vagina. Her Kegels remembered what to do. They squeezed tight against his retreating thickness.

Wordlessly, but not silently, the impassioned in-laws rocked themselves and the refrigerator as they increased their ardent tempo. Wilford pounded deep, held long, then raked his dick back, only to return again and again. Colleen vised him with her thighs and arms as she fought frenetically to keep him solidly entrenched. Together, they teleported to an alternate universe where time did not exist; the pleasure was agonizingly endless.

In the kitchen standing up; in the living room kneeling on the couch; in the bedroom laying down; Wilford and Colleen fucked and came and fucked and came until they could fuck and come no more. Then they slept, in dreamless delight, with their sweaty, smelly, sticky nude bodies laminated one to the other. Meanwhile, beneath the top sheet and far up within Colleen's womb, Wilford's multiple millions of unchecked baby-makers vigilantly searched to fulfil their destiny. And farther away, but not really too far, in accordance with a long-standing biological order, an intrepid egg launched from its ovarian dock to find its fortune.