Dweeb Ch. 09 - Sidetrack

Clara Krautheimer nipped through the dark chocolate shell and allowed the candy nugget's mocha cream soft center to melt onto her tongue without chewing. The See's Candy clerk saw the obvious joy in her customer's eyes as she relished the free sample and asked, "Can I make up a one-pound box of those for you? Or would you prefer a variety?"

The interrogatory jogged Clara back to reality, but not as much as what she saw through the shop window, across the Quadrangle Mall's wide aisle. There, in Victoria's Secret, she was certain that she was looking at Charles Womack, paying for she couldn't guess what. As she tried to fathom the scene, she turned to the candy clerk and answered, "No, no, Dear. It's delicious, but I'll stick with my usual. Just pack me a half-pound of Scotch Mallows and Bordeauxes, evenly divided. There's a good girl. But do hurry... I have to, umm, meet someone!"

Moments later, Clara rushed from the candy shop and discreetly surveilled the eighteen-year-old high school student she recognized from her American Literature class. Standing hidden behind a large ficus in a cement planter, she was of two minds: Part of her was eager to discover not only what naughty intimate item, or items, the boy had bought, but for whom they were bought. Another, more sensible, part of her urged her to turn around; take her confections, and go home to her calico cat, Fritzy. As she wrestled with her yens, her target left the lingerie shop carrying a large pink-and-black box and headed away from her toward a mall exit.

Until last evening, Clara's sensual devil-may-care alter-ego had been on a hiatus since her affair with young Ernie Post ended with his graduation three years ago. Now, for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, she piped up excitedly, "Carpe Diem, Dearie! Remember how you wondered if that sweet boy from seventh period had a dickhead as smooth, fat and yummy as a Scotch Mallow? Don't miss your chance to set up finding out!"

The stout sixty-four-year-old English teacher's nipples poked up hard, thick and sassy from their wrinkled platforms as she blushed under her make-up at the returning taboo thought. Neither her brassiere's buttressing full lace-and-cotton cups, nor her silky rayon slip restrained the plump pips' impression against her cotton print dress. Her heart was on fire, her brain blazed and she had a familiar, but long absent, queasiness in her tummy. While she moved past the weeping fig and followed her quarry, she chided herself, "You are so bad, Clara Krautheimer!"

"No, you're not," countered the voice. "You're just a woman with natural neglected needs and increasingly few opportunities to meet them. This boy might be your last chance before you retire and are surrounded only by old men with failing prostates. Don't let yourself shrivel into hagdom, Dearie!"

Oblivious to his stalker, Charles drifted through the light Saturday afternoon shopping crowd toward his parked Mazda. He was consumed by thoughts of the best way to present his mother with the sexy purple satin-and-lace bikini panties and matching sheer net nightie that he carried under his arm. "Before dinner will be way too early," he mused. He saw, in his mind's eye, the royal flimsy veil draping her pale voluptuous body and figured, "But actually giving it to her on Mothers' Day will be too late to enjoy tonight. So, after dinner I'll just have to look for an opportunity and hope for the best."

Even though Charles knew for a fact that he had fucked his mom twice, just since breakfast, it was difficult for him to wrap his head around his transition from 'dweeb' to 'stud'. In particular, although she had squealed and clutched him tight as he loaded her up with his cum, he was unsure whether she was serious about continuing their sexual relationship. He questioned himself, "What if she gets all guilty, or is embarrassed, or even angry? What if she doesn't like the outfit that I bought her?"

As he opened his Protégé's driver's side rear door and tossed the package onto the bench seat he was startled to hear his name called. The voice was oddly familiar, but the setting for it was all wrong. Raising his head abruptly, he cracked it sharply on the upper edge of the open door-frame then pulled back. While he straightened up and turned about to see who was nearby, he winced at the throbbing pain.

From three feet away, Clara exclaimed again, as if completely surprised, "Charles Womack! It IS you! Imagine that!" Then, noticing the lad's grimace as he rubbed the back of his towhead brush-cut, she promptly rushed forward. Penning him in between her fireplug body and the flung-open car door, she lowered her voice and consoled, "You poor boy! That was a nasty bang... I'm sorry now that I shouted. I could have waited until you were outside the car..."

Seizing the moment, just as her inner voice had advised, Clara spun Charles in place as neatly as a cop about to frisk a suspect. However, more tenderly than any policeman with a legal reason, she ran her hands up his back and tipped his head forward over the door as she sweetly cooed, "Good, I don't see any obvious bleeding or broken skin in your scalp." Her deft light touch at his temples and behind his ears down to his T-shirt's collar felt weirdly wonderful to him while she soothed, "Still, it's already raised a lump and head injuries can be deceptive."

Clara took full advantage of her teaching experience and maximally exercised the authority she had built up in her classroom. Kindly, but with no nonsense, she walked Charles around the Mazda and parked him in the front passenger seat as she informed him, "You're coming with me. I want to watch you, in case there's a concussion, or worse, developing." Closing the door, she hustled to the driver's side more spryly than he would have guessed possible based on her age and shape. He watched, stunned and speechless, as she used the keys that she had somehow liberated from his hand to start the little sedan's engine.

Clara put the car in gear and aimed it for the street while she spoke conversationally, "As you well, know, Charlie... it's alright if I call you that outside the classroom, isn't it? I mean, I AM your teacher, but we BOTH know who put the chocolates under my door mat yesterday afternoon, don't we?" Turning her head briefly from traffic, she winked at him and smiled conspiratorially. "Oh yes, Charlie," she thought, as she quickly assessed his susceptibility to fall prey to her wiles. "I think you're going to be easy and fun."

"Anyway," Clara continued aloud. "As you know, I live only a half-mile away. On beautiful days, like today, I often walk over here just for the exercise. Some might say it was pure luck that I should be leaving the See's store at the same that you were leaving Victoria's Secret, but I think that just maybe it was Fate." Boldly reaching past the gear shift, she patted Charles' left knee quickly before returning her hand to the steering wheel and inquiring sincerely, "How are you feeling? Woozy? Okay? Well, don't worry, we'll be at my place soon and I'll take a closer look at your hurt."

Charles did feel a little dizzy and was having trouble following Mrs. Krautheimer's patter. What was really strange to him was not the lump on his crown, but the lump developing between his legs. He rolled his eyes to the roof liner and prayed silently, "Please, God! Please, don't let me get a hard-on now!" He couldn't think of any reason for his cock to be thickening in his Wranglers, but he couldn't deny that that seemed to be what it most wanted to do at the moment.

Clara glanced sidelong at the teen as he writhed his butt minutely, but noticeably, on his seat. Spotting his growing concern as well as his concerning growth, she pursed her lips and swallowed around an itching dryness in her throat. Five minutes later, she pulled the silver Mazda into the single-lane driveway beside her duplex. As she set the parking brake, she admonished, "Now just sit tight, Charlie. I'll be right there to help you."

Charles closed his knees together and squeezed, hoping against hope that his incipient erection would instantly shrink. Whether by divine intervention or anxiety-driven biology, he was relieved when he felt his tuber wallow soft against his testes as his chauffeur opened his door and closed her left hand around his right biceps. Swiveling on the seat as he exited, he graciously allowed her to guide him between his little Protégé's nose and her forest green 2010 Ford Crown Victoria's wide trunk. He didn't think he needed the help, but at the same time, the warmth of her closeness and contact were peculiarly comforting.

As usual when his mistress returned home, Fritz, the calico cat, sat like a sentry in the short hall patiently waiting for the front door to open. He was at least confused, if not a little miffed, to see her enter with a stranger, and a male one, at that. Turning his back and lifting his tail, he fluffed out his fur, then sauntered off with disdain. Clara chuckled, double-squeezed Charles' arm and pointed with her right hand to the departing cat as she said, "That's Fritzy. Lord of the manor, but watch his attitude change when you put some kibble in his dish."

Releasing her student, she walked into the kitchenette, saying over her shoulder as she went, "Seriously, Charlie... There's Friskies on the counter beside Fritzy's dish. Pour some in and put it by his water dish, then have a seat at the table. I'll be with you in two shakes of a lamb's tale." Bypassing the small expandable blue Formica-and-tube-steel table, she moved into the living room and on to a location unknown to Charles.

When Clara returned, Fritz was purring over his food and Charles sat at the table as directed, with his hands patiently folded in front of him on the tabletop. She wouldn't have minded if he had selected the opposite chair and saw, as she came in, that she had changed out of her floral print dress into her favorite coral-and-cream quilted satin housecoat. On the other hand, it tickled her that, since he sat with his back to her and the living room, she might surprise him again. Drawing in a deep breath, she inflated her forty-inch bosom within her size 36DD underwired bra as she stepped up close behind his chair.

To Charles' left, Clara set down a porcelain tureen filled half-way with warm water. To his right, she placed on the table a scooped saucer with a large natural sponge. Then, moving her hands together to his shoulder points, she cruised lightly across his collar-bones and up his neck to cover his ears with her cupped palms, while she directed him in a voice like a whispering breeze, "Dip your chin to your chest, Charlie. I want to inspect the damage you did to yourself."

Charles was mystified that he had no desire to do anything except whatever Mrs. Krautheimer suggested, however obliquely or direct. She was all things personal and wonderful just for him. Her words and touch were magically compelling. As he did as he was told, he closed his eyes and melted onto himself, except for his dick, which stiffened painfully into a bent steel rod.

Clara picked Charles' right hand up in hers and removed it from the Formica to his lap. As she pushed his palm flat against his trapped boner, she breathed, sotto voce, "Spread your legs, unzip your jeans, and make yourself comfy. It's not right to ignore nature. I'll help you in just a moment." Then, leaving him to his tasks, she dipped the sponge in the water, squeezed it out, and gingerly dabbed the short hairs surrounding the swollen rise where he had bumped his car's roof.

Gentle heat flowed south from Charles' injured head and gained intensity as it passed through his chest to his gut. Morphing into a liquid fireball, it ran like lava to his groin, spread out under his fingers as they clawed their way under his Hanes brief's waistband, and blanketed his balls with impenetrable thermal paint. He groaned as his spreading thighs increased his manual access and his outstretched legs enabled him to pop his package free from its prison. He had neither the shame nor the willpower to prevent his fist from reflexively sliding from his scrotum to his knob and back again.

"Mmm-hmm, Charlie," murmured Clara as she glued her eyes to his stroking mitt and continued tenderly to bath his scalp. "That's good. And I'm happy to say this knot on your noggin looks like it will go down in no time." To herself, she said, "And I'm happier to predict your knotted stick will go down, too." Dropping the sponge into the bowl, she pulled him, with his chair, away from the table edge, then stepped around and dropped to her knees between his as she guided his gliding hand with its precious present to her mouth while she informed, "Now I have to take care of your other head, don't I?"

Charles flexed all his muscles and laid out like a plank on the padded blue-vinyl kitchen chair while Clara clamped her lips around his cock's engorged glans. She thought delightedly, "I was right. It's just like the most perfect Scotch Mallow..." Teasing her tongue around its flanged rim and over its winking slit, she savored the manly musk. Butterflies fluttered in her tummy as she tasted his first pre-cum droplets.

Clara pumped Charles' loose fist on his staff of life while she cupped his seed factory in her free hand and relentlessly sucked his fat bulb. He raised his left hand to her shoulder, then to her nape and scratched his nails into her graying brunette home permanent. She mewled her appreciation and redoubled her effort to collect her reward. He grunted, pulled her head in to his groin and hiked his ass from the chair seat as he plastered her palate with a hot shot.

Clara let go his package then shoved her hands under Charles' raised bottom and held him fast. Quivering uncontrolled, he powered three more heavy spurts to the back of her throat before he relaxed and collapsed back onto the straight chair. She pulled her hands from beneath his blue jeans' hip pockets and slid them up under his flapping T-shirt to hold his heaving abdomen while she gleaned his final diminishing semen spurts. As he softened in her cheeks, she swallowed his collected unprocessed jizz, then raised her face from his still-thick prick and asked solicitously, "You must feel a lot better now, huh?"

Charles grinned into Clara's upturned face and said, weakly, "Yeah, Mrs. Krautheimer, that seems to have done the trick, alright." As his strength returned, and his breathing calmed, he laughed low in his throat then added, "I should bump my head more often." Then, suddenly tuning in on her changed attire, he slid his hands over her vibrant pink quilted satin back up to her robe's high collar. Pinching his fingertips to his thumbs, he rubbed the cream-color ruffled lace trim and reveled in the sensory messages the rough stitchery sent along his nerve network as he observed, huskily, "You took off your dress."

"Oh, you noticed," Clara riposted softly, as she untied Charles' black canvas tennis shoes and worked them off his feet. Leaving his socks on, she pushed her hands up his shins and across his upper legs to his opened unbelted jeans' waist. "Yes, I didn't think you'd mind if I got comfortable in my own home." The lilt in her voice took away any edge in her words and put him further at ease as she stripped his lower body while she continued, "In fact, let's get these pants off you and make you more comfortable, too."

Charles's fascination with Clara's siren-song kept him only vaguely aware that she had reduced him to his T-shirt and socks. However, he was keenly interested in his expanding vista as his hands, without him knowingly telling them, twisted button upon button from their embroidered loops and spread apart her housecoat's plackets. He admired the contrast between the age-lines on her neck and the porcelain smoothness of her lower skin. His eyes glazed with wonder at the deep cleavage between her fast-appearing buttercream-frosted mountains.

Clara crutched her hands in Charles' armpits and lifted him to his feet as she stood, also. Pulling him in closer to her body, she kissed him for the first time. He tasted his spunk traces in her ruined lipstick and lost all sense of their true relationship. She was a woman; he was a man; that was all that mattered.

Moving a half-step forward, while kicking the kitchen chair backward out of their way, Charles reached through Clara's loose robe folds and pulled her into a full embrace. With his right forearm diagonally braced between her scapulae, he crushed her breasts to his midsection. Meanwhile, he instinctively draped his left wrist across her broad ass and crabbed his fingers into the soft meaty flesh beneath her thin panties. She soughed into his open mouth, actively probed it with her tongue and squirmed her round belly against his swiftly re-hardening rod.

Neither Clara nor Charles was quick to end their impassioned hug. Rather, they each fanned their own and the other's flames. Her fat mature nipples, stiffened into pegs, stabbed hotly through her bra's soft lacework and his thin cotton T-shirt. His lengthening log seared her stomach as its prodding nose sparked flares from her tangled gray bush to her wide deep navel.

Desperate for resolution, Clara finally broke the ardent kiss and gasped, "F-FUTON!" Struggling from Charles' grasp, but not to surrender her own grip on him, she dragged him through the open archway from the kitchenette to the small living room. Without comprehending the strange word, he lurched and stumbled after his seductress to an eight-foot-long armless teak sofa frame. It looked, to him, most like an immense Adirondack chair with a huge ivory-colored brocaded pad strewn with black and brown throw pillows of different geometric shapes.

Clara saw Charles' quandary and clarified the situation. Releasing a hidden latch on the divan, she dropped its back flat and instantly converted the futon into a more recognizable queen-size sleeper. Then, shrugging off her pink housecoat, she lay down in the sea of cushions and beckoned, "Now, Charlie! LOVE me!"

Charles didn't need a second invitation, nor did he lose a second before he got up on the mattress and crouched over the teacher's eagerly waiting rotund form. Driving his hands beneath its broad central supporting strap, he pushed her brassiere high on her chest. As her bountiful old milk bags fell out of place, he squeezed their billowing bulk into a single mound then bobbed his head back and forth to alternately kiss her large dark wrinkled areolae. She laughed appreciatively while she arched up under his salivating lips then reached behind herself to undo her bra's triple hook-and-eye closure.

"Mmmm, Charlie! Yes, that's it," Clara bubbled as her erogenous rete set her libido's burners on high. Freeing her arms from her bra and casting it to the floor, she pushed his head southward and continued, as she lifted her pelvis, "Down there, too... kiss me... EVERYwhere!"

Het-up and cunt-crazy over the erotic aroma emanating from Clara's underwear, Charles clawed its elastic waistband below her upraised butt, then voraciously planted his mouth to her steaming pussy. She thrilled to his sucking gnawing slobbering maw as it augmented her juice spigots. Rolling up on her shoulders, with her legs kicked high, she finished shedding her panties for him, closed her thighs tight onto his ears, then stuffed an umber triangular throw beneath her bottom. He fixed his hands on her love-handles and held her writhing hips as steady as he could while he tackled her clit with his teeth and tongue.

Clara screeched as her pot boiled over. "Oh, GOD, Charlie! The best! You're the BEST!" Speaking to her climaxing cunt, she cried, "Don't stop! Oh! Don't ever stop!"

Charles took the exhortation personally and redoubled his energetic gargling. As Clara's crisis continued, her babble became incoherent, but her frantic fingers tugging on the back of his crew-cut delivered her insistent message unequivocally. Meanwhile, his own pounding pulse frenetically underscored his need as well as hers. Heroically, he broke free from her vise-like clutches, reared back, then plunged his prick to the pubes into her creaming vagina.