Edna Mayfield

Edna Mayfield felt the twitching growth of his cock deep within in her belly and moaned in response to the total bliss she felt. She took Jordan's hands and placed them on her blouse, over her breasts. He began to knead them through the light fabric, but soon began to unbutton her blouse. He lifted her bra up enough to expose her small though perfectly shaped breasts. He felt his penis approach rock hard as Edna Mayfield began to yet again increase her pace. She continued to lean forward, allowing Jordan to thrust at his own pace for a while. She felt another orgasm lurking in the shadows but restrained herself, knowing it would be impossible for Jordan to be anywhere near ready yet. Her feet, one still in the bone colored pump, the other stockinged, rested aside Jordan's thighs. She dug the heel of her pump into Jordan's lower thigh as a rider would spur a horse; she felt his cock twitch and harden, the pace of his thrusts increase. She saw her other discarded shoe nearby, and reached to take it in her hand. Once again she dug her spiked foot into Jordan's calf, his pace increased still further, his breathing became ragged.

"Open your mouth," she commanded. "More, open it more,"she barked. As Jordan's mouth opened she thrust the closed toe of her other bone colored pump into his mouth. "Lick it," she commanded again, "suck it." She watched him tongue and lick the shoe, felt him squeezing the nipples of her breasts, felt his burning cock expanding exponentially, then exploding into a third orgasm. Amazed and caught off guard, she burst into a frenzy of thrusting while she reached down to rub her clit. Jordan was lost in his orgasm, but felt her need, balanced his thrusts to hers until he felt the walls of her vagina clamping down is the spasms of her orgasm. He continued to pump into her even as he subsided, helped her hold on to her orgasm for as long as possible.

Edna Mayfield then moved her vagina up over Jordan's face and sat down on his open mouth. "Suck it," she commanded once again. 'Suck it in and hold it in your mouth. Do it!" She felt him licking and sucking; she contracted her abdominal muscles and listened as he struggled with the flow of his cum as it disgorged into his mouth. "Don't swallow it," she said in a softer yet still commanding tone. She climbed off of his face, lay beside him and stroked has face gently. "Give it to me, now!" she said, kissing him full on the mouth.

His cum and her juices exploded into her mouth; her body curled and launched into yet another total orgasm. As her tongue danced with his, she felt his liquid warmth slide down her throat toward her belly. She brought the shoe in her hand up to their mouths and they both licked it, sucked on the tip and heel.

They drifted in the currents of their explorations and discoveries, each satisfied with what they had found in this new terrain. He leaned onto his side, looked into her eyes again. She turned her head to look back at him, each in their way a mirror of the other.

"So, still think you love me?" she asked. "Or did I scare you off?"

"I love you more than anything on this earth," he said. "I mean that Eddie. I have no idea what just happened to me..." He sighed. "Hell, Eddie, you just happened to me."

"Stanton called me Eddie...that was his secret name for me." When Jordan didn't say anything, she continued. "I like it that you thought of that." She was silent for a moment. "I've wanted to tell you that I love you for hours now, but I thought it would sound silly."

Jordan Douglas stroked her face, her grey-blond hair. He ran his hand down the center of her belly until she shivered, as he now knew she would. 'Life can be so sweet,' he thought, 'if you let it in.' A tear formed in his eye, then another, and another.

"What is it, my love?" Edna Mayfield asked.

"I never expected to feel this happy again, ever. I think I've been dead for some time, actually." He curled up next to her, formed his body into hers. She held him closely, took his hair to her nose and breathed in deeply. "Thank you," he said, "for my life." He fell asleep in her arms.

Part V

November 21st

Edna Mayfield waved excitedly as her youngest daughter Tracy came out of the arrivals concourse, and ran up to her, giving her a long squeeze. She remained her secret favorite; Tracy was a romantic, a poet, and very sensitive to other people's feelings. She had Edna's looks: not tall, slim but well-proportioned, and the long, flowing copper colored hair that belied her Scottish ancestry. Academically, she had been something of an enigma to her parents; rarely performing to expectation but making an almost perfect score on the SATs and ACTs. She hadn't applied to a top tier school, from an early age wanting to go to Boston College. Though she hadn't declared a major, she had maintained for many years her desire to study literature. She was dressed in typical Tracy fashion; cardigan sweater over white blouse, grey flannel skirt, knee socks and tasseled loafers. Boarding school garb. It had stuck. She was home for Thanksgiving vacation, only five days, but Claire wouldn't be home. 'Thank God,' Edna Mayfield thought to herself, 'I couldn't handle them both this time.'

'So, Mom, what's new with you," her daughter asked.

"Oh, not too much, sweetie. I've had to make appearances at a couple of seminars, some campaign appearances for Senator Daniels, but not too much else. I went to Norway in September to visit your Aunt Connie's family. And, oh, don't go wandering up into the garage apartment, we've got a boarder up there."

"Oh, really," Tracy said, now very curious. The last girl they'd had up there had been really bad news. Drugs, lesbian orgies, and her father had been suspiciously slow to stop the goings on. No one ever mentioned it, but almost everyone familiar with events suspected that Stanton Mayfield had been having a pretty good go at the girls that hung around the apartment. Only her mother's furious intervention had prevented a serious social breech and perhaps worse, a scandal in the press. "What's she like?" she asked.

"Not a she, sweetie. He's a really nice young man," Edna Mayfield said, not wanting to tread this minefield so early in Tracy's vacation.

"That's a pretty good trick for a girl's college, don't you think, mom?

"He's a replacement they brought in after Olin had his heart attack. You know, he actually worked for your father for a while at the agency," she continued.

"That's pretty wild, huh? What's he like, how old is he," she said as they made their way to Edna's Cadillac.

"You know, sweetie, I'm not real sure. I've been away so much this Fall I just haven't had the chance to get to know him."

As Tracy Mayfield got in the car she could swear she had seen her mother blushing, and the red flags went up. There was no way that her mother wouldn't have all the C.I.A. and F.B.I files on this guy that had ever been kept. She moved on, not wanting to upset her mother, also thinking that the right kind of guy might be good medicine for her mother.

As they pulled into the driveway Tracy commented that the house looked good. Her mother pulled through the coach port and headed toward the garage.

"Wow, mom, are you driving Dad's Porsche?"

"Hum? No, sweetie, that Jordan's."

"Jordan?" Tracy said.

"Dr Douglas, dear, Jordan Douglas. I guess he's home. Oh, I forgot, they only had classes for half a day today."

Tracy Mayfield knew all there was to know now. Her analytical mind was the natural by-product of being raised by spooks in the C.I.A. and the N.S.A. 'Ok,' she thought to herself, 'the facts so far: first name basis; knows his schedule; blushes when talking about him. This is gonna be an interesting vacation after all.'

She carried her small bag into the house while her mother went into the kitchen to work on her stuffing. She made her way quickly into her parent's bathroom and took a quick look around. Didn't take long. There around the sink, is that brown hair? Ah-ha, razor stubble residue on the shower floor. She went back to her room and pulled out her cell phone, and speed dialed a number.

"Hello Claire? It's Trace. I think you'd better come home tonight. Yeah, I know. I think its that important. Yeah, but I think something's up with Mom, there might be a boyfriend. Yeah, I know. Well, get me the flight times; call me on the Boston cell. Right. Bye."

She went back down to the kitchen. Her mother was in her apron, bonafide real kitchen warfare uniform, making homemade biscuits for her stuffing, an old family tradition. She hadn't made them the last five Thanksgivings. Bing! "Can I help out, mom?"

"I was thinking it might be nice to call Dr Douglas and invite him over for a drink. Would you mind giving him a call?"

"Can't I go over and ask him? Seems silly to call."

"I think calling's the polite thing to do, Tracy."

She called the number for the back house. "Hello, Jordan? It's Tracy Mayfield. Mom and I would love it if you'd come over for a drink. Five minutes? Fine."

Edna Mayfield's eyes were wide open. 'Jordan,' she thought of Tracy's best poker voice on the phone. 'OK. She's no fool. If she hasn't figured it out already, she will in about ten minutes.'

Jordan arrived right on schedule.

Claire called about a hour after Jordan Douglas arrived. She took her cell phone outside and caller Ided the number for confirmation and called it back. "Yeah, it's Trace. There's a boarder in the back house, a new prof at the college. Former spook, worked for Dad, apparently, once upon a time. Oh, yeah, confirmed; evidence all over her bathroom. Uh, huh. Yeah, he seems like a nice enough guy, but you never know. So. Yeah, really good looking in a beach bum sorta way. OK. Flight 481. 2315 hours. Got it. I'll come for ya."

As she walked back in she thought about how best to make an excuse to get the car keys about 10 p.m. Bet her mom would fall for it, give her time to be with her beau anyway, she thought with a smile. Easy.

As she came in she saw her mother on the telephone, heard her thanking the party on the other line, saying good night.

Her mother turned to her daughter with a wry smile on her face.

"So. I guess you'll want the car about 10? Did you write down her flight number? 481, is it?

"Fuck," Tracy said. When your mother was a retired Head of Operations for the National Security Administration, you couldn't get away with dick.

"I know," Tracy's mother said sarcastically. "Let's all go, shall we?"

Jordan Douglas looked at mother and daughter and wondered just what the hell had happened.

Claire Mayfield came out of the arrivals concourse to see a dejected Tracy standing next to her mother and a nice looking man who stood about a head taller than his mother. OK, cover blown, as her Dad would've said, time to improvise.

"Hi, Mom. Guess the surprise didn't work, huh? Trace thought it would be nice to surprise you for Thanksgiving."

Edna Mayfield hugged her oldest daughter, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Well, Claire, you know how it goes," her mother said. "Hard to keep a secret," she continued, trying her best to keep her sense of irony in check.

"And I'm Jordan Douglas," the man next to her mother said, holding out his hand.

Claire Mayfield turned and looked into the penetrating eyes of the man. She sensed little guile but great intelligence. And anyone with an IQ of 85 could see that he was head over heels in love with her mother. She gave Trace a sidelong glance and noted the "she beat us again" grin on her face, and knew it all. Oh, well. Someday. Someday. Claire Mayfield turned and walked out the terminal with her sister, her mother, and the man she instinctively knew would soon change all of their lives forever.

She wasn't even too surprised when Edna Mayfield and Jordan Douglas held hands as they made their way to the yellow Cadillac.

Part VI

December 17th

Edna Mayfield was sitting astride Jordan Douglas's upper body, grinding her sex into his mouth. She was dressed for the occasion in black lingerie, garter belt, stockings, and shiny black patent leather pumps; the long black spikes of these shoes were digging into the skin of Jordan Douglas's chest and ribs. She had a riding crop in one hand which she used intermittently to slap the younger man's thighs and cock, and strapped around her waist was a shiny black strap-on penis. The man's hands were expertly bound together with black rope; his bound hands were stretched high above his head by another rope attached to the top of the bed's headboard.

She paused her merciless grinding and lifted her body from the man's face; he gasped for breath. "Thirsty yet, you dirty little boy?" she taunted. "Open," she commanded. "Open your slutty little mouth." She paused in concentration, then let forth a controlled stream of piss into the man's open mouth. "Don't spill a drop, bitch, or I'll hurt you," she snarled, bringing the riding crop down viciously across Jordan Douglas's cock. Jordan strained to keep his head under her stream, flinched from the impact of her lash, moaned with lust for the woman above him. Her stream abruptly ceased; she immediately slapped her moist vagina back onto his piss-damp face and resumed grinding her folds furiously into the greedy mouth below.

Edna Mayfield dropped into the cosmic bliss that had become the center of her universe since Jordan Douglas had burned so unexpectedly into her life. His training was, she thought, coming along rather well; breaking his bravado had been relatively easy for her, he was so consumed with his lust for her he simply would not - or could not - deny her anything. He was not unlike so many men, she believed. Men who - as her husband had so willingly submitted - were willing to submit to the physical beauty of the feminine, in any expression the power of the lupine woman could devise. Edna Mayfield did not think herself sadistic, merely the instrument of a wildly tornadic, magnetically syncretic force that fused two souls together through the intimate and infinite expressions of their dueling needs.

Jordan Douglas had been surprised by the hidden depths within Edna Mayfield's lustful cravings, and he had been equally surprised by his acceptance of her outrageous extremities. He had recognized and acknowledged her desperate need, and had accepted her need as his own; he viewed the extremities of her need as simply his basic duty to accept. He could think of no higher expression of his love, love which had grown with fantastic speed into a barely endurable need. With each lash of her whip, each thrust of her deepening lust, Jordan Douglas felt his soul more and more becoming the property of Edna Mayfield. Pain and submission were not cruelties to be endured, they were rather - on a very primal level - the surface contours of an infinite force that had with focused precision drawn these two souls together.

Edna Mayfield's head was arced back in orgasm, Jordan Douglas whipped his mouth into the frenzied vastness of her womb, driving his tongue from the depths of her cunt through the folds of her lips to her pulsing clit in endless breaking waves of oceanic orgasm. Her body whipped forward, she dug her fingers into his hair and curled her fingers, pulled his face deeper into her flooding release. As her torrents subsided, she drifted down Jordan's body until she sat between his legs. She took first his right ankle, then his left, and shackled them into leather cuffs that pulled his feet high above his head and left them spread painfully apart; he was now vulnerably exposed to the black rubber cock projecting from Edna Mayfield's waist. She lowered her face to his clenched asshole and began to lick it slavishly, running her tongue over the wrinkled landscape and into the silky recesses of his anus. She grabbed his cock and lifted, raised his pelvis into the air with this insult, and pushed a pillow under his buttocks. Thus perfectly exposed and vulnerable to her assault, she placed the tip of the black phallus on his anus and drove it mercilessly in with one vital thrust to the core of her need.

As he gasped at the abandon of her intrusion, she placed the tip of her riding crop on his lips. "Take it, bitch," she growled. She slapped his chin lightly with the crop. "Take it or you'll cry." She drew the cock all the way out of him - the cock popped sloppily as it slid free of his asshole - then placed it over the opening again, and drove it in with increased fury. The man gasped and groaned; the riding crop came down decisively on his left breast. In response to his flinch she withdrew the cock slowly until it popped free, then stabbed it in again, timing her thrust with the swing of her riding crop. She repeated this sequence over and over - slowly, drawing out the anticipation - for several minutes. She then dropped the crop and took his semi-erect dick in her hand and raked her fingernails over it's length, pinching the head as it twitched into life with her long ruby nails.

"Oh! He likes that, does he?" she taunted. She gripped the shaft of his cock with the tips of her nails and dug them in, releasing them abruptly, the deep indents evidence of her pressure. "Ooh, yes he does," she cooed in mocking baby-talk. As his cock pulsed to raging hardness, she slapped it viciously with her open hand, then stroked it rapidly in blinding strokes, slapped, stroked, slapped, stroked until his hips were thrusting. "Ooh, does he want to cum?" She increased her stroking to a furious pace, then - stopped. She squeezed the base of his flaming hard-on tightly as he moaned. "Does baby want to cummy-wummy? Hummm? Does baby want to beggy-weggy? Hmmmm?"

In response to his pleas she resumed driving the phallus into his ass and stroking his cock. She increased the tempo of her thrusts and jerks until she felt the tip of his cock flaming and twitching, then she - stopped. "Oooh. I'm not sure baby wants really really wants to cummy. Does baby really want to cummy?" She took off the shoe and stocking from her left leg, and pulled out a truly huge butt-plug from a bag of toys on the foot of the bed. As he writhed and pleaded, she resumed thrusting with the strap-on and jerking with her hand. As he twitched and bucked, his orgasm demanding release, her hand flew into a blindingly fast jacking motion, she withdrew from his ass and placed her mouth over his cock. "Shoot it, baby. Shoot it in my mouth."

His buttocks clenched and rose from the bed, his belly rigid as the cum exploded up from his churning balls through the length of his cock into the waiting mouth and onto the scooping tongue of Edna Mayfield. The first pulse literally filled her mouth; she hungrily swallowed the second and the third blast that coursed onto her tongue, very little seeping from her mouth. Jordan Douglas was openly weeping in the joy of his release, quivering from the symphony of cascading emotions that wracked his body. As he writhed, still more cum streamed from his cock; this Edna Mayfield caught in the stocking she held wadded in her hand. She jerked and milked the cum into a shiny pool; then she took the wadded pool and stuffed it into Jordan's mouth, cutting off the moans that wept through his orgasm. Next, she took the toe of her pump and shoved it into the well of his mouth, forcing the cum soaked stocking deeper into his mouth. She finished her performance by returning to Jordan's up-stretched legs and taking the mammoth butt-plug, slathering Vaseline onto his asshole, and slowly inserting the plug into the steaming asshole until Jordan's eyes bugged out in surprise and shock.

With this, she walked out of the room. He heard her laughter receding down a long hallway.

Part VII

December 18th

Tracy Mayfield walked out of the arrivals concourse, her arms fully engaged carrying holiday packages and a carry-on. She looked around for her mother but saw no one. She wondered if her flight was early and went to the bank of screens listing arrivals and departures and double checked the time; No, a few minutes late, actually. She took out her cell and dialed home; she let it ring until the machine picked up then shut her phone without leaving a message.