Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 04

IV

"Don't worry about it"

Of course, I knew nothing of this at the time. As I travelled home, I had plenty on my mind as I reflected on the day's events. Connie's ass-gymnastics had been spectacular; Fran's reaction was lower-key (as indeed Fran was a far less demonstrative person than Connie) but the rapt, doe-eyed, goofy gaze had been so utterly uncharacteristic of her, and so similar to the look that Connie had given me, that they must have had a common cause. And now I came to think of it, I had noticed Wendy giving me the same sort of look at home that morning but had assumed it was merely the afterglow of her spectacular orgasms.

Some men, I suppose, get this kind of attention from women all the time, but I was not one of them. Even as a younger man, when I carried far less weight and boasted a full head of hair, I had never been what you might call a babe magnet. There were points in my favour -- I am well built, standing over six foot (height seems to count for a lot with women), and I benefit from a decent education, a functioning brain, and a certain wit that plays well in some quarters -- so a few girlfriends duly came and went before the arrival in my life of Wendy. And it must be said that she fell like a ton of bricks the first time she met me -- and she certainly had other admirers available if required, so I must have had something. But at no time in my life have I been able to get the hang of that maddeningly elusive quality known as charm (although Wendy has it to spare, when she can be bothered to deploy it), and over the years male-pattern baldness and too much indulgence in Wendy's cooking have combined to extinguish whatever sex appeal I may once have possessed.

It was in this context that the reaction of three very different women stood out so strikingly. Until the last day or two, no woman had looked at me that way since Wendy stopped doing it about ten or twelve years ago. The sudden rekindling of her wifely affection might conceivably be explained away, but the response of Fran and Connie had to be something to do with FUCK.

But what exactly was it doing? Its effects on my libido and my capacity for sex were obvious enough -- the newspaper on my lap concealed from my fellow passengers yet another growing stiffy -- but I struggled to understand the effect it had on other people.

"Proximity," I thought. "It's got to be something to do with close physical proximity for a reasonable length of time." But there had to be more to it than that. I had also spent some time closeted with Brian (my boss: nothing much in the way of intelligence or drive, but a consummate office politician, hence his rapid rise) and Linda (the Personnel Officer: with the company since the dawn of time and due to retire shortly; tall, skinny, and efficient), but they had not behaved in any unusual way. Moreover, I was wedged on the train between a scruffy teenage boy and a hatchet-faced middle-aged woman, neither of whom gave any sign of finding me irresistibly attractive, or even of noticing me at all. There had to be more to it than simple proximity.

I was still pondering the matter as I walked up my front path. I was about to rummage for my keys when the door opened and Wendy, who must have been watching for me, hauled me inside, slammed the door and jammed me against the wall as she started pulling at my clothes and seeing how far she could get her tongue down my throat. In a reciprocal spirit I fumbled to try to remove her clothing only for my fingers to find nothing but bare skin.

I know I should have been taken aback by this but to tell the truth I had half expected something of the kind, especially since I had spent far more post-FUCK time close to Wendy than anyone else. Our joint efforts rapidly relieved me of my clothes, with a cry of lustful delight from Wendy when my engorged cock sprang free, and we fucked on the hall floor like animals.

After we had lain there for some time, our urges sated (for the time being), normal sensation began to return to me and I realised how uncomfortable the floor was. Also, I was feeling hungry, so I struggled to my feet.

Wendy followed my efforts with her eyes but was so blissed-out that it took her a moment to find the words to ask where I was going.

"To the kitchen. I need a cheese roll or something."

She looked alarmed. "No, no," she said, and tried hard to stand but was unable to achieve the necessary muscular co-ordination. I helped her up. "I'm planning something," she said. "Please try to wait. I'll be as quick as I can." She motioned me towards the front room, then stumbled off kitchenwards, apparently unconcerned by the great globs of white spunk trickling down her legs.

I slumped on a chair and idly watched the television news (we were in for a heatwave, apparently) while sounds of food preparation issued from the kitchen. Wendy, wearing a few clothes now and moving more normally, but still with an expression of radiant happiness on her face, appeared at intervals to bring me tea or assure me that I had not much longer to wait. Once or twice she stayed long enough to sit down and gaze lovingly in my direction, totally ignoring the television even when my channel-hopping happened upon one of her favourite shows.

Eventually she called me to the dining-room, where I found a superb meal laid out. She had roasted a large joint of pork and served it up with apple sauce (obviously freshly made, not out of a packet) and all the trimmings, with sautéed potatoes and a range of beautifully cooked vegetables.

It was superb. It was also very odd. I knew full well that the joint of pork and many of the other ingredients were things we had not had in the house. She must have planned the whole thing and made time to go shopping specially; no wonder she had wanted me home on time. And she must have worked really hard to prepare such a meal in so short a time; all right, the pork itself was probably cooking on a low heat while we rutted in the hall, but everything else must have been done while I slobbed in front of the television. Nor was this all; when I had cleared my plate of my second helping and positively refused any more, she bounded off to the kitchen and returned with a magnificent dessert to which, stuffed with food as I already was, I was sadly unable to do full justice.

I had to go to the bedroom and lie down to recover, and ponder this new development. It was no revelation that Wendy could cook, but this was the same woman that always proclaimed (with perfect justice) that she worked as long and as hard as I did and certainly was not going to spend her precious evenings in the kitchen; hence our weeknight regime of TV dinners.

There is not much more to say of the evening. When we went to bed we had another bout of glorious sex. And, just as the night before, I awoke in the small hours with another raging hard-on demanding to be relieved. But this time, I woke Wendy up; I had a feeling she would not object. Nor did she. And nor did passionate sex at three-thirty stop her from (successfully) demanding a repeat in the morning.

I lay in bed recovering after this final bout while Wendy showered and got ready for work. When she returned to the bedroom to kiss me goodbye, she was still smiling radiantly but looked puzzled.

"James, darling, what do you think is going on? Don't think I'm complaining," she hastily added, with an appreciative smile that confirmed her lack of objection, "but why are we suddenly so -- well, you know -- all the time?"

I had feared this. Hitherto she had given no indication that what was going on was in any way out of the ordinary but clearly at some level she had been wondering about it. I could hardly tell her about FUCK, so I should have to play ignorant and try to fob her off somehow. I was not optimistic of my chances; Wendy's persistence was one of her most striking characteristics.

"I don't think you should worry about it," I cautiously began. I was about to add that I was puzzled as she, but it would probably wear off and meanwhile we should enjoy it; but I checked myself when I saw her quizzical look instantly replaced by one of reassured relief.

"OK," she said, kissed me warmly, and left. So this brief exchange left me with yet more to ponder.

My priorities for the rest of the day were to see Uncle Albert's solicitor and try to make a start on sorting out his house. I was seeing the lawyer at ten o'clock so I showered and breakfasted quickly. I was not surprised to hear Kylie Rico let herself back in next door shortly after her mother had gone out. Maybe she did this every day.

Mr Lucas was a solicitor of the old school, in a stuffy, traditional office. Normally, I quite like this kind of environment but the promised heatwave had arrived and I should gladly have exchanged the red leather upholstery for some modern air-conditioning. Mr Lucas was also struggling, I could see, but continued gamely. He said that his late client had not been very forthcoming about his affairs, for instance refusing to discuss whether he had made a will. But he assured me that if no will existed, I was Albert's only close relation (there were some second cousins in Canada) so I should inherit his estate. He offered to contact Uncle Albert's bank to explain the situation.

"However," he cautioned, "do not expect very much besides the house. Despite his outstanding abilities, your uncle seemed willing to work for a surprisingly modest salary, and I fear he was quite intemperate in rejecting my advice to seek rights over the commercial exploitation of his many discoveries."

"Yes," I replied. "I had a similar experience. I don't think money was really very important to him."

Mr Lucas shook his head in bemusement at his late client's eccentricity, and we went on to look at the details of what I had to do to resolve Uncle Albert's affairs.

I was glad when I could escape into the open air, although to tell the truth, as the sun blazed down it was scarcely an improvement on the stuffy office. Given my new-found need for sexual release every few hours I decided to head for home for a cup of tea and a nice wank before proceeding to Uncle Albert's.

With commendable restraint and self-discipline (as I told myself) I decided to make the tea before having the wank. As I idly glanced out of the kitchen window while waiting for the kettle to boil, my eye was caught by the strange sight of what appeared to be a beached whale in next door's back garden. A second look revealed that this was Kylie face-down on a sunlounger, wearing only a skimpy bikini. Obviously she had decided to take advantage of the weather to top up that Grancanaria tan.

With hindsight, it must have been my raging sex drive that urged me into the garden for a closer scutiny. Despite my liking for a few curves, I had thought of Kylie's "pregnant hippo" look as living proof that it is possible to have too much of a good thing. But now, as I tried to combine ogling over the fence with giving the impression that I was simply enjoying a casual stroll, I felt myself strangely drawn to those massive thighs, those proud buttocks and spreading hips, and those blossoming breasts whose bulge was so clearly visible under her procumbent body.

It was not just the warmth of the day that was making me sweat. I was terrified that she would turn her head and see me. It was a great relief when I realised that she was snoring like a hog. Although it hardly increased her allure, the sound emboldened me to stand right next to the fence. She was not five feet from me now. I could see how little droplets of sweat would form on her well-oiled skin before running down her mighty flanks. I could practically smell the bacon sizzling. I stood there enthralled.

Suddenly, she gave an extra loud snort and stirred. I hastily ducked out of sight, and through a small gap in the fence I saw her slowly turn over. If she decided to lie there awake, I thought, I might be trapped here for hours.

She sat up, squeezed a large dollop of sun lotion into her hands and started rubbing it in. The sight of her oily hands kneading her billowing form was almost more than I could bear. My cock was enormous now, begging to be allowed to explode. And then Kylie, as if to worsen my plight, and reasoning (I presume) that her garden was overlooked only by mine, and that Wendy and I were safely at work all day, removed her top so she could do a thorough job of massaging the lotion into her monster tits.

Freed of all restraint, they were mammoth. I had had no idea she had grown so big. When she had finished oiling one of them and let it drop back into position, it did so with an audible slap. Crouching uncomfortably behind the fence, unable to move a muscle for fear of making a noise to give myself away, and with easily the biggest and hardest stiffy of my life straining against my trousers, I was in an agony of lust.

Finally she resumed her sunbathe. This time she donned sunglasses and lay on her back, not bothering to replace her bikini top, so her vast oily bosoms sagged into position either side of her. Still I dared not move. And then to my inexpressible relief, I once more heard the sound of snoring.

Very slowly and carefully I stood up. I knew I should return to the house, relieve my needs, and start clearing up at Uncle Albert's place, but I still found myself unable to move away from Kylie. To be frank I wanted to leap the fence and ravish her.

Then she stirred. For a terrible moment I thought she was waking up again, but then she gave an unmistakably sexual moan and I realised she was dreaming. "Ooooh! …. Oh yes! Yes!" Now one hand squeezed her breast, while the other fumbled under her bikini bottom. As she fingered herself towards climax, she writhed and moaned like a whore.

I was gripping the fence so hard my knuckles were white. It was only a flimsy barrier; I could easily force my way through it. If I did, I was going to take her. There was no doubt about it. The law might call it rape, and so it would be, but I should not be able to stop myself. In desperation I unzipped my trousers and released a cock so huge and red that it looked deformed. It was so sensitive I could hardly touch it but I managed to rub my fingers along the shaft and almost instantly I felt a massive charge of semen about to explode. Somewhere in my brain I realised that if I hit the fence the spatter would be visible on the other side, so I spun round and sent bolt after bolt of hot sticky cum flying all over my lawn, where it lay in glistening trails. ("Darling, I think we've got slugs," Wendy told me when she next went in the garden a couple of days later. "Huge ones, by the look of it.")

Dimly as if from far away I could hear Kylie's yelps of orgasmic ecstasy as she too climaxed a few feet behind me. I did not stop to see whether she was awake or asleep. I hastened back into the house, my cock hanging out of my trousers and still dripping cum. Hurriedly I tidied myself up and went upstairs to peek out of the bedroom window. Kylie was sitting up on the sunlounger looking blissful, and thankfully she showed no sign of awareness that anyone else might have been about. I was just congratulating myself on a very narrow escape when she alarmed me by turning to look in the direction of our house. I say "in the direction of" rather than "at" the house because it was not the searching, intense look she would have given if she had thought she might see someone; it was more of an unfocused gaze. She looked happy but slightly confused. For a moment I feared she would see me at the window but I realised that with the sun on the glass it would be impossible to see anything in the shade of the bedroom. After a few moments she shrugged, smiled in a dreamy sort of way, shook her head and lay back on the lounger to soak up some more rays.

I backed cautiously away from the window and tried to exclude from my mind such extraneous considerations as the way Kylie's tits had shifted shape and position when she shrugged, and concentrate instead on what was happening to me. I began to shake with anxiety as awareness swept over me that I had been within a hair's breath of ravishing a eighteen-year-old schoolgirl without caring whether or not she consented. I realised too that I was only beginning to understand what FUCK could do. Kylie's sudden passion could not have been coincidental; whatever FUCK did to women it had been able to do to her in the open air at a range of several feet. Although I wanted nothing more than to lie in a cool dark room and try to recover from the last couple of hours, I knew that I had to go to Uncle Albert's and try to discover what I had unleashed on myself, how long it would last, and how on earth I could control it.