Harmony Hill Ch. 02

Sunday and Monday were my nominal weekends, my consecutive days off from tending bar at the Sweet Spot. Since Harmony moved in six weeks earlier, I often spent part of one or both of these days and many nights fucking her.

We were friends and neighbors but first and foremost we were fuck buddies.

Often when the telephone in my apartment rang, I answered and heard Harmony's sultry voice sounding like honey tastes. Her voice as intimate as a priest's penance to a penitent, its timbre, its texture, and its temperature tickled my ear trickled directly to my dick and always summoned an erection with an astonishing swiftness.

"Dwight, come over, I will suck your cock and then you can fuck me."

I knew of at least four men my age fucking her regularly and yet she continued to fuck me as though she had gone without sex for months.

The first time she called, three days after she moved in, I answered on the second ring.

"Dwight, I am sitting here playing with my pussy, my fingers are tired but I still have an itch. Can you come over and give me some relief?"

"Be there in ten seconds," I said as I wiped shaving cream from my jaw. Bare chested, bare foot, wearing blue jeans buckled with a worn black leather belt, I dropped the telephone in its cradle, took several steps from my place, felt the hemp welcome mat in front of her door under my heels and toes, knocked on the door and rang the door bell simultaneously.

Harmony opened the door. She was attired in a balconet bra and thong pale pink in color, thigh high hosiery polished looking yet the same hue of pink as her bra and thong. She teetered on four inch hot pink pumps, fuck me pumps. Her full and firm breasts thrusting from the bra's cups displayed an abundance of cleavage worthy of an 18th century French courtesan.

The perfection of her legs, her tits popping from the bra, the high heels and the thong, a sliver of fabric covering her pudenda and strung through the cleft between the globes of her butt, presented such a prurient picture I found it difficult not to fuck her in the apartment door way.

A buxom woman in fuck me pumps always the stuff of my masturbatory fantasies and now next door no fantasy but a real woman of insatiable desire and unquenchable hunger for cock in general, my cock in particular.

I entered her apartment and noticed everything was in its place and there was a place for everything. Not one cardboard container anywhere, no wrapping paper, no slivers of tape left on the floor, no rectangular depressions in the carpet from the impression of heavy boxes. Grinning, she backed up as I approached her, silently said "fuck me" as she settled on the sofa, leaned back, and inserted her right hand under the thong.

My cock prodded the front of my Levis. Hastily, as though something nasty was crawling across my ass and needed to be removed immediately if not sooner, I unzipped and unbuckled, pushed the jeans toward my knees, grabbed at my erection, enjoyed its hardness, its satiny texture in the palm of my left hand, stroked it between my thumb and index finger as I watched the three middle fingers of Harmony's right hand busily toiling in the cleft between her legs.

"A young man, 22 or 23, named Tim spent all night fucking me. He had a sweet little cow lick in his blond hair, a deep notch in his chin like Kirk Douglas and a cock the diameter of a beer can, I am full of his semen and I still want more cock." She removed her hand from her slit, showed me her wetness, the fluid of Tim Beer Can's semen soaking her fingertips. "I am such a slut, a whore, a nymphomaniac."

"No, no, no. You are just highly sexed and I love it," I said. I did not say I felt sorry for her pain. Being such a self centered ass hole, my sympathy did not stop me from wanting to fuck her.

By the time the word "it" emerged from my mouth, I had yanked the thong off Harmony, tossed her legs back, and socketed myself into her pussy, my cock tearing into the trove so recently visited by Tim, the cow-licked, notched chin fuck buddy with the huge tool.

Her wetness, the surfeit of Tim's sperm bubbling from her twat enveloped my cock. I pushed into her, the pressure of my loins nudging against the hard surface of her pubic ridge. My hands found purchase on her calves, their satin texture, and the strength of the muscles under the smooth skin noticeable to my touch. Ripping into her, a quick lunging movement, I started moving in and out of her in a steady rhythm. As I fucked Harmony, I enjoyed the view of her bust barely contained on the lacey shelf of the bra, the flat expanse of her tummy, the indentation of her belly button holding a tiny sparkling diamond.

No doubt wetness spilling from her womb made an irregular shaped smudge on the sofa cushion. Harmony's lithe body flowed across the sofa like a lazily constructed fallen on its back C. Curls of her blond hair fell across her face, a strand here, a strand there touching her cheek, the corner of her painted mouth. Her hips nearly off the front of the sofa, she held her legs high in the air, supporting them with her slim arms, the rest of her body bracing against my angle of attack. I fucked, jammed my cock into the core of her vault. Amidst all the moisture, friction remained as she gripped me with her vaginal muscles. Her pushing, my prodding made my cock swell to its fullest proportions. To know I was visiting an arena so recently visited by another man added a fillip of excitement.

Harmony pushed her pubis toward my cock.

Fucking like two animals in heat, the idea of another man, a legion of men with such free access to this woman's delights spurred me on.

Hugo Hill, the most cuckolded husband in history had reaped the whirlwind when Harmony's Marine son died in Iraq. According to an acquaintance of mine, a guy by the name of Bobby Lockyear, a grease monkey at Goodyear and a Purple Heart winner in Afghanistan, Harmony while never faithful to Hugo, had gone off the deep end when her son came home in an aluminum coffin. She was serial adulterer throughout her marriage but shortly after her son's interment, she restricted her fucking to men around the age of her son. No longer did her husband have the access she accorded to so many others.

Bobby fucked Harmony and in all likelihood continued to fuck her since he was not yet 24.

My cock moved about inside Harmony. Up and down, in and out, forward and backwards. She moaned. Her hands continued to support her legs as I fucked her.

"Give it to me hard, give to me hard."

I complied.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, you are hitting the sweet spot." She panted, wailed, moaned and grunted. All the sounds of fulfilled lust. My own sounds mingled with hers as our bodies collided. She came, a series of orgasms charging through her, then a chain of bursts that made her jump. I came and my semen, a thick copious stream flooded into Harmony.

This 55 year old woman with the body of a 30 year old amazed me by her unremitting hunger for my member. No sooner then I erupted inside her, my semen, Tim's sperm meeting in the darkness of her insides, we adjourned to her bed.

Such a bed. She called it a sleigh bed and it did look like a sleigh pulled by a team of hefty, snorting horses. Made of oak I think, hand tooled, sculpted with grinning cherubs, coy looking angels and playful cupids, the bed was dressed in black silk sheets with a slick looking black duvet neatly folded at its foot.

Ebony furniture--a dresser, bedside tables and vanity table--lacquered to a high sheen occupied the room. Curtains, black curtains of course, draped the window. At the foot of the bed angled between the east and southern walls sat a black leather wing backed chair. The bed and all the furniture rested on a deep pile carpet as white as a little girl's communion dress.

On the dresser an eight by ten glossy photograph in a silver frame showed a blond haired and square jawed man, an extremely young man, in Marine dress blues, the butter bars of a Second Lieutenant on his solid shoulders. Another silver frame contained the glossy photograph of Harmony's daughter, an exquisitely gorgeous young woman with clear blue eyes and blond hair draping her shoulders.

I wondered if a mirror hidden away in a closet reflected Harmony's true self: a sad looking older woman covered in wattles and wrinkles, her thighs pock marked with Cellulite, pendulous sacs of breasts falling toward her ripe gut, all the physical deterioration of aging captured inside the mirror and no where else.

Maybe not a mirror but a painting of her was tucked away behind the water heater or draped with a cloth behind all her sexy garments. Each brush stroke, every whorl of color, the substance of shadow, the excitement of the artist's talent depicted a woman not necessarily ugly but definitely not beautiful, an average woman whose body had ripened to maturity and now time and gravity relentlessly attacked, spurred her toward the final darkness of death. I did not really give a shit if such a mirror or painting existed. I was fucking Harmony as I and the world saw her not some oil painting or looking glass might depict her. Furthermore, I was sorry she lost her son in Iraq but that did not diminish my lust for her.

Still wearing her fuck me pumps, the bra barely contained her lovely boobs, she sprawled on the surface of the bed. The firm bands of her ass rested against the cool sheets, her cum filled pussy no doubt dribbled sperm on the drum head tight fabric covering the bed. Harmony inserted the index finger of her left hand between her legs long enough to dab at the wetness inside. Then she licked the finger like it was cake frosting or sauce simmering in a pan.

"Eat me, lick the sperm from me nasty boy and I will suck your cock."

I fell on the bed, jacked Harmony's legs apart, they formed an inverted v, the heels of her fuck me pumps poked the black silk sheets. Her calves while toned were not too muscular. Under the flesh of her firm thighs, thighs as smooth as a baby's derrière, an assembly of hard muscle and flexible sinew delighted my eyes. Her shapely ankles beguiled me as did the tops of her feet rising from the pumps at a severe angle. I made a mental note to sit in the leather chair and beat off while she strutted about the bedroom in nothing but heels.

"No, before you eat me, reach in the night stand, the top drawer and remove the feather. I want you to tickle my clit with its tip."

In the same manner I instantly obeyed Sergeant Bremer when he said, "Porter, get your damned head down," I reached into the top drawer of the night stand and removed a twelve inch blue feather. I rubbed its edge against the helmet of my cock, reveled in its soft and supple texture.

My cock jerked in reaction to the feel of the feather.

"Now me," Harmony said. "Touch my clit, it feels so good."

Holding the feather by its shaft with my left hand, I used the fingers of my right hand to find her clit, to touch the inflamed nub with one of my digits before brushing it with the feather.

I imagined her clit a fragile soap bubble. To lap at it too forcefully would burst its delicate skin. I needed to move the feather gingerly and deftly. In such a manner I wished to excite her, to make her clit swell much like a leach becomes bloated with blood. I wanted to use the feather as a precision tool to drive her to the edge of madness, a madness of lust that needed immediate placating by cock, Coke bottle, anything sturdy enough to soothe her inflamed state and trigger ripples of pleasurable waves coursing through her body.

I was a master of the feather as used to arouse a woman's body. I knew the precise way to touch the clit, to whisk it across a nipple, to let it float across the flat plain of the stomach, to poke at the puckered portal of the anus.

The feather touched her clit. Slowly, relentlessly, I used the feather's tip to navigate across her feminine penis in search of the invisible line between pleasure and pain. She moaned, screeched, the sound of a woman giving birth. Harmony lifted her hips, moved toward the feather seeking the little death of orgasm not reaching it, me managing to stall her release.

Amidst the groans, the moans, the swift breathing she said, "Oh my God, that feels so good. You could make a dead woman come."

Her body, flexible as a snake, rolled about the bed as I tried with great difficulty to maintain contact with her clit. She grabbed my wrist with her right hand, clamped down on it, squeezed and jerked my arm and the feather from its efforts.

"Get that cock of yours in me now." Her voice, deep, scratchy, commanding, sounded like the girl filled with the devil in the movie The Exorcist.

"Fuck me now."

Promptly my cock dipped into her pussy. Her legs clutched around my back, her thighs touching my flanks. Within seconds as our groins bumped into each other, we both came.

"Honey, between you and Beer Can Man, I have had little sleep in the last 24 hours. I am going to take a nap."

"I am going back to my place to shower," I said.

By the time I dressed which meant slipping into my jeans, Harmony slept in the sleigh bed. She mumbled something about a Jason. I wondered if Jason was a lover or her son. Did fucking me, did fucking the other men, peers of her son, bring him closer or did it drive his ghost away.

I left her apartment and knew I would fuck her as much as possible before age made me ineligible.

As I entered my apartment the phone rang. Answering it, I heard Angela's voice. Angela who broke up with me shortly before Harmony moved in. Without saying a word, I hung up on her.