KOI 07: Warm Country Lovin'

Warm Country Lovin'

Monroe County, Illinois. 1972-73

[Lightly edited to avoid a misleading and irrelevant categorical error.]

Becca and I could never get into calling it "swinging." The word had faintly ridiculous connotations of dippy newsmagazine readers rooting around in a disagreeably sweaty world of amateur pimping and whoring, their bunny medallions glittering in the party lites. Instead, we came to call our thing "coupling." Okay, so that wasn't much better a term. But it was our own term.

And through my college years, at least, "coupling" seemed to best describe the comfortable, unstructured setups we fell into. There was no system, no solicitation, and not all that much calculation. Becca and I were open to coupling, and that seemed to be all that was necessary for us to bump into enough doubledaters of like inclination to assuage most of our young, lazy desires for broadened, uh, sociosexual liasons.

Eventually, the two of us young people were going to have to face up to the grittier forms imposed by the cold, adult world. Thank goodness, well before then we had two of Becca's older schoolfriends around to provide an early example of unforced, but systematically hobbylike, coupling. And Sherrie and Gary Siebert were wise enough not to expose us to too much, too soon. It's one of my enduring regrets that the pair was gone by the time Becca and I could have used more of their practical wisdom. It's one of my enduring sorrows that Sherrie is gone -- period.

Before I met up with Becca, I guess I'd just been lucky in love. Even my virgin had been a well-read daughter of a pioneering sex educator. I'd never run into really bad sex in my early years, and I guess I'd had more variety than most uncrazed people my age.

But a lot of it had felt sort of flimsy, fugitive -- more than a little hypocritical and supported mostly on waves of hormones. It was good "love," but it didn't settle all that well. I guess this was what kept me hanging on to a prototypical domestic life with Becca through that strung-out junior year in college. Becca had become my rice bowl. Satisfying, healthy, and predictable. God knows how that made her feel.

It was up to Becca's old childhood friends to show us the way up from the plateau of conventional lovelife we'd fallen to while Becca was working two jobs and I was dallying with Debbie Minton. It didn't hurt that Sherrie and her husb'n, Gary, had a nice little house out on a lonely county road. I was still living at home, but I could exaggerate the wages from my 12-hour-a-week job and claim to family that I was visiting friends on weekends, at various distant college sites. Instead, I was zipping regularly across the bridge to Sherrie and Gary's place.

Sherrie was one of Becca's more sensible pals, Irish on her mother's side, and little Becky's favorite when Becca was growing up. She was five or six years older than Becca, but the age difference hadn't kept them from developing a warm, and briefly torrid, friendship when Becca was just breaking in. Sherrie let herself be Becca's stepping stone from the World of Barbie, as she juggled her boyfriends and babysitting jobs with Becky for a period of almost a year. The two girls cooled down as Sherrie approached highschool graduation and took up with her shy Gary. Sherrie and Gary moved down to college in Carbondale for a while, and the Sherrie/Becky friendship drifted, as such things do.

Their sex together was but a fond memory by the time Becca introduced me to Sherrie at the local watering hole. Neither one of them had had any real inclination to do other women in the interim.

There was still some residual physicality evident between them at the reunion, though. But Sherrie was sick, three-quarters of the way through a two-year set of cancer treatments.

At the age of twenty-five, Sherrie had already seen her death. The radical therapy involved in the experience had slightly coarsened the complexion of the brunette's pixie face, and added gray to her curly hair. Her condition was diagnosed soon after her wedding to her high-school sweetheart, and the ordeal of treatment quickened something new in Sher. And in her husband Gary as well. The something new began to bloom even before Sherrie's treatment was declared completely successful, back when her small body might still be wracked by retching if an evening grew too long or too exuberant. Despite her pain and exhaustion, Sherrie refused to abandon her exercises, even when she became apologetic for the emotional discomfort it might be causing her concerned partners. Gary and her friends eventually learned to calm her in ways that preserved her sense of worthy give and take. It stood us all in good stead after Sher regained seemingly good health.

(At first a slight, well-contained anemia persisted; it gave added pallor to Sherrie's flesh, and an oddly attractive "dirty blue" patina to her skin at the spots it stretched on her fine bones.)

For Sherrie, the pretty small-town prom queen, there had been others before she met Gary. For Gary, Sher had been the first. And she had been the only, through college and wedding and too-short honeymoon. Suddenly, Gary caught a glimpse of death along with Sherrie, and what the two of them decided then was very natural, a very natural outgrowth of their love for one another. Sherrie alternated the radiation treatments with sessions of sharing that of necessity required making contacts with relative strangers. Her delicate health required that Gary make sure of the good sense and sensibility of the people who filtered through their dating agency. Sex was the one compartment of Sherrie's life where her denial of illness was as total as it could be, but she left the job of date selection almost entirely up to her husband. It was a hassle for them both, but in the early seventies even the East Side had a share of intelligent and sympathetic experimenters.

Still, running into Becca and me was a break for the pair. Sherrie was sicker than ever in the eighteenth month of her "moderate" treatment. There were nights she couldn't make it, and nights when her insistence on making it was no pleasure for anyone.

There was a delicacy about lovemaking with Sher, the result of the special care that her condition dictated. Her body was, in fact, "surprisingly" resilient. But habitually she and I did a lot of hummingbird-flitting about the edge of the bed, reveling in the kisses of our mouths and fingers and genitals, and enjoying the maddening ticklishness of arrhythmic in-and-out.

Sher's little body was oddly exciting to observe, screwing. It had no particularly fine tone, no special shapeliness in the classic sense... but nice smallgirl limbs clutching, sure, and pretty little round snertwhite tits bobbling, pale mulberry nipples raised and hard. And it was strangely agreeable, strangely fun, just plain sexy to lift oneself from the girl, and watch her body's enjoyment of The Act of Love. ("The Act... of Luuuuuv," she'd croon, in mock Motown swoon, her lips oddly puckered, suddenly chimpanzeelike.)

The final, sweaty minutes of completion would bring us hard-to, hiccoughing breath like busy monkeys, me embracing all of the little girl and pressing into her, hard, hard, but almost without moving. Then, we'd concentrate on feeling what our sex was working on, in both of our bodies, and a strange explosion of mutual metasexual orgasm resulted, originating not from the usual places, but from some supernatural entity awakened out of the sparking condition of my priapic shaft's pure full desire to fill Sherrie's restored, expectant womb. It could last for minutes, forever...

Discounting the Pre-Raphaelite appeal of holding a mortally-ill lover, there was nothing romantic about our weekends with the Sieberts. Our routine was straightforward. Cut-and-dried. Domestic. I liked it.

At suppertime on Friday night, Becca and I would make our respective alibis to our respective parents and show up at the Sieberts' remote cottage in our respective old cars. Sherrie would have the supper ready for us. The wine was served in strictly ritual portions. The dish-washing felt like ritual. The post-prandial television viewing was ritual. We were into our beds by nine. More often than not, I was paired with Becca. All the doors in the house remained open, including the door that connected the cottage's two bedrooms. If Sherrie was up to it, the bedpartners would be combined by Saturday morning.

One Friday I felt like Sherry was more than I could handle. It was me. I was strangely down, feeling empty. The hands of the alarm clock by the bed were sweeping toward ten o'clock. Becca and Gary were into their second round, by the sound of them, and I was ten minutes into my second penetration of Sher, just plugging tiredly over her hip from behind, our hands folding flesh where they could find hold.

My first fuck had gone nowhere. It was irritatingly cut short when Sher popped up to find a discount-store "massage wand" that had to be plugged in behind the bed. It was the first such thing I'd ever seen in real life. Its appearance did nothing for my self- esteem. Sherrie flipped the switch on and off to assure herself that it worked, then tucked it under her pillow.

"You know," she chirped. "Just in case."

Big help that remark was. Sherrie'd been awfully chirpy that night. I shrugged and shoved back into her. Her twat was cold. The wet old socket felt like some disposal drain. Plug. Plug. Plug. Roll over her leg, in again from behind her round, dry-skinned butt. Plug. Plug. Plug.

"Yeahhh, OHhhh!" screamed Becca from the next room. Gary was a happy, open-faced and handsome guy, and he was stronger than me. Brown, smooth-skinned, he-man-broad with friendly muscle.

"Ooooh!" Becca squealed.

Kind of short he was, though.

I got out of Sherrie again, pulled her over onto her back. She smiled at me as I clambered, dick bopping over her thigh, clambered into a straight position.

"Why don't you try my other hole tonight," Sher told me simply.

The ruckus in the next room had died down. So had my dick. To make time, I stuffed the thing into Sher's wide open vag. She pumped at it. Over the last thirty minutes, Sher had become very juicy.

I was busy counting.

There had been that rough experiment with Jannie back in high school. Then that nasty business on the campout two summers ago. Sher's would be the... third ass. One. Two. Three.

Sher pulled me down to her soft body, grinding her belly to mine with a new soft squeeze of her cunt.

"Use my other hole, if you want," Sher said. "I like that stuff."

Her brown eyes were childlike, calm. And motherly, too. Family eyes. Some of that eyeliner she'd wear to bed had smeared.

I could feel Sher's breathing. Her belly seemed to be working at something. I got up off her, still inside her vag, and I flexed my prick straight. Sher smiled a little at that.

"You do it, Rich."

I looked down below as I slipped my cock out of her. My hand groped at the tackle. The equipment was all oiled up, sopping. Poke a finger. Sher's other hole was gaping, slime-slick. Wild. My thumb and forefinger pinched around my bulb. Positioning. Poke. Easy.

"Sl... slow, now," Sher said. "It's been a while."

No problem. This was the most comfortable ass I'd ever taken, in my... three... experiences. A nice roll through th' sphincter, something gritty dragging down my ventral side as my head plumbed a warm, wide, open subsheryllian valley.

"Oooh," piped Sherrie, involuntarily. A roll of gluteus cradled the shaft of my prong, from below, pressing the top of my dick into a yielding wall, and then my cockhead was tickled behind its neck by more smooth muscle.

I pulled back into the tickle. Slowly.

"Oooh," crooned Sherrie, more selfassuredly. Then she began to rock me, and press in rhythm.

There were no more distracting thoughts. I gave my mind over to Sherrie's sweet ass.

... It had taken a long time to get to this point of no-mind. Students of physiology will understand why I still hadn't come by the time Sherrie was showing me her dog style of butt-fucking, and they'll understand why I wasn't feeling any complaint. As a matter of fact, I was feeling like a new man, in a new world.

Spit was all that was needed to keep things moving. My spit, and then Sher had wet the noodle with a quick, funny gobble while we rolled her to her knees. She seemed unconcerned about where it had just been. She was all business. But now it was getting dry again. I left her.

Spat to my hand. Spat again. Applied it. Set to mount. It went back inside almost as if I had never left. Sher pressed her butt luxuriously into my groin. But the hammock of her rectal wall seemed to have gone slightly slack. I rolled there, as Sherrie squeezed her glute into my belly and loins.

Then the small girl rolled us onto our sides. I played with her tits as she reached under the pillow and pulled out the discount store wand. We continued to wiggle, and Sher wordlessly inserted the vibrator into her twat and flicked it on.

The insertion was all that I needed. The cylinder pressed through Sherrie along my shaft, and my prostatic tubing or whatever it was began to unstick. The vibes were just gravy. My gravy was allofasudden back between my legs, warm and filling.

Still, nothing was out of control. It was just, like, everything was back again. My jaw was nestled over Sherrie's head, and it felt like her teeth were starting to chatter with the chatter of the cheap electric dildo. Then, her whole body was chattering. Her butt shook around my cock, her backthighs skittering wetly over my balls, and I took up a rough rub of her goosefleshed tits as I began to pump, on our sides, pump roundly into Sher's rectum as the shudder of her orgasm radiated into all of me and the vibrator zoomed us both out of the cottage and into the country sky. Then the sperm was running back down my shaft out over Sher's fine asscheeks and the vibrator was shut off but Sher gave herself three or four more long strokes while I was sliding out, still hard, aching with the aftershock of the long-delayed release.

Sher was still shuddering. I kissed through her hair to the back of her neck. God, we both smelled funky!

The funk was in my face in the early morning. In the night, I'd crawled down to taste the aftereffect of our labors, pay homage to Sherrie's rounded rear chapel of luv. The scum was thick on my lips.

There was a rustling sound like children approaching the Christmas tree on Christmas morning.

"What's that?" Becca's voice asked.

Sherrie's body started awake, then immediately calmed. I quietly bit Good Morning into a bulge of her underflesh.

"Looks like Rich found Sherrie's rear entrance," said friendly Gary.

"No way," Becca's voice snapped shut on the idea. "I mean, what's that thing?"

Sherrie and I were slowly scooting aside to let Becca climb onto the bed. Sleepy Gary had kneeled at the bed's foot, his face cradled in his big hands. Becca was crawling up between Sherrie and me on her knees, girlish hands outstretched toward the vibrator. Her crotch hair was matted, and there were slick, dried patches of stuff smeared down the insides of her strong brown thighs. God, we all smelled funky!

"This puppy still has a lot to learn," said Sherrie drily.

Becca remembered to kiss me and then rolled easily onto her back, between Sherrie and me, looking at the vibrator in her hands. Her face had the expression of an entranced two-year-old.

"Tee hee!" she giggled when she flipped the switch.

"Vi-bray-tor," Sherrie enunciated. "A common household appliance. Friend to frazzled housewives everywhere."

"What does it do?" asked wide-eyed Becca, mock-ingenuously.

Both Sherrie and I had cuddled up to the warm brown girl. Sherrie's head had nestled next to Becca's on the pillow, her body snugged close to Bec and a leg thrown lightly over Becca's. The sight of Sher's breasts pressing close to my girlfriend's relaxed arm was enjoyable. I rolled my rising cock along Becca's hip, dropped my head to the pillow behind Becca's, passed one arm under both girls' heads, the other arm over Becca's chest into the nest of Sherrie's cleavage.

"Vi-bray-tors can do a lot of things," said Sherrie.

Sher took Becca's hands in hers and pressed the machine alongside Becca's boobs.

"Tee hee!" Becca giggled and let Sher have control of the vibe.

Sher continued to wave the wand over Becca's frontside, like a bakery chef fluffing cakefrosting. A tip to Becca's rising nipple, a stroke down her sticky armpit, then flat over Becca's now-rippling tummy. The gently thrumming device was laid next to my prick for a good few seconds; it did feel nice.

This was not the first time Gary and I had witnessed a brief reawakening of Becca and Sherrie's old love. With a real look of nostalgia in her brown eyes, Sherrie moved more of herself onto Becca's tickled bod. Becca made little miouxing sounds, eyes sort of pleading, sort of gentle, and Sherrie's lips met hers and Becca's arms were around Sher, her hands in Sher's curly hair, and Sher slipped the whirring dildo into Becca's ready twat. The kissing intensified.

I'd shifted my body over them both, not wanting to interfere, yet unable to pull back, as Becca's hips responded to Sherrie's application and our two crotches rode my girl, one ball-bedecked and itching, one damp with old love, and scratching. And the bodies next to mine were straining into each other, with yearning moans sounding almost pained, and then Becca came hard, and just as hard Sherrie's husband had pulled his wife off my girl, and the vibe fell buzzing to the floor, and I was on top and inside convulsing Becca, while Gary huffed and puffed on the back of red-faced Sherrie draped halfway off the bed and the bed shook with his pounding.

The sperm squeezed out of me into Becca's extended O. It was almost anticlimactic. My scrotum started itching again as soon as I pulled out of her. A little lovey afterplay, while oue two friends calmed down, themselves.

"I got first dibs on the shower."

"Man," Gary asked me from the edge of the bed, "did you come in Sherrie's hair last night?"

"Probably," I replied. "I remember nothing."

*****

Mid-afternoon, and it was Becca and Gary and me alone in the Sieberts' little "finished" basement, lounging naked in the quiet florescent light among the collection of various cloth cushions and beanbags. My dick nestled long and stiff in a niche of light canvas, but I was not to be distracted from my vagkissing. I'd got Becca noisy with my tongue, and now I had my arms encasing her hips, my hands around her rear, my fingers probing her vulva, stroking vaglips wide and exposing clit and pinching, rubbing. I rolled the little girlcock in my lips, bumping it with my teeth, soothing it with my tongue. Becca moaned, and Gary was kissing her mouth, caressing her breasts.

I lifted my head from Becca's sex, and studied it. Becca's black pussyhair was of unremarkable fullness, serviceably thick on her mons, with some tendrils sprouting about the top of her vulva. Her lips were red with excitement, full. The opening of her vagina was puffed, inner lips a little distended this afternoon. Inside the crenulations, the girlcum gleamed like new cream.

One of Becca's hands was caressing my bum, trying to return pleasure, pulling the hair on my taint, poking balls and asshole. I wiped my face against her soft inner thigh, and went down on her again. Another moan.

"S-s-suck."

It was an offer to Gary, as much as it was a command to me. I pulled back and looked curiously at her exposed clit, long and budlike, so like a little dick. A little below it, down a tender glistening slide of flesh, her crinkled vaghole was a pink meaty flower, petals adrift in accumulated nectar. I lapped at the freshcream gravy, looked on as it oozed back to surround the petals, and I lapped again.