No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 28...

Her tongue raked his ear again, and then her lips moved in a hoarse whisper. "Oh, Caleb, touch me," she mouthed, and her knee rose almost to his hip.

She opened herself to his touch, and he felt her tongue seeking entrance between his lips. He closed his eyes, let her tongue enter his mouth and slid his fingertips into the deep crease at her bottom. She panted and hooked her foot behind his leg, locking herself against the pulsing presence under his robe. The heat of her seared itself onto his brain. Fleshy, thickened lips throbbed wetly on the tips of his fingers, and he stroked through her hair along the length of her slit with infuriating lightness of touch.

"Yessss," she moaned, trying to still the restless motion of her hips when four of his fingertips insinuated themselves between her lips.

"Oh God, yes," she groaned when his fingers slid single file, like soldiers sloshing in a flooded trench, down the length of her pussy, and, reaching the end, tripped over her clit, did an about face and stumbled again, one after the other, on the return.

She reached for him as his fingers found her and stabbed excitedly into her wet depths, and, seizing him, she clutched him through his robe and moaned, "Make love to me, Caleb."

He jerked his hands from between her legs like he had been caught in an obscene act, and began fumbling with the buttons fastening his robe.

"Don't take it off; leave it on and fuck me," she gasped, and her hand wantonly masturbated his cock through the robe.

Bewildered, he began gathering robe with both hands like crew hauling in a spinnaker on a jibe, and she reached under the ascending edge to begin loosening his belt. Helplessly, he held the robe with his hands under his chin, while she unfastened his belt and trousers with flying fingers. She grappled for an instant for the tab to his zipper, and then he felt her knuckles brushing his cock as she yanked the zipper down. Instantly, her hands were on his belly, lifting his shirttail, seeking his shorts, and her nails raked him as she clawed his drawers and pants to his knees.

He stood in front of her, waiting expectantly for something to happen, holding his robe high across his chest, pointing at her like a toddler in potty-training learning to protect his clothes during a pee, and her heart and her hand reached out to him.

"Oh, Caleb, I want you; I want this," she muttered in a torrid whisper as her touch surrounded his tumescence.

"Anne," he gasped and tried to respond, but her caress sent live steam from his ruptured boilers rising in a dense cloud that obscured his vision and muffled his words. He was consumed in a hissing, jetting spray of accumulated desire and followed her blindly as she backed toward his bench.

She backpedaled, leading him with one hand and raising her skirt with the other. Her bare buttocks smacked his bench, and she wriggled onto the edge. She raised her knees, spreading her thighs and positioned herself to receive him. Her grip tightened as she pulled him toward her.

She touched herself with him and the dewy, softly scented orchid of her passion effloresced in her consciousness, opening its petals in a slow-motion ritual of sweet acceptance, and a quieting rush of peaceful calm flowed through her limbs. She felt a burgeoning sense of culmination and completeness, as her wants and desires leapt toward fruition. Some would call it the moment of surrender, that instant of initial touching, the first contact of intimate flesh, as though they were giving up something precious, but to her it had more to do with fulfillment than with loss. It was, she had thought at similar times, like the breaking of the surface tension on a water droplet as it trembled on a windowpane. Passion is like that wavering droplet; hemmed in and restrained from all sides by the tension of social conventions and mores, by fears and doubts and all the pathologies that inhibit the human psyche, it quivers in place unable to advance or retreat until something pierces the tension and releases its accumulated molecules to run wild and free across the pane. It was, then, the time of calm before the storm; that touching moment when the surface tension begins to dissolve, leaving passion free to run its natural course to conclusion, and she savored the moment by holding him close to her body and cradling his strength with her hands.

"Holy shit, look at her; is she good or what?" Danny wisecracked in the darkness as he shot an elbow into Yosemite Sam's ribcage to draw his attention.

"Shhhhhhh; can't hear," a chorus of nearby, angry voices grumbled.

"Amazin, pardner; plumb amazin," Sam mumbled agreeably, while stroking his beard with both hands in a sort of telepathic replication of Anne's fondling.

"She's maaaaavelous, darling, simply maaaaaavelous," Billy chortled as he slipped into an empty seat on the bench beside Sam. "In a couple of minutes she'll be having an orgasm that'll make Meg Ryan's cum in that scene we did a while back look like she had her thumb caught in the door."

"I remember that scene," Devito said whispering around Sam toward Billy. "In the restaurant, wudn't it? I figured you musta had your toe stuck up her twat to make her cum that loud."

"Oy," Billy groaned with a slap to his head. "That wasn't real, you schmuck; she was acting."

"Acting? No shit! The way she was moaning and yelling, 'Yes, yes, yes,' I thought you was getting her off for sure," an incredulous Devito yelped in disappointment.

"You moron," Billy shrieked. "It wasn't even supposed to be real in the movie, but I guess actually watching the whole movie was too much for your attention span, right?"

"Enough all ready," the chorus rumbled and a fine rain of popcorn began falling on the noisy trio. "Blockbuster; $3.99; go rent it and shut up so we can hear."

"This here one ain't never faked a cum, pardner, and she's had a million of em," Sam stated matter of factly to no one in particular. He had tied the forked tines of his beard into knots while Anne, detaining Caleb at the very gates of Paradise, stroked his impatient flesh with her fingers.

"She's got talent, all right," Billy nodded in agreement. "Wonder where it came from."

"She learned it! Kept practicing till she got it right," Devito pronounced authoritatively with the righteous swagger of the truly ignorant trying to bluster a cockeyed notion into acceptance, not at all unlike the manner of Bush Lite delivering a speech on foreign policy.

"It's a Gift," Sam sighed, stuffing the tail ends of his beard into the corners of his mouth as Anne separated her lips and gave Caleb a foretaste of the sensuous silkiness that awaited.

Oh, she had the Gift, all right, Anne rejoiced inwardly, as, holding Caleb between her legs, she reached to pull the boy's lips to hers. Hers was the Gift of true sight; the ability to penetrate the shell, to rend the veil and pierce the façade. Somehow, somewhere, the Gift had become hers. It had come to her without token of ring or spell of rune, and when she learned of it, it was as if it had always been there, dwelling in her heart, a part of her from the moment of creation, like her Spirit or her soul. It was her Gift to see the man inside the boy and to reach out to him to bring him into the light. It was both a Gift and a compulsion, for that which she could see, she could not ignore or forget, and her Gift was always with her. It worked on men and boys with equal acuity; it worked on teens and middle-aged men and all manners of males in between. Wherever there was repressed or emerging sexuality, she could perceive it, and, having seen it, she had no course but to embrace it. With Caleb that insightfulness had been easy; so easy, in fact, that to call it a Gift was to mock her talent. From the moment of their awkward meeting, she sensed in Caleb the external boy struggling to appear manly, while the internal man lay, like seeds under snow, dormant beneath layers of guilt and insecurity. So it was, that long before Kate exhorted her to tell him to "find the man beneath the robe," she had committed herself to releasing the man from the prison of his boyhood.

"Oh!" she gasped in breathless awe as though discovering the Colossus of Rhodes poised between her thighs. "Caleb! You're so big; so strong." And lifting her heels to his hips, she felt the man expanding within the robe.

"She calls that 'big?'" Devito snickered derisively while he vainly patted his own package.

"Hee, hee," Sam chortled in response, stretching the tails of his beard an arm's length from his chin. "Why, I got me a six-shooter that's…"

"Clam up, you idiots; it's not about what SHE thinks," Billy snapped peevishly, but he couldn't resist the urge to pull out his cummerbund and measure himself with the ruler she was using.

"The hell you say, bucko," Danny retorted snidely. "Guys like you, Crystal, with toothpricks in your pants, keep tellin yourselves that size don't matter, but that's because your dicks aren't big enough for nothin but pickin the crud outa between a sand flea's teeth. What SHE needs tonight is a REAL cock."

"Boys, boys," Anne chided the trio gently as she stroked herself with the tip of Caleb's prick, lubricating him in the effluence of her arousal. "Billy's at least as big as Timmy was, and you KNOW what Timmy's did for me."

"Oh, jeez, not him again," Danny sputtered in disgust flopping back in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest in a display of defensiveness. "I thought we were done with that."

"Well, gents, she does have pretty eclectic tastes when she comes to cocks, if you'll excuse the puns," Sam volunteered, hoping to end the debate with an astoundingly out-of-character display of erudition.

"Wazzat mean? Wazzat mean?" Danny demanded, jerking upright and looking around like he might find some clues suspended in the air.

"It means that good things come in small packages, numbskull," Billy answered, patting Sam's shoulder fraternally.

"That's right, varmint," Sam said, nodding at Danny. "This here little two-shot derringer in my boot packs a pretty good wallop, too, and it ain't much bigger than that dick of yours, Devito."

"That's bull, and you know…" Danny's denial began, but Billy cut him off.

"Hush, idiot. Watch. Something's happening."

"Anne, Anne," Caleb panted with the front of his father's robe tucked under his chin.

"I want to feel you inside me," she moaned, and, releasing him, she left him poised at her opening, connecting his body to hers like a shaky, swinging bridge, and her hands slipped under the slanting edges of his robe to his buttocks.

"Oh, God, Anne," he gasped as she tugged his hips, and the sensation of penetration swept him away.

"Give it to me, give it to me," she chanted digging her nails into his cheeks.

"Anne!" he cried, and then he took her.

He took her there on the hallowed ground where his father and his grandfather and all the line of Montcastle men that preceded them had stood, and, while their images looked down on him, he took her with a gentle reverence that belied their stern, unyielding visages. He entered her slowly and tenderly, like a groom slipping a wedding band on his bride's finger, and her spirit filled his heart even as his body closed with hers to complete their union.

"Oh, Caleb," she sighed with a rapturous trill when they were joined, and she uncoiled across the bench, lying before him with her bared breasts lifting toward the ceiling.

He moved and she felt the deep surge of his strength in her belly. Her heels clung to his hips. Her fingers clawed for a purchase on the blotter under her cheeks. Her eyes rolled upward, beyond the light, into the impenetrable, ageless gloom above the bench. Over Caleb's adoring gasps, she could almost hear reverberating in the doomed silence the accumulated dire judgments of his forebears and the strident tapping of a thousand impatient gavels.

"Oh, God, I feel you so deep," she cried loudly to banish the spectating ghosts and she reached for his hands.

"Let it go," she moaned, jerking the robe from his fingers and taking his emptied hands in hers. "I don't care about the robe. I want your hands on me."

The robe dropped, cloaking the junction of their bodies, and she directed his hands to her breasts. He took her in his hands, kneading her flesh like toughened balls of twice-risen dough, and her breasts flattened under his caress. Her swollen nipples, like fattened raisins seasoning the dough, rose through the gaps between his fingers, and he leaned across her to taste first one raisin, then the other.

"Oh, yes, yes," she gasped when his tongue caressed her and her muscles tightened around him like the tail of a cracking bull-whip wrapping around a post.

Her nipples swelled between his lips. His teeth raked her and exquisite ripples riffled her gently clinging walls. He jostled her between her thighs as he sought to gain the full acceptance of his ardent need. She held his head to her breast, her fingers in his hair, and murmured her ecstasy to him as he coaxed her up the stairway to the stars with tooth and tongue and finger and the incipient power of the man within the robe.

"Oh, Caleb, fuck me," she panted when she sensed the approaching crest of a gathering wave.

"You like getting fucked?" he growled as his piston filled her cylinder, and his fingers clutched the bare skin of her shoulders to hold her stationary.

"Yesssss," she hissed trying to work her ankles up to his armpits.

"Like this? Deep and hard?" His voice was a snarl of uncontrolled passion, and he drove into her once on the word "deep" and again as he uttered the word "hard," and she knew she had roused the man within the robe.

"Oh, God, yes; fuck me hard," she gushed in an almost incomprehensible gasp. Her hands flitted in the folds of his robe like raptors hungry for a taste of his naked flesh, but she couldn't find him.

"You like cock crammed up your cunt, don't you?" His words were like a coarse rasp sawing through her sensibility.

"I like YOUR big cock in my cunt, Caleb," she gurgled, and she pulled herself up from the bench by the front of his robe, and, dreamily, her eyes searched his face for signs of love.

"Fucking you; like this," his voice rose, and it was followed immediately by a concussion that shook her soul, as though two rushing locomotives had collided in a grinding, roaring, head-on crash deep in her tunnel of desire.

"Myyy Godg, gib id do me," she babbled incoherently.

The room compressed in the aftermath of the earth-shattering collision as another locomotive with a full head of steam loomed at the mouth of her tunnel. The distant windows spun in a kaleidoscope of fragmented colors, and, above her, Justice ripped away her blindfold and bared her breasts to the onslaught. She scarcely had time to recover before a fresh engine thundered into the tunnel.

"Oooooooo, Caleb," she moaned, and the words poured out of her mouth like water from the spout of a pump, as he drove that mighty engine, throttle open, like Casey Jones bringing home the mail.

"Or, cock and fingers fucking your pussy," he puffed; the exertion was exacting a toll on him. And suddenly, before she could respond, his hand was groping her beneath the robe.

His fingers swam into her ahead of the advancing locomotive. She gasped and panted and thrilled to his meandering touches, and then, almost without warning, he found her and his fingers closed on her throbbingly erect clitoris. He clung to her churning loins, holding her between his thumbnail and the crook of his forefinger, squeezing her flesh while she howled her passion to the heavens.

It was almost more than she could bear and she turned her face away so he wouldn't see the rigor of her passion contorting her features, but when, to still her cries, she covered her mouth with the back of her hand, her words burst past her lips like demons released from Pandora's Box.

"Oh, God, Caleb, oh, God. Yes, fuck me; fuck me hard. Give it to me. I love your cock in me, fucking me; your fingers… Oooooo, ooooooooh, arggggh. Oh, my God." She wailed and dug her fingernails into his biceps so he wouldn't stop while she shuddered to the brink of unconsciousness.

"Gawd Almighty," a single, wavering voice rose in awe in the hushed auditorium of her mind. There was no answer, no ribald rejoinder. Chins dropped, eyes gaped, fingers twitched expectantly, hearts pounded, breath caught in chests, as, collectively, her admirers and detractors surfed with the girl on the breaking wave of her orgasm.

"Oh, Anne," he cried as his cresting wave converged on hers, and so tightly did he cling to her in the roiling currents that he nearly skinned her clit where it stood.

"Oh, Caleb, oh, baby," she gasped softly. "I feel your cum inside me."

He staggered and she caught him by the arms and held him until he found his footing. Then, he leaned across her and laid his cheek on her bosom, and he felt against his skin the torrid thrush of orgasm spreading across her breasts. She held him close, rocking him gently and listening to him breathe, while the tide went out and his lust receded.

In his time, he gathered himself, and then, he rose on his elbows to look into her eyes with a look that so bespoke of love that she nearly wept and she buried her face in his robe. He held her close to hear her heart, and she nestled into the quiet warmth of his afterglow.

"God," he sighed in as eloquent a summation as had ever been uttered in that august room.

"I heard bells," she replied softly to match his praise.

"What?"

"You made me cum so hard, I heard bells. That's never happened to me before." Her voice had a wistful quality, like the ringing of bells marked the attainment of a coital Grail.

"Boy, I must be good," he replied immodestly.

"You were wonderful."

"But not good enough for bells."

"What?"

"I think you heard the Presbyterians across the street celebrating the arrival of Christmas."

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes. Midnight mass. I guess it must be past midnight already."

"Oh, God, no," she giggled, and she covered her face with her hands.

"Fraid so," he chuckled, and she felt him moving inside her.

"No bells?" she asked, peeking at him through her fingers.

"Not this time. Next time. I promise, next time, you get bells."

"Mmmmmm," she responded, sounding eager. "When?"

"Tonight. Come home with me."

"Hmmmmm."

"Stay the week. We won't get out of bed till after New Years."

"Mmmmmmm," she purred.

"I'll ring your bells for you so many times, you'll think Quasimodo's gotten a hold of your bell rope."

"You sound awfully sure of yourself all of a sudden. Did you discover some rules you didn't know about?

"I think I figured out what Kate meant by finding the man inside the robe."

"I think you did, too."

"Then you'll come home with me?"

"On one condition."

"Ah, stipulations," he scowled. "What's the condition?"

"That you promise me, we won't get out of bed till New Years."

"Whew, that's an easy one. You want me to promise right here, or you want me to swear it under oath in the witness box?"

"Stay here; I like the way you feel inside me."

"Oh, God, I swear."

"Good boy; you ready to go?"

"No."

"You're not?"

"No."

"How come?"

"It's cold outside, and you're nice and warm."

"Oh, that's right. I almost forgot. Poor baby's all wet, isn't he?"

"Yeah. He'll probably be frostbitten, by the time we get to the house."

"Ooooo, now, I wouldn't let anything like that happen to him, would I? I tell you what, you drive and I'll just keep him wet and warm in my mouth till we get to your house. How's that sound?"