Proud Mary


"St-stop," I managed to mutter, reaching with heavy hands to her oscillating head. I could feel the damp ends of her pigtails dragging across the outside of my thighs.

"Uhn-uhnn," she responded, then crawled up over me, straddling my hips. "I'm not through with you yet."

I grunted, then winced as she reached between us, taking my cock in her hand. I wasn't hard, but my dick was like a thick sponginess in her fingers. The heat and wetness of her slick pussy – damn, was she wet – seared through me, burning into my loins. I literally felt her fluid dripping down the head of my cock.

I managed to open my eyes, lift my head. My nymph squatted over me, booted feet planted firmly on either side of my hips, thighs spread wide, her labia hanging down like slick pink drapes that teased as much as they caressed the glistening head of my dick.

"Oh, fuck," I moaned.

"Exactly," she said, then sighed deeply, a sound that became a deep moan as she worked my shaft inside her. I wanted to tell her that it was too soon, that I needed time to get hard, but . . . oh, God . . . her pussy was so hot, so tight and wet, sucking me in, encouraging me, driving me—

"Ohhh, yesss," she hissed as my cock thickened inside her, worked by her squeezing, stroking vaginal muscles. I looked to her face, saw the bliss there, the glow on her wet cheeks. Thick cloudy fluid clung to her cheeks and chin, dripped to my chest. Tiny rivers of sperm and saliva dribbled down her neck toward her breasts, catching the reflected light from the water around us. Never had I seen anything so erotic.

Her eyes were closed as she slid up and down, as she fucked me. Her mouth was stretched by an open grin of pure pleasure; she alternatively laughed, giggled, cried and moaned as my cock grew thicker and harder within her, plunging into her depths. To my erotic shock, I found I was once again as hard and stiff as I could be, and within a handful of minutes after orgasm.

My nymph inspired me, that much was obvious. She aroused me in ways no other woman had ever done before. It was more than just the exhibitionism of the moment, of the kinky eroticism of my semen obscuring her freckles and dripping down her cheeks and chin and frosting her lips . . . it was everything, all at once. The raw, carnal power of two people who wanted nothing more than pure and complete sexual gratification.

I felt refueled, energized, and curled up enough to find her breasts with my mouth. My hands sought out her firm cheeks, squeezed, kneaded, scratched them. My lover gasped loudly when my mouth covered one of her nipples. I tasted something salty, dry . . . my own cum, I realized. It turned me on.

"Oh, baby, bite it," she hissed, clutching my head, mussing my damp hair. "Go on, bite—oh! Oh, yes! Yes! YES!"

I dug into her nipple with my teeth, chewing it, pulling on it, strumming my tongue across the tip. I sucked as much of her tit as I could, and suddenly tasted something warm, semi-sweet, and bitter. It trickled out of her nipple, and I sucked it down as eagerly as she had devoured my semen.

Milk, I realized. Mother's milk . . . .

She thrashed and writhed atop me, grinding her cunt to my cock and her tit to my mouth – I use those words because that is how animalistic and raw the situation was – gasping and moaning, crying and screeching as she came . . . and came . . . and came . . . .

Had I been fresh, had I not already cum, I would undoubtedly have joined her. But my first orgasm had granted me staying power I would not otherwise have enjoyed, and I fucked her hard and deep as my nymph trembled and shook atop me. Her pussy squeezed me fiercely, as tightly as any virgin's, her depths hotter than the core of an active volcano.

Somehow, I managed to lift up and curl my arm around her, pulling her off me. Her deeply blushed and freckled face registered surprise for a moment, and even some disappointment as my cock slipped from inside her. But she offered no resistance as I turned her about upon the rock, pushing her shoulders down and pulling up on her hips.

She dug into the edge of the rock, her head hanging over the edge, and arched her back, rolling her hips out toward me, eagerly offering her swollen cunt. I ducked down for a moment, sucking and licking her puffy, crimson lips. The taste of her was incredible.

I ignored the pain in my knees as I positioned myself behind her and lined up my dick with her gaping wet pussy. We both moaned at the union of cock and cunt once more. I winced at the tight feel of her, the sucking and pulling motions of her inner muscles. I had always enjoyed taking a woman from behind, watching her tight asshole flex and wink with each thrust, the play of her labia around my shaft, the stretching of her vulva when I pulled back . . . .

"Oh, God!"

My lover threw her head back, the wet ends of her twin tails slapping her back as she came. Lost to passion, I grabbed her hair in my hands, jerking on her tails, keeping her head snapped back as I drove into her over and over and over . . . .

To describe what I felt when I finally came, when I ejaculated deep inside my nymph's body would be pointless. How can you qualify ultimate bliss? Pure pleasure? It is enough, I think, to say that my orgasm was the longest, most satisfying, most intensely pleasurable moment of my life.

I know I blacked out, for how long, I can not say. When I came to my senses, I heard the bubbling of the stream, the chirping of innocent birds within the trees, felt the cool breeze across my sweaty torso . . . and the sweet, slow licks and loving kisses upon and around my cock.

It took all my effort, but I was able to lift my head and look down. My lover was lapping softly at my spent dick, planting little wet kisses here and there. Her face was glossy, her lips shiny and wet. She was smiling in satisfaction.

I reached down, touched her head, her neck, her shoulders. She tilted her face up, gave me a glowing look.

"Hi," she whispered.

I chuckled. "I . . . I don't even know your name," I said.

She smiled broadly. "Mary," she said.

I sighed, let my head fall back. "Nice to . . . meet you . . . ."


When I awoke, the sun was just touching the horizon beyond the trees, casting that strange amber twilight across the world. Mary was curled up beside me, her head nuzzled to my chest, her right hand casually settled upon my cock. I shifted a little, kissed the top of her head. Mary's hand tightened for a moment on my shaft, pulled upon it.

She lifted her head, giving me a weary, smiling look. "Ready for more?" she asked.

I chuckled. "Your place or mine?"

Her smile broadened, revealing pearly teeth. "Yours. Let's go."


We fucked like animals all night. Mary was insatiable, and I had a hard time keeping up with her. Having cum twice with her already, my middle-aged cock was hard pressed to match Mary's apparently endless stream of orgasms. We fucked in the living room of my cabin, upon the flocate rug before the fireplace, then on the couch, over the kitchen table, in the shower, on my bed . . . .

All told, Mary coaxed out three more orgasms from me that night. She especially enjoyed the feel of my cum splashing upon her skin, and played with the puddles and droplets of semen I deposited upon her little breasts, neck, cheeks and thighs. She gave me devilish looks as she scooped some of it up with her fingers and sucked them clean, and giggled at my stupefied reactions.

In the morning, I awoke late, rousing myself from erotic and romantic dreams that centered around Mary. Yet, when I touched the pillows and mattress beside me . . . .

She was gone.

No trace, no note, nothing . . . nothing to remind me that what I had experienced had been real.

I headed down to the stream, stared at the mossy boulder for an hour . . . then two, then three . . . . Finally, as the sun set, I trudged back home.

I was too depressed to write that night, and instead, drank myself into oblivion.

But the following morning . . . I wrote as if possessed by a muse, or a demon.


"Hey, Will," came the cheerful voice of Fran, the ubiquitous waitress at the diner at the base of the mountain. She was a forty-something woman with long red hair and a cheerful, chubby face to match her body. "The usual?"

I nodded as I took a seat at the counter. The dining room was nearly empty except for the regulars.

"Maybe I'm reading too much," Fran said as she poured my coffee. "But you either got laid, or got fucked."

I chuckled at her crude humor. It was one of the things I liked about her. "Maybe a little of both," I said, pouring sugar into the dark, earthy brew.

Fran leaned on the counter, hefty, sagging breasts pushing against her work polo. Her eyes bore into mine. "Gonna see her again?" she asked.

I sighed, shook my head. "Doubt it," I responded somberly.

I heard the door chime ring, then a feminine giggle. It sounded familiar. I turned away from my coffee, away from Fran. A middle-aged man – older than I, for certain – grinned as a pretty, young, freckled brunette pushed him forward in his wheelchair, laughing and smiling upon him. Beside them bounced a little girl in a Sunday-school dress, about six or seven years old. They took a table not far from me. The woman gave him a tight hug, full of affection and devotion for the man before her. He scratched the back of his balding head, hugged her close.

I watched them for a moment, hearing within her muffled giggles and hearty laughs the memories of passionate cries and deep sighs garnered by sexual satisfaction.

Our eyes met for a moment, as she kissed him and her eyes wandered across the room. Her smile faded, and she dislodged from him. Her eyes lingered on mine for a moment, the expression on her face one of pure anxiety. Her lips worked as she spoke something I could not catch.

I turned back to my coffee. A tight ball had formed in my stomach and now radiated outward. I gritted my teeth against the sensation.


I did not look to her, even though I knew it was Mary. I knew, by the smell of her, the sound of her, the radiance of her.

"Hey," I said back.

Fran gave us puzzled looks as she addressed Mary. "What'cha need, honey?"

Mary slipped a bill across the counter. "Quarters for the video game, if you don't mind."

Fran nodded, stepping away to the register at the other end of the counter. I felt Mary's presence beside me, like the warmth and slightly oppressive radiance of a space heater.

"Look, It's not what you think—"

I interrupted her as I shifted in my chair, glancing back toward the table. Her beau – Husband? Lover? Boyfriend? – was facing away from us, watching the TV hanging in the corner of the room. The little girl – Mary's daughter, obviously, judging by the red hair and freckles – was dragging a chair up to an ancient Galaga machine. I forced my eyes to settle back upon hers.

"How do you know what I think?"

Mary blinked. Emotion colored her face. She laughed sharply, trying to deflect her true reactions. Her eyes darted around the diner before returning to mine. "It was just a one-time thing," she said. "I mean . . . seriously, you can't really expect that we could . . . I mean . . . ."

I held her gaze for a long moment, then smiled ruefully and turned back, sipped my coffee. I set the mug down, aware that Mary was waiting for me to say something. I finally noticed the rings glittering on her finger. She had not been wearing them when we were together.

"What happened to him?" I asked.

Mary took a breath. "Aneurysm," she said simply.

I nodded noncommittally. "Must be pretty hard on you."

I heard her voice catch. "Sometimes," she said in a small, frail voice.

I sucked my bottom lip in contemplation. "So I was just . . . convenient," I said, trying not to show how hurt and used I felt.

She shuddered with a sigh, scooped up the coins Fran gave her. "Yeah . . . guess so."

I ground my teeth, nursed my coffee. Fran gave me a wondering look, but I waved her away. "So I guess that's it."

Mary breathed out heavily. "Please," she said. "I don't care if you believe it or not, but I love my husband. I love my family. I never . . . what happened between us was just . . . it just happened, okay? It doesn't mean anything, right?"

I let the silence between us hang for several moments. I wanted her to stew in it, to simmer and fret, wondering what I was going to do. I finally stood, tossed a couple bills on the counter, and faced Mary. Her freckled face was pale, eyes wide with apprehension. I really did not know what she wanted me to say. So I just said what I really felt.

"It did," I said. "But not anymore."

Her eyes became hard. "That won't work on me," she said. Yet still, behind her pride, there was anxiety. Fear that I might reveal her adulterous nature to her husband.

But I had my pride, as well, I suppose. Pride in knowing a woman as intimately as I did Mary, pride that I was too strong to give in to jealous male machismo and ruin another person's life.

So I did nothing, and said nothing. I simply stood from the bar, leaving a few bills for Fran, and left.


I'll never understand women, not that I ever figured I was supposed to. I love them, I want them, and somewhere among the billions of women in the world, there is that perfect one for me.

I guess I'll just keep looking. And in the meantime . . . .

Damn, do they make for wonderful inspiration.


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