Spillan-in Again

"Albert and me were to be married that spring and then I got the news that Albert was 'kilt dead.' So dear boy, it's Miss, not Mrs. As I got older, people started calling me Mrs. I didn't mind, I just let it be. I'm still a virgin but promise me, Wesley, you won't tell anyone that I'm still a virgin, or what we do together."

"Sure Mrs. Koonen, I promise. It's nobody's business but our own."

After that confession I never wanted to touch her tits, it would have been disrespectful to Albert.

"And you know, dear Wesley, I always feel so close to Albert when I'm doing this, but only to married men. They won't make a thing of it."

It surprised me that she remembered my name, because often when she finished swallowing my load she called me Albert.

"But I'm not married, Mrs. Koonen."

"Yes, but you are so young, you'd never think to have a thing with me."

"Yes, Mrs. Koonen, I never would."

We still got down to business. You don't deny a war widow a taste of what she wants, which was my dick.

At some point, she'd removed her false teeth, but I never saw her do it, and then she'd sit herself on her double bed. I'd be standing in front of her when she'd unzip my jean's zipper and pull my dick through the opening in my underwear.

Mrs. Koonen remained fully clothed. She never undressed her, I just let her suck my dick. She was like a woman in love with cock. Her mouth was soft and her tongue was very active, curling around my cock like a snake, tapping my pee hole and frenulum. Sometimes I gently held her head, her hair would curl through my fingers but that was all.

I'm sure my dick is not the only one she's sucked, in all these years since Albert's demise. Hell's bells, she's probably spent most of her life sucking cock and making men, especially married men grateful, she was an expert at it.

It never took me long to cum and she always swallowed every drop. I think it's disrespectful to prolong the act, a guy should shoot as soon as he feels the trigger. If you cum fast it is a sign of accomplishment for the woman whose mouth may be getting sore if you hold back.

We never spoke much, me and the old gal. I guess I made some animal-like noises that I could not control as I reached the peak of excitement. After I came I always say,

"Thank you, Mrs. Koonen,"

She'd get up from the bed and bring a damp washcloth to clean any residue of semen off my dick. When she was done she'd dried me with a hand towel, pushed my now flaccid penis back into my white underwear, and I'd zip up.

"Thank you, Mrs. Koonen."

She'd give me a smile and say,

"You make me feel so young."

Only those words and no more and I'd leave. That was all, my DNA was floating in the old girl's stomach, a part of me sampled and being digested as I walked out into the quiet hall that smelled of cabbage soup and took the elevator to the first floor.

I thought, "what is this crazy sex stuff between us men and the women, I really don't understand it at all."

Once I got out into the fresh air, I felt free and relieved and tried to forget all that had passed between us.

These thoughts flashed through my mind in an instant. I was pulled back to reality when Mick said in a loud voice,

"Let's go."

I rose to assist him, but I could feel my dick had inflated with the thoughts of Mrs. Koonen and I knew I'd continue to pay her our brief but necessary visits.

I lent Mick my shoulder to lean on as his big gout toe was ailing. I got him out to the curb, into the passenger seat of the white XK120 Jaguar. I started the car and put the shift lever into first gear and headed north on the Hudson River Parkway.

"Get off at 125th," said Mick, "And go up on 134th, take Riverside drive, ta' get up there."

When we reached the correct address, there it was, an old beat-up ice cream truck with a bent rusty license plate. A cop car parked nearby was keeping watch.

Mick ambled over to the patrol car, supporting his weight with his hand on the car's roof, had a few words with the guys, and awkwardly staggered back to me.

"They've been watching the truck for a few hours, no sign of the redhead. Let's check out the vehicle."

Mick put his arm around my shoulder,

"This fucking gout is killing me," and we walked over to the truck.

There was a heavy padlock on the freezer chest, but when I put my hand on the freezer door it did not feel cool.

"Let's see what's inside," said Micky and he took a small leather case out of his vest pocket, and deftly picked the heavy lock with one of several slender metal blades.

"Where do you get the picks?"

"Locksmith supplies or ya can make-'em outa a thin-bladed steak knife with a metal grinder. It's easy to learn to pick but you've got to practice to get the knack."

Mick put a screwdriver on top of the lock between the two metal rods entering the body of the padlock and told me,

"Pick up that brick on the courtyard and hit the top of the screwdriver. Jesus, don't hit my fingers."

I rained a careful blow on the top of the tool and the lock sprang open.

"There, see, the lock was picked but the rust was holding it closed."

With the heavy brass lock removed, Mick grabbed the door handle and opened the freezer which oozed a putrid odor, something like rotten ice cream and pungent skunk weed. There was a copious stash of marijuana buds in plastic bags and a green tin cash box inside that Mickey handed to me.

"Put this under your jacket so the cops don't see it and let's get back to the Jag."

We waited a few minutes before Mick signaled the cops who then drove away.

He turned to me, "Wesley, are going to burn this baby."

Mick took a rolled-up yellow newspaper he found on the front seat of the truck. He twisted off the gas cap and jammed the newspaper into the gas tank, much like you'd jam a cock into a recalcitrant cunt, and he lit the Daily News on fire.

"Run!"

Said Mick as he lit the top edge of the newspaper with his black crackle Zippo lighter. He'd told me once that he'd carried that lighter since his service as a fighter pilot in World War II. He held onto me and sort of hopped as we ran and half-hobbled out to the curb where the Jag was parked.

Just as we got a hundred yards away, the ice cream truck exploded into a fireball. I helped Mick, who was seriously out of breath, into Jag, and waited a few minutes until I was sure he was ok.

"Are you ok to go?"

"Sure kid."

I drove a few blocks south.

"This gout is a bitch," said Mick, wincing as he tried to find a comfortable position in the little car.

"It's like your toenails are too long for your shoes, and I know that's not the case."

"I'm sorry for ya."

"I hope you never get it."

I started to drive back to the bar in Hell's Kitchen.

"What's it from?"

"What's 'what' from?"

"Gout. What causes it?"

"Eating too many streaks and too many beers. Dicking the girls has nothing to do with it. The body produces excess uric acid from purines, whatever the fuck they are, and they make crystals that get into the joints and cause the pain."

"So that's what it is."

"Ok,"said Mick, " it's time to pull over."

I put the shift into second gear, gently eased on the clutch, and wheeled the car into the first parking place I could find on Riverside Drive. Mick set to work balancing the green metal box on his knees and moments later he'd easily picked the lock on the tin box.

"Looks like she was saving up for your college fund," said Mick.

I could see there was a stack of mixed bills inside the box.

"Finders keepers. We'll split the money," Mick chortled.

It turned out there were almost twelve thousand dollars, mostly in folded hundreds inside the box.

"Miss Red is going to be upset about this," said Mickey as he stacked the bills neatly into two piles..

Now she has a name, I thought, Miss Red!

"Here kid, take it, it's your share."

"Is that legal?"

"What kind of an idiot is driving my car?" said Mick as he pushed the bills in my lap.

As we drove away, Mick threw the box in the direction of a large galvanized wire street trash can, but he missed making a basket. The green metal cash box noisily glanced off the side of the trash can and fell to the sidewalk, making a loud clatter.

"Some sucker will pick that up and be very disappointed." About that time, Mick's pager went off.

"Stop at the next payphone," he ordered.

I spotted a payphone on the wall outside a bar on 116th Street and Mick scrutinized the tiny illuminated letters on his small black plastic pager. It was Velma. She was at home, but the office phone was programmed to ring after office hours.

After reading the message, Mickey turned to me,

"Velma said the cops have spotted Miss Red in a fancy bar nightclub on 50th Street, just off Times Square. Head south Wesley. It's called the Chicklett NightClub."

Even at this late hour, thousands of people were milling around Times Square. Tourists and sailors on shore leave were busy guzzling beer and ogling the hookers. Pockets were being picked at the same time sex dates were being made. Erections were as visible as weenies soaking in a metal push cart.

"These Popeyes,"said Mickey, referring to the white-uniformed sailors, "are fresh off the boat. This is their last chance to get fucked before they ship out. Once at sea they will start fucking each other."

"No way," I said.

"There are more queers in the Navy than lifeboats," said Mick. "Find a fucking place to park."

I found a car lot a block away from Times Square. Mick, struggling with his sore toe, told me to go into the bar and try to make contact with Miss Red. He said he'd meet me there.

"If she's in here, you go sweet talk her, I'll sit at the bar in case there is any trouble, Mick patted the shoulder spot on his suit jacket where his big .45 caliber Colt automatic hung underneath.."

I left Mick in the car and ran down the block to the nightclub and was immediately accosted by a very fat whore whose tits were mostly hanging over the top of her black tight dress. The white fringe was hiding nothing. She blocked my path, smiled at me, and said,

"Wanna blow job, big boy?"

"Not another bidder for my dick," I said, "Jezz, isn't my dick popular? Sorry Hon, my cock ain't working tonight, gotta save some jizz for the wife."

She looked disappointed, and said, "That's nice, but for only twenty bucks, ya get a suck and a fast fuck upstairs."

She pointed at some lit windows at the hotel overlooking the street.

"Maybe later, hon."

I took a left on 7th Avenue and spotted the lights of the 'Chicklet NightClub' at the end of the street. There was a gaggle of people out on the curb waiting for tables inside. I pushed through the crowd, past the heavy glass revolving door, and made my way to the bar. Inside a strange musical combo, a slide guitarist and a drummer were tapping out western tunes on a low stage.

At first glance, it looked like a gay bar. The customers were paired off and whispering to each other. The bartenders wore short tight, sleeveless shirts and very short shorts. There was a decorative frieze that ran along the bar and up onto the ceiling that Keith Herring, or one of his imitators, might have painted. The stylized 'golden baby' was reaching for something, maybe a chicklet that lay between the legs of the next figure in the chain. I got it, 'Chiclets' was gay lingo for the ball sack.

The tip from Velma was solid. Even though the place was dark, I got lucky and spotted Miss Red. She was one of the few real women in the place without 'chicklets.' She was sitting on a high bar stool in a see-through lace blouse and a short red skirt. Her long legs ended in red patent leather stiletto high heels wrapped around the stool. As good as she looked, I'da bought anything she was selling.

Luckily, the upholstered chrome stool next to her was vacant.

"Can I sit here, Miss?"

"Sure Babe, I could use some company. Why don't ya buy me a drink?"

She said her moniker was Olga Canova. Other than the red hair, she could have passed for Abby Lane's sister. ( Abby was Xaviar Cougar, the famous jazz band leader's sexy singer)

Olga had a strong Spanish accent that curled low out of her cleavage like a warm wind from the tropics. Her two mango tits were fully visible and made one eager to take her out for an intimate tropical dinner. Sitting next to her I couldn't stop staring. Her large eyes, framed with thick fake eyelashes and dark eye makeup made her look very sexy.

The bartender came over to me, treating me as if I was alone, saying,

"Can I get you anything, handsome? We close at 2 am. Call me Sean."

"With an 'h' or 'ea'?"

"Either way I'll cum."

"I'll bet you will."

His left hand's thumb was stuck in the top of the shorts and as the gay boy twisted the fabric his rather large package defined itself. His right hand touched his thick lips. Was this some kind of invitation?

I ignored him for the moment and turned to the beauty on my right.

"What would the lady like?"

"Caprinada," Olga responded.

I waved to the bartender, "Two Caprinadas, Sean, please, one for the lady and..."

"Yeah, and one for you."

Sean smirked at the word 'lady' and looked disappointed, but a few minutes later he slid two fresh drinks onto the damp bar in front of us.

"What the fuck did I just order?"

"It's Brazilian rum and lime muddled together, you'll like it," said the pimply guy standing behind me. I wondered where he'd come from?

The bartender was once more standing in front of me.

I asked, "Have you worked here long, Sean?"

He leaned forward with a serious look on his face, his head bent back and his tiny clipped nose pointed up at me,

"Listen, Mister, I'll tell you how it is. I like long dicks, but If you are straight, I'm not interested. If you are gay, the door is wide open," and he flicked the top of his shorts lower to reveal his shaved groin. I could see the tip of his swollen cock stuck in the waistband of his tight shorts, like a rocket ready for take-off. From the preponderance of foreskin, I could tell that he wasn't Jewish, unless he was adopted.

I glanced down and smiled, Sean's exposure was preposterous,

"Well, ain't you look-in good. Thanks, I'll let you know Sean, in a few minutes, how the evening is gonna go. You'll have to excuse me for the moment."

Once Olga and I were alone, we made small talk. She said she was a dancer in a Broadway show but failed to mention which show or the name of the theater. I'd never seen a dancer with tits as big as hers except at a strip club.

"Where are you from, originally, sweetheart?"

"From far away, where the palm trees and soft sand make love under the moonlight."

"Sounds good to me, Coney Island?"

"No Honey..." And then she got this worried expression on her face, her two big red lipsticked lips formed an oval. She must have noticed Mick because she said,

"Who is that goon looking at us? I think that big guy is following me. I'm afraid. Can you walk me over to my hotel?"

"Walk you home? God knows where that will end."

"Maybe with your dick in my mouth," said Olga.

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"Don't worry Honey, I take good care of you."

I turned to look and all I could see were two guys in a dark corner. One guy had his hands inside the other guy's pants. Then I spotted Mick, the only single guy in the place, seated at a glass-topped circular table holding a Martini glass. He stood out like a sore thumb or a sore toe at a Gout Convention.

Olga and I finished our drinks. She took a long dark cigarillo out of her purse and leaned forward. Not having a match, I hesitated. Then out of nowhere, a hand with a fancy yellow gold lighter cut in front of me and lit her cigarillo.

"Thank you, Honey," said Olga, and then the pimply-faced guy with curly hair disappeared into the crowd.

As the pungent smoke curled upwards, the fragrant smell of the dark tobacco filled the air tickling my nose. Like the Harbor Lighthouse, Olga scanned the crowd and glanced in Mick's direction,

"Come let's go," she said, her fingers touching my trousers.

"You really like those ciggies," I said.

"I'd like something bigger in my mouth, Honey. Are you interested?"

By now my dick was growing in my pants and Olga reached out and caught it between her thumb and forefinger.

"Let's go honey, I'm getting nervous. That big guy keeps looking at us."

"Don't worry, I'll protect you."

I paid the bar tab. It was a lot more than I expected.

I turned to the gay bartender and said,

"Sean, I guess we are not on for tonight."

"I figured so much with her hand grabbing your nuts," and then he tossed his head back, but his slicked-down hair never moved.

"Maybe next time," I said.

"Sure, whenever."

I passed him a fiver, folded up in my palm.

Once he got the tip he got nicer and leaned closer,

"Sure, whenever, I can go with a pinch hitter, I'm a power bottom."

"And I'm a power top, I could fuck your ass for hours."

The bar was so noisy I was sure no one but the bartender heard my salacious comment. I smiled and put my arm around Miss Red as we left. My hand fell right on her left breast, but I didn't remove it and she didn't object. Her tit felt like boiling water.

We passed several girls standing just inside the entrance, waiting to enter. I guess there was a limit on how many people could be in the place at once. A few of the girls were seated on tall wooden seats that had a mermaid motif cut into the backrests. Their skirts were so short you could smell their twats, but some were seated just high enough that you could see they weren't wearing any panties and sporting the wrong equipment for a broad.

Miss Red took my arm, and we walked out into the cool night air. The Metropole Hotel was across the street. It was the same one the fat whore had pointed at. Not a classy joint.

As we passed through the heavy wooden door, a bellhop jumped forward to hold it open and Miss Red, nee Olga Canova, motioned me into the small elevator to the side of the clerk's desk. The old guy nodded as we passed,

"Good evening, Miss Canova," he said, his bow tie bobbing up and down on his Adam's apple like a metronome.

We got into the lift. Olga pushed the eighth-floor button and leaned into me, her knee pressing hard against my family jewels. Her perfume was heavy and filled the cubical. After a few jolts, the squeaking elevator came to a stop. I didn't know if it was broken or we'd reached the 8th floor, then the door slowly slid open.

We were still in the elevator and she was getting cozy and had gotten my zipper down. Her hand was pumping my dick like a hydraulic machine.

"Hold on, you'll make me cum," I said, "Wait till we get to your room."

Not that it mattered, the hallway was abandoned.

"You a one-shot guy?"

"What are you asking?"

"I'm asking If you can cum more than once a night."

"Sure, if you give me a little time I can go a few rounds with you."

She led me out onto the red checked carpeted hallway that showed the long wear streaks of too many cleanings. I followed her to a door where she stopped. Still holding onto my cock, she took out a key with the other hand from her small pocketbook.

"Quick, get inside."

"What are you worried about?"

"That big guy from the bar. I think he followed us."

"Oh no, no one followed us. Why would they?"

"A girl can't be too careful these days. This city is filled with slime balls and rapists."

Once inside the tiny shoebox hotel room, Olga spun around unbuttoning her see-through blouse, and untying her halter. Those big bare mango tits slid out of confinement like jellyfish. I gulped.

"You like my titties, all-natural?" said the red head.

"Wow, they are beauts."

My fly was still open. Olga's hand, like a cobra, was easing my swollen dick out through the metal zipper fly's teeth.