Squirt Pt. 01

Squirt (Part 1)

Kathryn M. Burke

I first saw her at the drugstore.

I don't deny that I am something of a connoisseur of female beauty--and this lady was definitely worth a second look, and more. I'd say she was in her mid-forties, tall for a woman (about five foot eight) and curvy, with a well-styled helmet of blond hair framing a tender and delicate face. In short, she was a knockout--or would have been if there wasn't this look of permanent melancholy on her face.

I'm Rob Morton, and I'm a senior at the local college. I'm the starting tight end on the varsity team, so I'm pretty fit (six foot two, 240 pounds). I turned twenty-one over the summer and was looking forward to finishing the school year, which had just started. I was a pretty good football player, but there was no chance of my being drafted by the NFL (my college was only in Divison III); but I wouldn't have wanted to make a career out of football. My degree in business administration would get me a good job after college.

But my attention right now was on this beautiful, sad lady. Just looking at her made me sad. I saw her heading over to the pharmacy--and I suddenly thought, with a kind of horror, What if she's going to pick up some antidepressants? What a rotten world this must be, if it allows a woman like this to be down in the dumps.

I would probably have forgotten about the woman eventually if I didn't see her a few weeks later in a most unusual place.

It was a Friday in late September, and the Delta Pi fraternity was holding one of the first parties of the school year. These things could get kind of wild, and for some reason I wanted to check it out. By the time I got there around 10 o'clock, it was already hopping. The place was crammed with undergrads, male and female, downing fruit punch (no doubt laced with vodka or something like that), stuffing themselves with munchies, talking too loud, laughing over bad jokes, and even doing a little petting in dark corners.

This really wasn't my scene, and I was already getting a headache from the noise and the cigarette smoke. I was about to stroll outside to get some fresh air when I saw the sad lady from the drugstore wander in.

My first thought was, What the hell are you doing here? Almost no one outside of college students ever attends these parties, and for good reason. Professors? You gotta be kidding. They wouldn't be caught dead in an environment like this: too risky. These days, if a prof is caught even talking to a sweet young coed outside of class or office hours, he or she could get into big trouble. Was this woman in the administration? Somehow I doubted it.

What I didn't doubt was that she'd already had a few too many drinks even by the time she drifted into the frat house. She was unsteady on her feet, and yet she made a beeline for the long table that had the large and ever-replenished bowl of fruit punch. She stuck out a hand to the guy who was serving it, and he duly gave her a large glass, smiling and winking at her. She took a big gulp and then ambled about unsteadily to see what was going on.

Some of the guys took notice of her right away--and why wouldn't they? She may have come right from work, but she still looked fabulous in the tight and clingy blouse-and-skirt combo she was wearing. A few girls looked at her enviously, hoping they might look as suave as she did when they got to be her age.

I felt I had to follow her and look after her--especially when she headed upstairs.

I'll be frank with you: the second floor of the frat house was a place where couples--whether they knew each other or not--went up to make out, or sometimes even more than that. I could hear plenty of sounds from behind various closed doors that left no doubt what was going on in there; but there was also a lot of action in the narrow hallway, where guys and gals were guzzling the punch and flirting shamelessly. The woman took in the scene and at once began sashaying around as if she was Mae West in some old silent film. All she needed was a feather boa to complete the picture. Several of the guys near her responded with catcalls and whistles and such--and one guy even slapped her on the fanny, making her jump and laugh nervously.

It was when she began taking her blouse off that things became serious.

Most of the people around her suddenly stopped their yakking and gaped at her. When she saw that she was the center of attention, she milked it for all it was worth, peeling her blouse off entirely and flinging it around her head like some kind of lasso. And yet, I could tell (from the vague look of fear around the corners of her eyes) that this was really not her. She wasn't a vamp, and she certainly wasn't a middle-aged whore.

She really didn't belong here.

This was when Joe Danzig, the fraternity president, came up to me. I think he knew that I'd remained a sober spectator of what was going on, and he said, "Rob, this isn't a good scene."

"Yeah, I know," I said.

"I have no idea who that dame is, but she needs to get out of here."

Let me be frank: Joe may have been more concerned about the reputation of his own fraternity than about the reputation of this lady, who could have been the mother of any of the people attending the party. Frat houses have been shut down for a lot less than this.

"Rob," he said to me, "can you help?"

"Help how, exactly?"

He looked at me with some exasperation. "Get her out of here and take her home!" he snapped.

I sighed. This would be my good deed of the day.

I went up to the woman and said, "Okay, lady, we're done here." And, to a chorus of boos from both the guys and the girls surrounding her, I all but forced her to put her blouse back on. I won't say that I didn't regret covering up the spectacular knockers she had, even encased in her white bra; and though I managed to get her arms through the sleeves and one or two buttons fashioned, a substantial amount of cleavage still showed. She put up a token fight, but she was both too drunk and too ashamed to do much more than that.

I led her back downstairs, holding her tightly because she had trouble negotiating the stairs. When I got her outside, the cool, fresh air cleared my head a bit--but didn't seem to have much effect on her. I could see she was now royally drunk and barely able to stand up straight.

Luckily, she'd managed to keep her purse hooked onto her arm. I had to figure out where she lived, so I just opened the purse and fished for some ID. Was her house close by? If so, would I have to basically carry her back home? Or did she have a car? In that case, there was no way she was fit to drive.

I found her driver's license, and also a set of car keys. So her car must be somewhere around here. I pressed the so-called panic button on the key, and sure enough a little alarm went off a short distance away. She'd come in a car, even though she only lived a few blocks away.

We stumbled to the car, holding onto each other as if both of us were drunk. I won't say that I didn't like the feel of her big breasts pressing up against my side. But there was no way I was going to do anything more than that. Taking advantage of a woman, young or old, when she's not in full control of her faculties is a totally scummy thing to do.

I opened the passenger-side door of the car and bundled her in. She barely managed to remain upright, muttering incoherently to herself. I got into the driver's seat, started the car, and drove it to her house.

It was a large structure, two stories tall on a big lot. As I was pulling up to the house a sudden thought filled me with alarm. What if she was married? What if she had kids? I hoped they'd understand that I was doing nothing but engaging in this rescue operation. But the place was pitch-dark, which led me to think she lived alone there.

But why was this lovely woman living alone in this big house?

More stumbling up the front walkway. She was now clinging to me as I unlocked the front door. As I said, there were no lights on in the house. I figured her bedroom was upstairs, and so at this point I picked her up and carried her up the staircase.

There were several bedrooms on the second floor, but one seemed bigger than the others--not to mention having a huge king-size four-poster bed. This must be the master bedroom. The house was eerily quiet. I turned on a light on one of the nightstands so I could see what I was doing.

When I tried to have the lady (I forgot to mention that her driver's license said her name was Valerie Cousins) sit on the bed, she fell over almost immediately. I sighed again. This was going to be an ordeal. I didn't think Valerie wanted to just be put to bed fully clothed--but did I have the balls to undress her?

I thought I could do it without seeing too much of her private parts.

First, I went to the closet and fished out a long nightgown. There were several there, but this one looked well-used and comfortable. Making her sit up, I undid the buttons of her blouse and took it off.

Now would come the tricky part.

I made her turn a little so I could unclasp her bra from behind. If I resolutely refused to look over her shoulder, I could get it off without getting a view of her bare breasts. I did my best--but I have to admit that curiosity (and maybe desire) got the better of me.

Her breasts were huge (a tag on her bra gave the size as 34DD), and they were as round and firm and high as a coed's. Even though I'd had nothing to drink myself, I came close to passing out at the sight. Getting a look at a woman's breasts from this perspective is unlike anything in the world: they look like smooth, gently curving mountains, capped by those adorable nipples. I think I let out a little whimper.

Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to put the nightgown over her head. Those gorgeous tits disappeared, and I somehow managed to get her arms through the sleeves. But my work was only half done.

I made her lie down flat on her back, her legs hanging over the edge of the bed. Then I reached over to one side, where I saw a button and a zipper on her skirt. Undoing these, I pulled the skirt off and down over her feet. And yes, I did catch a glimpse at her pink underwear, with a few strands of her pubic hair peeking out from the crotch. Some women leave their panties on at night, others take them off and wear only the nightgown. But there was no way I was going to pull her panties off. So I managed to slide the nightgown under her butt and then drape it down over her legs.

Now she was ready for bed, and I tugged at the sheet and blanket and got her into position. I had no idea which side of the bed she usually slept on, and didn't care. The bed was so huge that she looked like a Lilliputian in it, all by herself.

I figured she was ready to sleep it off, so I turned off the light and got ready to leave the house.

Just as I was about to close the door of her bedroom, I heard a voice behind me say, "Don't go."

I can't even describe to you the depth of emotion that was in those two simple words. There was sadness, hope, longing, and a bit of dread all mixed together.

I turned around to look at her. I thought she was in a drunken stupor, but now I saw her eyes were open, and she was gazing up at me with a strangely blank expression. But I could tell that she had somehow suddenly become stone-cold sober.

When I said nothing to her, she went on, "Thank you--for taking care of me."

"Don't mention it, ma'am," I said. "You just need to get some rest now."

"No!" she cried, almost as if afraid, and held out a hand. "Please stay with me."

I got a little light-headed. As I said, this woman could have been my mother. Of course, she was nothing like my mom, and I'll admit that naughty thoughts had coursed through my mind, especially when I'd gotten a look at her fabulous tits. But I wasn't that sort of guy...

"Ma'am," I said hoarsely, "you'd better go to sleep. You'll be better in the morning."

She gave me this pleading look, but said nothing. Once again I started to leave the room, but then I heard her say, "I'm so lonely."

That was another little sentence that packed a world of meaning. I could already tell this was a woman who was proud, independent, and self-reliant--and when such a woman finds herself alone and in misery, it galls her to the core of her being to ask for help. But that's just what she was doing now.

When I turned around and looked at her, she went on quickly: "I--I just want someone to be with me tonight. You've been so nice to me; I'm sure you'll be a gentleman and--" She didn't have to say anything more.

"You want me to spend the night with you?" I croaked. I had been on the verge of saying, "You want me to sleep with you?" but of course that could have been taken the wrong way.

"Yes," she said. "This bed is plenty big enough for the two of us."

I was getting a little dizzy at the prospect. I mean, I didn't know this woman from Eve!

"I don't suppose you have any nightwear for me," I said.

She gave me a skeptical look. "Do you use nightwear?"

"Um, no."

"So you sleep in your underwear, like most men?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it's nothing I haven't seen before." She scooted over to the far side of the bed and turned her back to me. "Just take your clothes off and get under the covers. That way I won't see any of your naughty bits."

What was I to do? It now struck me as horribly rude to turn down this invitation. This woman was clearly in a state of emotional turmoil--and what else did I have to do except go back to my own crappy little apartment and sleep there alone?

So I undressed down to my boxer briefs and slipped into her bed.

She was true to her word, keeping her back to me until I'd settled myself on the other side of the bed. But then, in an almost violent gesture, she whirled around and with a kind of strangled cry flung herself on me.

No, the act wasn't sexual at all. What she wanted to do--and what she did do--was to cling to me like someone lost in the wide-open sea with only a piece of driftwood to ward off a horrible death. And then she began to sob. It was actually kind of awful. There are some women who cry easily; there are others who find the very idea of female tears to be sort of demeaning. Valerie was one of those women: it was as if shedding tears was an admission of failure and defeat, and she tried to do her best to hold back.

But you know, sometimes a woman just has to cry.

So I stroked her back and said gently, "Let it out, dear. Just let it out."

That silly little endearment just came out naturally. A lot of women would have been offended by my "forwardness" in using it; but Valerie, sensibly enough, took it as permission to pour her heart--and her tears--out on my chest, and that's what she proceeded to do. I just held her as she clutched me even tighter. I won't deny that I felt those large, heavy breasts of hers pressing up against my chest, with only the thin fabric of her nightgown between us. She had, in fact, draped her whole body against mine--and I thought I even felt some fur on her abdomen brushing up against my groin.

At last she stopped, and tried to regain her composure by furiously wiping her face with the bedsheet.

"Sorry about that," she said, as if she'd failed an exam or something.

"No worries, ma'am," I said. "I hope you feel better."

"Not much," she said sourly. Then she changed her mind. "Maybe a little."

I was still holding her--she felt really good next to me. "I can't believe," I said, "such an incredible woman as you lives in this house all by herself."

"I didn't until recently," she said bitterly.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," she said pungently, as if speaking to an idiot, "that I had a husband until a few months ago."

"What happened to him?"

"He left me--that's what happened to him."

"But why?"

She heaved a huge sigh. "It's a long story. I'd prefer not to go into it."

Poor thing! I couldn't imagine what could have led a sane man to give up a woman like her.

And it seems that she had some inkling of how I felt--because now one of her hands drifted down our bodies and, with a quick motion, slid under the hem of my briefs and took hold of my cock. Yes, of course it was hard.

"What's happened to you here?" she said. The comment wasn't coquettish in the least: it was just a request for information.

I let out a gasp. I really hadn't expected this. I was supposed to be the gentleman, after all! "Um, well..." I stammered.

"Did I--did I do this?" she whispered.

Once again, she was revealing her vulnerability. She was desperate to believe that she could still cause a man to "get it up." To me, the question was incredibly silly: of course she could get a man to rise to the occasion! But right now, she needed that confirmation.

"Of course you did, ma'am," I said hoarsely.

"You probably say that to all the girls," she said broodingly, while still keeping a firm grip on my cock.

"There are some girls," I said slowly, "who can get me going, and plenty who can't. You're one of the ones who can."

I was just being truthful. Sure, the whole situation I was in was pretty bizarre--and exciting. But even so, this woman was easily one of the sexiest creatures I'd ever seen.

She began tugging at my cock, pulling it this way and that as if trying to pluck out some tough weed in her garden.

"You," she whispered back, "want to put this in me?"

"Ma'am," I said, "I have no right--"

She interrupted me, saying more loudly, "If I say you have the right, then you have the right. So do you want to put this in me?"

"Yeah," I said. "More than anything in the world."

She gave me a faint smile. Then, finally letting go of my cock, she got up on her knees and whipped her nightgown off over her head and tossed it away. Then she peeled off her panties and tossed them aside also.

Omigod, what a spectacle she presented! This was one proud, gorgeous, well-built lady. From the top of her head to those magnificent tits to her slightly rounded tummy to her swelling hips and (as I predicted) the thick patch of fur over her delta, she was as flawless a female as I could have imagined. And here she was, practically ordering me to fuck her!

And yet, I knew this would be more than just a mindless copulation.

As she arranged herself on her back, I first made a beeline toward her chest. There's something spiritual, almost holy, about a woman's breasts. It goes way beyond the fact that this was the source of our nourishment when we were infants. I like to place my head right between them and press them against both sides of my face. I feel all warm and comfortable and--well, protected. That's what I proceeded to do, and Valerie placed a gentle hand on the back of my head as if she was some modern Madonna tending to her Child. I made sure to give her pleasure by licking and sucking and even nibbling gently on her thick, erect nipples, and was rewarded by her soft moans and even a little whimper of ecstasy.

But I was already aching for her pussy--so without any further foreplay (none was needed), I moved up her body and, almost before I knew it, slipped into her.

Valerie gave a little wince as I did that, almost the way a virgin would. Could it be that, in the several months since her husband had bolted, she'd not had a man in her? I will say that my cock isn't exactly puny: it's about eight inches long. So maybe her husband's cock wasn't as big as that, and she wasn't used to being penetrated so deeply.

As I got into a good rhythm, Valerie seemed to get accustomed to having a man in her again. But, strangely enough, she had this blank, stone-faced look on her face, almost as if she wasn't getting any enjoyment out of it--or, I should say, as if she was trying not to get any enjoyment out of it. And yet, I knew she was, because every so often she would let out little sighs or groans that made it clear she was feeling something.