The Old Man and the Beach

I asked if she knew where I lived and she said sure-after all, she'd been checking me out for months...ever since my encounter with her mother....

And I said rather nervously she'd have to be very discrete...some of the neighbors were inveterate gossips and it was astounding how far and fast salacious commentary could travel and if it got back to the university... Not to worry she reassured me; she could come disguised as a boy-her flat boobs and short hair and a hoodie would help... maybe the tongue-waggers would think I was gay... (Wink, wink.)

Groan.

Chapter Twelve

Thursday through Saturday crawled. Fortunately I had some grading and other classwork and housecleaning and shopping to keep me busy-a small part of the time. But the rest... I have to confess that my porn sites and box of facial tissues occupied a lot of the empty hours. But I reluctantly restrained myself on Saturday; I wanted to save plenty of ammunition for Ambrosia on Sunday.

But, eventually, Sunday arrived and I was jitterier than the proverbial cat on a hot tin roof. (I doubt most felines are foolish enough to dawdle around on hot metal surfaces-but the metaphor makes its point.)

It was a chilly (by California standards) and drizzly day. I hoped that might repress the neighborhood window-peekers somewhat, though there was one aged dowager, Mrs. Goodworthy, down on the corner who seemed to keep almost perpetual vigil at her second story window, lusting to spot something- anything-any one- suspicious, socially irregular, or even out of the ordinary that she could quickly relay to her fan club. Maybe her life was so dull and barren that was her sole relief.

Nevertheless... spotting Professor McKean being visited by a young paramour would make her day-and everyone in the neighborhood and beyond would be soon advised. Most of my neighbors probably wouldn't really care-they'd be amused or mildly scornful at worst-but some would be scandalized. And there were several other University staff and faculty living in my area. And there had been a #MeToo uproar not many months before and the allegedly offending faculty member had been forced out of the school, despite his being a tenured full professor. They couldn't do that to me-I was already retired, but I was sure I'd never be hired to teach again and maybe stripped of my Emeritus status. I really, really didn't want that to happen and seriously questioned my judgement in not nixing Ambrosia's visiting my home. But I couldn't find a phone number for her and... So I hoped she looked like a boy and that old Helen Goodworthy would be having one of her periodic angina attacks and be in bed, not at her window...

....and my doorbell rang. My heart leapt and plummeted simultaneously. Tremulously I opened my front door and peered out to find....the papergirl collecting for my San Patricio Times subscription. On Sunday? In the rain? Nevertheless, I quickly found some cash and paid her, adding a modest tip and thanking her for finding my porch-generally. The previous carrier had thrown my paper into my shrubbery so consistently I was sure he was trying to do so; nobody could have aim that bad.

`The paper carrier left, but before I had fully closed my door a blue pizzamobile (small car with a lighted pizza shop sign on top) pulled up in front of my place and stopped at the curb. A figure in a raincoat and carrying an umbrella in one hand and a large pizza box in the other climbed out of the passenger side door, opened the parasol, and strolled up my walkway. I hadn't ordered pizza... And were they sending pizza deliverers in teams now? Maybe after a recent rash of muggings of pizza guys...and girls...

I reopened my door and waited. The pizza guy-or girl-halted a few feet (about a meter) in front of me; his or her head was shadowed by the hood of the raincoat, but a young woman's subalto voice issued forth. "Good morning-or is it afternoon?-Professor McKean. Would you like pizza, tea...or me?" It was Ambrosia!

` Stunned, I couldn't speak or move. Ambrosia made a stage cough. "Well, aren't you going to ask me in, Professor-or should I call you Ed? It's wet and cold out here."

Oh...duh... I stepped back and gestured wordlessly for her to come in. She collapsed her umbrella and stepped past me, murmuring as she did, "Thank you, kind sir. You're a real gentleman." Not really, but...

She leaned her parasol against the entryway closet door, threw back her hood and extended the pizza box towards me. I took it but said, "I didn't know you worked as a pizza delivery girl."

"I don't. But my girlfriend out there does and agreed to drive me here. Neat disguise don't you think? And there're lots of things you don't know about me, Professor. Maybe I can educate you."

"So what do I owe for the pizza?" I wasn't particularly fond of pizza, especially pepperoni, but under the circumstances I wasn't going to quibble.

"Nothing. It's already paid for."

"But..."

"No buts. I paid for it."

"But..."

"No more 'buts' Professor or I'll have to take some points off. You can repay me later-not in money. Besides, my girlfriend is a lez and I did her a special favor. A little muff-diving goes a long ways."

I must have been staring pop-eyed since Ambrosia commented with a sly smile, "No, I'm not a lez. But I'm not unwilling to bat from the other side of the plate if the occasion calls for it. This occasion did. Now why don't you take the pizza into the kitchen and put it somewhere safe while I clear my decks?"

I took the pizza into the kitchen and after a bit of indecision (as I said I'm not really into pizza) I cleared a shelf in the refrigerator and stuck it there. It could be reheated later-I guessed. Then I returned to the front room.

"Took you long enough." declared Ambrosia huskily. I stared-again. Her galoshes were sitting on the floor of the entryway to the front receptacle, and her raincoat and sweats were neatly draped over the arm of the sofa. She was naked. She had cleared her decks all right-completely.

"Now Professor..." she declared huskily, "...I've been so horny the past three days that I had to carry dildos in my backpack and masturbate ten times daily. My pussy was getting sore. Now it's time for you to earn your pizza. Do it to me...NOW. I think you can figure out how."

Then she turned about and spread her legs and bent over sharply, grabbing onto the a footstool with one hand and tugging her buttock aside with the other.

Her voice came from down low, a bit strained. "Now you can do me doggy style-standing...or do my ass. Your choice. But do it NOW...please."

I stared at the large front window. The drapes were open but the gauze curtains closed, and it was daytime so darker inside than out, and it was raining, and unlikely anyone could see in from outside-though I noticed that I could see that the pizzamobile was gone (I had to agree it was a very clever disguise-even Miss Goodworthy was unlikely to try to alarm anyone about a pizza delivery...though if she had been especially perspicacious she might have noticed that the pizza deliverer hadn't come out again...)

"What are you waiting for?" grunted Ambrosia. "Do I have to jump on you and do the job?"

"Umm...gimme just a minute. Lemme get Marcus out and get him ready." Actually Marcus was getting himself ready. I was going to have trouble freeing him. Sigh. I kicked off my shoes, unzipped my fly and undid my belt and pushed my pants down and stepped out of them. Marcus was straining at my briefs, making a wet spot with precum. Executive decision: strip off my underpants. So I wrestled my shorts past Marcus-he immediately stood at attention, trembling-and managed to get them off. I was standing clad in my socks and shirt and nothing else.

"Now, professor! Lab practical time!" commanded Ambrosia.

I obeyed. Stepping over to Ambrosia I stood behind her, grasped her left hip with one hand, positioned Marcus at her cave entrance with the other, and pushed in, steadily, until I could penetrate no further. She was hot and wet. Then grasping her hips with both hands, I drove in and out, steadily. Her pelvic muscles gripped Marcus and he quivered. It wasn't going to be long... Ambrosia was kneading her clit with one hand while holding onto the footstool with the other. I pumped harder...and harder. I was zoning out-I couldn't have stopped even if I had wanted. Then, of course, the explosion... I almost passed out. Finally, Marcus began to shrivel and I backed out. Ambrosia straightened up, rubbing her hips.

"See! I thought you could do it!" she crowed, turning about and embracing me to give a deep, long kiss with lots of tongue. She smelled good. I reached down to caress and knead her buttocks. "You want to do it again...so soon?" she asked with mock surprise in her voice. "Well if you insist...I'm game to go..."

"No...no...I...umm..." I stammered.

She laughed her musical laugh.

"Okay. You can have a break. But not for long. Let's go have some pizza. Sex takes a lot of energy."

I started to pick up my clothes. She objected, "No....we're going to be nudists for the next while. It'll make things a lot easier."

"I'm just going to put them in my bedroom. Tidy up a bit."

"Well, then...leave your shirt and socks there, too. And put my stuff there please...just in case anyone drops in." She winked lasciviously. "Don't take long!" she called after me as I hauled the armload to my room. I had no intention of dallying.

I returned to the kitchen, naked, where Ambrosia was rummaging around, apparently searching for something. So I asked, "Can I help you find something?"

"Yeah. The pizza. What did you do with it?"

"The 'fridge..."

"You put it in the refrigerator?! It was supposed to be hot!"

"Well...I didn't know how long we would be.."

Ambrosia sighed deeply. I cringed. "Okay... okay..." she muttered, "...I guess we can reheat it in the microwave though it won't be as good as when it was fresh."

Oops! But as I said, I'm no pizza afficionado...

While the microwave was humming I suggested that we don bib-front aprons.

"But I want us to be naked...easier access to where it counts..." objected Ambrosia.

"And I don't want to be a hot grease-spattered nudist." I rejoined. "That would be a real libido-killer."

"Hmm...You have a point there. But only while we're eating pizza. Afterwards..."

"Agreed." And I rummaged in the utility room adjoining the kitchen and brought out two aprons: one a blue denim one embroidered with 'Master Chef' and the other a gingham print one that had belonged to my late wife. I offered the gingham one to Ambrosia.

"Isn't this sexist?"she objected. "Can't I get the denim one?"

I shrugged. "Suits me. But the gingham one won't fit me."

"Okay..." pouted Ambrosia. "I guess I'll play the grannie. Gimme the frilly one." Visions of my late wife struck me. But she never went nude under her apron. Not that I wouldn't have wanted her to do so...

Just then the microwave sang its song and I grabbed hot pads and cautiously removed the sizzling pizza from the turntable and carried it over to the table.

"Do we have any cups and something to drink?" asked Ambrosia.

"Cups and mugs and glasses are in that cupboard over there.." I gestured. "What would you like to drink? We've got water of course. And orange juice. And lemonade. And milk."

"Nothing stronger?"

"Sorry. Nope. I'm kind of a healthy eating nut. I want to be able to get it up when I'm 120-like Moses."

"Moses could get it up at age 120?"

"Yep. Said so on his tombstone. It's right in the Bible. Really impressed the Children of Israel. The ancient Israelites were real gutsy people."

"Then I hope all my boyfriends eat healthy! Umm...I guess I'll take OJ. Maybe I'll become a sexy old lady!"

So we ate our pizza and drank our OJ and I have to say it wasn't too bad-for pizza. At least it had lots of olives (I crave olives) and onions and peppers and not too many pepperonis or sausage lumps. I hoped I wouldn't fart a lot later. One reason I didn't like pepperoni was because it almost always gave me gas.

And we paid attention to our pizza-mostly, though Ambrosia's free hand wandered to the inside of my thigh more than once and I reciprocated.

When we finished I gathered up our plates and cups and took them to the sink and started running hot water. "What are you doing" she asked.

"Washing the dishes." I responded.

"A miracle has occurred!"she proclaimed. "A male who washes the dishes without even being asked! I heard a joke once that a man never looks sexier than when he's wearing an apron. I thought that was a weird idea but maybe they were onto something. Nevertheless..." She peeled off her apron, hung it across the back of her chair and came over to stand alongside me."

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Rinsing the dishes-what does it look like? And playing with your dick so he'll get ready for later!" And she did-both-though I had to back away a bit from the sink as Marcus elongated.

We finished the dishes and stepped away from the sink but Ambrosia spun me about and untied my apron and tossed it over to join hers. "Time for later!" she declared huskily and seizing my hand towed me over by the kitchen table, then released me and hoisted herself onto the table backwards and leaned back , spreading her legs dangling over the edge. "Time for dessert!" she declared, "Pussy cream! Eat me out-really thoroughly!"

"You're too low...my hips will kill me..." I remonstrated.

"Well, sit on a chair then! But do it!" She definitely had some of her mother in her.

I did it, sitting on one of the kitchen chairs and using my mouth and fingers to fuck and eat Ambrosia's pussy-and ass- thoroughly, very thoroughly. Though I feared I'd never get the table or the floor next to it (or my face) clean again-she was a dynamic squirter. But finally she gasped, "Enough...enough. If I come again I'll collapse from exhaustion. My nips are going to hurt for days from yanking on them as it is. I think Ma'mselle La Chatte has had enough for now. Maybe in another hour or so..." Another hour or so? I was ready to drop from exhaustion myself and I wouldn't recover in a mere hour or two. But Marcus was still engorged and feeling very, very uncomfortable...

I painfully stood up and pushed my chair back and Ambrosia scooted off the table and embraced me and gave me a strong, long kiss. "That was very generous of you, love." she murmured. "I've never been eaten out so well before-not even by one of my lez girlfriends..." I was glad I compared favorably with a lesbian.

Then she glanced down and grasped Marcus. "But poor Marcus...he's been SO patient. He needs a reward." Then she suddenly dropped to her knees and took my dick in her mouth and began sucking and licking and nipping and pumping him while massaging my balls with one hand and reaching between my legs to toy with my ass with the other. I groaned and spread my legs slightly-bad knees or no I was going to cooperate. She penetrated my anus and began diddling my rectum as she continued to work Marcus and my walnuts. They tightened and drew up into my scrotum. I grabbed Ambrosia's hair and muttered, "Careful...it won't take long..." And it didn't. As before, Ambrosia drank my love juice as my groin and gut clenched and spasmed and my brain exploded in fireworks.

It was...indescribable. Again.

Then we went into the sun room (good thing I had a large back yard with a high fence around it) and she sat across my lap as we visited and I played with her tits and she played with Marcus-though he was too pooped out to respond...much.

She told me about growing up with a hard-nosed Type A anal-retentive mom and a quiet but steadfast dad. "She bullied Bob mercilessly and one day-I think I was eight or nine, maybe ten-I asked him how he stood it. You know what he said?" I shook my head. "You'll never guess. 'Quack. Quack.'"

"Quack, quack?"

"Yeah, like a duck. I was puzzled, too, but Bob explained that he just let it run off his back...like water off a duck..and went on. I did my best to 'quack, quack" after that. It helped but still wasn't fun much of the time."

"Why didn't Bob divorce your mom? I think most men would have."

"Good question. I wondered for some time. I still wonder sometimes. But I've decided that as extreme a difference in personalities as they had, they made a great team-and respected each other. Maybe respect counts more than love."

"Explain please."

"I'll try. Mom was...is... a great worker: dedicated, punctual, excruciatingly well-organized, not afraid to get dirty or sweaty, enduring, patient-with her work anyway. And Bob was too-even though a LOT quieter-and infinitely more patient and tolerant with people. Together they built a great house from scratch, raised a family, grew an enormous garden, kept their cars and toilets tuned up, took us on awesome vacation trips all around the country and into Mexico and Canada, and managed money skillfully. Mom was no shop 'til you drop mall junkie-nor wasted a lot of time on social media. She just terrified students into learning English. Bob had a thriving plumbing business; customers loved him and he had to turn jobs away. We had no debts to speak of, paid cash or the equivalent for almost everything, and Bob managed a substantial investment portfolio. He left Mom well-off, financially anyway, when he died."

Ambrosia paused, then said in a lower tone of voice, "You know, I think that Mom actually loved Bob-in her own bossy, bull-headed way. And she loved her alcoholic libations, too-her favorites were good whiskey and Polish vodka and wines...as Bob loved his imported and artisan beers- especially Guinness Extra Stout ® and St. Pauli Girl®- but the only time I ever saw her drunk was after Bob's funeral. That was when she let it slip that Raymond Pagliai was probably not my sperm donor. She said she was glad I wasn't Raymond's progeny no matter who else was...and that I was lucky to get Bob for a dad..."

Me. "But Amber told me that Bob was a bust in bed. And from what I've seen of her now...Think she was ever unfaithful to him?"

"She told you that? But...no...I doubt Mom cheated on Bob. Horny as my mother was...is, she isn't stupid. Bob may not have been the fuckbuddy of her dreams but she could have hardly gotten a better life partner and I think she knew it. And tolerant as Bob was, I doubt he'd have put up with being cuckolded. No, if Mom cheated she was discrete enough no one ever found out. Besides, she had a world-class stash of dildos in one drawer of her dresser. I came across it one day while putting away laundry....opened the wrong drawer..."

Ambrosia paused, then, thoughtfully, "Now-with Bob gone-Mom's become a nymphomaniac on steroids...trying to make up for lost fuckings I suppose. I should never have introduced her to Sunbody... I just hope she doesn't come down with AIDS or something of the sort." I hoped Ambrosia wouldn't either.

But a question was bugging me and I had to ask it. "Okay. I get it that Bob had the patience of a saint-or back of a duck-but why did he marry your mother in the first place? Surely he must have known something of her personality-or was he a closet masochist?"

Ambrosia laughed. "I can answer that. I was there when it happened." ??? "Bob made a plumbing visit to our house-stopped up toilet or something...I don't remember... I was only four years old or close to that. . I do remember that Mom dragged him into her bedroom and raped him. No kidding-I listened at her door. Consequently she got pregnant-with my little sister Marie Elise-and when Bob found out he insisted on marrying her...said it was the honorable thing to do. Bob was always into honor and decency and that sort of thing.... He was that sort of guy... ... ...God, how I miss him... I loved going with him on his jobs. I would hold his tools for him or be a gofer for stuff and sometimes he had me crawl into spaces too tight for him... He was stocky-not fat, but definitely with a few extra...too much beer and brats maybe..." Amber had said much the same thing-about the beer and brats.