The Temptation of Felice

And then there was Felice Burns.

I was gob-smacked the moment I walked into the well-worn portable classroom housing Anatomy and Biology labs. What stopped me was not the rich organic miasma but the vision of loveliness that was Felice.

Felice: Chin-high to my six-foot-four. Fluffy dirty-blonde curls brushing exposed shoulders. A heart-shaped face (and ass); high, rosy cheeks, muddy blue eyes, and enough flaring nose; lips like a Celtic harp. Bouncy breasts exactly the right size on her hourglass body. Toaned legs descending from an off-the-knees (and off-the-shoulder) op-art sundress to open-toed sandals. She looked like an ad for tanning butter.

Official anatomy study had not yet started, but I was fascinated with her skeletal structure. The construction of her facial bones, yes, but also her sleek collarbones, and the articulation of shoulder, elbow, hip, and knee joints when she moved, and her long, nervously-wiggling toes.

A chunky onyx necklace adorned her taut throat. Engagement and wedding rings defiled her left hand. Of COURSE, a beauty like her would be taken already.

I stood in the doorway like a granite lump and stared at her. A guy behind me tapped my shoulder.

"Excuse me, we're trying to get to class."

I snapped out of my Felice-trance and moved inside. I took a seat at a lab bench and pretended to sort through my books and papers while I calmed.

Energetic, bald little Jon Adams was typical of faculty at the bare-budget junior college. He had a day job teaching high school math and moonlighted with miscellaneous sciences here; I would later sit in his Physiology, Calculus, and Astronomy classes.

Jon called us to order; we ran through quick introductions and were reassigned seats in alphabetical order. Guess what? The names Burns and Carson were adjacent in the rolls. Felice sat next to me.

Big blond Dave Allen and slim dark Kim Asterias were just ahead of us on the rolls. All others ranked behind us alphabetically; it mattered.

"Listen up, people," Jon said. "This is an Anatomy class and lab. You need more than just books and models to learn anatomy. You need to cut up cats. Dead cats. Preserved cats. Yes, you'll actually use scalpels. And you'll get used to the smell, I promise."

Sounds rose from the scattered students: groans, hisses, clicks, mutterings.

"But you don't each get your own cat. You people should know what the school budget is like. Preserved cats aren't cheap. So you'll get to share cats, four of you on a team for each cat." More groans and mutterings. Too bad.

Felice was on my cat-dissection team in Anatomy class along with Dave and Kim. Four students shared each preserved cat, taken to a different home on alternate days. Felice smelled much better than a dead cat. Ha!

She was also married to a Marine Corps lieutenant, an aggressive guy who did not really like seeing his wife hanging around with an Army Reserve puke like me. We will get to that.

I know Felice was attracted to me. I know she liked my attention, those few hours each week when we were together - for classwork. We also met at set times to exchange the preserved cat. Your car or mine, Felice? I took care to casually brush against her. She sometimes brushed back. She did not object much when I rubbed her neck and shoulders. I had hope.

"Ron, you've got to..."

Felice leaned back against me. My thumbs dug into the hollows at the bottom of her marvelous neck.

"Ron, that's enough now. I've got to..."

My hands moved further, strong but not groping - no tit-grabbing.

"Ron, I have GOT to get home. Thanks for that. I'll see you tomorrow."

I watched her drive away. My erection subsided.

---

I also knew other women in other classes. College was more than dead cats.

Trina was a park ranger and one of my constant Desert Botany classmates. Her tasty little daughter Leonie, headed for university at semester's end, as cute (and as hot) as a bunny, was another classmate. She intended to genetically track historic Central American and Californian opuntia cactus hybrids - that would grow into a PhD project. Leonie and I shared many intensive scientific discussions; at least that is what we called them. My stamen was glabrous for Leonie. (That means my dick was slick and stiff, especially when she slurped me.)

A hitchhiking trip down to Palm Springs was necessary one weekend. The coupe that stopped for me in Joshua Tree village looked familiar - Trina's Volvo.

"Hop in, Ron. I'm glad I saw you here. How's it going?"

Chatter and more chatter. And then:

"Ron, we need to talk."

Uh oh.

"You and Leonie have been having a good time, haven't you?"

She smiled but kept her eyes aimed straight ahead. I mumbled. She laughed.

"Don't be shy, Ron. Mothers and daughters do still talk, y'know."

I got honest. "Yes, Trina, Leonie and I have fun every now and then."

"And she says wonderful things about you."

She does? I mumbled again.

Trina glanced at me and then back at the narrow highway.

"Ron, I'll be straight with you. I've been so lonely since Pete went into a coma. You heard about his jeep rollover? That was four years ago. He was only forty then, same as I am now. I have busted my little ass since then to keep the house together and Pete in hospital and Leonie in school. I'm so proud she got that scholarship!"

Trina took a deep breath.

"But I concentrated so much on all that and not at all on myself."

Her right hand left the steering wheel to settle on my denim-covered thigh.

"Ron, my daughter says you are a very kind and considerate lover, as well as being red-hot. Ron, could you be a kind lover to an old lady?"

Trina was not a large woman. She was compact, wiry, and extremely fit. Park ranger work kept her outside on her feet all day. She was tanned, not aged and weathered, not dried out. Her hair had silvered prematurely - her long locks flowed like mercury. Her face was lean. Her breasts protruded nicely. I had seen her in uniform shorts - tight ass, taut calves. She looked good.

And her husband Pete was comatose. What the fuck was I doing? Big head and little head argued briefly. Little head won.

My hand rubbed her khaki trousers. "You're not so old."

Her hand moved up my thigh. She cupped my crotch. "You're not too young."

My hand brushed the side of her uniformed breast. "I'm twenty-eight. I'm not that far behind you."

She squeezed my balls. "We'll just have to see how far behind, then."

I rubbed her throat. My fingers eased into her cleavage. "Not too far, no."

Trina abruptly spun the Volvo's steering wheel to the left, up a rocky track, twisting between stands of creosote bush and cholla cacti and stray jojobas. I bounced. My head hit the coupe's ceiling.

"Ouch."

"Sorry. I didn't want to waste time getting home."

Dust rose behind us as she skidded before a very organic looking house. Rock and timber and glass, nothing else, crouched into the desert hillside, a sturdy ark nestled to earth.

Trina jumped out. I was a little slower. She ran around the car, grabbed my hand, and dragged me through the house's front door, a massive slab of ruddy mesquite with a thick porthole set like a cyclop's eye. She hauled me along a narrow bookshelf-lined hallway past kitchen, dining, living, other rooms, straight to a master bedroom filled with a bed sculpted from huge oak limbs.

"We built this house by hand," Trina said. She was already out of her uniform blouse and very non-uniform pink lace bra. Her delightful breasts quivered at me. "We cut the trees up by Big Bear and hauled them down here." Her trousers and panties hit the floor. "Pete quarried the stone. Everything here, we did it." She looked straight at me.

And I regarded Trina. Her fat-free body showed her age, her experience, her motherhood, her work. Not the smooth softness of youth; not stand-up-on-their own boobs, but only slight sagging, slight roughening. She was a mature woman.

She reached for me.

I had already skinned out of my jeans and boxers, tee and overshirt. She pulled me to her with a firm hand on my cock. I did not delay.

"Ron, I want-"

Trina stood only shoulder-high to me. She probably had half my body weight. I was strong from military exercise and back-country rambling. I picked her up and turned her upside down. I hooked her legs over my shoulders, her thighs spread wide. I nosed into her pale spicy muff. Ahhh... I used my tongue.

"Ohhh, urrgh, ohhh..."

Trina's voice quieted when my stiff cock swung into her face. She opened her mouth and quit trying to talk.

I'd had many pleasant 69 experiences over the years. I was mostly on my back for those. Sometimes, if the girl was not too small, I was on top. If she was long and lean we might be sideways, heads nestled between taut thighs.

This was my first standing 69. I had to lean my back against the cedar-paneled wall to support us without a painful strain. Ah, stabilized! I pulled her pussy closer to my face. My tongue probed deep into her. Her mouth engulfed my throbbing cock.

I flipped Trina around and held her off the ground.

"Are you ready, old lady," I jibed. Her arms encircled my neck.

"Ready for-" she gasped.

One of my hands guided my cock to her velvet tunnel. The other held her little butt steady and then dropped her slowly onto me.

"Oh," she whispered. "Oh. Oh yes. Oh..."

Her legs were lithe and strong but even wrapped tightly around me she could not crack my ribs. She tried. She could not move far vertically. She tried.

A standing fuck is invigorating but not really satisfying. I walked us to the massive bed, flopped her down, slid out of her. pushed her up to the top, and settled between her sinewy thighs. I pulled her legs onto me.

"What-"

"No talk," I growled. My tongue re-engaged her slit, her labia, her sweet vagina, her sensitive clitoris. Her feet were on my back. Her little ass cheeks snuffled my shoulders. My arms wrapped over her hips. My hands were on her perfectly proportioned breasts.

"Oh," she murmured again. "Oh yes. Oh fuck. Oh..."

I licked and probed and sucked and nibbled. Her juices soaked my moustache. Her clitoris stiffened and throbbed. Her voice wailed to the ceiling. Her body shook under the tender assaults of my tongue and fingers.

Her wail died to a moan, then a low growl, and then to gasps.

"Oh fuck, stop, stop that, oh fuck..."

I did not stop till she reached a hand down and linked her fingers in my hair. She pulled my head up. Her grey eyes burnt into mine.

"STOP, you fucker. Oh shit, oh..."

I slid up to her face and kissed her mouth, my face wet with her tangy cum, my tongue tracing inside her, behind her lips, across her teeth, and then out and over her cheeks. down her chin and neck, to those small perfect breasts with diamond-hard nipples cutting into me. I sucked each lovingly.

I rose to capture her eyes and mind.

"What now, Trina? Do you ride me or do I ride you?"

"What? Oh fuck, I'm so dead, I am just fucking DEAD. Do what you want..."

"Yes, ma'am," I said.

Her thighs were already open beneath me. I repositioned slightly and calmly inserted into her sopping-wet pussy. One long smooth stroke and I was in her, balls-deep and bottomed-out. I stayed there. I lowered my face. Her lips took mine.

Our tongues moved - nothing else. Then I moved my hips out, and then back in, and out again, no hurry, no strain, no expectations, only a slow pace. In. Out. In. Out.

Her calves hooked over mine. Her arms circled my neck. She drew me in closer, closer. Her mouth vacuumed mine. I moved faster. I shifted my angle for deeper penetration. She gasped and pulled me tighter. Another angle change - and then I released her mouth, unwrapped her legs from mine, and pulled her ankles up to my shoulders. She groaned.

"Oh fuck Ron, what is that, oh fuck..."

Trina was a supple, well-exercised mature woman but she had likely not had her body bent nearly double for some time. I took care not to strain her too much. Well, maybe only a little...

I was positioned for maximum penetration. My eight inches of meat completely filled her - I almost expected to see my dickhead poke from her nose. I moved deeper, and faster, and faster. Now I was an inexorable machine - a machine with a speed governor. I slowed when I felt the tide rise in me. I did not want to cum too soon. Slower, more deliberate, calm down...

Surprise! I pulled out of Trina and flipped her over onto her belly.

"Hey, what-"

I picked her butt up so she crouched on elbows and knees. Mmmm, nice smooth cheeks! I opened her slightly and knee-walked behind her. She looked over her shoulder with brightly glazed eyes. Her liquid-silver hair swirled.

"You're going to-"

I did. Straight in. All the way in. With my hands on her shoulders to pull close and then on her breasts to hold her closer.

I returned to machine mode, a steadily faster pace, never slower, always a little quicker, a little deeper, a little harder.

"Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh..."

A little cry with every thrust. Little cries that ran together into a longer wordless cry, and then another wail, the low cry of a desert creature being fucked or eaten.

"Aaaawwwwww..."

I felt her hand frigging her clit. I felt her vaginal walls grasping at me as I pummeled in and out. I felt her stiffen and contort.

"Oooohhhh fuck..."

I felt her writhe on my penetrating penis. And I felt my reaction, my hot eruption, my donation to her hungry womb. I felt the burn. I felt the joy.

I came like a motherfucker into this compact married woman.

I collapsed on top of her. Those tight cheeks pressed into me. I did not try to crawl away - I was still embedded deep inside her, my cock caught in her smooth vaginal folds beyond those luscious labia lips, deep inside, oh fuck yes, deep...

Eventually my spent spear popped out, yes, with an audible pop. Eventually I rolled off her back. Eventually we cuddled.

"Oh damn you Ron, fuck you..."

I held the crying woman in my tired arms.

"That was so... oh, fuck you... fuck me... I haven't cum like that since... oh fuck..."

"Do you want this to happen again?" I dared to ask.

"Oh fuck, I haven't felt... Yes. No. I don't know. Oh fuck. Just hold me, hold me, oh fuck..."

We snoozed. I got to Palm Springs quite late. But it was worth it.

---

My next sessions with Leonie were worth it, too. The front screen door creaked as I sat at my makeshift desk in my cinder-block desert-rat shack that warm afternoon. I turned around to see Leonie walk in. She peeled her green FLOWER POWER tee over her head. She did not wear nor need a bra.

"Mom says you were real nice to her, Ron."

She kicked off her sandals and dropped her knee-length denim skirt. She did not wear panties. Her light brown pubic thatch marched toward me.

"Mom would like to see you again, Ron."

I stood as she approached. I wore only cut-off shorts and moccasins. She reached to open my belt and fly; my shorts hit the ground. She dropped to her knees in front of me.

"Thanks for being a nice guy for Mom, Ron."

Her tongue snaked out and licked around my dickhead. She was very talented.

I stood patiently for several minutes before I picked her up, threw her onto my bed, and ravished her sweet young body. Then she rolled me on my back and ravished my not-so-sweet, not-so-young body. The usual mutual ravishment occurred. The usual grunts and cries of satisfaction sounded. We had fun.

Leonie once admitted she took a personality exam that pointed her toward a career in pornography - but she'll stick with science, thank you.

Entertaining Trina in the organic desert house became a regular weekly event. Leonie always stopped by afterwards to thank me. The simultaneous mother-and-daughter scenes came later. But the two made certain to sandwich me in Desert Botany class seating.

Trina always cried after we fucked. I was not a total clod. I thought about why she cried but I knew better than to ask her. Was it for the joy of her ecstasy, her relief from sexless loneliness? Was it for her weakness, her betrayal of a long-comatose husband? Was it of combination of these and other reasons? I do not know. Did I want to know?

I noted a steady progression of her cries shen we sucked and fucked.

Oh. Fuck.

Ohfuck.

Ohhh Fuckk...

OH FUCK!

Very lyrical, yes? I should set that to music. A light guitar background, some wailing blues harp, and a wailing woman. Perfect!

---

My Army separation and unemployment pay ran out. Army Reserves pay did not stretch far. The local ambulance service hired me as an EMT. I was sometimes on-call 24/7, waiting with a portable VHF radio for emergency calls. Being one of the few EMTs around brought me community appreciation.

Army Reserves kept me busy one weekend each month. I drove to a training base on the coast in Santa Monica for a few months - two hundred miles each way. I usually crashed with another trainee; Jennifer and Ramona were especially good for overnights, individually or together. When that training was done, I settled in to my local field-hospital unit.

A couple Army Reserves medic gals got close to me, very close, like naked-in-a-hot-tub close, like slurp-whatever-protrudes close. One, lanky light-brown Leah, preferred underwater fucks. Little Linda, short and dark and intense, knew all the Reserves MedEvac chopper pilots, and arranged thrill-flights in Hueys out as far as Hearst Castle and Death Valley and the Grand Canyon. Yes, I have buzzed Hearst Castle at night. Fun.

I had further training at the Army's medical center in San Antonio, Texas during Easter break. I walked all over town. I saw the sights. I was not impressed by the Alamo, a monument to slavers. I fraternized with fellow trainees. Yes, 'fraternized' means 'fucked'. Those dark nights were warm.

On my return flight I sat next to the President's mother, no shit, arriving to conduct the Easter sunrise service atop Mt Rubidoux. She spilled my wine, bought me several glasses more, and taught me to cheat at Tic-Tac-Toe. What a gal!

---

Despite all my fun encounters with Trina and Leonie and others, I was obsessed with Felice the seemingly unobtainable.

I was always polite, never pushy - well, never quite pushing too far. My touches were discreet. I never openly solicited her, never made an actual pass. My interest remained at a sub-textual level, unspoken but obvious.

Too obvious. Apparently word got around. It took awhile.

Felice resisted temptation - just barely. Her husband did not.

The end of May was into the hot season. Warm wind blew through the screen door on either side of my jackrabbit shack that evening. Sand whispered under a boot outside the back door. Nothing else. I walked to the door. Nothing more. I pushed outside to look around - and my arms were grabbed.

Four men in Marine Corps combat fatigues held me, two on each side. Balaclavas hid their faces; their uniform patches were covered. I could never identify them. A barefaced fifth man stood before me - Felice's husband, First Lieutenant Raphael 'Rafe' Burns, USMC.

"So this is fucking Casanova, huh?" He slapped my face. My glasses flew off.

Yes, I struggled. Briefly. Strong hands held me. Rafe's fist in my gut quieted me, except to vomit. Some splashed on Rafe's boots. He ignored that.

"Typical Army puke. Typical fucking Jody." He gut-punched me again.

NOTE: 'Jody' is a military legend. 'Jody' is the enemy of married troops. 'Jody' is the lothario who fucks your wife or girlfriend while you are away on active duty. 'Jody' is the lowest of snakes.

I managed to gag out, "I haven't done-"

Another gut-punch. "You have been making moves on my wife." Another punch. "You have touched my wife." And another. "You have been observed." Another. "You will not do so again." Yet another.