Love Grab at the Naked TurtlebySoftly©
Roger Kovack had spent the last four years getting his degree, as well as working for the Donzi Marine racing team. Some said that he had a genius touch with the Mercruiser engines. Since he had no steady girlfriend, he decided to go to Vermont to spend a lazy summer with his uncle, Russell Clark, who had a home on Lake Champlain, located in Barnes's Bay of South Hero.
Russ, his mother's brother, had invited him to spend the summers in Vermont, instead of cooking in the Florida heat, each summer of his high school years. During those stays, when Russ was not driving his Coke route, they were on the water fishing. A lot had changed in the last four years. Russ had divorced and remarried. All Roger knew about the new wife was that her name was Amanda.
Driving northbound on interstate 95, Roger occupied his mind thinking of his favorite subject, which of course is women. This last semester had been a remarkable experience for him. He had an affair with Linda Salisbury, who was a teacher taking courses to attain her required masters degree. Linda, damn, he could see her in his mind. Dressed and acted like a teacher. No tits, thin body, age thirty-four, and fucks like a rabbit. What really made her exciting was her mind. He knew that it would be years before he fully understood all that she tried to teach him about life, if ever.
He remembered their conversation after one of professor Walters' history classes. Old professor Walters had challenged the class with the question, "Who here is proud of his Scottish or Irish heritage?" Several raised their hand. Walters then said, "Do you know that you are probably all related to not only to each other, but to the English, Spaniards, Italians?" The simple explanation was that the English Isles were often invaded. The victors would kill or run off the men and impregnate the women.
Since the spreading of genes was the topic, it was mentioned that when Germany surrendered at the end of world war two, the Russian solders raped every female they could find in their sector, often repeatable for years.
Walters tossed a bombshell at us. "Consider this. In some cases, a people, a complete country might have been made better by the use of systematic rape."
Every eye was on professor Walters. "For over a hundred years before the potato famine in Ireland, the English Crown was concerned with the rebelliousness of the Irish people. What the Crown did was appoint noblemen from Wales to be the local Governors of the farming districts. Any girl who wanted to be married in the district had to submit herself to the Governor for whatever time that he decreed, so that he would sire her child. Easy to beat that system, you may think? There were high stakes. When the woman submitted herself, she was examiner by the Crown's doctor to determine if she was a virgin. A used woman would be whipped and hung. Terrible, you say. Yes, but consider this. The Welsh noblemen were some of the brightest men of their time. Each of you are to write a five thousand word paper concerning the impact of this practice on the people of Ireland, and on the individual woman."
That night, after a great fuck with Linda, Roger asked her opinion of what professor Walters had said. He remembers what she said, verbatim. "Roger, you probably would be very surprised by what the women of Ireland really thought of the English requirement of sex with the Governor. Follow me here. When the girl comes of age, she knows that her first sex will be with the governor. She, a common subject, lives in a stone dwelling, often with a dirt floor. The men of her family all are dirt poor, with poor hygiene, and ragged clothes. But, the Governor is a man of great wealth, with silk clothes, grand carriage, and who lives in the castle.
The women who had been to the castle to be serviced by the Governor would tell her of the hot water baths, the feasts of plenty, the fine beds, and the Governor doing it to them. By the time a girl gets to the Governor's bed, I would bet that she could not wait for him to mount her."
"Oh, I would think that there is more to the story. What do you think a bored Governor, and his henchman, did to entertain themselves on a cold winter night? You got it. Round up some of the local ladies for an orgy at the castle. More feast, warm bath, and comfortable beds, with all the hot sex a gal could want. Sure, they would tell their husbands that they fought as best they could, and only one man had his way with her, when in fact she had paraded around naked, from man to man, taking cock after cock."
Linda looked Roger in the eye. "Roger, you guys seem to think that any time a gal has sex that a man seduced her, or forced her. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Look at us. I came on to you. Hunted you, if you will. When classes end, I will go back to my little life as Linda Salisbury, faithful wife, until next time."
"Oh, sure. I will take a class for the next four semesters. I'll pick out a guy in each class to get to know, like I did you, just for the merry old hell of it."
"What do you tell your husband?"
"I'm working straight out, glued to a desk at the library."
"Are all women like that?"
"Roger, there are two kinds of women. First is the woman who thinks that she got the very best man that was available to her. Not necessarily her first choice, but the best that she could snare. She will be very timid, very protective of her hold on her husband. The other kind of gal may or may not have got her first choice of men, but knows that she is good goods, a hot ticket, that has men making moves on her all the time. She, if inclined, can become the Maneater, that is written about, and has songs written about her. That woman knows exactly what she can attain by using her sexuality, flashing her tits, letting men think that they have stolen her pussy. It is she who you see on the red carpet in Hollywood, or riding with The Donald in a limo. You guys only get what that woman wants to give you."
"Are women that calculating?"
"I'm just a clueless simpleton."
"Want some advice, Roger?"
"Find yourself a woman who is a bright, aggressive, good-looking, bitch, a first class Maneater. Tie you string to her show and hang on. All women are bitches. The question is whether they are bitches for you or against you. Marry one and then stand back and enjoy the show."
"Are you a Maneater?"
"Got you wrapped around my finger, don't I?"
Roger wondered if Linda's husband had any idea of how much woman he was married to.
He pulled his ten-year-old Suburban into his uncle's yard. No one was home, so he put his boat, a twenty-three foot Grady-White in the water, using the boat launch site. His Grady was a twenty year old, lean, mean, fishing-machine that he had picked up for nine grand. The 150 hp Yamaha sitting on the transom was brand new. It had set him back another ten.
Just as he was dropping the trailer, a car drove in and parked. Roger, shirtless, walked over to speak to the woman who got out.
"Hi, I'm Roger."
"Hi there, I'm Amanda," she said warmly. She was not what Roger expected. Less than forty, black hair, and a trim figure. There was something disturbing about her. Got it now. She is looking too much at my body with a sultry smile. Yaw, sultry is a good description, Roger thought.
Amanda continued, "I got Russ a job at Delaney Industries as a long haul trucker. He has a trip every afternoon starting at three PM to White River Junction. Will be back around eleven-thirty PM. Want a sandwich or something?"
Once at the table, Roger asked, "Delaney is that new Canadian company that just moved into Milton?"
"Yes. I'm one of the original hires. I work directly for Bradford Delaney, and his son, Clay. Look, I have an appointment, so I have to change and get going. Everything you need is in the mother-in-law apartment. Here is the key."
"Thanks, it has been a long day. I need to wash up and take a nap."
Roger hurried into the separate apartment. Years before, when he had stayed there, he discovered that the bathroom in the apartment was back-to-back to the one in the main house. By removing the back of the old wooden medicine cabinet, he could see through a hole that he had drilled that was in line with the lower screw hole of one of the towel racks in the main bathroom. Russell's first wife had been the first woman that he had seen naked.
Amanda got out of the shower just as he took up his position. Roger sucked in his breath. Her face was little more than average. Hair, black and straight. Her legs were slender climbing to a butt that was a tad too big. But, holy cow, those were world-class tits. Not large, mind you, but perfectly formed.
Armanda wrapped her hair in a large towel. What she did next got Roger's cock raging hard. She stood looking at herself in the mirror as she placed her hands under each tit, lifting them as her fingers fondled them. Her eyes closed as her head slowly tilted back, like a women imagining that her hands are those of a lover stroking her breasts.
She removed the towel. Now using a hair blower, with her arms held high, Roger was treated to the view of her breasts as she leaned forward and back. No doubt, world-class tits.
When she momentarily left the bathroom, Roger wondered why she was home at such an early hour.
When she reentered the bathroom, he was able to answer his own question. Armanda was wearing a designer half-cup support bra, nylons held up by a garter belt, high heels, and her hair was in a tight bun. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she stuck out her chest. She slipped on a black skirt as well as a light blue low cut blouse. Once on, she bent forward to be sure that all her breasts were exposed to anyone who cared to look. Satisfied, she applied full war paint. There was no doubt; Amanda was a woman on the make.
Roger smiled a wry smile picturing in his mind old Russ bouncing down interstate 89 watching the Green Mountains flash by. I wonder how fucking long this has been going on? He thought. Again, he answered his own question. Since Armanda, who worked for the bosses at Delaney, got her husband a job that takes him out of town every fucking day. Who is she fucking? Ta da! The Bosses, fool. Look at her. Would you fuck her if she weren't Russell's wife? In a heartbeat, my man, a heartbeat.
Roger heard the door close when she left. He heard it close again when she got home at just after ten. Eye to the hole, he got a hell-of-a-show when she entered the bathroom to pee.
Her bun was a mess, makeup smeared. When she removed her blouse, her bra was missing. Under her skirt, she was sans panties. Red bite and suck marks were on both breasts, as well as around her pussy.
Was she hurt, pissed, angry, or out-of-sorts? Not in the least. Naked, she faced the mirror, stuck out her chest and lifted her proud tits with the wildest sexy look Roger had ever seen.
Having known Linda, he knew what she was. She was a Maneater all the way.
Thinking about all this, Roger was curious to see what kind of guys the Delaneys are. He had run with some very fast company while working for the Donzi people. Johnny Johnson, the number one driver, was an ass man from the word go. No woman was too ugly to be fucked in his book. Some weeks he fucked a different woman every night.
The next day he fished with Russ in the morning before his run. He asked if there might be a position at Delaney Industries for a part-time mechanic. There was. He got the job that afternoon. The hours were six AM until nine AM, three days a week.
His second day on the job, Clay Delaney approached him. "Say, I saw your resume'. Says that you know something about Donzi boats. That right?"
"I have one. Could I get you to tune it up? The locals around here don't know anything about the big Mercruisers."
"Sure, take me to it."
They took Clay's Mercedes to the Delaney's camp which Roger was surprised to learn was around the point from Barnes's Bay. He knew the area very well, having fished for bass there. Like most camps in the area, it sat back thirty yards from the edge of a high bluff overlooking the water. The sides had cedar trees up tight for summer shade. A thirty-foot dock protruded into the lake. The Donzi was on an expensive electric lift.
Roger recognized it right away as a Donzi Z28, with two 270 hp Mercruiser. Even with the standard set up, the 540 hp would push it along at more than eighty mph. He took a sideways glance at Clay. Nothing he had seen so far led him to believe that Clay was qualified to drive an eighty-miles-per-hour-streak-of-shit like this baby. Let alone the over one-hundred-miles-per-hour fucking flying machine he could make it in twelve hours, and two thousand dollars invested. He decided to not tell Clay what he could do to his engines.
Rather, he felt a dislike for Clay. He sensed that Clay was no more than a big spoiled, arrogant, rich kid, that Daddy got his kicks out of providing Clay baby with hot-cars, boats, and women. Another wry smile as he wondered if it was Daddy or Clay who was bonking Armanda.
When Clay got the engines running, Roger knew that they were all fucked up just from the surging idle. In an hour they were set right. They took the boat for a test run. Clay knew that something good had happened. "Jesus, Roger, hey Dude, you are great."
"Tell you what. I'm having a little party here at the camp tonight. Why don't you come? Anytime after seven. How about it?"
"Sure, I'll stop by. Should I bring anything?"
"A hot woman."
"Shit, Man, I just got into town. Don't know a soul."
"We will find you one."
When Roger returned to Russell's house it was just after three. Russ had left. Armanda did not get home from work until five. To Armanda he said, "Have a good time last night?"
"It was work. I was at the office until almost ten."
"Going out tonight?"
"No. I'm really tired. Going to be in bed by nine-thirty."
"Clay has asked me to come over to his camp for a party, so I'll be out for the evening."
Armanda gave him a most interesting look. There was a slight smile, puzzlement, and a sexual twitch of her lips. Just for second, she glanced at his crotch.
Nine women and twelve guys were at the party. It seemed that no one was coupled up. Roger struck up a conversation with a guy his age, by the name of Hudson Burk, who was a salesman in the marketing department. He was told to call him H B, everyone did.
Roger liked H B. He seemed to be a nice, though not too swift guy. As the evening wore on, H B finished off over a third of a bottle of rum. Roger found another reason to like H B. He was a close friend of Clay, and his mouth ran when he was gunned.
Roger began to pump him for information. "So H B, who are the women here?"
"The Ladies all work for Delaney's in the main office."
"Some of them must be married. How come their husbands let them come to a party like this?"
"See that phone over there. It is tied into the office phones. Or as we call it, the husband-checking-on-his-wife-phone."
"All that, just to stand around shooting the shit."
"Oh, wait, Dude, at eight, Clay will turn down the lights. Everybody will retire to the bedrooms. Then, it is every man for himself."
"You have got to be shitting me, H B?"
H B shut his eyes for a second, as he shook his head from side to side. His face pulled into a frown. "Come here. Let me show you something," he sputtered out with slurred speech as he turned to lead Roger out of the den up the stairs to a small office. He opened the closet, clicked the light switch and pointed to a cork bulletin board, which covered an area four feet by four feet.
On the board were the pictures of at least forty women, each with a file card below the picture. The code was self-explanatory. Armanda's picture was there. She had been to fourteen parties. She had fucked H B, Clay, AS, DJ, HS, CR, JD, JS, PJ, EM, SP, DH, WC, MJ, TT, and AC. Under the initials were chevrons, which Roger was sure represented separate events. On the opposing wall hung women's panties, with names written on them. Two feet from Roger's face was a lacy pink pair with Armanda Clark written on them.
Roger shook his head in disbelief. Are all of these people out of their fucking minds? He thought. Imagine if there was a fire? Imagine if some local firemen were to come into this room? Worse yet, the local police? They would rename Milton. It would be Divorce City.
The Donzi people were light years smarter than these people. Fuck all you want, but don't tell the world about it, and for shit sure don't set up a trophy room.
"Didn't I tell you, Dude?" H B gloated.
Roger turned to H B. "Really hot stuff," he said. That is true in more ways than you think, Partner, he thought.
"Since this is your first party, why don't you look around to see whom you would like to fuck?"
"I'll do that. Thanks." They split. Soon, Roger left. Not that he didn't want a piece of ass. He did, but he did not want RK under some gal's picture.
A few moments after he entered his apartment, there was a soft knock on his door. It was Armanda. "You're home early?"
"Yes, it is an interesting group. Want a Coke?"
"Thank you, yes."
She sat down. Roger came to the conclusion that she was there to find out just what he knew.
Boldly he said, "Have you ever been in the closet in the office upstairs at Clay Delaney's camp?"
The color drained from her face. "What do you intend to do?"
"Tell me why you go there?"
She took several sips from her Coke. "I started on the assemble line making ten dollars an hour. I heard rumors about the girls who were promoted to the main office staff. The pay went to twenty dollars an hour, plus there were special bonus money for extra duty, such as the party that you were at tonight."
"What is the difference?"
"If Clay or Mr. Delaney has you one-on-one, it is just routine boss/employee relations. But, if you go to the parties, you take on all comers."
Roger listened very carefully. So far, Amanda was a downtrodden employee forced to give sex, or so it seemed, until he thought of her arranging for Russell to be out of town each night so that she was available. Russell was the brake. In his old job, she would have to be home each night at five. Now, she could fuck at will.
Remembering what Linda had told him, he forced the issue. "I was watching the gals at the party. They all seemed to be having a great time. Looked to me like they just could not wait for some long, hot, sex. If I went back and asked all the guys listed on your card, do you think that they would tell me that you liked their hot cocks in your pussy, Armanda?"
Armanda's eyes got hard. Her face got red. She stood. "God damn you, Roger Kovack. You won't let me off the hook, will you, you son-of-a-bitch. You're going to make me say it, aren't you? Yes, yes, I love it. I love it. I love a hot cock sliding down into my cuntal sheath. I live for it. I would go to the parties for nothing."
"How about Russell?"
"Are you a fool? Russ is a good man, but at his age, he can only get it up on Saturday night. I give him all he wants. He is happy. So am I as long as you don't blabber about this."
Roger found all this to be mind-boggling. His cock did its own thinking, so a large tent formed in his pants, an event instantly seen by Amanda. Amanda, the woman, wife, sexual being, Maneater, became very calm. A slow smile crossed her face as she slowly unbuttoned her blouse. She would, they both knew; take care of the Roger Kovack problem. Next came the bra. The world-class tits were now swaying in the light of the two 60 watt lamps. It was the most erotic sight that Roger had ever seen. In the back of his mind the realization emerged that soon, in just a few moments, he, Roger Kovack, would be able to hold, suck, paw those very same tits as long as he wanted to.