"Constance 3"( mF MF Mf ff 1st m-solo f-solo voy )[3/5] Part 3 * * * To her surprise, Constance found that there really was a lot of junk to get out of the attic. Pushing a stray strand of fiery red hair from her sweaty forehead with a dusty hand, she surveyed the five cartons of soon-to-be-landfill. She heard the water run in the bathroom. A moment later, Ronnie appeared, face and hands clean. The light shirt was filthy and sweat-plastered to him. She marveled at the lean, stringy muscles on his frame. He really was going to be a hunk. "We got a lot done in an hour, didn't we, Ronnie?" "We sure did, Mrs. McEvoy." His eyes kept dropping to her bust, where perspiration had soaked the fabric to transparency and plastered it to her tits. "Can I have a drink of water?" "Of course -- I should have offered. Help yourself to whatever you like." She swung the refrigerator door open, knowing what the cold air would do to her nipples under the damp shirt. "In fact, I have some Gatorade here somewhere..." She dropped to a crouch and reached into the refrigerator, knowing the posture tested the loose knot in the shirttails. In the chrome edging, she could see the reflection of his eyes, his gaze searching the front of her shirt. Her nipples were hardening. "There it is." She reached a...little...farther. Her fingers closed on the cold glass. She withdrew it, stood and closed the door. As he took the bottle, the shirt tails let go. The damp cloth clung to her breasts, revealing the inner swells. "Ooops." Constance grabbed the tails and quickly retied them. Ronnie snapped his eyes away a moment too late. He blushed. "I'm sorry, Mrs. McEvoy." "That's okay, Ronnie. No harm done. I don't mind you looking at me." The blush deepened. "Do you like looking at me?" "Gosh, yeah!" "Then go ahead and look. I don't mind." "You don't?" "Why should I? You're a nice young man, and I know you'd never tell anyone." "Never in a hundred-million years." "So you just go ahead and look. In fact, I like it when a handsome young man I can trust -- like you -- looks at me." His gaze began exploring -- tentatively, at first, then more boldly. Once or twice he looked at her face, and she smiled in encouragement. She didn't fail to notice the lump in his jeans. After a few more seconds, he swallowed. "Well, uh, I guess we better get back to work, huh?" "There's no hurry, Ronnie. We already got more done than I hoped. But if you don't want to look at me anymore -- " "Oh, I do!" He clamped his mouth shut. "It's just that, well, when I look at you I start to, I dunno, I start to -- " "You start to get hard?" He nodded guiltily. "That's okay. I like knowing I can make you get hard." "It's just that, well, it's just that then I need to -- I dunno -- I need to -- you know -- " Her pussy was getting very damp. "You need to take it out and rub it until you shoot." He nodded a bit too quickly. "Like you did yesterday, when you jerked off looking at me in the yard." His eyes widened in horror, and he was about to say something -- probably apologetic, she guessed. "No, no, no -- that's fine, Ronnie." She stepped close to him. His bulging eyes followed her tits as they approached -- and stopped just short of his chest. "I'm so happy that looking at me made you want to jerk off." "You are?" he breathed. "Sure. I just wish I could have seen it." He looked confused for a moment, then uncertain -- and then amazed. "You mean you want -- " Her fingers moved up the inner edge of her damp shirt, following the line of stitching -- on one side the buttons, on the other, the matching holes. How appropriate, she thought. She toyed with the fabric, tugging, fondling, feeling it pull and move, sometimes reluctantly, on her tits, taking satisfaction in thinking of the number of times Jack had put the buttons into the holes of this same shirt, then tossed it aside when it grew a bit older, a bit worn, a bit too familiar. "Please," she whispered, lifting the cotton and pulling it slowly back. "Please show me." She uncovered her breasts. "Unnnnhhh..." He looked almost delirious. His fingers were clumsy on his belt, clumsier on the waist snap. "Let me?" she cooed, opening his jeans. Now committed, she was eager to see his fresh little-boy cock. She kept her eyes on his as she bent her knees, pushing the jeans down over his lean hips. She left them at his knees, still watching his face. Her hands trailed up his thighs to his hips, to the elastic waist of his briefs. Only as she began peeling them down did she look at his crotch again. "Oh!" The sound escaped. She hadn't expected *this*! The head of his cock and fully half the shaft was protruding out of the legs of his briefs. "Oh, that must hurt...." she cooed, dropping to one knee, then both, and carefully working the briefs down. His dick bobbed up at her face level, throbbing and bobbing at an angle of 60 to 40 degrees "That must be very uncomfortable..." "Un-huh." Well, I didn't get into this for the conversation, she reminded herself. "And you hold it like -- this, right?" She closed her right hand around the shaft at the midpoint. Barely closed her hand. He was quite thick. Much thicker than Jack. "Ahhhhh -- yes, Mrs. McEvoy." "And you jerk it like -- this?" She began to move her hand up and down on his shaft. "Y-y-yes, ma'am!" So polite. "Mmmmmm -- I like doing this, Ronnie." She looked up into his face, saw the slack-jawed pleasure replacing the slack-jawed astonishment. "Do you like it when I do this for you?" "Oh, yes, Mrs. McEvoy!" And it was true for both of them. She was enjoying it, though not as much as he was in terms of sheer, physical sensation. In fact, why shouldn't she enjoy some sensation. Her gaze still on his face, she raised her left hand and cupped her right tit, enjoying even the touch of her own fingers, savoring the weight and firmness of her own breast. She ran her palm and fingers over the globe of fatty and erectile tissue and applied the pads of thumb and forefinger to the aureole and, finally, the engorged tissue of her nozzle. The look on his face would have been enough to cause involuntary vaginal secretions, but the physical sensations and the psychological trappings and associations of the situation added to the quantity and viscosity of the secreted lubricant being generated within her vagina and to the excitement impelled engorgement of her labia majora. Meantime, his cock had begun to ooze. "Oh, look," she breathed. "It's starting to leak. Does that mean you're going to shoot soon?" "Hu...hu....hu....hu..." She translated that to "Yes." "Can't make a mess, so..." Constance Gudsmonsdotter McEvoy leaned forward and licked the tip of the fat glans. Then, C.G. McE. -- granddaughter of an Icelandic immigrant banker and a Wisconsin schoolteacher, winner of the Miss Propriety Medal in sixth grade and Bible Studies Award in the summer of her twelfth year at the Green Bay Church of the All Holy Sunday School, runner-up in the wet-tee-shirt contest at the Northwestern U. Lambda Chi Alpha Rush Week Bauhaus -- calmly opened her mouth very wide (the boy really did have quite a fat dick) and sucked his glans into her mouth. The effect on the kid was -- well, cataclysmic. "Oh, Mrs. McEvoy! I'm -- " Which ended the verbal intercourse. The fat cock in her mouth swelled still more and an ooze of precum became a gusher of semen. Constance was amazed. She'd expected him to cum very quickly, but not instantly. And she'd expected a lot -- but there was a limit to her expectations. Then she was stunned. Where *was* it all coming from? It seemed like he'd been hooked to a pool, a reservoir, a lake of semen -- and still it came. Her cheeks literally bulged before the first spurt -- spurt, hell; it was a geyser -- stopped. And then it started again, before she'd finished swallowing. He came enormously. Again her mouth filled, and her cheeks swelled, this time so much that her lips parted and some spilled out. More than most guys can cum has spilled out, she thought. She swallowed, and he grunted again. Sploosh! Her mouth was filled. She sucked as hard as she could, hoping to drain him before she lost control and started coughing. He just grunted and spasmed in her mouth again. And, suddenly -- surprisingly, because swallowing semen hadn't been her favorite thing even when she'd done it more often -- she found herself aroused. *I'm* doing this, she thought. *I'm* inspiring this beautiful young boy to cum this much. *I'm* his first woman. He'll never dismiss me or take me for granted or forget me, she realized, and an immense tenderness grew in her. Yes, baby, she encouraged him in her head. Give me it all! Sploosh! Another tremendous wad of 12-year-old cum rocketed into her mouth. More leaked, more dripped down her chin, onto her heaving tits and her tit-manipulating hand and forearm. Goosh! Another big load...but perhaps a bit less? Yes, definitely. Not much, but some. "Oh, Missus -- Missus -- " Splurt! Certainly somewhat less now. She swallowed, sucked and moved her tongue on the underside of his glans as she whacked her hand up and down the stalk of his fat dick. Mistake. Her tongue and suction were novelties that inflamed and inspired him; her hand's movement was familiar and relaxing. His prick swelled still more, and then he unleashed a torrent of cum into her mouth. It came and came and came, like a hose in her mouth. She swallowed desperately, but it was still ejaculating, and she wasn't breathing easily. She pulled her mouth off his prick, and he hosed her face. The eruption paused, and then he proceeded to spatter her face, neck, exposed breasts and hands with a greatly diminished load, i.e., about the quantity usual to a guy in his 30s. He sagged, his knees buckling for a moment before he caught himself. They were both panting. The fat shaft in her hand had shrunk to about half-mast. Almost for the first time she noticed that he had only the faintest sprinkling of dark hairs around the base of his cock. Twelve years old, she thought, recalling with a mental shiver that males didn't hit their sexual prime till five to eight years later. Oh, my, she thought. She turned her sperm-slick face toward his, taking proper note of the insistent heat in her crotch -- not to mention the humidity down there. "I liked that, Ronnie, but now I have to wash off." She put on a thoughtful expression. "We both should. Will you help me get washed?" His expression was sorely puzzled. "Let's take a little shower, stud. You and me. Naked. Wet. Slippery. Okay?" Still befuddled, he managed to pant, "O-okay, Mrs. McEvoy." She stood, still with a handful of fat, young cock, and gently led the boy toward the bathroom -- the one off the master bedroom. * * * "Anyone home?" Nancy pushed the door open, puzzled. It was unlocked, so someone had to be home. But there'd been no answer to the doorbell, even after she'd held it down and counted one-Mississippi 75 times. But someone had to be home. Lisa's dad worked out of his house sometimes, and he -- Well, she thought, maybe not today. And Lisa's mom did have a job in Ridgewood, as a receptionist for a doctor's office. Still, the door wasn't locked. Lisa should be home. "Hello?" She closed the door behind her. She remembered movies where innocent girls had entered empty homes that should have been full. Some deranged escapee from a mental hospital could be in here. Arab terrorists. Wait a second, she reminded herself. My great-grandmother is from Iraq. Or a crazed rapist. Or Freddy Krueger. "Freddy Krueger?" she muttered. "Can you say, 'par-a-noi-a'?" "Lisa!" she breathed. "Where the hell are you?" She froze. Had that neem a noise from upstairs? Where Lisa's room was? Time to visit the kitchen. That was where the movie-of-the-week heroine always found the tools of defending hearth and home. "You're 13 years old," she said aloud. "You are not Emma Peel." She froze, hearing a sound from above again. "Fuck Mrs. Peel," she said, grabbing the first utensil at hand -- in this case, hot-dog tongs. Her best friend might well be in trouble. Hot-dog tongs in hand, Nancy left her shoulder bag on the kitchen counter and headed for the stairway to the second floor of the split- level post-war VA-approved house (with 3 brs, furn rec rm, wbfplc, 2- cr grg & babbling brook at rear of hedge-brdrd yrd!!!). Her best bud might need her, might be in deep goo. No time to get squeamish, she told herself, tightening her grip on the hot-dog tongs and cat-footing it up the stairs. * * * "Oh, YES!" Constance wailed, as the 12-year-old with an IQ of 80 slammed eight fat inches of turgid meat deep into her hungering cunt. Her knees were next to her ears, her thighs and tits were bruised, her pussy was sore, and she hadn't cum so much since she'd been on the honeymoon cruise to Acapulco with Jack about 600 years before. "Is this okay, Mrs. McEvoy?" "YES! Don't stop!" He slammed to her limit again, his shoulders driving her legs back and forcing her pelvis -- and cunt -- higher. She felt his swollen, tight young nuts against her asshole. "YES!" * * * Sid's eyes were watering. That was how he knew it had been too long since he'd blinked. Still -- That's my boy! he exulted. He couldn't believe what he was seeing through the scope. There was Mrs. Constance Big-Tits McEvoy getting ploughed by his own son -- and loving it. And the boy didn't seem exactly to be in pain. Again and again the kid put it to her, again and again she was obviously getting her cookies, again and again, Sid was cheering for his boy. That's the way, kid! he whooped inwardly. Show the bitch a good time and LAY THAT PIPE! Of course, he was starting to get a sore arm. After all, he was no kid himself anymore; at 40, he was a bit old to be choking the chicken for the second time in a half hour. But he really couldn't help himself. With the spotter scope fixed on the uncovered window of Mrs. Constance Redheaded Big-Tits McEvoy's bedroom, he had a great view. There she was with her legs up over the kid's shoulders, mouth open, boobies jiggling and obviously cumming to beat the band. He envied the kid. He wished he could have been in there. He wished Mrs. Howley next door in boyhood Brooklyn would have shown him the ropes the way Mrs. Constance Tight-Little-Ass McEvy was teaching his son. The important thing was that it was getting done. He wondered if he could cum again, but then he saw her legs tighten over his son's shoulders, and he imagined her little red-furred pussy tightening, and Sid knew he was going to cum again. He pressed his eye to the lense. She was rolling over onto her hands and knees, the gorgeous little ass up and begging, one hand between her legs to guide Ronnie's swollen stalk home in a single thrust and -- She was cumming again! * * * Constance screamed into the pillow, burying her face in the sweat- dampened cotton. Behind her, Ronnie was on his knees. He'd cum in her twice in the last 30 minutes, but now it seemed like his oversized young cock had been anesthetized. He pumped her pussy rapidly, relentlessly, artlessly -- and effectively. She couldn't seem to stop cumming. To her amazement, though, he was obviously ready to let loose again. His strokes got shorter and -- incredibly -- faster, and then she felt him cumming inside her again. Constance was amazed: She could feel it -- still, despite the enormous previous loads he'd poured into her pussy. She felt another gut-wrenching orgasm rising inside herself as his semen and her juices squished out around the stretched edges of her cunt and dribbled down her shivering, quivering thighs. Again and again, he surged into her. Constance was almost faint with pleasure. When he'd finally slowed and his prick seemed -- she wasn't sure -- to lose a trace of its rigidity, Constance straightened one leg, pulled the other up close to her heaving, swollen tits and executed a surprisingly nimble shift that ended with her on her back and him atop her, still locked inside her. After long moments of gasping, he raised his head and looked down at her, his face a study in confused doubt and satisfaction. "Mrs. McEvoy?" She tried to still her panting. She tightened her hold on the young stud above her...still buried in her. "Yes, Ronnie?" "Mrs. McEvoy, is this...okay?" "What do you mean, Ronnie?" "I mean -- well, what we're doing feels so good for me, It seems like it must be wrong." She considered...carefully. "Ronnie, did you want to do it?" "I guess." "You guess?" He looked a bit puzzled for a moment. "Well, I knew about how to do it, but I never thought it would feel this nice." "It's not easy to describe how nice cumming feels." "Not that part," he said, snuggling his face against her hair. She heard him suck in a deep breath through his nose. "I know how good it feels to cum. I've been shooting my stuff for a year. But -- this." He hugged her. "This close stuff, the being-together-after part. Just, kind of, like having something together, just you and me -- just together. It's so nice." Constance felt a sudden upwelling of loving and closeness. She tightened her arms and legs -- and pussy -- around him. "Wow!" he gasped. "I felt that!" She tightened again -- just her pussy. His 12-year-old prick began swelling in her again. She groaned softly. "Want to do it again?" she asked. He nodded vigorously. "Well, it isn't hurting you, and it isn't hurting me, and we're the only ones here -- so I guess it can't be too wrong." She clenched him again. He smiled down at her. "I think you're right." And began moving his hips. * * * "Hi, Ralph." Jack settled onto the stool and took a few beer nuts from the bowl on the bar. "Mr. McEvoy, you're a bit early today. The usual?" "Please." The bartender filled a stein with stout and set it on the bar top. "Special occasion?" "Celebrating, Ralph. I just lost my job." "I always got the impression that you enjoyed your work, Mr. McEvoy." Jack took a couple of long swallows. "Tell you the truth, Ralph: I did. And the perqs could be great. But I was going nowhere fast." "Got something else lined up, eh?" Jack nodded. "One of my neighbors has been telling me for about a year that he wants to start a small business with an equity partner. He's also been telling me for about a year that if had someone in it who could sell like I can, we'd be printing money inside of a month." He took another slug of the stout, enjoying the spreading warmth in his belly. "Well, with the buyout I just got, I can be an equity partner." "That sounds terrific, Mr. McEvoy. What kind of business is it?" Jack finished his stout. "I'm not sure. It's some kind of virtual reality gizmo for home computers. Hey. Lemme have another one, willya?" "Sure thing." Jack glanced at his watch. Well, sure, he had time for another one. He'd take the 3:50 home, surprise Constance with the good news. Maybe even get a rise out of her. No hurry. When he'd called Harry from the office -- his last call from the office -- he wasn't home, but he'd left a message with his daughter. She always seemed like an awfully bright kid. "Thanks, Ralph." He was sure Harry'd get his message; Lisa was dependable.