Swinging In The 70S Ch 03

When I pulled into the trailer park I was surprised to see Randy's car parked in front. I don't know why I was surprised, but I was.

At the door, I hesitated, thought about knocking, decided that was stupid, and went in. Well, started to go in but the door was locked so I got my keys out, fumbled through them to find the almost-never-used front door key, and then went in.

Randy sat at the small kitchen table, naked, sipping coffee and watching Monica move around, making breakfast. She had on one of my T-shirts which barely covered her ass and when she bent over to check on the Pillsbury biscuits in the oven I saw that she was leaking.

The most surprising thing was that I wasn't overcome with jealousy. I suppose, after my night and morning that makes sense, but this was so far from my middle-class upbringing that I was surprised. Mostly, though, I thought how damn hot she looked like that.

She came to me, kissed me thoroughly, and asked, "Biscuits and gravy before I send you off to class?"

I had trouble replying because I was so damn focused on the thick dollop of semen in the part of her hair.

"David?" she asked.

I chuckled, kissed her on the top of her head, avoiding the semen, and said, "You guys go ahead. I need to shower and get moving. This

Urban Geography

class is kicking my ass and I need to work on that paper."

"Is that the one with Dr. Lell?" Randy asked.

"Yep," I said, fascinated at how easy it was to engage in a conversation with the naked man who had fucked my wife the night before and, given that neither of them had pants on, I assumed intended to do it again this morning.

"Set an appointment, tell her you need tutoring, and be sure to tell her how good she looks," he said, "You'll get that 'A'."

"You took that class?" I asked.

"Nah," he said, "I had her for

World Geography

, but the concept is the same. Look, Dave, you've seen her. She likes the dick. Throw a fuck into her and you'll get that 'A'."

Monica shocked me by saying, "You think that would work for me? She's the only one teaching

Art and Geography

, and I'll have to take that class?'

Randy reached over, patted Monica on the ass, and said, "I'd like to watch that. Whattya think, Dave?"

I laughed and said, "Well, she is good with her mouth," as I patted her other cheek.

She giggled, pushed me away, said, "Get moving," kissed Randy, and went back to her cooking.

So I showered, put on my hippie uniform of worn jeans and T-shirt (this one advertising Winston cigarettes), along with tennis shoes with no socks. No underwear either. Hippies, you know.

I kissed Monica who was eating across the table from Randy, thought about it, and kissed him too before heading to school.

I almost slept through my

World History

class, spent two hours in the library, went to the

Science

building, and checked the directory for Dr. Lell's office. Her office hours were posted as just before the class, so I found it and knocked.

"Yes, Mr. Morgan," she said as I stood in the door.

"Got a minute?" I asked.

Well, you can cut a yard or two of the conversation that followed. It was, I suppose, very stock stuff. I was the poor helpless student. She was the tall, almost statuesque, good-looking, mature professor. I set an appointment for the following Tuesday. During class, I made a point of making eye contact and smiling a lot.

Thursday was Pizza night, so I stopped at

Shakeys

and then at the Kroger store on the way home and loaded a case of their cheapest beer,

Iron City

if it matters, onto the motorcycle I had brought back from Japan, and headed home.

Monica greeted me at the door looking like absolute shit.

It didn't look like her hair had been combed or brushed and she damn sure hadn't put on even a hint of makeup. Hell, she hadn't even washed her face, something made obvious by the dried semen in her hair and on her forehead.

"Please don't hate me," she said, taking my hands in hers.

"What?" I asked, taking it all in.

"Randy said I shouldn't wash my face and I couldn't go to class like this," she said, tears starting to run down her cheeks.

"What?" I said again, trying to decide if I should be angry or laugh at the whole fucking situation.

"Please don't hate me, David," she said again.

"Now why would I hate you?" I asked, trying out a smile.

"Because I liked it, David," she said, her breath catching as she started crying in earnest now, "Oh, shit, because I LOVED it."

I put my palms flat on her cheeks, not allowing her to turn away, and held her eyes.

Monica is a cute girl and she's one of those rare women who is still cute even when she's crying. Oh, her face was red and her eyes swollen, tears wet her cheeks and her nose was running, clear mucus pooling on her upper lip before running down her chin to hang in a thick string to her T-shirt. But she was cute still. I kissed her on the forehead where the dried cum made a crusty little spot, and then on her mouth, slick and sticky from the way her nose was running.

"It's okay," I said, holding her while she cried.

It went on for a while, her crying, me holding her, and dishing those platitudes you do in that situation. "Dave's got you." "It's all right." "I've got you, now." You know, stuff like that.

The storm passed, as it always does, and she leaned back and smiled up at me.

"Promise you don't hate me?" she asked, but she was smiling now.

"Promise," I said. "Now sit," I turned her gently and had her sit at the table, "and we'll eat, have a beer, have a joint, and talk."

At the last phrase her eyes dropped so I did the two-fingers-under-the-chin thing humans with a Y chromosome seem to know at the genetic level and said, "Stop that. Good talk."

She smiled and relaxed.

I got out a couple of paper plates, put a couple of slices of pizza on each one, popped open two cans of the cheap beer, and sat.

I told her about my meeting with Dr. Lell, and my scheduled meeting next week. The conversation was, as they say, desultory. We were both awkward for the first time since that first blind date, and it felt wrong.

Bellies full, the first beer down, and the pot starting to kick in, we moved to the little hand-made couch John and I had whipped up.

This was new territory for me but I figured what the hell, let's get to it.

"You enjoyed it, didn't you?" I asked.

This time she didn't try to avoid eye contact.

"Yes," she said, the flat single syllable containing everything that needed to be said.

"Can I ask why?" I asked.

"Yes," she said, giggling. This was an old game with us, answering questions literally.

"Why did you enjoy it?" I asked the follow-up question.

"It was different," she said and when I started to speak she stopped me with a fingertip to my lips.

"It wasn't

better

," she went on, "but it was different. You know you weren't my first, but besides you, there have only been two others," she stopped and giggled, "well, until last night."

"Why did you enjoy it?" I asked again.

"I enjoyed all of it," she said. "The kisses were different, you know?"

And I could see that she was getting into the discussion. She had those little frown lines between her eyebrows that showed she was thinking.

"He's a good kisser," she said at last, "good pressure, good contact, just the right amount of tongue," she giggled at that last, "Not like my husband trying to tonguewash my tonsils."

I smiled and licked my lips.

"And his hands, well, his touch was different too," she said. "He pinched and," and she giggled again, "I kind of liked it."

When I didn't say anything to that, she went on.

"I liked having another man undress me," she said, and I could see she was into it so I just let her go on. "I liked the way he looked at my boobs and traced the stretch marks on them. I liked the way he lifted them, and kissed them and latched on like a hungry baby."

She stopped then to relight the joint and take a pull from her beer, and I watched her face as she thought.

"He's rougher than you are, David," she said, "and I kind of liked that too. He squeezed my tits hard enough to make me groan and then did the same thing to my pussy," and I knew it was getting to her the way her language coarsened.

"But," and she was holding my eyes carefully now, looking into me in a way you would see written as "soulful" in one of those romance novels my grandmother used to be so fond of, "When he started acting like he wanted to play with my butthole I said no."

She took another hit on the joint and pull on her beer, her eyes holding mine all of the time she did it.

"Because," she said, standing and then pushing her jeans and panties down in one quick movement, "You should be the first for that."

The one time I had Monica anally had been an accident and as soon as I penetrated she started pulling away and saying, "Take it out."

That time, we were laying in bed, making love, front to back, sort of doggie fashion but on our sides, when I slipped out and when I pushed back had wound up, well, in the wrong hole so to speak.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

She sat back down, then, snuggled up to me, took a hit on the joint and a drink of her beer, and said, "Yes. Myra and I talked and it's, well," and here she hesitated and I could see her searching for the right word, "it's

expected

in that group."

"Monica," I said, doing the two-fingers-under-the-chin thing my cousin taught me, "We don't have to do this."

She grinned, kissed me, and said, "I don't

have

to do anything, but I

want

this."

She smiled, kissed me again, and said, "And you damn sure want it too, don't you?"

I smiled, kissed her, and said, "I do."

"So," she said and jumped up with all of the energy of a woman in her early 20s, bent at the waist, reached back and used her fingers to spread her cheeks giving me a quick glimpse of what she had in mind before standing and walking down the hall to our bedroom, "Let's experiment," she finished over her shoulder.

I followed, watching her pretty ass with a new interest.

In the bedroom, I peeled her T-shirt off and then quickly took off my clothes.

By the time I stripped she was on the bed, her knees under her hips, face down, with her back arched and her ass sticking straight up.

I crawled up onto the bed beside her and pushed her hip, gently but firmly, making her roll onto her side.

"It should be a different way of making love, Monica," I said, "but it's still making love, not just fucking or, in this case, buttfucking."

She smiled then and held her arms out.

And it WAS lovemaking. I kissed her face about a hundred times and nuzzled her neck. I kissed and sucked her nipples and started working my way down her body. As I got to the delta of her pubic hair I slowed down and she responded as I expected, her fingers moving down to open and offer herself. I brought her along with my tongue until her thick white nectar flowed freely and I lapped at that, enjoying the salty, oily taste of her pleasure.

I thought, by now, I knew all of her tells but she surprised me with her orgasm that suddenly had my face covered with her natural lubricant.

As soon as the tension left her body I gently rolled her onto her belly.

Her thick white honey was still running as I pulled my finger slowly up, starting at her clitoris and up her labia, watching, fascinated, as that white, slick jelly built up until, by the time I got to her tiny, puckered anus it looked like I had drug my finger through a jar of Vaseline. I traced the smooth circle around the tiny starburst of her anus, and then gently penetrated with my fingertip.

She hissed softly, and arched her back slightly, her ass pointing straight up, offering.

I did that a half dozen times, slowly, bending to kiss the firm hemispheres of her ass as I did so.

By the time I figured she was ready, her asshole was leaking a little.

And God knows I was ready. I've always tended to get extra aroused with new things, and this was new. I laid my palms flat on her cheeks, leaned forward, and spread her. By then I was so hard I hurt.

I moved forward and then guided myself until I touched where she was leaking white cream.

I surprised myself by hesitating.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

She giggled and said, "Fuck no, I'm not sure, but I want to try."

"Okay," I said, "Relax."

As I watched I could see the tension leave.

I touched her, seeing how big I seemed in relation to that tiny orifice, and hesitated. Oh, don't get me wrong. I'll never win a dick-measuring contest. But she was SO tiny.

"Go ahead," she said, her voice thick.

I knew I was being silly, but I couldn't help it. I was afraid I'd tear something. And it WAS silly. I mean, come on. We've all looked back and what comes out is, often bigger than any cock outside of one of those extreme porno videos.

I watched. Hell, I couldn't look away, as my glans slowly opened her. As it disappeared and the first inch or so of my shaft was in I stopped.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

Her fingers were hooked into claws, scratching at the sheets, and I was afraid I was hurting her.

"Don't stop," she said, her voice muffled by the pillow, "Give me all of it."

I pushed deeper. There was still an inch or so of my shaft showing when I seemed to hit bottom.

She moved her hips, rocking them, adjusting our angles, and suddenly the resistance was gone and I slipped in that final inch. On some clinical level, I recognized that I was past her rectal vault, into her bowels, and I grabbed her hips, pressing forward until I was inside her as deep as I could get.

"Are you okay?" I asked again.

She surprised me and giggled then.

"Oh, honey, I'm FAR past okay. This is better than I imagined," she said.

I started a rhythm then, slow and easy, watching as my cock emerged and then reentered her tiny asshole. I liked the way it pulled the skin where she was puckered. Oh, hell, I liked the whole experience and, the way she was starting to moan and the scent of her excitement said she was enjoying it too.

When she came she squeezed, powerful muscles clenching painfully around my erection.

I held that position, inside of her, as the tension of her climax showed in the muscles of her back and, of course, in the way she was squeezing.

When she relaxed I set up my rhythm again. Now that I could be sure I wasn't hurting her I started paying attention to making love to her in this new way. My hands were light on her back and ass, caressing, holding, squeezing gently as I started to take my pleasure. And it was pleasure. As she said, it wasn't better, but it was different, and it was very VERY good.

She felt it when I came and cried out a loud "Yessssssssssss."

In this position, when she squeezed, she could hold me inside of her, and she demonstrated how that worked.

As must happen, I softened and slipped out. I was watching, fascinated, and while I was then and still am a firm believer that good sex is often messy but never dirty, we clearly needed a cleaning.

"Don't move," I said, chuckling and patting her ass.

"As if I could," she said with a giggle.

I rolled out of bed and went into the bathroom where I started the water running to get hot. While it ran, the systems in trailers aren't terribly efficient, I peed and brushed my teeth. Then I soaked one of our small hand towels in the hot water, wrung it out, and went into the bed where I sat on her calves, spread her cheeks, and started carefully cleaning where I had left a brown circle.

I couldn't help but notice that the tiny puckered spot I had admired earlier was, well, not tiny anymore. I worried that I had, well, I don't know actually. Maybe been too big? Stretched her too much?

Then, suddenly, she coughed and everything closed up.

I finished cleaning her, turning the hand towel regularly until she was pink and clean again. Almost as an afterthought, I cleaned myself, surprised at how much brown stain showed on the towel when I was done.

I went to the closet and tossed the towel into the clothes hamper before crawling into bed with her.

As far as I could tell, she hadn't moved.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

She giggled then, and opened her eyes to meet mine although she made no effort to move anything else.

"I asked Myra about this," she said, her voice thick and husky, "and she told me something I had never thought about. She said - there are two kinds of women when it comes to anal sex. There are those who absolutely love that perfectly full feeling she can get from a man in no other way, and those who lie and say they don't enjoy it."

She smiled.

"It turns out, I'm the first kind," she said and kissed me.

"Thank you," she said again.

As I watched, she closed her eyes and her face went slack in the complete relaxation of sleep. I kissed her forehead, and said, "You're welcome," before I rolled onto my side and went to sleep.

I was smiling as I drifted off.