It is not necessary to read the earlier chapters, though it might be interesting.
What Am I Doing Here? Ch.16
Because of dirty towels on the bathroom floor???
Awake But where is Harold
Her eyes were closed. She didn't want to open them. MaryJane Huffman did not want to get up.
Why didn't she want to get up?
Fucking Harold was there. That is why. Here in her apartment.
He wasn't in the bed with her, thank God for small favors. She was stretched out and alone in the bed. No loud nasal breathing from Harold; no arms outstretched pulling the blankets off of her; no big ass taking up room on her half of the bed. All good. No big cock snug in her hot cunt, not that good.
Someday, maybe someday soon, she would have to end this with Harold. But she didn't want to think about that right now.
It was warm under the blanket, so nice.
That pungent, acidy odor of good, hard sex recently finished off was comforting in the dark space between mattress and cover—She loved it because, let's face it, the sex did it for her. A good night of fucking got rid of that distracting itch that hit her every so often. MaryJane, as Harold was so fond of reminding her, was a slut, and she needed her fucking. Harold had spent the night, and if there was anything she was positive of after last night, after any night with Harold really, it was that she was an es el yu tee, a slut with a capital S.
Be that as it was, at the moment she was waking up a tired, satisfied---after a night of fucking, sucking, fucking and sucking, grunting, grunting and screaming, cumming and cumming ---slut. What else could you call her after she had her fill of dirty, hard driving sex with uncharming Harold, eight years her junior, her former student.
But slut or not, a steaming cup of coffee was what she needed if she wanted to get her eyes opened, her mind working.,
Mary Jane Huffman tumbled herself out of bed. Quickly, she slipped on the extra-large green-on-white Notre Dame T shirt that had been lying on the floor next to the bed. A quick sniff confirmed the grand odor of sweat and sex still oozing from the shirt.
The sound of water running in the shower informed her as to where Harold McCarthy was in her apartment. "Shit," she thought to herself. She pulled down the hem of her t-shirt as far as it would go. No bare flesh, well none from maybe an inch above her knees! She didn't need to get Harold started. She didn't need to get herself started. And that was what would happen if Harold started. They would end up back in bed. Or on the couch. Or maybe on the floor. Somewhere.
But right now, she needed coffee.
She walked into the kitchen. Fuck ,Fuck, FUCK, FUUCCKKK!
He hadn't started the coffee. She had shown him how, set everything up last night, water, grounds, seep time.
He only needed to push the red button that was marked "START" and the Grind and Brew would do everything else. Her directions must have confused his little mind.
Worthless fuckass. She started the coffee herself, muttering blasphemous reflections on his upbringing, reliability, existence. She needed her coffee.
She wanted to strangle him as she looked at the empty coffee pot now filling, but oh too slowly.
It was at that exact moment that Harold McCarthy made his grand entrance. Jaunty, jolly, he came out of the bathroom, entering into the kitchen, all smiles, bopping. Harold's voice, nasal, off rhythm but loud, suddenly filled the until-then quiet space. He was quoting 50 Cents without Cent's rhythm, sans the rapper's lilt, "...We could toast the good life girl, we could have it all ..." Harold had come in last night reciting words from the rap about a pimp tempting a girl. He was still reciting the words, the sound of his voice even worse than the smirk on his face Yes, MaryJane Huffman would have to end this situation with Harold.
"Would you please not repeat those stupid lyrics, please so early in the day?"
He gave no sign that he heard what she had said.
He continued drying himself, humming as he pulled the twisted up towel over his back. It was one of her thick, fluffy towels, one of her favorites. His cock, his big fat almost seven inch cock, swung freely between his legs in counter-rhythm to the towel's movement.
Fucking ass hole.
He turned around. His back was to her as he pranced around the room still mumbling words from the rap. She stared at his ass jiggling with each step. Fat ass, thighs hairy and ugly, legs too thin to offer anything but meager support for his unimpressive body.
For the millionth and one time MaryJane wondered how that so unprepossessing body of his could coax so much earth shattering cumm, so many cataclysmic orgasms from her.
He was a boor. He was rude. He was without a sense of humor. For sure, he was not good looking. He could fuck, though. He fucked, MaryJane thought, like a master violinist playing Tchiakovsky's violin concerto. :Oh, he played her clit like it was a violin alright: His cock did it all. It attacked. It made slow love. It stroked into her cunt hard. It established a cadence and suddenly changed it. And, yes, it coaxed bass notes from low and screaming soprano tones of orgasm from up high. And he did it over and over again as they fucked..
But she needed, in spite of that, to end these liaisons. MaryJane Huffman shook her head. She did not like Harold McCarthy, not at all. She was adamant about not liking him although, somehow, he managed every month or maybe three or four months or so to telephone or e-mail or skype, or somehow convince her in that wheedling tone of voice of his that she needed to permit him a visit, allow that cock into her cunt. Fact was, it was as if he had timed her. He seemed to call just those days when she was real horny, when she was in need, when her body shouted to be fucked. Slut she was.
Cunt dripping, clit thrilling, skin shuddering slut she was. Slut she was, as he had helped her learn about herself. Maybe she owed him a thank you for that, but it didn't mean she had to like him.
He was one of five of her military uniformed parochial high school seniors who had begun fucking her after getting her drunk, after blackmailing (?) her when she was their teacher at Holy Mother of God High. That was over seven years ago and he was the only one of the five still slipping his cock through the hairy bush around her slit and deep inside her wet warmth until she screamed in pleasure and her clit exploded. .
Good old reliable Harold ---- still after all those years, still pounding that rigid piece of steel into the warmth of her cunt and making her cum and cum. She lived in another town now, was teaching at another school now ( Our Lady of Sweet Tidings, an all girl's catholic school--- a lot less temptation there). He was the only one of the original five who had kept in touch, still called, still rang the buzzer of her apartment and got to tingle the bell of her clit..
"Hey teach, good, you started the coffee. Pour me a cup, would ya,"
