Mrs. Davenport Sucs Coc

All characters in this fiction are over eighteen.

by TRISTAN TROTSKY

A 1950s Erotic Memory, In Which All The Characters Are Above The Age Of Consent

Pat Boone was playing on the radio. I never really liked Pat Boone, but now, every time I hear 'Love Letters In The Sand', I find myself thinking of Mrs Davenport. Wondering whatever became of her. Hoping that things worked out fine for her.

It was just Samuel and me back then, hanging out together. Some bigoted folks say that it's just not right for a white boy like me. That Samuel is 'not our kind of person'. But Samuel and me were always tight, sharing comicbooks, arguing about the stories and the fantastic plotlines, the alien monsters with green-suckered tentacles that attack the lone astronaut marooned on the bleak asteroid. We both love that one. When we don't have a dime between us, we sit in the alcove of the soda shop overlooking the town square, listening to the music from the big shiny jukebox when someone else is feeding it coins. That long hot summer smells of hot melting asphalt and gasoline exhaust fumes.

There are other groups of kids from high school. They say 'hi'. But we always kinda stand apart.

But we all knew about Mrs Davenport. Every kid on the block knew. It was a story breathlessly whispered and endlessly repeated in hushed tones. A dirty secret with the legendary lure of erotic myth.

Her husband was a big-time lawyer in the city. You'd see her driving the yellow Cadillac he'd bought her, her hair in a piled-up bouffant and wearing her dark sunglasses, she looks so proud and aloof. How old was she? Difficult to say. Late-forties, early-fifties maybe? But she carried herself with style and class. She had a cleaning lady called Mrs M, so she didn't need to do anything. And I guess she was bored. She had a life of endless 1950s Stepford Wives leisure, with every built-in modern convenience, and the fashion pages of the magazines and a TV in the corner to watch game shows and soap operas. But it was an empty life.

The town had been founded around the mine-works, by the lake. The old quarry site was long abandoned. Most adults work out of town now, or scuff to survive on odd-jobs or welfare. I was always made welcome at Samuel's house, which lay over the railroad tracks on the other side of town. His Mom used to bake blueberry muffins to die for, and his Daddy had a shelf of big old shellac 78rpm records by artists with names like Blind Lemon Jefferson and Peetie Wheatstraw, Bessie Smith and Hound Dog Taylor, Ma Rainey and Big Mama Thornton, which seem so exotic and sound like they're beamed in from some other world.

It was while we were whiling away one long summer day that Samuel suggests we should call off at Mrs Davenport's. We knew the way. It was a big house with wrought-iron gates and a wide driveway set back from the street. He was kicking turf in a nervous kind of way as we stand outside. I ring the bellpush. Mrs M answers the door.

'Two fine young gentlemen to see you, Ma'am.'

I admit I was sweating with nervous apprehension. I hope there were no sweat-aromas that would mar the immaculate perfection of the house as we're led in through the hallway. There's a faint fragrance of polish on the furniture, and an arranged bowl of magnolias on the table. While Pat Boone croons softly on the Bakelite radio. She was waiting for us, sitting in the dining room sipping coffee from a china cup. Us two scruffy urchins, stranded, from a different social class.

'So kind of you two to think of visiting me' purrs Mrs Davenport, and I can't decide if she's mocking us, using her wit and sarcasm to make us feel small.

'I like that you are friends' she continues, putting me a little more at ease. 'Friends are important in this life. The world can be a cruel place. We take our pleasures as we find them. The support of a friend can make the vital difference when things turn around and savage you.'

Mrs M bustles in, bringing a tray of milk and cookies.

'You like girls?' Mrs Davenport continues as we gratefully plunder the cookies. 'I know that girls your age can be capricious. They can tease. But they are going through their own dramas. They have periods, and if you boys are not careful, they get pregnant too, which messes up your life as well as hers'. There are advantages to getting the very natural and healthy release you need in other ways.'

She smiled a curiously predatory smile. 'I know what boy's like.'

She waits until we've drunk the milk and eaten the last few cookie crumbs, then stands and -- with a dramatic flourish that she surely must have copied from the movies, she leads us through a side-door I'd not noticed, into a small guest bedroom. She sits demurely on the edge of the cool coverlet, as we stand, fidgeting awkwardly.

'I want to see you... properly.'

Samuel shrugs, and pulls his T-shirt up and off. By the time I've followed his lead, he's already shucking his shorts down and kicking them away. Of course, I've seen him naked before. Caught up in the urgencies of the physical changes that nature was gifting our bodies, we'd experimented, and jacked each other off. Despite the stories that folks tell, his cock is no bigger than mine.

'You have such beautiful bodies' she coos, running her fingers across his taut hairless stomach, 'both of you.'

My eyes must be bugging out of my head as she folds her fingers in around the shaft of his cock, her cherry-red nail-varnish standing out against his dark pigmentation. I can hear the gasp as he inhales, as the fingers of her other hand delicately cup his balls. Then a moan of pleasure as she dips her head gracefully in one fluid movement, and kisses the flared cockhead, slipping her lip-sticked lips smoothly around the swollen glans.

He groans 'ohfuck'... sliding it into one single oozing word. Then, catches himself, 'sorry for the cussword, Mrs Davenport.'

I stand stupidly naked, watching as her head bobs up and down his glistening length. Until she turns her attention to me, smiling up at me, taking my burning erection in her cool fingers, and lowering her head to ripple her tongue-tip along the length of my cock in such an exquisite way that my toes curl in ecstasy into the rich carpet. I was sure I was going to cum, the sensation was overwhelming, uncontrollable.

She draws back, just in time, and pats the coverlet. 'I want you both up here.'

At that point I'm sure we'd have done anything she asked. A little self-consciously we climb onto the bed.

'I want you to suck each other.' Her voice as smooth and rich as honeyed syrup.

My head is already spinning. Samuel doesn't hesitate, his head drops into my groin and I feel his lips closing in around my already-sensitized cock. I groan with pleasure. The only way I can respond is to follow his lead, and crouch, taking his erection in my hand... gulping for less than a moment before moving my head to take its pulsing heat into my mouth, a living thing throbbing with animal energies up against my lips, the taste and aroma flooding me as our bodies flex and contour into each other in sixty-nine position. Mutually sucking.

Mrs Davenport laughs and claps her hands in delight.

'Now lay on your back so I can finish you.' It doesn't take long with my cock in her mouth for gravity to upend, and I'm untethered from all the normal laws of logic as I pulse spasm after spasm into her warm enveloping wetness. Then she moves across to Samuel, and he lasts a little longer until I see his scrotum drawing up tight, and the inch of his cock not swallowed between her lips swelling in rhythmic contractions, while his groan is so deep is must have been dragged from the very depths of his soul.

She sits back, almost primly, and dabs her mouth with a tissue. 'Thank you, boys. Please feel free to dress at your leisure, then Mrs M will see you out.' And she leaves us there with a swish of couture.

It's a fortnight later that we were alerted by the incident down the road. I was at Samuel's house listening to big 78rpm records when we hear the siren. A speeding white van.

'Her sinful ways' says Samuel's Mom in a tone of faint disgust. 'That Mrs Davenport is no better than she should be. Seems she's been reported for interfering with teenage boys, for holding immoral sex-parties. It's only right they're taking her off to the sanitorium...'

We go outside in a helpless confusion. 'When the world turns around and savages you' she'd said. She knew, deep in her own intuition, how cruel and intolerant this smalltown mentality can be. It crushes out individuality. It enforces its own moral conformity. And those who step outside of their narrow definition of what is and what is not respectable, must be deemed mentally unstable. Maybe it was even her big-time lawyer husband who'd betrayed her? We would never know. We feel a wide sense of desolation, a black pall of angry futility that lies heavy. Tears of helpless rage burn in the corner of my eyes.

Then I was at home, a few days later. The phone on the hallstand rings. No-one else is home, so I slouch up and answer it. A heartbeat hesitation at the other end of the line. Then a familiar voice. 'I always liked you and Samuel. You were the best' she says. 'I just need to ask one favour of you.'

'But I thought... I thought.' I was a stammering wreck.

'I know what you thought' says Mrs Davenport, with only a trace of humour. 'You could say I've broken out of that place before their so-called treatments and medications can damage me. I'm a fugitive on the run. But listen...'

I do as she asks. I'm as good as my word. I owe her that. I owe her so much more, but this was the least I could do. I walk to the big house with wrought-iron gates and the wide driveway set back from the street. I ring the bellpush. Mrs M answers the door. She has a suitcase prepared for me which she'd already prepacked, full of personal items and clothes. I carry the case down through the town towards the abandoned mine-works, by the lake, on the old quarry site. She was there, the yellow Cadillac her big-time lawyer husband had bought her drawn into the roadside. With her piled-up bouffant hair and her dark sunglasses she still looks so proud and aloof. Untouched by the world.

'Thank you' she says. 'Thank you for being here when I need a friend. I knew that I could rely on you.'

I haul her case up into the trunk. 'What will you do now?'

'I have friends who live out on the west coast, where things are less repressive. I will join them there, and start a new life.'

'There's just one more thing, Mrs Davenport?'

'Tell me. You only have to say.'

'Before you go, show me what girl's like.'

She laughs low in her throat, and her eyes sparkle above the rim of her sunglasses. As if she's considering, turning options over in her mind. Then she moves in a slow deliberately feline way. Reaching up beneath her dress. She pulls her black lace panties down and off. She lifts her dress and spreads her legs wide across the car seat. 'Kiss me. There. Kiss the lips of my pussy.'

I'm drawn by a gravitational force more powerful than a star. I'm down on my knees in the roadside grit, pressing my face into that gorgeous pubic nest, my tongue darting and flickering into the moistness as though I already know, as though I need no tutoring, instinct takes over as I worship at the temple of my only true religion. Her hands are on the back of my head, applying gentle pressure, drawing me in, guiding, coaxing, encouraging, 'yes, lick there, softer, as though you're French kissing your girlfriend's mouth...' And her thighs lift upwards, fucking into my grateful mouth.

'Thank you' she murmurs some time later, as her hips cease convulsing. 'Your future girlfriends will appreciate your gift.'

I stand back on the asphalt verge as she accelerates away, watching her car until it's no more than a speck on the horizon. Until it's gone, as though it had never even been there in the first place. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, as though the pussy-flavour reassures me that it had all really happened. But she'd only come back for long enough to say goodbye.

I still find myself thinking of Mrs Davenport. Wondering whatever became of her. Hoping that things worked out fine for her. She must be out there now, living in a future that is a golden country where everything finally makes sense.

by TRISTAN TROTSKY