Betty

Many years ago, I lived in an apartment in Shreveport, Louisiana. I was a computer programmer at a hospital. I worked a lot of odd hours because the big computer, the mainframe, had to be up during business hours. I liked those odd hours because I could take time off during the week for college classes and lay out by the pool. I was young, and I drove a junky old car and my apartment was sparsely populated with junky old furniture. I did grunge when it was just called wearing used clothes from the Salvation Army. With no flash and hardly any cash at a time when men wore shirts open to the waist with gold chains and pointed while they danced, I didn’t have too much of a social life, as you can imagine. My heap sported a bumper sticker that kinda beat around the bush; it said “DISCO SUCKS!”
Betty, the apartment manager, was a well upholstered, middle aged Southern Belle who always wore the same tired array of buttsprung skirts, blouses, and sleeveless shirtwaist dresses with stretched seams. She was also on my kind of economy. It’s called “Genteel Poverty” in her world.
But about once a week or so, she unselfconsciously wore a pair of tight, pink stirrup pants and three inch pink heels with a sleeveless white blouse, and I enjoyed her soft, white arms, her nipples poking her blouse in her office where the A/C was continuously running, and, unlike many men, I enjoyed her large, soft, mature feminine bottom, her thighs, her muscular calves.
She had shapely legs, not the piano legs of the skinny young woman who lived right over her office, who never looked at me at the mailbox. When Betty wore her pink slacks, I could see her dark pubic mound softly nestled between curvy, inner thighs.
She looked at me with her soft, brown eyes and took my rent check once a month, and I often lingered in the office after I got my mail, enjoying the air conditioning that I seldom ran in my apartment, those afternoons when she’d light a cigarette and ask me if I wanted some coffee, and we’d share coffee and sexual tension in the long, sultry, summer afternoon of the late seventies.
One of Betty’s pet peeves were the maintenance men, Bob and Ray. That they had the same name as a comedy duo was proper; they only did what they had to, sneaking out in the afternoon, and sometimes sneaking in, hiding out in apartments. I would’ve told her that one afternoon I came home to find my apartment smelling like cigarettes and later I went to take the garbage and discovered several empty beer cans, but I didn’t want to get them in any trouble. They came and fixed what was broke pretty fast, and that’s all that mattered to me.
Looking back, it’s funny, but the skinny girl who lived over her office often got her mail when I was there. She would not smile or acknowledge my presence, and I said hello just once, and felt an arctic wind of indifference. To quote a Beatles tune, not a second time.
“She snubbed you, didn’t she?” Betty drawled.
“You bet,” I said. Betty sipped her coffee from a cup personalized with a large, red lipstick smear.
“One day, she’ll be a first class ice princess, but she isn’t too good at it yet,” she followed up.
“Ah, she’s got the basics down, I think,” I replied.
“Do you like her?” Betty asked, her voice turned up and lingering at the end.
“Nope, don’t like her looks,” I replied, matter of fact. “She’s too skinny and she’s got piano legs. It doesn’t matter how she treats me if I don’t care for her, does it?”
“No, don’t guess it does, love,” she replied. Then, after a silence, “What do you like?”
“Women who look like women,” I replied, after a pause, staring into her eyes. Betty smiled.
One afternoon, I awoke by the pool after sleeping there like a log and went back to my apartment. I’d had a hard day’s night (can you tell I’m still a Beatles fan?), so I was spending the day drowsing to soap operas on my beat–up black and white TV and reading when I wasn’t napping on my old sofa by the open window with a dusty old box fan shaking and whirling the cooler air of the breezeway inside.
I heard a tapping, and I disturbed the curtain and looked out the window to see Betty, wearing her pink stirrup pants and pink heels and white, sleeveless top. Clip, clap, chuff, click, click, clack, she was walking along the path by the apartments on the other side. Her office was far away, two buildings, in fact, and she was looking at every door, jingling a ring of keys in her fist. Why would she be looking in every apartment? I wondered. Probably looking for the maintenance guys, I reasoned. Then she looked across, saw my face at the window, turned and began walking across the lawn directly towards my front door.
“I need to come in your apartment,” Betty called out breathily, and I looked at her, her three inch heels digging into the well sodded ground, black dirt and grass clinging to them, walking right past the sign that said no walking on the grass, and I remember thinking I’d never seen her hurrying with such purpose since I’d moved in, and that was a couple years back.
I rose slowly off the couch and opened the front door. As I raised my eyes, I saw a wide eyed look of panic in hers, and I stepped out of the way as she charged into my apartment, leaving a trail of muddy steps on the path and on the carpet.
When she got inside, she began to move even faster, running towards the bathroom, which wasn’t a long way, it being a small, one bedroom apartment, but she let out an uncharacteristically loud “OHHH!” halfway across the livingroom and while she made it to the bathroom, pulled the door open and then pushed it closed when she was inside, there was a mirror on the door and I saw both front and back views of her, suddenly darkening the crotch and ample bottom of her tight, pink slacks, and down the insides of both thighs.
She stayed in the bathroom for a while, not making a sound. I was embarrassed, so when she opened the door and stuck her head out, she found me on the sofa. She called my name, softly.
“Yes?”
“Do you suppose that if I gave you directions, you could be a gentleman and go in my apartment and get me a pair of jeans and sneakers?”
“Sure,” I said, standing up and walking towards her. And I watched her eyes go down, then up.
“Ah made you excited,” she said, and I felt myself blush.
“Ah, yeah, ahum, aha, hah! you sure have!” I smiled and stammered. I was wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweat pants cut off just above the knee, and I had a tentpost.
“Its OK, OK, OK!” She said, and I suppose she would’ve continued, embarrassed, but she saw me become fully stiff. That changed both our minds. She stepped suddenly out from the bathroom, naked from the waist down.
We made love right there on the floor in the hallway. It was 1979 and AIDS didn’t exist yet, so I didn’t even think about precautions, I just dove into that soft, lovely place to the hilt and pleasured her with short, uneven thrusts that surprised and urged her on and pressed her firmly until she wrapped her soft, shapely legs around me and came softly, moaning, holding me strongly, inside and out. I responded, begetting a warm, milky lake inside her that she treasured with enthusiastic spasms.
I’d dreamt of being in her so long, I decided to stay around a while, enjoy the feeling, enjoy the view! She laid on my carpet, eyes dreamy, a smile playing around her face, hairspray stiff hair fanned out around her head, and I got hard again, looking at her soft face, knowing there would be fluff and other bits of stuff from my carpet on her hair when she got up. I moved only a few times, making sure I pressed her in the right way, in the right place. I didn’t come, but she did, smiling, mmmmmmmm, eyes closed, lost in pleasure, squeezing me.
I offered coffee, then pulled her to a sitting position. She made a move for the bathroom.
“Do you have to go again?”
“No, but if I don’t wrap a towel around myself, I’ll wet your couch.”
“Its a very, very old couch.”
“Still, I think a little propriety …”
“Be quiet,” I said, and I turned her around, undid her blouse, removed it. I came up behind her and put my nose in her auburn hair which was, as I knew it would be, liberally flecked with carpet fluff. I turned her back around.
Her bra was wrong somehow. It pushed her breasts toward each other and up, so they almost overflowed their cups, but it was a basic sort of bra, undecorated, and probably not meant to do that. I took it off her and her breasts went from saying hello to each other to reclining on the soft, white arms that now framed them.
I took her by the hand and made her accompany me to the small kitchen while I got the coffee on, then to the old couch, where she sat down gingerly. She looked like she was thinking of something, so I asked her, “Penny for ‘em?” and she bobbed her head, as if she’d made up her mind.
“Its something I have to do,” she said.
“We all do.”
“No,” she clarified, “When I relieve myself, I can have an orgasm. Doesn’t that turn you off?”
“Heck no!” I said, “You saw that!”
“Well, I can come without wetting, but I usually prefer to go, you know, in mah underweah, so I feel the warmth … for a moment … then ah cain come verruh, verruh strongly,” she said, and I could scarcely believe I was sitting there, watching this lovely lily of The South, a soft, Rubinesque woman, spread out on my couch. I looked down and saw my semen in her large, dark thatch of pubic hair, a small wet place beneath it on my couch. She immediately covered herself with her hands.
“Well, my stars! You do have a way of making a lady feel embarrassed!”
“Please, don’t, you’re quite beautiful,” I said, but she kept her hands there.
“Do you like looking at that?” She asked, her voice upturning querulously at the end. I could see she was bothered, but she did seem to want a truthful answer.
“Why, of course, Betty. I’ve wanted to see you naked for two years, since I moved in. I think of you naked all the time. What do you think I spent all that time in your office for? I like looking at you! Now I get to see you without clothes, I want to see you without clothes! All of you! But especially down there, that’s very beautiful to a man!”
She seemed to think about this for a moment, then she uncovered herself and laid back, spread her legs and put her hands behind her head. The act of doing so made her soft, sumptuous arms jiggle. Her breasts moved away from each other lazily and her curvy legs softly resonated to their muscular movements. My semen flowed from her, hung in her pubic hair, drifted down the crack of her ass and darkened the couch. My memory took a snapshot I’ll remember on my deathbed.
“Well, here ah am, sir! You’ve conquered me! Now you can tell all your friends you’ve had me!”
“What friends?” I quietly inquired.
“Well, I don’t know, I mean, you’re right, I believe you, and I don’t see you with any other guys, but I’m feeling very vulnerable, you know. You could tell the right people and I would just crawl into the Red Rivah and die of embarrassment!”
This she could do. You could see the Red River out my bedroom window.
“I won’t tell anyone, Betty,” I replied tiredly. I told her a few things she obviously hadn’t observed about me over the two years she’d been taking rent checks from me. Like how I worked and went to school and “din’t” have time for much socializing. And I asked her if she’d consider making love again, another day.
“Yes,” she said, then she began, “I mean …”
“Then, I’m your man,” I said quietly, evenly, measuring my words and looking her in the eye as I so carefully spoke. She pulled her legs together, placed her left hand on her left knee and reached for coffee with her right hand. She then held the cup with both hands, elbows on her knees, hunched forward, her breasts swinging slightly as she moved. I continued recording my memories, unable to take my eyes off her breasts, but of course, still trying to maintain eye contact.
“As I was saying,” she said, after a long moment of holding her warm cup with both hands and silently sipping, “I was on my way to my apartment, and it became obvious I’d let it go too far this time. I was thinking of … havin’ a different kind of accident, like falling into the pool, you know?”
“Mmmm,” I said.
“Ah drink a lot of water, but it still takes time to save up enough, you know, then I go, and I masturbate. I usually save my outer clothes, but I like to go in my underwear, just because ah can feel the warmth before it falls, but sometimes, I don’t get my clothes off in time, so I have to wash them, I could never take them like that to the cleanahs.”
“Mmmmm,” I said again. I got yet another erection. She noticed this. Apparantly, eye contact is only mandatory for males. And this is so. Men like women looking and noticing their parts.
“Whudda you like, me talking about doin’ it in mah underwear?”
“No, you in your clothes. I don’t know what to say, except that turns me on.” I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts. “I think its the vulnerability,” I said, but I was also thinking, its the woman out of control while I’m in control. I was trying to work this all out and come up with something else, but she’d modulated elsewhere and I’d missed several sentences and I realized I’d better listen up.
“I told you, I’m just a fruitcake!” She was saying, voice rising again to a quavering height. “Ah must be just what you Yankees think of us Southern women! Perverted and off our rockers!”
This I could certainly answer.
“No you’re not crazy, Betty, and I come from the Yankee regions of the Miami River, just north of where the bridge crosses into Miami Springs…”
“That’s New York South!” She said, as though it were a point to be made, but she smiled. In fact, she grinned impishly.
“Betty … never mind. I like how you look, you’re a soft, feminine lady, and I’ll remember this day for the rest of my life.” I pronounced. Now she stared into my eyes. “I don’t know who else I’ll have in my life, or whether I’ll have the privilege of having you again, but THIS will be a red letter day for me for the rest of my life, OK?”
“I don’t know what to say …” she said.
“You don’t have to say anything,” I replied, but she apparently felt otherwise.
“Oh, yes I do! You probably think a woman who has to pee to come and who does it all the time is at least a little off!” She said.
“So what, I masturbate all the time,” I said, not adding the words every day, or multiple times a day, because, lets face it, all that libido and nobody to enjoy it? Sigh.
“Yes, but you’re a man,” she replied.
“C’mon, Betty, do you really think I don’t know women do it too?”
“After they wet themselves?”
“Betty, when most people think of kinky sex, they think of leather and whips, handcuffs and … and I think you’re being way too hard on yourself,” I said, “ I think the leather and whips is far more extreme, but people are talking about that now and they don’t seem to be embarrassed. What if you’re tied up and the building catches fire? What if somebody ties you up and then has a heart attack? How long would you be there? Hey, at least what you do, you might be able to put out a fire!” I concluded, and she laughed, and I did too. I’d taken a chance. I had one more question.
“Just for the record, you don’t, er, want to be tied up or anything, do you?”
“Heavens no!” She replied. I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Well, one more thing I gotta know, then,” she returned.
“Yes?”
“When did you get excited, when I came out of the bathroom? Did my nekkid body do it for you?”
“No, I was already excited when you were going in.”
“?”
“I could see your front in the mirror in the hallway, and your backside …” I began.
Well, I’m sure you get the idea. We talked long past dark, and I went to her apartment and got her other clothes. She was too embarrassed to let me handle her pink britches to wash them in the old washer and dryer that came with the apartment, so she would wash them in hers. Before taking them to the “cleanahs.” Her apartment was neat as a pin and I told her so. I didn’t tell her I got her key ring out of my door after we’d talked for hours until dark, both of us in the nude. Anyone, like even maybe the maintenance guys, could’ve seen the ring and opened the door …
*****************
I didn’t expect her to call back. I expected “The Frosty Barrier” … Yes, even at that tender age, I’d already heard many, many versions of ‘I must’ve been really drunk last night’ excuses. Women either act, or they make excuses, and when they crank up the excuse machine, I leave quick as I can.
I went to work and tried to concentrate. I sent roses with a note only she’d understand, in case Bob or Ray saw them. I came home and tried to do my homework for a class I had the following evening. I was somewhat successful, but by late afternoon, I began glancing at the phone oh, say every minute or so? At quarter to five, it rang.
“Hello?”
“Well, am I welcome?”
“Well, Yes, of course, what a dumb question!”
“I’ll be there at five.”
“I’m looking forward to it!”
“Are you sure … ?”
“Don’t tease!” I said, in a tone that told her I meant it, then hung up, my cock in pain, pulling several pubes out by the root and straining my underwear.
I heard her coming and looked out the window to see her in three inch, sandy coloured heels and a taut, sandy skirt that ended a choice couple inches above her knees, and one of her typical, sleeveless white blouses that revealed yet another, ill fitting bra that pushed her breasts towards each other. She was mincing in her heels, yet taking yard long steps. She sounded like CLAP CLAP CLAP until she reached the stairs, then she sounded like BONG BONG BONG on the steel and concrete stairs. I opened the door for her. She looked both ways before entering, then bolted and chainlocked the door.
“I don’t have much time,” she began, then, seeing a look on my face, she elaborated, mile–a–minute, “If you want to watch me do it in my clothes, we need to get settled now, because I’m surprised I made it over here without having an accident. All it would’ve taken is someone stopping me for a minute, or if I tripped …” again, she saw my expression change. She looked at my pants. “Would you like me to sit or stand?” She asked quickly, wringing her hands and stepping from one foot to the other, her heels making small clapping and grit crunching sounds on my kitchen linoleum.
“Sit,” I commanded.
She pulled a chair out into the kitchen. Her hands were shaking.
“Get some towels,” she said. I did. Quickly.
She sat down primly, pulled up her skirt as far as it could be pulled so I could see, then unentwined her high heeled feet just in time as she suddenly wet with great force. In addition to the sudden appearance of a lot of pee, I could hear her shooshing in her panties, but since she was sitting forward, it was directed downward, so I didn’t see a stream.
She wet her panties and the back of her skirt thoroughly and pee quickly fell on the old, kitchen linoleum from her chair. When she was finished, she stood up and turned around slowly in lots of fast little baby steps that made her jiggle, pulling up her taut skirt to show me her ample ass quivering beneath her silky panties and pulling it up again as she finished her slow revolution, showing me a front view. She put a hand on her front and began rubbing and tapping herself between the legs with her middle two fingers.
“Now … I would like it very much … if you would fuck me,” she said in a low, shaky voice.
I unzipped her skirt, undid the button and it dropped to her feet. She stepped out of it. I pulled her underwear off her bouncing ass suddenly and let it fall on her feet. She stepped out of it. I pulled her to me, pushed her onto the couch, then got between her legs. She watched me pull my pants down and pull my cock out of my briefs, breathing hard, shaking, then I lowered myself onto her and felt her grasp me as I entered. She went “Ah! –– aaaaaaugh!” rather loudly, and as soon as I pressed up against her, in her as far as I could be, she came. She held me inside as though she were shaking me with her hand.
She came again.
I pressed up against her and she spasmed again. Hard.
When I came a few, unpredictable thrusts later, she cried out loud again, and I pressed her, gushing in long, strongs spurts, staying, hosing in her, pressing, again, again, then feeling her relax, feeling us relax into a swoon that lasted a short while. Finally, she spoke quietly into my ear.
“Thank you for the roses, lovah,” she said, breathlessly. I pulsed inside of her again. She squeezed me back and went “mmmmmmmmmmm.”
She told me to get her white slacks and a pair of white heels and underwear from her apartment and I did so. I talked her into staying and we watched the news on my old set, where everybody had tall, shiny foreheads and occasionally the picture would roll, even on the two channels it pulled in good. Seems the Iranians had taken our embassy in Teheran and were holding the staff prisoners. I had a feeling the long, low tide of the back half of the seventies was over. The tide was coming back in. I could hear it, roaring and hissing, in the distance.
She drank another cup of my instant coffee (I could never go back to that!) then a tall glass of water which became several glasses. I looked at her pubic mound, dark and large, protruding in her off white pants.
“I don’t weah these much anymore,” she said, then, “Now I have a gentleman in my life, I need to take bettah care of myself, maybe I can weah this again. In fact, I need to throw out all the old, stained …”
“Oh, don’t do that!” I said.
“Why not?”
“I like it when you do it in clothes!”
“Well, I only need underwear, you know, just to have that feeling and …”
“But I like it! Its more fun, more naughty! When you do it in clothes.”
“Oh … yeah,” she said. She thought for another minute, then, “But you know, there hasn’t been a man in mah life for a whaal, I probably should apologize, you know, a lady should at least prune her …”
“Don’t shave down there,” I said.
“I just know most men don’t like …”
“Well, this guy said don’t …”
“You don’t want to shave me? I know a lot of guys like shaved …”
“I don’t. So don’t.”
“Okay, I won’t,” she said, surprised but apparantly compliant, then, “I’m still going to shave my legs up to heah!” She said, indicating a place high on her thigh.
“I didn’t say don’t shave your legs.”
I made her walk around in her tight pants, regular, like she was walking from one end of the apartment to the other to get something, and sashaying, waggling her low slung ass and watching her thighs and calves shake too.
Finally, she said, “I think I’ve drunk two gallons. If you don’t let me go in theah,” she indicated the bathroom, “Ah don’t know how much longah I can hold it.”
She din’t. She suddenly half closed her eyes and just started pissing in her white pants. I spanked her butt once, with my hand, just to watch it bounce, before I took her britches down. We made love again. She sent me to her place for jeans and a tee “and some flats.” I washed her clothes and she didn’t say a word about it. But she did say something about something else.
“I enjoyed bein’ spanked,” she said, as she went to the door around midnight.
“You did?”
“I didn’t expect it. I think I came in mah britches.”
*******************
Something I came to notice. When she wore her pink britches, there was an alternate sound. I heard her heels clop and drag on the sidewalk, and I heard the sound of clothing on body that we all make. But she made another sound. One day, she was in her office and she bent over to pick up something and I saw the clue. She wore a pad, and a surprisingly big one, low down, so it wouldn’t show in front, and her low slung ass covered the rear view. But if I looked right at her crotch when she was sitting, or when she bent over, I saw it. And it made the slightest, crackling sound, like wax paper being gently bent. It was subtle. I had an even harder time being around her when she wore them.
Finally, one night, I asked her if she was on her period. She’d changed to other clothes before coming over.
“No,” she asked, then “Why?”
I told her.
“Oh, no, love, that’s because sometimes I leak anyway, when I cough, sneeze, laugh, and when I get excited at all, I get verruh, verruh wet. Its not good for a lady to have a spot down there … I don’t usually worry so much in a dress, but then again, in a dress, I can wear no pad, or a pad like the ones I wear with slacks, or I can wear a thick one. Sometimes, I wear overnight pads, I can pee quite a bit if I’m caught short and get to a toilet without embarrassing myself ….” she went on with the details and her preferences further, but by then, my eyesight had dimmed, I had a hard on, and she laughed.
“Why don’t you go get your mail like that!?” She said, arching one eyebrow and producing a lopsided grin. I thought about it. Probably scare Ms. Iceberg to death.
*******************
She came up after work one day, sweaty and flustered in her pink britches. I don’t know how she got into them, if they’d shrunk with washing, or maybe her butt was bigger, but the seams were straining to the max. I liked it.
After I made us coffee, she washed our cups and saucers in the sink, then she walked and sashayed around the apartment to arouse me, her butt and legs wobbling with her every step in her three inch, pink heels, and I wondered if I could prevent coming in my pants when she told me she needed to either unzip her pants or she was not going to be able to prevent an accident.
“Do not unzip your pants,” I ordered her. She went into the kitchen and I followed her.
She pissed them so forcefully it was almost instant. I think she let loose with a quart in a matter of seconds. I spanked her over my knee and put my other hand on her pussy and felt her pop off, curling herself onto me in a series of hot spasms. I don’t know why I didn’t come in my pants.
I yanked the side zippers down and pulled at the buttons, forcing my way in, tearing her panties, having her in her worn, sleaveless blouse, her pink slacks, her “Love Pats” underwear. I had all of Betty, the magnificent, soft, sumptuous landlady, in her pink slacks and high heels, in her piss stained britches, and she cried out and bit my shoulder when I let loose a torrent of hot cream as far up inside her as I could be. I kept my piston pumping, pressing and grinding on her soft, lovely female parts, giving her orgasm after orgasm until Betty sagged, unable to strain the magnificent muscles of her shaking, curvy body any more.
“Love, believe me, you have made this a red letter day for me!” She said between gasps, and I fell aside, unable to do anything about it except nod and look at her face, red and sweaty, her eyes like saucers.
She eventually got up and went into the bathroom, and watching her wobble her way across my living room on those heels in those stained, pink britches will remain a vision I’ll replay over and over for the rest of my life, alongside of all the times I watched her sashay around the complex in them for all the times before.
****************
And then we did more. I picked her skirt up one morning while she was putting things in the sink, minutes before she was headed to work, and put my cock against her ass. I really expected a bad reaction, after all, she was dressed for work. When she didn’t, I let it move into her crack. She heaved a sigh and said, “Okay, lovah, jus’ be quick.” I pulled her underwear down and let it slide in, then she grasped the edge of the sink and pushed back against me as I pushed slowly in as far as I could. I went in and out a few times, and she moved to the rhythm, but she was so tight I went off after less than a minute. She stood, legs apart, shaking, teetering in high heels. I pulled slowly out of her. She pulled a hankie out of her purse and put it up where I’d been before pulling her panties up and letting her skirt drop.
“I let you do that because I caih about you,” she sighed more than said, then she kissed me and teetered up the walk in her wobbly, worn out heels, on her way to work. I remember looking at her hands, gripping the sink, and told myself I would not to do that again.
But that afternoon, she came back again, wearing the same clothes.
“Love,” she said, “I would like you to do that again and make sure you enjoy yourself.”
I kissed her, then I pushed her up against the wall, slowly, and turned her around, slowly, and she spread her legs and I went up her again. She was sweaty, perhaps from walking from her office at the other end of the complex, mincing along in those heels in the afternoon heat, so I went in easier, and while I was there, I put my hand on her in front and pressed slightly. She spread her legs and offered herself more to me, pushing her rump out. I took longer, and cupped her in my hand.
Her back pulsed slightly and I came in her. She made a small, inarticulate noise, then her knees began to wobble and bend. I ended up going down with her, down on my knees, and pulling out. She laid down on the floor, face down, and I pushed her skirt up and went up inside of her again, putting my hand on her cunt again and pushing up slightly. I moved in her, and felt her insides pulse again. I was through, but I stayed, and she came again. Then I felt a hot torrent of piss suddenly blast into my hand. Just as suddenly, she pulled up and it stopped.
She gasped and rolled over, nearly breaking my left arm and pulling me off her to the left. We both laid on the floor and stared at the ceiling, breathing but otherwise still, for a minute or two. I was still laying there, on my back, when she got to her knees, got up, walked over me, giving me a brief, lovely look at her voluptuous self from below, before she went in the bathroom and finished pissing what seemed like several gallons, before some silence, then she re–emerged to pull on her panties and stare down at me. I got up and washed my cock off with Ivory soap in the shower.
*********************
I made us coffee in my new Mr Coffee. I would never drink instant again. I also would never be interested in anyone under 30 again, though it would be most of a decade before I would be 30.
“I din’t believe I could come that way,” she drawled, “But apparently, I can. I can feel you in my vagina even though you’re … behind it … I don’t believe I’m actually saying this! I enjoyed you verruh, verruh much!”
I asked a naive question, but I wanted to be sure. “You’re sure?”
“If I don’t like something, I’ll tell you, and we really won’t do it, believe me.”
“Okay,” I said.
We sat for a moment, sipping our coffee.
“You make verruh good coffee, love,” she finally said.
“Mmmmmm,” I replied amicably, neutrally.
“Are you hung up on doing it like that?”
“No, I just wanted to try it.”
“I’ll let you, but not too often, OK?”
“Ok,” I said, then, “Have I made you sore?”
“Some,” she said, then, after another sip, “I want you to know something,” she said, and stopped in a way that said, stop drinking coffee, look at me. So I did. I stared at her, mildly as I could. I had no idea what she was going to say next, and I felt a vague apprehension.
“When you do that, it has an … enema affect,” she said, and she blushed slightly. And so did I. But I also felt the beginnings of an erection.
“I was in my office, and it was a good thing it wasn’t time to open yet,” she said, “And I’m glad I put that hankie up there, you know, I knew your sperm would probably come out, I could kinda feel it sliding down, but what happened, it came out suddenly, and I followed that by relievin’ myself … in my clothes.”
I felt my pulse go up and the room got darker. I was instantly stiff.
“I went in the bathroom immediately, in very small steps! I have to tell you, you’re very copious, it was like somebody put a verruh, verruh large dollop of cream into that handkerchief … and a large chocolate bar! A little of it did soak through, but I managed to get my panties down and finish on the toilet and put paper towels in the seat of my panties so I could go upstairs and change.” She looked at my crotch. “Oh, Lord,” she said.
I went down on my knees. Then I surprised her by coming up, putting my shoulder into her tummy and picking her up as I stood. Hey, no way was I going to sweep a 180 pound woman who’s almost tall as I am off her feet any other way! She whooped and banged her head on the doorjamb on the way into the bedroom. I turned and fell backwards to the bed, dumping her upon it. I came up and threw myself on top of her. She pulled her legs up and wrapped them around me. I entered her and we made ourselves totally exhausted, her coming over and over, me pushing slightly and moving her over and over after I finished. We were all the way on the bed by the time we stopped moving, and I stayed a while longer, her pleas for me to “sleep in” the last thing I heard before I awoke, next to her, and I kissed her cheek. She smiled, her eyes closed.
The first thing I heard when I awoke a short time later, was her whispering one word in my ear. “Shower,” she said. We took our time and took turns giving each other back scrubs with that great invention of the 70’s, a loofah sponge.
**************
And yet more. She arrived one day after work in one of her oldest, most faded dresses, a buttsprung, shirtwaist number I associated with 50’s housewives of the sort who did housework in high heels. She couldn’t wait. She went into the kitchen with piss falling between her legs onto the rug and then puddling on the kitchen floor. I went to her and pretended to hug her, then swung her past me and spanked her bottom several lusty swats. I grabbed her by the waist and spanked her some more. She bent over. I pressed my erection against her ass, then I grabbed the dishtowel off the handle of the refridgerator. It was quite a large dishtowel, not the facecloth size, but about a foot wide and two long.
“Clean it up!” I demanded. I didn’t know why I did it, but I imagined a black and white and blue movie of some sort and it came out of me like a retro memory of a big daddy playboy from the fifties.
She obediently wiped the floor on all fours while I stood there and watched. I grabbed one of my cheap, metal and plastic chairs from under my formica table and sat down and watched her crawl around on her hands and knees in her dress, wiping up not only piss, but whatever other crumbs and detritus she could find. She went towards the trash can in the corner, and I looked at her soft, active legs, her large, heart shaped, muscular ass, then she worked her way back towards me while I watched her boobs, sweaty and swinging in her bra.
When she got to me, I took the towel from her, threw it at the garbage can and pushed her onto the rug on her back. She laid there with her knees up, her skirt falling slowly up her thighs, her high heels pegged in the carpet, knees high and apart. I pushed her skirt up and got between her knees and looked at her thighs, her garter belt, her underpants, yellow and wet at the crotch, and I grabbed the crotch and tore them past her knees until she could get at least one high heeled foot out a hole.
“Aaaugh!” She moaned, as though she didn’t want it, but not protesting much.
I came forward and entered her.
“Unnnngh!” She strained.
I pushed her until she unpegged her feet and linked her high heels behind my ass and came hungrily, like she hadn’t had it for days. I reciprocated, and she made a sudden, incoherent noise in my ear before settling down to coos and mmmmm’s.
**************
“Did you plan that?”
“Nope.”
“Have you ever … made a woman do … that?”
“No.”
“I don’t know that I’m quite ready to do that again, lovah.”
“OK.”
“Can you think of something else besides cleaning the floor next time?”
“Yes.”
“You sound as though you already have.”
“Yes.”
……….
“Well … ?”
“You wear your underwear inside out from now on.”
“Is that all?”
“I may make you go to work in some of your soiled ones.”
“Bastard.”
I hardly thought so. Two days after having her in her pink britches, I saw her, walking around and showing some people an apartment, strutting her stuff in them again. So I offered, “Want to do the floor?”
“No!”
“Why do you wear your britches outside your garter belt?”
“For you, lovah. Its easier for me to drop ‘em if we’re in a hurry.”
***********
Something about looking at her crotch and seeing the raw seams and the ribbed, cotton panel that’s supposed to be on the inside attracted me. A subtle show of stupidity this cow I’d made my sperm receptacle could show me that would be so even under her business clothes. I enjoyed thinking of her in her office, her sumptuous, hot self nestled in the crotch of her underwear, the wrong side in, with my cream sliding out between her lips, her getting hot from the slick action of her lubricated lips on her panties. Her closing the office to rush over and hope I’m home. In short, I went on a minor control trip.
**************
I enjoyed being in her office, especially the first of the month, those days. I’d go to the office and sit while people came and went. She, and sometimes a part–time female assistant, would take checks and talk to people, and I’d make out the date on my check, then I’d get a cup of coffee and ask her for the cream, just to make her get up and get it out of the fridge and walk for me.
If she wore slacks or a skirt, I’d go past her chair and look down her back, just to see the label on the outside of the elastic.
If she wore a dress, she’d be wearing a large pad, and she’d wink when she wet herself, laughing or coughing, and I’d hear the discreet crackle of the paper backing of the pad, and sometimes we couldn’t wait, she’d decide she needed to “go out on the property,” and she’d arrive at my apartment for servicing.
One time, she was making coffee after and she hadn’t put on her underwear, but she was otherwise dressed. I watched a thin stream of semen falling on the floor from under her skirt. She brought me a cup, sugared and creamed to my taste, and I pointed out she was leaking before she sat down so she could save her slip. She delighted me by settling her cunt on my cock. I watched her face as she felt me enter her, studied, anticipating, pleasure slowly coming over her as she enveloped me all the way and rode me, slowly, her face glowing, then she rolled her eyes back and came so hard I came right after, and she cried out so loud I wondered if someone would come knock at the door. I had to hold her up when she swooned, or she would’ve fallen off me.
I wondered what she told her assistant, arriving back from “going out on the property,” face aglow, fragrantly depositing my wads of sperm in her britches.
And so I made her go back without her pad. I called and made her come back an hour later for inspection and yet another injection. I started by licking her through her sperm laden undies, then I pulled them off, then I licked her creamy twat some more, then I slid into her slick and finished in her yet again.
I proved to her she didn’t always have to wet herself to come “verruh” hard.
“Glad you called,” she said, “I was so hot, I was about to go into the toilet and fingah mah self.”
Not that we stopped the naughty stuff. We made love after she wet her work clothes many an afternoon. I bought clothes I saw at the salivation army that I thought would fit her and she pissed them, skirts so taut she could hardly walk in them, worn out fuck me high heels, and tight britches she sometimes couldn’t zip up they were so tight on her ass. I tore them off her after she sashayed in them and pissed them for me.
We became experts on what to drink so piss would be odorless and clear, almost water.
I went to her apartment many times for flats, jeans and teeshirts. I got to know her apartment from the many, short visits, and, of course, there was no ‘drah cleanahs.’ She washed her clothes on cold delicate with Woolite and wore them until they fell apart. I saw a woman abandoned, and who had in turn abandoned all her former life, the things she was taught in the deep south she was supposed to be, and she was making do, managing three hundred apartments with a yawn and getting “best property” awards from the company that owned them all the years I lived there. I looked at pictures of a man, of children, the man and her, of babies, on the nightstand, on the dresser, on a shelf in her living room, and didn’t ask her questions. Not then. Not ever.
I talked her into buying bras that actually fit her. She was less glamorous, in that odd way I’d learned to love, but she was probably a lot more comfortable. Her breasts still poked out her blouses at the slightest chill; her nipples were very long.
Any time she said she was thinking of going on a diet, I’d say “don’t you dare!” I explained that I liked her the way she was. I told her her bottom was fine. Her legs were fine. Her tits were fine. Her fat, white arms were fine. Her five eight at 180 pounds was fine. I told her her fur bridge between her navel and her mound was a work of art. Her face was soft and feminine. I told her I wanted to learn to sketch so I could draw her. She had the kind of face you wonder how it will look when she’s making love. And after seeing that look, you still want to keep seeing that look.
Bob and Ray said she looked like a cow with big, soft, stupid brown eyes. They referred to her as “Ass–tralia.” They wondered if she’d moo if someone fucked her. I called them a couple of assholes. They just laughed and walked away.
One day, at the mailbox, Bob came up and told me he didn’t know I was from Florida, or that I used to have long hair. I confirmed this, mystified. He asked me if I’d watched the Dallas Cowboys last night. I said no and tuned him out. Then I went into my apartment. You woulda thought a three pack a day man lived there. I looked in the trash. Butts and beercans. I looked in my dresser and found a picture of me on Miami Beach from 1970, brown hair past my shoulders, bangs, a match to my old girlfriend Carla with her Cleopatra haircut. We used to wear black everything, including that day on the beach, black swimsuits! We read Kafka, stay up talking all night in coffeebars. We were gothic before that had a name, too, but then we were told being beatniks was out, so I guess it did have a name. Nothing new. All the same … I looked in each drawer. Everything looked slightly rumpled, like it’d been lifted up, gone through. I told Betty that night.
“Bastards,” she said, offhandedly, tiredly, with exceptional drawl. “Bahstahds…”
Betty made a phone call while I was making us vanilla ice cream and mango slices, a treat more typical of my home town, and I overheard a few key, terse sentences and knew what it was about. A new maintenance guy, Betty–certified, showed up the very next day. I never saw Bob or Ray again. She took care of business. Cow eyes or no, I never doubted she was the boss lady.
**************
EPILOGUE ANYONE?
So long ago and far away. What happened in twenty years? Well …
I graduated from college, of course. I put off a mortgage. Yuppies at work asked me why I still lived in a $400 a month apartment, “As if its any yer damn bidnis!” I retorted. Gag me with a spoon, the young, “savvy” crowd is so clueless. Where I lived had nothing to do with money, so they’d never figure it out. They had no sense of history, either. That apartment was $250 when I moved in, back in 1977. In three, four years, it had doubled, just about. Didn’t that tell them something? Soulless times. And something about life seemed to die in the early 80’s. “Greed is good!” they said.
I remember smoking pot with a buddy back in ’72 and driving to Bogart’s on Palm Avenue for munchies. He ran a stop sign on the way, we were soooo stoned. We laughed. But even a couple long haired bums smoking evil weed had the common sense to know it was only that it was 3 AM and not 3 PM that saved us that night. Dumb Luck. “Greed is good!” said the coke snorting yuppies. Now it’s morning, and they’re going to work. They seemed like they still thought they’d get there faster running the stop signs at rush hour. The early eighties gave me the creeps.
She and I didn’t get along eventually. Maybe it was the age difference. It could just as easily have been the culture difference. She started playing kicker music on her office radio and going to kicker bars after work with some superannuated drugstore cowboy named Greg. He wore jeans and cowboy boots, so she started wearing jeans and cowboy boots. She seemed embarrassed sometimes when we talked. She didn’t meet my eyes anymore. She got a lot thinner, almost overnight. Her face looked gaunt. One day, I saw her in the pool. I reflected that I’d never seen her in a bikini. She was in the shallow end up to her neck, smoking a Marlboro. I started listening to old jazz and classical guitar.
And Betty and I never disagreed all that much, we just didn’t seem to be around each other more and more. The last time we made love, we just did the missionary position in my bed. She tolerated me politely, like a last chocolate mint, then I remembered her showering for a long, long time before she wordlessly put on her clothes, kissed me briefly on the mouth and left. What would the Beatles say? “I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me?”
Coming from where I do, I know a little Portuguese. I played an old, Bossa Nova album on my stereo as the light faded that long ago, far away summer afternoon, and I shed a couple tears alone listening to Astrud Gilberto sing “Insensatez” (you romantics, pick up Suzannah McCorkle’s version on “From Broken Hearts to Blue Skies”) I drank perfect espresso from my new espresso machine and watched a rented videotape of an old movie (colorized) on my brand new, color TV, trying to dispel my blues. Far as I’m concerned, the gadgets of the eighties replaced the real life of the seventies as the sun went down that day, in my small apartment. The shape of things to come.
Oil prices fell and Shreveport went to hell in a handbasket. I stepped out of the handbasket. With Betty out of my life and Shreveport drying up, leaving was overdue. And all the yuppies I knew had houses, boats, beemers, and were filing chapter seven instead of making that first million they were supposed to make. Maxwell’s Silver Hammer, said the Beatles. Reagan’s karma ran over their dogma. The real rich had spoken. Pyramid schemes failed, even when they were selling fantastic laundry soap with it. Some went to Club Fed when they got desperate and tried their hand at insider trading. One actually embezzled money and ended up in Angola. He used to call me a loser and said I didn’t have “the eye of the tiger.” Wonder what his tiger eyes are seeing now?
As the global corporations outsourced, smaller cars started costing like houses and houses started costing like mansions and there was a massive transfer of wealth from the Glen –– Steve Miller, Swinging Older Generation(s) to their punked out gen–x kids so they could have some vague semblance of the success their parents had enjoyed, back in the fiftes, sixties and seventies, that it doesn’t look like any future generation ever really will have again. Starter home prices got over what starter people could pay. The game of real estate musical chairs ended abruptly in oppressive mortgages and more bankruptcies. Homeless, downsized, former middle managers and displaced homemakers started to appear on better streetcorners everywhere. A frightened middle class denied everything and told them it was all their fault. All the while, the middle class serpent struck repeatedly at itself and continued to bleed and turn paler, too dumb with fright and greed to look for how to stop the bleeding.
Then the 90’s came, and the internet, and finally, a democratic president put a few piastres back in the hands of the peons, but believe it or not, the jury’s out on whether they’ll ever appreciate it. All he may be remembered for is a woman named Monica, who’ll probably look something like Betty when she gets to her forties (hmmmm!)
And what became of Betty? The dumped housewife had her fling, then settled for another man who looks spookily just like her first hubby. The one who dumped her. Will she ever mention me?
Two Southern Belles on the front porch swangin’ and drankin’ mint julep: “Clarice dear, do you remember the minuet?” … “Hell, I hardly remember half the men I screwed!” Nope, probably not. Don’t think she’ll ever talk about what she did when she “robbed the cradle,” after all, might meet ‘em in church …
Well, that’s enough for now. We lasted more than “nine and a half weeks.” More than twice nine and a half months, in fact. And I haven’t told you about the out–of–bedroom side of the relationship, dining, movies, museums, picnics, heck, shopping even … I like to think we gave each other a gift of pleasure in body and company, an idyll without strings or family involvement. And it seems few enough men appreciate Rubinesque women, and for Rubinesque women who like watersports? Sadly, the world is a dry, dry place. And I always say something, if a lady I’m wooing needs to use the bathroom for “number one,” I drop the hint, somehow. Usually, predictably, there’s nothing shaking but the leaves on the trees. Guess I live in a desert too.
But, no worries! I’ve got a “hot” date, a young heffer going to the local college. An undergrad. Maybe I’ll be her daddy substitute. Whatever. I’m introducing her to the Moody Blues tonight, they’re still doing concerts! Then, something “berned” rare at a steakhouse in my current neck of the woods, the whereabouts of which I’ll keep private for now. I may get lucky tonight, but I don’t care. Sooner or later, it happens. This story has a happy ending, boys and girls. Life … is good!
Erich Too