Roger Tells It:
Raising a kid alone has got to be one of the toughest, most demanding situations any responsible human could ever face. And I was pretty well-off, financially; I can't begin to imagine how someone making less than I do could manage it. I, at least, could always afford to have someone stay with Bill during the day until he started school. And I could afford to have someone be there for him when he came home or when business took me out of town.
For the first six years after Monica left me - Bill was just a year old when she decided to head for the Coast - we were very, very lucky. Annie, a solid West Indian woman with a gently firm manner about her and an honest and obvious love of children, took on the task of "mothering" my son. They got on famously, and I came to think so highly of her that when the INS caught up with her, I fought for her as if she was family. I lost, and it broke all of our hearts to say our farewells.
After Annie, our standards were very demanding. I must have interviewed 40 candidates before settling on Moira, a tall red-headed Irish lady of about 25. I explained to her about Annie, and Moira understood immediately. When Bill asked her if she was going to be the new "Annie," Moira told him that there could only be one Annie, and I knew it was going to be fine. And it was, for six good years. I was very happy to be one of Moira's sponsors at her naturalization, and I was happy for her when she announced her engagement a year later.
Neither Bill nor I were happy when she added that she and her soon-to-be-husband intended to move to South Carolina.
We - Bill and I - sat down and talked about our next step.
Bill's a bright kid. I'm not talking about a prodigy here. not by any stretch of the imagination, but he's smart, and he thinks things through. I'd always made a real effort to make it clear that when we're alone, he can ask or say anything without fear of retribution of any kind. In fact, in striving to insure open communication, I was overdoing it at the start. It had been Annie who'd warned me to remember that I was Bill's father and not one of his friends from school. A tough balancing act, but it paid dividends. We could talk.
"Dad, I'm 12. I don't need a nanny or a babysitter. I can take care of myself."
"Bill, you're 12. You can't drive a car, sign a check, buy booze or butts, or skip school. I'm not turning you into a latchkey kid. You're my son, I love you, and I'm not leaving you alone."
He sighed heavily, something he'd learned to do when he knew I wasn't going to budge on a matter of policy. I don't think he had realized it yet, but he was also a very good-looking youngster, combining his mother's big blue eyes and glowing complexion (marred at the moment by the inevitable acne) with my size and facial structure and brown hair.
"But I'll agree with you: You don't need a nanny or babysitter. Let's look into alternatives."
At that, he brightened. Bill loved a challenge. For most of the weekend and over breakfast on Monday morning, we kept coming back to the subject. Bill carried his "project notebook" around with him everywhere, and whenever one of us had an idea or thought on the matter, he painstakingly wrote it in the book.
Just before he left for school, he asked if this was a private subject, i.e., only between him and me. I wanted to know what he thought.
"I think the more input we can get on it, the better."
"Sounds good. Stay awake in school. And no drooling in English."
He did a moderately acceptable Groucho and headed out. The English reference was to his teacher, whom he'd described as a "babe-and-a-half." I was looking forward to the parent-teacher conference.
Moira came up with the winning suggestion, which Bill relayed to me that night.
"How about a part-time housekeeper."
"We considered that, remember?"
"Sure, but - " He flipped through his notebook pages. " - but Moira said maybe we should look for a college student who's got a light schedule. Especially someone who might be able to tutor me for an hour or so each day."
The more we talked about it, the better it sounded. One of the biggest problems with a part-timer was school holidays. On those days, Bill would be left alone until three or so. But a college student would have about the same schedule and would, therefore, be available on most school holidays.
We moved fast after that. Because of our location - a co-op in the Village - we concentrated our efforts on New York University, Parsons and Baruch, all within walking distance (more or less).
The folks at NYU were helpful and after checking me out passed along my name and number. We started getting calls. Most of them were washouts on the first call, but I interviewed a few. In the meantime, we were on a countdown to Moira's marriage and departure.
The first candidate showed up in fashionably torn jeans and tended to end every sentence with "Y'know?" The second had a nose ring - honest. The third enriched my life by telling me everything that was wrong with her teachers, her roommate, her life, the city and the Universe in general. The fourth began interrogating me about whether I had inculcated the "traditional sexist, racist white male views" in my son. The fifth seemed like a real possibility until she began dropping unsubtle hints that she'd be more than glad to take care of me, as well.
Two days before Moira's wedding - and after 18 failed interviews - I found one that seemed like a winner. She had good references, a good class schedule and seemed to have the right background. When she was 14, her mother died, and it had fallen to her to oversee her four siblings. No, she had no problem with taking a urine test, and she was taking a minor sequence in statistics, so she'd be able - and willing - to tutor Bill in the demon whose name is "Algebra."
Her name was Inger. Our first interview was right there at NYU, in a conference room a few doors from the student aid office. She was between classes, and I took note of her appearance. She was about five-seven (good, because it gave her a couple of inches on Bill), with hair the color of fresh-cut wheat and pulled back in a ponytail. She had a good, strong face - attractive but not quite pretty - and used her light dusting of makeup to emphasize her best features: great lips and big, soft brown eyes. She was wearing a baggy sweater and a pleated plaid skirt that came to her knees. If anything, she seemed to be on the plump side. Her fingernails were clipped and buffed, and her only jewelry was a digital watch, one of those cheap ones.
Inger spoke well, in complete sentences. From time to time, she would hesitate, becoming silent as she thought. That really impressed me, because it meant she had the self-confidence to prefer silence to inane utterances; most people feel they have to fill conversational space with noise.
Things went fairly well until I got to the tough part (for me, anyhow).
"I don't want to pry, but I want to ask you a somewhat personal question."
"I don't promise to answer."
"Fair enough. Inger, do you have a... a significant other in your life?"
A moment of silence. "I think I understand your concern. I don't really have a boyfriend. There was a guy I was getting interested in but he turned out to be... inappropriate. And as busy as I am with class and - I hope - working for you, I really don't have much time for socializing."
She was bright, Inger was, and she recognized that I wanted to ask another question but was holding back because it would have been prying.
"Look, Mr. Millman, he was inappropriate because I found out he was bisexual and not being safe about it. I am a big fan of living."
I felt myself blush. "Thanks," I mumbled.
Her wristwatch beeped. "I have to get over to Courant for a class. I'll be glad to meet you again, but right now - "
"No, I quite understand." I stood and held out my hand. "Let me talk with Bill, and let's see if you can come by and meet the subject under discussion."
She smiled, and I was somewhat taken aback by the transformation. When this young woman smiled, her whole face got into the act, lighting up the entire room.
"I'd like that," she said.
I don't know what I was expecting when I met Inger. The only Inger I'd ever heard of was in the Swedish Bikini Team poster Ian has in his room, so I'd had this image of Inger-Goddess. Instead, she's this kind of big, squat college girl who dresses to hide her weight (I guess.) But she was really nice, and most important, she didn't treat me like a little kid. She asked me what I liked to do - Dad gave me a look that reminded me not to tell her everything I like to do - what I liked best about my best friend (Ian), and she was really interested when I told her about my synthesizer keyboard. She asked if she could see my room, and Dad said it was up to me. So I said, "Sure, if you can stand it," and showed her. She took a look at my books and computer and keyboard and magazines. She wanted to know which magazine was my favorite, probably expecting it to be the Playboy. I told her I really didn't have a favorite; I just picked up the one that looked most interesting. She asked me why I'd picked the Playboy, and I told her the interview with Zhirinovsky, because he's really nuts. Was that the only reason? Well, sure, I told her, the pictures were OK, but it seemed every model in the magazine was blonde and busty, like there weren't any pretty, slim brunettes out there. She laughed and said, "It does kind of look like an ad for the Aryan Nations, doesn't it?" So I figure if she's cool with that, she's okay. Even if she isn't with the Swedish Bikini Team.
It was pretty clear to me that Bill felt alright about Inger, maybe even liked her. And she was happy when I told her we thought she'd be fine. We worked out the schedule and the payment, and that, I figured, was that.
Moira's wedding came and went. We'd been invited, of course, but I figured it would be an awkward situation, with too many of the trappings of the feudal lord giving away a serving maid in marriage. So Bill and I pleaded a prior engagement and sent a nice present (What do newlyweds need most? Right - a check) and about two weeks later we received a postcard from Barbados simultaneous with a Thank You note from Sooth Carolina. Try to figure the mail.
Bill seemed pretty comfortable with Inger, and I couldn't complain at all. She took care of the housekeeping, and Bill usually had his homework done by the time I got home from work. Inger told me that he really was without a clue when it came to algebra, but she was working with him on it.
A couple of weeks passed. The night of the parent-teacher conferences arrived. Inger said she could cover the house for me that evening.
I met Ms. Allen, the famous "babe-and-a-half" English teacher, and had to agree with my son's assessment. She was gorgeous, and she was built. She was wearing a fairly conservative suit, but there was no way she could hide that body or those legs. I noted the absence of wedding or engagement rings and start wondering...
Anyhow, Ms. Allen was very forthright and business-like. Bill's writing skills were quite good, though he had a tendency to let his paragraphs run too long. He had a good grasp of chronological organization, but he seemed hesitant about dialogue. Did he read much fiction? No, I told her, his taste ran to non-fiction, especially stuff with political content. She suggested I leave some Heinlein collections around. Which got us talking about Heinlein, and then science fiction in general, and we got to exchanging titles and authors, and when our time was up she said:
"I've really enjoyed our conversation, Mr. Millman."
"So have I. Perhaps we could continue it over coffee or dinner sometime?"
She smiled gloriously, and we traded phone numbers, as well.
Hey, being a single parent isn't all bad after all, I thought.
When I got home, Bill was sprawled on the floor, eating popcorn and watching "Dateline: NBC." Inger was reading a political science textbook, occasionally using a yellow Hi-Liter on a passage.
"How did it go?" she asked.
"Quite well," I told her, hanging up my overcoat.
"Did you meet Ms. Allen?" Bill chimed.
Inger laughed and closed her textbook.
"So he's told you about the 'babe-and-a-half'?"
"He's hinted at it."
"She is rather attractive."
"I'm sure." Inger stood. "I'll head back then. Big test tomorrow."
I helped her on with her coat and walked her to the door. I handed her an envelope. "Cab fare," I explained. She smiled and thanked me.
"By the way," I said. "I met Bill's algebra teacher. If he teaches the way he talks, I'm amazed anyone is getting it. I suspect he's one of those guys who picked it up instinctively and simply doesn't know how to explain what he knows."
"Hmmmm... maybe if we started from scratch, Bill would do better."
"Maybe. Good luck on your test - and thanks for the extra time."
"Mr. Millman, I'm joining some friends Friday evening. Would it be alright with you if I shower and change my clothes here?"
"Of course. But thanks for asking."
Y'know, it's been three weeks now. I was starting to feel like Inger has always been her. In fact, I sort of thought of her as, well, like a guy, a buddy. I mean, she's in charge, but not bossy, and we talk about stuff sometimes, and I just always thought of her as just plain Inger.
Not any more, though. Not after tonight. Not after she changed her clothes and put on her makeup to go out with her friends.
Dad called about six, which is when he usually leaves the office, and talked to Inger, and then she put me on the phone, and he told me wasn't going to be home till 7:30, but that Inger was going to leave at seven anyhow, and I was on my own, and he was sorry to be late but he'd bring in my favorite Chinese. It was no big deal, really.
So about 15 minutes later, Inger excuses herself and goes into Dad's bedroom with her bag, and about 10 minutes later I hear the shower running. Sure, I was curious, but this was Inger. I mean, I'd never seen a real woman naked, but Dad always left Playboy and like that around, and I've always looked at them, and now I'm just kind of not interested unless it's a really pretty woman or someone unusual (like that Tiffany Towers, who's got breasts bigger than her head!), so I didn't really want to peek in on Inger, who never seemed that attractive. Besides which, it would be sort of like violating her privacy, and I respect her too much for that.
So at a quarter to seven, I didn't even look up when Inger came into the living room, because I was watching "Tek Wars." And then she asked me if she looked OK. When I looked at her, I wasn't sure it was Inger. She wasn't in her usual baggy sweater and baggy skirt or baggy jeans with her hair pulled back in a pony tail - no way. She was wearing a black leather mini cut about halfway up her thighs, and dark stockings and high heels and a gray turtleneck sweater, and she had her hair combed out, and she was wearing more makeup, and Inger was definitely a babe. I mean, Ms. Allen suddenly looked shabby in my head. I looked her up and down, I guess with my mouth hanging open, and she kind of laughed - not mocking, but just amused, I guess - and said, "I take that as a 'Yes.'" So I told her the truth, just kind of blurting that she looked gorgeous, and she smiled and puckered up and blew me a kiss and said thanks, and I got the most incredible boner. When she asked me to help her on with her coat, I think she noticed it, but she just told me to behave until Dad got home, and then she left to meet her friends, and all I could do was stand there next to the door, smelling her perfume and throbbing to beat the band. The hell with the band. Five minutes later I was beating the meat.
On the next Tuesday, I sat Bill down for one of our talks.
"Bill, I'm going to have dinner with a lady tonight." His eyebrows went up. "Someone kind of new." I'd gone out with a few women in the previous decade, and Bill had met a couple of them.
"What's that mean - 'Kind of new'?" He was genuinely - and understandably - puzzled.
"Well, it means I've had coffee with her once, but we've never really gone out. And it's someone you know."
I had to smile. "No, not Inger. Good grief, no. I mean, she's attractive enough, but she's awfully young for me."
"Dad, Inger is a babe-and-a-half. You should have seen her when she changed to go out with her friends. I mean, forget Ms. Allen!"
I felt my face redden.
"Did I say something wrong, Dad?" He'd obviously mistaken my blush for something else.
"No, not a chance." I grinned. "So you're having less trouble concentrating on your English books?"
"Dad, Inger is definitely hot when she wants to be." He shook his head and rolled his eyes. "So, anyhow, who's this date of yours?"
I blushed again. "It's, uh, your English teacher."
He blinked rapidly, twice. "You're shitting me."
"I shit you not." This was our secret, ultimate-promise-of-truth code. "We sort of hit it off at the parent-teacher conference. In fact, it was her idea to leave the Heinlein around for you that got us talking."
"Wow. You and Ms. Allen."
"Bill - this has to be between us. And I'm going to ask you to do something very, very difficult. I don't think I could do it if I was in your shoes. You have to act like nothing's changed in class with her - because nothing has changed in class with her."
He thought that over for a few moments. Then: "Yeah, that is going to be tough. You know, sometimes the guys make remarks about her - "
I shook my head. "And they'll keep doing it, and it's OK. Even if you do, it's OK - but I'd prefer you didn't."
"Does Inger know?"
"Yes, she does. She's going to stay till 10 tomorrow night."
"What happens if you get lucky?"
I laughed. "Son, women - especially 'babes' - do not line up around the block for a middle-aged account executive. At least, not for this one. I do not expect to get my bones jumped. In fact, I'd be amazed. I'll be home at 10."
The next day, before he left for school, Bill wished me luck, but it didn't have an immediate effect. Oh, dinner with Bernice was quite lovely, and afterward we went to Bradley's for drinks and some music, and then I walked her to her door in a light snow and - to my astonishment - she solved that awkward moment for us by leaning up and giving me a peck on the lips... and then did it again, but it was less of a peck and turned into a clinch. Then there was another awkward moment, only this time I solved it.
"I wouldn't mind doing a lot more of that except for two things," I said. "One, it's getting damn cold out here, and, two, I have a 10 o'clock appointment."
She smiled beautifully. "We'll have to check our schedules, Roger. I really enjoyed tonight."
"Call you tomorrow?"
"I'd like that. Thank you for a lovely evening."
"The pleasure was entirely mine. Good night."
I waited till she'd closed the inner door of her brownstone apartment building, and then I strode home, feeling pretty proud of myself.
It was about seven o'clock when we finished clearing away the dishes - Inger and I made a casserole - when she said, "I wonder how your father's date is going." I wondered, too. What I was wondering more about was Inger. How could she be such a babe and dress so plain all the time? As she bent over to put the casserole pan in the dishwasher, I saw her baggy sweater bulge with her tits and instantly got another boner. It seemed like half the time I was near her I was getting a boner. It was driving me nuts. I excused myself and went into the bathroom for the second time that evening and quickly whipped it out and started beating. In about a minute, I splattered another big load into the sink. It took me about 10 minutes to clean up and calm down enough to leave.
Inger was just sitting on the couch, looking at me funny, like she knew what I'd been doing. I went to turn on the television, thinking she was going to study like she usually did if she stayed late, but she asked me not to turn on the set and to come sit with her for a minute.
"Bill, I want to talk something over with you - just between us."
Uh-oh, I thought, sitting at the far end of the couch.
"You were just masturbating."
I felt my face get hot, but one thing I don't do - ever - is lie. On the other hand, I didn't have to confess, either.
"There's nothing wrong or unnatural about it. And I don't think it's dirty or some kind of shit like that."
I was a little surprised to hear Inger talk like that, but I got her point.
"But I want to talk with you about..." She took a deep breath. "Bill, were you jerking off thinking about your father's date?"
My face got hotter.
"I mean, if she's half the babe you say she is, I can understand that, but it's going to be tough enough treating her just as a teacher; making her your fantasy object will just make it more difficult."
I had a tough time talking. "Well, uh, what makes you think it was her?"
"As soon as I mentioned your father's date, you got a hard-on and went to jerk off."
"That wasn't it."
She shrugged. "Well, suit yourself."
"Really, it wasn't!"
She didn't say anything, but I could tell she was far from convinced.
"That was just coincidence. It was - " I shut my mouth.
She looked really puzzled.
"It was what?"
"It was you!"
She blinked, like she was surprised.
"Oh, Bill, I'm just plain ol' Inger and - "
"No, you're not. I saw you when you were dressed to meet your friends. You were so hot I - "
I stopped my mouth before I went any farther.
Her face changed, like... softened.
"You mean I turned you on like that? This long after? That's kind of hard to swallow and - "
"Don't believe me?" I stood and stepped in front of her. "Look!"
She looked, right at my crotch where Boner Number Three was making itself obvious.
"Oh, my goodness! Did I do that?"
She looked up at me.
"Oh, dear." Her breathing quickened. "Little old dowdy me made you get all stiff like that..." She put her hand on it, and I groaned. "Well, I can't have you studying algebra in a state like that. What shall we do about it?"
"Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom - "
"Not at all."
"Wha - "
She was unzipping my pants and pushing them and my Jockeys down.
"There does seem to be quite a bit to it for a young man your age."
I moaned when she took my dick in her hand.
"Maybe I can help."
She started stroking me. Her face was all red, and she was panting.
"It's so nice and hard and - are you going to cum soon?"
"Well, we can't make a mess in here..." Still stroking, she reached for the Kleenex. "Come on, and let it go."
"Oh, shit..." I gasped and started shooting. Even though I'd whacked off twice, my knees started to bend, I came so hard - and a lot. Inger's Kleenex got soaked pretty fast, and then there was stuff running over her hand and wrist. I came some more before I stopped, and she squeezed the last few drops out, then used another Kleenex to clean off my cock. She looked up at me and smiled.
"That was nice," she said. She put her hand to her mouth and licked up some of my jizz, then gave a little shiver. "And it tastes nice, too. Straighten out your clothes and flush this." She waited for me to pull my pants back up, then handed me the tissue. I kind of stumbled to the bathroom, wondering if I'd just had a dream. I flushed the tank and tossed some cold water on my face before returning to the living room. Inger waved me to her side, then patted the cushion next to her.
"No secrets, OK?"
"No - you have to say it."
"OK - no secrets."
"Have you ever done that with anyone before?"
I blushed. "Well, a couple of times my friends and I kind of... well, we have a contest to see who can shoot the farthest or the most."
"But that's it?"
"But you get horny a lot, and beat off a lot?"
"Well, I guess so."
She took a deep breath. "Well, I can understand that. I get horny, too. A lot. And I masturbate a lot. Sometimes it seems almost anything can get me hot. So I try to be careful. You know about AIDS and that, right?"
"And how." Did I ever! Between Dad and school - I felt like a walking brochure from the Centers for Disease Control. Or GMHC.
She thought for a few seconds. "I'll make a deal with you. I'll take care of you if you'll take care of me."
"Take care of you -?"
"I'll teach you how. But two rules: No one else can ever find out, and we tell each other everything - including about anyone else we play with. How does that sound?"
It took me a minute to realize what she was offering. But once I did, I told her how it sounded:
"That sounds completely excellent."
"Good. Now, have you ever seen a naked woman in the flesh?"
I shook my head. She smiled, stood and led me to my room.
I got home at 10 o'clock, on the dot. To my surprise, Inger was alone in the living room, reading her poly sci text. Bill wasn't in sight.
"He's sacked out," she said quietly. "Said he was really tired."
"I hope he's not coming down with anything. Usually I have to drive him to bed."
She shrugged. "He ate enough. Maybe he's just worn out. How was your date?"
My smile told her plenty. She grinned at me, her face blossoming. She stood and stretched languidly. "Well, I'm a bit tired myself. I think I'll head home. Are you going to see her again?"
"Almost certainly. I think we're really hitting it off."
"Good on you." She took her coat, and I helped her into it. Something about the way she moved and talked seemed more relaxed than I'd ever seen her before. "Good night." I handed her an envelope. "Thanks, Inger. I really appreciate it."
"Hey, any time I can, I'm glad to do it. He's a good kid."
"The best." I beamed. She beamed right back.
The next morning, Bill seemed pretty cheerful and filled with energy. "I'm glad to see you feeling OK."
He gave me an odd look.
"Inger said you were pretty beat last night and turned in early."
His expression relaxed, and he grinned. "I was definitely beat. I was going to stay up and grill you about your date, but - " He shrugged. "How did it go?"
"It really went well, Bill. I like her, and I think she likes me. We're going to see each other again."
"That's swell, Dad." Oddly, that seemed to be the end of it for him. I'd spent my time in the shower rehearsing how I'd deal with detailed questions and felt a bit let down that he wasn't more curious. On the other hand, Bill was bright and advanced for his years. He might well have concluded for himself that there were some things we would not be discussing in detail. I was proud of my little guy; he was growing up!
That afternoon, at just after four, Bernice called me. (We'd agreed that it would be best for her to call me at work, since it might be putting too much pressure on Bill to have him answer the phone and find his "babe-and-a-half" English teacher asking to talk to his father.) How did my schedule look? I told her that it depended on whether Inger was available, and I'd have to get back to her. She was agreeable. I called home. After the ninth ring, Bill answered the phone, a bit out of breath.
"Oh, uh, Inger bet me I couldn't do 20 pushups."
"Really. Who won the bet?"
"Oh, good." I was surprised. Bill had never had much athletic inclination beyond some interest in basketball. "Let me talk to her for a moment, please?"
"Hi, Mr. Millman."
She was out of breath, too.
"Well, that's what he won. I had to do as many as he did."
"What's with this pushups business?"
"Well, I figure that exercise is important, helps the circulation and alertness. Since this algebra has an association with sleepville, I figured the stimulation might help."
It sounded logical, in an odd way. What the hell. I asked about her availability on Friday or Saturday night.
"Oh, no problem! Which will it be? Or both?"
I had to laugh. "You're more optimistic than I am. Friday would be best." I paused. "It might be a little later."
"Are we talking changing the date on the clock?"
"With any luck. I have a very good feeling about the way it's going."
"I'm really glad for you to hear that."
"Don't say anything yet. I'll tell him myself."
Then I called Bernice. She was very pleased that it was Friday. I explained that Bill and I tended to reserve Saturdays as our day together. We had a whole little routine that ended with going out late Saturday night to bring in the Sunday Times and News and some snack food for watching late night movies together. She thought that was wonderful. Then she told me she was glad it was Friday because it was a day closer, and she really wanted to see me.
When I hung up the phone, I felt like a champ. I felt so good that when the MIS department timidly explained that they'd just lost half the files on my number-two account's broadcast schedule, I told them not to worry about it, to just salvage what they could and get some people to re-keynpard the entire flight from paper. By quitting time, everyone in the agency was looking at me oddly. I guess word got around about my strange behavior. After all, the last time MIS had done something like that it had taken three large men to pry my hands from the throat of the manager. I checked my watch: 25 hours and 10 minutes till Bernice.
I don't think I actually clicked my heels together, but I might have.
Dad wondered about me being breathless; the "pushups" thing was pretty quick thinking, if I say so, myself. Of course, I was encouraged by having a naked Inger beneath me, coaxing me on.
After last night, I didn't think anything was going to turn me on as much, let alone more. I mean, first, Inger had me sit on the bed, facing her, both of us stark naked. And then we watched each other masturbate. Her tits aren't as perfect as the ones in Playboy or Penthouse, but they're awfully pretty - and real. And her pubic hair isn't as neat as the models', either - but it's real. And I've never seen a girl masturbate. I've read stories and letters (in Penthouse), but then they're always putting things inside them. But Inger just rubbed her fingers around on her clitoris and stroked her labia. She had an orgasm real fast and real loud. I was so amazed I just stopped wanking and watched her. But then she had me sit next to her and showed me how to touch her clitoris while she started jerking me. I didn't expect that part of her to be so hot or so wet! She didn't want me to put my finger inside her, either - just rub. "Caress it," she kind of whispered. "Pet it, gently, like a scared kitten."
She said I did it pretty good, and I believe her, because she was moaning and grunting and jerking around so much she stopped wanking me for a while.
And then she stopped.
"Now, I'm going to teach you how to lick and kiss a girl down there. If you learn to do it right, you'll be the most popular boy in your school." And she smiled at me. "But even if it takes a while to learn, I'm going to finish you off for the night with your first blowjob."
"You mean you're going to suck my - my penis?"
She shook her head. "I'm going to suck your cock. Until you cum in my mouth. And I'm going to swallow every drop."
My mouth hung open.
"That," she said, smiling, "is a good start. Taste." She brought my hand from her cunt to my mouth. It smelled kind of funky, but kind of sexy. That was her juice, a woman's cunt juice. I'd heard guys talking about rotting fish, but this wasn't at all like that. Different, but not at all bad. I licked my fingers and her smile broadened.
"Oh, goody," she said. "An eager student."
Inger was true to her word. She taught me to go slow and light, where to put my tongue and where to tease. By the time she was finished, she'd cum about a hundred times, and my face was soaked. And my dick was like a piece of wood.
"I think," she breathed, panting as she reversed our positions - her on her belly between my legs and me on my back - "that you really did enjoy licking me."
"I could really get into it," I said, and then I moaned, because when she shifted, her tits brushed my thighs - and then she was holding my boner in one hand, and I could feel her breath on it.
"This is a pretty impressive piece of wood for a kid your age. How big is it?"
"Only about six inches," I said.
"And it's pretty thick, too, maybe an inch and a half," she said. She leaned forward and licked it, just behind the knob. "What do you mean, 'only' six inches? You wish it was more?"
"Well, sure. Ian's is almost eight inches."
She grinned up at me, and held her hand up, with her thumb and index finger apart. "Two inches. That's the difference. You think that's better or something?"
"Well, sure, I've heard stories and read stuff - "
"Let me tell you a secret, Bill. Six inches hard beats eight inches soft - and usually beats eight inches hard."
"But I hear that women love - "
"Some do; most don't. I've had big ones, eight and nine and even more inches. I like this best. It's perfect. You're not going to go too deep and hurt me with it." And then she leaned her head up and over and put my whole cock in her mouth. I could feel the back of her throat on the end and feel her lips around the bottom. I tensed all over; I was that close to cumming. She quickly backed off.
"I can't do that with a bigger cock; I gag. And there's other stuff most women won't even consider with a dick that's too big. Like taking it in the ass. Most guys are too rough, so a big cock back there hurts like hell, and most women won't even consider it with a big dong."
"You do that - you know, in back?"
"Sometimes I like to do it. But not with a swinging dick. Yours, though, is just perfect for allllll kinds of things." She leaned her head forward and licked the length of my prick. I gasped.
"But, first of all, let me demonstrate that I keep my word, and I think your nice, hard cock and smooth balls are just perfect for a demonstration of the advantages of not being hung like King Kong."
And then she took my cock all the way in her mouth again. I guess I lasted maybe 30 seconds before I started to cum. She pushed her fingers up against me between my legs, about halfway between my ass and my nuts, and I thought I was going to explode. I mean, the stuff just poured out of me.
So - yeah, Dad: I was beat when you came in. Fucked out is more like it.
After all that, I didn't think anything could turn me on more or feel better, but Inger again taught me I was wrong. Hence, the naked "pushups."
It's funny, I guess, but the first time I felt her cunt around me, I knew that jacking off was just a pale imitation - and came almost immediately. But I stayed hard. Maybe it was because I had one of her nipples in my mouth, maybe it was the way she gave a little moan, but I stayed stiff and kept pumping her. And when she started moaning and humping back at me, it just turned me on more and more, and then I came again - but I still stayed hard. I was working away and she was cumming when the phone started to ring.
Of course, the interruption was minor, so as soon as she hung up, I was all over her again. This time she was on her knees, so she leaned over, and I was banging away from behind. She started to cum, and I felt it, her inside muscles moving on my woody. Then she put her hand down there and played with herself, and she really started to cum, and pretty soon I came, too.
This time I got soft - for a little while, anyhow - and Inger just cuddled me to her, my head on her pretty tits. And that's when she explained the new reward system to me.
When I told him I might be very late Friday - as in "Saturday morning" - Bill gave me a really funny grin. "I'll be pulling for you, Dad." Which struck me as odd, but then, he was a 12-year-old boy.
When Friday evening finally - and I do mean finally - rolled around, I felt like a 12 year old myself. I mean, I was going on a date with a woman who turned me on so much that all I had to do was think of her, and it was instant-erection time. And me at 41. It wasn't like she'd be the first woman I made it with. Since Dana, under the stands at the track meet in my junior year of high school, there'd been about two dozen, not counting the occasional paid companion. But she was the first one in 10 years who made my blood race. I really liked Bernice, and she turned me on, and she liked me.
The way it was supposed to be was, I would call on her at her place, and we would go out to dinner. We had a couple of places on our short list, all but two of them French - a taste we shared - and then we'd see how the evening progressed. So to speak.
The way it worked was that Bernice surprised me by saying she wanted to cook dinner for me, and she hoped I didn't mind but she'd already brought in and prepared the sole filet for broiling and had the baby carrots and broccoli ready for steaming, and the rice was going into the cooker in three minutes, and would I mind tossing the salad after I opened the wine?
I looked at myself in the full-length mirror opposite her apartment's entrance door and decided that I wasn't quite as dumb as I looked.
I tossed the salad after uncorking the wine - explaining that I wouldn't touch it, as I'd been sober for 14 years and wasn't going to interrupt a winning streak, but she should feel free - and then, as the filet broiled and the baby carrots and broccoli steamed and the rice cooked, Bernice excused herself for a moment to change into something more comfortable. Which turned out to be an incitement to riot.
She returned to the living room in a white leotard interrupted only by an ankle-length skirt of some loose fitting material that draped perfectly. And quite clearly braless,
"That's 'something more comfortable'?"
"You don't like it?"
"Bernice, wearing that at dinner is going to spoil my appetite."
She looked briefly puzzled.