Chapter 5

That should probably have been the only attempt at sex revenge (revenge sex? I don’t know). Filling Ms Carlisle with jiz in all her crevices, holes, and hand was fun; and the other two came along for the ride of their lives. I don’t think anybody was hurt in this whole thing. Even Ms Carlisle would have to admit that she was milked dry of her erotic potential in a very pleasant way. But my main aim was to spread myself wider rather than deeper. After a weekend – well a Sunday – of enforced celibacy, I was starting to feel a little more mobile.

The pinkness of the todger was starting to look healthy rather than livid red in places. Nevertheless, changing for gym Monday morning, it was noticed that I wasn’t as mobile as I should be, then that my prick was pink. A couple of blokes started asking why, Jerry stepped in and laughingly said I must have been spanking the pony all weekend for it to end up like that. I had to agree for a quiet life, and everybody was fine again. Seems that admitting to masturbating until you go blind is a perfectly acceptable thing to admit to. Obviously admitting to fucking a teacher and two students would have had repercussions.

By Wednesday, I was ready to get back in the saddle, Aunty Jean was too. She made a special cream cake, suggested I dip my wick in it and then she lick it clean. I’m probably scarred for life now, seeing a 15 stone woman kneeling at your cock, licking the cream off, can do that, I’m sure I read that. She was mighty pleased with the rest of the evening, though.

Thursday was her bi-weekly Bridge night. This week it was her house. She was suspicious that something was going on to make her randy as a bitch on heat, but was content to go with the flow. Now she wondered: if there was something in the air, would the others catch it? Mrs Randall was a similar size to Aunty Jean; Miss Smith was thinner, but older, maybe a bit pendulous in the tit department. She was about sixty, again, I’d never say that in case she was only fifty nine and I’d get clobbered. Ursula Turner was the diamond in the rough, so to speak. She was forty-two, thin, fit, buxom and beautiful. Oh, did I mention that she was Harriet’s mother?

“I wonder if they’ll become as wild as Jackie and I did” said Aunty Jean.

“Would you want them to? I mean, I could just go out for the evening, then...”

“Then if they did get as randy as me, who would satisfy them? I can’t deal with three cunts at my time of life.”

“Aunty Jean! Your language has become distinctly Anglo-Saxon!” Clearly I was liberating the inner Gloria Stein or something.

“I know, fun isn’t it? But that doesn’t answer the question. I think the answer is yes. Yes I would want them to have as much fun as I’ve had with you. I felt guilty at first, but I know you’re spreading your largesse around, so why shouldn’t I get some? And I think you get some pleasure, don’t you?”

“You know I do, even without cream cakes.”

“Oh, you! Well, so Maudy and Janet could do with a good, what is it you called it? Rogering, yes, they could do with that, I’m sure. Ursula, not so much, she still looks like she could pull the occasional tennis coach. And there is her daughter to think of.”

“Harriet? What do you mean?”

“I have no doubt, young man, that if you could get inside Harriet’s panties, you would. Would it be right to do that if you had serviced her mother too?”

“Well, you and your niece were happy to share, why not?”

“Mother and daughter? Like that politician of yours: Kenneth Clark?”

“ALAN, Alan Clark; don’t start rumours about Hush Puppy Ken; though he might not object to that rumour I suppose.”

“Anyway, I’m not sure how Harriet would think about it. I wouldn’t want her upset.”

“Me neither, so if this does all kick off tonight, you’ll have to all be very secret about it.”

“I know.” She replied, “but who wants to keep quiet about being rogered to multiple orgasms by a toy boy? Rogered is a nicer word than fucked isn’t it?”

“Unless your name is Roger, Aunty Jean. Isn’t Janet Randall’s husband called Roger? I’m guessing he doesn’t live up to his name?”

She gave me a playful slap and went to make the cookies for what could be the most orgiastic bridge party ever. Because, yes I did think I could do the older women a good turn; and the idea of ‘rogering’ a mother and her daughter had a certain attraction.

I was, as you can see, not only in this for my own pleasure. I was starting to see myself as able to make some people happier than they were; with a certain amount of pleasure to me too. Okay, given the choice, I wouldn’t be boning my big, fat, aunty; but I recognised that she could have made life a lot harder for me; and I certainly had had some fun with her.

So, the spray came out; not too early, I didn’t want Aunty Jean pulling her pants down and begging me to fuck her when her friends turned up. I waited until they arrived. They greeted me, and I did the good, helpful boy, thing, of offering round plates of cookies (“What is it you call them? Biscuits?” – always amuses people that we have different words for the same thing), and pouring coffee. Then they started to play. Aunty Jean was wondering if/when it would kick in, I could tell. So I gave a little spray to the neck as I went round with the plate of cookies again. I didn’t use much, I was getting the hang of it, and I could always top it up later. The effect was a slower build.

“You know? I feel a little warm.” Said the oldest person in the room, and proceeded to take off her sweater. The others followed suit. Hormones they had forgotten they had were kicking in. Even that was interesting, that this worked when women were way past their prime. The game made its way to its conclusion and I gave an extra spray. Aunty Jean looked lustfully at me, Mrs Randall stroked my cock as I walked past, Mrs Turner leant over after undoing her top three buttons, she actually did have an impressive rack; perhaps 38DD? Or maybe D with a good uplift bra.

Maudy Smith broke the dam “I wish I had a set of bazookas like those, I bet hubby likes to squeeze them ... I bet young John would love to suck on them too” I went red, even though (or maybe because) I was thinking precisely that.

“I bet he would.” Agreed Janet Randall “Go on, Ursula, get them out for him.” She looked shocked, she had been intending to attract me; but, of course, this stuff worked on the women’s desire. They all wanted me, but that fell into all wanting ‘it’. Still, they hadn’t had too much this time.

“Well, he likes sucking mine, I’ll show you.” Said Aunty Jean, which wasn’t the kind of information I would have shared. She pulled her massive tits out and I had to oblige. She started to moan with pleasure, even when I nipped one with my teeth. I pulled off.

I had to move things on a little: “I think it would be fair for you all to show me, don’t you?” And watched as they all displayed their varying breasts to me. Mrs Smith was hesitant, she was floppy to a large degree, they hadn’t been perky for many a year. I felt sorry for her. “Okay, now I can service you all, if you want.” Four women smiled expectantly. “But it will ruin your game. So I’ll take each upstairs while the rest of you play three handed bridge.” Four hands went up, like school children. “No, Mrs Smith is first.”

“Age before beauty.” She said as she stood up.

“Oh, may I call you Maudy since I’m about to fu-, to roger you to happiness. As to age, you are as young as you feel.”

“And I’m going to feel something much younger in me.” She laughed. These women could be quite rowdy when they started.

So we went upstairs, I was behind her; I took a deep breath - Jerry was going to have palpitations when he heard this story. A song my Irish grandfather used to sing came back to me – The Jolly Tinker or something – ‘Such a rusty hole, me boys; I never plugged before’. My mum used to shush him, but when he’d had half a bottle of Jameson, he would sing loud and long; rebel songs, laments, and that one about the tinker. I understood it by the time I was ten, which was good because he was dead by the time I was twelve.

I turned this old biddy round and kissed her on the mouth; and got the shock of my life. Her tongue came out and wrapped itself round my tonsils three times! She was phenomenal! She was an Olympian at kissing. Her lips were actually quite full still, and her tongue and teeth were engaged in ways I was very willing to learn. I grabbed her flaccid tits and stroked them with care. Then leant down and kissed and then sucked the left nipple. She was already in seventh heaven. Then I undressed the rest of her body; it was the same as the top half; if not actually wizened, then in training for it. I licked my lips and kissed her hairy groin and she simply fell backwards onto the bed in a swoon. Now I have never made a person, girl or woman (or man), swoon from my attentions before or since. She was overwhelmed with lust for the hunk in front of her. When she came round, she begged to be allowed to suck me off; but I pointed out that I needed to conserve my stuff for the other three to come. “Oh yes, I forgot; men are one-trick ponies aren’t they?” Which seemed harsh. I continued to lick her and stroke her scrawny body, and she let out a cracker of a shout “Oh YES! You ARE MAGNIFICENT.” Well, a man can accept those kinds of compliments from anybody. She fell back on the bed, tired and happy. She closed her eyes, and for a moment I thought she had died. Then she said: “I had a lover when I was twenty, he made love ... no, he fucked me. Like a wild animal, he was. Said he couldn’t get enough of me. He was lovely. Do you do doggy? I bet you do; he did. I sometimes thought he was trying to push out to the top, he fucked so hard. It was great. He licked me like you did, that takes me back.” I never heard what happened to him, was he a bastard who left her, was he killed? I never found out. Still, she was happy.