Chapter 8

Amy Winthrop looked at her watch. It was ten a.m. and still no sign of Ellen. She shook out her long black hair and stood up to take the dishes back to the sink.

Not that she regretted giving the child permission to visit with the Carters down the block for the weekend. They had plenty of room, and probably too much money, and they could always find interesting things to do with Ellen. As for herself, she had welcomed a free night so that she and Billy Erspamer could cavort in various positions and places about the house without worrying about who might be listening in. The curly-headed fifteen year old had come to her about seven, right after supper, after telling his mother that he was going to a dance at New Trier High School. They had fucked like minks on the dining room table, lapped hungrily at each other's vitals all over the living room, and then finally retired to Ellen's bedroom, where he had wildly sodomized the mother while moaning out his exciting admission that it was really the virginal, busty blonde Ellen he was thinking of fucking.

While this confession should have offended her moral dignity, Mrs. Winthrop actually had found it savagely exciting. He had raved on and on about the beauty of Ellen's long satiny blonde hair, the passion-swollen overhang of her ripe young breasts, the delicious feel of her buttocks in his hands, the fact that she was only thirteen years old, and the wonderful way she had of sucking on his cock with her hot sultry lips. Things like, "Oh, I love to fuck your ass, baby. You got gorgeous blonde hair and you're only thirteen years old with big tits. Love to fuck you, Ellen!"

His filthy talk just seemed to send shivers through the passionate young mother's flesh, until finally she had cum with a force that she thought would tear her head right off her shoulders--thrashing, sobbing, weeping for mercy, her anal passage clutching his sperm-spurting column of manhood with worshipful desire.

She smiled cynically to herself and lit a cigarette. Things had certainly changed since Ellen's father had died. Before that she had been stiff as a board where extracurricular sex was concerned, and tolerated no nonsense for a second. Least of all with teenage boys, the like of which she had never given even a passing thought to in her entire life beyond the age of eighteen. It was always older men who had interested her. Mature men with a bit of gray in their hair and experience in their eyes. It was just this taste that had led her to Ellen's father.

Not that he had turned out to be the experienced man of the world she had expected. He had merely been prematurely gray, and this had given him character where there was not actually a great deal. Mark Winthrop had been a classic case of someone who looked different from the person he really was inside. In actuality he had turned out to be just another schoolboy, as she was just another stuck-up schoolgirl without any real understanding of life.

Making this discovery in the early months of their marriage hadn't discomfited her very much, however, and she had remained true to her bargain and prim probably to the point of exasperation for many of those who might have been her friends. She had been a good wife to Mark, by her lights, and was appropriately broken up over his untimely death. His period of dying--from an incurable disease--had been somewhat lengthy, and in that interim she had also taken to drinking somewhat more than she should. In retrospect she wondered if she had drunk so heavily in order to aid her dramatic capabilities and the quality of her performance as the "Bereaved Wife". Probably! But she had also been truly unhappy. One couldn't spend fourteen years with a man and then feel no sense of loss whatever when he was gone. It was like having an enormous tumor removed. One may not have loved it while it was there, but there was nonetheless a feeling of loss, the subtle feeling of a gaping void within oneself crying out for fulfillment.

During all their years together she had not been a passionate woman by any means, but nonetheless some appreciation of sex had sprung up in her very normal loins from Mark's frequent recourse to her voluptuous flesh, and she had been capable of feeling fleeting sensations of pleasure, even though she had come to regard the female orgasm as purely the invention of the New York editors of women's magazines.

And then they had closed up the house in Wilmette, sold it, and used the proceeds to buy something finer in Kenilworth, but smaller. Two women alone didn't need the space of a triplet bi- sexed family, so they had been able to afford something very nice in a better neighborhood, a neighborhood where she hoped Ellen would meet the "right" people and use her fast-blossoming voluptuousness to maximum advantage.

And Ellen hadn't failed her. Almost immediately she had taken up with the Carters, who were said to be unbelievably wealthy, and she was meeting boys of good family in school as well. Maybe the Carters had a stray nephew somewhere or other who would turn out to be a doctor or a lawyer some day--you never could tell.

Amy smiled to herself at her foolishness and snubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. If that wasn't silly. Matchmaking for Ellen. The dear child was only thirteen years old, even if she was somewhat advanced physically. Other girls would catch up to her very soon, although it was true she was a breathtaking natural beauty.

Matchmaking for Ellen. The poor dear probably didn't even know the first thing about sex. Amy sighed. She had been a prude, so unfortunately she had brought Ellen up to be one, too.

She had, of course, explained sex to her daughter, but with a minimum of detail. Once she had started having her periods, there was no reason to keep the child in the dark. All that blood would have only upset her if she hadn't been explained to.

Not that Amy had any illusions left in that respect. What parents forgot to mention, children always picked up at school from their friends. Children picked up stuff like that as though their brains were magnets.

She stood up with a sigh, pulled her gown around her voluminous breasts and walked into the dining room, then into the living room, tidying up here and there as she went. Sex was all well and good, but when it was all over and one returned to earth, there was still ashtrays to be emptied, beds to be tidied, and sheets to be changed.

She chuckled to herself as she remembered some of the things they had done. Billy Erspamer had actually seduced her, in a way. Or was it she who had seduced him?

It hadn't taken long after Mark's death for her to realize that there was something missing for her physically in his untimely demise, as well as psychologically. In all the years they'd been together she'd come to take sex quite for granted. Quite for granted that it was primarily man's domain of enjoyment, and that woman repaid his care of her and their children by agreeing to cooperate in the sexual act whenever the husband so desired. She had chosen to ignore those times when her vagina twinged so unexpectedly and satisfactorily, leaving her frustrated and tingling until she could get into a cold shower and wash away the feel of it from her insides. She had totally ignored that very minor factor of pleasure that she had reaped from their love life.

And yet that seemingly minor pleasure turned out to be a very major compunction of physical need once it was no longer around. A glass of water, by analogy, was not a very important thing. It was a minor item in an entire day of consumption. Ah, but let one try to get along without it for a week, two weeks, a month, and it came to loom very major in one's considerations indeed.

Thus it had come to be for her with sex. She hadn't been too crazy about it when Mark was alive, and yet without its minute drip, drip, drip she had swiftly--within months--become as famished for it as a drunk crossing the Mojave Desert on his knees under a blazing sun.

And then suddenly she had come to take greater notice of young boys.

Somehow they always seemed to have so much more vitality than grown men. Continually leaping about, chewing gum, unable to sit still, veritable reservoirs of unused energy. They appeared swift, like the chattering of birds, and equally as mysterious. She came to study them with undisguised and illicit interest.

Until finally she had seen Billy Erspamer, the boy from next door.

Five months ago he had only been fourteen, yet his wiry form and smiling, curly-headed handsomeness had quite taken her breath away. He was put together like a fine china figurine, all lines, planes and angles, without a molecule of fat on his muscular young body. She had been quite fascinated, and was constantly peeping over the fence at his practice on the diving board over the Erspamer's swimming pool next door.

And then finally she had invited him over for a Coke one afternoon when he was toweling his magnificent body. He had accepted with alacrity, as if that was the one thing he had waited for all his life.

After that she was never quite sure who had taken the first initiative. It was true, of course, that she hadn't been able to keep her hands off him, and had found all sorts of excuses to graze his fine muscularity with her fingernails. Somehow all of her usual reserve seemed to have snapped in the instant that she had first seen Billy, and she had lost all control. True, she had probably been close to the breaking point without realizing it for some time. Billy's beautiful presence had just served to let the cat out of the bag with total acceleration. Perhaps some other boy would have affected her the same at that precise moment. In any case, there was no denying that it was Billy who had, in fact, turned her loose from all the sticky clinging membranes of her conservative past. And she had totally lost her head.

At first she hadn't quite realized what was happening, that she was falling in love with him. She had never had a son, and she had assumed that her tacit desire to feel the boy's smooth, muscular young body with her hands was the natural reaction of a woman with normal motherly instincts.

But then her instincts had turned very non-motherly indeed. She had found her breath coming very hotly when he was around, and her nostrils flaring, and a strange honeyish feeling opening out like a sunflower in her love-starved loins.

She couldn't keep her hands off him. She would stroke his shoulders, seemingly casually, as he munched a sandwich and quaffed a glass of milk, gazing fondly at the damp curls plastered wetly around his head, and the gleaming beads of water still bubbling on his glossy smooth tanned skin. She wanted with everything in her yearning young body to twist her fingers in his soft black curly hair, and pull his virile body up against hers.