Then Mr. Hammel's tongue had darted out to touch the tip of her clit, retreated, sallied forth again to tickle the tender membrane of her virginity. Ted had understood for the first time that this could be not just another experience. It could be an enjoyable experience. If Mr. Hammel was going to keep doing that with his tongue she guessed she'd give him a couple of hours to quit it.
She still held his hot throbbing cock loosely in her hand. What was she supposed to do with it? Squeeze it? Caress it? She wondered if she was supposed to put her mouth to it the way Mr. Hammel was doing to her. But that couldn't be right because she couldn't reach it without twisting clear down off the couch. She decided to worry about it later. Right now it felt nice just to lie here and let Mr. Hammel's tongue do all the work. Each time his tongue darted out to touch her hard throbbing little clit it felt like something inside her was going to swell up and burst. It felt so goooooood!
Chapter 4
Ted jerked back to reality. She felt a puff of wind but it was from the wrong direction. She glanced seaward. "Oh, shit!" she muttered. A solid wall of fog was drifting in. The wind had shifted. She wondered if she dared run for the mouth of the harbor. She might make it. And with wind and currents gone funny she just might pile up on the rocks to one side of the harbor entrance.
"Are we in trouble?" Albert asked.
Ted shook her head. "We're out of the shipping lane. Not much danger of getting run down. The only thing is we have to play safe and wait here till the fog lifts."
"When'll that be?"
Ted shrugged. "An hour, maybe a week."
"A week!" the boys chorused.
"Not really. But I wouldn't be surprised if we had to spend the night out here."
"Oh, shit!" It was the smallest boy. Already there was a speculative look on the older boy's face. Suddenly Ted was acutely uncomfortable. She had only been playing with those ideas. She didn't really want to have to fend off a couple of horny boys while she tried to sleep.
"We'll have to stand watches," she said. "First we lower sail and drop the anchor. Then we'll take turns staying on deck."
"Why?" John asked.
"Maritime law. See that bell?"
The boys nodded.
"Somebody has to ring it at least once a minute. Besides-" She pointed at a switch. "If you hear another boat's engines or whistle, flip this and it lights us up so we don't get run over."
The boys did their clumsy best to help her take in sail. Finally everything was tied down. "Two hours," she said and pointed at little John. She peeled off the parka and helped him put it on. Then she went below, and began closing the cabin slide. Albert slipped in behind her. "Wish I'd brought a heavier jacket," he mumbled.
"It would help," she agreed.
"But there are other ways of getting warm," Albert continued.
On deck she heard John ring the bell. The fog closed in and the portholes began misting over. The boy on deck could not see in, she knew. And as long as he rang the bell regularly… She wondered what she really intended to do. It was insane to think about anything like this with two boys on her boat, both under aged, and both probably ready to shoot their mouths off to every stud and probation officer in the ghetto the instant they stepped ashore. It was crazy. And here she was in shorts and halter in a cabin so small it was impossible to sit beyond the fourteen-year-old's reach. He sat on the settee berth across from her and their knees touched. "Is it all the dancing that makes your legs so nice?" he asked.
What's wrong with me? she asked herself. If I had a dime for every time some stiff pricked male admired my legs, why I'd own several yachts.
Nevertheless, this awkward fourteen-year-old was making her whole body tingle as if she had never heard of fucking. They sat facing each other in the crowded cabin and she cursed herself for not having maneuvered somehow to get more clothes on before the boy came below. And she was going to have to put up with two hours of this before Albert went topside and was replaced by a chilled but equally horny thirteen-year-old. The bell rang again.
The boy was waiting for an answer. "I'm old enough to be your mother. Stretching a point or two, maybe even your grandmother," she said.
"You've still got nice legs."
"Yes, I suppose I have. It's partly what you're born with and partly what you do with your body. Eat right, plenty of exercise, and don't abuse it."
"Abuse," the boy said in a mocking tone.
Ted knew what he was thinking. She remembered her youth when whole cities had been plastered with pamphlets warning of everything from beri beri to feeble-mindedness resulting from self abuse-whatever that was. Was it self abuse to get a drink of water or go pee when you had to? She wondered who ever made up all those crazy rules. Surely it had not been some fourteen-year-old in the prime of his sexual vigor and with no release in sight.
But Ted knew her body well enough to understand that it had been exercise-plain hard work that had kept her too exhausted for 'self abuse' or whatever anybody wanted to call it back when she had been struggling to make a career for herself. But now she was thirty-nine, still young and healthy. And she wasn't twisting herself to panting exhaustion at the exercise bar every day any more. Probably that was why she had energy to spare-energy to lavish on this hot-blooded fourteen-year-old who sat across from her and kept alternating his stare from her tits to her crotch.
What would happen if she let him do what he wanted? Would she ever see him again? After all, he couldn't have much money. His part of town was a long bus ride from here. And this was a locked marina. The guard wouldn't even let him on the dock. She could probably give the boy a night to remember and never suffer any consequences. After all, boys were, inclined to brag and exaggerate. If he said he had screwed her, would anybody believe him?
You're damn right they would! She was a retired dancer and everybody knew what dancers were! And she was a woman who lived alone on a boat so she had to be some kind of a weirdo and every son of a bitch from one end of the waterfront to the other would be hanging around, his bifocals all fogged with passion if he thought she was putting out. "I'm sorry," she said.
"For what?" Albert asked.
"I'm afraid I let you think something that just isn't possible."
"Like what?"
Ted shrugged. "Oh, forget it. I'll make some coffee."
"Don't make it for me."
Still they sat facing one another. Ted could feel her whole body blush under the boy's scrutiny. Why in hell had she put on a baiter and shorts?
Outside the bell rang again. Somehow the boy's knee had gotten further between hers. She tried to sit farther back in the settee but it didn't do any good. This is crazy, she thought. All I have to do is get up and start cooking something. But she couldn't. She wondered if this was how a bird felt staring at a snake. The boy was wearing a T-shirt and tight-fitting, faded Levi's. She could see the bulge at his crotch. It was less than a foot from her own crotch. She could feel her crotch tingle and ache. How long had it been since…
It had been three years since Virgil died. And he had been sick for nearly a year. My god, she thought. I'm thirty-nine and I haven't had a man in me for four years! No wonder I feel funny when I get close to this concentrated essence of horniness.
Was there anything on earth more randy in its rampant male need than a fourteen-year-old boy? She wondered how many times the boy could cum-how many times he could get it up in a twenty-four-hour period. She suspected something had been irretrievably lost from her life. All those years she had been twisting her ass into a pretzel at the practice bar-those were the years her schoolmates had been finding out how many times a fourteen-year-old boy could cum. And what had she been learning apart from how to flick her legs in an entrechat? The only interesting thing she could remember at all from that period had been the feel of Mr. Hammel's eager tongue darting around her twelve-year-old virginal clitoris.