Longarm yawned and began to cast about frantically in his mind for something to think about that would keep him awake. Molly Dowd came floating toward him like the best dream he’d ever had.
Molly Dowd was the widow of a deputy marshal who had been one of Longarm’s best friends, Tom Dowd. When Tom had been killed in a battle with road agents, Longarm had gone to the funeral, and then had stayed on to see what he could do for Molly. She had decided to remain in the same house that she and Tom had lived in, in a town in north Texas, Wichita Falls, just below the Oklahoma Territory, which had been Tom’s major responsibility.
One day, a year after Tom’s death, a letter came to Longarm from Molly, inviting him to look in on her whenever he was close by. He thought of it as no more than a friendly invitation from a woman who maybe needed a little cheering up and maybe a shoulder to cry on. But he still had a premonition, and he lost as little time as possible finding an excuse to be in Molly’s neck of the woods. Molly had a sensuality about her that Longarm had felt even when Tom was alive. He’d been ashamed of himself for that. He didn’t believe in coveting a friend’s wife or woman, but it was hard not to covet, or at least lust after, a woman like Molly. But he had never, to the best of his recollection, ever given her, by sign or word, any idea of how desirable he found her.
It was not that she was all that good-looking, though she was by no means plain. And she wasn’t a girl. Longarm figured she would have been at least thirty at the time of Tom’s death. Nor did she have a perfect figure. It was just that she had some indefinable something that made men act like they were on the prod the instant they got around her.
Within two weeks after he received the letter he managed to arrange his business so that he was in Wichita Falls at the little house on the outskirts of town where Molly still lived. She received him at the front door with a strange formality, not the hug he normally got. She was wearin a kind of wraparound housedress, the kind with thin material that went around the body once and then was tied with a sash. He could tell, from the way it fit her curves, that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. She got him seated and gave him a drink of whiskey, and then sat across from him, drawing up one leg underneath her. She was barefoot and her hair was brushed and combed, but it fell down around her shoulders. His breath was already coming quicker as he could see her breast clearly outlined in the bosom of her dress, and a glimpse of white, inner thigh as she had her leg tucked up underneath her. She asked, simply and quickly, if he would help her. She said, “It’s been over a year since Tom, Custis. A year, and I’ve respected his memory. But I need a man. Tom would understand. And you were always his best friend. Will you help me?”
Almost in a daze he nodded and finished his drink. She came over, took him by the hand, and led him back to the bedroom. She stood before him as he undressed. Then she asked him to just lie on his back. He did, watching as she untied the sash of her dress and let it fall open. For a second she let it hang from her shoulders, let it frame her beautifully abundant breasts with their big, brown nipples, let it frame her wide, white hips and the little mound of her belly, let it frame her wonderfully shapely legs that seemed to grow out of the brown spreading triangle of hair that began at the V and made a tangled web as it moved up her soft skin. Then she let the dress drop to the floor, moved to the bed, and sat down beside him, staring down gravely at his body. She said softly, “I’d almost forgotten. It’s been so long.” She reached out with one delicate, soft hand and took his member, already engorged and rigid. Gently she massaged it, moving it back and forth. He gasped with each measure of her touch. She said gently, “Does that feel good? Do you like that?”
He had to gasp, “Careful, Molly. Go slow, sweetheart.”
He was so close he couldn’t look at her. If he looked at the soft breasts hanging over him, or down at the auburn thatch, he would explode. It felt as if his testicles were drawn so tight against his body they were about to disappear.
She began to kiss him on his body, slowly working her way down. He moaned and writhed, trying to contain himself. Finally he raised up and pulled her to him, burying her mouth in his, kissing her until he could feel her begin to melt. Then he draped her backwards on the bed, threw her legs over his shoulders, and slipped his tongue and his face into the opening, warming, dampening nest between her legs. He could hear her panting, feel her writhing, as he held her balanced by the buttocks in the palms of his hand. She was beginning to cry out as he pulled back and then thrust himself into her, her legs still above his shoulders, now wrapped around his neck. He had brought her so close with his tongue and with his kisses that she climaxed almost at once, thrusting up strongly against him, digging at his back with her fingers, her breath loud in his ear, her breath turning to a low moan. And then, as he exploded, all sound ceased except the pounding in his head. It seemed to go on forever as he’d pumped into her, the pound turning into a boom, boom, boom, boom, boom. And then it stopped and he almost slid off her, his eyes closed in exhaustion. She cradled his head in her arms, holding him close and kissing his eyes and his ears and his cheek, whatever she could reach. She said softly, “Wonderful, wonderful. Thank you, thank you.”
Gradually their breathing slowed, and then they rested for a time. He slid off her and turned over on his back, his eyes closed. After a time he felt her move, and then felt the gentle touch of her lips and her tongue on his belly. Almost instantly his desire began to quicken. She worked her way down his abdomen very slowly, so slowly that he almost wanted to scream out in agony. Then she took him in her mouth, her tongue working in harmony with her lips. It caused him to gasp and arch his back until nothing but his heels and the top of his head were touching the bed. She continued, working slowly, moistly, bringing him up and up and up. When he thought he could stand it no longer, she slipped away from his member and deftly took one of his testicles into her mouth. She caressed it gently with her tongue and then swiftly moved up, mounting him, straddling him, taking him inside herself. She leaned down to his face. He was panting, gasping. She said lovingly, “Don’t wait, honey. Go ahead.”
The boom seemed just as big, though it didn’t last quite as long.
After the fires died, she slipped down beside him and held him in her arms for a long time. He contented himself with running his hand up and down her soft skin, sometimes exploring the still-warm, very wet tender flesh that the silken hairs protected. He turned once, and she slipped the nipple of her breast into his mouth and then cuddled him to her. She was so soft, so warm.