But nobody else's lips had ever been on his cock. And God, having a woman sucking his cock was so unlike doing his own cocksucking.
For one thing, he didn't get a back ache.
Like he could just spread out all over Mrs. Rathers' luscious circular revolving couch and glance at all the mirrors that surrounded the room and enjoy the sight of Mrs. Rathers going down on his prick. Her mouth slowly nibbling and gobbling all of his cock-flesh.
Like he could just spread out his legs and give her more room for her cocksucking mouth and her fuck-hungry body as she ate his prick and fondled his balls and even rammed one finger into his tight asshole.
Like no one had ever done that to his balls and asshole and cock before.
It had been too good to believe. It had been a miracle.
Stilt, Lance wasn't even the regular newspaper delivery boy. That task had belonged to Harmon Hurlburt, his best friend.
And because he wasn't the regular delivery boy, Lance was unaccustomed to such things as porching the Weedley Weekly World News on people's doorsteps.
And that was how he had first gotten to know Ramona Rathers. Because the newspaper had been thrown errantly and Lance, being a perfectionist like his mother, had gotten off his Schwinn and had hand-delivered the paper to the door.
And just as he was about to drop the newspaper on the doorstep, Ramona had opened the front door.
She had greeted Lance with a smile and a miniskirt. That was all she wore – a smile and a miniskirt.
Mainly because she had persuaded Ricardo Franklin into giving her the role of fondling her titties for all of America, and she had just gotten home and had just opened the front door just when Lance was not only dropping the newspaper on the doorstep but dropping his jaw in awe.
"You're not the regular paper boy, are you?"
Lance stared at those just beautiful titties, thinking to himself about how just beautiful they looked. He had never seen a woman's titties before. After all, he was only eighteen, and he had not learned about the mysteries of what a woman's body was really for. That would come later when he became a typical male chauvinist pig.
"Why are you staring? Haven't you ever seen a woman's tits before?"
Lance swallowed hard, tried to answer but couldn't. The only thing that formed in his mouth was spit and phlegm. His mouth couldn't possibly form words because fear and anxiety and eagerness and desire and stimulation were running up and down his spine, playing havoc with his prick, which in turn played havoc with the crotch of his Levi's.
"Didn't your mommy ever tell you not to stare at a woman's titties?"
Lance couldn't help staring. Couldn't help the havoc that played at his crotch. Couldn't help wanting to play with those sweet fleshy things that he would learn later on in life to call tits and jugs and knockers and bazooms, but which he now called sweet fleshy things.
"Gosh… gee, Mrs. Rathers. You really have sweet fleshy things."
Remarkable. Astounding. Such ego-boosting words.
Ramona was very pleased. After all, the only kind and encouraging words she had heard all day about her tits were, just beautiful.
Now her tits were being called sweet fleshy things!
She couldn't believe it. Ramona glanced down at her tits. Yes, the young lad was right. Her tits did look sweet and very fleshy and they were just beautiful tits, they were sweet and fleshy things that a young lad of eighteen wanted to get his hands and lips on because there was drool escaping from his mouth and his hands were nervously tugging at his belt buckle.
Ramona thought about fucking the boy.
But what would society say about her screwing a kid his age?
Shit, what the hell could society say when she and her husband owned three-quarters of the society of Weedley? Hellfire and balls of infernal flame – the Rathers were the society of Weedley!
Thus, after twenty seconds of contemplation, Ramona came to the decision that she had every right to fuck the newspaper boy standing on her front porch with drool clinging to his chin.
"Have you ever fucked a woman – I mean, a real woman like me?"
Lance was shocked. Fucking was something that only the boys in the clubhouse talked about. Ernie McGrew had told him that fucking was lots of fun. When asked what fucking was, Ernie had replied hesitantly: "Well, fucking must be good 'cause it sounds so bad. I figure fucking means something nasty like picking your nose in an elevator full of people."
So Lance, who had been sick the day that his junior high school gym coach had given a ten-minute lecture on sex education, was in the dark when it came to things concerning his erection with the baseball-sized glans and what to do about his hard-on.
But now Lance wasn't in the dark as much as he was in the twilight as the sun was setting behind him and the rays cast a golden glow on Ramona Rathers' tits as she stood framed in the doorway, lifting up her miniskirt with the intention of showing him her panties.
Lance got very excited. He had never seen a pair of panties when they were filled with the delightful goodness of a woman's ass and pooched-out pussy.
And Ramona was getting just as excited. She wanted to show Lance what a good-looking ass and pussy she had hidden beneath her panties.
Lance said: "Hey! Where are your panties? You're not wearing panties! I thought I'd get to see your panties!"
Ramona was as disappointed as Lance. She had forgotten her panties down at the KKKQ studio dressing room. So instead of showing him the outlines of her curvaceous ass and her pooched-out cunt as she stood framed in the doorway, she showed him her curvaceous ass and pooched-out cunt very blatantly.
Lance was shocked. He had never seen a woman's hairy pussy before. Oh, he could remember when Ernie McGrew had drawn him a picture of a woman's cunt in the dirt one day. But a real live pussy didn't look like a gash in the dust.
For one thing, Ramona's pussy had lots of hair. Ernie didn't put any hair on his picture cunt – oh, Ernie had told him that he thought that there might be hair somewhere above the woman's pussy, but he didn't know exactly where.
Now, Lance knew exactly where a woman's pubic hair was. It was at the top of a woman's pussy, and it bearded about halfway down around the sides of the gaping, meaty slit. Gosh, he couldn't wait to tell Ernie.
And, for another thing, Ernie had simply drawn a slit in the sand, and he had pointed with his toe at the cut, telling Lance that that's where all the piss and babies came from.
But Lance knew now that Ernie had drawn a woman's pussy wrong. Maybe he was a bad artist, or a clumsy doodler. Because a pussy had an oval shape, and it wasn't just two lines that bulged outward at the middle and met on the ends. A pussy had flappy, floppy-looking things on each side.
And Lance could see that the floppy, flappy things could be stretched. Because Ramona was stretching them very wide apart, so wide that Lance thought her pussy would either split at the seams or else those flappy, floppy things were made of rubber.
Ramona pooched out her pussy, spread the lips as wide as she could without splitting the seams of her cunt.
"Did you ever see a woman's cunt?"
What could Lance say?
Oh sure, he'd seen one about three months ago. But it was made of coarse grains of sand and loose dirt.
Or he could say, very honestly, no. He had never seen a woman's pussy before. But he wouldn't mind seeing one now. Maybe even touch it if it didn't hurt, or bite, or stick to his hand like Silly Putty.
Lance shook his head. "Well, partly."
"Partly? Whatta you mean, partly? You've only seen half a cunt? A quarter of a pussy? What the hell do you mean partly?"
Lance started to sweat. Why was life so Goddamn complicated when you were eighteen years old and subbing for another newspaper boy and having to come up to a horny lady's doorstep just cause you threw the Goddamn paper into the rose bushes instead of on the porch?