Your erotic stories

Back in 1971, I was a rather naive 18 year old, but one summer afternoon I discovered a whole lot about human nature, as well as learning a valuable lesson. Never judge a book by the cover.

It was mid-morning on a weekday afternoon. The sun was hot and with high school already a fading memory, I was doing what most of my crowd did that summer before heading to college, which was hanging out.

Later in the day, we would gather around the field and end up playing baseball until supper time, but until then I was just sitting on our front porch killing time. Across the street and up a little way, I saw the garbage man pulling up to the Beckford’s house.

That was weird because it wasn’t garbage day, and the way that Carl Johnson, the guy that operated the rickety old garbage truck, was acting was even stranger. I mean, everybody knew Can Man Carl, a big black guy with a pot belly and a voice that sounded like that cartoon character Foghorn Leghorn, so it wasn’t like he was exactly sneaking around, but he was acting funny.

It was as if he was trying to act like he wasn’t up to something, and since I often acted that way myself, I knew better. Fancying myself a detective, I kept watching as he fiddled with the back of his truck while looking around.

Then, all of a sudden he ducked down the driveway beside the Beckford’s house. Maybe he had to take a leak or something, I figured, and just waited for him to emerge from the little patch of woods pulling up his zipper.

When he didn’t come back out after a few minutes, my curiosity got the best of me. Maybe he was casing the joint, although what anybody would want out of the Beckford’s house was beyond me. Maybe some bibles or hymn books?

The Beckford’s were the holy rollers of the neighborhood. They were both old, probably in their 50’s, and John Beckford owned a store in town that sold religious goods. He looked like death warmed over, sort of like a skinny version of Lurch from the Addams family.

His wife Martha was an incredibly plain looking woman who was probably 6′ tall and skinny as a rail, resembling Miss Hathaway from the Beverly Hillbillies. If she had ever smiled once in her life, I would have been shocked. I spent a couple of years in her Sunday School class in my younger days, and Martha Beckford did everything she could to make them the most tedious hours imaginable.

She spoke in a monotone, and when somebody would eventually start to nod off she would slam the desktop with a ruler and raise her voice for a few seconds before returning to her drone. Mrs. Beckford wore these floral dresses that seemed about 20 years out of style even to somebody as clueless fashion-wise as me, and she often wore these stockings that had seams along the backs of them.

So while I had no great love for either of the Beckford’s, for some reason I had to know what Carl the Can Man was up to. These were the lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer out in our parts back in 1971, before computers and video games, and I was bored.

I did my best to act just as nonchalantly as Carl had, and darted into the woods like Carl did as well, keeping my eyes out for the garbage man while trying to come up with a reason for being back there should I be spotted.

No sign of Carl, so I wound my way over to the side of the Beckford house, nodding over at the bathtub figurines and assorted shrines that filled the yard. I found myself outside what was the kitchen, and when I peeked inside I saw good old Mrs. Beckford sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea or coffee, wearing a bathrobe.

Oh well, I said to myself, and I was just about to head back home when I heard that familiar raspy voice on the other side of the screen window. It was Carl the Can Man, and while I couldn’t make out what he was saying, that was partly because I was stunned at what I was seeing.

Carl Johnson. Carl the Can Man was naked, unless you want to count the towel he was moving back and forth over his back. He was dripping wet, and my detective skills led me to believe that he had just taken a shower.

And Mrs. Beckford was just sitting there like nothing was strange about this. She set her teacup down and swiveled in the chair as Carl came over to her, wet and bare-assed, his little round beer belly making him look like a Buddha.

What was hanging below the beer belly was what caught me attention, and until Mrs. Beckford’s lily-white fingers wrapped themselves around that fat black snake, adding a sense of proportion to what I was seeing, I thought I must have been mistaken.

So black that it seemed to be a whole new color, Carl Johnson’s cock hung there like a snake until Mrs. Beckford’s bony fingers lifted it upwards. I had seen plenty of dicks before in the locker rooms, and while I never really paid that much attention to them, I admit to what I felt was a normal curiosity about them.

Some guys have little cocks, and some have big ones. Most guys, like yours truly, fall somewhere in the middle. What Mrs. Beckford was handling fit no category I knew of. Carl the Can Man’s cock did not look human, and what was even more crazy was that old lady Beckford was sitting there pulling in it.

Martha Beckford? The Jane Hathaway of Sunday School? The woman who not only wouldn’t say shit if she had a mouthful, but would smack your knuckles with a ruler if you said the word “damn”, sitting in the kitchen of her house pulling on the longest, fattest and blackest cock in the world?

I would have given anything to have not only a picture of what I was watching, but also a picture of my reaction to this stag movie come to life right before my prying eyes, because it must have been comical.

The Can Man looking down on the puritanical Sunday School teacher as she kept pulling on his uncircumcised manhood, stroking her hair and then undoing it out of this bun she wore it in. Mrs. Beckford’s hair fell down over her shoulders and back, long and straight black hair that now made her look entirely different.

Carl Johnson’s cock kept getting bigger as Martha Beckford pulled it in, and it resembled an accordion the way it kept stretching and contracting. The head of his cock kept going in and out from under the foreskin, and the knob of his tool not only was as big as a plum, but also had that hue to it.

Mrs. Beckford looked up at the garbage man over the top of her glasses and then leaned forward, opening her mouth wide and putting the head of that monstrous cock inside. As she did, I realized that I was leaning against the house and my face was almost against the screen. If either of them ever turned my way, they would see me, but I didn’t care because it was like I was hypnotized.

Carl Johnson was swaying as Martha Beckford’s wide open mouth slid up and down the end of his cock while her hands held the rest of it, continuing to pull on it. It looked like the garbage man had an erection, because her hands started to move easier as they pumped away.

That proved to be the case because when the Can Man pulled away from Mrs. Beckford, his schlong was standing straight out like a salami, the head of it wet with Martha Beckford’s saliva. I still hadn’t recovered from the shock of seeing old lady Beckford giving head when Carl Johnson helped her up and pulled the robe off of Martha’s shoulders and let it fall to the floor

When I got over the shock of seeing old Martha Beckford naked – and that took some time – I was stunned to see that, while it wasn’t a case of the Plain Jane suddenly becoming a knockout, the truth of the matter is that she didn’t look all that bad without her clothes.

Martha Beckford did not look nearly as bad what I would have imagined, IF I had ever actually fantasized about seeing her naked. I had spent most of my life picturing what just about every woman in the world looked like under their clothes, but I must admit that I had never mentally undressed Martha Beckford.

And there she was, standing naked in the middle of her kitchen, the palest white woman on the planet toe to toe with the blackest dude on earth. Martha Beckford was about a half foot taller than The Can Man as well, making them the oddest couple imaginable.

Although I would have bet against it, given how flat-chested she had always appeared, Martha Beckford had breasts – honest-to-goodness breasts – and while they weren’t very large, she actually did have tits. Grapefruit-sized globes that looked lost on her wide and lean frame, and they looked pretty firm when Carl Johnson big black hands started kneading them.

“Oh!” Martha Beckford moaned as the garbage man squeezed her tits, actually showing emotion for once, and while Carl kept working her tits over my eyes went down Mrs. Beckford’s body. She was very skinny, with her hip bones slightly visible, and her long legs were really thin as well, but my eyes were between her legs.

I had seen tits before and had gotten to play with three pairs of them, but I had never seen a real live pussy before, although I got my hand inside Rose Scaringe’s panties for the few brief glorious seconds of having my fingers in pubic hair that wasn’t mine.

Martha Beckford had a big bush, that much I knew from seeing pictures of other ones. The hair was black and grew in a wide V that probably fanned out beyond what her panties would have covered, and it grew so densely that I couldn’t see her opening through the forest.

The Can Man moved Martha Beckford back down to her knees, and she took up where she had left off, sucking his cock and pumping the shaft with her hands, although she took her right hand off of it almost right away.

Omigod! She was playing with herself! First old lady Beckford was squeezing her own tit, and then her hand went lower, disappearing into her bush. She was fingering herself while getting her jaws stretched by Carl Johnson’s tool. Carl seemed to be enjoying himself as well, rocking away and holding Martha’s head in his hands, and who could blame him?

It was then that I realized that I was playing with myself. My hand was in my pocket and I was very timidly playing with my stiff dick right there on the side of the Beckford’s house. There weren’t any neighbors on that side of her house, and there wasn’t much traffic on the road, but still and all, if somebody happened by and looked down the driveway they would see me.

I didn’t care. This was better than any dirty magazine. This was even better than watching that stag movie in Jack Slater’s basement that time because this was real, and the fact that I knew these people somehow made it even better. I wished that there was some way to tell the guys about this, so they could see it too, because they were never going to believe me when I told them.

On her knees, Martha Beckford was still working her hand around her pussy frantically, undulating and carrying on like she was possessed, slobbering all over that fat cock and stuffing as much of it as she could in her mouth.

That hoarse laugh of Carl Johnson’s startled me, and then I watched as he took his cock away from Mrs. Beckford, who continued to play with herself while the Can Man cackled.

“You want it bad, don’t you Martha?” Carl rasped, and Mrs. Beckford nodded, her mouth still open while he waved the fat log inches away from her face and chortled. “You want it real bad today!”

Carl Johnson touched her outstretched tongue with his cock, cackling as old lady Beckford kept leaning forward to try and get it, and then he started slapping her cheeks with his dick. I could hear the slapping sounds from where I was, and it was as if this was making Martha Beckford crazy, because she was babbling things I could not make out, almost like she was speaking in tongues.

“FUCK ME!”

Now THAT I could make out! Hearing those words come out of the puritanical Sunday School teacher would have bowled be over, if I hadn’t been watching her kneeling on the floor naked performing fellatio on the trash man, that is.

Carl Johnson laughed at that, and pulled Mrs. Beckford to her feet, her red knees matching her red face and standing out on her pale torso. Martha turned away from The Can Man and leaned over the kitchen table, bracing herself with her hands as the husky dude moved behind her, his black pole in his fist.

It was like the shorter man was climbing under Mrs. Beckford, who looked like a giraffe as she spread her legs. He jerked forward, and Martha Beckford let out a sound that seemed like she had gotten the wind knocked out of her. From then on, it really got crazy.

I didn’t know what making love was, but I didn’t think that this was it. This was more like two animals mating, with Carl Johnson rutting savagely into poor Mrs. Beckford, grunting gutturally every time their bodies crashed together, and almost lifting her off of her feet with every upward thrust.

As for “poor Mrs. Beckford”, it looked like she was pushing back into the The Can Man, making the collisions ever more brutal. The table was shaking so hard that things were tipping over and rolling onto the floor, and Mrs. Beckford’s glasses even went flying off as they humped like animals.

It went on and on, and the rhythmic grunting was only broken by Martha Beckford squealing like a pig at one point. Carl Johnson’s shower was a distant memory, as his body was dripping with perspiration, making his jet black skin glisten, and his sweaty body was pressed against Mrs. Beckford’s back as he just about mounted her, his hands milking her tits as they swayed below her.

Suddenly, Carl Johnson let out what sounded like a roar and moved a step back, spinning Martha Beckford around and down onto her knees again, holding his cock in his right fist and Mrs. Beckford’s hair in his left.

“ARRRGHHH!!!” cried the garbage man as he started cumming just before Mrs. Beckford’s mouth got there.

I saw a jet of cum spray her cheek before her lips covered the plum-like head, and could see her throat moving as she tried to swallow the ejaculations as fast as Carl Johnson was spitting them out.

The Can Man kept grunting as he thrust his hips toward Mrs. Beckford, and semen was drooling out of the corners of the Sunday School teacher’s mouth as it seemed she couldn’t swallow fast enough to handle it all. She choked a little, but would not stop sucking on his cock until it finally looked like he almost had to pull her off of it.

I should have left right then and there. I didn’t, for a couple of reasons. One was that I think I was in some sort of a trance, clearly dazed and confused about what I had seen. Not only the acts I had witnessed, but the unlikely cast of characters involved.

The second, and far more embarrassing reason, was that I was in the process of making a mess on the side of Martha Beckford’s house. I really don’t remember how it happened, but during the course of events, somehow my cock managed to slide out of the fly of my jeans, and I had been stroking it as Carl Johnson and Martha Beckford were fucking.

I was a little behind Carl, because I didn’t start cumming until he was pulling his deflating dick out of Mrs. Beckford’s mouth, but I was popping my load while savoring the sight of puritanical Martha Beckford on her knees naked with cum drooling down her chin.

As self-induced orgasms go, I fondly recall it as being one of the best, if not the very best I ever enjoyed. My body tingled from head to toe, and it must have been so good that perhaps I made a sound of some kind.

Anyway, the afterglow of my orgasm was short-lived, because I was still dripping semen when Carl’s hoarse laugh brought me back to earth. I looked up and saw Carl Johnson looking at me, with my head likely very visible through the screen.

The Can Man thought it was hilarious, and he got a real kick out of seeing that he had an audience. As for Mrs. Beckford – not so much. She looked in the direction Carl was pointing, and as she fumbled to put on her glasses it suddenly occurred to me that I was busted.

I wasn’t noted for being especially fleet afoot, but if there’s record for running through a patch of woods and across a street while putting your dick back in your pants, I broke it that day. Flying up the porch steps in two strides, I slammed the door behind myself and tried to catch my breath as I peeked out the curtains.

What was going to happen? I didn’t know what to expect. I suppose Carl Johnson coming over to kick my ass was a possibility, but I didn’t think so. He seemed to be fine with me acting like a pervert and spying on him, although he probably didn’t know that I had been pleasuring myself as I played Peeping Tom.

A more real possibility was Mrs. Beckford telling my parents when they got home, giving them the news that their son was a sicko. I think the old man would understand, but Mom would be a tough sell. She caught me looking through her underwear drawer years ago and still hasn’t forgotten that, so something like this could follow me to my grave.

So I stood and watched, staring down the road at the garbage truck still parked outside the Beckford house and waiting for something to happen. A half hour later, Carl Johnson came out from behind the house, looking happy and satisfied, and just hopped in the truck and drove away.

I was staring to think I was going to be okay, and was considering making a run for the ball field when I saw her. Martha Beckford. No longer in a bathrobe but in her prim and proper dress, looking right at my house, and then she was walking across the street right toward me, with a look on her face that sent a chill down my spine.

I locked the door as I tried to plan my next move. Out the back door? Just don’t answer the bell? Now the footsteps were coming up the stairs and a shadow appeared on the other side of the curtains.

She didn’t ring the bell, and instead knocked on the door, loudly. Again, and then again.

“Timothy?” I heard Mrs. Beckford say in her strict disciplinarian voice that used to strike fear in the hearts of all the kids in class on Sunday mornings.

Nobody called me Timothy, but in a way I was surprised she even remembered my name, since even though we were neighbors we rarely saw each other these days.

“Timothy? I know you’re in there,” she informed me as I cowered behind the curtains. “I can either talk to you or go down to the mill and speak to your mother.”

Shit. That was even worse, the thought of old lady Beckford going down to Mom at work and screaming about her perverted son in front of other people.

“What?” I said after opening the door a crack and trying not to make eye contact, and it occurred to me that now, having seen Martha Beckford with her clothes off, she looked different to me even through she was now fully dressed.

“I would like an explanation,” Mrs. Beckford said, obviously freshly showered and looking like she usually did instead of the way she had an hour ago.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t an explanation,” she informed me. “What gives you the right to trespass and violate my privacy?”

“I thought you might be getting robbed or something,” I mumbled while babbling on, “saw the truck and it isn’t garbage day…”

“Robbed? By who? Mr. Johnson? He’s a member of our congregation and an upstanding member of our community. Do you think that just because he’s a Negro he’s a thief?”

“No,” I said, and couldn’t help but wonder whether The Can Man ever told her that this was 1971, and the term Negro had been replaced by black?

“Perhaps your mother will be able to get a better excuse out of you than that,” Mrs. Beckford declared, and turned as if to leave.

“Maybe your husband would believe my explanation,”

I suggested, and when I saw that got old lady Beckford’s attention I kept going. “When he gets home tonight I’ll confess to him what I did.”

Martha Beckford glared at me, and I did my best to return her steely look, and after I surprised myself by not withering away she seemed to change her mind.

“You realize that what you did was against the law, don’t you Timothy?” she said coldly, but without the dramatic tone she had before. “I could press charges.”

“I know,” I agreed, and made an attempt at a kind of apology. “I never did it before and I won’t ever do it again.”

“Very well then. There is one thing though,” Mrs. Beckford added, and leaned closer to the door and lowered her voice, even though no one was around. “When you – abused yourself outside my kitchen window, you made a horrible mess on the siding.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled, and knowing she had found that and knew that I was jerking off out there was worse that the peeking part.

“As long as you clean it up, I will consider it all a closed issue. Is that acceptable?”

It was, and after I told her I would be over in a few minutes she seemed satisfied. After I closed the door I went into the kitchen and got a small bucket and some cleaning supplies, but just before I headed across the street I happened to look down and saw that the front of my shorts were also – stained – let’s say, a result of a too-quick holstering of my weapon in my haste to flee the scene.

I threw off my clothes and took a quick shower before putting on a tank up and a fresh pair of shorts. No sense going over there with the evidence of my activities so obvious. It was humiliating enough to have to crawl across the street as it was.

***

I had to admit that when I came all over the side of Martha Beckford’s house, it must have been one hell of a load, judging by the amount of dried semen that was on the brown siding. The stains also didn’t come out easy, and I had to repeatedly squirt the 409 on the stain to even begin to have the marks fade.

What the hell is in my cum to make this kind of stain, I wondered as I kept wiping and spraying the marks? Mom is good at getting stains out, I recall thinking. Maybe I should ask her what’s the best way to remove semen stains from aluminum siding.

I chuckled at that thought, but kept cleaning away, wanting to end this humiliation as soon as possible, as well as not wanting to have to face Mrs. Beckford again. When I finally got it clean, I straightened up and looked into the kitchen window again, but this time the room was empty.

“Still involved in voyeuristic activities, Timothy?” a familiar voice asked from around the corner of the house, and there she was, scowling away.

“No – I – er – wanted to tell you that I was finished,” I mumbled as I found myself on the defensive once again.

“Right. Of course you were,” Mrs. Beckford said sarcastically as she looked at my work. “I suppose that’s alright, although that part of the siding is now much cleaner than the rest.”

I shrugged, and thought that if she was suggesting I scrub her entire house to make it all match, she was crazier than I thought.

“Come inside, Timothy,” Mrs. Beckford. “Clean those toxic chemicals off your hands.”

I began to tell her that I could wash up at home but she was beckoning me with her bony fingers just like she did when she made me go to the blackboard, so I followed her inside.

Mrs. Beckford had me wash my hands at the kitchen sink, under her watchful eye, and after she handed me a towel she sat down at the kitchen table and waited for me to dry off.

“I realize that it must be very difficult for a child to understand adults sometimes,” Martha Beckford declared, bringing back more memories of Sunday School as she lectured me like I was still 9 years old. “Perhaps in time you will understand what you witnessed when you violated my privacy.”

“Uh – I’m not a kid anymore, Mrs. Beckford, I said, gently reminding her that back in 1963 I was 10, but this was 1971, figuring that she could do the math – but she seemed to be oblivious.

“Oh, I’m aware that you fancy yourself as being adult,” Mrs. Beckford said in her haughty tone. “One can’t help but notice that you even have developed secondary sexual characteristics.”

“Huh?”

“I’m referring to the fact that your have hair under your arms already,” she announced, gesturing grandly towards me. “I can see it.”

I glanced over at the hair peeking out from the armholes of my tank top and then looked at her in amazement. This old fossil must be out of her mind.

“You do too,” I said, recalling that when she was getting humped over the very table she was leaning on, I had noticed she didn’t shave her pits, making her look like one of the hippie chicks at school.

“I’m as the Creator made me,” Mrs. Beckford sniffed. “Altering that would reflect negatively on his handiwork.”

I shrugged, getting lost in her anatomy class becoming a theology lesson, and chose not to mention that it looked like she did shave her legs.

“Regardless of how you perceive yourself, one thing cannot be denied,” Mrs. Beckford continued. “When you abuse your body as you did earlier, that is a sin. Certainly you remember that lesson.”

“I guess,” I mumbled, trying to figure out a way to get out of this lecture ASAP.

“Is that something you do a lot?” Martha Beckford asked. “Abuse yourself? I’ve heard that you hippies are very much involved in that sort of thing.”

“Abuse? It’s not abuse,” I said, wanting to tell her that while I was doing it, abuse wasn’t involved. How I became a hippie eluded me as well, because while my hair was a little long, I was miles away from being Jerry Garcia.

“It is abuse in his eyes, Timothy,” Mrs. Beckford declared. “And you are ashamed of yourself, as you rightly should be. I can see it in your eyes.”

“Ashamed of being caught,” I mumbled into my shirt. “Not ashamed of doing it.”

“So you think that it is all well and good to expose yourself in public and do – whatever it is you do?” she huffed. “Thankfully I’ve never been witness to such a thing, and is this something you do at home all the time? Pleasure yourself whenever you want? In front of your mother?”

“Let’s leave my mother out of this,” I said, getting a little irritated. “Mothers and husbands have nothing to do with any of this.”

“You’ll forgive me,” Mrs. Beckford said. “I did not mean to disparage your mother. She’s a fine woman who always helps out at the church bake sale, and she – I always thought she was a good mother to her children.”

“She is.”

“I was never blessed with children,” Martha Beckford admitted. “Apparently that wasn’t to be my place in the plan, so I don’t understand children. I know that as our bodies change, we start thinking all of these demented thoughts. Dirty thoughts. We try to fight them – we must always try and fight them, and keep Satan out of our hearts and minds.”

“Sometimes, like today, we fail,” Mrs. Beckford confessed, and I watched her take off her glasses for a second and dry her eyes before putting them back on. “You failed, and I failed too. I failed horribly. I can only imagine what you must think of me after what you witnessed here today.”

“I dunno,” I said, although I really wanted to say that before today I had thought she was a dried out old bag who lived a boring life, but now thought she was kinda cool in a way, with a body that wasn’t half-bad.

“Mr. Johnson and I – we have our demons like everyone else, and we often meet to discuss our fight to remain pure,” Mrs. Beckford told me. “Sometimes, like today, we fail. Our minds waver and our bodies betray us, and before you know it, you end up fornicating.”

Fornicating?

“I – uh – guess I don’t know,” I stammered.

“I think you do Timothy,” Mrs. Beckford declared. “Since you fancy yourself a man, I assume that this is also something you and your fellow hippies do.”

“I’m not a hippie,” I said.

“Whatever you call yourself, we are all brothers and sisters in the end. So, is that what you often do?”

“Do what?”

“Fornicate. Take comfort in the pleasures of the flesh with girls – or other boys,” Mrs. Beckford said.

“Guys? Hell no,” I huffed.

“Please don’t swear in my home. Girls then. Do you have relations with them?”

I shrugged my shoulders, once again being overloaded with all of this hypocritical babble. I say hell in her kitchen and she gets upset, but a couple of hours ago she was screaming “Fuck me!” to a garbage man and that was okay?

“I take by your silence that you don’t do these things,” Mrs. Beckford said. “Is that true, Timothy? Are you saying that you are a virgin?”

“Virgin?” I sneered, but under Mrs. Beckford’s glare it didn’t come out the way I wanted, and after I shuffled my feet and hemmed and hawed, I guess I sort of answered the question without the need for words.

“That’s wonderful, Timothy,” Mrs. Beckford said, actually smiling and rejoicing in the revelation that while I had managed one blow-job and 3 hand-jobs from the opposite sex in my 18 years, fornication, as she called it, had eluded me.

Oh, I could have changed that last month, when a couple of guys I play ball with dragged me into the woods and said they had a surprise for me. They had gotten Marcy Catalano drunk and there she was naked and for the taking in the grass, and these guys thought this would be a good time for me to break my maiden.

I didn’t, of course, and got a lot of flack for not only refusing to take part, but for getting her dressed and making sure she got home safely. That was what the Tim Bakers of the world get, or so I figured, the joys of helping a semi-conscious girl stagger home, holding them upright while they get sick, and then baby-sitting with them until they become able to walk into their house under their own power.

“To be able to stay chaste in these times is a virtue,” Martha determined. “I may have underestimated you, Timothy. It must be very difficult to remain a virgin, seeing as how these girls these days walk around half-naked all the time, not even having the decency to wear brassieres.”

I shrugged my shoulders, not knowing what to say yet again.

“You know, you don’t have to be afraid of me,” Mrs. Beckford said softly, and then gestured for me to come closer to her.

I took a couple of steps closer, and when I got within reach she reached out at took my hand, her long, bony fingers grabbing my damp ones.

“I would like to help you – to help us both,” she said as her other hand reached over and grabbed my belt loop and pulled me closer until I was right in front of her. “It’s just that I’m very sore right now.”

I didn’t know what she meant by that, but when I looked down I saw her staring at my crotch, which was eye-level to Mrs. Beckford. I could see the grey roots at the part of her black hair, and then she was looking up at me.

“Forgive me,” she gasped, and I don’t know if she was looking at me or up above when she was speaking. “Forgive me. I try – please know I do, but I’m so weak. So very very weak.”

Then Martha Beckford was undoing my belt with those bony china-white fingers, one of them with a wedding ring attached, and after my belt came loose she was undoing my shorts and pulling them down.

What was I doing during this? Nothing. I remember looking toward the kitchen window, perhaps expecting The Can Man to be there looking at us. I also remember trying to get my dick to wake up, because while it was only average in size anyway, I was so scared that it felt it was trying to crawl into my body.

My underwear were coming down – clean underwear thankfully – and it was all I could do to figure out how to lift my legs to let Mrs. Beckford take the clothing from around my ankles. I felt so pathetic, not only for being so unable to act like a man – like Carl Johnson had just done – but for seeing Mrs. Beckford look at my shriveled dick, which was so puny in comparison.

“You’ve been blessed with a beautiful body, Timothy,” Mrs. Beckford was saying as my knees trembled under her touch. “You should fall to your knees every evening and give thanks for that.”

My dick was in Martha Beckford’s hand, and she was caressing it in her palm while her other hand reached below and stroked my balls, which were doing the turtle act as well.

“Forgive me,” she said again before leaning forward and making my peanut disappear into a warm and comforting place.

She’s doing it, I recall thinking as I looked down and saw Mrs. Beckford’s face nestled in the little tuft of golden brown curls above my dick. My cock was rolling around in her mouth, and as she sucked I felt myself come alive. It happened so fast I was tempted to shout out hallelujah or something, but within a minute my cock was hard.

“Look at you,” Mrs. Beckford was saying as her lips moved away from what had become 6″ of blue steel. “You ARE a man, Timothy. Thank you.”

I had no idea what she was thanking me for, because I was in the middle of what felt like the wildest roller-coaster ride I had ever been on. When Mrs. Beckford went back down on me, I came to realize that while my dick had been in Beth Kramer’s mouth once (and had enjoyed it very much), what Martha Beckford was doing bore no relation to Beth’s efforts.

Her lips plunged down the shaft, seeming to try and inhale my cock as she forced her mouth down hard around the stump, her head shaking back and forth like a puppy playing with a toy, and then her mouth would slide back up to the tip.

All the while my balls were still being played with, and since they had been loosened up in her warm palm while my nervousness evaporated, she was now pulling on a squeezable loose sac, milking it crazily while she gobbled up my dick.

I wanted to undo her hair from the bun it was in, so it would be wild and free as it had been before, but suddenly Mrs. Beckford was off of the chair she had been perched on the edge of, and was on her knees in front of me.

Now her hands were on my bare ass, her nails digging deep into my flesh as she pulled me close to her, and if I thought what she was doing to my cock was crazy, it paled in comparison with what followed.

Her mouth moved up and down the length of my cock so fast my head was spinning just watching her, and then she was lifting my dick out of the way to suck on my balls. First the left one, and then the right one went into her mouth sucking so hard that there was a loud popping sound when she let them go.

I think she might have tried to stick both of them in her mouth at some point before she went back to my cock. Her glasses were crooked on her face, and the lenses looked foggy as I looked down at Mrs. Beckford snorting and making weird noises while inhaling my cock.

I couldn’t have held back my orgasm if I tried, my knees buckling when I finally erupted in Martha’s mouth, and she was swallowing loudly while I came. My legs were barely able to hold me up as my orgasm washed over me, and Mrs. Beckford may have actually been holding me up at one point, so powerful was my orgasm.

“Oh!” I groaned as my dick withered in her mouth, but old lady Beckford kept sucking like I hadn’t even cum yet.

Certainly she had to have known that I had, because even if I didn’t cum as much as it felt like I had, my dick shriveling up must have given her a clue, but she didn’t stop. If anything, she got even more energetic, stretching out my flaccid pecker as far as she could each time she leaned back.

Her hands were still clawing my ass, but I felt them start to pry my cheeks apart. I almost knocked over the table when I felt her finger digging into my ass crack in search of my anus, and when she found it I cried out in shock.

She was making snorting and squealing noises, and I was groaning as I felt my rectum being probed by her bony finger. Since the sucking on my spent dick had started to become a bit uncomfortable, I was tempted to pull myself away from her, and if the prospects of anything like this ever happening to me again weren’t so remote I probably would have.

I didn’t, and then something happened. Her penetrating finger started to rub into someplace different, and the probing changed from intrusive to something indescribable. It felt so damn good all of a sudden that I found myself swaying around like a marionette on strings.

Perhaps a puppet would be a better description, because I was dancing with Martha Beckford’s finger playing the tune. My dick started to get hard again, and while it never got fully erect again, it got energized enough so that I felt myself hanging on the brink of an other orgasm for what felt like forever.

I think I was bouncing on my toes by then, pushing myself as far into Martha Beckford’s mouth as I could while I teetered on the edge, and I think I was babbling something myself as Mrs. Beckford tried to swallow my dick while it was still attached to me.

I came again, and although I don’t know if I really ejaculated all that much, the feeling was every bit as intense as if I did. Crouching over Martha, I was hugging her head as she siphoned what was left out of me, and then I was begging for her to stop because I was about to fall down or pass out, whichever came first.

“I’m sorry, Timothy,” she whimpered, and I found myself going down to the floor with her, hugging her and letting her cry on my shoulder as she kept apologizing, either to me or to a higher power.

“Can you ever forgive me?” Mrs. Beckford said after she gained a little self-control, and all I could do was nod as she cradled my head in her hands.

I said of course I could, and then she kissed me on my forehead, a sweet touch that reminded me of my Grandma. We got to our feet and after I stood there wondering what I should do, Mrs. Beckford picked up my underwear and shorts and untwisted them before handing them to me.

“See?” she said, watching me put my underwear on. “We try, but sometimes even our best intentions cannot overcome the demons within. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” I said, too busy wondering whether the ache in my balls was the result of my nuts being drained, or due to a permanent injury caused by being compressed in Martha Beckford’s oral vacuum.

“What has happened here today must never be spoken of again to anyone else,” Mrs. Beckford said, straighting out her dress and getting back into her usual self. “Especially your mother.”

“I know.”

“I would like you to come back over tomorrow, if that’s possible,” she asked. “We need to get ourselves straightened out, and discuss what has taken place here.”

“Sure,” I replied. “What time?”

“Any time after 8:45 in the morning will be fine,” Mrs. Beckford informed me and then stuck out her hand.

“Okay,” I said as I stuck my hand and shook hers, which struck me as a weird way to say goodbye after what had just gone on, and I wondered whether Can Man Johnson had gotten a handshake when he left.

I went back home the same way I had arrived earlier, and when I got home I went into the bathroom and examined my privates. My ass felt a little funny from that crazy probing, but that was fading away. My dick was pink but was still attached and my balls looked the same as they had as well. Any worry that there was damage done disappeared when I found myself jerking off after having trouble falling asleep later that night.

“Oh Martha,” I groaned just before popping a load into a tissue, imagining what Martha Beckford wanted to talk to me about the next day, and wondering if I should go.

To think that 24 hours earlier I had probably been doing the same thing, jerking off, only Martha Beckford had not been the inspiration then, and wouldn’t have been if the list of women had a million names. Now, she was all I could think about.