He felt slightly sick, out on the bay teaching the kids how to sail. He felt out of it, like he was suddenly too old to take part in fucking young girls. He felt almost as if he would like to slip over the stern and let the ocean envelop him, as if he wanted to fuck the ocean and sink deep into it and never come up.
But when the kid who was fanning the tiller came about suddenly and nearly capsized the boat, Rick grabbed the rod and righted the craft, knowing he didn't want to fuck the ocean at all. That was for losers. He wanted to win. But how?
Chapter 6
Old Mrs. Simpson's idea of a love bed was a single flowered sheet draped over a daybed in the basement rec room of her summer home.
"How do you do?" she asked, shaking Rick's hand at the door as if he were a visiting salesman. She did all of her shopping at home, from clothes to groceries to automobiles. The salesmen brought their suggestions to her and she wrote out lists for them in a cramped, laborious handwriting. She shopped for men the same way. Rick's appointment had been arranged by Elizabeth Cruise, who had become such an ardent advocate for the sale of his prick that he began to think she was getting a commission. He would have liked to have delivered the commission himself, because he was already tired of slack skin and sagging breasts. He would have appreciated even the loose firmness of Elizabeth's body again, and he remembered with fondness the way her thirty-five-year-old breasts still had a lot of life as opposed to the dry, often withered tits of some of his customers.
Mrs. Simpson led him to the rec room, holding firmly to the handrail as she negotiated the stairs. A fall at her age could easily break a hip and Mrs. Simpson knew from bitter experience that old bones mend slowly.
"Please wait," she said. She selected a sheet from the wall closet, began to spread it over the daybed. She looked at Rick again, as if studying his coloring, then back at the sheet. It was covered with fields of yellow daisies. She looked back at Rick, then calmly, taking her time, folded the sheet and returned it to the closet. She returned with one covered with wild strawberries.
She wore only a pink robe, silk, with a white-trimmed ruffle around the neck and wrists. It gathered where she had tied it in front and swept to the floor. She seemed to glide, slowly and carefully, across the floor without moving her feet.
She asked' Rick to disrobe, please. She was a shy woman, and looked away while he took off his clothes.
Nothing happened to his prick, even when he was stark, bare-ass naked.
She turned around when he was finished and studied his body. She blinked. "Would you turn around, please?"
He did so.
"Thank you. Now, please follow me." She led him into the bathroom where a steaming tub of water waited. "Sit right down in that water, young man. It's good for you."
So Rick sat down, the suds reaching to his arm pits. He felt silly as hell, but Mrs. Simpson kept a serious, almost stern, expression on her face and he resisted his impulse to laugh.
Holding a washcloth decorated with strawberries in one hand and a bar of soap in the other, Mrs. Simpson began washing, soaping, washing and soaping. Up over his back, over his shoulders, down his arms, into his arm pits, between his fingers, tickling down his ribs, into the water to wash his thighs, his legs, scrubbing his knees as if he was a recalcitrant child who did nothing but scruff his knees in the road all day. She held his feet out of the water and scrubbed them, down into the furrows between his toes.
By now Rick was enjoying the process and relaxed in the thick foam, the hot water. His body began unwinding from all the tensions of having to keep a hard dick for old ladies he did not really even like.
After his first session with Mrs. Witherdine, he had spent an entire morning with her neighbor, the widow Stone. Widow Stone grew roses as a hobby, something she had taken over from her husband when he died, along with his wealth. She had hated the roses when he was alive because he spent more time with them than with her, but after his death she had become as enamored of them as he had ever been. She enjoyed pouring rose petals over Rick's crotch from a silver vase as soon as he reached full erection and then, with Rick's head hanging over the other side of the bed so he could not watch, she would slip three or four petals into her mouth, wrap the head of his cock with another, and go down on him taking roses and cock into her mouth at the same time.
Mrs. Foley, who lived in the other direction, only liked to be fucked standing up in the kitchen, with her maid pounding on the door in a phony attempt at breaking up the union. Mrs. Foley liked to pretend that she was the maid performing illicit acts while the mistress, played by the real maid, was incensed but helpless on the other side of the door.
Mrs. Morris, as Rick slipped his vaselined cock in and out of her dry hole, kept crying, "I'm too old, I'm too old." Rick had had to close his eyes and imagine Jenny Roman's tanned legs and the wonderful white shorts she had been wearing before he could get off with that one.
He had been back at Mrs. Witherdine's several times, the fucking there increasing in pleasure as they got better acquainted. She had accepted at last the idea that he would enjoy eating her and she let him dive into her muff the last time and he was surprised at how much he really did enjoy it. Mrs. Witherdine had mouthed him as well, but she had yet to allow him to get his rocks off in her mouth. He thought she might go that far the next time, and he knew that if he could come in her mouth she would be far more generous than she already had been. And so far she had been exceedingly generous.
Just as Rick was beginning to drift off in Mrs. Simpson's tub, she instructed him to stand. "I have to wash your ass, don't I?" she asked.
He knelt, like a dutiful son, while Mrs. Simpson soaped the cloth and rubbed it over the cheeks of his ass, then, timidly but forcefully, she made a quick pass through the crack and against his ass hole.
"Now," she whispered, "I have to wash your front, too. That gets dirty, too, don't forget."
So Rick let her wash his crotch. She soaped her hands until they were covered with lather, then she wrapped both sets of fingers around his balls, sliding out to the end of his prick that was mildly excited, like a new rubber hose that was almost firm but certainly could not stand by itself.
She began mumbling, like a chant, "I have to wash this. I have to wash this fucker. It's going to fuck girls, all kinds of them. Going to get hard and stay hard and fuck girls in their cunts, their ass holes, under their arms. Between their fits. Going to get hard and fuck all those girls. Going to fuck their mouths, too. The girls are going to touch it, pet it, kiss it, suck it, going to let it go up their cunts and get all covered with their wetness. It's going to come in them, shoot all its white stuff out of these balls… "
She kept chanting her litany, mumbling, as she soaped his balls and his cock, soap sliding down his thighs into the water. She slid her hand between his legs to wash his ass again, back out the length of his cock that because of her ramblings and stroking had gotten bard at last.
When Mrs. Simpson thought it was clean enough, she rinsed it with cool, glean water, helped Rick out of the tub and rubbed him dry with a towel. Afterwards she stretched him out on the daybed, on the strawberry sheet, and rubbed his body with talcum powder.
He was as clean as he had been the first day of his life, when the nurse handed him pink and crying to his mother.
His erection went away after awhile and. when he was completely dry and powdered, Mrs. Simpson handed him his clothes and fifty dollars and left the room; He let himself out of the house.