Minister's Wife (cues and Grandes)

The half-filled cup of hot coffee went straight off the dashboard and upside-down into Jerry's lap.

Lynn squealed in dismay – she'd just been reaching for the cup as she parked the university car in the motel lot late in the afternoon, post-meetings. Hitting a pothole at that precise instant didn't help. Part of her task was to squire him about the unfamiliar local area, both on and off campus. Now she'd probably scalded his crotch, not to mention terminally embarrassed both herself and, therefore, the entire school... and this after two days of such wonderful interactions.

Her job included "faculty development" – in which role she had located him weeks ago in her search for a specific consultant – someone with knowledge and talents the faculty clearly needed access to, but which seemed unlikely to exist in one person. She had gotten lucky, finding him! Her job had then become to get him here for a five-day visit with faculty and staff make ... to make all the arrangements, appointments, lunches, cajoling, publicity.

They had hit things off incredibly well, too – not just the two of them, but him and all the university folks. A very, very productive set of meetings. He was also funny and personable and witty, and very approachable. Now THIS!

She muttered her apologies, he pooh-poohed the whole business, but admitted he was awfully glad the coffee wasn't right out of the pot. They got out, he stood there soaked and dripping, gravity helping to spread the wet spot down his legs.

Much to her relief, he just laughed it off, told her that he had, after all, been enroute to take ten minutes to clean up – that was why they were here at his motel, wasn't it? He would just change in his room upstairs, and they could go off to the fish place she'd promised him for an early dinner – tonight was the only "no formal stuff" night of his visit, and she wanted to show off the best local restaurant.

In the lobby, she paused to let him go on up to his room alone, but he said "C'mon up. It won't take long, I promise not to be impertinent or attack you, and besides, you've asked me at least three times whether the accommodations are okay – which they are. But if you're going to keep sending people here, you ought to take a look at them for yourself!"

When she hesitated, he tugged her gently by the elbow. She looked about: the lobby was empty, not even anyone behind the desk, so she accompanied him. As the elevator door closed, it occurred to her that here she was, recently turned fifty, and this - THIS! - was the first time she'd ever gone into a motel with a man not her Hubby. For any reason. It felt quite, quite weird.

The room was plain-but-nice, a double queen, otherwise perfectly ordinary except for having a huge wall-mirror at the foot of the bed. Not much place to sit, no work-space. It was good that she'd come up with him, she decided - she'd have to fix the lack of desk – visitors needed desks, she was sure. His suitcase occupied one of the beds.

He patted the un-used bed, gestured for her to sit, said "See? I'm behaving myself, and the room is fine. Could use a desk, though."

Bingo! She'd been right.

"I'll just duck into the bathroom here and take care of the little accident. No big deal."

The door shut behind him, and there were trouser-removal noises, followed by running water. She was about to say something when his muffled voice came out – "Just so you know I'm not a purebred academic idiot, the answer is YES, Mommy, I most certainly am using COLD water, and no soap yet!"

She grinned into her reflection in the wall-mirror – that was exactly what she had been thinking of telling him. That made twice in two minutes their thoughts had meshed perfectly - and that sort of parallelism had been going on all damn day as well.

Waiting, she stared at herself in the mirror, sitting there cross-legged in her pleated skirt and white boat-necked blouse. Fifty. Slender, narrow-hipped despite four kids in rapid-fire succession long ago. All gone, married now. She was a grandmother three times over already, good GOD! Nice brown hair, well and inconspicuously tinted. At least she didn't look harried, even after the longish and very busy day. She pointed her foot, studied her calf – properly exercised, calves didn't age much, she thought – hers were still nice and tight. Running was good for such things, stoking one of the little personal vanities that she tried not to expose too much to the world.

The water noises continued, and she went into a leg-bouncing reverie of self-study and reminiscences. Raised in a strict religious family, but with a good education. Married at 17 to her first sweetheart, a boy (not a man) ten years her senior and so utterly intent on "the ministry" that they had arrived at their wedding night literally without so much as a heavy kiss, much less petting, or (god-forbid!!) any real sexual contact. Or even thoughts, probably. She couldn't remember too clearly, that was a long time ago.

Hubby, it turned out, was just as virginal as she – not exactly a prude (close though!), but he was neither very interested in, nor very adroit at, any and all things sexual. Sexual activities always had to be in the dark – she could count on fingers and toes the number of times she'd ever seen him actually naked.

Despite all that, they'd certainly managed sex often enough – the four kids testified to that – but it was entirely momma-poppa stuff, no adventures beyond straight old plain missionary intercourse. In fact, the most important part was the cuddling before and especially after.

She was quite proud of herself, actually – she knew what an orgasm was, and every once in a while Hubby's fumblings could produce what she had nicknamed her "Petite Lightning". And a few times, never with him but usually in a strange shower or bathtub while they were on travel, there were the enormously powerful and therefore scary "Grande Lightnings" – those rarities always snuck up on her unexpectedly and left her wondering why she was still conscious and breathing.

Lynn did wonder, occasionally, how her experiences might compare with those of friends. Of course, within her lifelong role as The Minister's Wife (always capitalized, please!), there were precious few people with whom she could have compared notes even if she were inclined (which she wasn't – everything sexual was so private!), hence she wasn't all that well versed on other peoples' experiences. But still and all, she'd done okay for herself, and together she and Hubby seemed to have had a good if low-key sex life.

A 'good-enough' situation up until about two years ago, when Hubby's back, long ago seriously injured in a motorcycle mishap and never fully rehabilitated, had gone out with a vengeance as a result of a swing at a golf-ball of all things. It had gone out so thoroughly and so painfully that he'd been unable to sleep most nights since, and one result was an abrupt drop to zero of their limited sex life.

A long time, two years!

Then six weeks ago, two weeks before her fiftieth, she had stayed at home one day to catch up on housework. She wandered into Hubby's study, a space which by mutual unstated agreement she didn't often violate – the same applied to him and her sewing/art space. A drawer of his desk was ajar, and as she reached to shut it, she noticed the pile of picture magazines inside. Curious, she opened the drawer – for long seconds, she couldn't figure out what the magazines were, even though the cover photos were totally explanatory – not to mention the title. "Blacks on Blondes", volumes 3, 4, 5, many. There were a lot of issues.

After the first shock wore off, she picked up one and leafed through it. The theme was obvious, repetitious, and frankly quite unimaginative. Genuinely BIG black men, most looking like pro football players in very good shape, fucking tiny little blond women. Black men with hardons so big it was nearly unbelievable. Many, perhaps MOST, were at least twice as long as her Hubby's cock, twice the girth, eight times the volume – how did these men have an erection like that and still have enough blood volume to stay conscious? she wondered. Or maybe they were all cock and peanut-brained, so they could spare the blood?

That was unkind, she told herself – quit it!

Photo spread after photo spread, huge black men always paired with tiny little blond white women. Very young women, especially. Maximum possible contrast in size, color, presumably in social position as well. And other commonalities ran through the mags – the women's pubes were almost always shaved, as were those of most of the men. Presumably – she got coolly analytical, knowing that if she didn't stay in that mode she was going to be VERY upset – presumably they were shaved to improve the visibility of where they came together as they fucked. And at least half of the photos were of those huge cocks deeply embedded in some girl's bottom. THAT, it took several seconds to figure out. But all it took to prove she had it right were the photos of women with two cocks inside them, one in their pussy, the other deep in their in bottoms. Or three – one each in pussy, butt and mouth. If anything, the oral pictures showed off the disproportionate sizes best.

Despite the hugeness of the men, the women in the photos, whether one-on-one or sandwiched between two relative giants, didn't seem to be in pain, either. That was bizarre – most of the women were actually physically smaller than Lynn, yet their bodies were letting those huge penises inside without any apparent difficulty. She wondered whether every woman was capable of such acts? Obviously, it would take practice or training, but could just ANY old woman eventually – given the training and various easily-imaginable incentives - manage it? How about herself? What a question!

Lynn let herself go emotionally after a couple of magazines – let herself actually see the photos and react to them. With that, she was pissed, instantly.

And, completely unexpectedly, she could feel through her anger that her nether lips were suddenly magnificently wet. That observation she pushed aside, in order to concentrate on the anger, and the problem of Hubby and these magazines – why? Wasn't she enough to satisfy him? What did he DO with these things? Masturbate in spite of his bad back, with his mind full of imaginings? She was so angry, and disappointed in him, and also with herself in some unclear way, that she started to shake. Finally, teary eyed, she carefully went to replace the mags.

Behind them in the drawer she spotted three VCR tapes: she almost didn't pull them out, but something inside her insisted. The topmost one was entitled "The Dark Brothers do Debby" – complete with a label picture of four big black men grinning into the camera as they cuddled a tiny naked blond white girl. Lynn shook her head, then determinedly marched over to the TV/VCR player, inserted the tape.

She stood there watching, partly amused, partly horrified, partly grim. No plot, not even an attempt – inside three minutes, the girl was sandwiched between two of the men, the screen filled to bursting with closeup after closeup of two near-baseball-bat sized cocks sliding into her. A classically cheap porno flick – dubbed moans of pleasure that seemed utterly disconnected from the action. But the girl was actually accommodating the men well, and even showed an occasional flash of apparently-real enjoyment. After a couple more minutes, verging on being bored by the tape, Lynn rewound it, killed the TV, replaced the tape in the drawer.

Lynn left the office truly rattled. What to do? What to do, indeed. After a long walk and much thought, she decided "nothing." She couldn't imagine what an "appropriate" response or action might be. Doing nothing was better than doing the wrong thing, whatever indefinable mystery THAT might be.

So she went grocery shopping. Purely displacement activity.

It was in the vegetable section that a sudden twinge hit her deep in the belly, almost taking her breath away. Cukes. Big, solid, shiny-slippery dark-green cucumbers, in a pile. Not all that different in size and shape, were they, from those huge cocks on the men in the magazines?

She stared at them, glanced about. She was alone for the moment, shopping was light today. Zucchinis. Yellow squashes. Dried salamis! Old-fashioned hot-dogs! Not to mention bananas. There were phalluses everywhere, if one chose to look! And the long thick English cucumbers in their plastic coats, just like cocks in condoms, like in the magazines.

She fondled them, contemplating. Could she learn something from all this? Almost in a daze, she picked out several nicely shaped vegetables. And in even more nearly a daze, she pushed her cart through the "personal supplies" section that every modern supermarket section had – "feminine supplies" and suchlike. Mostly condoms, actually. Condoms and lubes. For years she had seen the ads for the super-slippery lubes: easy to locate on the shelf, they were far more expensive than she expected - $10 for a VERY small supply.

At the checkout counter, she was suddenly embarrassed – couldn't the girl tell what was on her mind? It seemed pretty obvious, from inside her own suddenly-guilty brain. Thank goodness it was a female clerk! But there wasn't a flicker of interest from the girl.

At home she unloaded the groceries and put them away... all save the cukes and the zucchinis. She eyed them. Hubby would be home at dinner time, 6:30, and it was only two. She made up her mind – or, more precisely, let herself put into action the plan she had hatched just at the edges of her subconscious.

If he wanted to fantasize about other women, well, SHE could play the same damned game in her own way. Just watch her!

It took much longer than she expected to completely shave her crotch. It was a LOT more work, and much more difficult than it seemed like it should be... things down there between her legs were so slippery they were hard to hold onto. Also hard to see, to reach with her little razor. And it clogged up so bloody fast from all the long hair. Maybe she should have trimmed it first with scissors or something? But it was also a bit of fun – she had to admit, long before she was satisfied with the shave, that not all the slipperiness had to do with water and shaving foam. Nowhere near all of it!

The hardest thing was trying to leave a tiny little patch, like some of the women in the photos... a little isolated patch of forest atop a smooth, prominent rise. If those damned photos indicated what now turned on Hubby, well, maybe. just maybe, she should follow along.

She rinsed, dried, then studied herself in the mirror. Small tits, big nipples – years of nursing four hungry kids had thickened them, but not changed their sensitivity. Increased it, if anything. God, how she had loved the sensations, the emotions, of nursing! Teacup tits, yielding to gravity, but still, she though, not all THAT bad. Never before had she analyzed herself this way – it was a VERY odd thought pattern. She had always wished for bigger, more solid boobs – after all, that was what men were supposed to like in today's sex-saturated society, but... Oh well.

Belly flat, still, with strong stretch marks from the pregnancies, but no excess skin, no flab. No jodhpurs, either. And she had to admit that her shaved crotch was, well, different to the point of cuteness in an odd way. Perhaps she could understand why a man might easily like it so – but it did make her look disturbingly like a preadolescent girl, down below the waist. Of course, her boobs put the lie to that instantly, but it was still an intriguing thought. Perhaps men really liked the bare-pubes look for that reason, the little-girlness of it? Even her Hubby?

A shiver went through her. Could all this mean he was a potential (or real?) child molester? Given his intimate access to lots and lots of kids, she shivered again and hoped not, couldn't really think about it, it was too horrible an idea.

She threw a big towel on the bed, laid out three zuchs and her two cukes – one long cellophane-coated English, one standard American, size LARGE. It glistened with grocery-oil. Then she rolled the big cheval-glass mirror over beside the bed. She was really free-wheeling now. She knelt on the towel, studied the vegetables, looked at herself in the mirror and blushed from hairline to toes, then immediately berated herself for it.

The cuke was HUGE! Way too big. Way, way, way! What the blazes had she been thinking of, anyhow? Eyes bigger than her – her what? Her vagina or her rectum, she supposed. That was a switch on the old saying, wasn't it! She giggled at herself for that one, as she picked up the smaller zuch. She looked at it for a long time, contemplated putting all the greenery into the fridge and dropping the entire exercise, but a sudden spasm shook her and she decided to proceed.

She began with a zucchini, plus lube. The lube was the slipperiest stuff she had ever touched – it would hardly stay on the zuch at first. The tiniest bit went an incredible way. Why was she suddenly actively HORNY, instead of just pissed off? First, into the pussy – beginning with the reasonably-familiar. There was a dull ache deep inside there, and maybe the zuch would help? The squash was no bigger than her husband's cock, she was sure of that. It should fit – in front, anyhow.

It did.

Odd, not the right texture, but interesting. More than interesting, rather nice, definitely exciting. She could feel it rub across the end of her womb as she settled on it. Unsatisfying, but interesting. She raised up, watched her reflection in fascination as her body slowly, gently expelled the shiny-wet intruder onto the towel.

The big cuke was next. First, into her pussy, where with some care and slight effort it just barely fit, cool, harder than she expected, filling her to just short of discomfort. The stretching spread her outer lips wide, popped her clit up into plain view. Cute! She stroked it, shivered, then slid the cuke back out. It took some seconds for her pussylips to settle back down.

More lube, and she pressed the big cuke's tip firmly against her anus. Odd feeling – and NO WAY JOSE was it going inside. How did those women do such things? She upended the vegetable against the mattress, then squatted down onto it – despite the pressure, her bottom didn't yield. She raised up, studied the vegetable, applied more lube to the smaller tip, set it upright again, with narrow end uppermost. She straddled, adjusted, let gravity do the work, studied things. That felt more realistic, but still her body resisted – certainly there was a vaguely pleasant stretching, but equally certainly no entry.

She tried for a minute: for two – it was interesting, the view in the mirror, the big green object trying to get inside her and failing. Why in the world was she so frustrated? All this was utterly unnatural, totally at variance with her whole life's experience. Regardless, her belly was in more than a little turmoil - she really, really needed some sort of penetration.

She laid the cuke aside, picked up the English cuke, giggled at the condom-cockedness of it, slathered on the lube. At almost 20 inches, it was WAY too long to be realistic, in diameter about halfway between the zuch and the cuke, considerably bigger than Hubby, yet nowhere near the size of those black cocks in the mags... but it was too long to just upend on the bed and then sit down on.

Down on her chest she went, on her knees with her butt in the air. Very cat-in-heat looking, the pose. Behind herself, she held the glistening green tube, found the right spot, pressed. There was something MUCH more appropriate to the exercise in this position. She let herself imagine, briefly, one of the big, attractive black men, on his knees behind her, prodding at her – some of the men HAD been attractive in addition to simply huge.