Mrs Harts Ache Ch 01

This is a simple tale of retribution, wherein a young man teaches the mother of his girlfriend a few manners while enjoying a few adventures - sexual and otherwise - along the way.

Here we meet our hero, James Masterson. He's a handsome young devil with an eye on the ladies - of all ages, from eighteen to - well, you'll see.

He's smart, confident and well-experienced too.

But now, he has been confronted with a woman that seems to require a bit of discipline.

Not to worry - he can handle it...

Mrs. Hart's Ache

I Eighteen Is A Very Good Year

Mrs. Veronica Hart had been pissing me off for a couple of months now. She was about to begin paying for it.

Big Time.

Her daughter, Missy is the girl of any guy's dreams: 18 years old, about 5'7", and maybe 115 in her itty bitty thong bikini.

Missy has everything:

* A fresh, girl-next-door face with a sweet demeanor and a dazzling smile.

* A lithe, athletic body with tanlines defining small, strategic patches of creamy white skin.

* Girl-firm, conical breasts that stand out from her chest and that quiver slightly when she walks (a true 34D plus a pinch for those lusciously puffy pink nipples).

* A 21" waist flaring to gently curved hips and down again to tight thighs, shapely calves and slender ankles.

* A deliciously compact little butt that sits high and tight atop those long dancer's legs, with curved cheeks that fit very nicely in my cupped hands.

* Emerald green eyes that with a glance can melt any guy to a quivering mound of jello.

* Long, naturally wavy hair of that particularly lustrous auburn shade which can't be bottled.

* Best of all, it is a complete package: there's a razor-sharp brain behind that lovely façade.

Missy's the soloist in the school chorus. She speaks Italian with a Tuscan accent. Tutors calculus. Slaloms (pick the skis or board). Plays Scott Joplin ragtime, Tom Grant tunes and Mozart concertos on the piano with equal verve. Loves the Three Stooges. Placed second in State on the Balance Beam.

She also has the kind of shy, sweet demeanor that makes this guy's heart pound, most definitely. There's not a jealous or bitchy bone in her body. And best of all, for reasons that I cannot fathom, she loves my ass.

I know that because she told me so the first time she went down on me.

Her mother Veronica is the Chairman and CEO of one of the slicker high fashion magazines. She got bored after having Missy, and decided to spend some of his money. Now she's wealthy in her own right. Their house and grounds are everything that money can buy: political connections, gated community, live-in servants and a circle of the "right" sort of friends.

You know: the "important" things in life.

Missy's dad, George, is the Senior VP (Acquisitions) for an international conglomerate. He spends a lot of time traveling.

My mother is an ICU/Surgical Nurse (RN), originally from Australia.

My dad is a recently retired MCPO (AM) USN.

Dad's the size of a Mack truck and the disposition of a poet. He's a thirty-year Navy Airedale who wooed and won the love of his life. From then on, he took his beloved wife and, eventually, their young son with him whenever he could.

Time out.

When he was (as he says) a young and stupid third class, he was a plane captain aboard a carrier on Yankee Station in the Gulf of Tonkin. One afternoon his pilot, a young Lieutenant, brought in their very sick Phantom after a rough Strike mission up North. There were 23mm flak holes everywhere. The RIO, a JG on his third mission, was down for the count with a sucking chest wound. The pilot had to bring it in.

When the hook failed to deploy, the F-4 took the barrier. The left engine was burning beneath the crew. The Rescue Crew was a little slow that day. That was their third emergency in about as many minutes. Dad was the first man up the side.

He popped the canopy, yanked the dazed pilot out bodily and tossed him into the arms of the Rescue Crew, now coming up fast. Then he pulled the unconscious RIO from his seat and passed him down with more care.

At that point he says he'd used up all of his luck. He jumped to the deck just as the cockpit floor burned through, setting off the ejection seats.

Dad nearly broke his ankles, and did get his hands and face singed (second degree burns), plus a hole in his shoulder from flying debris. Everybody lived. What was left of the still smoking jet went over the side. Quick, before anything else bad happened.

The ship's Safety Officer was royally pissed. He was a JG ring-knocker who had bombed out of Flight Training. He said that dad had no business getting up ahead of his Rescue Crew. (True.)

The Master Chief running the flight deck testified that the only reason the flight crew was alive was because a young sailor showed initiative and reacted quickly. (Also true.)

The squadron CO (a Commander), the CAG (a Captain), the ship's Captain (a deep-dip Rear Admiral-selectee) and the COM 7th Fleet (a Vice-Admiral and a mustang) had all witnessed the action from various vantage points on the island. All wore the wings of gold.

They all read the Safety Officer's preliminary report. None would endorse it. Then the admiral had a discussion with him. The discussion was brief and very one-sided. The Safety Officer wrote the official report shortly thereafter, one which was endorsed by all.

Dad got a medal - the CO used the Safety Officer's official report as the recommendation - thirty days basket leave and a spot promotion to Second Class.

Oh, that Safety Officer got somewhat of a promotion too shortly thereafter. Unfortunately for him, it came as a transfer to an ammunition ship as Damage Control Assistant.

That's the officer (Assistant to the ship's Captain) directly responsible for fighting fires and the like aboard ship. Fighting a fire in the cargo hold of a ship loaded with ammunition - while everyone else aboard is manning the lifeboats - is not the most sought after job in the Navy.

The job of DCA on an ammunition ship goes by tradition to the young officer who most displeases the occupant of the flag quarters. You know: the guy with the shiny gold stars on his shoulder boards.

As DCA, he eventually made Lieutenant, but was passed over for LCdr. He went on to fame and fortune as a twice-divorced insurance salesman in Fresno.

Meanwhile dad worked hard and played hard. He advanced through the ranks, making all the right moves. He kept in touch with the pilot and the RIO, even after the RIO left the service. Dad was dedicated sailor. He was also a very dedicated bachelor.

You know the old saw about sailors? Dad lived it. He had girls in every port, many eager to become Mrs. Sailor. But none managed to slip a ring on his finger. He'd seen far too many military marriages steam south, leaving havoc in the wake. More importantly, he hadn't met the right woman.

Then one day he checked in to a new squadron, and went to the hospital to drop off his records. There he met The Right Woman. As Dad tells it he walked through the doors and got smacked between the eyes with a five-foot-two and 105-pound blue-eyed, blond-haired angel with an Australian accent.

Mom says when he first looked into her eyes, she could hear, not bells, but the distant echoes of women wailing. From that moment Dad was forever off the market.

He was a seasoned thirty-two-year-old CPO. She was a civilian nurse just twenty-six, originally from Perth. A month later, they were married. Mom says she was pregnant about twenty minutes after making the honeymoon suite.

So voilá, here I am.

The pilot now has four stars and is next in line for CNO, while former the RIO is currently the senior Senator from this state in DC. They're also my godfathers, so I guess you might say that my family has connections too.

Dad and mom now run their own little maintenance operation at the local airpark. They hold hands whenever they're out together.

I grew up aboard Navy Bases on both coasts and around the world. Dad says that I've had the best kind of education. I agree. I started flying lessons when I was twelve. Since then I've logged about 500 hours. I'm currently certified commercial and multi-engine, working on jets.

By the way, my name is James Masterson. James to my friends. Only my mother gets to call me Jimmy.

Time in.

Missy and I had known each other for about a week. That day we were lounging around her pool after school. I had on a new pair of baggys and she had on a tiny little neon blue thong bikini that kept getting stuck in my eye.

Damn! That girl can

wear

a bikini!

We did a couple of laps together, then had an impromptu swan dive competition. Each of us insisted the other had won. We toweled off and laid in the sun just gabbing about things. After a bit she offered me a soda. Of course I said yes. She tugged my arm, pulling me up from the lounger, into the caba¤a and out of sight of any prying eyes. In the cool half-light, she stepped up to me, slipped her arms around my neck and tilted her head back, begging for a kiss.

I obliged.

We kissed for a few minutes while I massaged her bare asscheeks. But when I cupped her head and pushed my tongue through her sweet lips, she moaned and pressed herself against me, molding her half-naked body to mine. Her arms tightened around my neck. Her gorgeous tits flattened against my bare chest. My cock began to rise and thicken against her mound. Mr Snake smelled PUSSY!!!

Time out.

Now I may be just 18.

(Yeah I know. I'm young. But I can't help it. That's the way God made me. Besides, young doesn't always mean inexperienced. I've got more 'experience' than guys twice my age.)

But have this thing. I can't explain it, but it's real: I can pick up vibes from people, particularly women and I

know

. It's like I can see into their subconscious. Missy, whether she knows it or not, is at heart a submissive. Don't get me wrong. In her everyday life, she comes across as a strong and confident young lady. But underneath it all, she craves domination.

I am just the guy to give it to her.

Before you get all bent out of shape, let me say that I am not one of those macho assholes who get their kicks beating on women. I can give you a list of girls (for that matter, a range of females from my age to forty-something) all of whom believe that I'm one of the nicest guys they know.

The first trick is to find out what motivates the lady. Then you decide whether or not you are willing to pay that price. If so, you give it to her in spades: whole-heartedly, holding back nothing. She will be thrilled.

The second trick is harder. It is the ability to concentrate. I learned it from my sensei. To be successful at anything, you must have the ability to focus completely on your objective. It doesn't matter whether you're executing a strike, hitting an iron shot, or kissing a woman. I'm good at the focus thing.

The third trick isn't really a trick. It's so basic, that most guys overlook it: I know how to kiss. Most guys approach a girl like a large-mouth bass going after a minnow. You know, they close their eyes, open their mouths and latch on like a suction cups. Then they stick their tongues down the girl's throat like their counting her tonsils by Braille.

Ehhhhggg. Wrong! You lose!

Kissing is an art. It's as intimate as having sex. A girl's lips can bruise easily. There are times when the lady wants to really suck face. But not always. Believe me, if you take your time and show some tenderness, she'll let you know when.

Three women, all of independent means in their late 30's / early 40's, have each asked me to move in with them. Other's have chosen to be submissive to me. A couple of them have named me 'Master'.

No brag; just fact.

Hell, even the dykes like me. The local chapter of one of the national lesbian rights group adopted me as their brother 'sister' after I beat the shit out of three redneck yahoos out on a big night.

I took a night course in Astronomy last term at the local college. Late one night after class I came across Larry, Moe and Stupid in the parking lot with a young coed spread out across the hood of her car.

She knew one of them slightly. One of those brother of a friend of a friend things. He knew that she was a lesbian.

Apparently they were convinced that a stiff dick or three would change her religion. Erin is small. Her cheek was bruised. She was struggling as best she could though out-weighed by a bunch.

The hosers had their dicks out, scratching their heads, trying to figure out how to work the zipper on her jeans. None of them saw me coming.

Soon Larry was on the deck, lights out after using his head to cave in the quarter panel of his truck...

Moe was writhing on the ground screaming and clutching at his leg, but desperate not to move it. He was crying real tears. His kneecap sure looked odd turned sideways...

Stupid, the big guy, had a knife. But somehow he managed to plant the blade hilt deep in right cheek of his own lard-butt. Imagine that. At the same time, his arm got twisted out of its socket, thereby destroying any chance he had for a pitching career in the penitentiary league.

So sorry.

After the dust settled, the Erin's Saphic sisters decided to make me an honorary member. Erin told me that the vote was unanimous. I went along with it 'cause it fits my twisted sense of humor. I'm listed as "Jamie" Masterson on their rolls, in deference to some twit at the national office.

She called it "being Politically Correct". I call it prejudice against males. That her name is 'Michael' might be a clue.

Larry, Moe and Stupid are lucky they got put away, out of reach. Three of my new friends, Cora, Marti and Maxine are all bigger than I. Each out-weighs me by at least fifty pounds. If those ladies had been on the scene, they would have fed the boys their own testicles. Literally. Maxine is a very big girl.

As it is, I've heard vague rumors that those three have a special party planned for the boys when they are released. I don't know, getting gang-raped in the ass with the largest strap-on dildoes to be found by three hulking butch dykes isn't my idea of a great time. Particularly if at the same time the guest of honor is forced to suck on the severed end of his own dick. My crystal ball says that Moe will be bawling again soon.

Anyway, I'm an honorary lesbian. We joke about it: I'm the only lesbian they know with a non-plastic penis and functional testicles. You should see the strange looks I get when I ride with my sister Dykes on Bykes in the Gay Pride parade.

I'm the one with a hairy chest.

Let's put it this way: I'm young. I'm intelligent (180 IQ, a 4.0 student, and not just because I've laid more than a few of the teachers and half the staffs of the schools I've attended). I'm a computer nerd, but I'm also 6'2", 195 in my bags.

I'm just 18, but I look a few years older. I scored 1580 combined on the SAT. My taste in music runs from Mozart to Madonna. I love to tango. I'm a four handicap. I have a photographic memory. Missy and I play duets on the piano. Only the Dr. Chan, the Head of the Science Dept. and I are authorized to operate the electron microscope at school. I'm into grand opera. I'm President of the student body this year.

I have a thing for torch singers from the 1940's. I have a six-pack gut from wind surfing, rock-climbing and practicing Aikido (fourth kyu rank). I'm fluent in ten languages, including Japanese, Russian, Tagalog and Mandarin Chinese, and can make myself understood in a couple more.

I have a disheveled mop of sun-streaked brown hair over a (so women tell me) not-unhandsome face. I've also got a healthy-sized cock, a very talented tongue - can you lick the end of your nose? - and I know how to use both to the joy of any female in my arms.

And, most importantly, I have a sense of, and know how to maintain, discipline. Personal and otherwise. One of my more thoughtful and articulate female friends says that I exude a quiet confidence, and a quiet competence. Women seem to be drawn to those traits, and to me.

Oh, and it doesn't hurt that I love pussy. I love to eat pussy. Young, old, anywhere in between. I love all of it.

My two prejudices are that fat turns me off (plump is great but obesity is unacceptable) and I cannot stand pubic hair, particularly in my teeth. Even mine is well groomed.

Oh I'll make love to a woman with a bush. (Reference the first sentence in the penultimate paragraph.) But I refuse to go down on her, even if her beard is neatly trimmed. My chin breaks out in a rash. Yeah, that's the ticket.

On the other hand, if a female presents me a smooth pussy, I'll give her a glimpse of Nirvana. I've been licking bare pussy - well, let's just say that I learned to play 'Doctor' early.

I'd like to tell you more, but the rules being what they are, all I can say is the I got to know my best buddy's sister very well. And she, me.

Certain 'sitters too.

I had been going through an intense growth spurt (pun intended). Annette, got a look at the size of my prick. Annette swallows.

Annette also gave me my all-time best birthday present, right in my own bed.

Though I must admit the present my godfathers arranged for my last birthday is a close second. Not very many guys my age get to fly backseat to a Navy Test Pilot in an F-14D Super Tomcat.

You want a thrill? Try straight up at Mach plus with a couple of 27,000-pound thrust rockets strapped to your ass. I can't tell it all, what with certain Navy careers at risk, but I will say that Navy pilots have balls of cast iron.

Even the women.

(Or is it that they have tits of cast iron...? Nah! LCdr. Cindi didn't. Nice nipples though. Very responsive. And a sweet pussy.)

The ladies of a very high-class house in Misawa helped perfect my technique when Dad was stationed in Japan. They thought I was cute. Mom thought I was playing ball with the locals.

I was balling with the locals all right. The ladies took over my sexual education after I rescued a cat that turned out to be the Mama-San's favorite pet. That I spoke the language and observed the local customs didn't hurt. ("When in Rome...")

There aren't many Navy dependents that take the time to learn such things. Lord, what a great experience! If every kid got that kind of training, there'd be a lot less conflict in the world. Make love, not war!

One of the best things about getting older is that the range of pussy available extends. My range now is my classmates to women in their late forties, though I am thinking about extending that.

There's this new neighbor down the street. She's a widow, fifty-something, with two daughters in their twenties. All three are bodacious beautiful. The widow has given me that 'come-hither' look along with an invitation to use her pool any time I want. Hmmm, I may have to swim a few laps soon.

Time in.

Missy suddenly slipped her hands down to my ass and began grinding her bikini-clad pussy against my cock, moaning as she tried to massage my tonsils with her tongue. I broke the kiss and looked down on her. Her eyes were still closed and her tongue slipped out to wet her bruised lips.

She shuddered slightly, then opened her eyes. Her face was flushed, but she gave me that dreamy, taken look that every guy wants to see on a girl's face. I smiled at her, slipped the bow from the string tie from around her neck, and let her bikini top fall away from her breasts.

Nice tits!!!

As beautiful a set of breasts as I've ever seen: perfect high-set white cones, standing out from her tanned chest, with thick, button nipples jutting out from her puffy pink areolae. I cupped them, and caressed them gently, then lightly scraped my thumbnails across each crinkled nipple before bending down to give them a thorough licking.