Quintrell & Boots

When I was in college, there was a gay man in his 50s who lived alone in the 2nd-floor apartment directly across the narrow courtyard from mine. Since our apartments were mirror images, his large living room and dining room windows faced mine, and neither of us usually closed the blinds, as we both had indoor plants hanging in the windows. His name was Quintrell. Helluva name.

One Thanksgiving I missed my ride home, so was stuck alone at my place while virtually all students had gone home for the 4-day holiday. I ate my worst Thanksgiving dinner ever by myself at a cafeteria, and returned to my place, disgusted and wondering what I would do with myself for the next few days.

As soon as I got back, now dark, I could see Quintrell padding around his apartment. No big deal. I saw him over there all the time. In a few minutes, the phone rang, and it was he. He said he noticed I was home and offered to bring me some turkey and dressing. I told him thanks, but I had already eaten, so he then said he had a different kind of turkey--a big bottle of Wild Turkey 101 Whiskey--and would I be interested in helping him make a dent in it. I told him sure, to bring it on over. You know you're awfully lonely when you're down to drinking with an old gay man you hardly know.

In 30 seconds, he was knocking on my door, 1.5-liter bottle of 101 in hand, pecan pie in the other, wearing pajamas, and wreaking of Hai Karate cologne. He took the liberty of pouring the straight whiskey over ice, filling the largest glasses in my cabinet-- ice tea glasses--to the brim. He sat down on the couch too close to me and made a toast to "the evening." It was painfully obvious that Quintrell had come to get me drunk and try to seduce me, never mind that I was heterosexual.

What he did not realize is that, at that time in my life, you really did not want to get into a drinking contest with me unless you enjoyed losing, so I decided to have some fun. By the third glass, I'm the one pouring, urging him to drink up, enjoy!

Getting tipsier by the moment, he let loose a barrage of sexual double entendres such as "I love meat, a large portion," and "Did you know I can swallow practically anything?" I responded only to the non-sexual interpretation of each, saying, "My favorite meat is a rib eye steak," and "Here, swallow some more of this great whiskey!"

This banter went on for several hours over countless drinks until, his nose beet red and eyes bloodshot, he burst like a flood of water through a broken dam with "I've been watching you for months, your lithe, tan body, your tight little buns, your wondrous waggling weenie, and I just want right now to touch you all over, suck on you, and please, please fuck me!"

As these words spewed from his mouth, he untied his pajama bottoms, which dropped to his ankles to reveal an admittedly impressive genitalic package consisting of a very thick 9-inch penis fully erect over massive balls, all shaved as clean as his bald head. Of course, my being straight, my interest in this attraction was merely academic. It was time to end this party.

"Mr. Quintrell!!!" I admonished in my most motherly way, "You ought to be ashamed of yourself!! Now you put your jammies back on and march right back to your apartment! Have you taken leave of your senses? The nerve!" Steering him elementary-school-principal style by his ear out my front door, I shouted, "Now you behave!!!" and slammed it shut.

I then lowered the blinds, cut a large piece of his pecan pie, and poured another 101 from the bottle of whiskey he'd left behind, chuckling to myself as I watched an old Rifleman episode on the black and white TV.

The next night, Friday, I went out to see what kind of pussy I could find, but since everything in the college sector was like a ghost town, I ventured way out west where I found a fern bar absolutely packed with high school seniors hell bent on getting drunk and laid. Half of them were girls. I was chatting it up with as many of the good-looking ones as possible until I spotted an extra-tall blonde wearing a white Angora sweater, miniskirt, and knee-high black leather boots across the bar veritably staring at me. I never broke eye contact as I weaved my way through the crowd over to her.

The first thing I said to her was how much I liked her sweater, noting to myself that the long fuzz was not even beginning to conceal the dark, pointy nipples of her obviously bra-less C-cup breasts. But it was her reply that was the stunner, "Thank you. It feels wonderful against my bare boobs." Well now, that was surely a two-thumbs-up response! We finished our drinks while chatting, and I offered to buy her another, but rubbing the tip of her shiny boot down my calf, said, "No, thanks. I'm ready to go now."

OK, so I've met the most gorgeous chick in there not 20 minutes before, and now she wants to go home with me! Damn, talk about getting lucky!!! We got in my car, she slid across the bench seat, and I wasted no time in latching on to her right tit with my free hand. Extremely self-absorbed, she said she'd been sitting at the bar for two hours as "high school weenies fumbled to carry on a so-called conversation with me," and described herself as a "well-known top-notch track star" who regarded guys her own age as "just not in my league." Whatever. The important thing was that she was a terrific-looking piece of ass hot to trot with me.

While I drove the long way back to my place, we were all over each other in the car, I squeezing her bra-less, incredibly firm and pointy boobs that reminded me of the tits on ancient Egyptian statues while she sucked and slurped loudly on my Pharaoh. I was reminded of the old joke: Why do blondes like tilt steering wheels? More head room!

By the time we got inside the door of my apartment, she was naked even before I got the front door shut, she stripping off the leather mini-skirt and kicking off her panties but leaving the boots on. Damn, she was fine—short blonde hair, with not an ounce of fat on her, perfect tits, a compact and muscular ass, and super-long, lean legs. I quickly put on a record and poured a couple shots of Quintrell's 101 at the dining room table. Standing there with her hands on her hips with a what-are-we-waiting-on expression, I saw no need to waste a precious 10 seconds to go to my bedroom, so we got down to business right there.

Place mats, I quickly learned, provided sufficient padding for her butt on the hard dining table as I nibbled my way down her neck, breasts, and ripped abdominals to her juicy pussy. I kept going back and forth from her bullet-like nipples, which she liked sucked and nibbled pretty hard, to her glorious gushing gash and rigid nubbin that I could almost hear begging for attention, which I was not at all reluctant to provide. Then we switched positions, she sitting in the chair to blow me as I myself sat atop the table on a place mat.

While she's giving me an excellent and very wet BJ, I noted that a girl with short hair is especially good when it comes to sucking dick, as there's nothing to block the view. She adroitly nibbled and licked my scrotum while smoothly stroking my rod with her large, strong hands, always returning to suck my cock tip to base while expertly swirling her tongue all around and occasionally sticking it out into view for that extra bit of visual stimulation.

Speaking of visual stimulation, I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye only to discover that Quintrell was watching us from his kitchen window across the corridor. So, we had an audience, and I do dearly love to perform. I quickly brought my schlong-slurping senior up to speed on the events of the previous evening. Fortunately, there was more than a little bit of exhibitionist tendencies in her, too.

We never let on that we knew Quintrell was watching, but we certainly ramped up the show. For example, as she sucked me, I twisted my face, a la Jim Carey, into extreme contortions of pleasure while she wiggled her butt and dangled her boobs way more than necessary. Then, I got her up on the table and, standing on the floor, banged her doggie style at the perfect angle for him to see the penetration. Of course, I could see my dick going in her hole even better than he, and it was, indeed, a sight to behold—dark red, puffy pussy lips emerging on the out-stroke, then disappearing again on the in-stroke. It was then that I noticed him jacking off. "He's wanking big time," I informed her. She turned her head around to look, and her jaw actually fell open. "That's the biggest fuggin' dick I've ever seen!" "He's gay, darlin', so be happy with what you got," I quickly reminded her, burying my comparatively paltry 7-incher as deep as I could.

The funniest part was what he was lubing himself with. He had been cooking when he spotted us—sautéing something in a saucepan--and was now liberally pouring virgin olive oil on his glistening slab of man-meat. Well, I guess the olive oil was virgin no more! As I pounded her from the rear, her little butt hole was looking more and more inviting, and Quintrell had given me an idea, for right there on my dining table was a carafe of oil and vinegar salad dressing, the oil having separated and floating on top.

I carefully picked it up and slowly drizzled the oil, extra virgin first pressing Italian olive oil, no less, into her crack and wiggled first one, and then my other thumb into her brown eye. She moaned extra loud, but readily relaxed the sphincter, easily allowing my big thumbs to enter all the way to my palm. This chick had definitely butt-fucked before! She sure seemed to be enjoying the hell out of this ass action, but was she just acting for our audience of one? What difference did it make? Then I poured some more oil onto my raging hard-on and slowly eased it into her ass, making sure Quintrell had an unobstructed view. She gasped, but took it all the way to my balls, and I reached around with my left hand to perform a little clitty action.

Gradually, I picked up my ass-fucking pace, and I noticed that Quintrell was stroke for stroke with me, in perfect time. Only 12, maybe 15 feet away, he had one leg propped up on his window sill, and man, was he ever stroking that king-size kielbasa! Like watching a porno film, I figured he was going to cum when I did, so, just for fun, I decided to fake that I was cumming in her butt. I must have done a pretty good job, because she thought I was cumming too, and let out a blood-curdling orgasmic scream just before Quintrell spewed a huge load from his billiard-ball-size testicles onto his scrupulously clean window.

We then dropped the act, staring and pointing directly at him through the semen-dripping window, and laughed hysterically as he slinked with extreme embarrassment off into the dark recesses of his apartment, never to appear again that evening. She and I had a few more shots of his Wild Turkey and a piece of his pecan pie before resuming several more hours of spectator-less sex, making sure I was fair to all her holes by cumming once in her pussy, mouth, and butt before the night was done. She kept those tall black leather boots on the whole time, a nice and somewhat kinky flair.

We played another round of sperm-in-three-holes when we awoke Saturday morning, but not before putting the boots back on, which she had removed before crashing. I guess the boots for her were like the Biblical Samson and his hair! Between orgasms, she ceaselessly told story after self-glorifying story. She was a gorgeous piece of ass and great in bed, but, frankly, she was intolerably ego-maniacal.

I offered to drive her home, but she declined and called a taxi instead. I don't think she wanted her parents to know she spent the night fucking a college guy. The cab arrived and honked while I was on the john, and she just hollered, "Bye, great sex!" before my door slammed shut and she was gone. It was only then that I realized I knew only her first name, Karen!

Although we did have some fun at Quintrell's expense, I think it is safe to say that a good time was had by all, himself included.

Some months later, I was leafing through the sports section of the local newspaper and saw a familiar face, which I could not at first place. I read the accompanying article and realized it was a photograph of Karen, along with her track teammates. I could hardly recognize her in track spikes! But it was unmistakably her, all right—tits, ass, and legs—all just as I had remembered them. They had broken the varsity girl's state record for the mile relay, and she was the lead leg.

Well, now that I knew what her name was and where she went to high school, it would be an easy enough thing to contact her. But I stopped myself. Now that she really had something to brag about, I just couldn't bring myself to endure another moment of her vanity.