Anything For Mrs Titball

Author's Note: Many thanks to lit author Nora Fares for putting eyes on this story to help me see what I was missing. Check out her stuff; she's fantastic. -FS/Mr. Squeeze

*****

It's important to keep Lipton Southern Sweet Tea with Lemon mix away from one's dickhole.

I learned that lesson after I dipped and dragged my cock and balls in the powder before bed. The next morning, I pissed sweet southern lemon flaming knives.

Thing is, I needed my dick to taste not just like flesh, but good. Something to draw her in.

So I asked myself what she liked.

Steak and potatoes.

Corn on the cob.

Lemon bars.

Sweet tea.

Yeah, I decided, lemon and tea.

At the grocery store, I found a jar of Lipton Southern Sweet Tea with Lemon mix. Every night for six months, I gave my cock and balls a kind of overnight dry-rub with the stuff.

Of course on night two, now a veteran of one failed dick dry-rub skirmish, I used a small paintbrush and stayed the fuck away from that hole.

***

It was time.

Using an ice-pick, I poked two holes in the crotch of my trousers an inch apart. Then, I drew the camouflage gore-tex down to my hips and poked two identical holes in the crotch of my underwear. In my right front pocket, I drew out the tube. Fake blood. On the back of the bottle, it said, "Safe for consumption."

I put some drops on the holes in my underwear and let them soak in and spread. I squirted two more drops on the insides of my pants, right at those two holes. Afterward, I pulled down my underwear.

Cock in one hand and black fine-tip Sharpie in the other, I put two tiny slits on the head of my cock, and then I covered those dots with small droplets of the fake blood.

Then, I waited for it to dry a bit, keeping my cock level with the ground. When I felt the time was right, I let my dick slump into its regular position. A little fake blood remained on the two slits, the rest formed two small rivulets that ran towards the tip.

I examined my work.

It actually looked pretty good.

And it would work. The farm was at least twenty-five minutes from the nearest emergency care facility. There would be no other option.

I laughed. I actually laughed, looking at my bloody dick.

Pulling up my underwear and pants, I grabbed my rifle and ran towards the cabin and the house. Five minutes later, I crossed from the tree-line into the grassy clearing outside the cabin, stopping for a second.

This is insane, a part of me warned. It's wrong. It's stupid.

"No, it'll work," I whispered back, continuing onward. "All fucking in."

Passing our cabin and into sight of the house, I cupped my crotch with one hand and used the rifle as a cane with the other, bent double as if in agony.

In the middle of the lawn in front of the kitchen window, I collapsed, still holding my crotch.

And I waited.

She must have been away from the kitchen because she didn't come out right away. A good three minutes elapsed with nothing at all.

Then, I heard it, muffled from inside the house—a cry. Seconds later, I heard the door open. I weakly raised my head from the turf.

It was her.

"Oh, heavens, no!" she hollered, hustling across the grass toward me in her long dress covered in part by a white apron. "Mark!"

I squirmed weakly and pinched my eyes closed in pain.

I heard the footfalls, and an instant later, I felt the ground thud as she knelt beside me.

Her voice urgent, she asked, "What's happened, Mark? What's wrong? You're not shot are you?"

I shook my head, wincing again. Glancing down my chest toward my hands, I groaned.

"Move your hands, dear! Move them!"

I did.

A few seconds elapsed before I heard her gasp. Then, she said, "I see blood. There's blood! Tell me what happened, dear!"

Instantly, her long fingers unbuttoned and unzipped my pants.

"Got bit," I uttered.

"I'm here, Mark. I'm here for you. Go on."

I shook my head.

She tugged the trousers to my hips and gasped again. "Mark, dear, there's blood on your underpants. I'm going to—may I remove them?"

I nodded.

I felt her fingers slide under the elastic band, and she said, "What was it? What bit you?"

I grunted and shook my head again, now quivering with acted pain. My underwear was down to my thighs, and my cock and balls tasted the cool, wet November air.

"Your penis!" she cried. "It bit your penis?"

I nodded.

"Tell me what it was, Mark. Tell me this instant."

Her sleek, soft fingers delved between my nut sack and my cock. She carefully lifted it, scrutinizing the wound.

Panting, I groaned, "Snake. Rattlesnake."

***

Our family had come to the Titball farm in central Nebraska every November for as long as I could remember. The North Loup River cut through the nearly four square miles of land, and plenty of whitetails called it their home.

Mrs. Titball granted our family a hunting lease on her property for the firearm season, lasting one week every fall. The whole family came out on the first weekend—Mom, Dad, my younger twin sisters, and my older brother, Sam. If Dad, Sam, and I had all gotten our deer by Sunday, we'd go home together. If not, the three of us would remain until we got one, but usually by mid-week, we headed out, buck or no buck.

On the Friday night of our arrival, Mrs. Titball always gave us a feast. Sweetcorn on the cob, ribeyes, baked potato casserole, and her homemade bread—so good that bread. We'd finish it off with her apple pie and a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Afterward, we played cards on her dining room table. When the feast was over, we went back to the hunting cabin and got ready for an early morning of rifle hunting.

Agnes Titball was a big woman. Taller than my nineteen-year-old, five-foot-nine frame by at least six inches, she wasn't skinny or fat. She was womanly—matronly. Wide, generous hips on top of long, hearty legs. I suppose she had a small pooch of a belly, but one didn't really notice because perched atop that tummy were two of the most bountiful, plump breasts in Nebraska.

Given her towering presence, Mrs. Titball was a woman impossible to call "cute" or "pretty." Mom said Mrs. Titball was "lovely-looking." Dad called her "a handsome woman," and trust it when I say my Dad never used such formal, old-timey sounding language to describe an attractive woman.

Mrs. Titball was a deep redhead—not auburn, more like a September tomato. In her early fifties when I was nineteen, Mrs. Titball had some wisps of gray in her long ponytail. Her skin was light bronze, speckled here and there with brown, almost black freckles. She had eyes like black coffee and a huge mouth full of bright teeth.

Proper and formal in appearance, she almost always wore a modest, long-sleeve patterned dress. Tight about her arms, chest, and waist, the many pleats of the skirt billowed out from her hips and plummeted almost to the floor. On her feet, she usually had sleek leather ankle-high boots. In sum, Mrs. Titball had the bearing and attire of a woman born in the early 1920s, not the late 1960s.

Despite her apparent formality, she loved to laugh and loved people. As a little boy, I remember her crawling around on the floor, playing alongside me when Mom ran an errand and Dad and Sam were hunting. I loved making Mrs. Titball smile, even as a little whipper-snapper. When she laughed, the whole house heard it. Her face turned pink, her eyes watered, and her entire body shook with delight.

We only saw her once per year, but she treated us like her own family. She sent us Christmas cards every year, and she always seemed to know the things going on in our lives—the death of our family dog, Dad's promotion, when Sam's team won the state soccer tournament, the twins starting dance classes, and such.

Her husband died of cancer back when I was twelve, just a month before our hunting trip that year. We said all of the right things to her that year, but it seemed unnecessary. She was the same as always—joyful and welcoming.

I hardly remember her husband anymore, but I do recall Mrs. Titball telling my parents the story of how she fell in love with him.

She didn't know he was interested. They hadn't been high school classmates, so she didn't know him other than that he came into her father's hardware store in Ord, Nebraska about once a week—a short, lean fella so dark she wasn't quite sure if he was tan or dirty.

Every time he came, he brought or did something. Agnes, being just eighteen, assumed the young man was a city employee who helped all the downtown shops look nice.

Sometimes, Mr. Titball swept the front. Sometimes, he left a vase of flowers. Once, he washed the store's front windows. Her favorite was when he brought lemon drops. Mr. Titball walked into the store, smiled, and nodded at her, and then he left a box on the counter near the register.

He never talked to Agnes; he just did things like that. One day, she asked her father about the young man, and her father said, "Girl, he don't work for the city. He's courting you."

It changed everything for her, knowing that everything he did, he did for her.

Telling that story was the first time I remember seeing her sad.

I will never forget seeing her angry. During the hunting trip of my thirteenth year, I made a carelessly stupid mistake.

Sam, who is five years older than me, had started making fun that I was still playing with my action figures. Maybe I was too old for such things, but I liked setting them up and thinking up stories.

I was alone in the cabin room Sam and I shared, and I had some elaborate story going with my guys, having set them up all over the twin beds. At some point, Sam burst in and, seeing my figures on his bed, yanked the comforter and sent them flying as if a giant bomb had detonated.

It infuriated me. I freaked out, screaming.

Sam laughed, and it sent me deeper into a storm.

I cursed Sam, using language more suited to Sam's age than mine.

He grabbed my favorite guy—Darth Maul—and darted out of the cabin. Racing after Sam and hollering, I watched Sam stop, reach way back, and hurl my action figure about 50 yards.

In horror, I saw the toy tumble through the air before it landed in the back of Mrs. Titball's yard.

I sprinted after it. Leaping a rabbit fence near the impact site, I rummaged for him, trampling everything around me in a desperate hunt. Where was my guy-guy? Where was my Darth Maul?

"Markus Lee Baldwin!"

I froze.

Mrs. Titball flew out her back door, and I will never forget her eyes. They were terrifyingly wide with horror. She was bigger and taller than I even remembered, and she marched towards me as if churned into a tornado of wrath.

Surveying the destruction I had caused, she cried, "My mums! My autumn mums!"

I looked around, and I realized where I was: in the middle of her chrysanthemum garden, and the place was a wreck of yellow, orange, maroon, and magenta flower petals surrounding knots of trampled stalks.

She seized my arm and instantly spanked me four times—boom, boom, boom, boom! "Naughty child!" she hissed, snapping out the strikes. "Bad, bad boy!" Given her size and strength, they could have been wallops, but they were light, quick strikes. They didn't hurt; they shocked. Finished, she turned back to her garden and slumped to the ground, crying.

I started running away, but my Mom and Dad had already emerged from the cabin. They corralled me and dragged me back to the flower garden. Mrs. Titball remained on the ground, gasping through her sobs.

I was terrified. For my entire life to that point, she had been like a fun aunt to me. To know that my behavior caused this joyful woman to become so enraged and sorrowful shamed me deeply.

My parents had no problem whatsoever with Mrs. Titball spanking me—none, and that should explain how thoroughly they trusted and respected her. They consoled her for a time, listening to her halting and tearful explanation before they turned on me. My pleading and blaming of Sam held no merit with my parents.

"Situational awareness," my father decreed. "You should have known where you were."

"You will apologize," my mother commanded, "and there'll be no more hunting for you until you have fixed her garden."

So, I went and knelt beside Mrs. Titball. I apologized to her, tearful and wiping my snotty nose on my sleeve.

She accepted my apology in a broken-hearted way.

I never wanted to come back. She hated me; I was a bad boy.

It was too late in the season to plant new mums, so I cleaned up the mess in her garden, preparing the ground for her spring flowers. I didn't even bother looking for my Darth Maul.

When we got home from the trip, I let my mother give all my action figures to my younger cousins, and the next November, to my chagrin, we went back to Mrs. Titball's.

I did not look at her or talk to her, not once, during the feast. I didn't play cards afterward; I watched my kid sisters play with their dolls in another room.

Climbing into my bed that night, I slid my arm under the cool pillow, felt something strange, and jumped. When I raised the pillow, I saw my Darth Maul guy. I took him without letting Sam notice, and when the lights were out, I held him in my hands, moving his little arms and legs in the darkness. I wondered if Mrs. Titball meant returning him to me as a peace offering or a reminder of my awful deed.

After that hunting trip, I decided I needed to somehow make it up to Mrs. Titball. Penance was necessary. I didn't want her to think I was a bad kid.

So, at age fifteen and to my mother's wonderment, I made chocolate chip cookies and brought Mrs. Titball a plate. She was delighted. She raved about those cookies, but I was still too ashamed to speak to her.

At sixteen, I made more cookies for her, and she clutched my face and kissed me on the cheek when she saw them. I had been determined to talk to her that year—to make her see that I was a good kid now—but after the kiss, I wouldn't dare open my mouth.

I remembered something she said that year on the afternoon of our departure. Over tea with my parents, Mrs. Titball mentioned her favorite treat—lemon bars.

On the eve of the trip when I was seventeen, I made some for her. Three batches--the first two were awful and had to get chucked in the garbage. Seeing my determination to get the lemon bars right, Mom asked me about it.

"Just want to, Mom."

"Is this about her chrysanthemums?" she asked.

I shrugged.

"You know that's forgotten, Mark. She doesn't hold it against you."

"Maybe, I don't know. I still just want to do something nice for her."

Mom sighed, saying, "Alright then, Mark, but I wonder when it's going to be my turn for 'something nice.'"

I glanced at her.

She laughed and kissed me on the shoulder.

That night, upon hearing about the lemon bars, Dad kidded me about having a little crush on Mrs. Titball.

"What? No, Dad! Gross!"

"Easy, Mark. Only kidding, only kidding," Dad responded, glancing at Mom.

Despite being near the end of his college, Sam came home for the hunting trip, and when he overheard Dad, he roared with belly laughter.

"Look," I argued, "she's always nice to us, and I want to do something nice in return."

"Well, I think it's sweet, so you boys can just clam up and leave Mark be," Mom directed.

The lemon bars thrilled Mrs. Titball. Two kisses—one on each cheek, as well as a second hug after the customary first hug upon our arrival.

Sam snickered behind me, and I think Mom punched his arm.

***

I made her more lemon bars for the hunting trip of my eighteenth year.

At cards that evening, I sat beside Mrs. Titball and to my amazement, she began petting the back of my head between deals. There was something almost electrical in her long, soft fingers. Each touch sent buzzing ripples of warmth around my neck and down my spine. I was on fire and embarrassed simultaneously. I never wanted her to stop, and I couldn't quit side-eyeing her.

As her long fingers caressed my head, it occurred to me that these—her touches—were the sign. I was forgiven and restored.

I couldn't focus on the game. My heart raced, and my mind was afire with debate. I wanted to touch her, too; I wanted to return the signal. I thought that if I responded, then she would know that I knew. Thank you, my touch would say, for letting me know I'm not a bad kid anymore.

Should I touch her hair or try to hold her hand? I wondered.

Pros, cons, and contingencies preoccupied me for a spell. Finally, I decided to try to hold her hand. Others might see me touch her hair, and hand-holding struck me as more appropriate. The problem was that card play often involved two hands.

Between games, Mrs. Titball folded her hands in her lap, waiting for the next deal. That was the time to try for it.

When the next round ended, my heart thudded against my ribcage. My mouth felt cotton dry. I swallowed dry lumps. So, I kept drinking her sweet tea to calm myself and wet my throat.

Glancing beside me, I saw her hands come together in her lap.

Here goes nothing.

I reached over.

She sensed it before we even touched. Glancing at me, her eyes appeared confused when I curled my fingers between her hands. An instant after, there was a look of realization in her expression, and my moment had arrived. I squeezed.

Mrs. Titball unclasped her own hands and held mine with one of hers. She squeezed it twice and held it. So, we sat there, side-by-side, holding hands. My heart rejoiced. I was forgiven. Never again, I promised myself. Never fuck up like that again for Mrs. Titball.

And I felt something else, too.

Her hand was big and very, very soft. It was warm and alive. I didn't have the words for it then, but looking back, her grasp was feminine and somehow erotic. It was sexy, secretly holding her hand under the table.

When the cards had all been dealt, she turned to me and smiled, letting me go.

It was then I realized I had been getting hard. My face suddenly felt hot.

We played out our hands. I barely followed the game, waiting for my erection to recede and trying to process my own competing emotions. Shock and excitement. Shame and confusion.

When Dad rose from the table, it was the signal that we were heading back to the cabin. We all got up. Mom fetched the twins. Sam thanked Mrs. Titball and left first. I had been so focused on my emotions that I didn't notice how desperately I needed to piss.

When I emerged from the bathroom, I heard my parents at the door. Hurrying to the front entryway so as not to be alone with Mrs. Titball, I arrived just as the storm door closed on my parents.

Mrs. Titball didn't see me. She turned away from the door, and I stopped.

She thought she was alone. I knew because I watched her smile and caress her long, red ponytail in an introspective, self-soothing manner. She let her hair go and stretched her back with a moan. Then her hands clutched her massive breasts.

My mouth hung open, but I couldn't breathe.

Hands full, Mrs. Titball kneaded her chest, sighing softly. She wasn't standing in the hall pleasuring herself. It was more like she was easing a burden—the weight of those enormous tits. Yet, there was still something erotic—not just to me, but to her, too—about the way her hands massaged, the way her voice responded to her own touches.

I was transported by the sight. Sure, I'd been exposed to things much more lascivious on the Internet, but this—with my own two eyes, live—was different. I had known her as an attractive woman, but I now saw her as supremely sexy. My cock stirred again.

I suddenly remembered her forgiveness, and I did not want to be caught looking at this intimate moment. I quietly backed out of the entry hall, waited a moment, and then traipsed forward toward the door, eyes on the floor.