Cynthias Lodgers

He was on top of her, embracing her close on her bed. She wasn't a petite woman and he wasn't a bulky man, but he was strong, muscular and sinewy, and she wanted him there. She felt him erect, scandalously black, and huge between her thighs, and although he was moving his hips and the underside of the hard phallus was rubbing in her puffy folds, he wasn't inside her—yet.

She dug in her heels and raised her pelvis, trying to take him in, but he gave a low laugh and held her tighter, controlling her fully. She had pendulous breasts and he was making love to them, squeezing them and kissing them—pinching the nipples to hear her gasp and moan, and gasp and moan she did. He worked her breasts hard with his hands and mouth, and she arched her back and head, pushing her breasts up into his calloused fingers and moist lips and nipping teeth, focusing her visual point of attention on the brass headboard behind her, gently, rhythmically rubbing on the wall from the swaying movement of their bodies. She moaned deeply, her tactile attention on the sucking and squeezing of her breasts and on the hard phallus between her thighs, reveling in being fully under his control, knowing that soon he would be inside her, filling her—and she would be having a virile and forbidden man between her legs, fucking her.

It was afternoon and they were upstairs in her Lexington, Virginia, Dutch colonial house, in her bedroom—not in his bedroom, although the room across the hall wouldn't be his bedroom anymore after this one last fuck. Without losing his grip on her breasts, the tall, slim, ebony man moved his lips down her creamy white, voluptuous body as he slid his tightly muscled torso down hers until she gave a little cry and shuddered when he slipped his tongue through her folds, searching for her nub, finding it, and giving her suck there. They weren't young—Cynthia was forty-two and Emory was forty-seven, but they knew how to do this. They'd done it before—often.

She dug her fingernails into his bulging biceps and begged him, contradictorily, to get off her, to leave her be now that he was moving out, or to fuck her. She just couldn't withstand what he was doing in her folds with his mouth and tongue. But Emory wouldn't relent. He ran his rough tongue over her clit again and again as she shuddered and shimmered, going beyond moist. She gave a little cry as the nub engorged and bulged and he got it between his teeth and sucked hard on it. He continued feasting on her as she bucked against him, crying out her passion, her captivity, and his possessive punishment. She flowed and spasmed and spasmed and collapsed, but he wouldn't stop working her cunt with his mouth. She spasmed again and then again and, with a long, low moan, collapsed totally.

Feeling he had arrived, he kissed back up her body. He was in massive erection. He fisted his cock and dragged the head of it through her folds, pausing at the center of the yawning slit, teasing her on the possibility of a plunge, and continued on up to her clit. He was holding her tight, and she shuddered in his arms, whining, "Put it in. Fuck me." He laughed and teased her some more with the play of the cockhead in her labia and rubbing her clit, as she panted and begged for it—for the big, black cock, for the end of the tease, for the penetration, for the fuck.

She cried out as he brought the bulb back to her slit and plunged, thick, throbbing, filling, stretching, possessing, and punishing, and immediately started to move: in and out, in and out. Without losing purchase, he raised his body in a pushup position, a ramrod straight, long, slim, sinewy-muscled recline over her, taking his weight on the heels of his hands and on his toes, his head hanging down, his eyes capturing hers, aware of every jerk and shudder reflected in her eyes, as, inside her, he rose and fell, stiff armed, knuckles pressed into the mattress beside her breasts. She clutched his buttocks close to her and pressed her knees into his hips, crying out, "Yes, yes. Fuck. FUCK!" as his mouth went back to her breasts and his buttocks, flexing and relaxing, flexing and relaxing, set up a steady, lengthy, and deep rhythm of the fuck.

He was fit. He had stamina. He fucked her and fucked her and fucked her.

Cynthia lay there afterward, exhausted, and watched Emory go into her bathroom, use her shower, and stand in the doorway between the bedroom and bathroom. He leaned tall, slim, hard-bodied, provocatively and familiarly into the doorframe and dried off with her towel. Emory was her first black lodger. Were all blacks hung like he was, she wondered. She'd heard it as a legend. He was her only reference point, but he bore up the legend. Long and thick. Masterful. He took her breath away . . . every time.

He had used her bathroom to clean up in because he'd already scrubbed out his, making it ready for however she now planned to use the bedroom and bath across the hall on the second floor of the house. His suitcases, packed, were on the bed in the other room. As soon as he was dressed, he'd be gone.

"I'll be just down the road in Roanoke," he said as he dried himself and reached for the briefs scattered among the clothes he'd discarded when they'd come into the bedroom. "You can come visit anytime you wish."

"I'm sure your mother would have another stroke seeing a white woman coming up your sidewalk," Cynthia said. That was the reason Emory had given for going. His mother in Roanoke had had a stroke. She needed him to come home. Just as much a reason, though, had been that he'd had a succession of jobs here in Lexington, each one more menial than the other. He was college educated, but perhaps that had been the problem. He was black. And he was living in the house of a white woman. He was seen as uppity. He had started as the technical engineer at the local television station. The next lower stop was working the toll booth at the airport parking lots. Assistant night manager at a fast food restaurant was as far down as he got before his mother had had her stroke.

The problem wasn't that he was threatening looking in Lexington. He actually was quite handsome. His father had been white, and he had taken many of the characteristics of him, whoever and wherever he was. The locals in Lexington were prone to ask if he was Jamaican. He was good-looking, so they assumed he must have come from somewhere else. Being knocked down continuously seemed more that he spoke like a professor and lived in the house of a white woman. In Lexington still that was taken by many as putting on airs and grasping above oneself.

He'd do better in Roanoke. Lexington was too high class—and the highest class was still too southern.

Dressed, he stopped at the door and turned, looking at Cynthia, sprawled out naked on her bed, still quite attractive for her age—and there were those pendulous breasts and the wide hips . . . the puffy labia. She was an Earth goddess. He'd miss that.

"There are hotels in Roanoke," he said. "Even ones that won't raise an eyebrow at mixed couples."

"You could come back to Lexington to visit from time to time," she said. That's as far as she would go with that. She'd made commitments before; she'd even begged. Never again.

"I doubt that will happen," he answered, and then, "Will you be bringing in another lodger?"

"I don't know. Maybe," Cynthia answered.

He smiled. That meant "yes." He took one last look at her voluptuous body, turned, and went across the hallway to retrieve his suitcases.

Cynthia listened while he banged the luggage down the narrow staircase. When the house was quiet, she sighed, closed her eyes, and, despite it being only the afternoon, drifted off to an exhausted, but satiated, sleep, the fingers of her right hand playing in her folds.

* * * *

"And you are without a lodger now? The one you had . . . Avery . . ."

"Emory," Cynthia corrected.

"Emory. He's gone now?"

"Emory had to move back to Roanoke, yes," Cynthia said. "His mother has had a stroke, and he had to relocate." She didn't respond to the first part of Melissa's question.

They were sitting in the back yard of the Dutch colonial house in Lexington. The tree-shaded yard wasn't large, but Cynthia had had it all laid out with red sandstone blocks, the entire yard a patio, with inviting outdoor furniture, a water fountain and wind chimes hanging in the trees. It surrounded a glassed-in sunporch on the back of the house on three sides. She and Melissa Bard were lounging, recovering from a hard three hours of shared work, chatting, and sipping wine. Cynthia was putting her long auburn hair, shot through with strands of silver gray, up into a tight bun on the back of her head. Cynthia wasn't a vain woman. She'd go gray as nature dictated she would. She'd let gravity take her body too, as and when it pleased, although she still could be considered in the realm of voluptuous—especially her large breasts.

"Do you need to take in a lodger?" Melissa asked. "This is a nice part of town and your house is lovely. I don't know if you can afford maintaining the house by yourself."

"I can," Cynthia said. "The house is paid for and I make good money—enough to make it through. I take in lodgers more because they need someplace to light."

"Well, if you want to take on another lodger, I think we could find some young women who need someplace to light."

So, that was what it was, Cynthia thought. She knew there had been talk of Emory boarding here—primarily because he was black and not least because he was good-looking and looked as capable in bed as he, in fact, was. And, as Melissa said, this was a nice part of town, which translated as "white" and "up class." Melissa meant well, in her stuck-in-a-small-southern-town way, Cynthia knew, but in this line of enquiry Melissa and the other proper matrons of Lexington could just fuck off. She wouldn't say that, of course. Melissa was one of the few friends she had here. Cynthia didn't go out much, and she wasn't a Lexington native. They'd met when both signed on to help Mondays at the Episcopal church luncheon soup kitchen for the homeless. Melissa was a member of the church. Cynthia wasn't, but she'd wanted to help the community in some way. They'd become friendly and had fallen in to just continuing their Monday afternoons on when they could to unwind from the grind of serving hot lunches. They usually ended up here at Cynthia's house, sipping wine and chatting.

Everyone loved Cynthia's back garden. It was so eclectic, laid back, welcoming—unlike the front yard. Her house sat back on the lot, and she kept the front in heavy foliage, protecting her from the neighborhood's prying eyes. She liked her privacy. It was a privilege to be invited to the back.

"I prefer men lodgers to women," she said, standing her ground. "They tend to be neater, despite what some would think, and they mostly use the house as a stopping-off place and center their lives elsewhere. They aren't as much a bother as I think a woman would be. In that regard, I think it was just as well that Emory moved on. He kept losing jobs and spending more and more time here. He was vegetating, mostly just eating, sleeping, and staying up to watch TV." He, of course, did far more than that, Cynthia knew, but anything she could do to put Melissa and her friends off the scent was effort well spent. "I don't have to have a lodger. But it's useful to have someone to talk to and have a meal with, if only on occasion. My work tends to get intensive."

"You've never really said what your work was," Melissa said. "You never mention going to an office."

Ah, another bit of research the "girls" have sent Melissa in to find out about me? Cynthia wondered.

"I edit," she answered. "I'm a freelance medical editor for journal articles, conference papers, and books—specialized. I work with neurological surgery."

"My, that sounds complex," Melissa said.

"It is," Cynthia answered. "And intense. As I said, sometimes it's good to take a break just to be able to ask a lodger how his day was and then to go back to it—no one more connected to me than that. No deep commitment."

And, in fact, that was quite true, Cynthia thought. She wanted it to be a male lodger—and one willing and able to bed her on occasion—and to do it well. She wanted a hard-bodied and sexual male lodger. She wanted the sexual release from a good-looking, well-endowed man. She just didn't want deep commitment from or to him. She didn't want a husband. She didn't even want a boyfriend. She just wanted an occasional romp in the hay—to be taken in a good fuck. And she'd gotten that from Emory. It wasn't her idea for him to go. She had been happy, though, that there had been a good reason for him to do so when the time came. He was going downhill here in Lexington. She didn't think it was either his or her fault, though. It was Lexington. She didn't mind if Lexington got the impression she was well done with him, though. Let them talk. Just don't let them be sure. Nothing would be said in the open in a southern town if they couldn't be sure. That wouldn't be polite.

"Yes, I can understand that," Melissa said. "All the same, someone like that Avery—"

"Emory," Cynthia interjected, doing her best to keep her voice modulated. And then, to avoid whatever might come next and because she didn't want another issue to develop, she said. "Oh, look, it's nearly five. Didn't you say you had to be home by then today."

"Oh, land, yes. Thanks. The time has just flown by, hasn't it? So, next Monday after soup kitchen?"

"Yes, of course, I wouldn't miss it," Cynthia said, rising, so that Melissa would too and not spend the usual half hour winding down from the initial "I've got to run."

At the gate to the parking pad in front, Cynthia waved Melissa off in her Mercedes SUV as the woman turned to exit the drive going forward because the foliage reached almost down to the street. As Melissa was accomplishing this maneuver, Cynthia heard the sound of a motorcycle turning into their side street.

That was close, she thought, as she returned to the patio table in back by way of the kitchen to pull a can of cold beer out of the refrigerator. In a few minutes Billy D, twenty-three, tanned, with wavy dark hair, Italian, and built, strode into the back. He came over to the table and smiled at Cynthia as she handed him the cold can of beer. He popped the top and took a swig. Then he unzipped his leather jacket and let it fall open. He was bare-chested underneath it. His torso was muscular and he was solid, but a solid that needed a bit more maintenance than he was giving it. If he continued popping open beer cans at the rate he was doing it, he'd have a beer belly in three years, and of course he would continue popping open beer cans. In the meantime, he had a bad-boy sexy look, though.

"How did work go today?" she asked.

"Good. I learned a bit more, was useful a bit more, and I didn't get fired."

"Good. You think you'll stick it out?"

"I'll try," he said. "It's all new—trying."

Cynthia had gotten him the job at the garage. He'd had some training when he'd been in juvenile detention, but he gone straight to the streets from there when he was released. One of the local neurosurgeons she edited for had a brother who owned the garage and Cynthia had managed to get Billy D working there as a favor to her. The "D" stood for "Doug," but everyone just added the "D" onto his nickname. This was the South. All of the men did screwy things with the names they'd originally been given.

"Was that a fancy SUV I saw pulling out of the drive?" he asked.

"Melissa Bard. She'll be here in the afternoon most Mondays."

"Melissa? The lady from the soup kitchen where I met you?"

"Yes, the same."

"She ask about me being here—and why I wasn't at soup kitchen the last couple of Mondays? I think she was sweet on me."

"Everyone was sweet on you down at the soup kitchen, Billy D. But she's much too old for you," Cynthia added, and they both laughed. She was forty-two and Billy D was twenty-three. Melissa couldn't be a day over thirty-five. Billy D was good with the joke. He was randy, Cynthia was hot for her age—she had great tits—and he knew he wasn't paying the rent in money.

"I didn't tell her you have a room here now and thus aren't homeless anymore. And I heard someone else—Pete on the intake desk—tell her that you had a job now. I didn't say anything more about that either."

"Well, fuck a duck," Billy D said, and then, "Speaking of that, I think I'll go upstairs and take a shower. I'll be going out with some of the guys tonight. Dinner out, with them."

"Of course," Cynthia said as Billy D walked off and into the house through the sunporch. She picked up her wine glass and saluted his disappearing back.

* * * *

Grabbing her ankle, Billy D pushed her right knee up into her belly. He turned her left leg over to reveal her inner thigh and to make her cunt more accessible as he knelt between Cynthia's thighs at the foot of her bed. Cynthia was on her back on the bed, her butt at the edge. Before this, she had been sitting there, naked, hands on the backs of Billy D's thigh as he stood in front of her, his hands reaching down and hefting and squeezing her breasts as she gave him head, engorging his cock for the main event. She didn't mind giving head as long as there was a main event to follow, and, with Billy D, she melted at tracing the tan lines on his still-tight butt from wearing his Speedo while he stood in front of her. It was some of the little joys that counted big.

When he was afraid of firing off, he pushed her down on her back on the bed, readjusted her legs, slid his right hand up her belly to grasp and squeeze a breast and buried his face in her cunt, going after her clit and slit with his tongue and teeth. Her labia were puffy, and he liked playing in them with his tongue—and later, with his dick, although that didn't happen often because he didn't usually have the patience or holding power to play when he was fucking a woman. He was a fast shooter—an in and out and thank you, mam, kind of guy. Fucking Cynthia was maybe the longest he'd ever spent getting off with a woman.

Cynthia ran her hands into his wavy hair and gave little yipping sounds as she rocked her pelvis against his feasting mouth. He was kneeling in the damp towel he'd had wrapped around his waist when he'd come into Cynthia's bedroom and found her naked, sitting at the foot of the bed, with thighs parted and running her fingers in her puffy folds. Her slit had yawned at him and he hadn't wasted any more time than he had to be sliding into it.

Billy D, young, hot, and impatient wasn't one to linger at his work. He rose up over her after she was wet and shuddering, spasming for him again and again, positioned the head of his cock in her slack slit, and slid in. One hand went to her throat, holding her head to the mattress, and the other continued its fascination with her melon-sized breasts. He liked her Earth Mother wide hips and big butt, too, but he had only so much time to devote to her charms today. There would be other days.

Cynthia arched her back and reached back to grab the brass rungs of her headboard to stabilize herself, but she quickly brought her hands back as the headboard was thumping wildly against the wall, and she came close to bruising her knuckles. Her arms stretched out to the side instead, bunching up gobs of her bedspread, trying to keep her in place during the onslaught of youth.

Billy D fucked her like he had a fire to go to, with vigor and pistoning speed. Six minutes into the fuck, he flipped her over, pulled her down to where her belly was on the edge of the foot of the bed, and her toes reached the carpet. He slammed his cock back up into her cunt and continued pistoning her. His right had gone back to squeezing her breasts and pinching the nipples for a few minutes. They fascinated him. Cynthia stiff-armed the mattress with her left arm to keep her torso off the surface of the bed and reached under her belly with her right hand and worked her clit. Billy D had lost interest in that. He was much more a tit and cunt guy—and an ass guy. A fucking them in the ass guy. He reached to the back of her head with his right hand—his left was palming her belly—and unloosed her bun. Her auburn hair, streaked with highlight of silver gray cascaded down her back. Billy D grabbed a hank of that and arched her torso back, pressing her head into the hollow of his shoulder. He continued fucking her hard.