Harmony Hill Ch 04

After hearing the clatter of the telephone handset smacking into its cradle, the three of us, exhausted from fucking for hours on the denim covered sofa and the sprawling bed, settled under shiny black silk sheets, sheets unable to lose their cool tactility no matter what sort of friction might be applied to them. I was wrung out, went out like a light, as though pole-axed by a Mickey Finn, clobbered by the right hook from the ham fist of a heavy weight boxer. Eric and Harmony may have fucked after I fell asleep. For that matter every male living in the state of Washington between the age of 21 and 27, 28 tops, could have fucked Harmony Hill, had a veritable orgy, and I would have slept through it. I was that weary. Harmony, her insatiable demands, her ceaseless desires had worn me out. My own insatiable appetite and ravenous hunger were no less responsible for my exhaustion.

Hours later, I awakened, my stomach rumbling, felt hungry, ached for a stack of syrup laden pancakes, a rasher of crisp bacon, and a pot of steaming black coffee. Harmony lay on her left side, her silken right leg draped across my legs, her right arm flung across my groin, her wrist flattening my damp pubic hair, her hand softly gripping my cock. She snored. In the quiet of the bedroom the snoring did not sound raucous. She did not snort or make sounds like a motor with no muffler, imitate the creak of a rusty barn door. Her snores, a rhythm of noisy exhalations, a clicking sound uttered sotto voce barely qualified as snoring.

Her eyelids fluttered and her long silky eyelashes danced. Did she dream incessantly of young men with hard cocks and ceaseless erections or did she dream solely of one lost young man, a youngster buried under a simple white cross in the Quiet Nation cemetery near Puyallup? In her waking hours did her relentless need for sex with young men blot out the image, the memory of her dead son?

Shut the fuck up, I thought. I did not need to pollute this perfect situation by wondering what drove Harmony to sexual excess. At some point I hoped to find a woman to love, to share a life with, a woman who needed me as much as I needed her. Harmony Hill, a 55 year old vixen with issues was not this woman. At this moment in my life, I enjoyed my shallow life. It may have hurt my writing but I was no later day Hemingway, no one even considered me a manqué of F. Scott Fitzgerald. I lived simply, worked at a job not unduly stressful, shared laughs with good friends loved to read, go to the movies, watched Turner Classic Movies religiously, played football with my buddies on tepid fall afternoons, took in an occasional Mariners game during the season and get in as much fucking as humanly possible. Harmony bounced into my life one morning and one morning or one evening she would bounce out of my life just as quickly. As long as she desired to fuck me, I would be ready, willing and able. What good did it do to practice lay psychoanalysis or speculate on why she did what she did? As soon as I started trying to get in her head I could kiss her body good bye. Plenty of other men would gladly fill in for me. I knew our affair was transitory, a temporary liaison and nothing more. If nothing else the memory of her free wheeling persona, her endless quest to gratify and be gratified, her luscious body, its perfect curves, the moist and supple orifices I plied with regularity and her Nordic visage, its naughty mien, promised to delight me long into my dotage.

I still could not help wondering who scratched the graffiti on the front door, who she called early that same morning. I suspected her ex-husband Hugo, but could not be sure. Why call this person, why torture him? I had no doubt the person she called was a man. To me, it signaled a tremendous hate, a boiling rage. I did not wish to be pounding my cock into her one day and have some enraged behemoth burst into the room, a shotgun already pumped, a calloused finger on the trigger, the artillery aimed at our humping bodies. The last thing I would hear as I stroked in and out, the blast of the gun.

Raising my head off the pillow, peering across the contours of Harmony's body, I could see Eric had vamoosed. The quiet apartment absorbed the sounds of giggling children playing outside, a car starting smoothly, a car door slamming and a lawn mower off in the distance.

My head dropped back on the pillow, for several minutes I studied the whirls of painted brush strokes on the ceiling and like Robert the Bruce in his cave, I watched a small spider in the ceiling's left corner hard at work weaving its web.

Harmony's snoring stopped. Her hand, the one gripping my cock, jerked slightly, much like a hose suddenly charged with water. She applied pressure. I closed my eyes, feigning sleep. She removed her hand quickly as though my cock was suddenly sizzling hot. Immediately, she made a necklace around my prick with her thumb and index finger. Her fingers, soft and smooth as satin, slid up and down my length in the same way I masturbated with my left hand. Being a south paw, my right hand was unable to establish the proper rhythm stimulating myself. It felt awkward. Harmony's right hand did fine beating me off and my cock quickly responded to her stimulation.

For a few minutes she stroked slowly, her fingers moving up and down my stalk at a fast enough pace to sustain my hardness but not so swiftly to make me erupt over her the knuckles. Even after all the previous fucking, I still felt like fucking. Thoughts of chow easily forgotten, I wished to bury my cock in the vault between the juncture of Harmony's legs, to drive my shaft deep into her mouth.

My eyes remained closed. Harmony removed her hand from my cock, shifted her leg from over mine, and smoothly twirled her body down under the sheets like a diver plunging into an Olympic-sized pool. A mound under the black sheets, she positioned herself over me. I felt her heavy breasts mashing down on my thighs, nipples poking into my flesh.

She took my cock into her mouth, swallowed its length, her lips buried in my pubic hair. Did it tickle, I wondered. She sucked. Not gently but greedily. She licked. Not like tasting it as a test of flavor but more like tearing into it, her favorite treat. Harmony never tired of giving me head, always dispensed it as a gift. Her warm mouth, its moist innards, the texture of her lips, the manner of blowing and inhaling cock by turns made her the ultimate fellatrix.

One of my former bedmates, a brunette named Angela, loved to suck my cock, any cock for that matter. She delighted in going down on me while I slept. Nothing felt finer then having Angela suck me off while I slept.Since the first time Angela applied her full lips to my cock and I awakened to the pressure, the pleasure of her cock sucking, I liked nothing better then opening my eyes after a night of restful sleep, looking down and seeing a female, any female's head bobbing up and down. It was nearly indescribable, the feeling that burst in my loins before I opened my eyes. Awakening, my pleasure center not buried in my brain but busy in its annex, the cylinder between my legs. Jolts like electricity, the pleasing sensation of an itch satisfied, a thrill, something similar to a junkie's high but healthier welled up in my cock head, spewed through my body in the most delicious waves of contentment.

Nothing else matter while this woman or that woman sucked, nothing else existed except my cock and her connection to it.

Getting hard, a woman on her knees noisily sucking me from under a desk, in a car, the windows steamed over, her rising and falling head narrowly missing the steering wheel sucking me off. Sitting in a rocker recliner, the movie

Silverado

playing on the tube, fucking a woman's mouth to the sound of Winchesters blazing and clopping horse hooves, then coming. All these situations, more, added a fillip of excitement but the best head came from having it administered on my soft cock while I slept, the suction bringing my cock alive, a woman's cheeks, her mouth, her tongue all working in concert to bring ecstasy, ecstasy unfurling with infinite slowness. Like wetness infiltrating a paper towel every molecule in my being sopped up the pleasure of her mouth. In real sleep, not the faux state I practiced now, the suction of Harmony's mouth, any woman's mouth, jolted me into consciousness, felt like being born in a heaven where ecstasy was so pervasive that orgasms came merely by touching anything, breathing the air, tasting any flavor, hearing any sound or seeing any scene.

Harmony's mouth made noises like a baby plastered against mother's tit or guzzling on the nipple of a bottle. Not opening my eyes, a smile creasing my lips, I imagined one of her fingers or all of them fitted together like a spade digging away inside her pussy while she ardently sucked me

"Fuck, that feels good," I said, letting her know I was awake and tired of play acting.

My sperm shot into Harmony's mouth, she released me and then patted the head of my cock like it was a well behaved puppy. The room's stale air smelled of spent semen, the musky scent of Harmony's drippings, sweat and silk.

"Good morning. Our partner in crime seems to have left the building. Are you up for coming in my mouth again? She laughed at her little joke looking at my readily apparent upness, tapped her index finger on the drumhead tightness at the summit of my cock. "I am going to suck really really hard. I want to taste your warm sperm, swallow it into my belly." Her voice sounded so sexy, so relaxed and so gentle.

"You young guys never stop, never need a breather. Your sperm is a tonic for this old girl. My skin is softer, my teeth whiter, my hair shinier, my pussy tighter. I think my boobs may be bigger too."

Harmony's mouth returned to my cock, swallowed it, and sucked exactly as she said she would.

Deep inside me, in the place where my sperm lived, but not for long since losing my virginity to Emily Proctor, the entire colony lined up, bumped into one another, jostled, slid down the chute in my cock, and filled Harmony's mouth. In the pleasure of their passing, ecstasy in the form of tumultuous waves of bliss and delightful explosions of joy radiated through me. I watched her swallow my little Dwights and when she finally lifted her mouth off me and I saw my glistening semen dribbling from her lips, I nearly called up another squad of underdeveloped troopers to send her way.

For several minutes after my prodigious ejaculation into her mouth we enjoyed the greatest byproduct of intimacy: comfortable silence. Then in an explosion of movement combining elements of a gymnast's fluid range of motion, a cat's limberness, a dancer's innate rhythm, Harmony bounded from between my legs and stood on the floor next to the sleigh bed.

As she turned on her slender ankles toward the bathroom, the morning light painted her alabaster flesh in a golden hue. She turned in my direction, offered me a stupendous view of her profile and a face on shot of her body in its entire splendor. She yanked the black wig from her head, threw it on the chair, and removed a series of bobby pins from her blond hair; let it cascade on to her shoulders. As she massaged her scalp with her fingers and brought life back to the blond tresses smothered under the wig, she said: "Lover, I just realized your face and body's remarkable resemblance to Brad Pitt."

I was bowled over by the compliment but I could not see any resemblance. On my eighteenth birthday my grandfather smeared butter on my nose. He always did this on my birthday, my brother's birthday, my mother's birthday. It was some sort of ancient Druid ritual I think. Six months and two days later I fucked Emily Proctor, a first year law student with a gap between her two front teeth and a giant intellect to boot. Did she fuck me because I resembled Mr. Pitt? Did I owe all my other conquests following Ms Proctor to Mr. Pitt? What did it matter? I was the one getting to fuck Emily and Tiffany and Sharon and Gwen and Helga and another Emily and Dawn and Laurie and Connie and Edwina and Suzanne and Mirabelle and Katrina and Megan and Angela and Frankie and several Janes and Janet and a well preserved 62 year old by the name of Mildred and Donna and Pam and Shirley and Sarah and Sara. I fucked one woman after another, getting my fill of them, enjoying the thrill of a new liaison before moving into another woman's bed. Sometimes I managed to get into the pants of several women during the same period of time. On Monday night I might fuck Daphne, Wednesday I formed a two backed beast with Sheila and Saturday night found me between the thighs of Amber. If all those women opened themselves to me, including Harmony, let me plow into them so freely due to my resemblance to Brad then all I could say was, "Thank you Brad."

"I am going to take a quick shower and if you have no other plans, I want to come back to bed and ride your cock. I want to be on top, ride you like a cowboy, and have you suck my tits. While you are waiting there is food and soft drinks, water in the fridge. I have no clue what time it is and it may be too early but I also have rum, whiskey, vodka and fixings in the cabinet to the right of the sink."

She blew me a kiss, entered the bathroom, shut the door, the shower soon running.

Naked, I walked to the guest bathroom, peed copiously, washed my hands in Yardley lavender soap and walked to the kitchen. No sign of Eric anywhere.

As I opened the refrigerator, I heard no singing in the bathroom. I did hear one or two sighs, verbal expressions uttered no doubt as the hot water pummeled her body. Come to think of it, other then the occasional double entendre in her speech, the little joke she made earlier about me being "up" Harmony's sole joy seemed to come from sex. At other times her attitude, her expressions were nearly vapid. Other then her sexual turn ons, I had no idea what she liked or disliked, what her political beliefs might be, what she liked to read or listen to, what delighted or infuriated her. Other then a few facts culled from several less then reliable sources and a few sexual vignettes told by Harmony, every point of reference in our relationship was plotted inside the confines of this luxuriously appointed apartment.

The extent of my knowledge of Harmony Hill was confined to the topography of her body as learned in our sexual dalliances. Virtually every memory of us together was physical and sexual. She knew as little of me as I knew of her for that matter. When she was in a fever to fuck she fucked. Apparently, the only governor on this lust a self imposed and scrupulously obeyed rule to screw men with certain physical characteristics and be between the ages of 21 and 27 or 28. Perhaps an older man might be able to fuck her if he was youthful looking, intelligent, lean, slightly muscled, had an edge about him yet retained a nugget of innocence no matter what level of depravity he experienced.

I poured two percent milk out of a half gallon plastic jug into a tall glass, quickly fixed a sandwich by slathering creamy peanut butter and grape jelly on white bread, dropping it on a robin's egg blue plate next to a scattering of stale nachos and a nearly overripe banana. Standing naked in front of the double basined sink, a modern day Adam cast out of one paradise and finding refuge in another, I quickly ate the sandwich, the nachos, and the banana after striping its skin and finally polished off the glass of milk in three gulps.

Harmony remained in the bathroom, the shower still running. I returned to the bed, covered myself with the sheets and positioned several pillows under my head. The time spent waiting for a woman to finish her ablutions, to prepare herself for sex passes with an infuriating slowness. It is akin to being struck in a traffic jam or confined inside a plane's fuselage after it lands and waiting and waiting some more and watching and watching some more as passengers eke down the aisle and out through the door at glacial speed.

Hearing the shower stop a good sign. Now some time spent looking in the mirror, applying this and that to restore what was rubbed off when Eric was in this hole and I was in another. Lotions, unguents, powders, gloss, perfume applied here and there. I could see her studying her reflection, dabbing at her lips, plucking eye brows that sort of thing.

Waiting, I stroked my cock, ran my fingers across the tightness of my nut sack.

The bathroom door opened. A procession of scents: Jean Nate' bath splash, floral odors, citrus smells, the sharp aroma of aloe and a dash of Channel Number Five advanced in front of Harmony. She emerged as a flash of flesh and turned to the left. The fading sound of her bare feet padding across the carpeted floor reached my ears. The door of the refrigerator opened and quickly closed. Harmony, her alabaster skin suffused with a lobster's red color from the hot shower, returned to the bedroom, stood at the foot of the bed smiling at me, a naughty glint sparkled in her blue eyes. She held a large plastic jar of honey in her right hand. Her blond hair, a waterfall of wheat, flowed down on to her shoulders. Her breasts, a Nordic milkmaid's huge breasts, pointed at me. Note to self: fuck Harmony while she wears a lace up bustier, her tits spilling over the top of the thing, a mini skirt with an attached apron bordered in lace trim, a duplicate of the costume Helga wore in Munich when I first fucked her. Erect nipples the color of mahogany centered in areolas looking like walnut stained saucers. Under the swell of her breasts, a flat plain over her stomach, a tiny waist, flaring hips, its landscape only appreciated under the tiniest panties or naked like now. My eyes feasted on the bald cleft, the camel toe looking thing between her legs. Then my eyes licked over her smooth long legs and her wonderfully sexy feet their toes painted a garish pink.

Harmony leaned most all her weight on her left leg, cocked her right leg as posing for an erotic shot. She stared at me reclining under the silk sheets, the fingers of her right hand stroking the nipple of her left breast as counterpoint to the stroking of my cock.

"Lie flat on your back lover," she said.

I removed my hand from my cock, pushed the sheets back exposing the length of my Brad Pitt like body. She moved to the left, climbed in the bed. Framed by the black silk sheets her flesh appeared blindingly white, the areolas on her breasts more significant, the pink slit between her legs that much more enthralling. She straddled me, squatted down on my shaft. Perched on the prong of my cock, she lifted her head toward the ceiling.

"Ah," she said.

She lifted the container, opened its plastic cap with the flick of her thumb, turned the bottle upside down, and squeezed its sides. The honey's amber color ejaculated from the bottle and landed on to the surface of her tits in a jagged string that glistened on her flesh as it spelled the word SLUT.

I pushed my loins toward her, she dipped toward me. Not my favorite position for fucking but it did allow me to play with her tits, and in this case, to lick the honey trickling down over her skin and dripping on to my heaving chest. Squatting on me she then lifted herself. Nearly letting my hardness slip from inside, she then dropped back, letting my cock fill her full once more. Keeping to this cycle with the efficiency and precision, I lapped at the honey on her down stroke and gradually erased the sweet nectar with the brush of my tongue.

She moaned.

The telephone ringing disrupted our rhythm. Harmony leaned over, picked the telephone off its cradle, and dialed a number as she continued to ride my cock.

"It's me," she said into the phone.

"Right now, I am getting fucked by the nicest and hardest cock. It feels so good going into me. Fuck me lover."