Incendiary Circumstances

Like the kissing and breast play before it, once Blaine entered new territory by jerking off while Marie waited behind him, the new activity soon became part of the couple's standard pattern. Not, of course, without Marie's obligatory objections that they go back to their previous ways, back to the presumed safety of "just kissing." Of course just kissing hadn't proven so safe at all as now ejaculating was involved.

When the kissing started, Marie objected strenuously, demanding that Blaine revert to the traditional co-worker relationship that included nothing intimate like touching lips and tongues. After a brief period where she pressed for the elimination of the new activity, she yielded, engaging as ardently as Blaine himself, perhaps even more so.

After a week, the kissing led to fondling her breasts. That too met vigorous objections followed a few days later by her eager participation and then naked breast play. Now they'd progressed to the point that Blaine would extract his cock and beat off in Marie's presence if not her direct line of vision.

If anyone had suggested at the beginning of the summer that this fifty-two year old white wife would be making out with a black teenager younger than her own children, letting him feel her up, than standing by while he jerked himself off followed by her cleaning up his cummy mess, she would have bet money that person was madder than a mercury saturated hatter.

Yet, here they were. Blaine would get hard kissing Marie and playing with her titties then have to jerk himself off in the corner afterward. Marie would hand him the towels to clean himself then clean up the cum he shot into the corner, now their corner, just as the room had become their room.

Afterward, Marie would speed home to relieve her own tensions but she was never quite as desperate again as that first time. By the time she arrived home that first time she'd watched Blaine beat his meat, she was already shedding her clothes as she burst through the front door.

There was a trail of tennis shoes, socks, blouse, skirt, and panties from the foyer to the box that housed her black, plastic friend. Her bra was still wrapped around the gearshift of her Camry where she'd left it in her rush to dildo-bang herself

"Blaine, Jr." had a suction cup on its base and, for the first time, Marie used it to secure the big, fake dick to the corner of the coffee table in the living room where she could ride it while using her hands for other pleasurable activities. Soon she was squeezing her nipples while she bounced herself up and down that wonderful quasi-cock.

She moved one hand down when she felt her grand finale approach. She knew the advancing climax would be a massive one when that filthy thought, the thought she'd ordered banished from her brain on the ride home, returned.

Suddenly she was unable to control herself. Even if Dave had returned home unexpectedly and caught her like this, she couldn't have stopped. Even if he pulled her off that cock, pried her clamped fingers off her nipple, and slapped her hand away from her clit, she still would have orgasmed gigantically. It was impossible to stop it now.

But Dave didn't come home and Marie careened unimpeded toward the brink of an orgasm that seemed to lie at the bottom of the Grand Canyon.

Oh god,

Marie groaned as that dirty, filthy thought animated her, dominated her, consumed her. It wasn't a thought of that beautiful, black boy's hard on straining at his jeans, a hard on she'd caused at age fifty-two.

It wasn't the thought of Blaine's delicious black body standing naked, back turned, sinews glistening, muscles flexing, gluteus maximus bulging out in mouth watering appeal, white briefs underscoring their desirability, blue jeans bunched at his ankles testifying to the urgency in which they were shed.

It wasn't the thought of a college kid jerking himself with enough force and violence to produce an ejaculation, or that she had induced that need in him, or that such a taboo act had taken place in plain view just a few paces from where she stood, or that she hungered in some way to pry his cheeks apart and feast on his wrinkled sphincter, or that she hungered even more ardently to be on the opposite side of that black body, mouth open, tongue out ready and eager to receive his blasts.

It wasn't the thought of passing Blaine the means to clean himself up after his messy eruption, nor the fact that the job required more than one towel, nor that accepting that cum covered paper transferred small amounts of warm cream to her skin, nor that the kid with the incomprehensible bulge that fried her brain when she saw it in his jeans claimed a small dominion over her by implicitly expecting her to dispose of his mess.

No, the thought that had Marie barreling like a rogue comet toward an oblivion-causing collision took possession of her mind as she stood and looked at those blotches, strings, and blobs of semen deposited by Blaine on the walls and floor of that corner.

As she squatted and dabbed those towels in the jism, swishing it around to hasten its absorption, seeing the gooeyness, smelling its distinctively male aroma wafting up, she wanted nothing more than to kneel right there and use her tongue instead of the paper. That thought was what was driving her crazy.

The thought completely disgusted her like nothing she could think of. More than eating Brussels sprouts when she was eight, more than swapping spit before her first French kiss, more than swallowing ejaculate before her first blowjob, more even than swiping her tongue across a man's anus before her first adventure in rimming.

Yet despite her revulsion, Marie also felt the inferno in her loins at the prospect of placing her lips against that wall and slurping in Blaine's juice. And it was that incendiary image that animated Marie from the time she entered her house that afternoon, disrobed, and licked the base of her big black dildo to provide greater suctioning adherence to the coffee table so she could ride it up and down and up and down until this exact moment.

Marie's mind was still functioning, barely, when she brought her hand up to her nose and breathed the remnants of Blaine's cum still clinging there from cleaning up his mess. The aroma started the climax and, when her tongue reached out and licked at where the semen had been, she erupted.

Marie thrashed about for more than a minute as she ripped at her nipples, first one and then the other. She slipped two fingers into her cunt along with the fat dildo already there. If she'd had a third hand, she would have been fingering her ass but that would have to remain a quest for another day...another dildo perhaps.

Juice poured out of her flooding the table, soaking into the cloth runner covering the top and running down the corner leg onto the rug below. It's a bit clichéd, but Marie lost track of things for a few moments. The next thing she remembered was lying on the floor, her leg in a cooling puddle, the black dildo still up her cunt. Apparently she'd taken it with her, clenched in her twat, when she'd blacked out.

Marie had a heightened sense of apprehension when she drove to Blaine's house the next morning to pick him up for work. Her escalating relationship with the black kid was getting completely out of hand. Even if the sexual actions they actually engaged in together were rather tame by most standards, they were driving her insane when she was by herself. She'd lost fucking consciousness for god's sake!

Yesterday, she had again renewed an oft made, oft broken pledge to cool things with Blaine after she'd fucked herself unconscious remembering the arousing, back turned jerking off he'd administered while she watched...and cleaned up after. Either they'd go back to their pleasant French kissing sessions coupled with the

occasional

over the bra and blouse breast petting or she'd break things off cold turkey.

There were only a few weeks of summer remaining and she was determined to escape the most exciting season of her life with a modicum of her dignity intact even if it meant concocting an excuse, quitting her post, and settling for a more modest mode of motorized transport than those featured in the brochures decorating virtually every flat surface of her house.

It wasn't that Marie disliked Blaine; it was that she feared him. Not physically. She had zero illusions that the young black man posed any safety issues for her at all. No, what worried Marie was that he seemed to have some sort of mental control over her, some Svengalian or Rasputainian ability to move her foot to the gas pedal every time she tried to apply the brakes.

The couple with one of history's most unusual "closing up" routines had begun traveling the final leg of their daily peripatetic wanderings, the trip to "their room" under the football stadium with Blaine at the wheel of Marie's Toyota.

It started when he had suggested that he drive so she could be left free in the passenger's seat to remove her bra thereby increasing the efficiency of Blaine's access to her bare boobs once the door to their room closed behind them.

It startled Marie a little to discover the alacrity with which she agreed then sat next to Blaine and took off her brassiere without removing her blouse in a daily act worthy of, if not Houdini himself, at least his best apprentice. It made her smile as she draped the intimate garment over the shift knob on the center console, a reminder of their inappropriate intentions.

However, the afternoon after the day she'd passed out while pleasuring herself, Marie sat frozen, her bra where it had been since she'd dressed that morning.

"What's wrong?" Blaine asked when he noticed that all was quiet on the bra removal front.

"Blaine, we need to talk."

"Can't we talk while you're taking off your bra? You said you were pressed for time today."

"It's about the bra," Marie said after taking a deep breath. "I'm not taking it off today. We're getting crazy Blaine. We need to slow down." What she meant was,

I'm getting crazy Blaine. I need to slow down.

Blaine pulled the car onto the shoulder of the road and switched off the engine. "Take off the bra Marie."

"The bra is not coming off Blaine."

"Take off the bra Marie."

"Blaine, I'm not saying I won't take it off ever again, just not everyday. It's too much."

They were parked just off the busiest two-lane highway in town and cars were beginning to have difficulty getting around them. Traffic was slowing perceptibly, Blaine was not yielding, and Marie was getting nervous. "Please Blaine, just for today, OK? I'll take it off every day for the rest of the week, I promise."

Marie's desperation elicited no sympathy. Worse that none she realized as she fumbled with the clasp of her bra while gawking drivers in passing cars leered at her embarrassing predicament. Once Marie's bra was seated in its customary position wrapped around the car's gearshift, another of the soft humiliations Blaine insisted on, he started the car and drove directly to their room.

Neither the nineteen-year-old black youth nor the mature white wife nearly thrice his age spoke of the capitulation of her sexual sovereignty to him but both realized it. Marie had played her hand and he'd called her bluff. Whatever she refused him going forward would be at his discretion, not hers. Marie had honestly believed she had the will to back her play going in and now, even she must acknowledge she didn't. No longer would she have the comfort afforded by the blindfold that some fig leaf guarded her dignity.

I'm a slut,

Marie groaned silently to herself as the cool breeze from the car's air conditioner stiffened her nipples.

I'm his slut. He controls me now, and even in the embarrassment of my inability to fight primitive urges I had no difficulty mastering even at the height of puberty, I can feel my juices forming in volumes I've never known.

Marie worried as Blaine sped to their spot that he might demand more in light of his triumph at the

Battle of the Side of the Road.

But he didn't claim his spoils, at least not just then.

The remainder of the week consisted of the pair enjoying the illicit pleasures of their newly elevated routine: 1) heated making out with vertical dry humping and knocker hockey, followed by; 2) both staring at Blaine's erection straining in his jeans, followed by; 3) Blaine facing the corner and jacking off while Marie bit her lip and felt her pussy flood, followed by; 4) Blaine cleaning up with paper towels supplied by Marie then turning around half way through tucking his half hard cock back into his briefs offering Marie the magnificent sight of a bulging white cotton pouch wetted to translucence at the tip by the still oozing semen with glimpses of black groin skin at places where Jockey, Inc. designers failed to anticipate the young black man's extraordinary dimensions, followed by; 5) Marie mopping Blaine's ejaculate from the room's corner with its increasing peep-show-booth smells.

Marie raced home each day to renew the acquaintanceship between her hand and her cunt...or between her cunt and her dildo...or among her hand, her cunt, and her dildo. Marie masturbated more often that summer than she had the entire decade that preceded it.

Marie wasn't the only one in her household getting much more sex than before summer began. Her husband Dave began feeling friskier because his wife was. It started one night in late June when Dave noticed Marie slip into bed wearing slinkier than usual attire.

Their sex life had disappeared fifteen years ago because of, well to put it discretely, an indiscretion, then gradually rekindled when it appeared their marriage would survive. While they never again reached the quantitative peaks they'd enjoyed before Dave's affair, the quality, on occasion, returned.

Then, in the last five years, Dave had begun that discouraging descent into erectile hell where that most reliable buddy every man had had since puberty began to suffer ill health.

Both Marie and her husband moved beyond those frequent and explosive periods of passionate infernos to occasional reunions of tender, mellow satisfactions. Then, that summer ardor flared anew. Urgent hands, rigid phalluses, rocky nipples, sloppy pussies, and hungry mouths returned with sexual mayhem on their minds. Perhaps this was their supernova where they expended more sexual energy in one last gigantic explosion of a summer than they had in their entire thirty-year history to that point.

It if was, they embraced it with all the verve of a condemned man's last trip to the whorehouse, or the virginal teen's discovery that his mom's friend has the hots for him. Old VCR tapes were exhumed from their musty chest and a player hooked up to the bedroom TV. High definition DVDs were purchased and consumed in random chunks interspersed with ardor sating bursts of frenzied stroking and sucking. Marie even visited an adult products store for the first time and, with equal parts embarrassment and excitement, assisted in selecting pornography for her home.