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.
