Long Shot

When I was 19 years old, I spent a lonely summer in my college town working two jobs to help make ends meet for my upcoming sophomore year. Three nights a week, I worked as a waiter at a restaurant. During the day, and on call at night, I helped Mr. Simonson, the apartment superintendent of our 100-unit complex, with maintenance services. His wife, Mrs. Simonson, was the apartment manager. I did everything from cleaning and maintaining the pool and Jacuzzi, to unclogging drains (and toilets—Ugh!), fixing frozen garbage disposals, and repainting units before new occupancy.

Joe and Lydia Simonson were in their late sixties. Mr. Simonson was a gregarious hard drinking man, with a red, corpulent face, potbelly, and a bald head. Mrs. Simonson was a brassy, dumpy, gray haired woman, who always seemed to be holding a cigarette. They were fairly demanding of me, but they were fun people to be around, and they did a great job in running the apartment complex. Both of them seemed to take delight in teasing me about anything and everything. They referred to be as “Loverboy,” from time to time, because of my loving relationship with my girlfriend, Sarah. Mr. S liked to tease me about how lucky I was to have such a hot college girl for a girlfriend, and he would inevitably end the comment with some reference to how I needed to enjoy it while I could, because you get old like him, with an old, dumpy wife.

My summer was lonely, because Sarah had left town to return home for the summer to work, and also to travel in Europe with her parents and sister. She left in the middle of June, and I wouldn’t see her until late August. Sarah and I enjoyed a wonderful sexual relationship, and until she left, we went at it about four or five times a week. When that ended abruptly in the middle of June, I went to Plan B—self-pleasure. As I think Woody Allen once said—“at least I was having sex with someone who loves me.”

In late July, I was able to take some extra shifts at the restaurant, which meant I was working every day and every night for six days. It was exhausting work, but the monetary reward was well worth it. After my final restaurant shift that week, I slept until ten, then showered, slipped into my running shorts and tee shirt, and headed over to the pool house to clean the pool and add the chemicals. It was a warm day already, but a cooling morning breeze felt exquisite as it gently blew through my hair, giving my skin a sensuous and goosepimply feel. I felt very horny—and no wonder, my grueling schedule of all work, interrupted only by sleep, had put my last orgasm six days into the past. Now that was probably a record since the time I began masturbating at age 11.

After finishing my work at the pool, I went over to the office to see if I could talk to Mr. or Mrs. S about buying a new drain snake to replace one that had become hopelessly tangled and unwound. Trudy, the Assistant Manager, was in the office that day. She told me to check with the Simonsons at their apartment. So I walked down to their apartment and rang the bell. Mrs. S called out “Who is it?”

“Just me Mrs. S.”

“Come on in, Jimmy.”

I let myself in. The air conditioner was on. Mrs. S and her friend, Kathy Lewis, were sitting on the living room couch, smoking cigarettes, watching TV soap operas, and reading magazines. Both of them were dressed in shorts and tee shirts with bare feet. Mrs. Lewis was in her late fifties, wore glasses, and was a bottle brunette, with her hair in a ponytail. In contrast to Mrs. S, Mrs. Lewis was very skinny. They both appeared to be more than a little bit inebriated, as they each were working on a Bloody Mary, and a pitcher that had once been filled with the mix was near empty. They were having a wonderful time, chattering incessantly and loudly, as drunken people will.

After they ignored me for a minute or so to finish their conversation, Mrs. Simonson finally looked up at me, and asked me what I needed. So I explained, “I think the snake is broken and we need to get a new one.”

Mrs. S smirked, “Your snake is broken?” and then they both broke up in raucous laughter. “You are far too young to be worrying about your snake not working, Loverboy.” More laughs at my expense. I just stood there, and then I realized that both of them were looking at my crotch, as the discussion of my “snake” necessarily drew them to look there. I am sure I turned beet red.

“Come on, Mrs. S, give me a break.”

Then Mrs. Lewis chimed in, “Oh she can’t help it, Jimmy, she has snakes on her brain.” With that, she pulled a Playgirl magazine from beneath the Redbook in front of Mrs. S, and held it up for me to see. I just shook my head, while both of them broke up again.

“You are very naughty ladies,” I finally blurted, shaking my head and smiling.

The whole scene had become fairly surreal--the cigarette smoke, these old and certainly not attractive lushes making salacious comments. I liked it, but it was also uncomfortable. I suppose it would have been a form of sexual harassment, had it happened today.

“Maybe with Sarah gone this summer, his snake forgot how to do its job,” teased Mrs. S.

“Or maybe he’s beating it too much!” exclaimed Mrs. Lewis. And now they just lost it. I don’t think either would have been this forward if alone, but the two together seemed to feed off each other. That, the booze and the fact that they had already been looking at and musing on naked guys in the Playgirl, apparently brought us to this point.

“So, Loverboy, which is it?” smiled Mrs. S.

Before I could answer, I noticed them make eye contact with each other, smile, and look back at my crotch. I didn’t need to look down. I knew I had a growing erection. My mind was reeling. I decided to make an excuse to leave, but before I could, Mrs. Lewis cut in.

“It looks to me like his snake is working just fine.” More yucking it up.

“Would you like us to take a quick look to see what’s wrong with it?” volunteered Mrs. S.

I decided to tease her back. “You need to be a professional to handle my snake—it’s of the spitting variety. Besides, Joe and Ron (Mr. S and Mr. Lewis) wouldn’t appreciate me letting you see my snake.”

Mrs. S and Mrs. Lewis then whispered back and forth, giggling something I couldn’t hear.

“Well, we don’t need to worry about Joe and Ron,” Mrs. S assured me, “because they are on the golf course. And we have seen spitting snakes before, Hun, so go ahead and let a couple of old ladies take a quick look, just to remind us of what we have been missing for so many years.” Both of them just kind of leaned back on the couch, with their legs crossed, cigarettes in hand, smirks on their faces, and their eyebrows somewhat raised in expectancy.

I don’t know what got into me. The sexual tension hung in the air. We just kind of stayed that way for about ten long seconds—in equipoise, me looking at them in disbelief, and them amused with themselves at my expense, seeking to determine if I would call their game of erotic bluff. In an out-of-body experience, while searching their eyes back and forth, I hooked my thumbs in the front of my shorts, searching for any sign of calling this game off. Both of them shrieked. “Oh god, he’s going to show us!”

“Are you sure you really want to see my snake?” I asked, still pushing my bluff.

They looked at each other, and again with the giggling whispers. Then Mrs. S said, “I would love to see your snake, but that is as far as this is going to go. No touching. We just want a quick look. And this does not leave this room. Joe and Ron would kill us all.” Mrs. Lewis nodded soberly. “Understood?”

That made me a little nervous. “What if they come home?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” assured Mrs. S, “they wont’ be back for a couple of hours. Here, lets go in the kitchen, so if they do come home early, we won’t be by the front door.” Mrs. S and Mrs. Lewis then got up from the couch, and I followed them into Mrs. S’s kitchen. Both of them sat on chairs at the breakfast room table, both still with cigarettes and drinks in their hands. Again, I saw that same smirking look of expectancy.

Again I hooked my thumbs in the front of my shorts, and this time I pulled them down. I could feel the flushed heat rising in my face. Their eyes widened, then the smirks broke into full-blown smiles. My dick was about half-mast when I first exposed myself, and under their admiring gaze, I steadily grew to a full purple erection, throbbing with each beat of my heart. There I stood, my dick pointing to the ceiling, about two feet away from them at close to their eye level, as they were sitting and I was standing.

“Nice,” commented Mrs. S.

“Your snake seems quite fit for action, Jimmy. In fact, it looks like it needs to spit,” laughed Mrs. Lewis.

I was now totally intoxicated by the situation, and had lost all judgment. “Would you like to see it spit?” I teased. And before I could receive an answer, I slowly wrapped my fingers around my erection, and began slowly and sensuously stroking my six-inch boner.

Neither of them said a word. They just kept smiling, watching, and glancing at each other with “can you believe this?” looks. I kept stroking my cock, while moving my focus from their avid gaze, to their crossed legs (Mrs. S’s legs were chubby and had varicose veins, while Mrs. Lewis’s legs were skinny, but had pretty pedicures), to their age spotted hands, which held their cigarettes and drinks.

Soon I was getting close to shooting, which was not lost on Mrs. S. “Back up, Jimmy,” she demanded, “don’t you even think about shooting on us like some kind of porno film.”

So I took a couple of steps back, and renewed my efforts, this time about five feet back from them. After a few minutes, the moment of crises arrived. I could feel it building, my body tensing, my butt tightening, and as my whole body kind of bowed with my dick leading the way, my first shot of jism burst from my cock, shooting in an arc toward Mrs. Lewis. She immediately flinched, and pushed her chair back a foot or so, as that shot landed a few inches short from where her bare feet had been. Six or seven more shots flew in similar arcs, but with diminishing length, each splattering on the orange linoleum kitchen floor.

By the time I got some consciousness back, Mrs. S had gotten up from the kitchen table and handed me a napkin, which I used to dab up the last bits of semen I squeezed from my shrinking erection. She then walked to the counter, pulled a few paper towels from the roll, and squatted down to wipe up the splashes on the floor—all the while with the drink in her hand and a cigarette in her fingers.

As soon as I pulled up my shorts I was remorseful and humiliated. I just couldn’t believe I had done it. “Well, your snake appears to be in excellent health, Jimmy. My recommendation is that you take it out and pet it often until your lovely Sarah is back with you, and it shouldn’t give you any trouble at all,” teased Mrs. S.

I kind of skulked out of the apartment. I think we were all a little embarrassed by what had transpired, because it was never mentioned again, even though I continued that job for another year. But needless to say, although I have enjoyed a very rewarding sex life over the years with my wife (not Sarah by the way), I now look back on that episode often when I masturbate. And I would love to repeat it. I tried to recreate it with my wife once (without her knowledge why), but she seemed bothered by my wanting to jack off in front of her (or maybe she just didn’t appreciate the cum on the floor). Oh well.