Cocoa

All Characters In This Story Are 18+ Years Old

Saturday, December 22, 1962

At six a.m., eighteen-year-old Barney Barnes ran naked down the hall from his mother's double bed to his own bedroom to shut off his clanging Westclox Baby Ben alarm clock. At that very moment, next door in her Westport, Connecticut home, thirty-seven-year-old Roberta Maxon stood in her shower with her head tipped back and her eyes closed. She luxuriated as pleasantly warm water sprayed onto her suprasternal notch and sent rushing rivers down her mature 37-26-37 frame. Running in the deep valley between her D-cup breasts, then over her slight matronly pot to her neatly trimmed dense copper bush, they rinsed away the last clumps of cum left there by Barney when he vigorously fucked her eight hours ago.

Once again her relaxed mind sent her back to the eve of her wedding to her first husband, Paul, in February 1944, when she was eighteen, he was nearly twenty, and she gave up her virginity to him a day early. They had partied together with his twin, Phil, who would become her second husband after Paul was killed in the horror at Hoengsong during the Korean War. After playing Chinese Checkers and drinking whiskey, Paul had helped his nearly passed out brother back to their room while she, herself fuzzy-headed, undressed and went to bed. Then, half an hour later, Paul had showed up at her door for a good-night kiss.

Paul had pressed his case as he pressed his body against Roberta's and one thing had led to another. They made love; through the night and well into the morning. Willingly, she joyfully surrendered everything to him, multiple times in multiple ways, and gloriously came, with him inside her, each time. She thought then, as now, "So what if they reversed the normal order of events and had their wedding night before their wedding? As Paul had said, it was 'Wartime, Baby.'"

But last night, after she let Barney out the front door at midnight, and Roberta was warming herself in front of the dying fire in her family room's flagstone hearth, she remembered, in vivid detail, that special Valentine's Day weekend for the first time in eighteen years. Certain resurrected oddities challenged her modern beliefs. Too tired to think, she had shunted the haunts aside and gone to bed. Now, clear-headed and wide awake, she brought them forward for closer review.

Roberta lifted her right hand to her left tit and covered her beating heart. She thought about the imbedded overlooked truth in her words when she had quipped in the Ayer, Massachusetts diner so many years ago, "You're so funny, Phil. You two are so much the same, that if you aren't dressed differently, even I can't tell you apart!"

Re-imagining her deep post-coital satisfaction from her impromptu pre-bridal defloration and the several subsequent energetic fucks with Paul that fateful Friday, Roberta suddenly wondered, "What if it wasn't Paul? What if it was Phil and she simply did not know?" Still holding her breast, she bladed her left fingers through her wet, partly curly light auburn shag hairdo while she focused her thoughts on her actual wedding day: Saturday, February 13th.

Roberta had wakened, alone, in the Excelsior Hotel Room 212 feeling more alive than she ever had in her young years. Paul must have left her sometime during the night, but she had been so fucked out that she could not say when that might have been. The twins had left a note on her door saying they were breakfasting at the diner and would wait for her there. After her morning toilet, all dressed and made-up fresh, she met them and Phil filled everyone in on the timing he had arranged with the Justice of the Peace.

Light-hearted and gay, the trio had happily prowled the streets of Ayer, enjoying what little there was to do during the war years. After the J.P. officially announced Paul and Roberta 'man-and-wife', Phil discreetly excused himself to go bowling or something. Then, back at the hotel, Paul gallantly lifted his new bride, carried her over the threshold and stood her before him while he kicked Room 212's door solidly closed with his heel. They grinned stupidly at each other while both of them wondered what would happen next, and who should make the first move.

Roberta shook her wet hair, then took up her washcloth and soap. As she lazily began rubbing her front, she thought, "That was the first strange thing: Paul seemed so shy; so hesitant. Certainly not the brash confident man he was the night before. Why did I not think that was peculiar?"

While the clock on the dresser ticked like thunder and the tension between the newlyweds built like a Kansas electrical storm, Roberta said to her husband, expectantly, "Well, Paul, here we are, married and alone together at last." Having broken the silence, she turned to the closet, then put her blue wool beret on the hat shelf and hung up her salt-and-pepper tweed winter coat. He stepped up beside her, tossed his olive barracks cap up beside her beret and likewise put his Army greatcoat on a hanger, too.

With those small tasks done, it should have followed easily for them to disrobe. But again, as she looked back on it, Roberta remembered how painstakingly slow they had done it. Almost as if he was embarrassed, Paul plucked at his tunic buttons. His demeanor was catching. Suddenly, she had been in no more a hurry than he to shed her burgundy wool suitcoat and reveal her underlying lingerie, but she recalled, she had then chalked it up as anti-climactic after their rollicking night before.

Eventually, both Paul and Roberta confronted each other in their most basic clothes. He stood straight in his white ribbed cotton tank undershirt and snowy cotton boxers, just as she had seen him previously. She too, stood again in her white rayon slip, with the difference being that today her soft wireless bra, frilly French knickers, ivory garter belt and fifteen-denier/fifty-four gauge nude nylons were still on her person, beneath the slip, rather than draped in plain view on the chairback. His eyes widened noticeably as he looked upon her; she saw that his posture was not the only thing about him that was stiff and erect.

No longer bashful, if that is what he had been, Paul stepped close and kissed Roberta very warmly. "Oh, Baby," he burbled into her ear as his hands roamed freely over her back and down to her bottom. "I love you!" Her heart beat faster and she hugged him back hard. His chest crushed against hers while his cock exited his shorts' vent and impressed itself through her satin knickers onto her slim belly, just above her Mound of Venus.

Roberta recognized the same forward-thinking Paul Maxon who had swept her off her feet three years earlier at the country club's Charity Sweetheart Ball. She had fallen in love with him then, as he held her while they danced to 'Mood Indigo', and she loved him even more now, as his wife. She shivered as he slipped her slip off her shoulders and opened her brassiere band's rear hook-and-eye closure. As these accoutrements fell by the wayside, she shimmied her rosy-dappled breasts against his hard chest.

In two shakes of a lamb's tail, Paul had whisked down Roberta's fancy pants and knelt in front of the curly copper triangle pointing from her suspenders to her pussy's outer lips. Like her large dark areolae and upright excited nipples, they puffed in russet relief against her surrounding pale pink complexion. Not bothering with her garter snaps and hose, he went straight at his target and planted a hard kiss on her slit's apex as he pulled her bottom in to his face with his strong hands. Her happy clitoris, popping from its prepuce, begged for his attention.

Roberta thrilled as Paul, burrowing his nose, slid his dredging tongue to her nest's nadir then stabbed it into her sluicing vaginal hole. Just like the night before, his most intimate kiss sent sparks flying along her spine. Clinging to his ears, she walked backward on her black pumps while he clutched her quivering ass and scrambled forward to maintain his latch-point. At the bed, she fell across its quilt and out of her shoes while she shrieked, then cried out, "Oh my gosh! Paul! I'm... I'm... Ayyyiiii..."

With her stockinged legs high to the ceiling, Roberta hauled Paul up from her creaming cunt hoping to recapture the ultimate euphoria of his thick cock pounding inside her. Like a dog losing its food dish, he leaped between her widespread thighs and landed heavily upon her bare chest. She exhaled in a great rush as his hundred-and-seventy-five pounds hit her and their combined three-hundred pounds dented the mattress. The recoiling bedsprings launched her hips back up at a perfect angle and sank her pussy on his pole to his nuts.

Paul groaned with equal surprise and pleasure. Roberta squealed again as his dickhead smashed into her womb's front door. She twisted his face to hers and attacked it with hot rapid small kisses until she discovered his mouth and settled there. Driving her tongue past his teeth she mimicked his prick pumping regularly in and out of her cunt. He huffed short hard breaths with every short hard stroke and retreat.

Roberta languidly slid her sudsy washrag across her tummy, then lower to her inner thighs and vulva while her mind stayed on her honeymoon eighteen years in the past. Paul had not lasted long, but neither had she, as they tumultuously came together, or nearly so. While she rubbed his undershirt over his broad back and milked his fading erection for its last juicy jets, he nuzzled her neck affectionately. Then, faster than she had thought possible, he abandoned her for dreamland.

Roberta shook her head in wonder and quickly finished her shower. After toweling off, she sat at her vanity fixing her face while her Sunbeam bonnet hair dryer did its magic on her red mop and she further reconstructed her wedding weekend. Paul had slept soundly, while she dozed fitfully, for a couple of hours, then they got up, got dressed and met Phil for dinner following which they went to the U.S.O.

At the U.S.O. the twins took unequal turns spinning Roberta around the dance floor. Some smart aleck had spiked the lemonade bowl with a pint of Graves Grain Alcohol. After drinking a couple glasses of that, she had another reason not to be quite sure whether she was in Paul's or Phil's arms as she whirled around on her feet and in her head. Back at the Excelsior, tuckered out and tipsy, they all crashed in their rooms

On Sunday, the trio attended the local Congregational Church and, because the boys were in uniform, were fêted afterward at the weekly potluck. Before Roberta realized where the time had gone, her soldiers were kissing her good-bye in order to report back to Fort Devens before their passes expired. Now, as she curled her eyelashes, she realized that apart from Saturday afternoon, she and Paul did not make love after they were married until he returned from the war in mid-November 1945. Putting down the chromed lash-press, she thought of her sweet Trixie, born November first in '44.

Suddenly Roberta knit her brows, cocked her head and spoke aloud to her mirror, "If your daddy didn't make you Saturday, Trixie, then it must have happened Friday night. But, I can't swear I know who your daddy is!" Knowing that it would nag at her, she shook away her dilemma for a second time while she walked into the master bedroom. As she reached into her closet for a robe, she muttered, "I'll talk to Phil when he brings Trixie home, but right now I better go make cocoa, in case BeeBee decides to come."

Roberta zipped her floor-length, multi-hued but mostly red, ribbed terrycloth robe over her pale nakedness up to her throat and slid her toes into the matching foam-padded scuffs. At her dresser, she dabbed fresh drops of Chanel No. 5 behind her ears, re-applied her favorite Fifth Avenue Red to her lips and went downstairs to the kitchen. She could not know, of course, that at that very moment, it was Trixie who bringing Phil home in the Plaza Hotel. Or that next door, in the Barnes' house, BeeBee had already decided to come; in his mother's shower-steamed cunt.

Standing at her white Westinghouse range, Roberta saw from the stove's clock that she had ample time to make her dark hot chocolate from scratch, instead of using Hershey's cocoa powder. It would be a treat for BeeBee, should he show up, and if he did not, she would have it already prepared to re-heat for Phil and Trixie later. "It's a 'can't miss' proposition, I might as well make a big jugful," she thought, as she got Baker's Semi-Sweet chocolate bars from her cupboard.

Roberta hummed happily while she chopped the chocolate fine and scraped it from her beech cutting board into a heavy saucepan. From the fridge, she mixed milk with cream, in two-to-one proportion in a two-quart Pyrex measuring cup, added vanilla extract, then set the nearly-full container aside. As the large front burner coils heated, she whisked just the right amounts of sugar and salt into the chocolate crumbs, topped the dry mixture with the milk, then transferred the pan to the range. Stirring constantly, she watched the rich brown particles melt into liquid, then, just below scalding, she poured the elixir into a squat round red-and-white Thermos with a push-button dispensing spout.

With a satisfied sigh, Roberta cleaned up her counters and re-ordered her kitchen ship-shape. The stove clock read seven-forty as she hung her apron on its hook in the pantry and got the marshmallows down from the cupboard over the white Frigidaire. Pleased with herself, she smiled as she thought, "At least, if BeeBee does pop over, I've kept my promise to have cocoa and marshmallows ready by eight."

An hour later, with a nice fire going in the family room, Roberta was listening to jazz on the Zenith home entertainment center's stereo hi-fi and practicing pool. 'Cheesecake' on Dexter Gordon's new album, 'Go' had just finished and 'Second Balcony Jump' was beginning to play when she heard the doorbell chimes in the entry hall. Stroking firmly through the cue-ball, she grinned as she watched the yellow-striped nine-ball carom three rails into a corner pocket, then, laying her stick on the full-size black walnut table's red baize, she walked to the foyer. Her spirits lifted and she had to force herself not to run.

Just as Roberta had hoped, her young man from next door, Barney Barnes, stood on her enclosed porch when she opened her front door. Like yesterday afternoon, he was decked out in a gray zip-up parka, Levi's, rubber boots and a variegated blue wool cap, with a yarn-ball top, that Judith Barnes had knit for him four Christmases ago. Beside him, a broad-bladed aluminum snow shovel leaned against the house wall. "Well, hello, BeeBee," Roberta said cheerily.

"Hi, Mrs. M.," Barney replied, suddenly feeling weirdly embarrassed. Though her colorful striped housecoat was shapeless, her shape was readily apparent and he could see she was braless underneath. Her hair, her face, her lips were all too beautiful and even standing three feet away, the warmth from the house wafted her perfume to his frozen nose. Coughing once to cover his hesitancy, he explained, "Uhm, I saw the plows had blocked your driveway, so after I cleared ours I shoveled yours out, too. You know, in case you had to, uhm, go anywhere or anything..."

Roberta smiled inwardly as she watched the teen fidget and scuff one boot toe against the other. "That was very nice of you, BeeBee," she answered evenly. Then, rhetorically, she asked, "You remember, don't you? I said I would have cocoa and marshmallows if you came again. It's cold out there; step inside. I'll go get a dollar for your shoveling."

Barney did not understand how is was that Mrs. Maxon sapped all his will power. All he could do was whatever she told him to do, although he had to admit that he did not at all mind minding her. He wondered, "Is she a sorceress?" Numbly, he stepped from his freedom to his doom.

As he had done before, Barney stood his boots out of the way on the parquet floor in the corner near the door. Then, unzipping his parka, he dumped it and his cap on top of the boots. When Roberta returned with his money, she handed it to him. He felt a pang in his gut as he found himself wishing she had shoved the bill in his jeans' pocket for him, like she had done last evening.

Roberta turned away from Barney and said, breezily, "Cocoa's in the kitchen." As she walked off, he watched her ass cheeks shift in opposition under her robe's colorful striped ribbing. His doubled-over dick twinged uncomfortably in his briefs, behind his Levi's. Darting his hand beneath his waistbands, he pulled the growing tuber vertically against his abdomen, then followed into the kitchen and quickly sat to hide his shamelessly obvious boner.

Roberta was excited; much like she used to be when she was a small girl, early on Christmas mornings, anticipating the goodies Santa might have put in her stocking overnight. The big difference today, however, as she crossed from the parquet foyer onto the kitchen's red-yellow-and-blue confetti-speckled pastel green linoleum floor, was that her pussy tingled squishily. From the holiday cupboard in her pantry, she retrieved two ceramic Howard Holt Winking Santa mugs and took them to the sideboard where she filled them with her decadently rich hot chocolate. Plopping a fat marshmallow into each crimson-and-snowy-white cup, she could not help remembering Barney's plump bulb pulsing heavily on her tongue only twelve, or so, hours earlier.

As she delivered the cocoa to Barney, giving him the Santa with his left-eye winking, while she kept the mirror-image Santa with his right-eye closed, Roberta resolved silently, "I'll have to make him last longer, next time." Putting the mug in front of him, she lightly dragged her fingers across the hard trapezius muscles under his soft flannel shirt and said, "This is creamier and more chocolate-y than yesterday. I hope you like it."

Barney shivered as Roberta's nails triggered his nerves, sending thrills racing down his back to his butt. He picked up his cup and mumbled, "Umm, okay, Mrs. M. Thanks." While he sipped the hot beverage, the melting marshmallow's dry top bumped his nose, but its spreading white creamy froth left a sticky spot on his upper lip. He licked the sweetness away and commented, "This is really good."

Roberta, now seated opposite her guest, gave free rein to her erotic thoughts as she watched his tongue tip scrub the sugary residue, then dart back into his mouth. Huskily, she intoned, "Mmmm, that's good that it's good, BeeBee." Bringing her mug to her shockingly-red full lips, she intentionally overpainted them with her own marshmallow sauce, but did not clean them, as she swallowed the cocoa and returned her cup to the table top. After she noticed that he had noticed, she blotted her mouth on a napkin.

Smiling across the Catalina-green Formica, Roberta said, conversationally, "When we've finished our cocoa, and you are toasty warm again, there's something I hope you can do for me in the family room."

Barney gulped, then gulped again, but this time with his mouth full of hot chocolate. Having washed down the sudden lump in his throat, while still concerned about the lump in his denims, he asked innocently, "Is your flue damper jammed again? Maybe I'll have to use a tool and bang on it from inside. That's what I had to do when Mom needed me."

Roberta bit her lip to keep from laughing. Judith had said nearly the same thing on the phone the night before. It was hilarious then and still funny, now. Her ultramarine eyes sparkled mirthfully as she shook her head and replied, "No, you won't have to get anything special. Do you know how to play pool, BeeBee?"

Barney squinted and crinkled his brow at the seeming non sequitur, then repeated, "Pool? Yeah, I guess so. Some friends and I have played 'Stars and Stripes' in the YMCA game room." Not wanting to make too much of it, he quickly added, "I'm no expert, or anything, but I know kind of what to do. Why?"