Double Take
Chapter 25
“To efficiently create chaos requires some order.”
—Dan Brown, Origin
“HOW IS IT humping around my belly?” Francie panted. I wasn’t really humping around it. I was sitting back on my knees and humping toward it. If she was this big at six months, what was she going to be like later?
“Fine. I can still get my cock in your sweet tight pussy,” I panted.
“Let me turn over.” I backed out of her and she rolled to her side, reaching in my bedside table. “Here,” she said, handing me the bottle of lube. We hadn’t really used it since she switched from hand jobs to blowjobs.
“You’re soaking wet. I don’t think we need lube.”
“We do for my asshole.”
“What?”
“I told you I had another idea.”
“Is this from the Kama Sutra?”
“No. It’s from a porn video I watched. Squirt some in my hole and then rub some all around your dick.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“No. But we won’t know if I don’t try.”
I squirted a little lube in her asshole and on my fingers before starting to work them into her.
V1 wasn’t a novice at this. Actually, Renie had suggested it when her vagina started getting dry after menopause. We’d had some pretty good times of it and I discovered that all I really needed was to feel that tight ring clasping around the head of my cock to set me off. I didn’t need to be pushing my full length into her bowels. She got turned on by the act but never got off during it. Eventually, I’d quit doing it because it was obvious she was just doing it for me and wasn’t enjoying it like I did.
Francie was moaning as I popped one finger and then two into her butt.
“Oh, God! Can you reach my clit with your other hand? Jacob, please?”
To get my left hand around her hip to diddle her meant I was going to get a lot closer. I pulled my fingers out and made a fist to be sure my cock was fully lubed. At first, I just slid in and out of my fist until I bumped her little hole. I knew both Francie and Em liked having their buttholes played with during sex but I’d never tried to put more than the tip of my finger inside.
I just kept sliding through my greasy hand and bumping into her star. Francie started pulsing, her hole opening a little each time I touched it. I just kept punching at it as it opened farther and farther. Then the head popped through the wrinkled gateway and I froze.
“Ohhh…” I moaned.
“Yeah. Yeah. Do it again.”
It was all I could do to keep from moving my hand and just driving into her but I kept my fist tight against her butt and resumed the rhythm of backing off and bumping in only now I was actually popping through her sphincter with every stroke.
“More! Faster! Gimme!” she panted.
I wasn’t completely sure if she meant my hand on her clit or my cock in her ass, so I stepped up both. I sped up my fingers on her clit and began to relax my fist so I’d slide in deeper. Before long, the head wasn’t popping out of her chute on the back stroke and I was going in deeper.
“Oh, God! Oh, God! I’m ready to come!” I knew that meant to pinch her clit a little to push her over. I was prepared to get clamped down on when she hit her climax. “Ahh!” She hit, loud and clear. But her ass also opened up instead of clamping down and I slid all the way into her bowels. She went batshit crazy, bumping back against me and I picked up the speed of both my pumping into her and vibrating against her clit. She hadn’t come down yet when I unleashed a torrent into her rectum.
Instead of collapsing on top of her, I pulled her with me to roll to our sides with me still pulsing in her butt.
“Was it too difficult for you to reach my clitty?” she gasped.
“No. Once I was in you it was fine.”
“It’s getting harder for me to reach it by myself. If you can keep reaching it, we can do it this way right up until birth.”
“I’m sure the doctor is going to want to catch the baby with your ass leaking my come.”
“Give me a break, Jacob. I’m going to shit the bed when labor starts and anything you leave up there will be long gone.”
“What?”
“Sorry. You’re only fifteen and haven’t been taking the prep classes I’ve had to.”
“They require you to take a prep class for having a baby?” I said. This was really new to me. Rebecca and I had our children back in the early sixties; I was in the maternity waiting room until I was invited in to meet my kids. I was always a little envious of my son-in-law who was with my daughter during the birth of my first grandchild. I still got to wait outside.
“It’s not a requirement,” she said. “But it’s good preparation. It used to be a six-week class, but now it’s twelve. I had my first one last week. One of my classmates told me about doing anal and I looked it up online. Anyway. The first class was all about what to expect in the delivery room. The first thing they showed us was called a dry-down. They put one under you in the delivery room to catch anything you expel during labor. And change it frequently. When most women push the first time, they poop.”
“Shit.”
“Exactly.”
“Did you enjoy this?” I asked. I was still concerned that she was just doing something to please me and wasn’t getting pleasure from it. After all, our relationship started with her coming in to give me a hand job when I couldn’t reach my dick.
“Yeah. I did. Jacob, look at me.” She pulled my head to her and I popped out of her pooper as she rolled toward me. “Oh, God! Maybe I should get some dry-downs for when we do this!” she laughed. “Anyway. Jacob. You’re giving me something I wish I’d had a year of before I got pregnant. I know I came here just to help you out but that’s never been what I wanted. You’ve helped me, baby. You’ve given me all the stuff I should have had during courtship. It’s not your fault I was already knocked up when we met. You’ve still been…” She couldn’t go on through her sobs as she clutched me to her.
“Hey, hey,” I said, trying to be comforting. All of a sudden, Francie had changed from a teenage lust object to a precious girl I needed to comfort and protect. “You’re okay. You’ll get through this and you’ll love your baby. Anything I can do to help, I will. Even if you just need to come and hold my hand, that’s okay, too. All I want is the best for you.”
“That’s just it, Jacob. Even when I was coming to give you some relief, you wanted it to be good for me. I wish we were both older so we could have a future together, but there’s no certainty when we enter the service. I hear they try to keep you near your child if that’s what you want, but there’s no guarantees. Staying next to the boy I love who is three years younger than me wouldn’t even be considered. Thank you. Thank you so much for being the kind caring lover you are.”
“It’s okay,” I repeated, needlessly. “I love you, too, Francie.”
“It’s the hormones. One minute I’m decorating little peapod’s nursery and the next I’m sobbing about what a terrible mother I’ll be. I run to the bathroom and puke my guts out then want to go out for Chinese food. I’ve just had a spectacular orgasm with a boy I love and now I want to cry about my future. I’ll make it. We’ll make it. I know it affects you, too. I feel it when we’re together. I hope you’ll always think fondly of me, and maybe even my little one.”
What could I say? In every way but sexually we were worlds apart. No matter how much V1 wanted to take over and ‘do the right thing’, V3 was a teenager and happily ever after wasn’t meant to start yet. I just held Francie in my arms and cradled her, assuring her that she would be a great mother and that I’d always be available to help when she needed it.
I guess I was still thinking about all this stuff on the treadmill the next morning when Jock walked up and stopped it.
“What’s up, Jock?” I asked.
“It’s time for you to feel the beat,” he said. “Laps. Actually, walking is still different than the treadmill. I want you to take a lap around the gym.”
“I’ll get my cane.”
“No. You don’t need the cane. Adjust your speed and position so you don’t depend on having it. By the end of this week, I don’t even want to see you carrying it.”
“Really?”
“Here’s what I want you to do. Focus on walking. Let your arms swing and balance you. I don’t want casual strolling. I want you concentrating on the process of walking. Head up. Eyes forward. Walk!” He shoved a football helmet on my head and fastened the chinstrap.
“What’s this?”
“I don’t want to get sued because you have brain damage from a head injury while walking in the gym. You break an arm I’ll deal with it. You can get out of the helmet when you show me you are stable enough to walk on your own at a twenty-minute mile pace for an hour.”
And just like that, I was off the treadmill and walking around the gym.
“What’s this?” I asked at lunch. I’d spent study hall helping Rachel with Geometry. That was our excuse and I was sticking with it. She did have a pencil out and was working the problems as I explained them to her. Under the tables our hands were tangled together or stroking each other’s legs. She had the damn nicest silkiest legs in the whole damn world! And they were right there sticking out of her miniskirt and all bare and everything. I damn near came in my pants!
Oh. Beca had her computer out and was playing a movie, but it didn’t look like one of our security videos. Exactly. Maybe sort of, but there was no picture.
“It’s an animation based on the traffic patterns in last week’s DVD,” Beca said. She hit play and colored dots flowed into the field like water into a sink. But they all organized themselves and paused at a point where each color had gelled in a group. Then the animation began again and there was a flow outward while a different group flowed in. There were subtle shifts in the final positions and then they moved again. This repeated two more times, ending with the flow out of the tank leaving it empty.
“That’s amazing,” I said. I glanced around the room and could pretty much see what color each group was.
“Isn’t our girl brilliant?” Beca said as she took Joan’s hand. Joan blushed from her hair roots to her low-cut tank top.
“Joan? You did this?”
“Yeah. I’m not just tits and ass.”
“The tits and ass are pretty spectacular,” Beca said, “but this head of yours is incredible. I can hardly believe you put this together.”
“It took all weekend and then half the night last night fine-tuning it.”
“How did you do it?” I asked.
“I used an animation program and assigned a dot to each head coming through the door from one camera angle. After I had patterns, I dumped the video and then shifted the perspective of the animation so it looks like we’re looking straight down on the cafeteria instead of from one of the corners.”
“Christ, if we handed in nothing but this with an analysis, we’d ace the project,” I said.
“We can’t do that,” Beca said. “This part is Joan’s. She’s retaking Human Geography as a senior AP class next year. She’ll be able to use the project then. This is her work. We can use it to illustrate our findings, but we can’t claim credit for her work.”
“Of course not,” I affirmed. “Joan you are a creative genius. I think we should split the data, too. There’s far more than we can include in our project. Joan should have full access to all the material we have.” She looked at me and smiled, the blush deepening.
“Thank you.”
“Um… Do you mind if I’m just tits and ass?” Rachel said, snuggling up to me. “I’d like to do something significant for your project, but I’m not a creative genius.”
“As if,” I said. I was pretty proud of picking up that bit of slang. “We’re all in this together. You’ve spotted three trends that the rest of us missed.”
“They were little ones.”
“Hey, did you notice,” Beca asked, pointing to the empty chair. “We’ll see how good Joan really is at this Human Geography thing if her prediction comes true. How long do we give it?”
“Prediction? Oh. Having the chair filled instead of removed? Have you already done the analysis, Joan? I’ll bet you already know who’s going to take the chair,” I laughed.
“No. Not exactly. I just sense a disturbance in the force,” she said while closing her eyes and waving her hands around. Once she dropped her habitual troll and capture routine, I began to like her more and more. Uh-oh. Prom.
Em and I continued to get to school half an hour early to work out but she no longer had to spot me on the treadmill. We worked side by side on our weight machines and she giggled about the sounds that came out of my room when Francie visited and asked if she should get earplugs for this afternoon or new batteries. I laughed and suggested she get a butt plug.
She rushed off to shower and go to her first period class as I headed for the gym.
“Head up! Look around. Walk!” Jock barked at me. I wasn’t going to be playing basketball with the other guys in my class. I walked around the gym floor. I focused on evening out my stride and not favoring my right leg. When I looked in a mirror, I could still see that leg was thinner than the left but I could feel the strength returning.
I quit using my cane between classes, though it was in my locker. I was pretty careful when I went outside in the snow.
Second period was always a bright spot because I got to sit beside Beca in our AP Human Geography class. The first unit of the semester was Political Organization of Space and we had a map quiz on pre-World War I Europe. We’d been warned that there would be four map quizzes and the next would be for the start of World War II. Then there would be a Cold War map and finally a European Union Map. We’d have all four quizzes in a two-week period and then we’d switch from international boundaries to local political organization. I wondered if we’d see political boundaries take shape in the cafeteria.
I plopped down in my chair at our lunch table and Joan wedged in beside me instead of Beca.
“Hey, what’s up?” She blushed.
“We have to shift around more in our seating arrangement,” Beca announced. “No one will believe we are all your girlfriends if the only one who sits beside you all the time is Rachel. Sorry, honey, you’ll have to take one for the team here.”
“I don’t mind,” Rachel said. “As long as I get some time sitting next to your cute butt, too.” This time it was Beca who blushed. I got it. I put an arm around Joan and pulled her to me for a little kiss. She sagged against me.
“Uh-oh,” she breathed as we straightened up. “Trouble’s coming.” I assumed she meant a lunchroom monitor was headed our way to break up our PDA. It had gone on a little longer than I intended. I looked over, ready to be obsequious.
Instead, I saw a Victorian Gothic pseudo dancehall girl widow. That’s all I could call it. I’ll just start from the top and work my way down. A black hat, sort of like a small top hat with a veil or just bit of netting that came down over her forehead in front and fell tangled with full black hair to just below her shoulders. Dark liner around eyes that were an unnatural shade of blue. Like cobalt nuggets glowing above high cheekbones, a straight regal nose, and fire engine red lips.
The black dress had wide shoulder wings that cut off far enough from her long neck to let the lapels fall open over a deeply cut corset that showed a massive amount of cleavage pushed up and out on display. Below the breasts, it was laced tightly around a slim waist and then a skirt that flowed out from there. I mean, in back it flowed full to below her knees, but it was cut in an arc up in front to about mid-thigh, exposing diamond patterned black hose on the sexiest legs I’d ever seen. The laced high-heel boots rose above her ankle. The sleeves of the dress had a million buttons and ended in points that extended down the back of her hands, complete with nail polish that matched the lipstick.
“Holy shit,” Rachel breathed.
The vision set her lunch tray none too gently on the table in front of the empty chair and glared at me.
“I thought you were dead.”
“Desi,” I whispered.
“So, you do recognize me. That means you’ve just been ignoring me.”
Oh, I recognized Desiree Whitcomb all right. But I hadn’t seen her since 1957, sixty years ago. And she was not a fifteen-year-old classmate with big tits. She was my college Psychology professor and first serious affair. She was quite an anomaly in the world of academics of the late fifties. Some considered her too manly because she utterly dominated a room when she walked in and was not afraid to challenge even the top administration of the college. She was in her thirties at the time, a doctor of psychology in her own right and said to have written her dissertation on debunking Freud.
Looking at her in class, though, would tell you she was anything but manly under that tough exterior. You have to understand that back then, torpedo bras, as the guys called them, were common even on mousy housewives. They suspended the tits in conical harnesses high on the chest and there wasn’t anything a woman could wear that didn’t accommodate the pointed protrusions. And Desi Whitcomb made the most of them in tailored black pants suits and high heels. She didn’t stand behind a podium or sit at a desk like other college lecturers. Instead, she strode through the classroom with command presence that intimidated every student and filled many—including me—with powerful sexual fantasies.
Mine came true in the most classic cliché imaginable. I was asked to stay after class.
“Hopkins, I need assistance. I’ve checked your class schedule and this is a light day for you, is it not?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. I’d intended to go to my dormitory and crash for an hour before reading the hundred pages she’d just assigned the class but I wasn’t going to turn down the opportunity to ‘assist’ her in any way she wanted.
“Wonderful. Come with me.”
I followed her, noticing the way her short jacket seemed to accent the tight fit of her slacks over her round bottom. It wasn’t the first time I’d noticed. Only this time, I was certain that I could see the outline of her garters as she strode ahead of me, straight to her car in the faculty lot. I knew exactly what I was looking at. My father had been moved—‘bumped’ they called it in the union—and ended up on the new Studebaker-Packard line. In front of me was a shiny new black Clipper. The tailfins had been trimmed down for the new line but the headlights maintained their distinctive eyebrows. A lot of people complained that it was ‘no longer a real Packard’, but Dad was proud to work on them.
Dr. Whitcomb went to the passenger door and handed me the keys. I unlocked the door and made to hand them back to her but she scowled at me.
“Open the door, Hopkins. You do know how to drive a lady, don’t you?”
That settled that. I handed her into the car and waited until she was settled before I closed the door and ran to the driver’s side. I slipped my briefcase into the back seat and started the big V8 engine. Dr. Whitcomb gave me directions to her home, a classic two-story about ten miles from campus. I was wondering how I was going to get back.
I needn’t have worried. I didn’t go back to campus.
Desi Whitcomb was a practiced dominatrix and somehow, she had identified me as a willing sub. And I guess I was. The assistance she needed was in removing her clothes. She stopped me when she was down to the bullet bra, matching black panties, the garter belt and stockings. At that point she directed me to undress so I would not scratch her with my clothes.
By that time, I had pretty much figured out where this was going and just went with the flow. I wasn’t all that experienced with sex and having a willing older and incredibly sexy woman teach me was high on my list of things to do. Over the course of the next month—the end of the semester—I seldom returned to the dorm. I learned to always have a small satchel of clothing and toiletries with me because I never knew what day she would point at me and simply say, “Come.”
She never asked me what I wanted, nor did she seem to care. I got my rewards after learning to bathe her, massage her, lick her, and fuck her. When we were sated in her bedroom, she pointed me to a small room across the hall and said simply, “I want coffee at seven.” I was dismissed.
It was more than okay at first. I was learning great things about sex and pleasing a woman. I was having sex three or more times a week and paying for it with simple tasks and waiting on a goddess. Pretty much like marriage. But after about three weeks, she became less dominating and more demeaning. It seemed that nothing I did was good enough. She criticized my haircut, my shoeshine, the coffee I brought her, and my disposition. When she first struck me for being an idiot, something inside me snapped.
I shoved her. She looked startled.
“How do you dare…” she didn’t get any more words out as I closed her mouth with my own and continued to drive her back until she fell onto the bed.
“Hopkins… Jacob… What are you doing?” I ripped her panties off and unbuckled my belt. “What!”
“I’m fucking a fucking bitch,” I said. I had just enough presence of mind to grab a condom from the supply by the bed and roll it on. She whined and protested, but interestingly she didn’t try to escape, just lying there with her impotent commands and insults. I didn’t go down on her—didn’t even check to see if she was wet. I shoved my cock through her thick black curls and fucked her. I needn’t have worried.
“You bastard! You fucking simpering male. You haven’t the balls to fuck me. You’re not good enough to lick my shoes. Where is your cock? Is that all you have?”
I ignored her and just kept fucking. This was going to be the last time I was in that succulent pussy and I wanted it to last. I mauled her tits and slapped her ass as I continued to plow into her. When I finally came, I was only vaguely aware that she had climaxed as well. I didn’t care.
“Get dressed,” I said. “You need to drive me back to campus.”
“Yes, Jacob,” she said. That trip to campus was the first time I sat in the passenger seat of the big Packard. And the first time the car pulled up in front of my dormitory instead of into the faculty parking lot.
“Thank you,” I said as I opened the door. “It has been an interesting and mostly fun month. I wish you well in the future.” She smiled at me with those bright red lips.
“You needn’t return to class, Jacob,” she said. “You earned an A for the semester and it would be awkward.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
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