Ellie grabbed a hand towel and wiped my cum from her chin, neck, and breasts; then buttoned and tucked in her shirt. She knew damn well she was super cute, but never-the-less asked, “How do I look?”
I was starving and not really in the mood for games; but responded, “Do I look like Ben Stiller to you, Cameron?”
She just smiled, ran her fingers through her forelock, and checked the result.
Ellie assumed the position of the day; namely, locking her elbow in mine, and walked me toward the kitchen. I felt like a blind man, but understood this was all about demonstrating ownership. I was a whore.
The kitchen was full of the same people, now fully clothed. Actually, Kate and Jean were nowhere to be seen. I had figured out they were an item and had even fantasized about Kate strapping on an extra large BBC and pegging Jean both fore and aft or front door and back door, depending on one’s perspective. My guess was they were going at it that very minute in some dark corner. Sure enough, the butler pantry door swung open and out strolled Jean with a smirk on her puss, followed by Kate looking bored. The pantry of all places! I envisioned Captain Crunch with his hand over his eyes and Uncle Ben smiling.
Kate caught my eye and walked over. She leaned over for what I anticipated would be a kiss, but instead whispered, “I had to deliver Jean’s hostess gift.”
“With extra virgin olive oil?” I suggested.
“That would be the only thing virgin in this house. Let’s get some food.”
My mouth was already watering; not for Kate, but for the multitude of dishes laid out on the island and countertops. I smelled dry rubs, molasses-infused sauces, mustard, allspice, cinnamon, vinegar, cheddar cheese, beans, corn, pork, beef, sausage, and chicken. I got a plate and piled it high with Memphis dry rub ribs ala Rendezvous, St. Louis Pappy’s ribs with thick Chicago Sweet Baby Ray Original sauce, pulled pork with South Carolina mustardy Sticky Fingers coating, and burnt ends. I added baked beans with chunks of smoked sausage, but ran out of room for other sides. I grabbed a bowl of Gold Star/Skyline chili covered with diced Vidalia onion and finely shredded cheddar. I was in hog heaven.
I figured a skinny girl like Kate would be a light and picky eater, but I was in for a surprise. She selected sliced brisket with KC Masterpiece sauce, a quarter chicken with Alabama white sauce, a huge piece of heavy cornbread slathered in butter and Tennessee Best apple butter, three bean salad, and lobster mac and cheese. My only thought was “Who puts lobster in mac and cheese? What will be the next sin, truffles?”
I followed Kate to a Florida room off the kitchen. I was relieved to find a long, rustic farmer’s table with benches and mismatched chairs. I hadn’t looked forward to sitting on a couch, balancing a plate and bowl on my knees. Before I could sit down, Kate touched my forearm and asked, “Hon, would you be a dear and get us some drinks? I’ll have a Stella.”
I’m neither the “hon”, nor the “dear” type; but I nodded acquiescence. I was pretty much beered out and really could have used a Dr. Pepper. Nevertheless, I dutifully fetched Kate her Stella. My go-to drink with BBQ, chili or TexMex is cerveza (particularly Modelo Special), but Stella? As to the Dr. Pepper, a “Flo” type waitress at the Interstate BBQ in Memphis twenty years ago brought me a pulled pork sandwich, celery seed slaw, and beans (all that I didn’t order). She plopped down my beverage that I also didn’t order with the comment, “You look like a Dr. Pepper kinda guy.”
Kate and I dug into our food and made small talk. She was a trust fund baby and I a washed-up jock. She was divorced and I married. Essentially, there were no surprises or unwanted revelations. Thankfully, neither of us felt a need to discuss the multiple sexual encounters over the previous four hours.
I did my best to stifle a yawn as I was eating my last burnt end. She was a good sport and took the yawn as a sign of too much booze and too much sex, as opposed to my being bored with her company. She laughed, kissed my cheek, and suggested, “Somebody needs to go nightie night.”
I told her it was time for me to hit the road. We took our dishes out to the kitchen and with her at my side (locked elbows, of course), I made the rounds of the guests and thanked Jean and Roy for the invitation. Kate said she’d walk me out.
We stood toe to toe in the darkness by the driver’s side of the F150, my back up against the door and Kate with her fingers locked behind my neck. With her platform shoes on we were nearly the same height. Although our faces were still inches apart, our pubic regions were so tightly compressed that a joker card likely could not slide through. Kate began grinding her mons against my growing erection. I was relieved. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get it up after all the booze and banging. Kate became the aggressor, pulling my face to hers and kissing me passionately. She bit my lower lip and forced her surprisingly long tongue into my mouth. She backed away slightly, only to attack my neck just below the chin; then worked up to my ear. Her wet tongue bathed my left ear and she half whispered, half growled, “You’re not leaving until you fuck me.”
I had envisioned sitting on the bench seat of the truck, Kate on my lap and facing away with her head on the dash, my cock buried in her pussy. She had other ideas. She opened the truck door and turned toward me with an almost sweet smile. In slow motion, she undid the Coach belt on her safari shorts and lowered the zipper. I was mesmerized until she caught my attention. She looked me dead in the eyes, then cocked her head and gazed down at my crotch. There was the unspoken question, “What are you waiting for? Pull it out.”
Kate kicked off her shorts and thong, leaving only her four-inch platforms and shirt. She truly was a thoroughbred. She had legs that unbelievably extended up to my waist and super thin hips. As I looked from her tiny brunette landing strip down to her toes and back, she was placing her right index and long fingers into her mouth. As I watched, she lowered her wet fingers to her clitoris and vagina. Simultaneously she made small circles with her lubricating digits, while reaching forward with her left hand. She gently palmed my precum-dripping dick and arched her eyebrows. She was inviting me to fuck her.
While still holding onto my cock with her left hand, she rotated toward the seat and bent forward. As I moved into a mounting position, she leaned forward onto the bench seat and directed my cockhead between her labia. I needed no further encouragement.
As Kate released the grip on my meat, I pushed my cockhead into her overwhelmingly warm and tight pussy. I grasped her pelvic wings with each hand. She leaned forward, placing both elbows and forearms on the bench seat.
We settled into a rhythm like old lovers. Truth be told, Kate was the conductor. At times she slowly rocked back and forth, arching and dipping her low back. At other times she simply rolled her hips in a classic screwing fashion. She varied the tempo; but with each change of cadence, there was a subtle increase in speed. Finally, she lowered her face to the seat and commanded, “I can’t take much more of your big cock. Fuck me. Fuck me hard.”
I was happy to give Kate what she craved and I was happy to relieve the almost painful tension in my taint. I gritted my teeth, held my breath, and humped forward, burying my rod balls deep into her snatch. She reached under her belly, mashed her clit with her right hand, and moaned, “Harder, I’m cumming, I’m cumming!”
On her second “I’m cumming”, I lost all control. I shot my load and gasped for air. I collapsed onto her back, my sweat staining her khaki shirt.
After making promises I knew I’d never keep, I backed out onto Applewood Lane, leaving Kate standing in the gravel, hands on her hips.
I retraced my steps; heading out to North Main and toward downtown. I thought about stopping at one of the many fast food restaurants for a cup or two of strong coffee; but falsely convinced myself I wasn’t still buzzed or sleepy, just a little tired. This conclusion changed at the southern edge of the city. I had stopped at the flashing red light at Old 25. I must have nodded off, as the vehicle behind me hit its bright lights. I looked up at the mirror and was momentarily blinded.
My first thought was “coffee” as I proceeded into the intersection and onto the four-lane highway.
My second and last thought was “Peterbilt”.
