Jason Forbes - Lust in the Woods

Miss Barrow had exchanged her sun glasses for a pair of specs. Big gray eyes blinked behind them. “You have a spot on your trousers,” she observed.

There was a round, wet spot front and center. “I musta pi-uh-got water on 'em. Gee, the boys are gonna kid the life outta me if they see that. If I could only slip 'em off for a minute till the spot dries.”

She seemed to turn paler, then her skin flushed. The rosy touch of color on her cheeks was becoming. She looked suddenly younger. But she sounded older. Like a spinster schoolmarm directing one of her charges. “Go back in the bathroom. I'm sure the spot will dry quickly. I wouldn't want anyone to poke fun at you.” Sarcastic.

I stomped back to the crapper, peeled the pissy pants off, and draped a towel around my middle. When did that cunt last see a stud with his pants down?

“Thank you, ma'am. Sorry to be a nuisance. Please excuse my appearance.” I hitched up the towel slightly. “See, I'm not wearing underpants. I-”

Miss Barrow said nothing. She didn't seem to be listening. She wasn't even looking. I stumbled a step toward her and deliberately dropped the frigging towel. My prick didn't hang bashfully. It zoomed out to meet her. Erect, rigid, demanding. Because I knew I was going to fuck her.

The gray eyes should have been burning with spinster desire. They were icy and businesslike, as if they echoed the words her lips formed. “How much?”

I repeated the words, feeling like an idiot. An idiot with a hard-on.

“I asked, 'How much?' Isn't that the proper question? You're a hustler, aren't you?”

I preferred to think of myself as a middleman. Since it was my middle I was peddling however, the little lady with her hair in a bun was correct, technically. I would have given it to her for free, but I didn't like her attitude.

“Twenty bucks. It's worth it.”

“Spare me the sales talk,” she said. “You'd better take your clothes off.”

Now she stalked off to the bathroom. And came back bone naked. Beautiful. Her tits were kinda small, like a teen-ager's, very pale with wide, rosy aureoles. Flaring hips. Pencil-slim legs and juicy thighs with a rich nut-brown rug at the apex.

She inspected me as if she were searching for dirt at my ankles.

“Do you have a rubber?”

“No, ma'am; I have a 9-inch prick.”

“You'd better wash it,” she suggested, levelly. “Wash it?”

“Wash your penis. Come on.”

She took me to the bathroom. The naughty schoolboy led to the bathroom. Miss Barrow soaked a washcloth in hot soapy water and applied it to my penis. I mean, my fucking hard-on.

It felt fine. Maybe she liked to jack guys off that way. But when you shell out twenty bucks, you may as well get a fucking. When you have tits soft to the touch and cute little triangle, you deserve a fucking. Miss Barrow couldn't seem to clean up my cock to her satisfaction. Two more minutes with that soapy washcloth and it would be cleaned out altogether.

“How about you and me taking a shower?”

I thought my suggestion was sheer inspiration. Miss Barrow, however, countered coldly, “No frills, please. I want a straight-job.”

Where the fuck did she think she was, the beauty parlor? No wonder she was a spinster, no wonder she had to pay for it. No imagination, no frills, no nuttin' except what she called a “straight job.” She wouldn't let me touch her more than was absolutely necessary. She wouldn't have opened her legs if that wasn't essential.

Yet she finally revealed a hot gash, as pretty as any I'd ever seen. Ruby lips fluttered to welcome the kiss of the battering ram, the kiss that would make this cold fish a woman. I longed to tell her, Look, ma'am, opening special! I'll eat you out. I'll screw your cunt down to wet washcloth consistency. On the house! Just smile once. Act feminine. Tell me you want it. Say, “Fuck me.”

I left that spiel unspoken because the lady shifted position slightly. My prick made contact with her pussy. From then on, words were superfluous.

Probably due to lack of experience, Miss Barrow was slow on her hip movements, quiet. I didn't really know how I was doing. My whang was doing okay, but about my gray-eyed client? I looked into her eyes instinctively on a forward thrust. They weren't gray any more-getting banged brought out glints of green. The pupils were wildly dilated. Hair flowing loose, eyes green, Miss Barrow looked different. I was giving her a treatment worth every cent of the money. Fucking transformed her; I made the transformation complete by punishing her twat with the full force of my whacker.

She responded, screaming, climaxing, moaning. I gushed out a liquid diploma. I felt protective toward her. The brand new Miss Barrow was my creation-created by prick power.

There was no brand new Miss Barrow. When I rolled off, she slipped on a sensible dressing gown. And looked at me without expression.

The explanation was simply. My treatment had only temporary effects; she needed more potent stimulation.

“Miss Barrow, I have a friend who-”

“No, thank you.” Icily.

I tried again. With my famous, boyish, Doug Trent smile.

“Miss Barrow-Gee, I can't call you Miss Barrow. May I call you-?”

“I don't give my name to hustlers.”

Fuck you, Miss Barrow! Since I'd already done just that, I retired to the bathroom to take a leak and contemplate my navel.

When I returned, the lady was on the telephone. The conversation consisted of a discussion of Iowa real estate. I put on my uniform. I couldn't ask for money. I said, “So long, Miss Barrow.” She merely made an impatient gesture and resumed the phone conversation.

In the corridor I reached for a cigarette, and pulled a bill out of my pocket. Miss Barrow must have put it there when I went to the crapper. As rapists have learned before me, I discovered that even eccentric spinsters can have their good points. The bill wasn't a twenty, it was a crisp, lovely fifty!

Don't think because I was rich I quit my job at the Iowan. On the contrary. I surprised Norvin by my willingness to work overtime. Wasted effort. There were no new horny arrivals, but Norvin found two more cuspidors for me to polish.

I drove back to the cabin, entering with all sorts of premonitions, none of them cheerful. However, I was greeted with a scene of charming domesticity. Matt and Debbie were eating supper in the kitchen. In the bedroom quarters Ernie and Beth were eating each other. It was hardly necessary to ask if Matt had gotten his licks in. The welts on the bellboy's body shone in the light of the lantern.

Ernie showed no desire to leave the delights of the cabin. He just wanted to keep on chewing the lotus. A day of hard labor among the cuspidors and Miss Barrow had tired me. I fell asleep on a blanket under the stars outside the cabin. Matt drove me to work in the morning and promised to call for me. Know any other bellhop accorded chauffeur service?

That second day turned out to be a let-down, although there were possibilities. A cute little chick checked in all alone. All fluffy and bewildered by the sights and smells of the big city. All home-spun and fresh from the meadows. Dewy and sweet and ripe for plucking.

I made like a bellhop and then went into my Miss Barrow pitch. “Excuse me, ma'am. May I use the bathroom?”

The breathless young rustic was dialing a number. She said without looking up, “Sorry, I'll be using the bathroom. Don't they have facilities for the help here?”

I gnashed my teeth, clicked my heels, and retired. As I closed the door, I heard her speak into the telephone. “It's me. Vicky. I just got here. So, what time is the orgy?”

Bewildered by the big city, huh? I gave my teeth an extra gnash of frustration. Imagine-an orgy in Prescott, and I wasn't even invited!