Norma Egan: Boy hungry wife

Like hell it was, Ginger thought bitterly.

She eyed his wet shriveled cock, wishing that some magic would make it hard again. She didn't even begin to feel like she'd had enough fucking. But she'd been raised to be a lady, a nice girl, and she felt too embarrassed to talk to her husband about her sexual needs. That was also why she didn't let herself go or move around a lot when they balled. It would have been unladylike.

Tom wiled to his feet and went to find some clothes. It had been a nice fuck but not a great one, and he was wishing there was some way he could tell Ginger what he wanted from her – more fire, more passion, more action. But his strict religious parents had taught him not to speak of that dirty and evil subject, sex, and he found it impossible to say anything to Ginger.

"I'm gonna catch the news," he said, leaving for the living room and the TV.

Ginger pounded her fists on the bed and wept with frustration. She was still achingly horny, but her damned modesty prevented her from telling Tom how she felt. Moaning with need, she reached down and rubbed the soft fur of her mound, as if consoling herself. To her surprise, she felt instant sharp pleasure.

Succumbing to horny curiosity, Ginger parted the copper-furred lips of her mound and touched the hot pea-sized lump of her cunt. She rubbed the little nub gently a few times, and it felt so good, slit gasped with pleasure and surprise. Then she blushed as she realized what she was doing – playing with herself, masturbating like a naughty little kid.

She drew her hand away, but her pear cheated pussy was so hot and swollen and needy that she couldn't resist touching herself again. Blushing and ashamed, she pressed her finger against the hot wet button of her cunt and rubbed again, faster this time. It felt fantastic. Suddenly she knew she wasn't going to resist, that she was going to bring herself off with her own fingers. She'd never even tried that before.

"Ummmmm," Ginger murmured.

She knew that only bad girls frigged themselves, but now her need was so powerful that she simply didn't give a damn. She just had to come again, it was killing her not to. If Tom wouldn't satisfy her in bed, then, by God, she'd take care of herself. She rubbed faster and faster over the hot greedy little bump of her cunt, her pleasure mounting by the second.

"Ahhhhhhh, so good," she murmured.

Over her own excited panting and sighing she could hear Tom opening the fridge, unsnapping a beer can, turning on the TV, then the voice of Walter Cronkite. Let him have his damned beer and news. The silly bastard didn't know what he was missing. They could have fucked again and again, and to hell with dinner and the rest of the world.

"Ohhhhhhh, God!" Ginger gasped.

Her fingers were soaked with her steamy sticky pussy cream, her cunt red-hot with arousal. Why in God's name hadn't she tried frigging herself before? She could go on and on, have as many orgasms as she wanted. Of course it wasn't as good as fucking, but it sure as hell was nice. It beat going around horny and frustrated all the time.

"Ahhhhhhh," Ginger gasped as a powerful climax suddenly shook her body.

She had to stifle her cries of delight as the orgasm spun on and on. She didn't stop playing with herself when the pleasant spasms died down. She just went on rubbing her erect hot clit, curious to see if she could come again. She was wickedly pleased with her new game.

Ginger was astonished and delighted when she managed to bring herself off again in just a few seconds. She frigged happily on, and she was just coming down from her fifth climax when she heard Tom hurrying down the hall. Blushing hotly she whipped her hand out of her flaming-hot crotch and bid her cream-soaked fingers beneath her.

"Honey," Tom called, "did you fall asleep? I think the roast is burning."

"Oh, shit," Ginger cried.

Well, at least she'd discovered something that she could come five times in rapid succession with no trouble at all. She wished she had the courage to tell Tom that, to ask him to fuck her longer. Her husband just wasn't giving her what she needed in bed.

Maybe, she thought rebelliously, she'd have to find what she needed somewhere else.

The next day, Saturday, Tom and Ginger were going to clean up their back yard, but they'd no sooner gotten started when one of their neighbors, a stunning blonde divorcee named Stacy Ames, came wandering over.

"Oh, I see you two are hard at work," Stacy cooed.

Ginger was thinking: What a phony bitch. She must be thirty if she's a day, and she acts like a love-sick teenager, wiggling her boobs and her ass all over the neighborhood.

Tom was thinking: Jesus, what a sexy broad. I wonder what she's like in bed?

Stacy in fad had just turned thirty, but she didn't look it. Tall and slim, she had little curvy hips, little round butt, and pert firm tits the size of large apples. She was wearing bright red shorts that hugged her saucy little ass and a skimpy red and white polka dot halter that didn't conceal the slight tantalizing jiggling of her breasts. Hex platinum blonde hair was long and curly.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," she went on, "but I wonder if I could borrow Tom for awhile? My kitchen sink's clogged, and I just can't seem to fix it."

Ginger was going to suggest that she climb down the drain and blow bubbles, but before she could open her mouth, Tom had dropped his gardening tools and hurried over to the hedge behind which Stacy was standing. He vaulted the hedge in one eager leap.

"I'd be glad to help, Stacy," he said. "I'll get my plumbing gem and be right over."

"Tom," Ginger said indignantly, "what about the yard? I can't do all this by myself."

"Call up that neighbor kid," Tom suggested.

"He'll help for a few bucks. What's his name? Oh, yeah, Sonny. See you later, hon."

Ginger stood fuming while Tom walked off with Stacy, who was practically rubbing against him and purring. Then she conquered her irritation and went inside to phone Sonny Jackson, a teenage neighbor boy who did odd jobs. There was no point in ruining her whole day with anger. She just hoped Stacy's sink was a real mess and that Tom had tons of problems with it!

Fifteen minutes later Sonny arrived to help. He'd turned sixteen that summer, and Ginger hadn't noticed till now how much he'd grown. He was a couple of inches taller than she was, his shoulders broadening, his strong young body taking on an adult appearance. He wasn't a bad-looking kid, with his thick black hair and ready smile. In fact Ginger bet there was quite a few girls at school who had the hots for Sonny.

"Morning, Mrs. Davis," the boy said politely. "What do we do first?"

"Sonny, after all the years you ye worked for us, you can call me Ginger," she said warmly. "We'll start by pruning that pear tree at the back of the lot."

"Okay, Ginger," Sonny said with a grin.

He really was a nice kid. And this summer he was more than nice. Ginger had to admit that something about the boy really turned her on. As he climbed high into the pear tree, she couldn't help admiring his lithe young body, and she found her eyes straying to the obvious lump of his crotch. A boy this young might very well have a man-size cock.

Ginger, come off it, she told herself. Surely she wasn't so hard up that she could get horny for the neighbor kid, who was nearly ten years younger than she was. Yet she couldn't stop thinking of sex, cocks, fucking, the whole time she worked with Sonny. She seemed to have sex on the brain. Obviously Tom wasn't taking care of her in bed.

Around noon it started to get very hot, and Ginger said, "Let's take a break, Sonny, and have some lemonade by the pool."

"Sounds neat," Sonny said, climbing out of the pear tree and wiping his forehead. "Man, it's gonna be a scorcher. I'm soaked through."