Richard Long: Beasts are better

Her thoughts turned back to her son, Jack. Would he want to have her again when he returned from the boarding school he attended? And if he wanted her, would she be able to rely upon her good sense and talk him out of it? Or would she give in to her body's desperate hungers and again pull him between her soft thighs? These questions had plagued her ever since she had driven him in to Salt Lake City, where he caught the plane back to school at the end of his vacation. She was now no closer to an answer than she had been when she first asked them. His few letters and the more frequent calls had given no inkling of his thinking about the deed they had shared.

"Ooohh!" Eileen groaned, burying her face in the quilt and shuddering as her fingers worked powerfully against her excited flesh.

The addition of a finger in her asshole, she had discovered a few years ago, added an incredible stimulus to her sex play and greatly added to the violence of her climaxes. She had found a book, one of those cheap paperback novels with a nude voluptuous beauty on the front cover, in a cabin vacated by a guest and had appropriated it. The book, a novel with an improbable setting and even more ludicrous plot, had concerned a young girl who had been anally raped by a gang of motorcycle riders. Although the book had been trash, the sex scenes had been written with a certain dash and liveliness not found in the rest of the pages. Eileen had found herself thinking almost constantly of the heroine's troubles for a few days after reading the book. Finally, when she lay alone in her bed with one hand busily plunging into her cunt, she had given in and tried the experiment. It had taken her a few minutes to discover a satisfactory way of getting a finger into her own asshole but once she had accomplished the feat she had felt a strong surge of sexuality sweeping through her entire midsection and had shortly fucked herself into a state of near-delirium. Now she seldom failed to fuck herself in both the openings between her thighs.

"Aargh-owwww!" she moaned, pressing harder against her hands and quivering heavily as she sought to work out the tensions within her tall, trim body. "Oooohh! Come, make it now! Come!"

When Eileen awoke the next morning she still felt a warm, soft afterglow of sexual contentment. Her bed and body reeked of come, though it was a smell which she loved. She never failed to marvel at the way her cunt could transform sperm, giving it a sharp sexual scent. Mere sperm by itself could not begin to compare with the mixed essence of love, as she knew from having sniffed of her son's sheets after he had had a wet dream.

Nevertheless, she drew herself a bath, laced it liberally with pine-scented bath oil and got in with a grateful sigh. After reclining in the water and allowing it to lull her into a state of near-unconsciousness, she stirred and lathered her pussy with care, washing away every trace of Hank's ejaculation. After emerging from her bedroom, fully bathed and dressed, she prepared a hearty breakfast and ate every bit of it.

There were only two couples staying at the ranch – it was a bit early for the summer crowd – and she knew that Hank could take care of their needs. She spent the morning in straightening up her accounts and walked down to the mailbox in time to meet the mailman. Sorting through the collection he gave her, she picked out the most likely envelopes to open first. The reservations for summer visits were coming in even faster than last year, which had been her best season ever, and she made the proper entries in her reservations book and typed out the answering cards. As she was finishing this task, the telephone on her cluttered desk rang and she picked up the receiver.

"Mrs. Tremaine? I was wondering if perhaps you might have a vacant cabin this week?" the caller asked. "I've just discovered that I'm going to have a couple of weeks free and, since I've been wanting to visit your ranch I thought I might be able to take this opportunity."

"Yes, I have a number of vacancies," Eileen answered. "Rather a slow time of the year, just now."

"Good. I'm Doreen Mason, Mrs. Al Mason," the caller said. "From Los Angeles. Fred and Arlene Winston recommended your ranch; I believe they stayed there last October."

"Er, I believe they did," Eileen agreed. "Very well, Mrs. Mason, I'll need your home address, home telephone number and your expected date of arrival."

When she received the information she jotted it down, thanked Mrs. Mason and hung up. She also wrote herself a note to meet Mrs. Mason at the airport in Salt Lake City the next day at noon, which was the earliest she could arrive. As always, when she took a reservation over the telephone, Eileen wondered about the caller. Doreen Mason had sounded young, perhaps thirty. Her voice had a sophisticated, educated quality and she had specifically requested one of the first-class cabins, making no sign of a protest when Eileen had mentioned the stiff rate she charged for the luxuriously furnished units.

I just hope she's not trying to crank herself up for a divorce or something, Eileen said to herself as she turned to other duties. They're always the most trouble, those wives who come out here to solve their problems.

Doreen Mason seemed not to have a care in the world, Eileen decided when she picked up the woman the next day and drove her back to the ranch. She explained her husband's absence by mentioning that he was a professor of psychology at a Los Angeles college and that he would hardly miss her for the two weeks, which came at the end of the term and would be primarily a season of test-giving and marking for him.

"He won't even know I'm gone," Doreen said. "Actually I'm sort of an advance party – a group of faculty wives have been looking for a nice ranch where we can go on a group excursion. You know, the sort of place where we can all get away from our husbands for a few days and let our hair down in privacy."

"There'll be plenty of privacy," Eileen assured her. "My theory is that you should give a guest as much leeway as she wants. If you want it that way, I'll make sure that no one will bother you."

Their conversation on the ride back to the ranch, a distance of some fifty miles, confirmed her initial friendly response to the new guest. Doreen Mason looked to be about thirty, as she had sounded over the phone, and was of medium height, though of a build verging toward plumpness. She was especially big in the breasts and Eileen had to suppress a smile at the thought of the woman riding a horse without a bra. She very obviously had not bothered to wear one on the plane and her big breasts jostled each other comfortably in the front of the expensively tailored silk shirt under her pantsuit. Her black hair and dark coloring meant that she would not be likely to become a sunburn victim, a relief, and also lent an aura of exotic interest to her plump cheeks and sparking brown eyes. Her regular features lit up with interest as they drove into the foothills in which the Bar T lay and Eileen saw that she was a very beautiful woman when sparked with curiosity or interest. By the time they turned in at the main gate of the ranch Eileen decided that she liked her new guest very much.

Later that afternoon, just before dinner, Eileen took a walk around the outbuildings of her ranch. She always derived a feeling of solid satisfaction from these walks and from looking at the evidence of material progress she and her late husband had made. The ranch had been only a tumble-down main house and a rat-infested barn when they had bought the place, almost fifteen years ago and shortly after their marriage. It had taken a lot of hard work but they had built it into a thriving enterprise and she knew the trim, spic-and-span buildings reflected success and prosperity.