Reaching into the small refrigerator, Bernice grabbed a jar of Maraschinos, pulled one out by its stem and handed it dripping to the startled youth. “You can call me ‘Mrs. P.’, if I can call you ‘Howie’ instead of ‘Butch’. You’re a lot cuter than a ‘Butch’, you know.” Then, in a surprisingly firm tone, she ordered, “Open your mouth for me, Howie.”
Butch did as he was told and Bernice held the fruit while he closed his lips around it. Then, tugging the stem, she stripped the cherry against his teeth and said, “There! You can chew on that while I pour you some Tom Collins mixer over ice. It’s like lemonade, but sort of tart. Is ‘tart’ okay for you, Howie?”
Butch’s dick had no doubt that Suzie’s mom was making a pass, but his mind was reeling. He was eager to score but afraid he’d drop the ball. When he was a Freshman, first trying out for the football team, the coach had advised him, “Be cool, Carlson! Let the play develop. Don’t over-commit, but be ready for anything!” Licking his lips unconsciously, he watched her build the Manhattan and fill her martini glass, then pour Tom Collins mixer over ice cubes in an old fashion glass for him.
Bernice’s pale pink deep scoop-neck sleeveless cotton housedress barely contained her breasts behind her partly visible white 33C wideband rayon underwired bra. She danced to unheard music as she fixed the drinks. Her jiggling boobs chafed in their holsters until her nipples poked out to their maximum extension while her full thirty-six-inch hips swayed in slow circles and her skirt’s front swished rhythmically against the bar counter’s edge. Periodically, she cast her eyes upward and blew a puff of air at an errant blonde hair bang which threatened to stab her eye.
Butch was electrified as he stared. He knew his hard-on was obviously fat in his charcoal dress slacks, but he couldn’t stop its growth and didn’t want to. Bernice stepped around the bar, offered him his drink with her right hand while she lifted her own glass in her left and toasted, à la Bogart, “Here’s looking at you, kid.” Then she put down her cocktail, lowered her eyes to his grown-out groin and purred, “Wowie, Howie! Look at you!”
Butch was too embarrassed to speak. Bernice flattened her splayed hand against his throbbing member and squeezed him through his trousers. He spit his drink back into his glass and hurried to set it back on the bar beside hers before he spilled on himself. She didn’t back off, but rather moved in closer, pushed her palm all the way down over his balls and through his legs, then tightly gripped his ass with her long strong fingers while she kept pressure on his entire package with her wrist.
Raising her left hand to Butch’s mid-back, Bernice pulled his hardpan pecs into her soft boobs’ rigid tips and buzzed in his ear, “Does my little girl know you have this nice big tool kit, Howie? Have you worked on her under her hood?” She squared her face away to his, brushed her mouth from his nose tip to his jutting chin, then nipped his lower lip sharply enough to break the skin and draw blood. “Answer me truthfully, Howie,” she growled, while she dabbed his small wound with her tongue tip.
Butch panicked but confessed, “N-no, Mrs. P., honest! I want, umm, wanted to, and I’ve tried to make her want me to, too. But, we haven’t, done, uhh, anything, except, you know, neck, maybe… a little.”
Bernice kissed Butch slowly, probing her tongue past his gums and teasing his inside cheeks while she ground her torso on his black-and-gold houndstooth sport jacket. He groaned deep in his throat as she released his glutes and moved her hand back in front to his fly. While she unzipped and freed his ready log from its Jockey shorts prison, she broke their kiss and murmured, “I’m glad for that. She’ll need an experienced guide on her first adventure.”
Bernice stroked Butch’s length from his spongy top to his hairy bag and then back again as she held his body fixed to hers and burbled, “You’re a nice boy. I know. But you need seasoning, too. Don’t you?” Her rubbing loose fist and flexing fingers took their toll. As she focused on his sensitive glans, she felt his lungs seize then release rapid spasmodic shallow breaths.
Butch was in an ecstatic agony beyond anything he could have imagined to this point in his life. He lost track of where he was. He only knew that if he died right then, he would be happy. Suddenly he cried out and let go.
Bernice palped her hand at the top of Butch’s shooting cock and caught strand upon strand of thick warm goo with her fingers, then spread the curds down his stalk to his quaking balls. Returning to his spitting bulb, she squeezed its neck and cooed, “Good for you, Howie. Cum lots for me. Give me all the cream you have.” Then she relaxed her vise-like grip and watched another fountain lift high into the air before falling back onto her forearm.
Butch shook from his shoulders to his ankles. He was certain that he would collapse if he hadn’t been being held so tight. “Uhnnnn,” he moaned in helpless wonder as his spunk spouted more profusely than it ever had when he had jacked himself off. When, at last, his well was truly pumped dry, he leaned into Bernice and coiled his arms about her, more for his benefit than hers. She smiled over his shoulder, then patted his back with her left hand like she used to do when she burped Suzanne as a baby.
“There, now, Howie,” Bernice said quietly. “This is exactly what I meant when I spoke about seasoning. I’m glad you came so strong, but waiting longer is important too. I want you to do something. Will you do something for me?”