The Secret Flame

CHAPTER ONE   She was a warm blooded, healthy woman, and she had loved s*x all her life. In the darkly throbbing inner slickness of her p***y, where the tiny c*m-nerves lie sleeping in most women, there was always life and desire in Mary's cunt. And it only needed a touch to awaken those centers of hot desire, to make her tight, hot cunt begin to swell and glow with a sucking warmth. Even when it was her husband who was touching her it had to be that way. Mary was an honest, conventional wife and mother. Curly McLean was the only man who had touched her in the eighteen years of their marriage. And he knew where to touch her, and how. Down across the softness of her smooth belly, pressing hard just above the softly curled bush of cunt hair. Somehow it seemed to reach nerves deep inside, in her sensitive bladder, around her ovaries. Or maybe it was just the idea of his warm hand on her bare belly. Mary wasn't sure, and at times like this, she didn't care. She was half angry with herself, with her body, really, for being so darned eager. She wasn't exactly a Woman's Libber, but, over the years, she had come to resent Curly and that damned ego of his. As if I were nothing but a cunt for him to stick his dirty old c**k into, a cunt enclosed in about a hundred and twenty pounds of smooth, hot flesh! The thought cooled her mind, but did nothing for her body, especially not for the tight, thick-lipped cunt which, at the moment, she resented. That stupid p***y! That's what made her so weak, such a fool for a guy she had at last come to hate. His firm hand pressed hard against the soft mound of hair-covered flesh which divided into two fat, warmly slobbering lips. In spite of herself, Mary moaned and her graciously formed thighs came a bit more apart. At the same time, Curly's mouth snuggled against one of her big breasts, his lips making kissing noises as he felt for the long, hard n****e, now swelling bigger and bigger. His hand slid right between the softly juicing lips of her s*x, one big finger just barely entering her cunt hole as the others pressed hard on the outer lips. But she knew that she didn't really hate him. They had meant too much to each other. It was simply that he had become tiresome to her. The fact that he still had his intense interest in f*****g-in f*****g her-made him even more tiresome. It was crazy. How did he do it, year in, year out? His big c**k seemed always to be hard. She could feel it now, its throbbing bulk against her flesh, sweated and warm from the summer night, only from summer heat, not from taut c*m-nerves. They just didn't get all that hot, any more. Time was when she could shoot her little fun gun within a minute of the time that Curly began to insert his hot prick into her tightness, spreading and stretching her responsive flesh, hurting her just a tiny bit with the sweetest pain in a woman's life. The love pain of bigness and hardness entering and spreading a tender cunt that craves both the pain and the pleasure. Somehow, where she had once loved this man, this hard c**k, beyond all measure, she had first become indifferent, then resentful. And, finally, although her body still made its insistent demands, her warmly sensitive p***y working its strong muscles in the slippery, warm dark of her belly, she had come almost to despise both her husband and herself. To despise him because, in her terms, he always wanted to f**k. And to hate herself because she could not bring herself to lose him. His finger was now plunging deeper into her, feeling as big as his c**k. It infuriated her. She knew that it must be two fingers, rather than one. One couldn't possibly feel so big, so stretch. And she was angry with herself because she couldn't say: "Please, Curly, don't use two fingers. You'll stretch me all out of shape." Because she knew he'd lose his hard-on, pout for a couple of days, and maybe even ask her who the hell was interested in the shape of her cunt beside himself. But she hated herself most of all because she was going to have trouble cumming. It was impossible, but true. Mary McLean, John McLean's "little blonde firecracker," as he had always called her, not able to explode a big orgasm in her t**t. He was sucking half of one long, full, heavy breast into his mouth. It felt like heaven, but it wouldn't help her to orgasm. Ten years ago, even five years ago, his sucking on one titty and squeezing the other could bring her to a full, shouting, blasting orgasm. A "titty c*m," they had called it, laughing and f*****g and drooling all over each other. And the odd part was that Mary still had flaring pangs of lust searing her belly as big John McLean mauled and sucked her sensitized titties, getting the hard n****e halfway down his throat. Oh, God, if she could only get it on with him the way they used to! Because, even if she did almost hate him at times like this, she almost died of love and sympathy, knowing what she would have to do in order to get her nuts off. If he'd just do something different! Not necessarily something kinky, like sticking it in her ass. Not that she'd mind that, either. Often, when she douched, she enjoyed putting the soft plastic nozzle up into her rectum. She knew there were some pretty lively nerves up in that tight hole. But that wasn't what she wanted, not quite. Her body heaved in a sudden panic as John's two big fingers seemed ready to split her. "OOOOOOOOHHHH! OOOOOOHHH!" she moaned. "OH, PLEASE, CURLY! EASY, BABY! EASY! OH! OH! OH!" He let her breast slide out of his mouth. "God damn it, Mary, you're a beautiful person," he whispered. It was always the same. First the finger, then the titty-sucking, then, as she grew warmer, his statement that she was a beautiful person. Her cunt was on fire, its inner muscles hungrily twisting around his finger. She couldn't help it. But, when he got his c**k into her, she would be anesthetized against a c*m. And she couldn't help that, either. Only, that wasn't exactly true, either. She could do something about it. And had been, for a long time. And a smile lit her still handsome face, so that her husband, looking at her, felt a surge of lover's triumph. By God, he had made her moan with ecstasy! And now, she was smiling in anticipation of having his big c**k stuck into her boiling depths, into that wonderful cunt that he never failed to bring to a screaming c*m. In a burst of guilt and old-time tenderness as she felt her husband crawl between her strong thighs, Mary put one beautifully rounded arm across his neck, drawing his face to her breasts. She could read his mind. She knew that his ego drove him hard, that if she did not c*m-or at least seem to-he would be devastated. Damn it all! Why couldn't Curly McLean be like other guys of forty-five, content to f**k once a week. Or less, and not feel he had to go through these same, gray, childish routines? But still, her body was buzzing with the deep, hidden desire to feel that big c**k, to have it jammed into her, smacking darkly against her womb's mouth, feeling like it was clear up to her liver. No amount of boredom could keep her cunt from quivering as her husband held it open with finger and thumb, and eased the big, soft head into the tender opening. "You're so tight," Curly whispered, kissing her neck. Now he shoved, and a couple of inches went into her. She was being f****d, and her body began to heave and sway, her big thighs closing around her man, her belly undulating against his. "Mmmmmmm! Mmmmmmm!" The soft, grunting moans came from her as John, or Curly, put his big arms around her, smashing her breasts between them, still tonguing her. Ooooooh! That c**k of his was so long and hard! It stirred her guts, it hit things deep inside that gave off little shudders of love-pain. It rasped against the nerves inside her cunt, and in the mushy, slick valley of her inner cunt lips, and its size drew her cunt flesh down so tight that her c**t, pressed by its surrounding membranes, answered with a hard throb. But Mary McLean, forty-one, mother of two half-grown children, a woman who had once loved to f**k Curly McLean better than anything else on earth, no longer had any conflict about her dumb husband f*****g her. She remembered one thing with grim amusement. One of her friends had shown her a clipping from a feminist magazine. It was a spoof on reducing, a spoof on exercising. Even on s*x. And, in a table of exercises which gave their comparative effectiveness in working off fat, there had been an entry which tickled her. An orgasm, the article said, worked off two hundred calories. A faked orgasm worked off two-hundred-and-twenty-five! Grimly amusing. But now, she wouldn't be faking it. Because she was in another time, with another person. She was twelve, and her cousin, Johnny Hartmann, was f*****g her. His big, warm, hard peter was making her young cunt walls go out to their widest possible limits, and a fire of happy lust was burning right up her cuntal system, from the base of her spine to her titties. Her twelve-year-old titties, that had sprouted out from her girlish chest only in this last year, when Johnny had begun to play with her p***y. She was f*****g hard, now. Curly felt his d**k go in, bang against her cervix, and he grinned, his sweated face against Mary's neck. Her cunt was the greatest. That Mexican kid that Herb brought up from Tarrant every Wednesday night couldn't touch Mary! No, by God! Nor that fancy-assed Mrs. Dunham, the rich widow from up north. He f****d into his wife, his powerful back muscles bunching as he pulled his d**k almost all out, until he felt it would pop right out of Mary's slick, tight p***y, and then slammed it into her. He had always been proud of his reputation as a cocksman. And, in some dim way, he felt that Mary knew something about it, and was proud of him for that, too. He pumped his prick into her and felt her pump back. Good old Mary! Forty-one, and a better f**k than that eighteen-year-old chicana, or the thirty-year-old Fay Dunham. As he thought of the white, slim body of the young widow, her feline grace and her animal love of c**k, he f****d deeper. He felt no embarrassment or guilt about the rich woman who was so glad to f**k him in the room behind his store, or in her splendid home on the north side, for that matter. "Mister McLean?" her slow, easy voice would inquire over the phone. "One of my appliances is out of order, and I thought perhaps you could drop by and fix it." And he could picture her, licking her pale pink lips, probably stroking one of her nice, warm, full titties as she grinned at the notion of tough, stocky old Curly McLean "fixing" one of her appliances. It always turned out to be her p***y that needed fixing. He worked one big hand under Mary's breast, pushing it up over her chest, rearing back so that he could suck in a part of it as he f****d. He could envision Mary's cunt, too. Blonde and fat, its thick lips covered with yellow hair that was now sticky and matted with her p***y juices. And she was beginning to c*m, now, he could tell by the way she sucked in her breath, how she panted out his name: "Johnny! Oh, darling Johnny! f**k me, Johnny, f**k me! Stick it in me deep! DEEP! OHHHHH! JOHNNNY, MY DARLING FUCKER! OH, JOHNNY, YOU'RE KILLING MEEEEEE! OHHHHHH! OHHHHHH! OH, JOHNNY, DARLING, I'M CUMMMIIINNNGGGGG!" He let her breast, bloated and heavy from her hard orgasm, slip out of his mouth and held her to him, his face buried in her hair, and he was grinning with satisfaction. No fun in f*****g if you couldn't make a woman holler a little. How Mary loved it! He held her, not wanting to take his c**k out of her tight and throbbing cunt, and still, wishing he could get down there, bury his mouth in the red-veined convolutions of her frothing p***y, and suck her until she creamed again. Not that he was all that crazy about eating p***y. He loved to make Mary c*m, feeling big and strong when she blew her wad in outcries of wild passion. That made a man feel good, made a man swell with that wonderful pride in being a man. And he knew that that the only way he'd ever get Mary to give him a blow job was by going down on her. But, after all, he was kind of old-fashioned, and proud of it. And eating p***y seemed sort of perverted, sort of on the dark side of s*x. With your wife. Yeah, with your wife. Not with Fay Dunham, or the Rodriquez kid. As he thought of the clean, pale pink hole of the rich woman who lived on Oak Lawn Avenue, and of the white flesh of her slim but voluptuous body, he could almost taste the richness of her cunt, the thick, clear juice which exuded from her fluttering v****a, the neat nest of dark hair adorning the soft lips. His c**k, so warmly and slickly grasped by his wife's hot p***y, throbbed into its greatest diameter, and Mary, her mind almost thirty years in the past, felt the rich, pearly white jism flood her cunt with its oily heat, felt the power of it spraying the mouth of her womb, and screamed again: "JOHNNY! MY DARLING! JOHNNY! f**k ME, LOVER! f**k ME! OH, JOHNNY, BE GOOD TO MY CUNT! OH, JOHNNY, STICK IT IN MY MOUTH! LET ME EAT YOUR c*m, BABY! LET ME EAT YOUR JISM!" Even in the delirium of his inflamed senses, getting a f**k that seemed better than the best he had ever had, Curly found a space in his heart for a little tenderness. The only time she ever called him "Johnny," the only love talk she ever made to him, was when they were f*****g. When he made her c*m so wildly and completely. It was the most moving thing that ever happened to the somewhat phlegmatic man. To be called "Johnny," to be exhorted to f**k deeper and harder. And even to have the old girl scream that she wanted to suck him off! He shivered, feeling his c**k begin to diminish in size and hardness. Wow! It would be great to have Mary suck his d**k, clean it off a little, the way little Ellie Rodriquez did. Of course, he had to pay her. And Fay Dunham, she loved to lick away every drop, after he shot it into her snatch, and he didn't pay her. In fact, considering that he always sent her a bill for "repairs," and that she always sent him a check, she paid him. It was delicious. But it sure would be something if Mary would suck his c**k, eat his jism, like she hollered about when she was cumming, and then, if he could pay her. Wow! Then she'd be like a w***e. His w***e.