The Wife's Young Lover

CHAPTER THREE

The Golden Garter was not the only bar on Broad Street. There were quite a few of them, each one more grimy and sordid than the last. Directly across the street from the Garter was the Regency, a gloomy place with sawdust on the floor and twenty-cent draft beer.

Billy Wilson's father was standing at the bar in the Regency, looking out the grimy window.

Clyde Wilson did not look at all like his son. He was a burly, brawny, hairy fellow with a shock of unruly black hair on his head and a few wisps of the same dark stuff curling out at the open neck of his ragged flannel shirt.

His eyebrows met above his nose in a solid black, bar. Thick hair sprouted from his nostrils and from his ears, one of which was folded over in a classic cauliflower configuration, which had happened when he had fallen down, drunk, and banged it on the edge of a bar, but which he attributed to a mythical Golden Gloves experience.

He had been observing Billy at work, trying to calculate how much money his son was earning shining shoes and trying to figure out how he could get it away from the industrious youth.

It annoyed Clyde that Billy was a hardworking lad.

Clyde had never worked a day in his life, and he wondered where the boy had got such an unlikely trait. Billy's mother was a slattern who stacked the dishes up in the filthy sink for weeks at a time, so the kid obviously had not inherited his industry from her. That mysterious trait, along with the fact that Billy did not resemble Clyde, often gave Clyde pause to pander about parenthood and to wonder if his slut of a wife had got knocked up by some other guy – some hairless, hardworking fellow.

He didn't really give a shit.

He saw the big Cadillac draw up and he watched with interest while Billy shined the woman's shoes.

Then he watched with absolute fascination when Billy packed up his box and got in the car with the woman.

What in hell was that all about? he wondered. Did she have a whole shit load of shoes waiting to be shined? Was the kid making a house call in his line of work? Well, maybe. But Clyde was suspicious.

He ordered another beer and waited. "Buy me a drink, Clyde?" It was Rosy, a regular at the Regency. Clyde bought her a drink once in a while and fucked her occasionally in the back room, but he wasn't interested now.

"Naw," he said.

Rosy shrugged. She was a redhead who had seen better days, and wore far too much makeup on her ravaged face, but she still had a good set of knockers and she knew that someone would buy her a drink soon enough.

She sat next to Clyde, her big tits out on the bar like a shelf.

Clyde ignored her.

The bartender told her to get her tits off the bar and she laughed and left them there. He began to wipe the counter with a rag and managed to give her a good feel as he wiped past. Her nipples stiffened.

Clyde had another beer.

Then the Cadillac returned and he watched as Billy and the woman sat there for a moment, talking. He could see that Billy was looking excited and the woman was flushed and he had a pretty shrewd idea what had happened.

Billy went back to the corner. The Cadillac drove off. Clyde finished his beer and went out, crossed the street and stomped up to the shoeshine boy.

Billy saw his father coming and winced. He didn't much like the brawny hairy fellow. He, too, wondered if his natural father might have been someone else – some respectable gentleman, perhaps, who had fallen upon hard times, or maybe some clever white-collar criminal forced to hide from the law in the slums. It was an interesting thought. Billy would much rather have been a bastard than to be Clyde's kid.

Clyde loomed over him.

"Who was the broad?" he asked.

Billy turned pale.

"C'mon, brat! I asked you a question."

"Just a customer," said Billy.

"Kinky, was she? Hah? She like young kids?"

Billy said nothing, which only served to make his father all the more suspicious.

Clyde raised a threatening hand.

Billy figured he was going to get whacked whether he told the truth or not. As a matter of fact, he was thrilled and proud of what had happened – and he didn't see that there would be much harm in telling his father what had happened. His father already knew that he sometimes went up on the tenement roof with Sally McGee. Far from objecting, he wished that he could fuck the lewd girl, too.

So Billy shrugged and said, "She likes me."

"She want you to fuck her, did she?"

"Errr… not exactly."

The hand rose again, menacingly. "She paid me ten bucks," Billy said. Clyde's hand came down and his jaw came open.

"What for?" he demanded. Billy looked smug.

"She wanted to suck my cock," he said.

Clyde looked stunned. "Jesus!" he gasped.

No one had ever paid him for dick. He was jealous and envious and annoyed. He was also, in a round-about way, proud of the kid. Maybe Billy was his son, after all.

"She did, too," said Billy, encouraged by Clyde's reaction and sensing the combination of emotions that the man was experiencing at this confession.

"Did she… swallow it?" Clyde asked in a strangled sort of voice, his big face flushing bright red.

"Oh, yeah… all of it. She likes to."

"Well, I'll be damned!"

Clyde's eyes were rolling around. Strange thoughts moved inside his beefy head.

Then he looked shy.

"You gonna see her again?" he asked.

"Maybe. She's a married woman, and she was sort of ashamed of what she did. But maybe."

Clyde digested that.

Then, without another word to the boy, he turned on his heel and walked back across the street to the Regency.

Sitting at the bar, Clyde schemed [missing text].

Having never worked a day in his life, Clyde often had to think up ways to make a bit of money to supplement his welfare checks. He was not averse to a bit of blackmail.

The woman was gorgeous.

She was obviously well-to-do, having a new Cadillac.

And she was married.

It was a perfect situation, thought Clyde. A woman like that would probably pay plenty to keep her husband from finding out that she blew shoeshine boys – and maybe she would be willing, to add a little cocksucking to the blackmail pot, as well!

Clyde began to plan.

And his cock began to get as hard as he thought about that respectable woman sucking his kid's dick in her Cadillac.

Hard-ons were not rare in the Regency. The customers there were a lusty lot and many a rampant pecker could be seen thrusting up in ragged trousers. No one paid them much attention.

Except Rosy, who often fucked for beers. Now, leaning over the shelf of her tits, Rosy gazed down at Clyde's bulging crotch.

"Cock's hard," she remarked in a conversational tone.

Clyde was surprised.

He looked down and, sure enough, his prick was thundering merrily away in his pants. Clyde was a man with a one-tracked mind. That is, he had a limited intelligence and could only deal with one thought at a time. He had been thinking about the money he could blackmail out of the woman and that left no room in his mind for thoughts of a sexual nature, so his erection had sneaked up on him before he was aware of it.

"Why, so it is," he said.

"What you gonna do with it, then?"

Clyde looked at Rosy. She had scarlet lips and heavily mascaraed eyes, but she was still a pretty good-looking woman and, more to the point, she was at hand.

"Have a drink, Rosy," said Clyde.

Clyde bought her a drink and got himself another beer and she sat close to him at the bar. Each time he raised his glass, his hairy forearm rubbed her fat tit. She drank in a suggestive fashion, her red lips caressing the rim of the glass and her pink tongue gliding out. She knew full well that Clyde would expect some pussy in return for the drink, but she was most agreeable to that exchange.

She was surprised that he was in no hurry to collect, however.

But Clyde was working himself up as he imagined just what it had looked like in the Cadillac, with that adorable blonde woman going down on Billy's cock. He didn't have a great imagination, but it didn't take much as he pictured those sweet lips peeled back around the kid's cockhead and that golden hair cascading over his balls as her head went up and down with a steady rhythm and in due course, how Billy blew his hot load and she drank it hungrily down.

Clyde's cock was pounding by this time.

"You really ought to do something about that big lump in your pants, Clyde," Rosy suggested. "It ain't healthy for a man to have a hard-on like that for too long."

"Yeah," he agreed. "Let's go in the back room."

"Will you buy me another drink afterwards?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Okay," she said, as agreeable as could be.

Clyde signaled the bartender.

"We're gonna use the store room, right?" he said.

The bartender shrugged.

Clyde and Rosy finished their drinks and walked, hand in hand, into the back room.

The store room was a small poorly lighted cubicle with beer crates stacked along the walls. It was hardly a romantic place for the consummation of passion, but it was available. Rosy had been there often and had perfected a routine.

She knelt in front of Clyde and opened his belt and zipper. She reached in and hauled his big pecker out. He had a huge dick with a fat stalk topped by a meaty purple helmet. His balls were bloated with cum. The load had built up as he had thought about Billy and the blonde cocksucker.

His cock looked so tasty that Rosy simply had to lean forward and give the swollen knob a tongue-stroke or two, then slip it into her mouth and sucks her rouged cheeks drawing in hollow as she pulled on his cockhead.

But she stopped after a moment, for it was a point of principle with Rosy that she never sucked a guy off unless he bought her at least three mixed drinks.

Nor did Clyde want a blow-job from Rosy. Thrilled by the knowledge that Billy had been sucked off by that gorgeous wealthy blonde, Clyde would have felt embarrassed to accept head from a redheaded barfly.

Pussy was a different matter.

Rosy proceeded to produce her pussy.

She stood up and raised her skirt and pushed her panties down, kicking them from one ankle and leaving them, like a broken hobble around her other foot.

Her cuntmound was thickly matted with a triangle of red hair – a flaming bush dissected by a slippery slit. Her wet cunt was like a swampy river running through a forest fire. She held her dress up and pushed her pelvis out, letting Clyde get a good look at her steamy pussy.

Then she perched on the edge of a stack of beer crates, her legs extended wide apart, and she pushed her pelvis up so that her crotch was angled for his thrust. Clyde knelt on the concrete floor between her thighs.

Wrapping his hand around the root of his thick prick, he aimed the blunt head at her slot. He pushed his hips out and his cockhead brushed her hairy pussy. He began to rub the tip around in her slot, not penetrating yet but using it like a spoon to stir her creamy bowl.

He thought about the blonde.

She thought about the drink he had promised her.

Fucking always made Rosy thirsty, although not as thirsty as cocksucking did, which was why she would never give head for less than three mixed drinks. She liked the taste of jism, but found it more palatable when followed by some Scotch and soda.

She began to grind her cunt around on his knob.

Her slot was gaping open and foaming as he stirred his big ladle in the creamy bowl. He was holding his cock by the hilt and wiping the tip up and down so that it passed over her stiff clit as well as her crack. The knob was throbbing and the vein pulsating. The head expanded like an inflated balloon.

Rosy was amazed at how considerate Clyde was being – for this was the closest thing to foreplay that any man had showed her in years. She did not require foreplay, however, her cunt was an ever-ready sort.

"Ummm… put it in," she sighed.

He pushed the head between her cuntlips, the proud slab stirring through her tight pubic hair like a purple rodent through thick undergrowth. Then he drew back and aimed the knob right at her gaping gash.

He rammed his cock home with a solid whack, running the whole length up her cunt on the initial stroke. His bloated balls swung in and whacked her ass as his belly slapped hers. She threw her legs out and lamped her creamy thigh around his haunches, dragging him into her crotch as if she wanted to engulf him balls and all.

Clyde held the full penetration for a moment, enjoying the sensation of having every inch of his hard pecker buried in hot cunt, while randy Rosy shifted her hips around and pulled with her cuntmuscles. The suction of her pussy worked on his dick with a steady massaging action. When he pushed his prick up her, her cunthole rippled along the full length. When he drew it out, her skilled cunt seemed to rotate around his stalk like a fleshy nut around a bolt. He corkscrewed in, starting to twitch nd rumble in his throat as the thrill grew. For the moment, he forgot all about his plans for blackmail – and even stopped imagining how it had looked when that wealthy depraved blonde cradle-robber went down on Billy's prick.

Rosy occupied his thoughts at the moment, as fully as he was occupying her twat.

The redhead had gone wild as her orgasm had started to twist and coil through her belly. Her haunches flew about. Her thighs worked like pistons, going up and down past his flanks. She arched her back, and her head switched from side to side, red hair cascading across her lust-contorted face like tongues of flame. Her pussy felt so hot as he buried his prick up it that it was threatening to melt at any moment – like a wax candle around his hard wick.

Cuntjuice fairly streamed from her pussy, pumped out by his tight-fitting plunger and running down into the crack of her ass, soaking the beer crate on which she perched.

She threw her head back and her throat worked as if she were drinking – or, perhaps, howling at the moon, as the animal passion filled her.

Then Clyde joined her at the peak.

He whacked in hard and deep. As his cockhead plowed into the hot depths of her cunt, he blew his load so suddenly that it seemed that his peckerhead had had a blow-out, like an over-inflated tire. He hosed her womb down with thick cream and, when she felt that juice speeding into her loins, Rosy reacted with redoubled energy, her haunches grinding wildly as she drove herself on through the rippling stages of her own climax. Clyde had been so worked up that he shot his whole wad in that initial prolonged geyser.

His balls emptied, and it burst out. Then his dick began to soften immediately.

He stopped moving then, but for his heaving chest as he panted for air, kneeling between her spread thighs. Rosy continued to wriggle on the crate as she worked off her own climax to the last lovely drops.

When Clyde pulled his cock from her cunt, a creamy flood of jism and cuntjuice gushed from the vacated tunnel. His big dick flopped up and down, then sank along his thigh.

His cockhead was streaked with cream.

Rosy's panties were still wrapped around her ankle. Clyde lifted her foot and wiped the head of his dick clean on her already soggy panties.

Rosy laughed.

He tucked his pecker back into his pants and zipped his fly up quickly and defensively. But Rosy, too, had had enough and made no attempt to keep him from putting his prick away. She stood up with cream pouring down her legs. She pulled her soaking panties up her thighs and fitted them neatly, although soggily, around her hips and crotch.

Rosy was used to having wet pants.

Then they went back to the bar and Clyde bought her the promised drink. He had another beer, but he sipped at it only from habit, as his thoughts were elsewhere.

Rosy noticed that he was distracted.

It was not usual to see Clyde Wilson in a preoccupied state of mind – except when he was preoccupied with lewd thoughts while his cock was hard.

"A penny for your thoughts," she said.

"Huh?" He looked at her. Then her words registered and he grinned mysteriously.

"They're worth a whole lot more than a penny," he told her with a slow wink that was supposed to be meaningful but, obviously, meant nothing to Rosy.

She turned back to her drink. If Clyde was keeping his thoughts to himself, it meant nothing to her. She had already had his dick and he had bought her a drink – she'd been a bit worried about that until it was in hand, because sometimes men reneged on their promises once they had gotten their rocks off – and anyhow, she couldn't imagine Clyde having any thoughts that would interest anyone but Clyde.

"A car…" he said, nodding to himself, "I'd better borrow a car. You don't have, a car, do you, Rosy?"

"Hell, no. A car? I'm a barfly, for crissake, Clyde. You know that. I fuck for drinks… why in hell would a girl like me have a car?"

"I wasn't thinking," he said.

But he had been. He smiled again. "How about a camera?" he asked. Clyde, little by little, was putting his blackmailing scheme together.