Here's another wonderful piece from my pal, and frequent Frequently Felt contributor, Mykola Dementiuk. Enjoy!
But before the story I want to give Mick a hearty, and well-deserved, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!
He knew Billy wasn’t home --he had seen him and his dad go off to a baseball game, Billy in a Mets cap, his dad wearing a Yankees one-- and though he lingered on the stoop of their building for almost half an hour, hoping Billy’s mom came down to get the mail, or go shopping, or just come down so he could look up her skirt then follow her down the street and stare at her ass, her legs, her high-heeled shoes, she never did, and he finally got the brilliant idea to go up and ask if Billy could come out for a while.
That was pretty smart, he thought; maybe she’d open the door in bra and panties and garters and nylons and maybe she’d be sweated and sticky and hot and ask him to come
in and fuck her…Adults did that all the time, he thought; fuck each other; and Billy was getting into fist fights trying to defend his mother’s honor when he overheard what the guys had said they’d like to do his mom and her tits and her ass.
“Fuck, if I had a mom like that I’d be a mother-fucker!” they’d laugh, as Billy came out swinging.
But none of their moms looked like Billy’s mom: like a hard-on inducing slut. He had even seen his own dad grab his crotch at the sight of Billy’s moms swaying body and gasp “Jesus!” once she had wiggled past…
(And that night he heard dad fuck his mom as he lay in bed, listening to his mom protesting she was off the pill then grunting harder with his dad, while he masturbated and thought of Billy’s mom and wondered if his dad was imagining he was fucking her too…Ever since he had learned how to masturbate he had imagined Billy’s mom; and unfortunately, it was Billy who first explained how to do it, and though Billy confessed he always pictured the girls in their 8th grade class in their blue and white Catholic jumpers, their little school-girl breasts like sudden surprises just beginning to bud on their chests, each month a little bigger, a little rounder, he only envisioned Billy’s mom and her already full-blossomed bosom ready to choke and smother his face and body and throbbing dick.)
He squeezed his crotch, and started up the stairs…each landing doorway was like a crazed competition with another doorway of blaring TVs and radios, people arguing, couples screaming, children bawling, dogs barking, cats mewling, and each floor seeming to have one sax or guitar player and each of them seeming as conflicted with their instruments as their neighbors seemed with each other. Nothing wrong with my instrument, he smirked; she could stroke my drum any old time!
He stopped at Billy’s door: silence. Shouldn’t she be moaning and groaning from finger-fucking herself? Wouldn’t a woman who looked like that be in constant heat? He again squeezed his crotch. Then let go. Better not cum in your pants, not with Billy’s sex-crazed mom spreading her legs and squeezing her tits on the other side of the door.
Better save it for the cocksucker down her throat!
He touched the doorknob. It was hard and cold and black and dented but it felt like a soft tit. Like Billy’s mom’s soft tit. He squeezed, and shut his eyes, and imagined squeezing her tits as she wrapped her nylon legs around him. My little man! she’d coo,
My great big little man! Oh, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!
He jumped away from the door. Was that a grunt? A yelp? A groan? Was she fucking someone else? Were all the guys already in her? Taking turns?
He knocked. But it was a soft knock, a hesitant knock, and probably a knock unheard, drowned out by the shouting above and below, the music all around, the barking, the meowing, the fear in his chest, his throat, his dick.
He knocked again. And someone did groan. Was she pulling a dildo out of her cunt to answer the door? He knocked harder, faster. A lock clicked open. He wanted to run. But he was tall enough to step right into her tits! Another lock clicked. He was very afraid. But knew if she slightly squatted he could fuck her standing up, right in the doorway, before Billy got home. He wanted to cry. The door opened.
He blinked, disbelieving. For a moment he thought he was at the wrong door, but no, it was Billy’s mom, Billy’s real mom, the big titted , sex-starved, lust-crazed mom who needed a licking, a sucking, a fucking, and she was a mess! She gaped at him through mascara-smeared eyes (one eye blackened by a punch, a three-fingered claw-like scratch running down one check), her usual puffed-up hair lank and mussed, her make-up pasty and flaked, her drooping smacking red lips smudged and faded. She weaved in the doorway, clutching the jamb with one hand, the other balancing herself on the opened door.
“Wha….?” she grunted, trying to focus on him.
He frowned; she wore a dirty torn t-shirt (ripped about her bruised choke-marked neck), and she was obviously braless, though her normally high, tight, round bulbous breasts were drooped and flattened inside the shirt, --only twin brown arcs of her nippled aureoles stood out in the dingy shirt. He stepped back; she wore Billy’s frayed lint-ball fuzzed football sweats (the faded and peeled white school insignia still evident on the right thigh), and she was barefooted, her polished pink toes insulted by the black dirt between them. He crinkled his nose; she smelled of whiskey, of cigarettes, of sweat, of old perfume and hair-spray, of urine, shit, and vomit, of unwashed women stuff. Behind her the apartment was a shambles.
“Wha….?!” she grunted again.
He took another step backwards, his arm out for stairway railing.
“I was just looking for Billy,” he quietly said.
From the end of the hall a door opened and a fat man peered out. Billy’s mom and the fat man looked at each other; Billy’s mom licked a lower lip, her top teeth yellowed and filmy. The fat man smiled, but stepped slightly back into his apartment, leaving his front door ajar. Billy’s mom winced, her face a confusion of rejection, pain, and hangover.
“He…he’s….not here,” she stuttered, blinking, and once more trying to focus on him. “He’s not here,” she sadly repeated, then brightened as the fat man reappeared and softly whistled from his open door. He held out a half-filled pint bottle of liquor and a pack of cigarettes and winked at Billy’s mom. She instantly propelled herself towards the fat man, one arm extended to the corridor wall for support.
“He beat me again,” Billy’s mom pouted at the fat man, and tried to grab the liquor bottle from him.
The fat man swung the bottle away from her and held it over his head.
“How long will your husband be gone?” he asked.
Billy’s mom mumbled something and the fat man smirked and lowered the bottle, pulling her into his apartment.
“Close her door, kid!” the fat man grunted at him, and shut his own door behind him.
He hesitated; then moved from the stairs to the open door. Billy’s apartment was even worse then he had glimpsed earlier. A table was turned over on its side, dishes and cups shattered, food rotting where it had been flung. A lamp lay broken at the other end of the room, and a large round area rug was pulled from under a crashed coffee table (one end of the table standing only on two legs) and was rumpled over the couch as if it had been used for a blanket. He sighed, and wondered what Billy’s room looked like (hell, he could swipe those girlie magazines Billy claimed he had), but he turned and checked the locks instead: they were spring locks and he clicked them to stay open, --it’s doubtful
Billy’s mom had her keys with her. He swung the door quietly shut.
On the crowded street he stopped before an appliance store and stared at a soundless TV in the store window. As usual, the Mets were losing; it didn’t even matter who they were playing. He wandered down a few more streets and suddenly recognized the young girl peering out of a third storey window. Sonia from school; Sonia who this year came to class with unexpected nice little surprises on her chest, round, peaked, high, with probably no need of a bra or support of any kind; Sonia who last month called him a faggot! when he didn’t ask her or any of the other girls to dance at the teen-hop, his mind
on stupid other things, big things, bigger things.
He smiled up at her. She pretended either not to recognize or see him but crossed her arms under the little surprises, shrugged her shoulders, and bulbed her chest into an even greater, larger, puffier surprise.
He collapsed on a stoop across the street from her, his penis stiffening, his eyes widening. Sonia faintly smiled, leaning up from her window, stretched, her arms high over her head, her ribbed red blouse popping out of her blue jeans and rising above her belly button.
He almost fainted. She looked down at him, smoothed and tucked her blouse back into her jeans, then turned from the window. He rocked his legs back and forth, smirked to himself, and as he hoped she wouldn’t, she didn’t take long but came out of her building, snorted at him across the street, then turned left and walked up the block.
He leaped up; but even with his erection he was able to dart across the avenue and quickly caught up with her cute curved blue-jeaned ass.
They rounded the corner together, laughing, joking, his eyes amazed at how beautiful and perfect and suddenly attainable her small breasts miraculously seemed.
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