By Quillpen
Part One
One Friday in mid-December 1990, I was standing by myself in the queue of Liquid Ambrosia, a local mom-and-pop coffee shop with a large and loyal clientele. I had finished running a few errands, but instead of heading directly home to my bachelor apartment, I had abruptly detoured to that particular coffee shop because I suddenly had an overwhelming desire to buy one of their large, delicious, hot cocoas. (It was deemed to be “holiday style” cocoa because it was topped with a huge dollop of whipped cream and candy-cane bits.) It was an extravagance and something my expanding waistline did not need, but life is short. Minor indulgences are needed every once in a while. Looking back on that special day in my life, I have often wondered if I was predestined to go there.
It was surprisingly busy at Liquid Ambrosia for the early afternoon. Maybe everyone had the same sweet craving that I did! I was about the sixth customer in line. Suddenly, I spotted out of the corner of my eye a vaguely familiar female face that I couldn’t quite place. We made eye contact and she walked directly toward me with a brisk gait. Even dressed in a thick winter coat it was easy to tell that this young lady was a beauty. Much to my surprise, she affectionately embraced me and called me by my first name. She excitedly blurted, “Oh, Carlton! It’s so good to see you. It’s been years! I just have to kiss you!”
This wasn’t an ordinary kiss, either. It was a full-on, lip-to-lip, lengthy, romantic buss. What a greeting! It was a shame I didn’t recognize her immediately. This mystery girl could tell by the odd expression on my face—a pleased but puzzled one—that I didn’t know who she was.
“You don’t recognize me, Carlton, do you?” she asked me. “I suppose that’s understandable, though. I guess it’s been about eight years since I last saw you. I’m Marilyn Coletti. Remember me?”
Ah! That’s who it was! Marilyn Coletti was a little girl I had tutored for about three years beginning when she was nine and concluding when she was 12. She certainly looked considerably different now than she did in those days. If her arithmetic was correct, she’d be about 20 years old now. I had recently turned 39.
I wasn’t stupid. “Marilyn! What a pleasant surprise!” I agreed. This time I kissed her with an equal amount of gusto. To the best of my knowledge, we had never kissed or even hugged one another during the three years I was her hired tutor. I always tried to keep a respectful physical distance from my clients—especially the female ones. I remembered Marilyn’s home was located about three blocks from Liquid Ambrosia—which didn’t exist when I gave her math and English lessons when she was a child.
“Marilyn,” I told her, “I often encounter students from the old days who recognize me but I don’t recognize them. That’s to be expected. I look pretty much the same as I did a decade ago. You don’t! Anyway, this is, without a doubt, the most warmly I’ve ever been greeted by one of them. Thanks for that kiss. It was terrific.”
Marilyn smiled at me and coyly said, “I only wish I could have kissed you like that when I was 12. You were such an important person in my life. Carlton. You helped me get through some very rough times.”
I listened intently to Marilyn while she, with her arms still wrapped around my waist, reminded me of a few things from her past. She and her mother, who was going through a rough divorce a decade earlier, had to forego most luxuries for a time just to survive. Marilyn’s father was a complete jerk who had no intention of paying a nickel to her mother for child support. Most of her mom’s disposable income was spent on lawyers who tried, figuratively speaking, to draw blood from a stone. However, she did scrimp enough to pay for one hour a week of tutoring to keep her beloved daughter focused on her schoolwork because the nasty divorce had negatively impacted her interest in academics. (Understanding the family’s financial situation, I had quietly waived my hourly fees on more than one occasion.)
Marilyn was becoming emotional during this unexpected reunion. Her voice started to crack when she admitted, “I know you did some of your tutoring free of charge because Mom couldn’t afford to pay you. That was just so nice and considerate of you, Carlton! Ah, hell! Just thinking about things like that makes me want to kiss you again!” So, she did. As Marilyn put me into another highly affectionate lip-lock, I waved at the other customers behind me in the queue to step ahead of me so I was now at the back of it. A few of them laughed at the odd situation as they moved in front of me.
When the kiss ended, I explained, “You were such a nice kid, Marilyn, and so pleasant to work with, I couldn’t not tutor you! Those occasional free lessons were your reward for being an ideal pupil for me.” I hesitated for a second or two, then I asked her, “May I keep kissing you, Marilyn? This is great fun for me!”
“Me too!” she agreed with a grin. We were turning into a bit of a sideshow in the coffee shop as I could sense the eyes of a dozen people were staring at us. Nevertheless, we continued getting reunited in this excellent way.
After about half a minute of smooching, Marilyn finally stated to me, in a voice loud enough to be heard by others, that we should continue our reunion at her place—a small apartment just a block away. I readily agreed. She mentioned she had no car and just walked here, so I told her I could drive her the short distance back home. However, I also told her I had driven out of my way to enjoy one of Liquid Ambrosia’s famous holiday cocoas—which I still desired—so I said I’d treat her to one, too. She eagerly accepted my offer. As we sipped on them, Marilyn and I merrily chatted for 20 minutes about old times.
When Marilyn went to the restroom, two customers in their seventies, presumably a married couple, both spoke to me. The woman was enchanted. She told me, “Young man, I saw how that young lady greeted you in the lineup. I also heard her tell you how much you had meant to her life. That was the sweetest thing I’ve seen in years.”
Her husband said, “Yeah! The nice part is you’re going to get some hot bedroom action out of it when you get to her place. There’s nothing better than young poontang! I envy you, young fellow! Have a fabulous time fucking her.”
I laughed heartily while his wife twice struck him over the head with the rolled-up newspaper she had in her hand. I strongly suspected—and sincerely hoped—that the old guy was correct about that.
Part Two
Marilyn’s apartment was small but cozy. As we entered unit #112, she informed me, “My mom recently got remarried, finally, but I figured three’s a crowd. I work two bookkeeping jobs so I can live on my own. Hey, I’m not rich, but I’m a happy girl. Carlton, you were such a good math tutor to me that keeping track of finances was a cinch. I absolutely aced the bookkeeping course that was taught at my high school.”
“That’s marvelous, Marilyn!” I told her sincerely. “I’m so glad I made such a strong and positive impression on you all those years ago.”
Marilyn removed her light pink winter jacket and hung it on a peg to the right of the door. In the eight years since we last saw each other, Marilyn had blossomed into a fetching young woman. She was quite busty, even with a heavy woolen sweater on her torso to conceal it. There was no hint that would be the case when she was 12.
With a bit of mischief in my voice, I noted, “As I was saying back at the coffee shop, Marilyn, many of my ex-students do indeed look very different long after I’ve stopped working with them. You are a good example.” I then made the hourglass gesture with my hands in case she didn’t quite pick up the subtlety of what I was trying to indirectly say to her.
Marilyn just laughed, obviously getting it. “Yeah,” she agreed, “I was a bit of a late bloomer. I had no tits at all until I was 13. Then...boom! It was like a switch was turned on. I had a bonanza of boobs by the time I was ready to begin high school. I went through about four different bra sizes in two years. They continued growing nicely during high school, too. My mother had the very same experience as a teenager. It must be genetic.”
“Well, I certainly like your genes,” I said. Marilyn gave me an odd look and looked downwards because she was wearing a pair of blue dress slacks.
“Marilyn, I meant G-E-N-E-S not J-E-A-N-S,” I stated.
My well-built hostess smiled. “You always did like little jokes, Carlton, especially puns. I had forgotten that about you.” Seconds after I removed my coat, she again wrapped her arms around me and continued what she had started in the coffee queue. She embraced me, kissed me passionately, and said, “Carlton, please consider this to be a long overdue thank-you for your excellent services rendered when I was in elementary school.”
We never did sit on her couch. Marilyn quickly opened it up to form the pull-out bed where she presumably slept. “Even when I was a flat-chested 12-year-old, I wanted to share my bed with you, Carlton. I even told my mother that. She told me I was way too young for you. But look at me now, eight years later.” She used her two hands to cup her prominent jugs. “Now I can take you to bed—and Mom can’t do or say anything to stop me!”
I joked, “Marilyn, if you looked like that when you were 12, nothing would have stopped me, either—except the police, of course.”
As we both started to disrobe, Marilyn asked me, “Do you have to be anywhere tonight, Carlton? I hope we can spend a long, long time in bed together. I have nothing on my schedule at all.”
I continued to kid Marilyn by saying, “Let’s see, this is Friday at about 2 p.m. I have to be somewhere on Sunday morning at 11. However, if absolutely necessary, I can postpone that commitment until the end of April!”
Marilyn removed her sweater and brassiere. No longer confined, her lovely, full breasts cutely bounced for a moment until they came to rest and stopped jiggling.
I was enthralled by the mere sight of them. “Okay, I can stay here until the end of June! But that’s the absolute latest,” I declared.
Marilyn was an excellent bedmate. She was about 5’6”, had a head of beautiful curly brown hair that descended to her shoulders, a wonderful hourglass figure highlighted by those succulent tits, and a cute vagina with only a slight amount of hair covering it. Marilyn also possessed small, dainty feet with cute toes, which I found very sexy. I wasn’t generally overawed by busty girls, but Marilyn was an exception to the rule. I couldn’t pinpoint why. Perhaps it was just because it was Marilyn’s chest—and she didn’t have anything there when I had last seen her as a thoroughly shapeless 12-year-old girl. Be that as it may, I was going to enjoy every inch of what Marilyn now had to offer...and other desirable parts of her for as long as she let me share her bed.
We embraced and continued kissing for a long time. Eventually my hands got frisky and I proceeded to caress Marilyn’s magnificent mammary glands. I gave her a running commentary of their excellent attributes. “Ooh, you have lovely nipples, my dear. They are getting harder by the second. They’re firm but bouncy to the touch. You have perfect small-size areolas, too. Nice cleavage. Yep, you’ll do!” Marilyn laughed at my remarks and then I went to work on her goodies. I sucked. I licked, I fondled. I played. I stuck my face between them. I placed my fully erect dick between them for a fabulous titty-fuck.
“I’ve had sex with three of my boyfriends, Carlton,” Marilyn confessed. “You seem to be enjoying my assets more than all of them combined.”
“They were damned fools,” I insisted. “You are truly a physical masterpiece, Marilyn. I could play with your boobs all weekend. In fact, I just might.”
Marilyn just rolled her eyes in mock disgust. “In the interim, Carlton, let me pleasure you, too,” she said sweetly. “You seem to have a great dick. I want to have fun with it.”
I reluctantly withdrew my attention from Marilyn’s beautiful breasts so she could position herself properly to give me fellatio. After about 30 seconds, she commented, “Carlton, yours is the oldest dick I’ve ever sucked, but it might be the hardest of them all. You should be proud.”
I was!
Fearful that I would come in her mouth, I suggested to Marilyn that she stop the pleasurable sex act she was performing on me so I could do what I was supposed to do with my impressive dick that she so admired. I mounted Marilyn and rubbed the head of my very aroused penis up and down her opening. I used my right thumb to tickle her clit—which she enjoyed. Then I drove my manhood inside her with a bit of authority. I wanted to give Marilyn a good fucking, presumably like the old gent at Liquid Ambrosia had envisioned.
Marilyn squealed with delight. I was delighted too, but I uttered a manly grunt and softly said, “Excellent!” I began my penetration with slow, deliberate thrusts of my dick into what was now a very lubricated pussy. Then I increased my rhythm. Marilyn enjoyed my handiwork. “Oh...yes...yes...yes!” she repeated thrice. Then she gave me a tremendous compliment: “Nobody has fucked me this good before, Carlton! Don’t stop! Please, don’t stop!”
I was ramming her balls-deep and had no intention of stopping my fucking. I was enjoying the ride too much to even consider such a thing. Of course, nature has a way of sapping a man’s energy by making him ejaculate. About half a minute later I had one of the great cum shots of my life. I launched a string of semen ropes into Marilyn for about 30 seconds without pause. I was completely drained—in every sense of the word. Still, I continued with a series of very small thrusts for another two minutes until I figured my work in Marilyn’s bed—and vagina—was complete.
I stated the obvious. “If you wanted me to wear a condom, Marilyn, honey, I think it’s too late for that now!”
I was joking again, but I got a serious reply from my nubile bedmate. It was quite startling to me. “No, Carlton. If you had attempted to put on a condom, I would have stopped you. I don’t normally go to that coffee shop, but I felt that some power beyond my control had compelled me to go to Liquid Ambrosia this afternoon. When I saw you standing in the queue, I absolutely knew we were supposed to get together today for a fuck. Therefore, I don’t want the slightest bit of your cum to drip out of me. Let’s position some pillows beneath me so that I keep it all in my vagina.”
When I told Marilyn that I too had experienced a sudden urge to go to the same out-of-the-way coffee shop, we both agreed that kismet was at work.
“I bet you want me to have a baby boy, Carlton. Most guys secretly desire sons. Isn’t that right?”
“No, not at all,” I insisted. “Marilyn, I want you to give birth to a beautiful and healthy baby girl who grows up to have a fantastic figure like you do. What could be better than that?”
I did stay for about 30 hours in Marilyn’s apartment. We seldom left her bed. We ordered one delivered meal after another. We passed the time by fucking, and sleeping, and fucking some more. Marilyn explained what my job was—as if I hadn’t figured it out: “Carlton, make sure one of your tiny sperm cells solidly connects with my egg.” I had no doubt I had succeeded in my initial attempt, but all the extra tries were extremely enjoyable, too!
Marilyn and I married a month later. She was a month pregnant when we exchanged vows in a small, civil ceremony.
When Marilyn’s mother got the shocking news that her daughter was about to become a first-time mother sometime in September, she was not especially thrilled that I had fucked an ex-pupil, 19 years my junior, who happened to be her darling daughter.
“It wasn’t as if Carlton jumped me in a back alley and took my innocence, Mom!” Marilyn declared passionately. “I invited him to my apartment so I could give him the terrific fucking he deserved! Okay, we gave each other terrific fucks that Friday afternoon—his was especially pleasing—but we both know deep in our hearts that it was meant to be.”
I thanked Marilyn with a terrific kiss. Her mother’s complaints about me stopped from that point. I now had a mother-in-law who was just four years older than I was. My father in-law—Marilyn’s stepdad—was almost exactly my age. We compared the personal data on our driver’s licenses. I learned he was born just nine days before I was.
During her pregnancy, Marilyn and I often made trips to Liquid Ambrosia to enjoy a treat. For obvious reasons, we considered it to be a special and lucky venue for us. One day when we were sipping tea, I noticed, seated at another table, the same old couple I had spoken to on the day Marilyn and I had reunited. I said we needed to say hello to them, despite Marilyn not knowing who they were.
“Hi!” I said enthusiastically. “Remember us? We were here a about six months ago. We were doing a lot of kissing that day while waiting in line for hot cocoa.”
We exchanged pleasant greetings. Then I said, “Give these nice people a good look at your baby bulge, dear,” I told my wife. I pointed to it and proudly stated, “I did that later that same day!”
The woman recoiled, looking mildly horrified at me, but her husband was quite pleased by my news. “Attaboy, young man!” he told me. “I knew you had it in you! Congratulations on a job well done!”
His wife smacked him on the head with a rolled-up newspaper.