Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

"That looks just perfect, Reggie. Thanks a bunch. It'll look great decorated and in lower light." Although the tree wasn't decorated yet, she'd been itching to dim the lights in the room ever since they'd entered and did so now. The lighting was all important. "Bet you haven't had your dinner yet, and I've delayed that for you, haven't I? I feel awful about that."

"That's all right, Mrs. Walker. I was glad to do it."

The process of getting the tree, about twice as wide as it had appeared in the lot, into Angela's living room had result in the two knowing each other's names—and Angela to do a bit more knowing touching of Reggie as she "helped" maneuver the tree into place.

"You know what? It was a harder job for you than I'd thought it would be, and you must be starved. And I just remembered that I have a much larger steak thawed than I can eat myself. But then maybe you don't like steak."

"Who the fuck . . . um, sorry . . . who don't like steak?" Reggie exclaimed.

"Then you'll stay and let me fix you a nice steak?"

"Um, I was going to watch the Ravens and Saints football game with friends. I'm late now."

"You're already late? Oh, my, that's my fault, isn't it?"

"Oh, no, I didn't mean—"

"That game will start in about ten minutes, won't it? How long a drive is it to your friend's place from here."

"Uh, probably twenty minutes, easy."

"You'll miss a lot of the game then, won't you? Why don't you just watch the game here on my TV? Steak on a tray in front of the TV, right here."

"Uh, I don't—"

"And beer. I've got plenty of beer. Bud OK with you?"

She clicked on the TV as Reggie was ruminating over that. The game was about to start, and he turned his attention to the TV set.

"But look, we're still in our coats. Here, give me your jacket. I'll hang it up with my coat." She was shucking her overcoat and Reggie glanced away from the TV set at her and then his eyes fairly bugged out of his head. She was wearing a filmy black little thing under her coat. It was probably two sizes smaller than she should be wearing, and she now had rolled out her best weapons—she was busty and curvy. Nothing in the lighting could ruin busty and curvy. And those black stiletto-heeled shoes with the strap across the ankle really set the tone.

"I don't know," he said in a tight little voice, hopefully feeling a tightness elsewhere, but she wasn't there to listen to him. She'd disappeared down a hall with his leather jacket, and there was little chance he'd be getting that back in the near future. Angela wasn't above taking hostages.

"There then, you just relax and watch the game, while I rustle up those steaks," she said when she returned from the bowels of the bedroom area.

He'd finished off his steak and was into his second beer half way through the first quarter of the game. He was sitting on the couch, facing the TV set. Angela swept away the TV tray. He'd been so concentrated on the steak, beer, and game that he hadn't noticed that Angela hadn't fixed anything for herself other than a tall glass of red wine.

When she returned from the kitchen, she handed him another beer and stood behind him at the couch. She dared putting her hands lightly on his shoulders when play resumed after a commercial, and he didn't seem to notice that.

At the next commercial, she said. "You seem to like football a lot. I bet you're a football player too. You're quite a chunk and a half. In a good way, of course."

"Uh huh. Played it in high school. The trade school I'm going to doesn't have football, of course, but I play in a pickup league still."

"And you must work out a lot too."

"Yes, ma'am. Four days a week."

She could tell that he was happy that she noticed he had a good body. Boy, did he have a good body, she thought. And boy was she in the mood for milk chocolate.

"Trade school, you say? What are you training to do?"

"Plumber. Next spring I'll have my license."

Good to know, Angela thought. Good . . . to . . . know. She had been lightly massaging his shoulders. He either didn't notice or didn't mind. She dug in deeper.

"Gee, you're tight. Bet it's hard work at the tree lot. And then probably doing heavy lifting at the school. You need to have these knots worked out. Do you mind?"

The Ravens had the ball on the nine-yard line, third down.

"Uh, no. Feels good."

Fourth down on the one yard line. They were going for it.

"I can get to the muscles better without this sweatshirt on. Let me pull it off."

"Uh, OK."

She barely had it off him when he was leaping up and pumping his fists in the air. "Touchdown, Ravens!"

God, he looked good from the back. Broad shoulders down to a thin waist, bulging shoulder and arm muscles, luscious milk chocolate skin. A tribal tattoo in black ink extending across his upper back from triceps to triceps. A thick gold-chain necklace. Bulbous butt. Not a day over twenty.

When he came back down, she began massaging his bare shoulders. When she'd moved the massaging down to his pecs and had her head down beside his and was sighing lightly, he either didn't notice or didn't care. She ran her fingers delicately across a Chinese ideograph on his left breast that he probably didn't even know the meaning of, and she felt him tremble a bit. But he didn't say anything. Her hand played with the gold chain.

At the next commercial: "Bet you make the girls really wild."

"I do all right."

"Really? You're really a player with the girls?"

"Damn right." Still, she only had half his attention. Each time the commercial changed, Reggie thought they'd be back in the game. And they were into commercials because the Ravens had called time out to ice the Saints' kicker, who was trying for a field goal. Tension time.

"That's what all the guys muscled up like you say," Angela ventured. "Bet you spend all your time toning up that beautiful body of yours, though. Don't even know the girls who want you exist."

"I spike plenty of girls. Women too," Reggie muttered, irritated at the start of another commercial rather than the game. "See." He fished a Magnum condom packet out of his pocket and tossed it onto the coffee table.

He maybe hadn't even realized he'd done that. Just reacting to a challenge like he'd do to the friendly taunt of a buddy if he'd made it to his friend's house to watch the game. The TV was back on the game and he was concentrating on the kick. "Damn," he muttered. The field goal had been good.

Angela was feeling like she'd scored a field goal too. A Magnum condom. Yummy.

As the first half was coming to an end, Angela moved around and sat at the other end of the sofa from Reggie, whose eyes were glued to the tube. The Ravens had fumbled the ball and the Saints were knocking on the door again. She leaned down and unstrapped her stiletto heels and tossed them to the side. She could take clothes off too.

Angela was aching to have him knocking at her door. She didn't sit straight in the sofa; she turned her back to the arm, jutted her chest up and out, and lifted her right foot, bent her leg, and planted the foot behind the sofa cushion. Her tight skirt was riding up on her thighs and she wasn't wearing panties. Spread her knees a bit. Reggie was getting a clear snatch shot—if he'd just run with the ball. Or the balls, she thought, with an inward chuckle. Bet his were the size of tennis balls.

"It's half time," she said in a small Betty Boop voice.

"Yep," he answered, taking a big swig of his fourth beer. "Came at a great time. The Saints ran out of time before running out of field. Ravens will have the ball to open the second half."

"Wonder what we could do while we were waiting for half time to be over." Her voice still had the cooing tone in it.

"Look, Mrs. Walker," Reggie said, turning his face to her. "If you want me to fuck you, just say so. All you have to say is that you want it. I'm good with fucking you."

This was followed by possibly the longest pause in this dance of the night.

"I want you to fuck me, Reggie." She laughed, although she was surprised. She'd lost the baby doll voice. She slipped down to the floor to kneel between his thighs; unzipped him; fished a hard cock out (wondering momentarily just how long this young stud had been hard. How hard had he made her work for what he wanted to give her anyway?); encircled it with both hands, one above the other; and opened her mouth over the purple mushroom cap.

He widened his stance and held her head between his beefy hands, running his fingers into her long, bottle-blonde hair, popping bobby pins and a hairclip out of her hair and causing her hair to cascade down to her shoulders. No reticence, but no passion either. Just a suck is a suck and a fuck is a fuck.

But that was enough for her. She pulled his trousers, briefs, and construction-worker boots off his legs and feet as she sucked his cock.

He let her go for a few minutes—he obviously was enjoying the attention, and his dick was continuing to thicken and lengthen—but after only those few minutes, he reached down and pulled her up by grasping her sides, pushing her back into the sofa arm, lifting her left ankle onto his shoulder, and turning and pushing his knees under her buttocks. As he was doing that, Angela laughed and pulled her dress top down to her waist. She wasn't wearing a bra.

He didn't seem self-conscious at all that all he was wearing were socks and his gold chain. He had no problem displaying his body. Angela had no problem enjoying that he did so.

"They've cut pro football half times down to twelve minutes and we've already used four," he growled, as he slid and slid and slid inside her and almost immediately began to pump hard and fast. Somehow he'd managed to get the condom on, she saw, when, huffing up a storm to take him inside her, she glanced over at the coffee table to see the open packet.

She would have felt the fool at working so hard for it, if he wasn't being so good at giving it to her. Naïve dummy? Yeah, right. In and out; in and out. "Oh, Christ, you big-cocked stud!"

She barely had time to arch her back and pull his face in to give her tits a bit of attention before she felt him shuddering and filling the bulb of the condom.

"Sorry," he said when he pulled away. "Been thinking of doing that since the tree lot."

"That's OK, baby," she whispered. "If you open the drawer under the coffee table, you'll find more rubbers."

He drew her close beside him on the couch, put an arm around her shoulders, his hand grasping a breast, a thumb thrumming an engorged nipple, while he diddled her cunt and finger fucked her with the other hand during the next commercial break. Throwing her head back on top of the sofa back and closing her eyes to concentrate fully on the sensations of what he was doing with his beefy fingers, Angela laid a hand on the one he was cupping her muff with, intending to guide him. But he obviously already knew exactly what to do with those fingers. Shuddering, she saw flashes of light behind her closed eyelids and felt very, very wet.

She was panting and mewing when he fucked her again at the change of the third quarter into the fourth, her belly on the arm of the sofa, and his body folded over her, fucking her from behind. This time he went longer before ejaculating, a good five minutes of playing time into the fourth quarter—fifteen minutes by watch time. But initially the pumping was on a slowdown, as he had his head and much of his attention turned to the game.

The climax—for her—came during a set of commercials while an injured player was being carted off the field and was everything she could have wanted. Attention for her now, picking up the stroke, diving deeper, thrusting harder, doing a corkscrew twist every fifth or sixth plunge, taking her breath away. No novice cocksmen this. Brutally squeezing her breasts. His hot breath on her neck, kissing her there, biting her there as she exploded . . . and then exploded again . . and yet again. Still pounding away, very much into the fuck now, Reggie rocked back on his knees, putting one hand on her belly and fisting her hair and bowing her head back to get stronger traction in his thrusts.

Crying out "Oh, baby; oh, baby; oh, baby," Angela dug her claws into the fabric of the chair arm to hold position, aching for another climax, and screaming an "Oh, fuck, yessss!" when it came. Reggie wasn't done yet, though, and he fucked on.

Commercials over, the pumping slowed down again and he covered her body close from above, as his attention became divided once more, until his flow came with a shared sigh and a falling away from her to a sitting position on the sofa and a reach for the can of beer.

Angela extracted her claws from the sofa arm and turned onto her back in the corner of the sofa, panting and purring. She extended her left leg, moving her foot into Reggie's lap, pushing her toes under his balls and lifting his still half-hard cock. Toying with the shaft with her foot, half hoping for another go at the end of the next quarter. How many quarters did a football game have anyway, she wondered. But Reggie was totally engrossed in the game again, and his cock continued going flaccid.

Angela didn't mind. She had had what she wanted inside her. Mama had had herself a young, hung, black muscle stud fucking her. She had a special affinity for that combination: young . . . hung . . . black . . . muscle . . . stud.

"Touchdown," he cried out, as he stood up from the couch, pushing her foot aside, and saluted the screen with his beer can.

"Absolutely," Angela murmured dreamily, although there was little chance Reggie heard her.

He was up and ready to leave as soon as the game was over, exultant because the Ravens had won. If he was exultant at having gotten laid too—twice, and sucked in the bargain—he didn't mention it.

"Bathroom?"

"Down the hall and to the right," she answered. She held her breath and watched him saunter down the hall, concentrating on the swing of his bulbous butt cheeks and the tattoo along his upper back.

The sound of the shower gave her visions of water everywhere on the bathroom floor and a sodden towel tossed into the corner, but she didn't care. Her mind was already racing on a scheme to keep him there for the night. A big intake of breath hit her again from his return saunter, body proud and beautiful, cock swinging low, gold necklace swaying slightly on his beefy chest, Chinese ideograph moving with the flexing of his pecs, and a look of full cockiness in his eyes and posture. Not an ounce of self-consciousness in his nakedness. But why would he be embarrassed about his body? He was a milk-chocolate god. And he could fuck with the best of them, even when giving it only half of his attention.

It would all have been glory except that he was grasping things in his hands. In one hand he carried his socks, which didn't give her pause. But the leather jacket he was holding in the other hand did. He'd found and liberated the hostage.

In contrast, Angela's self-consciousness of her aging body was revealed in that she had readjusted her clothing while Reggie was showering and even put her stiletto heels back on.

"Gotta fuckin' go," Reggie said in an "already someplace else" voice as he approached from down the hall. "Gotta haul ass to make the next game with the guys." He immediately started pulling on his clothes.

No overnight then, but Angela didn't care. Such youthful matter-of-factness amused her and was why she liked to play cougar on occasion.

But not always. She liked them older too—and more grateful.

"Are you working at the lot tomorrow evening?" she asked Reggie as she walked him to the door.

"No, ma'am."

"Your boss I saw there tonight. Is he working tomorrow?"

"Stuart? Yes, ma'am. He's there every night of the sale. Ends next Tuesday."

Stuart. The other, older hunk's name is Stuart. Angela filed that away in her mind. "Uh, you got a card or anything for your plumbing business?"

"Not yet, ma'am, but, here, I can write my telephone number down. Won't be in legal business before next summer. But I sure could do your plumbing now, if we kept it on the down low. I've just about qualified on everything. You could call me anytime you needed it done."

"Anytime I wanted my plumbing done?"

"Yes, ma'am." And then to show that the double entendre hadn't escaped him, "I liked the steak . . . and all. You need done again, just call. You got a honey of a body, ma'am. Didn't seem hardly old at all."

With a lot of help from the dim lighting in the room, buddy, Angela thought, none too sweetly. It was the best she was going to get in the way of a review, but it was enough for Angela. She stood in the doorway in the cold—and in the almost altogether and screw Mrs.-peeking-through-her-curtains-across-the-street Cranston—and gave him a big grin as he strode with jaunty step to his car. He turned at the car and called out, "Yes, ma'am, any time you need plumbing work done, just call. I'll do you right."

Maybe righter when there's no football game on, she mused. But she was still smiling when she shut the door. She stopped smiling when she saw the size of the tree. Why in the hell had she bought one so large? It was going to be a devil to get down the basement steps. But, after shedding those stilettos again, somehow she managed, stacking it up with the four trees she'd already had men bring home for her this week.

Stuart. His name is Stuart, she was thinking, as she mounted the basement stairs. Tomorrow night for sure. And it was a good thing she didn't have to find a new lot to go to. She was running out of Christmas tree lots to go to way before she was in the mood to run out of randy men.

From the way Stuart had come on to her at the lot this evening, she probably wouldn't even have to thaw another steak. And thank god there was no game on the TV tomorrow night.