50th Class Reunion Ch. 01

Well, well, well. Join me now, Gentle Reader, and see what I mean when I say, "Characters do the damndest things." I'm presenting my introductory note below, just as I wrote it when this story first showed up in my mind this morning (sometimes they do that). As you can see, things didn't exactly turn out as I expected.

((whew)) Well, we made it home. It turns out the ultra-low budget Alegiant airline isn't all that bad. Anyway, we survived, landed safely back on the Gulf Coast, never mind exactly where, and got to sleep in our own bed last night. After a week of tending to family business 800 miles away, it's good to relax, and later today we'll go rescue the Schnauzers from the kennel. Life is good.

Oh, hello again, Gentle Reader. Don't mind me, I'm a little distracted today. Trips can be wearing, and trips that aren't really vacations but, rather, a matter of going far away to take care of family and personal business are even more draining, don't you think? But that's what the past week has been, and I blush to admit, I think you'll find some of the things that happened on this particular trip interesting.

Let's find out, shall we? Come along, and reminisce as I tell you how my wife's 50th class reunion went.

Chapter One

"There they are," I could hear Janis, my wife's cousin's wife's voice, cut through the general hubbub of the small airport. This was one of those pre-engineered steel buildings that no amount of careful design or sound-deadening materials could really make acoustically pleasant. It was like every voice echoed off all four walls, getting louder with each bounce. But Janis, bless her heart, has one of those voices that cuts right through it all.

"Hi, Honey," Larry, my wife's cousin, said, scooping her into one of those embraces that made me wonder just how close they had been as kids growing up together.

"Hello, Baby," Janis, my wife's cousin's wife, said, wrapping me in one of those embraces that always made me a little uncomfortable. She's a big woman, right at my height at five-ten, and outweighs me by an easy 50 pounds. She has one of those homely faces, slightly buck-toothed, eyes too small, a receding chin from which a very soft, saggy second chin hung, that made her oddly cute in the way a Shar Pei or Bulldog puppy is so damn cute you just want to pet it.

She finally released me, with a kiss to the cheek, and I turned to shake hands with Larry. It had taken time, but that formality between us had finally faded, although it was still a handshake rather than a hug of greeting.

The next three days were a magical mystery tour for the three of them and, well, maybe not boredom but much less interest for me. In part, it was the age thing. I'm two years into my fourth quarter-century, while my wife and her cousin are just two years into their Medicare cards, and Janis won't get her Medicare card for another year. That doesn't make me a cradle robber at our ages, but it does mean we have slightly different world views. And, of course, Paula, my wife, and Larry had the shared experience of growing up as cousins in small-town America, going to the same schools, and, I always suspected, being what my great-grandmother would have called "kissing cousins" with a whole load of disapproval in her voice.

They live in the old family home, one of those rambling frame farmhouses that dot the Midwest with a room added every time a child was added in no system an architect would recognize. Larry had long since given up farming. He rented the land out, but retained the house and about an acre that included a half dozen outbuildings in various stages of repair.

Once again, the divide between me and the three of them was obvious. I'm a creature of the city. I grew up in Denver, on Capitol Hill, if you're familiar with the city, where I could walk to the Capitol building, the Library, or downtown. Then I moved to Chicago after my mother died and my father kidnapped me into a new family. It was St. Louis after I got out of the Air Force, and then Denver again before we retired to the Gulf Coast.

Those three were country folks. Larry and Paula had, literally, grown up on farms. Janis in the tiny town that supported a half dozen stores and the county school. After a career of working with small towns, I could understand and appreciate this tour down memory lane, but I couldn't really identify with it.

They talked about the things rural kids did. Working summers in "the fields." My own summers had been spent at a soda fountain when I was 15 and then at fast food restaurants after that. They talked about winning seasons for the football team or the basketball team. My friends and I had spent our Friday and Saturday nights cruising Colfax, Colorado Boulevard, and Broadway.

As I say, different cultures and worldviews exacerbated by the decade age gap.

In a way, Janis and I were both separated from Paula and Larry. Larry and Janis started dating as juniors in high school, while Paula and Larry already had a lifetime of shared experiences. I was surprised when Janis took my hand as we were walking around the home place, being regaled with tales of how Larry had broken an arm jumping out of that loft and Paula had cut her leg badly on an old, unused piece of equipment over there, accompanied with her casually pushing her pants down to show the half moon shaped scar low on her hip.

We made an interesting group, walking on that uneven ground. Although I was a decade older than the other three, I was the healthiest and most fit. Not something I earned, either. I was just ridiculously lucky in my choice of ancestors, and my good genes had protected me from too much damage in a life spent paying no attention to my health. My blood work, as my doctor told me every year when I went in for my physical exam, would make high school football players jealous. Aside from some minor arthritis in my hands that had started to make fingerpicking or forming complex chords on the guitar difficult, I was ridiculously healthy.

Larry, walking ahead of me, showed a bit of a limp, had lost all of his once luxuriant hair, and had gained about eighty pounds along the way.

His hand on Paula's back was justified since her arthritis, along with the cocktail of drugs she took to control it, along with her other ailments, made her unsteady on her feet. The replaced knees worked well, but her back had something called Spinal Stenosis, and the nerve compression gave her spasms that sometimes almost knocked her over.

As I was watching them, aware of Janis's hand in mine, she stumbled, tugging my hand as she struggled for balance.

"My hip," she moaned, leaning on me.

"Are you all right?" Larry asked.

"You guys go ahead and reminisce," I said, chuckling, "I'll get her back and off of her feet."

I thought I might have detected a bit of a secret smile on Paula's face as Larry said, "Okay, if you're okay."

"Go ahead, Sweety," Janis said, laying a second hand on my arm, "I have a good crutch here."

I suppose it says something about me that as I laid Janis's arm over my shoulder and my hand on her hip, I was aware of the soft, warm WOMAN who was draped over me now.

I got her back to the house, the three steps up to the porch offering a challenge that we struggled together to overcome, and sat her on the couch.

"What can I get you?" I asked.

She was panting a little. I figured it was a combination of pain and exercise. I waited her out.

"A beer and a foot rub," she said at last, flashing that smile she seemed to hoard, far too aware of those crooked buck teeth.

"DONE!" I announced, standing, and finding my way to the kitchen, finally, after two days, familiar enough with the layout of the old house that I didn't get lost. I got one of the George Killian's Red beers from the refrigerator and one of the heavy glass mugs from the freezer. I watched, fascinated as I always am, the little perimeter of ice that formed as the cold beer hit the colder glass of the mug.

Back in the front room, I handed her the cold mug, pulled the footstool over, placed it a foot from the couch, sat, and took her foot into my lap.

"Oh, David," she said, giggling as I started to massage her feet with my thumbs, "I was just joking."

"Shhhhhh," I said, finding the big muscles at the ball of her foot and starting to dig my thumbs in.

"Oh Jesus," she moaned.

I don't have a full-blown foot fetish, but I learned early in my exploration of sexuality that feet ARE very sensitive, sensual, and erotic.

Janis's feet were, like the rest of her, oversized and homely. Her toes were long and oddly bulbous after the last joint. On four toes, her nails were tiny little circles, painted bright red. Her big toe nail was thick and horny, a yellowish color, and the words "toenail fungus" jumped into my mind, a tribute, I suppose, to an effective advertising campaign.

She jumped and kicked when I pressed hard, working my thumb up the ball of her foot just behind her big toe with its heavy nail and when she kicked, the material of the soft garment she wore, something I associate with the word "muumuu" except this was more like an oversized serape that simply draped over her body, hanging by the hole through which her head was placed flipped up. It turns out, country girls don't necessarily wear panties.

She giggled softly and reached down to tuck the material semi-modestly between her legs.

"So, I'm NOT a real blonde," she said, giggling, "are you disappointed?"

I chuckled and went back to work on her foot.

"Not at all," I said, "you hadn't really fooled me."

She giggled softly and leaned back onto the couch cushions. I went back to work on her feet. There was something almost hypnotic about the slow rhythm of my hands accompanied by the soft sounds of pleasure she was making.

I was working on her other foot when Paula and Larry came back in.

Larry laughed and said, "Don't get up. We're going to get ready for the shindig."

I laughed.

"Shindig? Y'all goan too da hootenanny laiter?" putting on what I hoped was a passable way-in-the-backwoods hillbilly accent.

Larry laughed and said, "We sho' 'nuf is. Naow y'all take cayer o' mah wahf, y'hear."

Okay, enough of trying to spell phonetically what the accents sounded like. Not that there was much more talking. Larry and Paula disappeared upstairs to get ready, and I returned to Janis's feet.

"Where can I find a nail file?" I asked.

She smiled, reached over, and opened the drawer on the little couchside table. I heard light rattling, and she came out with a nail file, one of the fancy ones with what looked like diamond grit rather than the old-fashioned kind with grooves cut in it.

But it worked well, and I got busy shaping her nails, especially those damaged nails on her big toes.

I was concentrating so hard on what I was doing, almost hypnotized by the easy rhythm of the file and my hand, that I was surprised when I heard Larry's voice.

"You kids be good now," he said, "Don't wait up."

I shook my head, breaking the spell I was under, and turned my head to look.

And to stare.

Larry looked like something straight out of the movie Grease. He had on a wig, obviously, worn in a long ducktail. His white T-shirt was tight across his belly, and his Levi's were pegged, showing white socks and black loafers. There was a pack of cigarettes rolled in his T-shirt sleeve, and I couldn't help but wonder if they might be unfiltered Lucky Strikes or Camels while the old Jim Croce song Rapid Roy (the stock car boy) ran through my mind.

Paula was just as much in costume. For her it was a halter top, obviously with some sort of built in bra because her oversized, saggy boobs were almost perky, a bare midriff showing the roundness of her belly, not the soft floppy rolls of a truly fat girl but the thickness of a woman who has born children and started gaining weight after menopause, a pleated skirt short enough that the tops of her nylons with the little buttonhole shaped wires of her garter belt showed, and zip up boots with ridiculously high heels that I had never seen before.

I stood, reluctantly releasing Janis's foot, and picked up my cellphone, found the camera app, and said, "Okay, Sandy and Danny, let's get some pictures."

I took a half dozen pictures, kissed Paula, shook Larry's hand, and said, "You kids be careful now."

They were laughing as they went down the stairs to Larry's old El Camino.

Janis joined me, and we stood there like parents sending the kids off to the prom or something.

"Come on, Daddy," she said, giggling, "I think I'll make you some of great-gramma's special tea."

I chuckled.

"Special tea?" I asked.

She smiled that crooked smile and said, "Didn't you know? Grammi Mame was a witch."

"I see," I said, wondering if that was part of the family legend or just some of Janis's bullshit. The girl could talk.

"Trust me, Daddy," she said, "you'll like it."

I watched, fascinated, as she moved around the kitchen. The thing she wore, that muumuu that wasn't quite a muumuu, couldn't hide the size of her hips, that immense bubble butt, or even those distinctive saddlebags at the tops of her thighs. But for all of her size she moved gracefully, picking out small glass jars from the cabinet, carefully measuring from each of five of them, using a small funnel to put the mixture into a small silver sphere, the word "Tea Ball" seemed appropriate, and set it in a big mug before standing at the stove over a tea pot.

She seemed to be saying something, but I was sitting across the room and I couldn't hear what it was. I thought it might be in a language I didn't recognize, but I wasn't sure.

She stood like that, bent slightly at the waist, looking down at the pot until it started whistling. She poured the boiling water slowly into the mug, and now she was definitely chanting something. I watched, wondering what she was saying. Hell, I was wondering what language she was saying it in.

I watched, fascinated, as she brought to mug up until her nose was almost inside the rim and then inhaled deeply. She smiled, nodded, and brought the tea to me.

"Breathe," she said, her irritating voice cutting even as she spoke so softly.

The steam from Grammi's special tea carried aromas I couldn't identify. The overriding scent is best described as "earthy." But there was spice and just a hint of, well, decay, I suppose, but I mentally wrote that off as the residue from the forest floor from which I suspected some of the ingredients of this witch's brew were derived.

"Now drink it all down, Daddy," she said, and her voice seemed somehow softer now, "and I'll be right back."

I blew on the tea, and when I did, the steam filled my lungs. I felt that little tingle behind my eyes that I associate with he very best pot.

The first taste burned my tongue, and the taste was vile. In what was probably my last thought unaffected by Grammi's tea, I thought, "Christ, this tastes like it is made from what she dug out from under a dead raccoon in the forest."

I chuckled to myself as I took a second drink. This time, the taste was earthy, but for some reason, I didn't mind the way it burned my tongue and the roof of my mouth. I was aware of every sound the old house made, the soft creak as it settled, and the soft soughing of the air conditioner.

I was aware of how sharp my vision seemed to be, each tiny bubble in the tea stood out as a separate entity. The threads on the tablecloth stood out in a pattern of tiny criss-crosses. The slight stain from a long forgotten spill stood out like it was painted in da-glo.

I was aware of the sensations of touch, the warmth and pressure of the mug on my hands as I raised it and took another drink, savoring the delicious brew.

Mostly, I felt the sensation of an erection building, something I hadn't felt without chemical assistance in over a decade.

I raised the mug to my lips and finished Grammi's special tea in a single long draught. The burning in my mouth and throat was pleasant. The drink was delicious. And I was suddenly so hard I hurt.

My enhanced hearing picked up the minuscule creaks, and my magnified sense of touch felt the subtle vibrations as she came back into the kitchen where I sat, the mug in my hands, inhaling the last hints of that wonderful bouquet.

I turned to face her, well, I tried to turn to face her, but my body didn't respond to the command from my mind.

When she laid her hands on my shoulders I felt a sudden jolt that made my cock throb harder.

"Did you like Grammi's tea, Daddy?" she asked.

How could I have ever thought her voice was grating? It was music, delicate bells, and the sweetest violins. The little puffs of her breath as she said the words directly into my ear were warm and moist and had the slightest hint of a perfume that drove all thought from my mind and transferred control of my body to my cock.

"Yes," I said.

"Stand up, Daddy," she said, and that beautiful orchestra played. I stood.

Her hands were light, delicate on my shoulders. A spider walking across my skin could not have been gentler. But the pressure was irresistible as she turned me to face her.

How could I have ever thought of her as "homely?" Her face was the distillation of all of the beautiful women in the world, hell, of all of the beautiful women who had EVER been in the world. Those weren't buck teeth, that was the perfect smile that a Sophia Loren or Marilyn Monroe strove to achieve. That wasn't thin, stringy hair, it was a glorious mane that begged to be brushed and stroked. That wasn't a bag of soft fat making a second chin, it was the swanlike neck of Cleopatra.

She had changed into a diaphanous green peignoir, making her the Earth Mother Goddess surrounded in a nimbus of the proper color.

"Would you like to undress me, Daddy?" she asked, and the orchestra played.

"Yes," I said, lost in her green eyes. How could I have ever thought they were blue?

"Ask properly, Daddy," she said.

When I didn't move quickly enough, she said, "În genunchi" in that language I didn't understand.

But my body understood, and I dropped to my knees.

"Please, may I undress you?" I asked.

"Întrebați corect," she snapped in that language I didn't know, and I cried out as sudden, sharp, stabbing pain hit the soles of my feet.

Again, my body understood.

I prostrated myself, groveled, kissed her feet, got back to my knees, and with my head bowed asked, "Please, Mistress, may I undress you?"

"Of course, Daddy," she said, and the orchestra was back in her voice, the pain was gone from my feet, and my erection returned.

I stood, took the thin strings of her spaghetti straps' bows between my thumbs and forefingers, and pulled, very gently, making the undressing, hell, the unveiling, a separate play. I felt that final resistance as bows do, and the knots came loose. I let the peignoir fall to pool at her feet.

That tiny sliver of my mind that was not under her spell, and by then I was sure it WAS a spell, understood that she hadn't changed. It was my perceptions that HAD changed. But that didn't matter to my erection or, honestly, to the rest of my brain.

I took in the Earth Mother, the Goddess of Womanood, the distillation of femininity come to earth.

And I was lost.

Those big soft bags of fat at the backs of her arms were sleek, feminine, beautiful.

Those tits, big and floppy with their oversized nipples pointing straight at the floor were the breasts of a young woman ready to feed her children.

The double roll of fat at her belly, with the deep trench of her belly button, was the slender waist of a young woman in the full bloom of early womanhood.

The huge hips and saddlebags at her thighs, deeply dimpled with cellulite, were the flaring hips of a woman ready to accept a man for the first time.

The legs, flabby at the tops with a dark chubrub that ran almost to her knees, and the fat calves leaving her ankles invisible under a roll of flesh, were the legs of a distance runner or a dancer.

I stared and was lost in the waves of pure desire that washed over me.

"Come, Daddy," she said, taking my hand and leading me through the labyrinth of the old house to a room I hadn't seen before.

The room was more altar than bedroom. Candles provided the only illumination, but it was plenty to see the big four-poster bed made of some dark wood with sheets and a blanket so white they almost glowed. The bed was on a raised platform with two steps leading up.

She held my hand as we climbed the two steps, and it seemed natural for me to pull back the blanket and top sheet before helping her into bed.

She lay back, spread her legs, and said, "You know what I like, Daddy."

And I did. Viscerally. Down at the DNA level or, more likely, down at the brainstem level, where Grammi's special tea controlled me.

That sliver of my mind saw the bags of fat that were her labia, so big they hung almost to the sheet, while the chubrub at the tops of her thighs sort of flopped onto the bed.

The rest of me saw a beautiful young womans mons Veneris with the delicate slit of her sex beckoning shyly, anxious for her first time.

That sliver of my mind smelled her and wondered about her personal hygiene as I buried my face where she wanted me.

The rest of me inhaled the delicate womanscent of this Goddess.

She came, quickly, powerfully, and I drank her pleasure greedily.

When she relaxed, she said, to the accompaniment of the orchestra, "Come to me, Daddy."

I crawled up the bed and slipped inside of her in one smooth, natural move. We fit perfectly. Her strong vaginal muscles pulled me deeper.

"Wait, Daddy," she said, and the bells rang.

God, she was so beautiful. I kissed her, and her mouth, like the rest of her, was perfect, feminine, and utterly female.

The kiss lingered, and those perfect muscles in her belly held me and pulled me deeper.

I felt that point every man knows, the point of no return, the point of maximum pleasure as the muscles deep in my belly just began their contraction, preparing to send my seed deep into her, and she said, "WAIT, DADDY," again, and that special point receded.

She did that three more times, taking me to that special point, stopping me, holding still, and taking me along again. Her control was perfect, and I welcomed it. It seemed perfectly natural for this Goddess, this distillation of femininity, to be able to reach inside of me like that. To allow or deny my release at her will.

"NOW DADDY," she screamed, "FILL ME UP" and then, her voice suddenly harsh, a guttural croak, added "umple-mă tati".

I came like a fountain. I came like I had never cum before. I came like I didn't think it was possible for a human being to cum.

Then I slept.