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CHAPTER 3 – The Pool Party
The sound of teenagers squealing and laughing shattered the tranquility that normally resided at 524 Titwhistle Lane. No less than 12 hormone-fulled high school graduates were in and out of the pool; chasing one another, belly-flopping, dunking the less fortunate, and cannon-balling into the deep end. Most of the girls wore bikinis, with a few choosing a more modest one piece of tankini. The young men scampered about, bare-chested in knee length suits emblazoned with their favorite team logo or movie icon.
The pool was the highlight of an impressive backyard, replete with gardens, mature trees, poolside gazebo, and a stone path that lead from an elevated cedar deck to a gate at the side of the house. The Wentworth’s were an anchor family for the community. They settled on Titwhistle lane shortly after the development was started and were one of the first to move in. Mr. Wentworth was seldom home. He was Vice President of Lynch Mining and Power and spent most of his time travelling on a private jet, negotiating rate hikes, and schmoozing with the high and mighty of society. Mrs. Wentworth, or Maggie, was his counterweight, trying desperately to keep him levelheaded and sane. In addition to being an outwardly supportive wife, Maggie was also the de-facto social coordinator for Titwhistle Lane. She took it upon herself to organize charitable events, social gatherings, bake sales, and, as demonstrated today, pool parties.
By 49, Margaret Wentworth had already raised three children – seen two of them married – established an impressive golf handicap, skydived, survived ovarian cancer, and been the recipient of four breast implants. The first of which had started to leak five years after the initial surgery, thus requiring the replacements. After days of research, humming and hawing, and over-zealous input from her husband, Mrs. Wentworth had decided to replace the original 350cc implants with 550cc Goliath’s. They were tear-shaped and huge, shockingly so, but worth every penny of the $12,000 her husband had happily paid.
Standing at the pool’s edge, the dark-haired, middle-aged woman was striking. Had the others in attendance not known the Wentworth’s or their circumstances, they may have envisioned Maggie to be the naughty secretary or trophy wife, which so often replaced an executive’s aging wife. However, in this case it was not so. She was the envy of many of the younger wives, imagining she had it all: a large, ornate home, plenty of friends, money to burn, and a husband who loved and adored her. Most of these perceptions were true, yet Maggie yearned for companionship. She believed her husband to be faithful, but his appetites had long since shifted from tits and ass to glitz and gas. He was enamoured with his own success: the fanfare, money, and intricacies of the natural-gas power industry.
“Now, boys,” she shouted above the clamour, “be careful. I don’t want an ambulance visit this afternoon.” Quite sure she was being ignored, the party provider adjusted the broad-rimmed hat that shaded her from forehead to 27-inch waist. She was not a perfect hourglass, but more a Jessica Rabbit imitation – top heavy but still able to move with a flow and grace that was sensual in the extreme. “I’m not joking,” she called out, lowing her tone for effect. “Take it easy or there will be no burgers or donuts.” That got their attention, she thought, as the shouting eased and the kids huddled in packs to whisper quietly. “Thanks, and have fun,” she said, smiling broadly.
“Well done, Maggie,” Stephanie called from the gazebo.
“Thanks,” the Wentworth woman groaned. “Every year they get a bit more rowdy. Am I just getting old or are kids changing?”
Seated around an elaborate wrought iron patio table, four women watched the afternoon’s activity from a safe distance. Among them was the newest home owner on Titwhistle Lane, Ms. Emily Ravenbach, newly arrived from Atlanta, Georgia. She was ebony, a shade of sweet milk chocolate, single, independent, and the mother of a rambunctious two-year-old. Her voice was sultry and low, with an accent that oozed Southern charm. “Oh Honey, these kids today ain’t got no sense. They got nothing on their minds but computer games, sex, and social instant gram.”
“I think you mean Instagram, Emily,” Mrs. Sizemore noted.
“Yeah, well…whatever. They got their brains between their legs, if you ask me.” The black woman slid her designer shades down the bridge of her nose, giving her a better view of the youth that were clustered around the pool. “Yup, no sense at all,” she concluded, sliding the glasses back into place. Ms. Ravenbach was just 32, the youngest homeowner on the lane. She worked for Caterpillar Equipment and had recently been transferred. Her child was a planned event; artificially inseminated at a fertility clinic in Georgia, she had carried the baby full term and given birth at home. Motherhood had brought her untold joy but equally unforeseen challenges, including a sex life bahis firmaları that was virtually non-existent.
It wasn’t her fault. She was gorgeous and built to be ridden hard and put up wet, however, she believed in traditional courtship. You know, two people meet by chance at church or a fair, date for months before sleeping together, and finally the proposal, requested on a bent knee. Emily’s ideas and initiative had driven her to success in the professional realm but she had never been introduced to Mr. Right. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Just before leaving Atlanta, her friends had thrown her a wild farewell party, including party favours and gifts. The crescendo of the evening had been the opening of a long, heavy box labelled, ‘Mr. Right’. Inside, Emily had found an authentically shaped almond-colored dildo, including veins and hairless scrotum. She was sure it had been given as a gag gift but since moving it had been her only source of satisfaction, calling to her at least bi-weekly for a date to squirt city.
Emily was near the point of breaking, her libido controlling more and more of her daily thoughts. Perhaps it was her hormones and would subside once she was done nursing. One of the few things she had taken from her mother’s advice was to breastfeed until her daughter was two. Yesterday had marked the occasion and the young mother was determined to wean the child as quickly as possible. It was a worthy goal but one fraught with shortcomings. For instance, what does one do with a pair of 34F breasts that require milking every three hours? It was a concern she had not quite figured out, and even now, gathered with the other ladies, she was starting to feel uncomfortable.
As Maggie pulled up a chair, she winked at her friends. “I still got it,” she said, waving her hand to note how the party had settled down.
“Yup, you really know how to bring life to a party,” Mrs. Bustle joked.
Alice Bottomley raised her glass and pretended to toast the others with her fruity cocktail. “Here, here…another successful year and another herd of kids ready for college. We’ll all soon be empty-nesters…and I for one can’t wait.”
“Cheers,” Maggie replied, tapping her glass against Alice’s.
“Oh, you gals,” Stephanie said, joining the toast. “I don’t know what I’ll do once Damian moves out. I’m not looking forward to it…not at all. He just keeps me laughing. I shouldn’t say anything but just this morning he was in his room and I…”
Suddenly from across the yard, the sound of the gate’s latch interrupted Stephanie’s story. The ladies looked to see who had arrived and were delighted to see Damian come through the gate.
“Speak of the devil,” Maggie said, jumping up to greet the newcomer. Her breasts swung ponderously, testing the very limits of her swimsuit’s tensile strength. “Damian, I’m so glad you decided to come back and join us.”
“Yeah, well I only have a few minutes and I was hungry. I hope you don’t mind me crashing the party for a burger.”
“Not in the least. You did such a wonderful job with my yard this morning. You can consider the burger a tip on top of your usual tip,” Mrs. Wentworth said, wrapping her arm around the young man’s sunburned shoulders.
“Hey, Sweetie,” Stephanie called from the shade, “looks like you were in too much of a hurry this morning to remember sunscreen. Come over here and I’ll rub you down.”
Damian slowly moved across the yard, very aware all eyes were on him, including the teens who were again building the party’s volume to a new level. He’d not had time to change and was covered with a fine layer of sweat from his morning’s work. His hair was mussed and his legs were covered with fine lawn clippings but he was still youthfully virile and sharp looking.
“Hi ladies,” he said, nodding to the women that surrounded the table. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything. I was just on my way to your place, Mrs. Bustle. I’ll make sure to have your hedge trimmed before the end of the day.”
“That sounds wonderful, Damian,” she replied, before whispering to Mrs. Bottomley. “I do love having my hedge trimmed.”
“Oh Connie, you are a scoundrel,” Alice Bottomley silently mouthed back at the Bustle woman.
Stephanie was sure her son had overheard the two women and was embarrassed for him and them. “Come here, Damian. I’ll covered those burned shoulders with some lotion.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Damian said, very much aware that his mother was wearing her revealing yellow bikini beneath a sheer cover-up that was doing a shoddy job of hiding her ample assets. The boy walked to stand next to her, before leaning over to whispered into her ear. “I thought you decided against that outfit.”
She stood without answering and squeezed some soothing balm from a tube she had pulled from her bag. As the ladies ignored them and returned to the normal chit-chat of Titwhistle gossip, Stephanie replied to his query, “I had but I didn’t have a single thing that was clean…but I kaçak iddaa wore this cover-up to keep you happy.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that…and thanks for the lotion. I hadn’t realized how hot the sun was until just now.”
“Okay Ladies, time for me to get the grill going,” Mrs. Wentworth announced. “Who wants to help?”
“Hey Maggie, I’d love to but I have to do something with these,” Emily said, motioning to her hardening, milk-laden boobs.
“Oh, yes. Of course. Feel free to find a quiet place in the house and relieve yourself. Did you bring your equipment?”
“I did. I’ll be all set once I find a chair and an interesting magazine.” That being said, she stood, stretched her white suit tight around her butt and patted the muscled orbs before walking toward the house. Her bottom twitched beneath the fabric; two perfectly round half moons struggling to escape the suit. The young mother’s swagger was not lost on Damian or the other boys who strained to get a better look.
At the table, Connie and Alice both jumped up, eager to help. “What can we do?” they asked in unison.
“If you two will look after drinks and chips, that would be great,” Maggie replied. “We’ll use the tables over there along the fence. The ones in the shade,” she directed, pointing at a pair of long picnic tables. “Steph, if you’re done with your boy, will you get the salads out of the coolers and find the plates and plastic utensils?”
“Sure, I can do that. Damian, why don’t you go say hello to the kids and mingle while we get lunch ready.” She pushed him in the direction of the other youngsters, with a knowing nod of encouragement.
“Okay, okay…don’t push,” he grunted. “I’m going, but is it okay if I go wash up first?”
“Yeah, Maggie won’t mind if you go in and use the bathroom. Right, Maggie?” Stephanie asked her friend.
Mrs. Wentworth didn’t miss a step but replied on her way to the grill. “No problem. Your son can use the bathroom downstairs. There’s a shower, as well, if he wants to get cleaned up and join the party. I think there’s a men’s swimsuit in the cupboard.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Wentworth,” Damian responded. “I appreciate the offer.”
Waving to the young men and women that were frolicking in the pool, Damian kicked his shoes off at the back sliding door and entered the posh living space. He’d been in the home on several occasions but never alone. The smell of expensive perfume lingered in the air, a tell-tale sign that Maggie had applied an ample portion that morning. Winding through the kitchen and past the den, Damian found the stairs leading to the basement. He carefully navigated the steps and was about half way down when he heard the gentle whir of a small electric motor. Stopping, he bent in an attempt to identify the unusual noise. Odd, he thought.
Slowly and quietly he inched his way to the bottom of the steps where the sound intensified. Peering around the door frame on the lower landing Damian’s stealth was rewarded by a sight that made him swoon and fall against the wall. The innocuous thud went unnoticed by Emily who was just getting herself positioned to pump her breasts.
Seated nearby, in a large over-stuffed chair, the nursing mother had undone the string at the back of her neck, allowing the thinly lined cups to fall to her midsection exposing her cantaloupe-sized tits. Damian watched in awe as Emily played with the nipple of her right breast while holding what appeared to be a bullhorn contraption with her other hand. The boy was transfixed by the scene before him. He stared, paying special attention to the woman’s facial expressions. One moment she appeared quite content, focusing with real intent on the nipple between her fingertips, and in the next her face suddenly contorting into a mix of pleasure and pain. At that instant, her breasts seem to harden and swell, not unlike what was happening in his shorts.
Then, like something from a science fiction movie, milk began to spray from Emily’s nipple. Not a single strand but what looked to be half a dozen streams. They geyser-ed in six widely diffuse arcs, some reaching as far as a coffee table located at least four feet away. Damian heard Emily gasp and saw her crush the ‘bullhorn’ to her breast. The strange humming device went to work on the swollen mammary, drawing milk from the blackened nipple and siphoning it into a glass jar located below the horn’s flute. The scene was mesmerizing for the young man. He had never seen anything quite like it, but he liked it. He liked it a lot. So much so that he undid the buckle at his waist, reached his hand into his briefs and pulled his cock upward, freeing it.
Not taking his prying eyes from the heart-stopping scene, Damian began to work his hand up and down the shaft of his pulsing cock. He watched the jar fill while a steady stream of nearly translucent milk leaked from the other breast, running in rivulets to the woman’s waist, where a washcloth was absorbing the flow. The expression on Emily’s face had kaçak bahis returned to one of peace. Her eyes were closed as she kneaded the full glands around her areola.
The display was more than Damian could take, but he couldn’t cum…at least not here. Pulling his pants back to his waist, he cinched the belt around the midpoint of his cock and hid the head and upper shaft with his tank top. As he finished the task, he heard a distinct call from the adjoining room.
“Hey, who’s there? Is someone there?”
Damian froze; his tongue too dry to speak.
“Ya’ll better fess up, if you been spying on me,” Emily said, her voice stern but not unkind.
“Um…um…Ms. Ravenbach, it’s just me, Damian…Stephanie’s son. I was told to come down here and use the bathroom.”
“Oh, well show yourself, Boy. Don’t be hiding there in the shadows.”
Damian stepped from the landing and into the light that streaked from the small guestroom where Emily had made herself comfortable. “I wasn’t spying…I just didn’t want to disturb you and I didn’t know what else to do but wait until you were done.”
Emily made no attempt to cover herself, feeling quite comfortable with her body and its functions. “How long you been there?”
“Not long,” he replied, unable to keep his eyes from her left breast that was now shooting milk a good 18 inches or more.
Ravenbach followed his stare to her left breast and immediately switched the milking device to the squirting nipple. “Hard to keep up with them when this much milk lets down,” she said, matter-of-factly.
Damian agreed, not knowing what else he could say. Being so close to cumming and now being so close to Emily, was putting Damian into an impossible position. His cock was constricted beneath his belt but was not shrinking. In fact, the tip had started to ooze a wet spot on the middle of his tank top.
Emily couldn’t help but notice his discomfort and asked him if he was okay. “You in pain? You don’t look so good.”
“No…no…no…I’m good…I’m fine,” he stammered. “Just need to get to the bathroom and jerk off.”
“What?” Emily asked, sure she had not heard him correctly. “Did you say ‘jerk off’?”
“No…no…not jerk off. I meant to say get these dirty cloths off.”
“Oh,” the woman replied, her tone now more relaxed and understanding. “Come a little closer so I can get a better look at you. Have you ever seen big black tits like these?” she asked, cupping them after putting the humming device down and turning it off.
Damian had no idea what to say. Certainly he’d never seen anything like them in person, that was for sure, and looking at them now was going to make him explode inside his shirt.
“Well?” she asked again, when the boy was unable to speak.
Damian couldn’t manage to get his tongue to work so he just swung his head in the negative.
Emily chuckled lightly as she played with the young man. The bulge in his pants and up his shirt had not gone unnoticed by the very observant executive. As she brought her tits together a fresh burst of milk shot toward the boy, and she asked another question. “What do you think? You like?”
This time he pitched his chin up and down, his eyes glued on the milk that was working its way toward him. When the first trickle landed on his bare foot and then tracked up his leg, he couldn’t take it any longer and he bolted for the bathroom.
Behind him, he heard Emily call, “You okay?” To which he did not reply.
Emily Ravenbach had found the encounter playfully arousing. How had she been brazen enough to expose her breasts so her friend’s son? It was mostly his fault, she rationalized. As she ran the past few minutes through her mind she couldn’t help but imagine what the boy was doing in the bathroom with that baton-sized penis. The wet spot on his shirt had been like a chalk mark on a wall, measuring the height of a growing child, and she longed to see it.
After only a few seconds of self-deliberation, Emily got up from her seat and moved to the bathroom. She placed her ear close to the door and listened carefully. Inside she could hear water running and nothing else. Rubbing a couple of fingers over her excited clit, she whispered softly through the barrier. “Damian, are you okay in there. I’m sorry and I’m worried about you.” She said it not necessarily so he could hear her but that her conscience might be placated.
When no answer came from the other side, she firmly gripped the doorknob and tried to turn it. Locked…damn, she thought. Reaching to her hair, she retrieved a hairpin and slid it into the bathroom’s privacy doorknob. A subtle click made it clear that the lock had been disabled. Clutching the handle again she slowing twisted it clockwise without resistance. Okay, Emily…this is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done…but you must.
Pushing the door open with a sudden burst of adrenaline, the black woman stepped into the bathroom to find Damian naked and tugging at the biggest cock she’d even seen. Well, perhaps that wasn’t true…but proportionally speaking, it was the largest she’d even seen on such a small framed man. It was grotesquely large in relation to his slender waist and frame.
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