From the shore, Carl called out, "I'm getting hun-gry." Judging by his inflection on the last syllable, I bet myself that it was not for the picnic lunch I had packed. I knew what he really wanted to have as his first course this afternoon. All the men familiar with me wanted to begin there.
For doing the plumbing in my renovated bathroom, I had agreed to Carl taking me at the pond. But I had assumed he meant through the front door. What he added—after telling me about his growing appetite, and how we would likely start—was how we were going to finish: he wanted to be my back door man this afternoon. As I dog-paddled in the water and yelled that I would be right in, my mind began scrambling for something I could use for lube.
Anal sex was not a currency I generally did business in. And if it were, I had plenty of options in my bedside table drawer. But in the remoteness of a little pond, twenty miles from my house, I was in dire straits. My arousal flow was fine for any size erection doing its vaginal gliding, but I needed more than vaginal wetness coating Carl's big pipe if he were going to be doing any anal plumbing on me.
I plowed through the silted bank, stepped onto solid ground, thickly padded with orange pine needles, and dried myself off, spinning around, as I did so, to get a panoramic view of this idyllic little spot in the middle of nowhere. If you don't have money to afford a place like this, it's good to have a generous friend who does. And if you don't have an income which allows you to do all the renovations you want in the charming little cottage you own, then you need to cultivate relationships with those that can do them for barter rather than cash. Which is what I have done.
People in New Hampshire deal in many forms of payment, not only because it is a tax dodge, but because "it's the way it has been done around here forever." An artist pays his therapist with a painting; a dancer remunerates with lessons for her optometrist; masseuses exchange deep healing massages. I just extrapolated those forms of payment to something I was very professional in. Pleasuring men.
I bought my house very cheaply at the nadir of the housing bust: a two-bedroom farmhouse on forty acres at the end of a dirt road. The good side for me was that it cost a mere $69,000: the bad side was that it needed at least half that much in renovation to make it suitable. I had used up, on a down payment, my savings—the money I had left over after my divorce settlement. My only income was from the job I had taken a couple years ago, returning to New England, to become the part-time director for a small volunteer health clinic. I had saved it from closure, so the board had rewarded me with a three-year contract and a little more salary, but not enough to live comfortably on and do a house makeover. So...using my Yankee ingenuity, I had devised another way.
Builders, electricians, plumbers, painters were plentiful around here, now that the housing market was recovering. Being in my mid thirties, I felt I was in my prime. Blessed with good looks, and therefore being attractive to younger men, and having had a lot of experience in the business world of shrewdly trading one form of favor for another, I was no naïve little girl. I knew how to make deals. At least in the city I did, and I had to assume that even in the country, men are still men. And, although it took a few false starts to get some traction, eventually I had assembled a reliable cadre of workers who were willing to be paid in means other than cash.
For example, there was Methodical Mike, my electrician. Just as his cables were tacked in even lines along the floor joist, all turning, like a school of fish, at right angles and swimming evenly into the breaker box, every one of my love payments flowed predictably from cunnilingus to fellatio to intercourse, but with the precision of a professional who insisted that I get my pleasure before he took his.
Bawdy Bob, my builder with a lively tongue, who could tickle me with his profanities as he performed some of the area's best finished carpentry, could also titillate me with his dirty talk as he gave my clit a tactile "talkin' to" on the subject of bad girls doing this part of the country a world of good.
Rounding things out was Carl. There was no one I trusted more when it came to diagnosing and fixing plumbing problems. But Kid Carl, as I called him, was something else when he was off duty. Like those Russian nesting dolls, inside a large Kid Carl was another Kid, and inside that one was third: an ever curious, ever inventive, ever playful sort who could surprise me—and usually did so with humor—whenever I arrived with a payment.
A cluster of white pines at the pond's edge gave a little filtered shade to a portion of the bank, where Carl, bless his heart, had spread a blanket. I had made almond butter and jam sandwiches with carrots and peaches, and he had set everything out on paper plates at the corner of the covering. He was naked, lying on his back in the center, peering at me through his sunglasses.
So that's what you look like in bright daylight! All my other remittances with him had been made in the dark or in the waning sun of evening. Now I could appreciate what a man Kid Carl was. Being supine, and the way he had his hands behind the back of his head, accentuated his lats and pecs, and, so did his abs, when he rose up a bit to speak,
"Float on top of me for awhile, will you?"
As I particularly liked muscular men, the resulting tingling in my womanhood was soon accompanied by congestion in my whole pelvis. I tossed my towel toward a corner of the blanket and over laid him, welcoming the warmth of his skin against the relative coolness of mine. I kissed the clean-shaven cheek with playful pecks, then meandered with my nose along his jawbone, down his neck, onto his chest and inhaled the fragrance of his fading aftershave commingling with the more potent scent of fresh arousal.
His calloused palms, with their rough little mounds, gave me goose bumps as he ran them up and down the smoothness of my back. I giggled and squirmed my whole trunk against his. He laughed, his belly jiggling mine.
I needed to sample that laugh, to taste his mirth. Gently at the outset, then more vigorously and deeply when I discerned the flavor of his mid-morning coffee, I figuratively drained the remaining drops in his cup, running my tongue around the inside of his mouth. His cock, filling even more with my caffeine thirst-quenching, told me that I had better have an idea for lubrication pretty soon.
"Sit on my face," he commanded.
I actually welcomed the straightforward, albeit vernacular, way my workers requested things of me. No double talk. No pretty words confusing me with what they really had in mind.
"I want to get you good and hard," he added.
I had suspected as much. I am endowed with a very large clitoris. It's nearly an inch long, but when I'm fully aroused, it almost doubles. When a new lover first comes upon it erect, I can't stop their immediate descent to my nether world to give it closer sensory appreciation. And if there is a second time or third that we make love, they all want to re-start there.
However, Carl more than surprised me, "Then I want you to fuck my nostril."
I've had men ask me all sorts of things about my gift: if I could fuck a woman with it; if my clit could come on them; the usual ridiculous things. But no one had ever made such a request before. Leave it to Kid Carl, I thought, as I burst out laughing. Carl gave me one of those, all-knowing don't be so skeptical smirks, which made me pause. The thought was surprisingly arousing to me, I had to admit. I have had stimulation of many sorts, but, needless to say, I had never "fucked a nostril."
Carl began licking me with his big tongue, long strokes up one labia, then up the other, with each lap his taste bud papillae rasped over my expanding clitoris, making its four million nerve endings begin to sing like a chorus doing Beethoven's Ode to Joy. With the dappled sunlight like a strobe, the smell of pine needles, and the slurping sounds emanating from my crotch, I knew it wasn't going to take me much longer to come.
Tenderly, he surrounded my nub with his lips and vigorously shook his head from side to side, vibrating my clit between the loose corners of his mouth. That did it. Rocking my pelvis against his face I unloaded, literally, gushing my womanly ejaculate all over his lips and chin and expressively gasping into the canopy of pines above us. I listened to him gurgle with glee as he licked it up like my puppy at mealtime.
I needed a few minutes to recover, which Carl patiently allowed, as he resuscitated me with his fingertips rubbing over my lower back. Eventually, he commanded,
"Now, fuck me."
Carl has an average-sized nose, with proportionate nares, but ones that could give my clit a snuggly fit, I estimated, if we could ever make our anatomies line up. I mean, nature doesn't intend for this to happen very often, so it was going to take some contortions, I figured. But not so many, it turned out. With me being so long and stiff now, and Carl deftly using his opposite thumb to open the nostril, while flattening the palm against his cheek, I was able to straddle his face and guide my willing clit-cock into his right nare-cunt. And what a reward for me! With gentle pelvic tilting, I felt myself sliding in and out of his nostril, although I might have been going nowhere, or at most a fraction of an inch.
Then Carl gave me another ride of a lifetime. He slid a finger up against his left cheek and, occluding the left nostril, sucked inward. Compared to suction from a man's mouth, the vacuum created around my clit was so delicate, more like the tickle of daddy-long-legs striding across one's forearm, and with my clitoris being so primed, the gentleness of this clit-hug made me shudder in spasms. I moaned loudly. And again and again. I was having one orgasm on top of another. Who was paying whom, I wondered in my delirium. "Oh, Carl, Oh, Carl," was all I could gasp.
Carl positioned his other hand on my buttocks, his fingers gently peppering me all over, slowly but surely moving closer to my bud. I was drenching wet. Even my anus felt like it was weeping; I was like a tub of lard on a sunny windowsill. And that's when it occurred to me: the nut butter liquefying in the warmth of the afternoon sun. That's going to be our lube.
"Take me, Carl," I babbled, "but you better butter my butt."
Carl's face sagged. His cock was a deep red, like a little kid's face that had been screaming for attention for way too long. He was ready for immediate release, and my alliteration must have sounded like parental nonsense to him. Scrambling off his chest and over to the sandwich, I tore it apart, and with one half, wiped the spread all over his giant erection. And using his same vernacular, bid him, similarly
"Wipe this side all over my asshole."
The smile that emerged signaled his transformation. He was a thirty-thirty with a six-pointer in the crosshairs, a Silverado with plow blade in a snowstorm. He used two fingers to scrape off the strawberry jam, and, when I raised my fanny into the air, and spread my cheeks, he rubbed it with gusto onto and into my hole.
The excitement in his panting as he pressed his cock head against the rim, matched my gasping, begging for him to do me. He was in. If there was any pinching burn, it was numbed by the mind-altering attention that Carl had paid to me beforehand. I wanted to reciprocate by letting him have his way with me, in any way he wanted. The delightful stretching to take him inside me, and the joyful contraction to squeeze him back out, were our rewards.
I heard his hardy grunts. Then, in the frenzy of the copulative act, he got raunchy—and funny at the same time, singing out Led Zeppelin's,
"I'm gonna give ya every inch of my love," ramming me in time with the down beat.
I rose up to be on hands and knees, so I could dance to his rhythm, and sang my part of the impromptu duet, "It ain't the meat it's the motion," as I gyrated my ass into his every advance.
Our laughter at our off-tune renditions of old rock songs slowly faded, as we got closer to the brink. His hands, initially on my hips, moved around me so that his arms encircled my waist, to tighten us up so he could press even more forcibly into me. His frequency increased. His grunts got raspy. Finally he shouted out, "I'm coming!" and his more powerful thrusts combined with his shouts of pleasure were enough to tip me over the edge as well.
We shouted into the earth and up through the trees into the sky, those animalistic shrieks that are testimonials to the glory of carnal knowledge. Then we collapsed onto our left sides, and just lay there panting deeply.
Although I couldn't imagine summoning the energy to do this again for at least another day, I managed one more stab at humor, gasping out the clichéd line, "maybe we should save... our other sandwich... for later."
We lay there together, in a spooning position, his arms around me. Two people, relative strangers except to making love—and working out plumbing needs, of course. Two townies who would meet again, but knew not when or where. Casually a week from now at the hardware store? Passing each other on a county road driving to our respective jobs one autumn morning? Maybe in neither of those places nor at any of those times. But for sure, somewhere after some time, when a dripping faucet needed a worn out washer replaced, or sooner, if something got "accidently" flushed down the toilet and plugged it up.
I smiled. One of these days, I might even want to get married again. My first marriage was OK some of the time, especially at the beginning. But for now, how could life possibly be better for me by being married. Or, for that matter, how could I possibly choose which professional to specialize in. So, perhaps it's best to stay the course. Finish the house renovations, and then decide. There's plenty of time. And plenty of barter to do it with, if today was any example.
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