PFK1 (13 page)

get these things yourself?"

Katrine shook her head. "My mother did."

"Why the condoms?"

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"Just in case you can’t help yourself and suddenly just have to fuck

me."

"Sorry, sweetheart. Ain’t going to happen."

I kissed Katrine on the forehead, saying, "Go in the bedroom, take

your clothes off, and get into position. I’ll bring a chair and we’ll play

good old MTC."

For the uninitiated, Milk the Cow consists of having your girlfriend

kneel on the bed on all fours, facing either the headboard or footboard,

but close to the side of the bed. Her pants need to be down but she

doesn’t have to be naked.

You, as Farmer John, pull up a chair beside the bed and fingerbang

her to your (and her) heart’s content.

I went all out playing Milk the Cow with Katrine on Friday night,

because despite the headaches attending on spending time with her,

the girl has an absolutely spectacular body, ideal for the application of

MTC. No two ways about it.

Physically, she’s just an incredible specimen, with a pretty face,

amazing long, blond hair, a butt that is beyond cute, and a truly

luscious pair of bazooms looming over all that more than deserve the

sobriquet "bodacious."

"Okay, Katrine," I said, as I plopped down in the chair next to the

bed, "let’s get the cow milked."

By then, I was also naked, having undressed in the bathroom. My

cock was sticking up like the Washington Monument.

Katrine presented herself for "milking," raising her bottom, and

resting her upper body on her forearms.

I know, I know.

The less said the better.

Yet here we go.

It was nice that Katrine’s mother had sent along a tube of lube gel,

as I had used up practically all my regular body lotion and mine

wasn’t suitable anyway for the task at hand.

I kissed Katrine again, fondling her nipples as I did so. They

became erect instantly. Using my left hand, I pinched and rolled the

delicate buds. Then I coated my right thumb with a thick dollop of

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lube gel and eased it into Katrine’s anus. She moaned as I pressed it

all the way in.

"Ooooooaaahhh..."

My hand was now fully anchored and ready to milk, as my right

middle finger was now poised directly over Katrine’s clit.

If I brought it in and up a wee bit, I could send my finger into her

vagina. I gave her opening a tentative poke, where it met considerable

resistance.

The sad fact is that Katrine has an exceptionally tight vagina. I had

learned this the hard way the summer before, when I took her on a

picnic to the Columbia River.

We spent most of the afternoon necking in this sheltered sandbank

while faraway, big ships plied the river.

Despite my solemn promise to Katrine’s mother, I decided, after

three beers, that I would insert my penis into Katrine, once and for all.

Performing an outdoors variation of Milk the Cow, I brought Katrine

to the pitch of excitement where she will do anything I tell her. This

time, however, when she begged me to fuck her, I actually did.

But Katrine’s pussy simply would not cooperate. Though she was

wet as the Hoover Dam, she was also as tight as a fucking drum, and

it hurt both of us when I tried.

I was defeated by dyspareunia.

Well, it didn’t matter. Without a cruel effort, a cock like mine just

isn’t going to get inside a narrow little sleeve like Katrine’s vagina.

At the time, I consoled myself by remembering that, at the very least,

I was still a promise keeper.

Now a year later, I consoled myself in the present while we played

milk the cow. I fingerbanged Katrine with only a small amount of

guilt, reasoning that even mentally troubled girls like her deserve a

sex life.

Oddly enough, Katrine wasn’t a virgin, having been broken in by

her high school boyfriend, the one who originally dumped her, setting

off her downward mental spiral.

That guy must have had a dick like a pencil is all I can say.

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According to Katrine, he fucked her the night of the senior prom

and on two occasions thereafter, before splitting early for summer

school at Stanford.

I met him one time – a soft, sniveling rich kid, in many ways

reminiscent of Chesley.

But enough digression. Back to MTC.

With my thumb firmly lodged in Katrine’s rectum, my finger

dipped in and out of the front end of her vagina, getting enough juice

to tease her clit.

Meanwhile, I used my free left hand to play with Katrine’s big,

shapely boobs, hence the term "Milk the Cow."

As always, Katrine loved it, getting her nut off more times than I

could count. At one point, she had her face jammed into the pillow,

screaming like banshee while my middle finger frantically diddled her

button.

"AAAAeeaaaahh!" Katrine hollered. "EEEEaaaaahhh!"

Another reason we called it "milking" was how Katrine gushes

pussy juice when we play. That comes along with the noise she

makes.

On this occasion there was more juice and less noise than usual. In

other words, it wasn’t so loud that I had to push her face down in the

pillow to dampen the noise, which I have done on many previous

occasions.

When Katrine indicated that she’d had enough, I withdrew my

thumb and finger.

"Good, because my arm’s getting tired," I said. "Besides, it’s your

turn to do me."

"Whatcha you want me to do?" Katrine asked.

"Suck it, as usual," I said. "But not here in the bedroom. Let’s go

out in the living room so I can relax in the armchair. Bring that pillow

along."

"Yes, Patrick."

As ever, Katrine was willing to do whatever I wanted her to do.

The trick to getting her to open up sexually was to be gentle but firm

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with her, explaining exactly what I wanted and how I expected her to

provide it.

"Come here," I said, sitting in the neutral-colored, overstuffed

armchair in the living room. I had Katrine put the pillow at my feet

and told her to get down between my legs.

"Kneel on the pillow, Katrine," I said. "We’re going to be at this

for a real long time, so I want you to be comfortable."

"Yes, Patrick."

Outdoors, the town drowsed through the approach of a lazy spring

weekend. Nobody was likely to disturb us.

Last summer, I trained Katrine in the ways I liked getting sucked,

and she showed she was a good pupil.

Kneeling between my legs, Katrine’s lovely while body was like

marble in the late evening light. A South Eugene Venus De Milo was

about to give me a nice, satisfying blow job.

My cock stood up like a spring, hard and ready. If I felt like it, I

could make Katrine suck it for an hour or more, without a complaint,

her head bobbing as fast or slow as I ordered.

Apparently, the training I had subjected Katrine to likewise had

been reported to her mother, I later learned, including the exercise

where I had taught Katrine to overcome her distaste for swallowing

cum. This was described by Katrine to her mom in graphic detail, she

said.

Well, there was nothing to do about it now. If Katrine’s mom is

dying to know that her daughter sucks my cock and swallows my

cum, so be it.

Because I made her do it again on Friday night.

The fact that she swallows readily now means that I get the greatest

possible pleasure from Katrine’s suckings.

I closed my eyes as Katrine’s mouth deftly caressed me, first

engaging the head and then tonguing down the length of the shaft, as I

have directed. Although Katrine has never been able to comfortably

deep throat me as some women can, she is still very good. I

especially like having Katrine lick the shaft from the underside. That

she does superbly.

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On Friday, I made Katrine suck me for over thirty minutes, the only

sounds in the room being the action of her mouth on my cock and the

clock ticking on the counter.

"I’m going to cum," I said, as my discharge neared. "Be sure to get

every drop, Katrine, and suck when I tell you to."

"Mmmm..." Katrine murmured agreement, hunkering down in

preparation for my climax. This is where she really succeeds

nowadays.

I came very suddenly, spewing big bolts of cum in Katrine’s mouth.

She’s careful to keep the head covered as I ejaculate, the juice

spurting from the tip. She caught each jet, swallowing and gulping as

she consumed the whole load.

"Oh yessss..." I said, letting it all go.

Afterwards, Katrine got as animated as she ever gets while on her

meds.

"Was it good? Did I suck your cock good?"

I patted Katrine on the head and assured her that indeed, it had been

a pleasant cocksucking. Very good indeed.

Three more times this past weekend I made Katrine suck my cock.

One other time I made her put lube gel on her boobs and came on

them, another incident about which she will surely tell her mother, in

detail.

Had it not been for the sex, the time I spent with Katrine would

have gone terribly slow.

At home with her mother, Katrine does little but watch TV and

dream the days away. She has no ambitions to speak of and hasn’t

had a job in over a year. Her mom is kind of on the weird side too,

first telling Katrine that her job is to "get better," and then crabbing at

her daughter for her slug-like inactivity.

Maybe it’s the meds that take the wind out of Katrine’s sails, I

don’t know. Maybe it’s just her and the fact that life was so easy

when she was little. When things got rough, Katrine never learned

how to cope.

Whatever the case, there is no "future," as Polly Ellsworth used to

say, for me and Katrine. She’s a fabulously beautiful mentally ill

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daughter of a university professor, whose superior beauty is wasted

because she ain’t quite there.

I know me, goddamn it. I want a woman who is my equal, who can

both challenge and support me. I can’t and won’t be somebody’s

caretaker. Sorry. As beautiful as Katrine is, we are finished forever.

* * * *

May 10, 1978

I’m getting progressively behind at work. My papers are all sloppy

and half-assed. I try hard to care.

I want the cover of
The Dark City
to be a bright red heart with blue

lettering and a white border. An all-American tale of romance,

confession, and betrayal, like one of those gloppy true romance mags

at the grocery store. In it, I am settling accounts, speaking the truth

through fiction.

My childhood story will have a pale green cover, like spring leaves

sprouting from the branches of a willow tree. If I ever wrote a story

about my affair with Polly Ellsworth, the cover would be black with

red lettering, maybe adding a collage of old photos. A literary dirge.

Getting to know my neighbors. We hang out, we laugh, we drink,

we yak. Harry has a new roommate – Rand, who is likewise getting a

divorce from Clarice, his wife of six years. After trapping these guys

into marriage, the women are now tired of them. Very interesting, if

you ask me. Makes me think maybe I was on solid ground, resisting

the unreal pressure Polly always put on me.

Harry and I are ten days apart in age. Nick is five years older than

us. Are they about where I’d be now if I’d caved in?

I wonder.

* * * *

May 13, 1978

Had dinner with Harry and Nick again last night. Made a huge

feast. Harry selected the wine and Nick bought the steaks. I chopped

a giant salad and seasoned a sourdough loaf with butter, garlic,

pepper, paprika, and Parmesan. The trimmings that make a meal a

feast. Also baked half a dozen potatoes, these big brown Idaho

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russets. We ate ourselves sick and then got good and fucking drunk

on Harry’s excellent wine.

Later Harry brought out these Dominican Republic cigars he likes

and I smoked one with him while we sipped wine. The wine was

from a shipment Harry had left over when he and Shana sold the deli.

That stuff tasted like liquid silk.

Nick wouldn’t puff a cigar, sticking to Marlboros instead.

Sitting around the table afterwards, we lacerated every woman we

have ever known, describing them down to the minutest physical

detail and analyzing their varied personalities in excruciating depth. It

was a rich field of exploration. Both Harry and Nick got married

young and are now getting the boot. Having slept with about four