Chapter 2: Breaking Vows II

A year earlier, because Patrick Accuardi didn’t want to live in the same town as his ex-wife Edwinna, he relocated to the coastal enclave of Newport, accepting a position as a welfare eligibility worker for the state of Jefferson.

Besides having a good medical and dental plan, the job put money aside for his retirement and the salary afforded him enough to pay child support for his daughter, Kirsten.

Tall, slim, blond, and blue-eyed, Patrick had something of the intellectual about him, with a studied manner and wearing longish hair. His chief ambition was to carve out a literary career. More than anything, Patrick enjoyed writing. The hours he spent at his keyboard were the most satisfying in his life, aside from sex.

The state job was just a job. He was sympathetic to the clients, but had no illusions. Patrick’s fellow workers were a mixed bag, with a bunch of awful co-workers—stupid and incompetent, toadies and informers.

Or all of the above.

The rest were more or less average. In terms of friends, he connected with none of them. And it didn’t seem likely to change. One day, however, things did change.

Patrick’s supervisor Bob Edward stopped by his cubicle to make an announcement.

“I’ve hired a replacement for Marge Hemheimer,” Bob said, naming a woman who’d retired. “The new girl’s name is Michaelene Austin. She starts tomorrow.”

“Okay” Patrick said, looking up from his computer.

“You won’t need to cover Marge’s caseload anymore,” Bob said. “That’s got to be good news.”

“That is good news Bob,” Patrick said. As was always the case when he spoke to Bob, Patrick kept his responses succinct and deferential.

Patrick’s supervisor at the office was a deeply unhappy man, and for a good reason. In his early twenties, Bob had completed a church-sponsored program that converted him from a guilty homosexual into a brain-washed, religiously-fanatical faux heterosexual.

Bob had subsequently gotten married and fathered two children with a woman resembling a muscle-bound Ellen DeGeneres. She too had undergone the church conversion program, in her case turning her away from lesbianism.

Among the byproducts of the conversion was that Bob had developed a grating, girlish voice that sounded like fingernails on a blackboard to Patrick’s sensitive ears.

“I was hoping you’d be able to assist in Michaelene’s training,” Bob said. “The on-the-job part, anyway.”

“I’ll be glad to help,” Patrick said. “As always.”

“Thank you,” Bob said, stiffly.

“You’re welcome,” Patrick replied.

Bob returned to his private office at the corner of the building. Patrick sighed and began tapping on his keyboard. He hoped the new hire wasn’t from the same old mold as so many of his fellow employees.

Even the nice ones were a dreary lot. The majority were fat broads of one sort or other. Physically fat or fat-headed. The men were, if anything, worse.

But since the women in the office outnumbered the men by two to one, Patrick dealt mainly with the women. Often they were dull, needy, noisy, and incessant snackers. The one who occupied the next cubicle over from Patrick’s was a classic example.

Her name was Barbara Clark.

At age thirty, Barbara was as obese as a pregnant hippo. Nevertheless, more than once she had advertised to Patrick her sexual availability. He had declined as graciously as he knew how.

Barbara had black hair, was fond of tight-fitting clothes, and wore white swan glasses. In terms of personality, she was the opposite of the jolly fat lady. Barbara was in fact as mean as a rattlesnake and the welfare clients unanimously despised her.

Also dysfunctional but in a different mode was another eligibility worker nearby Patrick’s cube, Gary Oates. Gary was ugly, thin, myopic, and astonishingly stupid. His oily black hair was worn in a comb-over and the dandruff his scalp generated was colossal.

Gary was Bob’s pet. He overlooked the fact that Gary’s mantra when it involved dealing with the clients consisted of one word, repeated three times:

“Deny, deny, deny!”

Chances were any new staffer selected by Bob Edward would conform to the rest of the crew.

Patrick expected no less.

His own selection the year before had been practically accidental, the very last hire of Bob Edward’s predecessor, the alcoholic Marion Blaine.

Upon accepting the job, Patrick told himself he’d have years of self-sufficient employment ahead, if he behaved, kept his head down, and avoided entanglements. Following this plan would provide time to complete the writing project he had been diligently slaving over for several years.

In the meantime, Patrick diligently did his job, burning eight hours a day carrying a caseload of welfare recipients, accommodating his co-workers, and devoting his spare time to writing. On Sundays, he drove the 140 miles to Slateville to spend afternoons with his daughter, Kirsten.

She had recently turned eight and was a bookish, pretty, brown-haired girl, interested in many of the same things that interested her father.

First, he would have lunch with Kirsten and then they would do something together. A favorite of the girl’s was a trip to the downtown library. But there were other enjoyable activities as well. Slateville was a large enough city so there was always something they could do, rain or shine.

Life therefore went on for Patrick Accuardi. A failure in love as well as (so far) in his life, he considered the book he was writing his ace in the hole.

It might never pay off but then again… it might.

Within months of his arrival in Newport, Patrick made a couple of male friends, Nick Powell and Harry Billings. It so happened that Harry was Patrick’s next-door neighbor, a smiling, bearded man Patrick’s age who likewise had gone through a messy divorce. Nick too, was divorced. On most weekends the men vaped, drank, listened to music, swapped stories, and hung out together at the various watering holes Newport abounded in.

Nick was interested in dating, an interest Patrick did not share. He’d had enough feminine trouble, courtesy of his ex Edwinna, to last a lifetime.

It wasn’t that Edwinna was dominant that put Patrick off, for in truth he desired a woman who exhibited loving authority. What Patrick objected to was the creepy way she went about it. She had a mean streak unleavened by other, more gentle feminine virtues.

There had been no doubt that Edwinna was a supremely intolerant harridan when it came to Patrick. She complained about him constantly, and misunderstood him entirely.

Patrick wanted avoid another Edwinna-type experience. Had it not been for Kirsten, he would have been happy to never again have any contact with his ex-wife.

Being in Edwinna’s company more than a minute was invariably excruciating. The bottom line was that Patrick hated his ex-wife with every fiber of his being and regretted impregnating her more times than he could count. The lone consolation had been that Kirsten seemed more to take after her dad than her mom, growing into a quiet, creative child with no patience for the self-absorbed histrionics her mother enjoyed indulging in, given the slightest opportunity.

Still, Patrick was intrigued when a woman struck up a conversation with him at the grocery store. This was Myrtle Holland, similarly divorced and lonely. A librarian at the middle school, Myrtle was vivacious, pleasant, intelligent, and had a face that went easily to smiling. Although more than a decade Patrick’s senior, Myrtle suddenly fit into his life like a round hole takes a round peg.

For nearly a month now, Patrick had joined Myrtle in the evenings, when his writing stint was done, for wine and sex. The age differential appeared to have little effect other than to increase the pleasure they took from coupling.

Divorced ten years, Myrtle was eager for a connection that was fun, flattering, and uninhibited. In the beach town where they lived, their affair was a secret. As far as Patrick was aware, Nick and Harry were the only ones who knew of it, considerately keeping this knowledge to themselves.

It wasn’t a big deal one way or the other, but Patrick’s job as a worker at the office was such that he preferred not to be seen squiring Myrtle around.

Newport was just too gossipy.

Myrtle likewise had reasons for keeping the numerous Newport snoops in the dark about her liaison with Patrick.

Myrtle’s position at the middle school exposed her to parent groups, teachers, churchgoers, school administrators, and colleagues. Carrying on a relationship with a younger man risked making Myrtle the butt of mean-spirited jokes. Already, she was packing to leave, and looking forward to her new posting in Jefferson City, as it promised her more pay, more authority, and better benefits.

It was a regret for Myrtle that this affair had developed so late in her Newport stay. On the other hand, if her horrid ex-husband ever found out about her sleeping with Patrick Accuardi, there’d be difficulties.

Not any kind of trouble that Myrtle couldn’t handle, but the man would make nasty remarks to their daughters and that would piss her off plenty.

Keeping company with Patrick could not have been a greater contrast to putting up with Myrtle’s gross, oafish ex-husband. Patrick was cool, cute, smart, tall, and sexy.

Myrtle loved these qualities in him. And on top of that, she adored the sex. Patrick was currently teaching her all kinds of bedroom tricks she’d never experienced with her ex, her sole previous partner.

As a woman with a master’s degree in library science, leaving Newport was Myrtle’s chance for a lucrative salary and a secure future. But she was sincerely disappointed to be leaving behind her sweet new boyfriend.

***

Later that night, Myrtle again knelt on all fours, facing the head of her queen-sized bed, sucking Patrick’s rod. His head was thrown back, hands on his hips, while his organ moved in and out of Myrtle’s avidly sucking mouth. Not quite naked, Myrtle’s bralet remained on, because she was slightly embarrassed about her pendulous boobs, with their big, dark nipples. She drew her mouth away momentarily to ask, “How am I doing, lover?”

“You’re doing great Myrtle, but see if you can take it in a little deeper, if you don’t mind.”

Myrtle didn’t mind a bit, addressing his suggestion with admirable enthusiasm. Her idiotic ex-husband had always considered oral sex dirty. Giving or receiving. Their sex life had consisted of the following:

Once a week, usually on a Saturday night, he’d tell her to get ready for a “little old roll in the hay.”

Then he’d climb aboard missionary style, ejaculate in a minute or less, then roll off. No foreplay, oral sex, or simple affection. As a result, during sixteen years of marriage, her ex had never once gone down on Myrtle.

As opposed to Patrick, who went down on Myrtle the first time they slept together. Since then, he’d gone down on Myrtle every time they had slept together, and from there to intercourse in a range of positions, usually but not always ending with Patrick spilling himself in her mouth.

While Myrtle caressed Patrick’s rod with her lipsticked lips and mobile mouth, Myrtle fondly recalled the orgasms she’d just experienced from her lover’s exquisite tongue. What an amazing sensation!

It had been quite a surprise that her legs could still stick up so high in the air and stay up for so long. The young man whose rod Myrtle presently sucked was a natural woman’s man, of that she had no doubt.

What Myrtle desired was to please Patrick as much as he pleased her. His rod was large, yet Myrtle made sure she got most all of it in her mouth, trying not to gag.

“Um hum… Um hum… “

“That’s excellent, Myrtle,” Patrick said. “Boy, you’re really getting good. When I cum in your mouth and believe me—it’s going to happen soon—I want you to swallow, and then do the other thing I’ve taught you.”

Myrtle let Patrick’s rod out to glance up, saying, “You mean that suction thingy at the end?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“With pleasure, lover.”

Less than a minute later, Patrick ejaculated in Myrtle’s mouth and his shrieks of pleasure were delivered at a high pitch. Myrtle worked him deftly as he spent, her gobbling, gulping mouth greedily gathering his goo, intent on getting every goodly drop.

Pausing to savor the flavor of Patrick’s sweet cum, she whimpered tenderly as bolt after bolt coated the interior of her mouth and splashed across her tongue. Since becoming involved with Patrick, a small but regular part of Myrtle’s diet consisted of her lover’s semen.

Which was all to the good, of course, but how Myrtle took it in was key to the pleasure he received from her oral service. It had to be done right, Patrick insisted.

Thus, as Patrick had instructed, when it seemed he had no more, Myrtle applied a gentle but forceful suction to the opening of Patrick’s penis, an action that caused him to go rigid from its electrifying effect.

A couple late-arriving regiments of Patrick’s jism were thus extracted, to be swallowed by his older lover with her new-found skills. Something of a while passed before his wails of ecstasy completely died away. When he began to buckle, Myrtle spit him out and helped him stretch out on the bed beside her, where they tenderly embraced.

Opening Myrtle’s snap-front bra to expose her big, soft boobies, Patrick occupied himself goo-gooing her nipples before they kissed, with much mutual tongue trading.

“Yum. That was delicious,” Myrtle cooed. “If we lived together, I’d suck your cock all the time, Patrick.”

“What about your ex? Surely he would find out about us if we lived together,” Patrick said.

“He would never know about us if it was in Jefferson City that we lived. He is so, so stupid.”

“Well, I’d love having you suck it all the time,” Patrick answered. “But there’s a lot of other things we could do too, Myrtle, if you’re interested.”

“Gosh, I feel so ignorant around you. I’m older but you know so much more about sex than I do.”

“Well, I’ve had more partners is all, including my awful ex-wife, Edwinna the bitch.”

“Your ex can’t be any more awful than mine. I swear he didn’t like sex at all. Which surely explains why he wasn’t any good at it, either.”

Upon saying this, Myrtle commenced fondling Patrick’s shrunken penis. Even at its most wilted, his was bigger than the man she had been married to all those years. Her thumb rubbed the head, still slick with her saliva.

“Hmmm. Keep doing that and it won’t be long before I get hard again,” Patrick said.

“Then I’ll keep doing it,” Myrtle said, impishly.

They talked and kissed for a while, fondling each other. Patrick intently sucked on Myrtle’s big, rubbery nipples, a habit she called “goo-gooing.”

Myrtle especially enjoyed their kisses, his tongue deep in her mouth or hers in his. Patrick’s soulful kisses were almost as arousing as the sex, Myrtle thought. When she got up to use the bathroom, she put her DD bra back on, reining in her enormous breasts.

“I want you to show me everything,” Myrtle said. “That is what I want to be for you—your ideal receptacle. Are you ready to go up inside me again?”

Patrick chuckled. His erection wasn’t quite back yet, at about three quarters.

“Well,” he drawled. “Let’s wait on that. Have you ever played the sex game Milk the Cow?”

“No! But it sounds fun. And sexy.”

“It is sexy. And especially fun for the lady. I’ll just need some of that lube you use on your vibrator.”

“Be my guest, lover. Just tell me what I should do. I am one hundred percent yours to command.”

Patrick explained what he wanted to do, and the older woman eagerly agreed to play Milk the Cow.

Myrtle got in the position Patrick described, which was similar to the position she’d been in while sucking his rod. The difference was that rather than crouching, Myrtle was on now all fours, near the edge of the bed. And this time she would kneel sideways to him rather than facing him.

Patrick brought the bench over from her antique maple vanity and sat beside her.

“This is so exciting!” Myrtle squealed. “And sexy!”

“Call me Farmer Brown,” Patrick said, formally. “This here bench is my milking stool.”

“Howdy, Farmer Brown,” Myrtle said, laughing.

“The purpose here is to make you orgasm,” Patrick said. “The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom. That’s why we call it Milk the Cow. We’re going to milk you silly, Myrtle. You just let go and cum as often as you want. I’ll diddle you, keeping my finger in place, and you do the rest. Are you ready for this?”

“Milk me as much as you wish, lover,” Myrtle said, her accent creeping in. “For I am your cow.”

What Patrick did not mention was that Milk the Cow had been invented by a buddy of his years ago, to keep his virginal and determined to stay so until marriage girlfriend happy and sexually safe during their lengthy engagement.

“Suzie wouldn’t fuck,” Patrick’s pal Bernard Barstow explained, “because she’d sworn an oath to remain virginal. Oral sex was also verboten. But when I showed Suzie Milk the Cow was strictly a finger-banging exercise, she went for it in a flash. Suzie didn’t even mind where I had to keep my thumb while doing it.”

Patrick came away from that discussion with a game he could and did play, often with unforgettable results. Myrtle Holland was a perfect candidate for Milk The Cow.

“Get ready,” Patrick said, “cause here we go!”

“I’m ready!” Myrtle said.

With that, Patrick coated his right thumb with the lube gel Myrtle used on her vibrator and was about to insert it in her rectum when he suddenly paused.

“You need to take your top off,” Patrick said.

“My boobs are too big and saggy,” Myrtle protested.

“Aw,” Patrick said. “I like ‘em. And I want to play with ‘em while I Milk the Cow.”

After a brief pout, Myrtle removed her top, displaying her double D breasts, which hung almost to the bedspread when she reassumed the all fours position.

“Much better,” Patrick said, his left hand caressing her big, rubbery nipples, pinching first one and then the other. They responded instantly, growing as hard as buttons.

“Ooooooeee… Aaaaaheee… “ Myrtle moaned.

Nice nipples, Patrick mused.

He decided Myrtle’s breasts were lovely things, as he caressed them gently. Big udders too. If they happened to be a trifle saggy, so what? Nowadays they often played goo-goo—Patrick nursing on Myrtle’s jutting nipples, their brown, prominent points occupying his undivided attention for minutes at a time.

Myrtle moaned again as Patrick squeezed them in turn. Her boobs were a real handful, a delight to fondle.

Without further ado, Patrick stuck his thumb in Myrtle’s rectum, who gave a little start as it went in. Meanwhile, his middle finger found her clitoris, lightly caressing it.

“Oaaaweeew-HUH! HuuuhhHH!” Myrtle cried.

“I’ll just hold my finger here. With my thumb anchored in your rear. I can go like this like, forever. Meanwhile, I’ll caress your boobs, Myrtle. You do all the moving and I’ll just follow. Go ahead and cum whenever you feel like it and we’ll do this for as long as you want.”

“Lover, it’s so sexy!” Myrtle cried, grinding her pelvis experimentally, her clitoris rubbing Patrick’s middle finger. “Hmmm. Ummm. Yes! That’s so nice.”

More confidently now, Myrtle rocked back and forth, her mature but otherwise excellent body coming alive with pleasure. “That’s good, Patrick! Oh yes! I love it.”

Since his thumb was comfortably ensconced in Myrtle’s behind, keeping his middle finger in place required little effort. As his buddy Bernard explained years before, now he should whisper sexy words, caress her boobs, and kiss her, encouraging her to cum and cum and cum.

“Eeeeeeeeagaah!”

Myrtle’s first Milk the Cow orgasm.

From there, she kept cumming like crazy. At one point, her right leg was kicked back, her contorted face flat on the bed, her back arched in ecstasy. Patrick’s finger meanwhile never wavered, supplying a steady stimulation. Throughout, Patrick egged Myrtle on, telling her how much fun he was having and how sexy she looked and how she should cast aside all inhibition and cum, cum, cum!

Gush after gush of her liquor came as Patrick’s stalwart finger remained in place. Farmer Brown was getting a darn good milking out of this heifer, for darn sure.

The woman seemed near to senseless when at last she slumped, begging Patrick to take away his hand.

Slowly, Patrick withdrew his hand, his thumb exiting her backside with a pop. He said, “You relax now, Myrtle. I’m going into the bathroom to wash up and then we will cuddle and kiss some more. What do you say?”

“It sounds wonderful, Patrick lover,” Myrtle said. She slid under the covers and placed her head on the pillow.

“Okay.”

Patrick went into the bathroom, switching off the light beside the bed before closing the door.

“Don’t be long,” Myrtle said, sleepily.

“I won’t,” Patrick answered.