Anything for Mrs. Titball

Author’s Note: Many thanks to lit author Nora Fares for putting eyes on this story to help me see what I was missing. Check out her stuff; she’s fantastic. -FS/Mr. Squeeze

*****

It’s important to keep Lipton Southern Sweet Tea with Lemon mix away from one’s dickhole.

I learned that lesson after I dipped and dragged my cock and balls in the powder before bed. The next morning, I pissed sweet southern lemon flaming knives.

Thing is, I needed my dick to taste not just like flesh, but good. Something to draw her in.

So I asked myself what she liked.

Steak and potatoes.

Corn on the cob.

Lemon bars.

Sweet tea.

Yeah, I decided, lemon and tea.

At the grocery store, I found a jar of Lipton Southern Sweet Tea with Lemon mix. Every night for six months, I gave my cock and balls a kind of overnight dry-rub with the stuff.

Of course on night two, now a veteran of one failed dick dry-rub skirmish, I used a small paintbrush and stayed the fuck away from that hole.

***

It was time.

Using an ice-pick, I poked two holes in the crotch of my trousers an inch apart. Then, I drew the camouflage gore-tex down to my hips and poked two identical holes in the crotch of my underwear. In my right front pocket, I drew out the tube. Fake blood. On the back of the bottle, it said, “Safe for consumption.”

I put some drops on the holes in my underwear and let them soak in and spread. I squirted two more drops on the insides of my pants, right at those two holes. Afterward, I pulled down my underwear.

Cock in one hand and black fine-tip Sharpie in the other, I put two tiny slits on the head of my cock, and then I covered those dots with small droplets of the fake blood.

Then, I waited for it to dry a bit, keeping my cock level with the ground. When I felt the time was right, I let my dick slump into its regular position. A little fake blood remained on the two slits, the rest formed two small rivulets that ran towards the tip.

I examined my work.

It actually looked pretty good.

And it would work. The farm was at least twenty-five minutes from the nearest emergency care facility. There would be no other option.

I laughed. I actually laughed, looking at my bloody dick.

Pulling up my underwear and pants, I grabbed my rifle and ran towards the cabin and the house. Five minutes later, I crossed from the tree-line into the grassy clearing outside the cabin, stopping for a second.

This is insane, a part of me warned. It’s wrong. It’s stupid.

“No, it’ll work,” I whispered back, continuing onward. “All fucking in.”

Passing our cabin and into sight of the house, I cupped my crotch with one hand and used the rifle as a cane with the other, bent double as if in agony.

In the middle of the lawn in front of the kitchen window, I collapsed, still holding my crotch.

And I waited.

She must have been away from the kitchen because she didn’t come out right away. A good three minutes elapsed with nothing at all.

Then, I heard it, muffled from inside the house—a cry. Seconds later, I heard the door open. I weakly raised my head from the turf.

It was her.

“Oh, heavens, no!” she hollered, hustling across the grass toward me in her long dress covered in part by a white apron. “Mark!”

I squirmed weakly and pinched my eyes closed in pain.

I heard the footfalls, and an instant later, I felt the ground thud as she knelt beside me.

Her voice urgent, she asked, “What’s happened, Mark? What’s wrong? You’re not shot are you?”

I shook my head, wincing again. Glancing down my chest toward my hands, I groaned.

“Move your hands, dear! Move them!”

I did.

A few seconds elapsed before I heard her gasp. Then, she said, “I see blood. There’s blood! Tell me what happened, dear!”

Instantly, her long fingers unbuttoned and unzipped my pants.

“Got bit,” I uttered.

“I’m here, Mark. I’m here for you. Go on.”

I shook my head.

She tugged the trousers to my hips and gasped again. “Mark, dear, there’s blood on your underpants. I’m going to—may I remove them?”

I nodded.

I felt her fingers slide under the elastic band, and she said, “What was it? What bit you?”

I grunted and shook my head again, now quivering with acted pain. My underwear was down to my thighs, and my cock and balls tasted the cool, wet November air.

“Your penis!” she cried. “It bit your penis?”

I nodded.

“Tell me what it was, Mark. Tell me this instant.”

Her sleek, soft fingers delved between my nut sack and my cock. She carefully lifted it, scrutinizing the wound.

Panting, I groaned, “Snake. Rattlesnake.”

***

Our family had come to the Titball farm in central Nebraska every November for as long as I could remember. The North Loup River cut through the nearly four square miles of land, and plenty of whitetails called it their home.

Mrs. Titball granted our family a hunting lease on her property for the firearm season, lasting one week every fall. The whole family came out on the first weekend—Mom, Dad, my younger twin sisters, and my older brother, Sam. If Dad, Sam, and I had all gotten our deer by Sunday, we’d go home together. If not, the three of us would remain until we got one, but usually by mid-week, we headed out, buck or no buck.

On the Friday night of our arrival, Mrs. Titball always gave us a feast. Sweetcorn on the cob, ribeyes, baked potato casserole, and her homemade bread—so good that bread. We’d finish it off with her apple pie and a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Afterward, we played cards on her dining room table. When the feast was over, we went back to the hunting cabin and got ready for an early morning of rifle hunting.

Agnes Titball was a big woman. Taller than my nineteen-year-old, five-foot-nine frame by at least six inches, she wasn’t skinny or fat. She was womanly—matronly. Wide, generous hips on top of long, hearty legs. I suppose she had a small pooch of a belly, but one didn’t really notice because perched atop that tummy were two of the most bountiful, plump breasts in Nebraska.

Given her towering presence, Mrs. Titball was a woman impossible to call “cute” or “pretty.” Mom said Mrs. Titball was “lovely-looking.” Dad called her “a handsome woman,” and trust it when I say my Dad never used such formal, old-timey sounding language to describe an attractive woman.

Mrs. Titball was a deep redhead—not auburn, more like a September tomato. In her early fifties when I was nineteen, Mrs. Titball had some wisps of gray in her long ponytail. Her skin was light bronze, speckled here and there with brown, almost black freckles. She had eyes like black coffee and a huge mouth full of bright teeth.

Proper and formal in appearance, she almost always wore a modest, long-sleeve patterned dress. Tight about her arms, chest, and waist, the many pleats of the skirt billowed out from her hips and plummeted almost to the floor. On her feet, she usually had sleek leather ankle-high boots. In sum, Mrs. Titball had the bearing and attire of a woman born in the early 1920s, not the late 1960s.

Despite her apparent formality, she loved to laugh and loved people. As a little boy, I remember her crawling around on the floor, playing alongside me when Mom ran an errand and Dad and Sam were hunting. I loved making Mrs. Titball smile, even as a little whipper-snapper. When she laughed, the whole house heard it. Her face turned pink, her eyes watered, and her entire body shook with delight.

We only saw her once per year, but she treated us like her own family. She sent us Christmas cards every year, and she always seemed to know the things going on in our lives—the death of our family dog, Dad’s promotion, when Sam’s team won the state soccer tournament, the twins starting dance classes, and such.

Her husband died of cancer back when I was twelve, just a month before our hunting trip that year. We said all of the right things to her that year, but it seemed unnecessary. She was the same as always—joyful and welcoming.

I hardly remember her husband anymore, but I do recall Mrs. Titball telling my parents the story of how she fell in love with him.

She didn’t know he was interested. They hadn’t been high school classmates, so she didn’t know him other than that he came into her father’s hardware store in Ord, Nebraska about once a week—a short, lean fella so dark she wasn’t quite sure if he was tan or dirty.

Every time he came, he brought or did something. Agnes, being just eighteen, assumed the young man was a city employee who helped all the downtown shops look nice.

Sometimes, Mr. Titball swept the front. Sometimes, he left a vase of flowers. Once, he washed the store’s front windows. Her favorite was when he brought lemon drops. Mr. Titball walked into the store, smiled, and nodded at her, and then he left a box on the counter near the register.

He never talked to Agnes; he just did things like that. One day, she asked her father about the young man, and her father said, “Girl, he don’t work for the city. He’s courting you.”

It changed everything for her, knowing that everything he did, he did for her.

Telling that story was the first time I remember seeing her sad.

I will never forget seeing her angry. During the hunting trip of my thirteenth year, I made a carelessly stupid mistake.

Sam, who is five years older than me, had started making fun that I was still playing with my action figures. Maybe I was too old for such things, but I liked setting them up and thinking up stories.

I was alone in the cabin room Sam and I shared, and I had some elaborate story going with my guys, having set them up all over the twin beds. At some point, Sam burst in and, seeing my figures on his bed, yanked the comforter and sent them flying as if a giant bomb had detonated.

It infuriated me. I freaked out, screaming.

Sam laughed, and it sent me deeper into a storm.

I cursed Sam, using language more suited to Sam’s age than mine.

He grabbed my favorite guy—Darth Maul—and darted out of the cabin. Racing after Sam and hollering, I watched Sam stop, reach way back, and hurl my action figure about 50 yards.

In horror, I saw the toy tumble through the air before it landed in the back of Mrs. Titball’s yard.

I sprinted after it. Leaping a rabbit fence near the impact site, I rummaged for him, trampling everything around me in a desperate hunt. Where was my guy-guy? Where was my Darth Maul?

“Markus Lee Baldwin!”

I froze.

Mrs. Titball flew out her back door, and I will never forget her eyes. They were terrifyingly wide with horror. She was bigger and taller than I even remembered, and she marched towards me as if churned into a tornado of wrath.

Surveying the destruction I had caused, she cried, “My mums! My autumn mums!”

I looked around, and I realized where I was: in the middle of her chrysanthemum garden, and the place was a wreck of yellow, orange, maroon, and magenta flower petals surrounding knots of trampled stalks.

She seized my arm and instantly spanked me four times—boom, boom, boom, boom! “Naughty child!” she hissed, snapping out the strikes. “Bad, bad boy!” Given her size and strength, they could have been wallops, but they were light, quick strikes. They didn’t hurt; they shocked. Finished, she turned back to her garden and slumped to the ground, crying.

I started running away, but my Mom and Dad had already emerged from the cabin. They corralled me and dragged me back to the flower garden. Mrs. Titball remained on the ground, gasping through her sobs.

I was terrified. For my entire life to that point, she had been like a fun aunt to me. To know that my behavior caused this joyful woman to become so enraged and sorrowful shamed me deeply.

My parents had no problem whatsoever with Mrs. Titball spanking me—none, and that should explain how thoroughly they trusted and respected her. They consoled her for a time, listening to her halting and tearful explanation before they turned on me. My pleading and blaming of Sam held no merit with my parents.

“Situational awareness,” my father decreed. “You should have known where you were.”

“You will apologize,” my mother commanded, “and there’ll be no more hunting for you until you have fixed her garden.”

So, I went and knelt beside Mrs. Titball. I apologized to her, tearful and wiping my snotty nose on my sleeve.

She accepted my apology in a broken-hearted way.

I never wanted to come back. She hated me; I was a bad boy.

It was too late in the season to plant new mums, so I cleaned up the mess in her garden, preparing the ground for her spring flowers. I didn’t even bother looking for my Darth Maul.

When we got home from the trip, I let my mother give all my action figures to my younger cousins, and the next November, to my chagrin, we went back to Mrs. Titball’s.

I did not look at her or talk to her, not once, during the feast. I didn’t play cards afterward; I watched my kid sisters play with their dolls in another room.

Climbing into my bed that night, I slid my arm under the cool pillow, felt something strange, and jumped. When I raised the pillow, I saw my Darth Maul guy. I took him without letting Sam notice, and when the lights were out, I held him in my hands, moving his little arms and legs in the darkness. I wondered if Mrs. Titball meant returning him to me as a peace offering or a reminder of my awful deed.

After that hunting trip, I decided I needed to somehow make it up to Mrs. Titball. Penance was necessary. I didn’t want her to think I was a bad kid.

So, at age fifteen and to my mother’s wonderment, I made chocolate chip cookies and brought Mrs. Titball a plate. She was delighted. She raved about those cookies, but I was still too ashamed to speak to her.

At sixteen, I made more cookies for her, and she clutched my face and kissed me on the cheek when she saw them. I had been determined to talk to her that year—to make her see that I was a good kid now—but after the kiss, I wouldn’t dare open my mouth.

I remembered something she said that year on the afternoon of our departure. Over tea with my parents, Mrs. Titball mentioned her favorite treat—lemon bars.

On the eve of the trip when I was seventeen, I made some for her. Three batches–the first two were awful and had to get chucked in the garbage. Seeing my determination to get the lemon bars right, Mom asked me about it.

“Just want to, Mom.”

“Is this about her chrysanthemums?” she asked.

I shrugged.

“You know that’s forgotten, Mark. She doesn’t hold it against you.”

“Maybe, I don’t know. I still just want to do something nice for her.”

Mom sighed, saying, “Alright then, Mark, but I wonder when it’s going to be my turn for ‘something nice.'”

I glanced at her.

She laughed and kissed me on the shoulder.

That night, upon hearing about the lemon bars, Dad kidded me about having a little crush on Mrs. Titball.

“What? No, Dad! Gross!”

“Easy, Mark. Only kidding, only kidding,” Dad responded, glancing at Mom.

Despite being near the end of his college, Sam came home for the hunting trip, and when he overheard Dad, he roared with belly laughter.

“Look,” I argued, “she’s always nice to us, and I want to do something nice in return.”

“Well, I think it’s sweet, so you boys can just clam up and leave Mark be,” Mom directed.

The lemon bars thrilled Mrs. Titball. Two kisses—one on each cheek, as well as a second hug after the customary first hug upon our arrival.

Sam snickered behind me, and I think Mom punched his arm.

***

I made her more lemon bars for the hunting trip of my eighteenth year.

At cards that evening, I sat beside Mrs. Titball and to my amazement, she began petting the back of my head between deals. There was something almost electrical in her long, soft fingers. Each touch sent buzzing ripples of warmth around my neck and down my spine. I was on fire and embarrassed simultaneously. I never wanted her to stop, and I couldn’t quit side-eyeing her.

As her long fingers caressed my head, it occurred to me that these—her touches—were the sign. I was forgiven and restored.

I couldn’t focus on the game. My heart raced, and my mind was afire with debate. I wanted to touch her, too; I wanted to return the signal. I thought that if I responded, then she would know that I knew. Thank you, my touch would say, for letting me know I’m not a bad kid anymore.

Should I touch her hair or try to hold her hand? I wondered.

Pros, cons, and contingencies preoccupied me for a spell. Finally, I decided to try to hold her hand. Others might see me touch her hair, and hand-holding struck me as more appropriate. The problem was that card play often involved two hands.

Between games, Mrs. Titball folded her hands in her lap, waiting for the next deal. That was the time to try for it.

When the next round ended, my heart thudded against my ribcage. My mouth felt cotton dry. I swallowed dry lumps. So, I kept drinking her sweet tea to calm myself and wet my throat.

Glancing beside me, I saw her hands come together in her lap.

Here goes nothing.

I reached over.

She sensed it before we even touched. Glancing at me, her eyes appeared confused when I curled my fingers between her hands. An instant after, there was a look of realization in her expression, and my moment had arrived. I squeezed.

Mrs. Titball unclasped her own hands and held mine with one of hers. She squeezed it twice and held it. So, we sat there, side-by-side, holding hands. My heart rejoiced. I was forgiven. Never again, I promised myself. Never fuck up like that again for Mrs. Titball.

And I felt something else, too.

Her hand was big and very, very soft. It was warm and alive. I didn’t have the words for it then, but looking back, her grasp was feminine and somehow erotic. It was sexy, secretly holding her hand under the table.

When the cards had all been dealt, she turned to me and smiled, letting me go.

It was then I realized I had been getting hard. My face suddenly felt hot.

We played out our hands. I barely followed the game, waiting for my erection to recede and trying to process my own competing emotions. Shock and excitement. Shame and confusion.

When Dad rose from the table, it was the signal that we were heading back to the cabin. We all got up. Mom fetched the twins. Sam thanked Mrs. Titball and left first. I had been so focused on my emotions that I didn’t notice how desperately I needed to piss.

When I emerged from the bathroom, I heard my parents at the door. Hurrying to the front entryway so as not to be alone with Mrs. Titball, I arrived just as the storm door closed on my parents.

Mrs. Titball didn’t see me. She turned away from the door, and I stopped.

She thought she was alone. I knew because I watched her smile and caress her long, red ponytail in an introspective, self-soothing manner. She let her hair go and stretched her back with a moan. Then her hands clutched her massive breasts.

My mouth hung open, but I couldn’t breathe.

Hands full, Mrs. Titball kneaded her chest, sighing softly. She wasn’t standing in the hall pleasuring herself. It was more like she was easing a burden—the weight of those enormous tits. Yet, there was still something erotic—not just to me, but to her, too—about the way her hands massaged, the way her voice responded to her own touches.

I was transported by the sight. Sure, I’d been exposed to things much more lascivious on the Internet, but this—with my own two eyes, live—was different. I had known her as an attractive woman, but I now saw her as supremely sexy. My cock stirred again.

I suddenly remembered her forgiveness, and I did not want to be caught looking at this intimate moment. I quietly backed out of the entry hall, waited a moment, and then traipsed forward toward the door, eyes on the floor.

“Oh, Mark! I didn’t know you were still here,” she said.

I stopped and looked up. She had ceased touching herself. All was safe. “I—uh—I had to use the bathroom,” I muttered, continuing toward the door.

“Wait, dear,” Mrs. Titball said, reaching for me.

“Hmm?”

Our eyes met, and she smiled broadly. “Come here,” she called, and she pulled me in for a deep hug. Kissing my ear, she drew back and walked me the rest of the way. She thanked me, again, for the lemon bars.

“I know how you like them,” I muttered, embarrassed.

Her long fingers rubbed my shoulder and slid down my back.

“Just very thoughtful of you,” she said, opening the door with the other hand.

Our eyes met. She looked gorgeous and full of joy.

“Y—Yeah, I hope they’re good,” I stammered. “Well, good night, Mrs. Titball—and—and thanks for dinner and everything.”

“Of course, Mark. I’m so happy that you’re here.” She held the door open for me and ushered me out, gently urging me forward with her large, soft hand on my buttock.

I thought about the way she touched me and the way she touched her own tits for the next year. I thought about her smile and her eyes, too. Hardly a day passed without me remembering her, imagining her.

I was still eighteen, and I had kissed one girl once in my entire life. It was after the Homecoming Dance when I dropped off the girl back home. Nothing much to it.

I am no judge of men’s looks. I suppose I was alright-looking. I wasn’t misshapen. I was in three sports during high school, so I was fit and strong. Good enough to play, I wasn’t getting offered any athletic scholarships. I kept myself clean and tried to smell like soap and toothpaste.

I guess I was an average kid with average grades who would soon graduate high school and go to an average college.

Girls seemed complicated. One was supposed to talk to them, but it’s hard to do that when their bodies are so close and when kissing and touching and sex is the ultimate goal.

Girls’ smells, sounds, and sights would interfere with my train of thought. One minute, I would be talking to a girl I liked about the party the previous weekend. The next minute, I was staring at her chest, realizing she had asked me a question some time ago.

I wanted girls. I liked talking about them with my friends. I imagined doing lots of things with them. But, I didn’t want to embarrass myself; I needed to be really good at sex stuff.

All of my friends seemed so experienced, and it just hadn’t happened for me. The longer it took to get my own first experience, the more milestones and skills all of my friends gained. It was a hopeless, losing cycle.

I felt desperate and paralyzed. I was eighteen, horny, and frustrated; I was a young man poised to try something reckless.

I don’t have a great reason why I was so fixated upon Mrs. Titball, but I was. I grew erect at night thinking about her. My fantasies should have included the beautiful girl, Shon-Elle, in my Chemistry class or the ass of that blonde, Kiley, who sat in front of me in Trig, but they didn’t. It was Mrs. Titball; I wanted her.

Something about her struck me as intensely sexual. Maybe it was simply that she rubbed my head at the exact right moment in time. It could have been how she held my hand. It might have been those gigantic tits and the way she sighed. Or, maybe it was our story—I had let her down, and now I was redeemed. I’m not sure. It felt to me more like something in her eyes and the way she walked and talked—her carriage and attitude, her joy.

Is joy sexy? I asked myself.

Yeah, I responded after a moment’s thought. I guess it kind of is.

I couldn’t help but imagine that underneath the modest clothing and almost grandmotherly demeanor, there lurked a woman of desire.

As I sat in my bedroom, I wondered if, on the next hunting trip, I could find a way to spend time with her, just us.

Maybe, I thought, after the feast, I could stay behind while everyone else left. Maybe I could ask her to rub my head and who knows?

I thought about bringing her a gift, not just lemon bars.

Maybe get her sexy panties? I asked myself. Then, remembering how tall and large she was, I realized I had no idea what size to purchase or if she needed some kind of special order. To make a mistake on such a thing struck me as detrimental to my hopes.

I considered writing her a note and telling her how she made me feel.

I imagined leaving our hunting early and stopping by for a private visit.

As I let my mind wander into romance, I decided it would be more meaningful if I were injured, gored in the hip by a buck, maybe. Mrs. Titball would lead me to her bedroom. She would take off my shirt and clean the wound with her soft hands. Maybe she would rub my chest. I would feel her fingertip drag over my nipple. I would see her eyes take in my body, perhaps seeing the trail of new hairs under my navel. Her fingers would begin unbuttoning my trousers—.

Fuck, I wanted her. I wanted her so badly that I cringed at the thought of never having her.

I slammed my fist on my desk and told myself that I needed to get her to touch me again, to see me not as a boy but as a young man. If she could see how much I wanted her, if she could see how hard she made me—see or touch my cock, then maybe. Somehow. Fuck!

Then, I thought of the snake bite. It scared me a bit—the brazen daring of it.

Tentatively, I played out the scene in my mind, and it excited me beyond anything I ever found on the Internet. It began to seem plausible to my high school senior self. So, night after night, I imagined it. At first, the idea was mere fancy, but the more details I added to the scene, the more reasonable it seemed.

I smiled when I turned off my nightlight, knowing I would spend the next minutes dreaming about the snake bite and what would surely follow: my romantic and wonderfully sexual adventure with Mrs. Titball.

One morning in early January, I decided I needed to look my best for her, so I began a hard-core weightlifting regimen in addition to my regular basketball practices. One night in late May, just before graduation, I decided it would help if my dick tasted really good, too.

***

Prior to the hunting trip of my nineteenth year, I found a recipe online called “Sexaluscious Multiple Orgasm Lemon Bars.” The dormitory had a community kitchen, so I made them there. It was a significantly more involved recipe, but when I tried the finished product—wow.

I also wrote a note to accompany the bars. It told her how much I’d been looking forward to seeing her again. It thanked her for being so welcoming. The note explained how often I thought of her, and that I tried a new lemon bar recipe that I hoped would please her. After a long internal debate, I signed it “Love, Mark.”

She looked just as I remembered her when we arrived. There were hugs for us all, but mine didn’t last longer than any others. She kissed my cheek after I gave her the bars, but she didn’t read the note right away.

After the feast, I cleared and rinsed the dishes for her and then again after dessert. Mrs. Titball was very thankful. I didn’t join the first card game. Covertly, I left a wrapped gift on her bed—a faux pearl necklace with a malachite center stone in the shape of a heart. There was no card, but I knew that after our romantic and wonderfully sexual adventure, she would know exactly who had given it to her. I liked that it would be a mystery until then.

I saw a nice ten-pointer on Sunday morning before anyone else. It was my kill, but I ignored it. Dad was the next to see it. He took the shot and the buck.

Mom, Dad, and my sisters returned home on Sunday afternoon. Sam and I stayed behind to get our deer.

At my suggestion, we split up on Monday morning, him taking the east side of the Loup, me taking the west. Dad wouldn’t have approved, but it was safe. We’d been hunting here for years, and as long as we kept the Loup between us and stayed in our fields of fire, there was no risk of overlapping trajectories.

We left at five in the morning. I waited in a spot I liked until nine o’clock, never really looking.

Still, a pack of does and fawns crossed my kill zone at about 75 yards. There were five of them. The last one to cross was the biggest doe I had ever seen.

A typical adult female weighed around 100 pounds or so. I guessed this one to be well over 150 pounds. And tall. Geez. Forty-two inches to its shoulder, maybe.

I forgot about Mrs. Titball and watched the big doe.

She crossed behind her family. It was almost 20 yards of low dry grasses between two brakes of cottonwoods and shrubs. Scanning around herself, the doe stepped about halfway into the gap and stopped.

I stared at her profile and mouthed several curses. She was a beautiful creature.

We wanted bucks, but a doe this big would be a story and a half. It would definitely make the local news, and it might even get into the Sunday Outdoors sections of the Lincoln and Omaha papers. She was a huge whitetail.

Slowly and carefully, I sighted in on her with my rifle. She didn’t see me. Scanning left and right, she took a step and presented me with the perfect shot. Without a sound, my thumb pushed the safety off.

Taking a long breath, I re-engaged the rifle’s safety and rose to my feet.

She didn’t dart. Her head turned directly towards me.

I waved.

Then she quietly crossed the last ten yards out of sight.

For a moment in time, the big, beautiful doe had made me forget my purpose. A wave of nervous excitement swept through me as I thought about Mrs. Titball. I set aside the rifle and began to prepare myself for the snake bite.

***

Mrs. Titball let my cock down and drew back her hand. “A rattlesnake? Are you quite certain?”

I nodded weakly.

“You saw him? You heard his rattle?”

I nodded, moaning.

“Mark.”

“Yeah?” I groaned, avoiding eye contact.

A beat passed.

“Mark!” she snapped. Her voice was different. Not fearful or hysterical. Grave.

I opened my eyes and looked at her, still acting the part of the wounded.

“Snakes like the Prairie Rattler brumate this time of year,” she said. “Kind of like hibernating. It’s too cold for their bodies. They’re just not out in November unless it’s unseasonably warm, and it isn’t.”

It wasn’t. I suddenly felt every bit of that cold.

“Are you actually hurt, dear?” she asked.

Guilt began to choke out my breath. Unwilling to concede the disgusting lie, I writhed weakly.

“Mark!”

I stopped and opened my eyes.

“Are you hurt? Did you do something to yourself down there?”

I couldn’t speak. I had just annihilated my redemption. It was a nightmare; it had to be. I needed to wake up.

“Tell me that you lied about the snake bite,” she demanded.

I gulped and nodded.

She looked at my penis.

I could feel the fucking thing. The cold air or the mounting fear had done its work. My nut sack was scrunched up into my groin. My cock was shriveled and pointy. Fuck, I thought, she’s going to think I’ve got a cock the size of a lapdog’s.

“Did you actually hurt yourself, though?” she asked. “Did you do something to your penis?”

I turned away, blinking. Then, I flinched.

Mrs. Titball’s fingers were on my dick. She bent over it, examining the fake injury. I felt her thumb rub the tip, clearing away the blood. “Mark, I need to know if you’re injured, so talk to me.”

Too mortified to speak, I sighed. Just take the fucking rifle, I thought, and shoot me.

She licked her thumb and resumed wiping away the fake blood. “What are these marks?” she asked. “Is this fake blood?”

I said nothing.

“Markus Lee Baldwin!”

I turned to her.

“Tell me what you did this instant!”

I swallowed the gigantic, dry rock in my throat and told her. My voice quavered with fear. I told her about the ice pick. I told her about the Sharpie and the fake blood.

“You were hoping I would put my mouth on your penis to suck the venom out, weren’t you?” she asked.

Hearing her say the words made the act seem exponentially worse. I turned away.

“Tell me!”

Still looking away, I nodded.

Her hands stuck to her hips, and she chided, “I am astonished at you, Mark! Lying and acting and using a fake injury to lure a woman into—into oral sex!”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Titball. I—.” I had no more words, only shame. ‘Bad boy,’ I remembered her calling me once. I’d take ‘bad boy’ a hundred times over to avoid what I surely was now in her eyes—a ‘perverted young man.’

Then she said, “And what is that?”

I didn’t move.

“What is that, Mark?”

“Huh?”

“What is that I tasted just now on my thumb? Is that the fake blood?”

I shrugged before I realized the answer: she was tasting the lemon tea powder, the “dry-rub.” I had no idea if it would work or not—a dry rub on a dick? Apparently, it had, but it didn’t matter. The tea powder just made the scene even more unbearable.

I was caught. What would she do? Tell my parents? Then, Sam would find out. The story would be told. I would become the kid who tried to get his dick sucked by an old farm widow by pretending a venomous snake bit his cock. I would never live this down. Never.

Mrs. Titball licked her thumb again. “What in tarnation is that?” she asked herself. “I know that taste.”

I remained prostrate and broken.

“Mark!”

I looked at her.

“Did you put something on your penis to make it taste funny? I can taste the fake blood. That isn’t what I’m talking about. There is something else. What is it now?”

I sighed. “Lipton Southern Sweet Tea with Lemon.”

“Excuse me?”

I repeated myself, adding, “The mix—the powder.”

Her hands went back to her hips. “How?”

I was like a child again—caught red-handed and freely spilling the ugly truth to Mom; I explained to Mrs. Titball what I had done.

“Just now?” she asked. “Just now you put it on there?”

Shaking my head, I told her how I’d been putting it on there every night for over six months and rinsing it off every morning.

She eyed me suspiciously, and when I finished, her eyes bent to my withered, frightened cock. She suddenly bent toward it. Her nose mere fractions away, she inhaled the scent.

“Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed, rising. Her eyes darted to mine. “It’s the truth!”

I shrugged and faced away from her. I wanted to pull up my pants; the exposure was mortifying. I wanted to take Sam’s car and never, ever return to this place. My mind tried to grasp the depth of my shame for a minute or so before I finally turned back to face Mrs. Titball.

She eyed me, blinking as if some interesting notion had pushed aside all other thoughts. “Mark,” she said gently, “am I right in thinking that you have been trying all this time to show an interest in me, not as a friend, but as a woman?”

I couldn’t respond.

She went on. “The special new lemon bars and the note, holding my hand under the table last year, helping me with the dishes, and—of course!—the necklace. It was from you, wasn’t it?”

I shook my head in abysmal failure.

“You hatched this rattlesnake scheme, you put tea mix on your penis—sweet tea with lemon mix!—every night for half a year so that—so that when I put my mouth on it to draw out the venom, I would enjoy how your penis tasted.”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs.—.”

“Shush,” she snapped, and she sat on her heels with her hands on her thighs for a long minute or so. At one point, I heard her whisper to herself, “All this time.” Then, she turned to me. Her big eyes grew tender, and she quietly asked, “Mark, are you in love with me?”

I looked at her and swallowed. “Yeah,” I said, and I tried to push myself to my elbows.

“Stay put,” she said, pushing me back to the ground.

I opened my mouth to speak.

“Shush now, Mark.” Mrs. Titball scanned the horizon around her. Then, she looked at me and cleared her throat.

Her eyes returned to my crotch. Then, she took my cold, pathetically shrunken cock between her index finger and thumb, and without another utterance, she bent over my belly.

I gasped. My stomach muscles clenched. Without warning, Mrs. Titball’s mouth had engulfed my limp cock with ease, head to root. Her lips nestled into my pubic hairs.

Hot shock is what I felt. Every hair on my body thrilled as if teeming with static electricity.

Mrs. Titball’s lips strangled the base of my limp cock. The suction in her mouth was machine-like in its unrelenting pressure.

But, the wetness and the heat. Fuck. And her tongue. Her tongue roamed about the shaft and tip, exploring and gathering.

She swallowed, and the brief tug I felt on the head of my cock was an aching pain. It ended before I could react. Mrs. Titball’s mouth released me, and I looked down and saw that her suction—not the beginning of an erection, but her suction—had more than doubled its length. The thing glistened with her saliva.

Very slowly rising to her knees again, Mrs. Titball’s eyes were tightly shut. She slowly shook her head from side to side for a second. Then she licked and smacked her lips. “Oh, that’s heavenly,” she murmured.

When she looked at me, she waved me down with her fingers and, again, told me to shush. Her eyes were hungry when they found my cock, and she glanced left and right once more before dropping down upon it for another helping.

Again, she pinched the base between her fingers, but this time I was much longer—still limp, but long enough so that my cock flagged in the middle. Her lips sought out the tip, and once she’d engulfed it, her mouth followed the bend until she had all of it once more.

“Mm!” she hummed briefly, almost as if her second taste was more delightful than her first.

I felt the suction and gasped, but it stopped. I felt my cock being ejected, spat out. I watched it emerge from her lips. Her head never moved, so the soft length curled onto my pubic hairs. When all but the knob had appeared, the suction resumed. Her lips drew the shaft back into her mouth with a wet slurp.

She continued this way for a half-minute, sucking and spitting, back and forth. My cock felt like it was in some kind of soft washing machine.

But, it felt good, and I began to harden. On the fifth or sixth iteration, I was hard enough that Mrs. Titball had to move her head to eject my cock. When she inhaled it again, her head plummeted to my tummy.

I swallowed. I pinched my eyes shut. I gasped at the wonder of it—a pleasure I didn’t understand was even possible. My body sizzled with energy and strength.

Mrs. Titball had turned the frightened little pickle into a tower of steel. I watched her lips ride the length, and I’d never felt bigger down there. Even so, Mrs. Titball’s broad face, generous mouth, and large head made me feel somehow small. It was like a blowjob from a giantess.

Every time her lips sunk, she took it all.

I cursed in my head. The feeling was too exquisite. I needed to say something to her. Soon.

But, she released me into the cool November air with a gasp.

My cock throbbed. I watched a bit of precum spill from the slit. Mrs. Titball saw it too, and she licked it off with a speed that astonished me.

She rocked back, remaining low, and looked at me. The pole of my erection bisected her face, and her dark eyes seemed young and feverish with desire. She cooed, “Relax, Mark, and give it all to me—the venom, I mean.” With a wink and a smile, she swallowed the tip. Humming in enjoyment, Mrs. Titball gorged the rest of my cock with ease.

When I felt her lips secure me at the root, my jaw fell open and a shocked grunt escaped me. I watched her head slowly twist left and right. I saw her throat undulate, felt her gullet pinch, heard her gulp. Her lips never left my pubic hairs.

I could not have stopped what was coming. My cock began injecting. My muscles fired along with it, contracting as if the strength of my entire core wanted to help fuel the expulsion.