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Young Marine home on leave brings pleaseure to a MILF.

She thrusts hard. We're riding together. Our physical union sizzles in harmony. She thrashes out of control, screams, and grunts.

I come while she subsides.

Her flushed face glistens with a few beads of sweat. Better, she says, lighting another cigarette. She'll make sure to wear her lingerie when she wants me again. And she'll keep other women from competing with her for my attention, because few strip completely and most of them hide under the covers when they make love.

Exhaling a huge billow of smoke, she devastates me when she tells me to go home.

My voice trembles while I ask if I can see her again.

She issues a strange prophesy: "When you're older, Kurt, consider yourself blessed if you meet a woman like me. She'll take control of you. Resist her a little, just to amuse her. But ultimately, give in to her. You'll both be so happy!"

She instructs me to call her the following Friday night at eleven o'clock to present her gift. If I don't give her a pearl necklace, as promised, she's through with me. Even if I bring her tribute, we may be unable to make love that night because her husband will be working at home all week.

So, she tells me to call her number, hang up after one ring, and meet her at the park. I can use the pay phone outside the main activities building to call her. We'll plan our next move from there. Then she ushers me out.

***

What a bind! Where will I get the money to buy a pearl necklace? My bank account will barely take me through my freshman year. If I dip into those funds, I'll have to work part time during school to finance the second semester-and my grades are likely to suffer.

Sure, I'm supposed to sacrifice for my true love. But when can I shop for a pearl necklace? I'll have to learn my way around campus and stumble through my initial assignments. I can return home on Friday, but-assuming I had enough money-my shopping time would be short.

So, am I supposed to give up Mrs. Hipps? Horrible idea! I feel like I belong to her. I need to be hers. Even if we never had sex again, being with her would complete and fulfill me.

I can't describe how I'd feel without her. Lonely, sure, but I've been through that. Being picked last for sandlot baseball games, listening to ritzy kids at school rib me about my cheap clothes-ragging on my rags, so to speak, but that brings up the hostile rejections of my attempts at humor.

Exclusion cuts deep. But I keep going. If Mrs. Hipps spurns me, I'll sing Roy Orbison's song, "It's Over." (God, you can hear the bitter sorrow in his voice. After I discover his early music, many of Roy Orbison's songs become my hymns to Mrs. Hipps.) She holds my fragile happiness in her iron grip. I hunger for her acceptance and approval-or even her smug, cocky tolerance.

Reluctantly, I focus on my mother's pearl necklace, a family heirloom. It's been in the back of my mind all this time, but I hoped for another solution. If I take her necklace, I can appease Mrs. Hipps, and her dynamic charisma will motivate me to excel in college and make tons of money after graduation-enough to buy dozens of necklaces.

Friday night, I have Mom's necklace. I call Mrs. Hipps from the park. Minutes later, she drives up in her Mercedes and pulls into the darkest corner of the parking lot. I go to join her. She's standing beside her car, smoking a cigarette, when I walk up. She tells me to put the necklace around her neck. She turns her back to me.

I loop the necklace around the front of her neck. While I'm fastening the clasp, she wiggles her ass into my crotch. I press my stiff cock against her bottom, feeling her soft, warm ass under her dress, and I love the feel of her pliant flesh directly under the slick fabric.

Mrs. Hipps willfully shapes my desires while I humbly, and greedily, gobble up her crumbs of affection. Instead of hugging her waist, I reach under her arms and cup her breasts. She looks back over her left shoulder and smiles at me. She approves!

Some still, quiet voice in my mind whispers that Mrs.

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