One of the Angelas

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One of the Angelas (KOI 16)

Columbia. Fall, 1974

Angela Mueller belongs to a class of women with which I’ve been beguiled since my mid-teens. I can count — let me think — oh, a couple of Angelas in various poses and situations over the last twenty years. The odd thing is that despite mutual appreciation and real, everyday affinity, none of the Angelas — not even the current example — ever really tangled themselves in my usually sticky heartstrings. Maybe the reason is a pure class thing. No, no, that couldn’t be.

But most Angelas had strained to finish high school and some failed, and most no doubt are still straining, cheerfully enough, simply to cope with everyday life. But I’d like to think — and so would you, I bet — that Angie Mueller and I fell together for the simple reason that our simple bodies liked to simply strain, cheerfully enough, with one another.

We blew some late afternoon languors together in the summer and fall of 1974, in the trailer court we shared next to the Interstate that ran through College Town. Becca and I found employment in Centerburg the following spring, and though Centerburg was just down the road apiece, neither Angela nor I felt any desire to continue our pattern of behavior once it became too inconvenient.

Like I said, Angela Mueller was sort of a type, a working class midwestern Germanic type. Her body was nicely sized, but a bit squarish and with an obvious farmgirl strength that went beyond mere muscle tone. In my high school days, my friends and I would have said her face “looked like somebody’s mom” — it was pretty, high-cheekboned and strong-chinned, with a supple severity about the mouth that made the curve of her plucked eyebrows all the more strangely alluring. Her brown eyes had an intelligence that made her situation seem remarkable. That bahis siteleri situation was: aged twenty-six, ten years married, with a job as an LPN on the graveyard shift. Her husband was a career Navy man, who sent regular checks back to the trailer from the sunny South China Sea.

Angela’s “weakness,” I suppose, was a mere lack of ambition. She was cheerfully ready to take comfort where it presented itself easily, and to ask or plan for nothing more.

But love of easy comfort served to set off her strong but unassuming form cheaply and well. Look at her over her scrambled-egg and coffee breakfast this warm October afternoon. Her brown hair is awry as usual, her feet bare, her strong legs and rangy hips squeezed into ten-year-old Levis. Her inside-out sweatshirt has shrunk with years of washing. The powder-blue sleeves stop halfway down her light tan forearms. When she moves in any direction, a flicker of flesh appears above the waist of her beltless jeans. The shirt itself is comfortably loose, but not so loose as to conceal the curves beneath — the full breasts, the peasant shoulders softened by the thick cotton.

“Hi, hon.” The kitchenette has a homey burnt smell of toast and frying pan. Angie scoops up the last forkful of eggs, takes her coffee cup and moves to the sofa where I’ve just collapsed. It’s three p.m. My classes are finished for the day. I’ve got two hours before Becca has to be picked up from work.

Sipping her coffee, Angie sits back against the arm of the sofa opposite my corner. Her feet rest on my lap. Her faded jeans have a special shading over her tight crotch. An inch of midriff shows between the ragged waist of her jeans and the bottom of her sweatshirt.

Angela follows my eyes as they take her in. She smiles.

“Some night, last night,” she sighs. “We were short an canlı bahis siteleri orderly, and I had to vacate two stiffs practically by myself. That night nurse isn’t worth diddly…”

Angie takes a last sip of coffee, digs in her heels and scoots over to me.

“I think I’ve recovered, though.”

Odor of coffee, toast, and egg. Kiss. I’m enveloped in soft cotton and smooth flesh. My right hand slips under the cotton for more flesh, and Angie’s bare toes lightly press into the pulse between my legs. She slips her legs to the floor, and we embrace, kiss more fully.

My hand drops to the dark denim fold at the base of her crotch. It is unusually hot. Humid.

“I’ve got news for you,” coos Angie.

“You’re still on,” I guess.

“Like a stuck pig,” says Angie. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“You’re still on,” I say.

“Sure. I knew I could count on you.” Kiss.

And when our mouths part, the dampness on our lips evaporates, coolingly. A last sniff of egg in the burnt-toast trailer.


An old bath towel was spread strategically on Angie’s warm bed. I was stripped to receive a spontaneous back rub. Angie still wore her sweatshirt. She liked kissing, snuggling, but she got down to business fast, worked up steam quickly, and wasn’t one for frills. Her almost masculine tastes in this regard worked well under conditions like this.

“I know Men,” said Angie. “If I keep rubbing, you’ll never turn over and do your job.” She suddenly stopped.

“There’s only one pleasure greater than your loving, Angie. Pleeze rub my back some more.”

Angie made a quick slapping grab around me for my balls, and I jumped to show her my good intent.

My good intent bobbled stiffly between us, and Angie settled back on the towel, already contented.

Without smoothness canlı bahis and without trouble, I mounted the woman and stuck it in.

A little slime at the rim of a dry meaty cunt. I worked my cockhead at the slime… some was mine, some was hers, more was oozing from someone, and the set of Angie’s mouth indicated that yes, I was doing her proper.

I dipped into the tough meat, finding sudden comfort. Angela pressed back with relish, and I looked down to watch my white, mense-slick cock joining her somewhere below her brown muff, as her soft tan belly waved me into her.

The sweatshirt was hitching up her midriff. Angela was warm, and breaking into a light sweat.

Suddenly, we both heaved, and I slipshot quick jizz into her rough twat, and pulled back out of her rough twat, and slime followed, stinking of old blood and warm leftovers. It stunk good. We fucked more, without elaboration, for some time. At one point, we stopped to let Angie remove her sweatshirt. I embraced her slick nudity and pressed her back to the bed. For a while I leaned to one side, straddling a hard thigh and playing with the pair of soft, chewynippled tits as Angie, half-dozing, watched me and continued to fuck, placidly.

Our excitement had reached its customary low heat, and we enjoyed it, without ego or concern to impress. For more than thirty minutes we rubbed.

Ten minutes in, laying to one side, I let a little shrill cum wheeeeze into Angie, and a good five minutes later, she responded with a little intensified noddle around my shaft.

Fifteen minutes later, after a couple more noddles, we rearranged ourselves without discussion, me above, Angela waving her legs high. Popping my gory prick into her sopping hole, I pumped Angie with renewed vigor.

We worked hard together in the toothsome stew of her bed, to come matteroffactly together, with a matteroffact sock sock sock and grunt.

With post-workout pleasure, I rolled off her.

It was getting late. Outside the College Town Insurance Building, Becca would be waiting for me.

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