Luther Ch. 03: The Power of Money

"A what?" She followed the line of where his arm was pointing. "Oh, that tea table in the living room? Tea tables are higher than a coffee table but lower than a kitchen table. We use them for . . ." She stopped. She'd been right there, and now she was being stupid and going off the critical point.

"Oh, I thought—"

"Yes, Luther. You're right. We only call it that to friends. Yes, that's a fuck fuck table. And I'd love for you to fuck me on it, yes."

"I can fuck friends. Keith told me Tim said it was OK. And specially if there was a fuck fuck table."

Mrs. Sims was initially afraid the legs on the table wouldn't take their weight. But it was only hers, really. She was on her back and Luther stood between her thighs and fucked her. She had had to move his cock away from her anus at first, telling him, "Maybe later, dear," and then she'd had to hold the root of his cock and help him to slowly feed it in and in and in—and she had to pay attention to her clit herself—but other than that, he knew how to establish a rhythm, and she panted and moaned her way through the thickest and deepest cocking she'd ever had in her life—and she'd tried a variety of men, being just as willing to do so as she knew her husband was.

As he fucked, Luther was patting her breasts gently back and forth and giggling.

"You can suck them—the nipples—Luther," she murmured between groans. "They will like that." She cradled his head in her hands and lowered it to her breasts. He sucked on them expertly while she felt herself building and building on waves to heaven. She clutched his shoulder blades with her hands and then down to his butt cheeks, holding him close inside her. She was writhing and panting shallowly and seeing fireworks—and exploding. She collapsed under him.

"Are we done?" Luther asked.

"Not unless you want to be done, Luther."

"I like the other hole."

"We can try, Luther."

At 5:00, while they were standing on the steps, Mrs. Sims looking up the street, expecting Mr. Sims back at any moment, she went for broke.

"I have other chores needing done. Can you come back next week?"

"To fuck fuck too?"

"Yes, please."

"Maybe not next week. My friend, Keith, he said I could have a big ring put in my dickhead. Maybe this Wednesday. Next week maybe I won't feel like—"

"Oh, good lord," she exclaimed, almost fainting away on the porch. But she recovered enough to weakly say, "Well, when you've healed then. I'd like that. I'd like that very much."

* * * *

"So, you see, Luther, you need to be very careful. You need to be very careful who you have at the workshop, and you need to be extra careful when the social worker comes to talk to you. We tried to talk him out of a home visit. You aren't a child. You're an adult. But he said he also had jurisdiction for people who were, well . . . Anyway you need to be careful." Tim had run out of steam.

"I don't know why he has to make a visit here. I called the office and they said that wasn't usual," Alfred groused.

"Well, you know Mrs. Watson," Tim resumed. "She probably has been bugging them for weeks. Hasn't said boo to us, though, the witch."

"Well, you know what she's been passing around about us too, Tim," Alfred said.

Luther just sat there, at Tim and Alfred's dining room table, looking from one to the other. No, he didn't understand.

"So do you see that, Luther?" Tim asked.

"Yeah sure," Luther answered. The knitting of his brow showed the two men that he hadn't understood a word.

"Geez," Alfred exclaimed, exasperated.

"Now, Alfred," Time said, laying a limp hand on his arm. "This isn't helping."

He turned to Luther. "The problem is, Luther, that the man who is coming to talk to you tomorrow can send you to a school, far from here. And you'd have to live there, not here. He can do that even at your age. You need to be very polite to him, but you shouldn't say much at all about anything but your work at the shop and how much you like it there. You should say that when you're not working, you are in your room reading—and practicing your furniture making. You can tell him whatever you want about your work with furniture. Show him your drawings. Spend a lot of time showing him your drawings."

"I should show him the fu—"

"Yes, showing him the furniture in the workshop and your drawings would be very nice. Make him your friend," Alfred chimed in.

"Ah, you want me to make him my friend?"

"Yes, that would help a lot," Tim said. "And if customers come over or you have other friends come, take them the other way around the house. Don't bring them up the driveway."

"Don't bring them up the driveway?"

"No. And keep an eye out for Mrs. Watson, looking at what you're doing from her house."

"Mrs. Watson?"

"Yes, she's the troublemaker. She's even reported that the visits here by Mr. Sims are suspicious—when we're refinishing furniture for him here."

"Mr. Sims? He's a friend. We use the table, the fu—"

"Are you working on his table?" Alfred asked. "You've finished with the chairs already?"

"Yes, I work him on the table," Luther said. "He's nice. He's a friend."

"That's nice," Tim said, "by all means keep doing what you're doing for him. But it's getting late. We should go upstairs now. We want you to come upstairs with us tonight, Luther."

"Yeah sure."

Alfred was first. He liked to be fucked on all fours on the braided rug beside his and Tim's bed. He wanted Luther to cover him like a dog, and he like to yap like a dog when he was being fucked. When they were fucking like this, Alfred reminded Luther of a Pomeranian, even though he couldn't pronounce that name. But he'd seen one in the antique store one day, with a big, fat, old lady, and he thought that was exactly like Alfred acted when he was fucking him on the braided rug. Alfred's tongue would be out and he'd be panting, just like one of those Pomeranian dogs.

This was the best way Luther liked Alfred. When Luther was riding Alfred's ass, Alfred wasn't nasty or screaming with him. He whimpered like a dog and asked Luther to be good to him. When Luther was pumping him deep was when Alfred said Luther was being good to him.

Tim, now, he came later. Tonight, after Luther had filled Alfred's insides, and Alfred had stopped barking, they got up off the floor and Alfred told Luther to lay down on his back on the bed.

A few minutes later Tim came in. His hair was down and he had bright red lipstick on. He was wearing a brassiere and a lady's taupe-colored satin slip. He had on a garter belt and stockings, but no panties.

All Tim ever wanted Luther to do was to lay on his back on the bed, grasp the brass headboard above his head with his hands, and stay hard. Tim would kiss him all over his body, leaving red lipstick marks, and then he would mount Luther's cock and ride him until Luther ejaculated.

For this, Tim and Alfred gave Luther a home and a semblance of a job, and would protect him as well as they could from the rest of the world—and from the predators they knew were out there. Well, the other predators.

When Tim was finished with Luther's cock, he climbed off and murmured with a thick voice, "Where is that gold bathing suit you bought today, Luther?"

"Downstairs, in the bags," Luther answered. "I didn't put the stuff away, I'm sorry. It's still in the bags. Downstairs. I stopped at the house before going to my room, and, I just left . . ."

"Could you go get that bathing suit and put it on for us? And, Alfred, could you go find the camera?"

* * * *

When Luther left them later in the evening, Tim and Alfred where stretched out against each other on the bed in a 69 position, not paying a bit of attention to Luther. This was how he usually left them, and he had no idea what they did afterward—nor did he have any curiosity what that was.

He padded downstairs in his new bathing suit, gathered up his bags of clothes Pamela and Jonathan had purchased for him, and went to his room behind the workshop. Luck was with him; this was the time for one of Mrs. Watson's favorite television shows that she had to watch in her parlor on the other side of her house.