Wendy Rondforet’s Big Boyfriend

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Eki 17, 2023 // By:analsex // No Comment

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Wendy Rondforet’s Big Boyfriend (KOI 25)

The summer of 1970 was what we world-weary types call a fallow period. I was nineteen, and there wasn’t even hope: it was obvious that the thing with Laura would be dwindled to nothing by the time I returned to school at Kaw Valley the following fall. Libby, who was Thommie’s sister — Lib had quite wisely rejected my purely innocent invitation to the Who concert at the Mississippi River Festival. I’d lost not only the the number but the name of the girl who’d shared the ride home from school with me just after the SDS shut down the Kaw Valley campus. The sullenness with which I carried out the office work at my summer job precluded any attempt to strike up anything with the girls there, despite the security guard’s friendly remark that he’d caught the redhead “looking long” at me a coupla times as I stooped squinting over the bills of lading on my desk. Dave’s sister was impossibly beautiful. Jim’s sisters had moved out of town.

And Dan had stuck me with these two tickets to the Who concert at the Mississippi River Festival.

In crazy desperation, I called on The Rat Girl. The Rat Girl informed me that her first, best boyfriend had just returned to her.

“Why don’t you call Wendy Rondforet?” suggested Libby, who suddenly appeared at The Rat Girl’s side. “And here, have another hit of this. The Indian has been good to us this day.”

Wendy Rondforet was an old, old friend of Libby’s, from Girl Scouts. Wendy was loopy. She was a pre-engineering major at State Polytechnic. She minored in old barrelhouse blues. Wendy had gone to Lib’s high school, not mine, and I’d spoken to her about four times in as many years.

I was certain Wendy’d want to go with me to the Who concert at the Mississippi River Festival.

In the late Sixties, Wendy was the only white girl within seven hundred miles who rinsed her hair with henna. She’d discovered henna in ninth-grade biology, but hadn’t let this triumph lead her into the Life Sciences, that Sixties cop-out field for scientifically-minded girls being pressured into nursing by condescending Guidance Counselors. Wendy didn’t give fuck-all for the sensibilities of Guidance Counselors. For that matter, she had no particular regard for the engineering establishment either. She just liked stuff that zapped and popped. She’d scored almost 770 on her Math SAT, and so today she’s a respected member of the AEEE.

Anyway, Libby and The Rat Girl sent me off with a little bag to Wendy’s parents’ house, where I found Wendy on the screened-in porch, digging into the corners of her own little bag, trying for once to avoid stuff that might zap or pop. Chuck Berry was singing through a Heathkit amplifier in the living room behind her.

“Here, try this,” I said. “The Indian has been good to us this day.”

“You’ve been to Libby’s,” said Wendy. “Humpff…

“Good stuff.”

“How about going with me to the Who concert at the Mississippi River Festival?” I asked.

“No,” said Wendy. “You see, I have this big boyfriend back at Poly.”

Her reasoning made eminent sense to me.

“You like Chuck Berry?” said Wendy. “I am the last living exponent of Chuck Berry. I held down the radio station at Poly from midnight to six a.m. on weekends this spring, and I’d play Chuck Berry until the phone was ringing off the hook. All these engineering jocks — [deep jock voice] — ‘Play Love. Play Spirit. Cut the shit.’ “

I noticed the rum bottle next to the Coke magnum next to Wendy.

Wendy noticed me notice.

“Have some, have some. This rolling is thirsty business.”

Wendy’s parents’ house had lost its air conditioning on Friday night, and Mom and Pop had fled to their air-conditioned cabin on the Lake. At our latitude, sticking out a summer weekend without air conditioning could be fatal to anyone over forty.

While imbibing, Wendy and I traded stories of our first year in college. We passed on to discussing historical details of Libby’s byzantine love life. Then we talked about music and radio. Wendy, I reflected, really had th’ gift of gab. It went well with her open, bright brown-eyed face and freckles. The words flowed from her round red mouth like butterscotch, like caramel, like…

“I’m hungry,” said Wendy.

“Your parents left you here alone without food?” I said.

“I’ve already reported Mom to the ASPCA,” almanbahis giriş said Wendy. “But the ASPCA don’t have a Meals-on-Wheels program. They said I’d have to check in there.

“I don’t want to spend the weekend in the pound, Rich. I been there.”

“Never fear. I can smell the Reaganburgers from here.”

Wendy peered through the screen, down the street.

“You’ve got a pickup!” she squealed. Dan had loaned me his truck for the week, so to advertise him at the Who concert he had to miss.

“I love pickups!” said Wendy. Recall that it’s 1970, before the pickup truck had taken the place of the family station wagon on suburban American roads. If you were working at being Dennis Hopper or Peter Fonda, you were kind of wary of pickup trucks.

But Wendy loved pickups. Similarly, while every hip girl back then was growing her hair to Judy Collins’ length, Wendy’s kindaragged hennaed bob would not be seen elsewhere in the Midwest for at least another seven years.

We hopped into the truck for Reagan’s, where a sort of preprocessed White Castle meatstuff patty, thick, gray, and gleaming, was served to you in your auto by white-uniformed runners.

At the drive-in we sat high in Dan’s pickup, lords of the parkinglot. I’d parked a ways from the rest of the crowd. I was all too aware of what we looked like, close up.

Wendy’s eyes and face, at the moment, were sorta puffy, as if it were December and she were outdoors too long in the cold blow. She wore a cheesy pale blue pullover blouse, what the hell, with short elastic-banded puff sleeves that cut into her white arms. It had a lozenge-shaped collar dropping to an unbuttoned slit. The slit was in some disarray, and offhand yet keen observation confirmed my suspicion that Wendy’d decided to stay comfortable and braless when she’d dressed that morning. The moment of confirmation led me to realize, dreamily, that her breasts were larger than I’d previously imagined. Then my gaze drifted, of course, to her blue jeans encasing long legs leading to naked white ankles, and feet shod in pumps the sleazy leather equivalent of the blouse in effect.

Oopsblink… Wendy was looking at me, too. Pretty disinterestedly.

“Gawd,” we said together.

“‘Like ten thousand camels…'” Wendy quoted.

“… done squat on our haids,” I said.

Migod, Wendy was beautiful! I’d never noticed before. She’d gone three years without a boyfriend in highschool. And now I’m aware of her and she’s become the exclusive girlfriend of the big boyfriend at Poly! It was th’ story of my…

The Reaganrunner reached high up to the edge of my cab window to hang our order.

Wendy gazed sleepily into her Reaganbag of Goodies. She poked a finger into the individually-wrapped Reaganburger.

“Damn! They forgot the pickle!” said Wendy.

“No pickle, tonight. Here, you want mine?”

Wendy just chuckled and chomped into her burger.

Wendy and I sat, and bovinely noshed. The flavor of a Reaganburger was the same whatever the state of your neurons. That’s why everyone went to Reagan’s. As Chef James Beard has perceptively observed, below a certain price threshold you don’t want no surprises from your suppliers.

Wendy ate fast. She’d rolled her Bag of Goodies into a ball before I’d half finished my burger. Dropped the bag under the seat before I’d swallowed the last of my fries. Followed the bag down to the floorboard before I’d drunk a third of my shake. Sat resting her chin on my knee, staring at my crotch, before I’d even touched the deep-fried pie.

Uh, love the concept, kid, I thot as the fly of my jeans was unzipped. But, uh, could you… “Delicious pie,” I said.

“So I’ve been told.”

With two fingers Wendy had pulled down my briefs in front.

“Awww… such a sweet little gherkin!”

Her tongue still sticky with burgergrease, Wendy gave my limp member two exploratory puppy licks.

“‘Tender little gherkin…'” Wendy crooned to the tune of a well-known pickle commercial.

My laugh was desperate. As I doubled over, Wendy jerked back to her seat, and I found myself squirming in her lap as she sang and tickled.

“CUT it OUT!” I hollered.

“Later. Definitely. If you don’t come through.” Wendy reached over me to nudge the horn. The Reaganrunner jogged over and removed the tray. I turned key in ignition.

“LET’S almanbahis yeni giriş RIDE!” shouted Wendy as I popped the clutch.


Strange. Wendy’s white, freckled skin seemed really to be a couple of years older than the rest of her. Thicker, somehow, than you would expect. Creased strangely in odd places. But still supple, plastic, resilient — superb casing for marvelously toned muscles. All relaxed now, under a sheen of perspiration, Wendy sat curled in a ball on the edge of the big livingroom couch. She took a drag on a mentholated cigarette. Metallic noise surrounded us.

“Mike-my-boyfriend is just wrong,” Wendy declared decisively. She exhaled smoke through puckered lips. “The Stooges do not play fucking music.”

Wendy unfolded her almost too long, almost shiny smooth arms from around her knees and uncurled to standing position on the floor. I lay on the couch in the swampy heat, all sorts of sticky, and watched her walk to the turntable.

Not only was her bust bigger than I’d ever noticed, but her waist was smaller than I could ever have imagined, had I ever even thought of Wendy Rondforet, last of the W—— High Ambassador Scouts. The tuck of her waist accentuated the size of the firm globes of her young ass. Her bottom was now lightly flushed, flashing simian invitation as Wendy walked away from me.

She stopped halfway across the floor as she passed the low marble table. There she dropped the cigarette and picked up the rum bottle. She tipped the rum, and took a remarkably big swig of the stuff.

A little dribble of me floated down the inside of Wendy’s long white thigh.

“Ahh,” said Wendy, and turned to the stereo. She removed Funhouse and replaced it with a Bluenote album. Mid-Sixties Wayne Shorter, I think. “502 Blues (Drinkin’ and Drivin’).”

“Better,” said Wendy. She stood very naked in profile to me, a little hunched over, body describing a slender S. She moved her crossed arms indecisively up and down herself.

With sudden, quirky determination, Wendy walked over to a low-backed chair over towards the dining room. Flashing her rear in my direction, she bent over the back of the chair, grabbing the corners of the seat. Remarkably, the chair back’s top rung fit almost comfortably into the small of Wendy’s belly. Her feet, though given some light play by the chair’s support, were firmly on the floor. She looked back at me, flashing a Girl Scout smile.

“Let’s do it this way,” she said, and made it sound new.

I heaved myself to my feet and lumbered through the thick twilight air toward Wendy. She’d turned away from me and was staring at the chair seat, her mind concentrated elsewhere.

She bobbed her rear a bit, athletically, like a tennis player about to take a service. I steadied her with firm hands on her hips, then slowly pressed into her sloppy but tight twat. She gripped my cock immediately, and securely. Wendy had an animal strength and a kind of training that had been concealed from me.

“Better,” she said complacently.

Once inserted, I balanced myself to move with her, moving my hands over her hips, up her strong body, over her shoulders and down her long white arms, finally draping my body lightly over her, letting her forearms support the forward weight of us both.

Wendy’s supple, smoothly feminine strength was delightful. I relied on it as I caressed her arms, and we engaged in a slow fox trot, below. After some minutes in this position, though, we were both breathing laboredly, and our dance took on a heavier rhythm.

“Ungh!” and Wendy took it as hard as I could give it.

“Ungh!” and she tensed her ass, puss grabbing me harder, as if to slow my withdrawal.

At some occult sign from somewhere we both lifted ourselves, still engaged, from the back of the chair to a standing position. I cradled Wendy’s hips and lower belly with locked hands, trying to lift her the difference in our heights. Together, we tried to waddle back to the couch.

No dice.

Wendy walked over to the bottle.

“Bukowski,” she observed, lifting the rum to her mouth.

“Yeh,” I said, not catching the allusion.

Wendy slumped to a yogic position on the carpeted floor. She was on her knees, ass high, face down, arms thrown flat to the floor over her head. The “Greeting of the Dawn,” or whatever it is.

Her reddened almanbahis bottom gleamed.

“I still want it over the back,” she said. “Whatizzit? ‘Be your dog?'”

Grateful for the chance to make up for losing her on the way to the couch, I took a bracing swig of the rum, myself, resisted the temptation to test the bottle neck’s diameter on Wendy (this is actual autobiography, dear reader) and, with great ease and comfort, curled myself around the pinkened girl.

We were both dripping sweat. Our odors mingled with the cool green suburban smell that drifted, all too slowly, through the screens of the house. A stray whiff left from her morning shower indicated that Wendy used “Irish Spring” bath soap. Thommie and Libby and Cissy Wicker all used “Irish Spring.” It was a Girl Scout trick. Lazily, sweatily, Wendy rocked beneath me.

I could smell rum, too. It perfumed our sweat and cut through the smell of our cum. I rubbed Wendy’s bush a little with both hands, and sighed.

“So when do you put it in!?” Wendy asked. “I feel like a divan!”

“You do look like one of those pieces of hard-core Italian furniture… ‘ need some leather in the right places…”

“Quit mumbling and give me some hard core,” Wendy said, struggling through her impatience to enunciate, clearly.

I duly straightened up behind Wendy’s behind. She opened her legs slightly, redistributed her kneeling weight. Steadying her butt once more, I stuffed my sticky, half-hard dick into her reddened, half-dried twat.

Wendy’s hole felt mealy, like a burger. Then it nipped, with a little smacking noise, and Wendy squeezed hard, working even her taut stomach muscles. My cock ballooned steadily to fill her, and, upright on my knees, I began to service her smoothly, following Wendy’s own contractions.

She began weaving slowly to the right and left, forward and back, and I followed her at the proper distance, occasionally catching her wave, holding, and then passing her along my own harmonic cycle.

Slowly, carried high on the currents of rum and the residue of afternoon weed, we began to move a bit faster… not too fast.

Once again, Wendy was breathing heavily, though not solely due to physical effort. Drops of sweat rolled from us both, and mingled. Our red hair was plastered to our heads, our white, freckled bodies slapped and smacked to our rhythm, to the moderate 4/4 of the jazz.

Again, almost magically, we both knew when to counter our cycles of movement. Wendy jerked her tail short. Her cunt, which had relaxed in the course of our swim, drew more taut. I quickly drew my stroke against the established measure, and passed into her pussy’s embrace with a bracing force.

“Shit!” Wendy cheered, and pressed back with equal force, trying to better engage her clit. I pounded into her heavily, and as fully as I could, as if to bury balls and all into her joyfully struggling pussy.

“Ohshit, ohshit, ohshit…” said Wendy, her cunt trying to climb up over me, to consume me. Then her assault broke and we fell forward, prone, onto the sopping carpet.

Heroically, Wendy kept our rears waving. The record changer was lifting stylus from Bluenote groove. Heaving together, it was time for us to get it on.

Rearing above Wendy, I ground into her. The sleek muscles of her damp white back flashed as I withdrew, then again I poured the flesh of my cock into her.

“Owow owow owow…” Wendy moaned. Her vag had taken on the raw, groundbeef feeling again, and I rolled my cock around the mealy hole.

My prick seemed to stiffen within and over its stiffness. It sprung to, over atop its established spring! With her well-educated muscles and her new, half-demented voice, Wendy acknowledged what was happening. My own throat voiced the same delirium, gurgling as if I were dying.

The sauce pounded up my shaft with a slow power, and drove into Wendy with some mystic propulsive force of its own. I just followed it, deeper into Wendy, filling her completely with hot fluid ecstasy.


I lay on top of Wendy on the floor, as she gently rolled my cock until, large but relaxed, it fell from her cunt. We rolled apart, then back into each other’s arms. We breathed the fumes of rum and sweat. I couldn’t resist tasting Wendy’s lips again. She let me kiss her long, luxuriously.

Finally, I came up for breath. Wendy spoke, softly but almost brightly.

“Hey, you’re really thunderbird! ‘ you know that?”

“Ah. Thanks.”

“No, I really mean it!”

“Will you go to the Who concert with me at the Mississippi River Festival?”

“No. You see, I have this big boyfriend back at Poly.”

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