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The Boyfriend's Dad(6)

By´╝ÜPeter Jensen

She was! Carla was there! She ground her hand in her pussy, up inside her wet, moistly pulsing channel, frothing the water around her. Her hips flailed as wave after wave of bursting release seized her like a disabled ship in a storm-tossed ocean. She stifled a cry of acute pleasure as her orgasm washed over her, making her sink back into the tub again. She lay there, not moving, her eyes tightly shut and her chest rising and falling spasmodically, as the image of her husband making love to her slowly faded away. She removed her hand from her vagina and let it drop into the water, the ever-present shame of guilt replacing her dreams…

She hung her head, ashamed. The act she’d just performed would have caused her untold anguish had she caught her daughter doing the same. What was the matter with her? Were her years of self-denial so harsh that the mere thoughts of Arnold could set her loose from sane decency? Was she so starved for sex that she had to resort to masturbation like some sex-crazed nymphomaniac? She flagellated herself for another minute with her self-abasement, and then stopped abruptly. No use torturing herself over what’s already been done, she thought, can’t go back and not do it now. Must be more disciplined in the future, watch my imagination and see that it doesn’t run away with me as it did just now.

After another five minutes, in which she furiously scrubbed herself rosy clean, she felt better, a strange warming satisfaction overtaking her as the aftermath of her climax made her glow with overall comfort and release. She stepped out of the tub, refusing to dwell on what she’d done, only thankful that nobody had seen her, and toweled herself dry.

She walked naked into her bedroom and began searching for something light and comfortable to wear, and even considered staying nude for a moment, before the recollection of what she’d done in the tub while naked made her hastily abandon that idea. She wondered as she took out a clean pair of panties where it would lead if she continued to fondle herself into completion. In the back of her mind was the dreaded truth she didn’t want to face: she wouldn’t be able to deny herself much longer the needed sex she had been so long without…


The late afternoon traffic was thick along Main Street, as a long string of out-of-towners slowly pushed their way through in opposing streams of weary cars. Mariposa wasn’t large as suburban towns went, but it was on the old “main” road between the shore and booming, metropolitan Morrison; the road was not the designated tourist route. A scenic and pleasant meander in contrast to the ferocious thru-way nearby. Most of the drivers were broiling in a stew of irritable wives and irascible children, sand pails and gritty feet, runny noses and sticky fingers, and would have given almost anything to have been on the thru-way and home that much sooner.

At one intersection, where Main met County Road, there was a large, low-framed drive-in restaurant of cedar, stone and glass. Outside was a circular parking area, with a porch extending at one point for car service. There was also a patio, with small tables and chairs and umbrellas. Tamera and Eddie, together with Nancy and Jason, were at one of these patio tables, after having spent the better part of an hour waiting for an empty space. The restaurant, Luigi’s, was packed like a sardine can.

As it was, the service was still bad, but understandably so, and none of them harassed the overworked waitress even good-naturedly. They laughed and kidded, ordering hamburgers and french fries and shakes, generally having a good time.

“How about some pie?” Jason asked after the hamburgers were finished. “They’ve got some great lemon meringue here.”

“I’d love to, but I can’t.” Nancy said wistfully. She patted her waistline to show the reason why. Nancy Cannon was shorted than Tamera, of Southern European heritage which showed in large flashing eyes of black crystal, ink-dark hair, and voluptuous rich-swelling breasts like melons and curving hips with softly swaying buttocks. She was wearing toreador pants accentuating her lush young figure and tight enough to be a second skin; Tamera had been a little unnerved when she’d seen Nancy get out of the car at the restaurant, for the pants were so crotch-tight that the contours of her thin young pussy-lips and mound were creased in a vertical line, obvious to all.

“Aw, go ahead, Nancy,” Jason urged.

“I’ll share it with you,” Tamera offered.

“Yeah, this is all baby fat,” Eddie said, grinning, and reached over to squeeze Nancy’s shoulder. “A couple of years it’ll go away and you’ll miss the pie you never ate.”

“I should live so long,” Nancy said ruefully. “You seen my mother?” A rhetorical question; they all had, and Mrs. Cannon was built along the lines of a beach ball.