Selena Kitt - Quickies

The big mama puts her knees up, letting me see the soft swell of her ass, how the slit extends downward, her flesh thick and doughy, her pubes like fire in the sun. My cock aches to find its way through, seeking her center. The couple with the dog walks back by again and I stop, realizing how gradual but effective my movements have been now that I have ceased. My cock is aching for release.

When they've passed, I begin again, shifting, a slow rub, my eyes moving to the girls, the brunette on her back, the blonde on her belly. I am lost in the smooth, oiled flesh of their tawny thighs, the bend in a leg, the way the brunette's hair there glistens and shines in the light. I watch her belly rise and fall, see the blonde swing her legs, her feet crossing, uncrossing.

They are talking together, laughing, and my cock is twitching and throbbing beneath me. It's hard to control my breathing now, the longing I have to fuck, to keep fucking, to fuck the whole world wide open and reveal it all.

Two things send me over-the breeze that catches the edge of my towel, blowing it against my leg, and seeing the red-haired mama, my eyes drawn back to her as she rolls to her belly, laying her head in her hands, her thighs spreading out over her blanket, giving me just a peek of her cunt, lost in the roomy, dimpled swell of her flesh.

And then I'm coming, closing my eyes, clenching my jaw, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from growling and thrusting and grinding into the sand, a sticky wetness flooding beneath me in hot, fast spurts, dampening my towel and sending me reeling. I bury my head in my arms, breathing hard, and when I look up, the two girls are standing, running off toward the surf.

My lust is spent, but my desire is not. I can still feel the craving, my predilection for more in the swell and sway of the flesh on the sand. When I'm sure that my cock has waned, I stand, flip my towel over, and lie back down on the sand. My eyes are hunting again, I can't help it. The wolf is always there-whether I have reined him in or not.

"Hey, Dad!" I look up, shading my eyes, seeing my daughter and her mother coming toward me across the beach. I smile, wave them over, pat the sand. My daughter is going on about shopping, my wife is talking about lunch, and I take a deep breath, turning my eyes back out to the beckoning world, doing my best to take it all in.

Molly was always losing things-the car keys she locked in the car that ended up stolen, the ATM card she loaned to an ex-boyfriend, the savings she had invested in the bogus mining stock. It took her years to admit they weren't just accidents, acts of God, the world setting itself against her.

She hadn't admitted it after she lost that first wayward child to a car coming a little too fast down a residential street. She hadn't admitted it after Leslie-the one she had tried to atone for her mistakes with-gone at the age of fifteen for three years before surfacing again with a newborn.

She had spent years believing in bad luck, that these things just happened to her. Now she found herself crying alone in her bed and listening to the sound of her granddaughter in her crib-never crying, this one, just singing to herself, playing with her fingers until someone thought to come get her-and wondering how her own little girl could possibly have made such a mess of her life.

Like mother, like daughter.

She knew the baby was expecting her mother. Leslie was usually up nursing her by now, singing that song, the one Molly had always sung to all of her babies, even the lost one. Molly hummed it to herself, remembering the words, "Hush little baby, don't say a word, Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird…"

Leslie's words last night crowded into her head. "He loves me-he's the only person who has ever loved me!"

How can she believe that?

She had tried to love Leslie, but she understood more than ever-young mothers often make selfish choices. Going out to bars, meeting men and drinking had all once taken precedence over Molly's own child. She knew that now. It didn't matter that she'd been clean and sober and alone these last eight years. Leslie remembered the mother who slept on the couch until noon and forgot to get her up for school. That was the mother she thought didn't love her.

Molly got up, knowing she would have to call in to work and figure out how to feed this motherless child. Raising a baby by herself at forty-two couldn't be much different than raising one alone at twenty-two.

Looking around, she saw that the room was just a nursery now-Leslie's clothes, the suitcase she had come with three months ago, everything else that belonged to her-all gone. Except the baby.

When Leslie showed up on her doorstep just after Jessica's birth, swearing she wasn't going to stay long, she just didn't have anywhere else, Molly's heart soared. This little girl, now nestled under her chin, was a second chance.

Things seemed perfect then, waking up to a house filled with people-noise again, rushing home from the restaurant with dinner for them in Styrofoam containers. She remembered longing all the way home to hold this soft, warm baby, to let Grandma Molly's necklace dangle in front of her tiny outstretched hands, to nuzzle her neck and make her laugh.

Never mind that Leslie spewed hatred at Molly at every turn. Never mind that Leslie swore that this was the last place on earth she wanted to be. Never mind that most nights, Leslie left the baby in her crib to go out on a date, using Molly as a built-in babysitter. Really, she didn't mind.

This was her second chance-a chance to show Leslie that she was loved.

Never mind that Leslie rejected her again and again. Instead, Molly just poured as much love as she could into her little granddaughter.

The baby's hunger got the best of her and she began to make small mewling sounds, rooting with her rosebud mouth for a nipple. Molly didn't want to be this baby's mother-she wanted to be Leslie's mother, and she wanted Leslie back, to mother her own baby. Jessica belonged to her mother, just as Leslie would always be hers, wherever she was on this bright summer morning.

Molly headed toward the kitchen to see if there was any stored breast milk in the freezer. Leslie pumped her milk so she could go out on with her friends or on dates.

Molly, concerned about the concentrated efforts of the baby in her arms to find food, found a plastic bag with stored milk and removed it with one hand, balancing Jessie on her shoulder with the other.

It was only when she closed the freezer and started for the sink that she saw the note flutter down to the floor. It hadn't been there yesterday, before or after their argument, and when she peered down at it, she saw that it was written in Leslie's large, girlish scrawl.

"Maybe Mommy's coming home soon, Jess," Molly said under her breath, not believing it even as she carefully bent to retrieve the note.

It was from Leslie, and it contained news that she didn't think she could ever come to terms with. She didn't know if Leslie would ever come to terms it, either, even

twenty years down the road. Did anyone ever come to terms with the choices they made when they were young? She wondered.

"Poor Jessie," Molly whispered as the baby cried, protesting the plastic nipple.

Molly rocked and rocked, wondering if the world of hurt she lived in would ever end.

* * * *

Leslie stood under the hot shower, her breasts heavy and aching, a steady stream of thin, whitish milk running down her belly with the water, uselessly circling the drain. Her tears mixed with it, too, as she leaned her forehead on the tile, sobbing for everything she had left behind.

"Les?" It was Ali's voice from behind the bathroom door.

"Coming!" she called, turning off the water.