Carl Tatem: Daughter_s little friend

Alice Murphy turned on the bed, her long, satiny blonde hair cascading over the pillow, forming a soft cushion for her head that lay heavily back against it. A thin sheet covered her body from the warm Florida summer breeze that blew gently in from the open window.

She had the body of a lush Venus, its provocative curves traced in detail through the gossamer, clinging sheet. It barely hid the high-set, round, widely spaced breast whose rose-tipped nipples clearly showed through the thin fabric. The sheet tapered down over a slender, girlish waist to round, luscious hips, a flat, smooth stomach and long, full-swelling thighs; breathtaking curved calves tapered down to thin, well-formed ankles. It was a body that would attract admiring attention from the most discriminating of men – and envy from women.

The honey-blonde hair on the pillow framed a heart-shaped face that would cause any male to turn his head when she passed. Her hazel eyes were set slightly apart, and she had a dainty, almost Doris Day nose, a full, ripe mouth, and a round, dimpled chin, and a soft, slightly tanned ivory complexion. But at the moment, her lovely face was drawn in lines of worry and dejection, and calm sleep escaped her, making her toss fretfully, moaning occasionally in a soft, sighing voice.

Alice was worried because of her daughter, Sandy. It was Friday night – date night for all the girls in Sandy's high school – and her sixteen-year-old child was, like the others, out. That's all it ever seemed she was, Alice mused. Where have you been? Out. What did you do? Nothing… Alice wasn't afraid that Sandy was promiscuous or anything terrible like that; Sandy had been a virgin at the last checkup according to Doctor Webster, and she was a good girl by nature. But Alice was well aware of the traps and snares young people could fall into in this permissive age, and she had the natural fears which mothers, especially widowed mothers raising their children alone, have about the recklessness of innocent youth. And Sandy was dating Tommy Edgars, a boy older and obviously more experienced, and definitely not one to protect a girl, not if he could have his way with her. Tommy had been the basis of many a fight between her and Sandy, for Alice thought the boy was too good looking for his twenty years of age, almost overwhelmingly masculine, like a young Adonis, and there was something about him not trustworthy, though Alice couldn't put her finger on exactly what it was. Sandy, on the other hand, defended the few times he'd taken her out, saying her mother had been watching too many gangster movies on television lately. Alice could only hope and pray that her daughter's infatuation with the handsome youth would die a quick death, and she would get a puppy-love crush on some younger boy closer to her own age and class.

Not that Sandy was a child any longer. Alice had often seen Sandy naked in the shower and dressing in her bedroom next door, as well as in her skin-tight bikini and nearly transparent nylon under-things, and even a casual glance made it obvious that the girl was mature physically. And Alice had looked, in spite of an inner sense of embarrassment at such brazen examination, because she was proud of having produced such a fine offspring, and because it was her only physical, tangible proof of her and her late husband's love for each other. She was drawn with love and tenderness, and yet… there were times when she'd watched Sandy's snub-nosed, freckle-faced innocence and wondered if perhaps she was emerging into maturity a little too fast.

Just that evening, Alice had passed Sandy's open door, and seen her standing in front of the dresser, selecting a clean pair of panties from one of the drawers. Sandy was naked, still radiantly rosy from her shower and buffing with a towel, and Alice had been able to see all of her firm young body in perfect detail. She had paused, smiling wistfully, thinking that she had looked much the same when she was her daughter's tender age. Sandy's slightly darker blonde hair was long and straight, and fanned down over her shoulders and narrow back, framing a face which was much like her mother's, though slightly rounder and with her father's protruding lower lip, which gave her an almost perpetual little-girl pout. Alice could see her conical young breast beating with the rhythm of her heart, solid and upright, not as large but not as developed as her own; her flat belly and cute navel and the gentle sloping to her thighs, where a triangle of softly curling pubic hair covered her vagina; then down, to shapely tapering legs and small ankles. Then Alice had been able to see the thin cuntal valley between her daughter's slightly spread thighs, had watched with a small tingling sensation she wasn't able to understand as she followed with her eyes the still-unbroken vaginal slit with its coral smoothness and the little, limp clitoris nestled coyly in the warm, moist folds of her virginal young flesh.

Isn't there, she'd thought to herself as she had stood by the door, a time when a child is supposed to be a child? To be innocent and foolish, free of the curse of maturity? Has Sandy grown up too fast, especially now, without a father to help guide and counsel her with proper authority? And then she had laughed at herself. The world was simply spinning faster these days, that's all. If a sixteen-year-old girl is eating better now, and getting better education and sports than before, then who was she to hold back her development? Stop worrying…

But Alice couldn't find the energy to even smile now, as she lay in bed waiting for her daughter's return, much less laugh again. She was worrying…

And the young mother was dejected as well. She was a good woman in her own mind, a respectable widow with a child to raise, who had successfully placed sex in the back of her mind since she'd been notified that her husband had died in Vietnam. Stoically, she had faced the eight months from that fateful day when she'd received the black-bordered telegram with only the memories of Robert's wonderful lovemaking, and his delightful ways of causing her the utmost joy, vowing she might remarry as she had remained a virgin until her wedding night with Robert. Again, she tossed fretfully on the bed, kicking the sheet unconsciously until it was most of the way off of her body, the summer warmth not as hot as her own inner fires. She kept asking herself if she should go on like this, denying herself the love of a decent man – if she could continue denying herself this way. When a woman is widowed early in her married life, how much does she owe her child? Can romance live in life at thirty-seven and after?

Though it was dark outside, she was able to see dimly by the ghostly light of a street lamp in front of her modest house. She propped herself up on her elbows, trying to take deep breaths in an effort to will her body quiet and relaxed so she could sleep, and the slight breeze played over her now-exposed flesh. She could see her own full contours stretching down in front of her. She was still beautiful, she had to admit. The rounded peaks of her firm breasts stood up defiantly and she could look through the canyon between them down to the soft golden pubic triangle at the junction of her thighs that proved that she was a natural blonde. She was proud of it – and yet, she thought, it was the reason for all of her insomnia now. She lay back down, still conscious of her nakedness, and she placed her palms under her full breasts and lifted them still higher until they stood out in full bloom. She held their nipples between her thumbs and forefingers, tweaking them gently into erection. It was exciting to remember that Robert had done the same with his strong, warmly loving fingers many times in the past, and the very recollection of her husband's love aroused her. Her hands moved down from her breasts to the smoothness of her stomach, through the soft golden patch of her gently throbbing vaginal mound, and across her well-rounded thighs.