M. DeSantis - Her Foxy Mom

Charlene had the hots for him in the worst way. And she was more than half hoping that feeling was reciprocated.

They made small talk for a few moments. Then:

"Listen, Charlene, I've been wondering if you'd come to the Village with me."

"Sure – when would you like to do it?" she asked, putting her emphasis on the words do it. The only thing that bothered her in the least about Tim was that he didn't seem too terribly bright to her. In fact, she wondered if he was just another pretty face.

"Ah, anytime you'd like," he said quickly, missing her nuance. "When would be convenient for you?"

You want him for his body, Charlene, she told herself, not his mind.

"How about tonight?" she asked matter-of-factly. Charlene was not a girl who believed in deception – or, at least, had never been before. She was definitely not the kind of girl who pretended she always had a date and couldn't be called on short notice. She didn't have a date -especially not since her split with her high-school boyfriend, Sal. None of the other guys in their crowd would go near her. Word was out that nice, mild-mannered Sal was ready to bust heads.

Most importantly, she craved some time with Tim.

Her pussy did, at least.

"Tonight?" Tim echoed, surprised, after a moment's hesitation.

"Sure. I mean," she added quickly, "if you're ready to do it tonight." Again, she'd chosen her words and tone to be everything short of a plea for fucking.

Again, it sailed right over his head – or at least through his head, since there seemed to be little between his ears to stop it.

"Uh, sure," he said slowly.

"I mean, do you need a lot of time to get ready to do it?" she asked, insinuatingly.

"Uh, no, I guess not"

Sheeeesh!

"Okay, then, what time would you like to make it?"

"Uh, how about an hour?"

But will he be able to read the clock? Think about that fabulous bod, Charlene.

Then, quickly, she did some mental figuring – what she would wear, what would she need, if anything, time to get changed and – "How about an hour and a half. Give me a chance to get washed up, all squeaky clean, you know. You'd like me to be squeaky clean, wouldn't you?"

A smart man would have said, Sure, so I can rub you till you squeak. Not Tim.

"Sure, sure. Okay, then I'll call for you at, uhhhhhh, seven o'clock, right?"

"Aren't you sure?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind, Tim, seven will be just fine. You know the apartment number?"

"Yeah, it's uh, right under mine."

"Ummmm – maybe that's a good omen," Charlene hinted. Hinted -like a runaway locomotive is a hint the train schedule will change.

"An omen? What kind of omen?"

"Never mind, Tim. I'll see you at seven."

"Yeah, sure. Bye"

She hung up the phone.

What a dolt. But, oh, man, what a body. What a gorgeous body.

Quickly, Charlene went into the bathroom, began drawing water into the tub for her bath. She was already formulating strategy in her head. With any luck, her mother would repeat the performances of the past few days – staying out to incredible hours, thus leaving the apartment to Charlene alone to the wee small hours.

Maybe I can get the oaf in here alone and then – better see what time Mom is coming home.

She went back into the kitchen, clad only in panties and tee-shirt. She half suspected that the husband of the elderly couple would have his binoculars on her – she'd seen him at it before – but didn't really care. He'd see less than he would've if she was wearing a bathing suit at the beach.

Quickly, she dialed her mother's office, told the switchboard operator the extension she wanted, then waited.

"Hi, Mom."

"Hello, Charlene." That was something else that bothered Charlene about her mother's attitude and demeanor since the 'incident' with Derek. Her mother never called her Charly anymore, the way she'd always addressed her since she was a little girl. Only Charlene.

"Mom, I'm going to go out on a date tonight." She quickly added: "If it's all right with you."

"Do you have school tomorrow?"

"Of course not."

"Then it's all right with me. What time will you be leaving?"

"About seven."

"Hmmm – all right. I'm going to be late myself but I think I'll stay at the office, grab a bite and then go out. See you tomorrow. Good-bye."

Charlene stared at the dead phone. That's what I call abrupt. Finally, she shrugged – mentally and physically – and hung up. If that's the way she wants it…

But then she was glad. I'll have my chance with the apartment empty. When I'm done with you, Tim, you're going to walk funny for a couple of days!

Charlene returned to the bathroom, shut off the water, stripped off the rest of her clothes and slipped into the steaming tub. The water felt good on her body, raised goose pimples all over and caused her nipples to harden to little spikes. She grasped them between thumbs and forefingers, squeezing the turgid, blood-filled spikes and rolling them. That felt good, sending all sorts of lascivious pleasures through her gorgeous young body. She pulled them outward. The pleasures from that went straight to her yearning little pussy.

"Just wait, my little beauties," Charlene said to her nipples out loud in her imitation of a pirate's voice, "you'll be getting treats aplenty before this night is over."

She ran her hands down over the sleek curves of her body, her fingers finally coming to rest in the tight slit of her labia. Soaked with water, the hair was even more apparent, darker than usual. It looked almost as if her cunt were on fire.

"And I'll not forget you, either, my sweet! Ha-hahaaaa!"

Charlene jerked her attention back to the planning of her attack on Tim – I might have to tell him what to do – and quickly finished her bath.

Toweling herself did little, however, to lessen her lusts. The rough towel managed to remind her of her hunger for the lips and mouth and hands – And cock; don't forget the cock, Charlene! – using her body.

She took her time about dressing, then made herself some instant iced tea. She sat down with the latest issue of an avant-garde woman's magazine to which her mother subscribed and began waiting.

At precisely six-forty-five, the phone rang.

Oh, cripes. It's Tim. He's got to cancel.

She answered the phone. "Hello?"

"Hello, Charlene."

Relief. "Oh, hi, Mom. What's up?"

"Charlene, I need a big favor from you. Please go down to the dry cleaning store in the lobby and pick up my pants suit for me. The claim ticket is tacked to the bulletin board in the kitchen."

"Now?"

"Yes, please, Charlene."

"But, Mom, why not call them. Marty's delivers."

"Not after six o'clock."

"Do you absolutely need it for tonight?"

"No, but I need for the morning and they won't be open till eleven. Please Charlene. It won't take more than ten minutes."

Down to the lobby and back – I can leave Tim a note telling him to wait, just in case it takes more than ten minutes.

"Oh – okay, Mom. For you."

"Thanks, Charlene. You're a dear. See you later."

Later? Ahh – probably a slip of the tongue. She hung up the phone, went into the kitchen and got the claim check, then quickly wrote out a note and stuck it to the door as she left for the lobby. Someone was just leaving the fire-stairwell as Charlene stepped into the lift, but she didn't pay much attention. It was probably one of the superintendent's staff.

The man behind the counter of the dry cleaners handed back the claim check with a toothy grin "Sorry, Charlene."

"Huh?"

His eyes swept over her again. She was wearing a pair of hot shorts and halter top – and nothing else. "Your mother didn't leave that with us."

"What do you mean, she didn't – oh." She went silent as she read the ton of the ticket. It was a Marty's claim check, all right. But for a different location in the chain of dry cleaners: the location near the subway station her mother used when going to work every morning.