M. DeSantis - Her Foxy Mom

But then her eyes caught sight of the clock. It was late, nearly two in the morning, and she had to get up for school in a few hours. Catching her full, pouting lower lip between her even white teeth to repress the moans fighting to escape her mouth, she pulled the hairbrush handle out of her snatch. The feel of it coming out again reminded her of the peak she'd achieved just moments before and more – it reminded her body of the pleasure.

The handle gone, she lay there again for long moments, staring up at the ceiling and wishing that her lover hadn't been merely imaginary. She tried to dream what it would be like to feel a man's limp dong pulling out of her pretty little slit and then the steady drool of his semen dribbling from between the tightly compressed lips. She tried to imagine that her lover would take her in his arms and tenderly kiss her, vowing never to so much as look at another woman, that she was so good to him with sex that no other woman could possibly interest him.

She tried to imagine it. But it was hard.

She thought of her boyfriend. Why didn't he take her? Why did he always back off? He had to know she wanted to feel his prick inside her cunt, couldn't help but know it.

Finally, she sat up, then stood. The cock of her dream lover, the hairbrush, lay forgotten on the bedspread as she strode with languid, uneasy grace into her bathroom and prepared for bed.

And even as she twisted the chromed faucet handles and the water came gushing out, she was already deciding what she would do to cure her frustration. She would no longer play the role of the passive, unresisting young girl with her boyfriend. That hadn't succeeded in getting her the sex she wanted.

No, she was going to take the initiative.

She slipped into the bed. For long minutes she lay there, mind racing. Sleep wouldn't come. She was too tense, too stiff, every muscle throbbing, aware of every beat of blood pulsating through her veins. As always, she was naked beneath the covers, and when her fingers finally meandered down to the juncture of her sleek thighs, they had no difficulty at all in finding the pleasure spots between them.

"Time to get up, Charly!"

Her mother's voice through the door was brisk and cheerful with the new morning.

Charlene was annoyed. Not that her mother was waking her. In fact, Charlene had already been awake. She'd slept only fitfully and she welcomed the morning. It gave her an excuse to surrender in the battle to sleep and finally arise.

What she resented was the reason for her mother's cheer and her own melancholy. Her mother, after all, had gotten it the night before.

Charlene hadn't.

She swung her long legs over the side of the bed and stood up, stretching away the uncomfortable links – not the stiffness that follows a good, sound sleep.

I wonder if Derek is still here?

There was no real reason for her mother's lover to have left yet; Charlene knew he owned a small real estate business on the increasingly fashionable Upper West Side of Manhattan. And Derek had been getting it on with her mother long enough for him to be "allowed" to sleep over the entire night and leave next day.

Quickly, Charlene pulled on a filmy peignoir and brushed her glorious hair back into a ponytail. She checked herself out in the mirror. The peignoir was becoming to her, a pale yellow color, but when she stepped through the bright sunlight coming through her window, it became all but transparent. Most of her was placed on display, her thighs above the midpoint hem clearly silhouetted right up to the little ripples of young pussy lip shadows through the material. Her breasts, unfettered and disdaining the support of a bra as unnecessary, bounced enticingly while still straining with their firm thrust against the fabric. Her nipples were dark spots in the center of pale mounds of creamy flesh – dark spots that were slowly hardening to twin spikes from the friction of the lightweight peignoir against them.

She looked sexy and edible – and wet, with her finely chiseled features and red hair and bright green eyes, she also somehow managed to look like an ice maiden, almost haughty in her appearance.

She took a deep breath, her magnificent breasts testing the holding power of the peignoir, threw her shoulders back – and then opened the door and walked out into the corridor. She jounced quickly down the stairs to the kitchen, tits bobbling beautifully – and sadly, for there was no one to appreciate the sight.

Her mother sat at the kitchen table, staring out the window. The view was to the west, and much of midtown was easily visible. Their building was on Thirty-fifth and Lexington, their apartment on the fortieth and forty-first floors. Over on the Park Avenue block, a welldressed couple in their fifties were taking breakfast on the garden patio of their penthouse, served by a handsome black man in a butler's uniform. The man was reading the paper. Charlene was sure it was the Times.

"Good morning, Mom," she said, leaning over to press her lips lightly to her mother's cheek. Her mother's complexion was still as soft and alluring as any woman of twenty might wish. At thirty-nine, she turned teen-aged heads to watch her with ease.

"Hi, Charly," her mother answer. "Coffee?"

"I'll get it"

She knew her mother was watching her reflection in the windowpane. It made her a bit uncomfortable this morning. Whatever was on her mother's mind, though, she knew it couldn't be too time-consuming. Her mother was a copyrighter for an ad agency – a damn good one, too – and would be leaving for work in a few minutes. She was already dressed in a camel dress cut an inch or so up her thighs and hugging her trim waist to emphasize all the more the curvaceous fullness of her bust and ass.

Charlene walked over to the table with her coffee and sat opposite her mother.

"You came in awfully late, young lady," her mother began gently. "I thought you understood: no late dates on school nights. Leave you too groggy to learn. You look half-asleep as it is."

"Un-huh." Charlene sipped her coffee. She couldn't resist asking. "How was your date?"

Her mother's eyes clouded. "Oh, fine, fine." She was momentarily lost in a reverie of remembered passions – as Charlene had hoped.

But then her mother drained her cup and looked Charlene squarely in the eye. "Charly,"

"Um?"

"Are you a virgin?"

Charlene nearly shit herself. "Am I a what?"

"Virgin. You know, intact hymen and all that."

"Mom, for crying out -"

"Well, are you?"

She sighed. "Yes, Mother." Which was, technically, true. While she had managed to strip away that little piece of skin over the past few years of cramming various objects into her hot young cunt, she never had actually, fucked with a man.

To her dismay.

"Why?" her mother asked.

Charlene stared at her. "Why?" she echoed.

"I asked you first."

Charlene couldn't help but smile at the old Groucho line. "Well, I just – just haven't – haven't – you know, Mom."

"Why not? Sal's got the hots for you – and unless high school and college boys have changed markedly since I was your age, probably half the straight males in the city drool over you. So why?"

Charlene was just getting around to formulating the answer to that when her mother stood and said, "I'd better get going. But if you decide you're going to do any you-know-what, young lady, you call the doctor and arrange some precautionary measures – if you know what I mean." She bent, kissed Charlene on the forehead. "See you later, Charly."

"Yeah, have a nice day, Mom." Charlene stared down into her coffee as her mother left the kitchen. A moment later, the door to the apartment closed.

Cripes, she thought, even her mother had seemed a bit put off to hear that Charlene hadn't done any fucking, had not been getting her share.