Robert Vickers: Her lover son

"Phil, I have something to tell you."

"What is it, Tam?"

"I'm pregnant. And I think it's your baby."

"You think! You think! What do you mean, you think it's my baby? Don't you know?"

"Oh, fuck you!" Joleen Jensen said as she turned off the television. The soap operas used to keep her satisfied, but they had long since become boring. She could sit back and mouth the words of all the characters before they even said them. Nothing new ever happened. Nothing exciting occurred. The same old stuff all the time. Women getting knocked up by one of the other characters.

Joleen didn't like to read the confession magazines any more, either. The reason was the same. She knew how the damned things would end before she had finished the first paragraph.

Books from the library grew dreary after a while, too. What she needed was something to liven thin up.

Joleen sat back, a bourbon on the rocks in her hand, and shouted at the top of her lungs, "Goddamn! I hate everything!" She took a stiff jolt of the fiery amber liquor. It seared her throat as it went down, then formed a warm spot inside her belly. She realized she'd be drunk in another twenty minutes or so if she kept drinking as fast as she had been for the past half-hour.

But what else was there to do? Her husband was gone most of the time. Dear Harold, she bitterly thought, the flying ace out there fucking all those young stewardesses then coming home and telling me he's too tired to do a Goddamn thing. He never was any good in bed, anyway.

Her husband was a good provider, if it was only money and a nice house you wanted. Joleen couldn't complain about that. But a golden cage held her prisoner as surely as a cast iron one could have. If only Harold wasn't flying so much. But the airlines needed experienced pilots, and Joleen had to reluctantly admit that her husband seemed to be one of the best.

He'd never had a crash, obviously. If he had, she thought, she could have collected a wad of insurance money and lived it up. That tight-fisted skinflint bought her what she wanted but never let her have any money of her own. And when she had told him she was going out to get a job, he hit the ceiling. She remembered the scene as if it had happened yesterday.

"A job? What the hell do you want to work for? We're not starving and I can damn well support you."

"But Harold, it gets pretty dreary just sitting around staring at the walls all day long. I want to get out and meet people. You're flying all over the world. You see people and places that I don't."

His answer had dripped ice. "I want you here. A woman's place is in the home." That had settled the argument.

For a while, Joleen had tried the bridge club scene. Those old biddies were worse than sitting alone and swearing at the uncaring walls. All the time grousing about something or talking about the people who didn't show up for their silly games. Vicious, those bitches were vicious. She could imagine what they said about her when she had decided to drop out of the club. Joleen imagined really inventive and vivid descriptions, lurid and all wrong. Joleen sighed and took another pull at her drink, draining it. She sat staring into the ice cubes wondering if she could finish off an entire quart today. If she did, she'd have to go to the liquor store for another bottle. Tomorrow was just as long as today.

The black-haired woman was shaken out of her reverie by the ringing of the doorbell. She heaved herself out of the chair. At least, she could insult the Avon lady or Fuller Brush man or whoever it was. That would add a little spice to her drab life.

The bored housewife opened the door to find the mailman standing on the steps. "Yes, what is it?" Joleen asked.

"Are you Mrs. Jensen? I have a special delivery package for you." He eyed her in obvious appreciation. Joleen wasn't bad-looking, but she didn't feel much reason existed for her to fix herself up properly. She didn't wear any makeup around the house, and she was dressed in blue jeans and a grubby denim work shirt.

The mailman ignored such superficial things and studied what lay beeath her exterior covering. He couldn't ignore the swell of her ample tits or those fabulous thighs and pert ass sticking out in back. Her jeans looked as if she had painted them on. Joleen's face was a bit on the pasty side from lack of sun, but it was finely boned and symmetric. She wasn't pretty and knew that, but she also knew she was far from being ugly. She was an attractive woman who tried to keep herself fit. For what, Joleen couldn't really say.

Seeing the mailman drinking in her attractive good looks gave Joleen an idea. This guy wasn't all that bad-looking. A run-of-the-mill type, but younger than a lot of the mailmen. Maybe thirty, only seven or eight years younger than she was. And he looked as horny as she was feeling.

"I'm Joleen Jensen. Special delivery, you said?" Her tongue licked red lips, the coral tip barely poking through to wet the entire area around her mouth. The invitation was erotically obvious. Joleen dropped her gaze to the man's crotch for the briefest instant and saw the tell-tale bulge of his cock.

Her hint hadn't been missed.

"Why don't you come in? I'll get a pen so I can sign for that package."

"That's okay, Mrs. Jensen. I have a pen…" His voice trailed off as Joleen turned and disappeared into the house. She had left the door open and the mailman standing on the steps wondering what to do.

Joleen called from the depths of the house, "Come on in for a few seconds. I finally found my pen." The mailman went in, package clutched in his hands as if he were afraid it would fly away.

He should have held the package more tightly. He dropped it on the floor when he saw Joleen. She had opened the front of her shirt and exposed her naked tits. The mailman's field of vision was totally filled with white fleshy tits and ruddy aureoles cresting them. The red nipples had begun to harden in obvious lust and seemed to be fingers pointing at him, beckoning him.

The man slipped the mail sack from his shoulder and placed it beside the forgotten package he had dropped on the floor. He muttered, "Wow, lady, look…"

Joleen slipped out of her work shirt and stood before him, naked to the waist. Her creamy skin was unmarred. Not a freckle or mole was visible to disturb the expanse of satiny skin. But the man wouldn't have noticed. His eyes were glued on those twin peaks of Joleen's tits. He felt his cock growing hard, and his hard-on begged to be thrust into this seductive woman's cunt.

"Call me Joleen." The woman spun around once, treating the mailman to a full view of her smooth, silky back as well as her arousing tits. Those tits bounced slightly, tracing out invisible figure eights in the air as the woman stopped. The bouncing motion made the mail carrier swallow hard.

"Come on, man!" Joleen cried. "You're supposed to be a male man! The least you can do is tell me your name."

"M-Mike. My name's Mike." Although he seemed uncomfortable, he didn't back away when Joleen sinuously glided over to him and threw her arms around his burly neck.

"How do you do, Mike?" Joleen reached behind Mike's head and pulled his lips to hers with brutal strength. The mailman resisted for a brief instant, then, as if saying "What the hell?" responded with a passionate intensity matching the brunette's.

Joleen's agile tongue slithered out of her mouth and forced its way into Mike's. Inside the man's mouth, Joleen's tongue began spiraling and twisting around in feverish activity. Mike tasted the sweet mixing of their saliya.

He quickly dropped the thought of leaving. He enjoyed Joleen's mouth, and she was offering him even more if he'd stay longer. Mike was never one to turn down such an erotic proposition, though it was the first time he had been seduced. Usually, it was he who had to seduce the woman. But he couldn't care less about all that now. He was too busy with an armful of woman wantonly pulling herself against his muscular body and demanding to be fucked.