Rex Taylor: Mother lover

"Oh," he said, "it's you. Chris is just coming in the front door now."

"I don't care about that," Gwen moaned, her words running together with no space in between for breathing. "It's Cathy-she's run away from home and you've got to help me find her!"

Gwen was on the porch when Don's Mercedes pulled up in front. She threw her half-smoked cigarette into the sandy yard, lighting another as she went to him.

He met her at the nose of the car, shocked at the whiteness of her skin, the drawn and worried cast to her features. "Did she take it that hard?" he asked.

"I didn't get the chance to tell her anything," Gwen said. "When I got back, she and Chris were on her bed-he must have come over while I was with you-and they were naked and-"

"He was fucking her?" Don asked, round-eyed. It wasn't exactly news to him, but to get it first-hand, definite-that was a shock.

"No, they were playing checkers!" Gwen shouted. "What do you think they were doing? Can't you see how upset I am? I sent Chris home and told Cathy to get packed, but she must have decided to hell with it and crawled out her bedroom window. She was gone when I went in, and there was a note for me-she said she was leaving and never wanted to see me again."

"Could she have gone to visit a friend, maybe, until the tantrum wore off?"

"I thought of that. The only people she knows here, as far as I'm aware, are Chris and Jennifer,

the girl in the next cottage down the beach. I called Jennifer and she said no, Cathy hadn't been there, that she'd seen Cathy standing on the main road with her thumb out. Before she could go up to see what it was all about, a turquoise Pontiac had stopped and Cathy jumped inside. She didn't know the car, and all she could say was that it was pointed away from here-and that it had Rhode Island plates."

"She's trying to leave the island," Don said. "That's what it looks like to me. Where could she go?"

"We have an apartment in New York-we don't use it much and the furnishings are in the process of being moved to our new place in Georgetown. She might go there."

"Does she have any money?"

"A few dollars that I know of. Of course, there's two or three thousand in her checking account and there's a trust fund-but she can't touch that till she's twenty-one; That's it, Don! She's on her way to New York to liquidate her checking account! We have to find her!"

"I'll get going. Unless they're lucky, they might have missed the ferry. They could be waiting on the pier right now." He started back around the front of his car. "You wait here, in case she does come back. Chris is at home.. I told him not to leave. If she shows up there, he'll call you."

"Did you tell him?" Gwen asked as Don slipped behind the steering wheel.

"No time," he said. "You called just as he was coming in. Look, Gwen," he went on, turning the ignition. "I know we don't have any relationship at all, you and I, but Cathy is my daughter and I'm just as worried as you are. I'll find her or die trying." He turned the engine over, slipped into reverse, and backed onto the road. She watched him disappear down the highway.

Cathy stood on the gravel beside the road, her hand shielding her eyes from the nearly setting sun, her thumb thrust out jauntily in ride-begging position. Jesus, she thought, I've fucked around half the day and look how far I've gotten. She was still on the outskirts of New Gloster, the sleepy little town which served as terminus for the ferry line from the island. Indeed, if she were to take a stroll down the beach from the pier she could, if the light was right, see the island cottage she'd fled so angrily.

She heard a car coming her way, and she turned to face it, smiling jauntily, her thumb jabbing in the direction of New York. Her blouse was unbuttoned into the creamy, freckled vale between her tits, far enough to show that she was braless under the shirt, and she contemplated, then dismissed the idea of flipping the shirt aside to give the driver a peek at a brown-pointed boob as further inducement to stop and pick her up. It might be a woman, she told herself, or maybe a guy with his kids, and she'd only hurt her chances.

The car came over a low rise, and she saw that it was a Mercedes. Cathy sighed. It had to be either Chris or his father. The car stopped, pulling off the road a few feet past her, and the driver's door opened. It was Don Robinson, she knew although she'd never really met him, and he came to her.

"Cathy," he said, "your mother is very upset about this."

"Screw her," Cathy blurted. "I'm finished with Gwen. You aren't headed for New York by any chance, are you?"

He took her hand in his and spoke firmly. "No,

and neither are you. Get in the car."

As he turned around a little farther down the road, he began to speak once more. "You're a hard girl to find. I've been cruising the highways and by-ways for hours. And still you're not five miles from where you started."

"It's a long story," Cathy grimaced.

A long story indeed, she thought. That bastard who'd picked her up on the island. "Sure," he'd said, "I'm going your way. Hop in."

He was a pleasant enough guy to look at-in his early thirties, she supposed, neat, clean, with a groovy car. And they'd made the ferry with plenty of time. But as the boat pulled out of the island dock to begin the twenty-minute trip to the mainland, he'd changed from a nice, quiet-spoken dude into a sex fiend who couldn't keep his hands away from Cathy's tits and legs.

"Stop it!" she'd squealed, not wanting to get into any heavy foreplay in the car, where everyone on the ferry could get their jollies watching, but her protestation had only made him that much more energetic and finally, when he had her blouse half-off and one tit shining in the sunlight, she'd offered him an alternative, the promise of a really co-operative session as soon as they could find some seclusion on the Massachusetts shore.

"I've got a better idea," he told her then, and she followed his eyes as they looked towards the door of the ship's men's room.

"Oh, no," Cathy cut in. "That's crazy."

But even as she tried to dissuade him, he was getting out of the car and coming around to open her door, pulling her forth by the wrist and leading her to the toilet entrance. She was red as a beet,

convinced that the ferry's crew and the other passengers were all staring at her, branding her a cheap slut, but she went inside with him and watched as he locked the door.

"How do I know," he began, sitting down on the John which, with a sink, made up the room's total furnishings, "that you're worth taking to New York if you don't give me any convincing evidence?" He motioned for her to kneel and as she did he unzipped his pants and removed his cock. "Do me good," he invited.

Cathy took his prick in her hands, the limp tool flopping as she tried to hold it upright. She opened her mouth and sucked his rod in, aided by the relative smallness of his soft pecker. Her hands began to squeeze his balls expertly and soon enough she felt his cock growing stiff and tight in her mouth, ready to be sucked.

"That's nice," he commented, patting her hair. "There's no headjob like a teeny-bopper headjob. Come on, teeny-bopper, suck it just far me."

All right, stud, Cathy thought, and she began to suck his dick frantically, her head bobbing up and down on the stiff prick which impaled her mouth. His cock was long once it'd gotten hard-the tip of his rod thrust low down her tongue, trying to invade her throat every time she sucked it home, and Cathy was afraid she'd either gag or strangle if he got carried away and started to hump her mouth.

Her tongue rolled around his glans, her teeth scraped the rigid barrel of his dick, and her saliva bathed him from tip to balls. She began to twist her head, to pressure his cock from one angle, then another, all the while bouncing his nuts in her hands, teasing her fingers across his perineum and around the puckered ring of his asshole-anything to get him hotter, to make him squirt, so she could get this finished.