Rex Taylor - Mother lover

"Stop it!" she finally squealed, slapping ineffectually at him with her open palms, and he surrendered with a panting laugh of his own. "I've gotta get home," she pouted. "Gwen's gonna be wondering where the fuck I am, if she stops typing long enough to notice I'm not there."

"Do you really have to go home now?"

Her eyes went round in a parody of suddenly enlightened innocence. "I know what you're thinking," Cathy announced. "You think you're gonna get to take advantage of me!"

He thought of his fucking-sore, creamed-out cock and balls, and he wondered who was taking advantage of whom. "I got a better idea. Let's stop by my place and get something cold to drink."

"That's a good idea," Cathy agreed. She rubbed her lips with the back of her hand. "I've got this awful taste in my mouth.

Chris struck out with his palm, intending to give her a good slap on the ass for that one, but she was too fast for him once again, and she stood prancing a few feet away. "Which way's your place?" she called. "I'll race you there."

The house Chris and his father were renting was on the south shore of the island and its back porch overlooked the ocean. Cathy and her mother were staying in a place on the north coast, so their summer cottage had a view of the sound which separated the island and the mainland. Otherwise the two houses were much the same-slightly rustic in appearance, to give moneyed city dwellers the illusion of roughing it, but really as comfortable and accommodating as any other living quarters.

The car shelter beside the house was empty. "I guess Dad's out," Chris commented as he led her onto the front veranda and into the residence's living room. "Here, sit down. I'll get us something to drink. What would you like? Coke, beer, or something hard?" She gave him her most definitely Mona Lisa smile at his double entendre. "Seriously."

"A beer, I guess." He went out and she leaned back on the couch, stretching her long legs across the top of the coffee table. The room looked as if it were occupied by a couple of guys, she thought. It had a general aura of dismay and confusion.

"Michelob all right?" Chris asked, interrupting her train of thought. He handed her a brimming glass of foam-crested beer, then sat down close beside her, their thighs brushing suggestively. "Here's to us," he said, clinking his glass upon hers, and they drank a toast which left beer-foam mustaches around theft mouths which could only be wiped away by putting their lips together very tightly.

Cathy broke off the kiss and slid back on the couch. He put his hand on the inside of her thigh, just below the leg slot of her bikini bottom, and he held her in a firm, possessive grip. "You know," she began, "except in the Biblical sense we hardly know each other at all."

He twisted his head. "What would you like to find out?"

"Oh, just the important things-your favorite color, your favorite singer, do you like President Ford. I mean, I have to find, out whether we're compatible, for Christ's sake."

He looked pensive a moment, then said, "In that order-aquamarine, Carole King, and absolutely not. Are we compatible?"

"I don't know," Cathy confessed, "but we do fuck together very nicely."

"Does anything else matter?"

"Not really. But tell me about you, all the same. About your folks, where you live, where you go to school."

"I live in Illinois, not far from St. Louis, and I go to Dawson Academy-they're prepping me for Harvard, which is where Dad enrolled me as soon as he was sure Pd be able to learn to read and write. As to folks, I have him. And two stepmothers collecting alimony somewhere. One's in the West Indies, I think."

"No mother?"

He shook his head. "She died when I was just a baby.. Long before I was old enough even to remember her."

"We do have a lot in common. Not just our birthdays. I'm a half-orphan, too. My parents were divorced when I was a little kid and he-my father-died not very long after. So Gwen is all the folks I have."

"We're not all that alone," Chris suggested as his hand came to rest over the crotchband of her bikini pants.

"No, we're not," she agreed, wiggling out of his clutch reluctantly. "But I'm afraid you're gonna be alone for a while now. I really have to go home. Gwen will have the cops looking for me if I'm not there for supper-if she stops typing long enough to notice I haven't gotten back."

His hand trailed down the ticklish inside of her thigh as she got to her feet, and for just a moment she seriously contemplated sitting down again and letting him have his way with her. But they'd already done it twice, and she wanted him to be at least partly conscious tomorrow so they could do it all over again. "Feeling me up won't help," she warned him. "If I've gotta go, I've gotta go."

She looked around the room a moment, and bet eyes fell upon a picture in an expensive frame. "Oh, is that you and your dad?" she asked, going to take a closer look.

It was a fairly recent photo, and it showed two really sharp-looking guys, Cathy decided. She had a soft spot for Chris, of course, because they seemed to have been made for one another, but his father was okay, too. A tall, well-made man, he was wearing a T-shirt and jeans in the photograph, which appeared to have been taken at a marina somewhere. He looked like a matured and mellowed version of his son, with the same fair hair, along with a superb tan and nicely developed chest and shoulders. "Your dad's cute, too," she told her friend.

He colored strongly for a moment, as though he were getting angry, and she wondered if she'd made him jealous. Hope so, Cathy thought. Can't let him think I'm too easy.

"What did your mother look like?" she added. "I mean, you seem to have taken after him. I'll bet she provided those dreamy blue eyes, didn't she?"

"Dad's eyes are almost blue, too," he informed her. "And I really don't know what she looked like. I saw a picture of her once, years ago, but it was just a snapshot-not very distinct-and when Dad caught me looking at it, he took it and tore it up."

Cathy blinked in surprise. That wasn't very romantic. Chris' father must have been rather young when he lost his wife, and it seemed to her that he'd have devoted himself from that day forward to cherishing her memory. On the other hand, his picture revealed a man of lusty appetites and pragmatically frank features. Maybe he wasn't the poetic type.

"Will I see you again?" she asked in the quietness. "Or is this just one of those summer romances?"

"I don't know," he said, trying to sound uncharacteristically impartial. "Think it'd be worth it?"

"We could always find out," she suggested. "How about tomorrow? Say about ten or, even better, eleven? I like to sleep late. But not after twelve, because I want to shake that slut Jennifer-I told you about her, didn't I? She lives in the place down the beach from us, and she's one big pain right in the you-know-where. I got rid of her today by pretending to have an appendicitis attack, but I don't think it'll work again tomorrow. I'm afraid she might be queer for me."

"I wouldn't blame her if she was," he whispered, bending in to kiss Cathy and take a parting feel of her superb left tit. She pried his hand away and fluttered out the door. "Tomorrow, then!" he shouted after her. "Same place as today? Down on the beach?" She looked back to nod and wave her acquiescence and in the process nearly collided with the gunmetal Mercedes which was just turning into the drive from the highway.

"Oops, goddamn it," Cathy muttered, looking fiercely at the driver. Her angry glare changed to a warm smile, though, when she realized that Chris' father was the man at the wheel. And besides, if she'd been looking where she was going, there'd have been no danger to either of them-so she rationalized.

Don Robinson eased the car into the shelter and got out, turning to follow Cathy's retreating ass with his appreciative eyes. She had a cute figure, he decided, with everything in the right place, and she knew how to carry it around, too. Her butt wiggled as smoothly as a ticking clock.