Chapter 1
Her eyes were closed, because she saw pictures on their lids. She had had the pillow between her legs and the vibrator shoved inside her vagina, away from the clit as yet because she didn't want to come right away. Charlotte wanted to delay it as long as possible, to luxuriate in the sinfully voluptuous sensation of making love to herself.
She looked at the images behind her eyes, rolling her hips slowly and sweetly to the noiseless throbbing of the penis-shaped vibrator, letting its long, smooth and rubbery shape slide in and out of her wet pussy.
She saw the man who wanted to marry her-saw the handsome face of Mark Travers, but she couldn't hold his image long. She had never screwed Mark, although he had been patient with her and needed her so obviously.
But then, she'd never screwed the next boy she saw in her imagination-not in reality, but in her dreams she had taken him into her hotly clenching body a hundred times. And that was a terrible, improper thing to even dream about, since Blair Chapman was only sixteen years old.
She arched as the vibrator touched off a series of erotic responses in her shuddering cunt, lifted her legs and pretended she was about to put them around young Blair, about to take that slim, beautiful young boy's body between her thighs and hold him prisoner there.
She wasn't old. Thirty-five wasn't old at all. She was just coming into the full bloom of her life, with many more lively and useful years ahead of her. Old? No, no; Charlotte had never been so passionate in her life, never so sensuous. Sex filled most of her waking thoughts, although she fought it back, most of the time.
Until she had to succumb, as now, to the driving, naming demands of her body. Then she'd pull down the shades and lock the doors, all of them, and hide herself in her bedroom to do what she was doing.
Charlotte rolled her hips again, and the grinding, kind of dirty feeling was good, good. She imagined the boy again, beautiful and tanned, his young body supple and strong, his thing-his penis, rigid and hungry. In her, it would slide; up her pussy it would be, and Blair would love her very much for showing him how to use his thing, for teaching him about sex and love this way.
His skin; warm and satiny; his legs sleek; his belly, flat and hard; and his testicles-dear, sweet testicles covered with silken hair-they would be firm and eagerly swollen. His thing-she imagined Blair's penis on a scale and design with his lovely body-slim and long and tapered.
It would shove up her so; and stroke her so; and the thing would slip and slide and push and pull.
Charlotte bit her lips, caught them between her teeth and began to rock violently up and down on the vibrator she manipulated in her vagina. It brushed her clit, and she clamped hard with her legs on the pillow as the feeling grew hotter and bolder within her cunt.
She began to hunch, to hump the thing within her. She shivered and moaned, and dared to whisper: "Ooh ... Blair, Blair my sweet, my love, my darling. Oh, Blair! Do it to me, love; screw me, my dear ... oh Blair, fuck me!"
And somehow Blair was also Mark Travers, the boyish face crossed with gray, the boyish body thickened-and the pricks, the long, lovely pricks, they were made one and thrusting, thrusting, plunging to their full adorable lengths into her flexing pussy, making her ass rock and bounce; and the shuddering, nice, heaving sensation was ballooning now ... growing and ...
Ahh! She lurched upward and groaned aloud, and the orgasm shot through her taut body, came spangling and shattering to center on the distended and quivering nub of her clit. It spread from there throughout her pussy, through her womb, into her backbone.
She came. She came and twisted and humped and came some more, and the deep, thickly rich hairs of her cunt were wet from her fluid releases.
The waves of passion grew less, and the tidal crestings slowly subsided. Charlotte drew out the vibrator, not even wanting to see it now, already in the grip of her shame, her fearful shame.
She sat up and glanced at the windows with their drawn curtains, their tight shades. The door was shut, and she listened for the step of her own son, for the sounds of Duncan coming home early today, and all the while she wished very hard he hadn't.
If he should ever think, if he would ever discover her doing something so ... so dirty, she didn't know what she would do. Die, probably; at the least, flee screaming into the world and never let him see her face again.
For Duncan would certainly be forever disgusted with his mother for ... for masturbating; he would forever hate and despise her, and he would certainly be right. She shouldn't do it; this was wrong and immoral and she was old enough to know better.
Quickly, Charlotte swung her legs off the bed and tidied the blankets. Then she took the vibrator into her own bathroom and washed it thoroughly before hiding it in the pouch of her douche bag, its usual resting place. Tomorrow, she thought; Ttt go somewhere and throw it away, tomorrow.
Hurrying into her robe and slippers, she pulled back her hair into a bun and rubbed a towel over her face. Duncan might be home any minute, and it wouldn't do for him to find her looking sleazy.
Back the drapes and up the bedroom shades; unlatch the door and swing it back-there. She walked casually down the hall to the stairs and down them, too. It was barely possible that Mark would come visiting tonight, also. Though she wasn't sure about that, after she'd turned him down again, the last time.
She wondered why she was afraid of Mark. He was a good, kind man, ten years older than herself, and Duncan liked him. He'd make a good father and a good husband, and he had plenty of money. Yet she kept putting him off, telling him it was too soon after her husband's death.
But it wasn't really. And if her husband was alive, she wouldn't have to use that ... that thing lurking upstairs in the rubber bag. They hadn't had a wildly satisfying sexual relationship, but at least Charlotte had been able to have orgasms once in awhile.
So why didn't she let Mark lay her? She didn't know; after five years of being a widow, she was lost and afraid and unsure. Maybe she didn't know how to please a man in bed; maybe she had never known.
Moving her head high and proudly, although she certainly didn't feel regal, Charlotte went to unlock the street door. This was a nice neighborhood, and she didn't actually feel afraid, but she'd often made that excuse to her son and friends for locking up everything.
Duncan would be coming home now, and she halfway hoped that Blair wouldn't be with him; but only halfway. Another part of her longed to see her son's friend, to have him near her so that she could find excuses to touch him. Dear Blair, who never suspected that a woman old enough to be his mother wanted him so much. And dear Duncan, for not ever noticing how tense and sometimes silly she got in the presence of his buddy.
Charlotte moved into the kitchen and brought out the cold sandwiches already prepared, the jug of milk; the boys were always hungry when they came in. See? The boys, both of them; two of them. But maybe Blair wouldn't come today, and that would be awful.
Blair; she kept thinking of a sixteen-year-old boy when by all rights and all morality, she should have her attention dedicated to a man, a man turning gray but very much virile, and someone who might not wait much longer for her to make up her mind about him.
Could it be that she was so fearful of sexual relations with another man that she was avoiding them by dreaming of screwing a boy, instead? Everything had been so mixed up for her, ever since her husband died. At least while Jim was alive, she had something of a pattern to hold to, a habit for clinging. Good or bad, it was familiar, and therefore not something to fear.
And Jim had been her only man. A tremulous virgin when she married him, Charlotte learned whatever she knew about sex from her lawful, wedded husband, which was as it should be. Men were expected to sneak around, to have sex with prostitutes and the like. But good women, decent women, were virgins and never pretended to enjoy copulation.
Charlotte shook her head; of course, she knew better now, and had long known that such hidebound traditions were utter nonsense. That didn't mean she could slough off everything she had been force fed by her straitlaced family. Logic was one thing, and concrete habit another.
The masturbation was unspeakable, according to the mores of her past; it was an acceptable release, claimed the enlightened articles in women's magazines. Self-love, immaturity, fantasy, stated the psychology books. And her own conscience drew a black, unforgiving mark across her soul for it.
The front door rattled open and they exploded inside, laughing and leaping, and Charlotte knew a quick lift of her heart because they were together. Turning, she gave them a bright smile, and Duncan bounced in to kiss her cheek.
"Hi, mom, those look like cold turkey sandwiches. Wild."
Blair Chapman grinned at her. "Hello; it's always nice when you're home, Mrs. Mason."
"Thanks," Charlotte said. "I'll get the cookies."
Her nostrils had flared at the young male animal odor of him, the clean-sweaty strength of him. The boy was lovely; slim and muscled and downy. No more handsome than her own son, she admitted, but not her son, and that made some kind of twisted logic difference.
"That's a pretty robe, Mrs. Mason," Blair said, and Duncan grunted, "Yeah."
Charlotte smiled down on them where they sat at the breakfast nook table. "Thanks again ... but I only have so many cookies."
Blair's answering smile reached into her belly and nestled warmly there; when he looked at her that way, her legs went weak. He said softly, "I'm not trying for more goodies. I mean it. You and my mother are the best-looking women around."
"You know it," Duncan seconded. "A couple of real dolls, you and Mrs. Chapman, mom."
Charlotte's tummy fluttered, but she forced herself to make a face and say, "Oh sure; we old ladies could compete with the young chicks-miniskirts and all."
Blair's deep brown eyes held hers. "You'd look great in a mini ... and my mother, too."
She turned unsure, shaky; were his eyes telling her that he admired her legs, her body? Were they really sliding approvingly over her tummy, her hips, up to her full breasts-or was this boy just being polite to an older woman, doing his duty to the mother of his best buddy?
It was so hard to know, so very difficult to be certain. She stood there feeling his eyes caress her, feeling the answering heat rise in-her body, the trembling somewhere deep inside her vagina. If her son wasn't here ... if she could gather the nerve ... if it wasn't so wrong ... .
She'd love to touch his cheek, to run her hands deeply into his long, richly brown hair; maybe to kiss him just once, on the mouth, making a joke of it, a teasing thing, a funny. But if he responded? If he held to her and put that gorgeous slim body next to hers, and if his sweet mouth opened and moved, and if she were to realize the length and shape of his thing when it pressed her tummy. ...
He might pull away. Blair might stare at her first in amazement, then in shock, quickly followed by disgust. She was his friend's mother, and old, and a crazy thing like kissing him might make him hate her.
Swiftly, Charlotte turned from his eyes and busied herself at the kitchen sink, forcing her mind away from him and to the man who'd asked her to marry him. Marriage might be the very thing to take her away from these abnormal needs, these terrible urgings and this morbid fascination with sex.
Mark could take her on a honeymoon, an extended one, say to Spain; she'd always wanted to visit Spain. Duncan could stay at Blair's home for a month-two or three months even. By the time she got back, Charlotte ought to be over her infatuation with the boy.
And happy with Mark Travers?
The boys said something behind her as she walked quickly from the kitchen and into the living room, but she pretended not to hear. What if Mark learned that she had used that ... that thing, that awful vibrator? He'd never respect her anymore.
And suppose she couldn't satisfy him, that she was so dumb and inexperienced he would laugh at her ineptness? That would be so embarrassing that she'd never get over it. After all, a thirty-five-year-old widow with a nearly grown son and a pretty little daughter-that kind of woman should know how to please a man.
But women weren't supposed to love it, dote on it, revel in fucking, and that's very well what might happen once she got that thing of Mark's inside her. He'd think her a whore, a bitch; he'd think that certainly she had been screwing around ever since her husband died.
It was so confusing. Charlotte found herself standing at the bar, found herself with a jigger of bourbon in her hand, but she didn't remember pouring it. Her second of the day, too; she'd downed one just after lunch, just before going upstairs to-play with herself.
No; to be perfectly honest, this was her third drink, for she'd poured some brandy into her morning coffee. A little jolt made her feel better and softened the hard edges of her loneliness, made her feel just a little less insecure.
She drank the bourbon quickly, and waited for its warmth to spread from her stomach. Anything to help the alone ache, the needful ache. K she were married, she wouldn't be alone again, even after her son finished growing up and went away, her son who was Just as handsome, just as attractive as Blair Chapman.
Another drink wouldn't hurt her; it was after five. She sipped this one, adding water and ice, but not too much of either. A diluted drink lost its flavor and kick, to say nothing of the taste.
Mark; she had to think of Mark. There must be something wrong with her for not snapping up Mark right away; he was mature and traveled, educated and reasonably wealthy; he was fun to be with, and if he wasn't handsome, his craggy looks were appealing, and his rugged body was always in good condition. He had a divorced wife somewhere, and there were always secretaries after him.
She wondered how many of them he laid; she wondered how large his penis was, and how he might use it, if it trembled and shivered when it slid into a vagina.
Guiltily, Charlotte finished her bourbon and water, rinsed the glass because she certainly wouldn't have any more today. Not unless Elena Chapman came over to visit. Elena was dear Blair's mother, and a lovely person, too. Lovely inside and outside, and all bubbly with fun things.
Charlotte wished she could be more like her friend, that she could kid about her affairs and ex-husbands and the lovers she had an eye on. That sort of thing was okay for Elena, but not for Charlotte; she couldn't even try to talk that way.
It made her feel embarrassed and wanton and just a bit silly.
"Hey, mom!" Duncan slid to the bar, grabbed her waist and kissed her mouth. "Blair and me are going to the flicks. Take it easy."
He'd bounced away while the pressure of his hard young body was still warm upon her own, and she stared after him. Blair was near, though, his soft eyes peering into her, down into her soul.
"Mrs. Mason ... I think my mother said something about calling you this evening. If she kind of forgets, maybe you should give her a ring. She wanted to talk over something with you."
Charlotte touched her hair, held her back straight. He was so tanned, bronzed, touched with deep golden tones like some Boman god. "Elena wanted to talk over s-something? Did she say what, exactly?"
His smile was white and even, his teeth small and square. Blair's mouth was mobile, shaped firmly, young and unused. His lips moved gently. "Something important to ... all of us, she said. You know my mother when she gets an idea. Mrs. Mason, I hate to leave you alone like this. I mean, if you'd like, Dune and me can forget the flicks and hang around, keep you company."
Dune and him. Not alone; not just Blair in this big, empty house with her. Oh God, because if ever she allowed that to happen, she might not be responsible for anything that might happen.
"No," she said. "I'm fine, just fine. Elena will probably come over and we old ladies will entertain each other."
"Okay," he said. "But I meant that about the mini. You ought to try one."
He left on that and after the door closed behind him, Charlotte poured herself another shot.