Chapter 7
I DIDN'T SEE MY MOTHER FOR NEARLY a week, for when I got up the next day, she was gone. She'd written a note and left it on the kitchen table where I would be certain to find it. It briefly stated that she had to go to another city on business for a few days and that she might be gone for a week. She didn't state what the business was and I couldn't have cared less.
I felt suddenly free, if only for a time, and I made up my mind that I was damned if I'd go to school this week. I would pack a bag, climb into my car and go somewhere, somewhere out of town. I considered asking Abbie to go with me but discarded this notion because I knew that her father wouldn't allow her to miss school, and even if I could take her somewhere she'd want to get married, something I had no wish to do.
The day was Sunday.
I had more than two hundred dollars stashed away in my bedroom, so money was no problem, and after eating breakfast I showered, shaved, packed and left the house. I climbed into the car and drove toward Abbie's place, still not positive if I wanted to at least ask her to go along. By sheer luck, or coincidence, she was in the front yard when I approached, and I slowed the car to a halt.
"Abbie," I called. "Come here."
She had already seen me and was on her way to the car. "Hi, Robert," she said. "Going somewhere?"
She had seen my bag on the rear seat. "Yes, I'm taking a trip. Want to go with me?"
"Where you going, Robert?"
I didn't answer this. "Is your father at home?"
Her eyes went wide. "Why didn't you know? My father and your mother went to Pittsburg together."
"My mother told me she was going away for a week on business, but she didn't mention your father."
Abbie giggled. "I have a sneaky feeling they're going to be married, Robert."
I thought my damned heart was going to stop. "W-What?" I asked stupidly.
She didn't reply to my question but said something else. "Don't you even know what day this is, Robert?"
"What?" I said again, confused now.
"It's October thirtieth, your birthday, silly. Both of us are eighteen today. Can't you even remember your own birthday?"
"I hadn't thought about it, Abbie. I wasn't brought up to think about birthdays much, only sex."
She giggled. "Well, what's wrong with sex?"
I relaxed and smiled. "Nothing. So what should we do? Celebrate? Shall we take a trip somewhere together and have a ball?"
"All right."
"You know something?" I said pensively. "I've never had a birthday present from my mother in my life."
"Robert," she said seriously, "please. Don't start sulking again."
This surprised me. "I'm not sulking, just stating a fact."
She laughed. "All right. Forget I said that. Will you come in and wait till I get a bag packed?"
"Sure." I climbed out of the car and entered the house with her.
She left me in the living room while she went to her bedroom and changed clothing. She was gone quite a while, but when she returned with her bag, she had put her blonde hair up and the change in her appearance astonished me. She looked ten years older.
"Hey," I said approvingly. "You look great with your hair up."
"I thought it would be a good idea to look older, Robert, if we're going somewhere together. You'd better brush your hair off your forehead a bit, too."
"Why do we have to look older."
"The police, silly. We don't want them thinking we're a couple of kids running away from home."
"I understand. Might be a good idea. Got a hairbrush I can use."
"In the bedroom."
I went in and brushed my hair straight back, and the fact was it did make me look older. I stood looking at myself in the mirror and was surprised to see how much I resembled my mother, if a male can resemble a female, really. I had the same high forehead, the same hairline, the small eyes. I'd never really noticed this before.
I returned to the living room. "How old would you say I am, Abbie?" I asked, grinning.
"About twenty-four. You're a very handsome guy, Robert."
I recalled what the fourteen-year-old whore had told me the night before. "Do you think so?" I said.
"Yes. Very handsome. Shall we go?"
"Right." I picked up her bag and we left the house after she'd locked it securely. We climbed into the car and I started the motor. "Let's just drive," I told her. "Let's don't make any plans or anything."
She giggled. "That sounds exciting. I hate to plan things out beforehand. I hope you'll take us somewhere where there's a motel-later on, I mean."
I smiled and drove the car away from the curb. "Don't worry. I'll be sure to do that, Abbie."
"Good," she said. "No point in going anywhere together if we can't sleep together."
"Do you ever think about anything but sex, Abbie?" I asked, grinning.
"No. What else is there to think about?"
I suppose I suspected all along, at least subconsciously, that it would happen, and it did. Abbie and I drove to another state, were quietly married by a justice of the peace who seemed to be totally uninterested in what our ages were. He simply went through the paces of marrying us, it paid him and that was that. We honeymooned for more than a week and would have kept it going longer if I hadn't run out of money. We were obliged then to return to town, and I drove directly to my mother's place.
She was there and so was Mr. LeBlanc. When we told them what we'd done, neither of them spoke for a moment.
Then Mr. LeBlanc smiled and said to me, "I suppose you suspect that we, too, were married, your mother and I. We're going to live here and ... well, now that you kids are married, I suppose I'll have to turn over my house to you for the time being." He studied me carefully. "No more school for you two. You'll have to get a job, Robert. You have a wife to support now."
I swallowed. "Yes, sir, I know that."
My mother never said a word. She simply sniffed once or twice, got up and left the room.
I looked at Abbie, and she in turn looked at me and then her father. "Father," she said, "Robert spent all of his money. Will you loan us some?"
Mr. LeBlanc took out his wallet and handed me a wad of bills. "You can pay it back later, Robert. Now ... if you'll please excuse me, I must go and see about my ... wife. She seems rather upset by the news."
Abbie and I left the house and climbed into the car. I turned sideways in the seat. "Well?" I said. "Where do we go from here?"
"Home, of course. I want to take a bath."
It was two months before I finally got a job in a gas station, and it was another two months before I happened to see the ad in the newspaper. I read it with curiosity and showed it to Abbie.
She read it aloud: "Exciting couple wants to meet another exciting couple. Object: Fun." The phone number was given.
"That's one of those swap things, Abbie," I said. "Want to look into it?"
At the time she was sitting on the edge of the bed, half-naked. Now she rubbed her breasts absently. "Do you want to, Robert?"
I smiled. "Might be interesting."
"You think I'm not enough woman for you?"
"No," I said quickly. "Nothing of the sort."
She stroked her breasts again. "I've noticed in the past three or four weeks that you've become increasingly restless. I want to ask you something."
"All right, shoot."
"Do you ... miss ... crawling on top of your mother?"
"No."
"Are you sure, Robert?"
"Yes, I'm sure. I'm glad all that's over and done with." I wet my lips. "What about you and your father. Do you miss him?"
"You mean, do I miss his prick, don't you?"
I was taken aback. "I wish you wouldn't put it so bluntly. We're married now, Abbie."
"All right. I'm sorry. I don't know if I miss him or not. Maybe we should call on them some night and see how they're getting along." We hadn't been to see them except that one time since our marriage.
"No," I said, "I don't believe I want to. Not just yet. I'd much prefer looking into this ad thing."
"Do you really want to?"
"Might add a little zest to things, Abbie."
"All right. Call the man up." She paused and rubbed her breasts again. "I know that you miss your mother. I don't blame you."
"But I don't," I protested. "Not really."
She smiled. "All right, have it your way."
I kissed her on the side of the face. "Want me to call these people up, the ones who put the ad in the paper?"
"Wait a while. Let me think about it?"
"But just a minute ago you said it was okay."
"It's a woman's privilege to change her mind."
"Who told you that?" I asked, grinning at her. "Nobody. I told myself."
I reached down and touched the nipple of her breast. "Feel like a little excitement?"
"I'm always ready for that." She bit her lips and frowned. "You haven't been very nice to me of late, you know."
"I know. I can't help it for some reason."
"You mean about not being able to get a hardon?"
"Of course. What else would I mean?"
"Is it because you've been having this trouble that you want to meet this other couple?"
"Maybe."
"Don't you love me any more, Robert?"
"It's not a question of love. It's ... something else."
"What else could it be?"
"I don't know."
"Have you been thinking about your mother a lot?"
I wet my lips. "Yes, damn her."
"Why blame her?"
"Because I think she ruined me."
"Nuts! You just think you're ruined. Take it out and let me play with it for a while. Bet I can get it hard for you, honey."
I hesitated.
"What's the matter with you? Don't you care about blowing off any more?"
"Hell yes. You know I do."
"Then take it out and let me play with it. I promise you I'll get it hard and we can screw one another."
"I'm not in the mood."
"You've said that a lot of times lately. Maybe you'd better ... go and see your mother."
"No. The hell with that."
"You'd have to go when my father isn't there, I imagine. Maybe he wouldn't like to have you screw his wife."
"I don't want to screw her, damn it! Knock it off about my mother, will you please?"
Tears came into her eyes. "What am I going to do with you? You don't want me to play with it, you don't want to do it to me. Why did we get married, if that's the way you feel toward me."
"Damn it, I don't feel that way toward you. It's just that there's something ... lacking in me, and I don't know what it is."
"I know what it is. You're used to having your mother around. Now you don't have that and you're lost."
"I'm not lost. It's just a physical thing."
"You're only eighteen. It can't he physical. Come on, honey. Unzip, take it out and I'll suck you off. That ought to be easy for you to do."
I sat on the edge of the bed. "All right, Abbie. Tell you what. You take it out and do whatever you want to do."
She reached over, unzipped me and snaked her hand into my pants. I felt her take my penis between her fingers and massage it gently. I became half-hard and, when she felt this, she sighed and leaned over my lap and placed her lips over my cock. She ran her tongue around on the gland, sucking me as she did so. Her left hand snaked between my legs, and, with her fingers, she gently rubbed my balls. I became a bit harder, and I could see and hear the excitement growing in her, her breathing growing faster, her body shivering, and beads of perspiration appearing on her brow. Her head bobbed up and down quite rapidly now, and I had to admit it felt good. My wife really knew how to suck a cock, no mistake about it. And then it happened without my having become fully hard.
I blew my wad into her mouth and she swallowed it down greedily, happily, and all the while giving my legs repeated pinches of joy with her right hand.
She pulled away from me, then, and flopped over on her back, her legs spread widely apart. "While it's still a bit hard, stick it in, honey," she panted. "Stick it into me and screw me."
I crawled on top of her and put it in as best I could, but I had difficulty getting it all the way in there just wasn't enough firmness to insert it properly. She cried out, wrapped her legs about mine and began to pump at me. I responded, of course, and together we had a sort of sex act, though it wasn't a good one.
I finally blew again, and she cried out in delight and kissed me passionately. "See, Robert, I knew you could if you'd only try."
I lay there on top of her and thought about my mother. Almost immediately, my prong became stiff and started dripping.
"Robert!" she cried out. "It hard, it's very hard. Oh ... good. Blow off in me, honey, blow off in me again."
I knew for certain now what was wrong with me, and I also knew what to do about it. I pretended I was screwing my mother, and in no time at all I was successful in filling my wife's cunt with thick, male milk.
I was elated at my discovery, and felt that from now on I would have no trouble in dealing with my problem. My spirits began to rise almost immediately, and Abbie and I had a ball of a time for two or three weeks before the same trouble returned to me one night while we were in bed.
"Robert," she said, "what's wrong now? I thought you had gotten over that." She'd just felt my dick, had rubbed it and nothing had happened.
"I can't get one just any old time, Abbie. No guy can do that."
"Guy your age should be able to, Robert," she cried angrily, and turned over on the bed, her back to me.
"Come on. Don't make a big deal of it."
She didn't reply, so I turned on my side and finally went to sleep. The next morning when I awakened she wasn't in bed. I didn't have to go to work-it was my day off-so I turned over on my other side and dropped off to sleep again. When I awakened the second time, it was noon. I got out of bed, showered and shaved, and went to the kitchen. Abbie wasn't there, nor was she in the house. Thinking she had gone shopping or something of that nature, I hunted about the house for cigarettes and couldn't find any. I slipped on a jacket and walked to the corner grocery.
When I had purchased a pack and was leaving the store, I almost bumped into a girl who apparently was about to enter the place.
"Hello," she said shyly. "Remember me?"
It was the fourteen-year-old whore. "Hi," I said, smiling. "How are you?"
"Fine. And you?"
"I'm fine, too."
"That's good. How is your ...?"
"My mother? I don't know. Haven't seen her in over four months."
She nodded thoughtfully. "That's good," she said. "Come and see me sometime. I owe you ... one."
"Thank you."
She walked into the store after smiling at me nicely, and I turned and moved down the street slowly. So she thought it was good for me not to have seen my mother. Maybe she was right. I was amazed by this kid's actions and words-she seemed to know more about life than I did and I was four years older than she.
I increased my pace and turned the corner to return home. I got about half a block from the house and stopped in my tracks. I didn't want to go home, didn't want to see my wife. I wanted something else, and immediately I knew what it was.
I wanted to screw my mother.
I found myself standing at the door of her home. I tried the door, but it was locked, so I pressed the button and waited. No one came to let me in, so I went around to the rear of the house and tried the kitchen door. It, too, was locked. I remembered a basement window I used to crawl through when out late with no key and I went to it and got into the basement. I hoped the door from the basement to the kitchen was unlocked, and a moment later I discovered it was. I stepped into the kitchen and looked around at the place. Everything was the same as it had always been. The place was spotlessly clean. There were new blue mats-I suppose you could call them mats-on the floor, little ones.
I walked through the dining room and living room and stood at the foot of the open staircase, glancing up it. My mother wasn't in the living room, nor was Mr. LeBlanc.
I hesitated.
I wanted to run up the stairs, enter my mother's bedroom and, provided she was there, throw my body on top of hers and....
Something prevented me from going up the stairs.
Perhaps it was fear. Fear that she wouldn't respond, that she might reject me and my lust for her.
I heard a sound from upstairs and turned my glance in that direction. I saw Mr. LeBlanc standing on the mezzanine looking down at me strangely.
I swallowed hard, scarcely able to believe what I saw.
Mr. LeBlanc in four months had become incredibly thin and aged.
"Sir," I called up to him, but he didn't answer. "Sir," I repeated. "Mr. LeBlanc. Is my mother in?"
His arm raised and he pointed a trembling finger at the front door. "Go," he rasped. "Go away from here, boy."
"What is it?" I called up. "Are you ill, Mr. LeBlanc? Where is my mother?"
"Go away, boy. Go home to my daughter and take care of her."
"Is my mother here?" I persisted.
"You cannot see your mother. Go home, boy."
"Why not? Is she ill, too?"
"Go," he intoned. "And be quick about it!"
I started to ascend the stairs, but something about the look on his face told me I'd better not. I studied him for a moment, noting the horrible look of his face: drawn, pale, wasted away.
"Are you ill, sir?" I asked again.
He pointed at the door. "Go home to your wife, boy. Don't come back here again."
I turned away from the stairs, went to the front door and let myself out. The door locked itself automatically when it swung shut. I could hear the click of the clock. This astonished me almost as much as had the appearance and behavior of Mr.
LeBlanc, for my mother had always insisted that the front door never be locked during the daylight hours.