"Her Foxy Mom" - читать интересную книгу автора (DeSantis M.)

Chapter 2

She closed the door to her room behind her – and then stood, motionless.

What could she do?

Her body was burning with the need to come and her mind still reeled with what she'd seen and heard in her mother's room.

Why not me?

Every fiber of her body, every nerve, seemed preternaturally sensitive. She was aware of the terry cloth robe against her nipples and breasts, caressing them with each breath. She could feel the material on her ass cheeks, pressing against the smooth, firm-molded mounds of flesh. She felt it against her thighs, her hips; her flat abdomen – and she could feel the coolness of the air in her room slipping between the folds of the robe to rub and taunt her overheated pussy.

Why does Sal always stop?

She and Sal had been going together for almost four months. He'd kissed her deeply, slipped his hands inside her blouses and sweaters and tasted her breasts. He'd insinuated his fingers beneath her slacks and skirts and dresses to rub her sweet little chub of a cunt. Once he'd even opened her blouse and sucked her tits.

But he always stopped.

Like tonight.

She remembered the feel of his hands on her, remembered the way his fingers had found her nipples inside her top that night. He'd know how to tweak them just so, sending shivers of mingled pleasure and pain through her.

She slid her own hands between the folds of the robe. The sash, already loosened, fell open. Charlene cupped her own breasts, tenderly squeezed them. Her knees became weak and her cunt felt as if it would burst into flame at any moment.

She lifted her tits, testing their firm, seventeen-year-old thrust, their well-developed fullness, the creamy texture of the flesh. She revolved them slightly, feeling all the muscles and ligaments gently pulling. She closed her eyes, imagining that it was Sal doing it to her, that he was standing behind her and his hands were on her tits.

Her hands slipped down from her breasts to press against her rib cage, then moved lower. Her fingers glided over her trim waist, the gentle flare of her slim hips, then dropped to the sleek, smooth, taut flesh of her thighs.

Charlene shrugged her shoulders. The robe fell free from her and came to rest on the floor. She stood naked in the center of her room, the only light from the little bedside lamp. She faced the full-length mirror again and she looked at herself with appreciative eyes. She watched her own hands move over the tops of her thighs. She shifted, legs parting more. Now her hands moved up over the soft, extrasensitive inner flesh at the tops of her thighs.

Her vision telescoped in on her fingers. They moved and meandered about the juncture of her lissome legs.

She shuddered as her fingertips grazed the outermost edges of her pussy lips. That felt so good!

She imagined that it was Sal touching her pussy, toying with her labia, that his fingers were fondling and squeezing the soft petals.

She shoved one hand between her thighs, cupping her cunt in her palm. She pressed against her quim, rubbing it slowly in little ellipsoid circles that both massaged her cunt lips and drew them back and forth over her warming clitoral nubbin's tip. Her legs were getting weak, rubbery and her knees began to buckle.

She pulled her hand from between her legs, looking down at it. She could see the bright dew of her pussy on the flesh. The inner walls of her unfucked cunt screamed for something long and thick and hard to be crammed between them – something long and hard and thick and hot, filled with hot blood and ready to fire hot semen.

A cock.

But the only cock in the house was attached to her mother's lover.

She had a quick mental image of herself walking, naked, into her mother's bedroom at that moment.

She visualized Derek and her mother going at it again and in her mind she saw herself walking to the edge of the bed, tapping Derek on the shoulder. In that fantasy they stopped their fucking and looked up at her, smiling patiently.

"Mind if I borrow him for a little while, Mom? Just for a half hour or so?"

"Oh, sure, honey, go right ahead. I'll do my nails while I'm waiting."

Her eyes flickered over the room – and came to rest on her hairbrush. It was an ultra-modern design, sent to her by her father for a birthday present a few months before. The hairbrush was part of a matched set of utensils that included a comb and a teasing brush. They were made of Lucite acrylic, smoky pink.

She crossed the room to the dresser and lifted the hairbrush in pussy-juiced fingers. The handle extended a good six inches from it and was a bit thicker than her index finger.

It was only a substitute, she knew, and a poor substitute at that.

But it was all she had.

As she baked at it, one hand slithered back down between her legs. Her fingers moved lightly over her labia, teasing the flesh and maintaining the terrible level of her as yet unsatisfied arousal.

Like someone in a dream, she walked to her bed. With each step, her pussy lips moved back and forth beneath her fingers. She sat on the edge of the bed and lay back, her long legs bent at the sedge of the mattress and her feet flat on the floor, her sleek thighs widespread. She let the tip of the brush handle trail over her breasts, around and around the snowy hillocks of firm flesh. The tip moved over her nipples. They were stiff, swollen with hot blood and even more sensitive than usual to tactile sensation. She bit her lower lip to stifle a sigh of pleasure as she pushed the end of the brush handle down onto her nipples, each in turn, indenting the turgid tit-tips.

Then she moved the brush handle down in the narrow valley of cleavage between her breasts, closing her eyes and telling herself that it was a man's cock, that he was letting her feel its hardness against her dermis before he thrust that rigidity into her twat.

Still lower, the end of the Lucite brush handle moved over her flushed body. It barely grazed the softened ridges of taut, lean muscle crisscrossing her stomach, only lightly trailed over the sensitive flesh of her flat abdomen.

The tip of the hairbrush handle was at the outermost tendrils of her fiery pubic thatch. Charlene's lower glory was as titian as her head's mane – but a shade or so lighter, with more of the coppery fire and less of the somber brown in its hue. She traced the perimeter of the soft, silken fur, legs parting with excitement and anticipation.

And in her mind, her lover was gripping his hard cock with one hand, guiding it ever closer to the softly haired slit of pink between her long, lissome legs. In her mind, that lover was Sal, her boyfriend, with his quick hands and cheerfully boyish smile and dark brown eyes.

But as the tip of the handle began probing at the wet region of her labia and the crease of her thighs, her imaginary lover began to change. His features became vague and indistinct in her mental view. His face become older, his smile less boyish and more confident, his hands less fluttering and more certain.

She flicked the end of the hairbrush up and down against her lower lip, biting it to stifle the groans of pleasure welling up in her throat. The cool lucite was quickly becoming slimed with her abundant pussy juices. The touch of it moving up and down between the tightly compressed edges of her cute little chub lips was sending new shivers of excitement through her.

In her mind's eyes, she was a voyeur watching herself and a man, a mature man, a dark-complected man with dark hair and a strong, slim, fit body and incredibly knowing hands. The man's face resolved itself, became distinct in her imagination.

Derek.

"Oooooo," she moaned, wedging the tip of the substitute cock between her labia. She swiveled it around and around a bit, trying to duplicate with the rounded Lucite end of the handle what she'd seen Derek doing to her mother with the swollen knob of his cock only moments before. She felt her cunt lips pulling and shifting, being drawn back and forth about the shaft of her protruding little clitoris. The sensations roiled more urgently inside her. Her hips tensed and rolled on the bed with the wash of pleasure through her lithe form. Her breasts, so large and full for an otherwise slender frame, jiggled and heaved with the increasing violence of her writhing.

She pressed the makeshift dildo into her cunt, both hands between her legs gripping the wiry bristles. As the slender shaft probed up into her, her mouth slowly opened wider and wider. Her head jerked from side to side on the bed, her hair whipping back and forth.

Deeper and deeper, she could feel the cock of her fantasy lover plumbing her innermost regions. She felt the touch of flesh against her pussy lips. It was her hands, but in her mind the touch was that of Derek's groin as the base of his cock sank into her quim grip. Her legs opened still more and she heaved her willowy hips forward to met his thrust.

She pulled the hairbrush lover back, shuddering as she felt her cunt walls clamping tightly together behind it. She loved his touch; he knew exactly how to move inside her, precisely how she wanted his rigid dick to probe up into her body. He was so good, just as she'd thought he would be, just as she'd hoped.

Back and forth, in and out, the handle of the hairbrush plunged between her tight labia. Her hips jerked upwards, arching and bumping. The bed shifted beneath her with the power of her heaves. She took one hand from the false cock she used and brought it up, to her rollicking tits. Charlene caught one nipple between her thumb and forefinger, tweaking it, squeezing it, rolling it, pretending that the touch was not of her own hand but of his hips, that he'd leaned his head down to suck her breasts as he fucked her slavering cunt.

The sound of the lucite dildo working within the grip of her hungry, wet cunt joined the little gasps and moans escaping her lips. Loud slurps and sucking noises grew both in volume and intensity as she whipped the hairbrush back and forth between her legs. With each instroke, the edge of her hand pressed against the lips of her cunt and her aching clitoris, adding those sensations to the feel of the slick, hard lucite handle within her vaginal walls.

Faster, harder, as if she intended to disembowel herself, she was working the handle of the hairbrush in and out of her twat with furious need.

In her mind, her lover was fucking his big hard prick into her cunt with the power of impending orgasm. She was eager to feel him coming inside her, desperate to feel his hot juices flooding inside her snatch, filling her pussy and womb to overflowing. She wanted his semen to drench her innards till it backed up and flooded out of her slot, staining the bed beneath her.

She felt the explosion growing closer within her. Her hips writhed sinuously, arching up to meet every thrust from her dream lover's cock. And then – She came. It was on her, all at once. The full rush of her coming slammed through her body, starting at the entrance of her cunt and spreading outward. She bridged upwards, her pelvis humping towards the ceiling. With abrupt strength, she crammed the last of the hairbrush handle into her twat and threw her head back. Her mouth lolled open. Her breasts rose, fell, rose – and stayed there, throbbing, thrust upwards. Her thighs shook, her calves knotted, her belly rippled, and most of all, her cunt contracted and fluttered over the length of the lucite rod shoved into her.

She fell back, panting. Charlene expelled the breath she'd been unconsciously holding. The coiled ball of tension between her hips unraveled, taking with it her carefully constructed fantasy.

But not her frustration.

For despite it all, she still wanted to feel a real cock in her slot, wanted to feel it throbbing and jerking and spasming, wanted most of all to feel it spitting and spurting hot, thick, heavy cream all over the blazing fires within her body.

She lay there, half on the edge of the bed gasping for breath. The hairbrush protruded from her cunt, the handle still tightly gripped by the strong little muscles at the entrance of her fiery young cunt. The coppery hair there was tangled and matted about the shaft of the handle. The lucite itself was slimed with pussy juice.

She reached down and gripped the end of the hairbrush. She started to pull it out, then hesitated. She twisted it and the handle moved with little friction of her vaginal hold, fanning still more the dying ember of her lust.

But then her eyes caught sight of the clock. It was late, nearly two in the morning, and she had to get up for school in a few hours. Catching her full, pouting lower lip between her even white teeth to repress the moans fighting to escape her mouth, she pulled the hairbrush handle out of her snatch. The feel of it coming out again reminded her of the peak she'd achieved just moments before and more – it reminded her body of the pleasure.

The handle gone, she lay there again for long moments, staring up at the ceiling and wishing that her lover hadn't been merely imaginary. She tried to dream what it would be like to feel a man's limp dong pulling out of her pretty little slit and then the steady drool of his semen dribbling from between the tightly compressed lips. She tried to imagine that her lover would take her in his arms and tenderly kiss her, vowing never to so much as look at another woman, that she was so good to him with sex that no other woman could possibly interest him.

She tried to imagine it. But it was hard.

She thought of her boyfriend. Why didn't he take her? Why did he always back off? He had to know she wanted to feel his prick inside her cunt, couldn't help but know it.

Finally, she sat up, then stood. The cock of her dream lover, the hairbrush, lay forgotten on the bedspread as she strode with languid, uneasy grace into her bathroom and prepared for bed.

And even as she twisted the chromed faucet handles and the water came gushing out, she was already deciding what she would do to cure her frustration. She would no longer play the role of the passive, unresisting young girl with her boyfriend. That hadn't succeeded in getting her the sex she wanted.

No, she was going to take the initiative.

She slipped into the bed. For long minutes she lay there, mind racing. Sleep wouldn't come. She was too tense, too stiff, every muscle throbbing, aware of every beat of blood pulsating through her veins. As always, she was naked beneath the covers, and when her fingers finally meandered down to the juncture of her sleek thighs, they had no difficulty at all in finding the pleasure spots between them.