Forbidden, Unrequited

Though I’m sure the show wasn’t meant for me, I saw at least two girls drop things then bend to pick them up, knowing just how to fetch the item to show things to best advantage. I managed to catch glimpses of thong tops over the waist of their tight hip-huggers, and one really nice (!?) panty-covered crotch beneath a short skirt. I felt the young female energy teasing me through the air, and everywhere I looked it seemed there was another display of young female flesh to be devoured by my over-stimulated, scrubbed-raw, mind.

Finally, I’d had enough and tore my eyes from the tight, blue-jean-clad ass of some anonymous young thing and dashed into the men’s room. Closing myself in a stall, I sat down for a minute to regain my breath and decide if I was really going to do what I thought I was going to do. After only a few minutes of agonizing, I stood and dropped my drawers for the umpteenth time that day, then sat down and got to work.

I was so damn hard and had been for so long, there was a huge wet spot in my underwear, so there was going to be plenty of lubrication for the task at hand. The whole affair would have been much easier if this’d been a private restroom, instead of a public one, but I couldn’t wait to find a more secluded place.

It took a Herculean effort not to moan out loud when I finally wrapped my fingers around my aching shaft. For a minute, I just sat there holding myself, knowing if I just started stroking, I’d lose control and make a spectacle of myself, yelling out loud right there in the mall men’s room. Normally it would have been too harrying an idea, jerking off while all those men and boys came and went just outside the flimsy stall door. At that moment, though, it was no hindrance.

Instead of just letting my hand fly, I had to take it slow, for the same reason I didn’t just start as soon as I got my pants down. The last thing I needed was for somebody to call security on the pervert in the restroom.

Fortunately, even though I was taking it slow, so I could maintain some degree of control, my orgasm came quickly. When it did finally start to rise, it took a *lot* of willpower not to yell at the top of my lungs at the release of my pent-up frustration.

There was a part of me that wanted to know just how far I’d be shooting. I was so worked up, I figured it’d be a couple feet at least. But, I didn’t have the luxury. I didn’t feel like having to mop up after myself when I’d finished. Then it’d be *real* obvious what the pervert in the third stall had been up to. Grabbing some paper and folding it up to catch my cum, I bit my tongue and let it go.

The spasms of my orgasm actually hurt. My cock had been so hard for so long, I’d developed blue balls like I’d never had before. And when you get *that* frustrated, the actual pain of release is nearly as great as the relief.

One note of curiosity. You know how I mentioned earlier about the amount I thought I’d cum? It’s not a direct corollary. In this case, it turned out being an inverse. Instead of cumming a quart, it turns out that apparently there were enough muscles wound tight enough that not much fluid could get through. Therefore, instead of cumming a lot, there were only a few dribbles that just kind of oozed instead of firing out with any kind of force. The relief I felt was palpable, though. In fact, I found myself getting light-headed and grabbed the toilet paper dispenser to steady myself. Regardless of whether anybody knew what I’d been up to, I *really* didn’t want to faint in a men’s room stall, with my pants down. After a minute or so, the feeling passed and I quickly cleaned myself up and got out of there.

As I left the mall, I discovered that I’d mostly lost my hard-on, and it was replaced by an ache at the base of my cock and on either side of my balls. That would go away in a little while, though.

On the way to the car, I saw more well-formed women, but I noticed the mother-types, too, a good sign that the majority of my sensitivity to the young ones had mostly passed, or was at least closer to normal. Once in the car, it set in what I’d just done. I reasoned that it at least was all those *other* barely-dressed young women I’d jerked off to, and not just my own daughter. It was splitting hairs, but at that point, I was searching for rationalizations wherever I could find them.

Of course, rationalization aside, with relief from my agony came guilt. I now felt like I’d betrayed my wife in a manner that I hadn’t done before in any of my other masturbation sessions. Even though I’d waited and received more stimulation than had originally begun my ordeal, the fact remained that I’d gotten hard looking at, and thinking about, my daughter, then acting on that reaction, regardless of timing.

I figured my best bet was just to head back home. I didn’t want to end up somewhere that might trigger another episode like the one I’d just undergone. Though, with my daughter gone, at least I wouldn’t have *that* factor to complicate matters. Nevertheless, I was still feeling pretty guilty about the whole ordeal. I wondered if I’d be able to talk about all this with my wife. A big part of me was scared what her reaction might be. All misgivings aside, I knew I’d be telling her. After all these years there were very few secrets we kept from the other. I also knew my conscience wouldn’t allow me to keep it inside.

The immediate pressure off, I figured I’d try to get some of that reading done that I’d hoped to do earlier.

In the house, I headed for the bedroom. I figured on just propping some pillows on the bed and reading in the comfort of the air conditioning.

Grabbing my wife’s pillow, I stacked it on top of mine and proceeded to lean against it. Unfortunately, this wasn’t enough padding to be very comfortable, but I quickly latched on to the idea of piling a blanket or two behind everything to make the whole thing more like a lounge.

Rummaging around in the closet, I found a couple of blankets I thought would work great. I grabbed them both with one hand, and with the other steadied the stack of stuff on top of them and gave a quick tug. Well, suffice it to say that my steadying hand wasn’t doing its job. Everything in that pile came tumbling down on top of me. Fortunately, it was just sheets and old sweaters, but it still meant I had a lot of stuff to pick up.

In getting things all straightened back up to put back on the shelf, I came across my senior yearbook, which had apparently been somewhere in that stack.

I put all the stuff I didn’t want back in the closet, then carried my yearbook and the blankets I’d been after to the bed. I arrayed the folded blankets and pillows the way I wanted, then tried them out. Oh, yeah, that was going to be a lot more comfortable.

My new book lay forgotten on the side table when I sat back, and I grabbed the yearbook and started leafing through it.

Memories flooded back to me as I turned the pages. I found my picture and my wife’s, then looked for a few friends I hadn’t seen since the last reunion. A niggling little itch at the back of my mind made me flip back to my wife’s picture.

For a long minute, I stared at the face in the photo, the face of the girl I’d fallen in love with, trying to think what the little whine in my head was trying to tell me.

Suddenly, a memory of that morning flashed across my inner eye, and set my curiosity a-tingling.

Carrying the yearbook along, I went to the living room and stood in front of Donna’s senior picture. I held the yearbook up to that photo and compared the two young women.

Damned if they didn’t look almost exactly alike! There were differences in hairstyle and dress, my wife’s nose a little longer, her cheekbones a touch higher, but aside from that, they could have been the same person.

Was *that* why I’d reacted so when I bumped into my daughter that morning? Was it some adolescent recollection? Then I remembered something else. I paged through quickly to pictures from the annual variety show.

There it was. Rhonda and three of her friends had done a little routine to the song “Splish Splash” or something like that. They sang and danced, and their costumes were simply towels wrapped around their bodies, with their hair wrapped in towels on top of their heads like turbans. And standing right in the center of the picture, her mouth open in song, was my Rhonda.

It was as if a switch had been thrown. I watched them from the wings while I worked stage crew for the show. When they came off stage, I was looking at a couple of the girls, when Rhonda bumped into me while I gawked.

As clear as it had been that night, I could still see the look on Rhonda’s face, the set of her shoulders, the position of her head. Just like the cops checking fingerprints against a database in a TV show, my mind laid that image over the memory of my experience that morning. Though the words said were different, though there was over twenty years between one and the other, the situations were nearly identical, right down to the look of the lady.

I remembered my reaction that evening, and how similar it was to the reaction I’d had that morning. Was *that* why I’d gotten hard? Was I remembering seeing Donna’s mother all those years ago dressed almost identically and standing almost the same? For one thing, I know it sounds cliché, but they could almost have been sisters, the prime difference was that there was a generation’s difference between them.

Was it the youth I’d reacted to? Obviously, the animal part of me was remembering that incident from high school and drawing a similarity to what I’d experienced that morning and reacted accordingly. Maybe I was rationalizing again, but it made sense. Why my brain had made the connection now instead of years ago, I couldn’t say. I’d watched my wife age with me, and to me she hadn’t changed, but that’s because I was seeing it all gradually, and I hadn’t looked at that yearbook since Donna was about nine, so the connection was slow in coming together.

Of course, all this rationalization didn’t change the fact that I was still feeling guilty over the occurrences of the day. The fact remained that I’d gotten turned on by my daughter’s body, whether it was my wife some fragment of my brain was seeing or not. Did that mean I was tired of Rhonda, a woman I *had* shared more of my life with than I hadn’t? I didn’t think so. I wasn’t ready to drop her for some cute little youngster. As frustrating as comfort could be sometimes, I realized that when she wasn’t there, I looked forward to seeing her walk through the door. Although she had some habits that set my teeth on edge (and vice versa) I knew that they were what made her the woman I loved. And when I compared the picture of her in the yearbook to the one of our daughter, then compared both of those to the woman in the two-year-old family Christmas picture, I realized that it was still the same woman in the picture... the woman I loved and who made me complete.

I only hoped I could convince her of that when I confessed what happened earlier that day.

The rest of the afternoon was pretty uneventful. I got some reading done (the new book wasn’t as good as the dust jacket blurb made it sound) and I even found the time and inclination to mow the yard.

In fact, just as I was putting the mower away in the garage, my wife pulled up. I felt my face breaking out into a smile as she got out of the car and I saw her smiling, too.

Walking toward her, I said, “I’d give you a hug, but I’m all dirty and sweaty.”

Rhonda put her quilting bag on top of the car while she unloaded a couple other things. “Well, Lisa’s air was out, and the fans kept blowing all the squares all over the place, so we had to do everything in the stuffy kitchen. So I’m not as fresh as a daisy either. C’mere.”

Sometimes familiarity isn’t such a horrible thing. We’d been through enough together that a hot, sweaty hug was nothing. When I drew her in close, I could see the hair clinging to her neck, and feel the stickiness of her skin. It may sound odd, but at that moment, I even thought she smelled good. There was something in the musk of her odor that really turned me on. I broke the hug and Rhonda made to pull away, thinking I was done, but I grabbed her tighter and gave her a long, lingering kiss.

Our tongues danced together in that familiar way we’d developed over long, interested experimentation. The whole while, I was inhaling those intoxicating pheromones. My cock swiftly got hard, and I could feel Rhonda’s nipples boring into my chest through both our T-shirts and her bra. We’d never gone on quite like this before. I wondered what was making Rhonda so excited, I could only partially explain *my* arousal. Part of mine was still guilt. I was trying to drown it in my wife’s body. Beyond that, I simply was really turned on by the woman I married.

Eventually, we moved apart, and I said, “Gee, did ya miss me?”

Rhonda smirked and brushed her hand “innocently” against my crotch. “I think I could ask you the same thing.” It doesn’t happen often, but that made me blush like it had the first time she’d been obvious in noting my arousal.

When I’d gotten over my sheepishness, I replied, “You’re one to talk.” I didn’t touch her nipples, since we were standing in the middle of the driveway, with our neighbors and their kids out in the yards all around us.

Rhonda knew what I was talking about. “*You’re* the one who did this to me.” She briefly glanced down at the little protrusions poking from her thin T-shirt. Suddenly, I hoped none of the neighbors could see.

Once in a while, we’d get into these little conversations, and while they were great, as I said, the neighbors were all around, and I didn’t want to let them in on our little game.

“So, no air aside, how did the quilting go?”

Immediately, Rhonda got excited. “You ought to see. It turned out better than we expected. I volunteered to bring it home and wash it before the auction.” She ducked down into the car and brought out a bulging garbage bag. She proceeded to peel the bag off its contents and when she’d accomplished that, she grabbed hold of an edge and let the whole thing open up before me.

I must say, it was impressive. Anyone who’s never given any thought to what it takes to make a quilt hasn’t the slightest idea what a huge undertaking it is. There are six ladies in my wife’s little quilting group, and they all pitched in time and money to create this. For months, they’d been meeting and sewing at least twice a week. Early on, it was mostly social, but as things progressed, it became more and more serious. They’d been at our house a couple times, and I was really impressed with all the planning it took to get things just right. The hardest, most time-consuming part was the last bit, when they were doing all the actual quilting by hand. The component pieces were sewn by individuals’ machines, but they opted not to have the final quilting done on a machine and did it all by hand.

From behind the enormous piece of cloth, I heard, “So what do you think?”

I couldn’t think of anything to say but, “Amazing.”

“But do you like it?”

"Of course I do. You ladies do fantastic work.”

Rhonda started to fold it back up again. “Thank you. We're hoping they’ll be able to get about five hundred for it.”

The prices people paid for these things always astonished me. It was a further reason the ladies had decided to do the finish work by hand. Machine sewn quilts were expensive, but hand done ones are rarer nowadays.

While my wife folded the quilt and stuffed it back into the garbage bag, I decided to see if I could take advantage of the apparently playful mood she seemed to be in. I went over to the car and asked, “Need any help?” hoping she’d catch the lame double entendre in my little statement.

Having just finished re-bagging the quilt, she shoved it into my arms and replied, “Here. Thanks.” She then grabbed the stuff on top of the car and started into the house.

Inside, I tossed the huge bundle on the couch and looked around for Rhonda. I didn’t realize it’d taken me so long to get inside. From down the hall I heard, “Yoo hoo.”

Yes, she said that. It’s silly, I know, but it told me she *was* still in a playful mood. “I’m taking a shower.” When I didn’t follow immediately, her head poked around the door frame. “You coming?”

Now that I knew her intention, I got a little corny myself. Starting toward the bathroom, I shot back, “Not yet, but hopefully you can help with that.”

I know, you’re wondering, “What the...?” I said our lives had become rather routine, and our love life sporadic. I didn’t say we didn’t have the occasional spontaneous romp now and then. Of course, as I said before, I think part of it for me was an attempt to prove to myself that I still was attracted to my wife, and that the episode this morning was just an anomaly. So far, I was proving that theory correct.

When I reached the bathroom, just as I turned the corner, I found my wife bending over, removing her socks. This of course, stretched her jeans across her rear, giving me a great view of her lovely butt.

“Now, there aren’t too many sights more sexy than that.” I knew there was a smile on Rhonda’s face at that little comment, because she wiggled her ass at me. She *was* in a mood, and I was glad for it.

She then quickly straightened and whipped of her jeans and panties, staying bent at the waist to remove them. “That better?”

I drooled at the sight of her bare, perfect ass, with the pussy lips just peeking out from beneath her tight little puckered asshole. “Oh yes. Much better.”

She stood and turned around, giving me a view, naked from the waist down. Striking a pose she asked, “How’s this?”

My cock was starting to ache again, but this time, in a good way. “Better yet.” I started getting undressed myself.

Last, Rhonda reached behind her and fiddled for a second, then stripped off her shirt and bra in the same motion. Striking yet another pose, she just smiled, not saying anything.

What clothes I had left came off almost immediately. I stepped up to her and gathered her up in my arms, reveling in the feel of our bodies pressing together. Rhonda’s breasts felt fabulous, mashing into my chest, and she let out a sigh when I shoved my hard-on against her belly. Gazing down into her upturned face, I whispered, “Best of all,” then leaned in and kissed her again.

After a kiss that had to have lasted over a minute, Rhonda took my hand and led me into the shower. For the moment, all my angst from earlier was forgotten, especially when Rhonda bent over again to turn on the water, giving me yet another great view of her shapely ass and beautiful pussy.

My cock hollered, “Go for it!” at the sight before me, but I wanted to play a little first. With one hand, I tickled my shaft, with the other, I reached out and fondled my wife’s pretty behind. Every once in a while, I’d caress the soft lips of her pussy, eliciting a soft moan and gentle grind of her hips.

This went on for quite a bit longer than it usually takes to get shower water to a suitable temperature, and eventually, Rhonda straightened and turned to me, her face flushed and full of arousal. Again we kissed, then she stooped, leaned over and pulled the knob that started the shower running.

Rhonda jumped as that first burst of cool water came from the showerhead, as the warm water pushed the cold out. Her little start gave me the chance to pull her in to my body again, and could enjoy the feel of her skin against mine.

For a long while we just stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms while the water ran. Reluctantly, I broke our embrace and said, “If either of us is going to take anything *other* than a cold shower, we better get to it before the water heater runs dry.”

My wife responded by reaching behind me, then handing me the shampoo bottle. “Well then, you better get to it then, shouldn’t you?” She then closed her eyes and waited for me to wash her hair for her.