Gloria's Daughter Ch. 02

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

"I didn't think so," she went on, smoldering. "So you're a bad boy, and if you want to fool yourself into thinking I'm a bad girl, you just go ahead. But don't expect me to play along. I'll keep spreading my legs for you until I can figure out how to get rid of your sorry ass, but all the orgasms in the world won't get me to say I like it."

As the glow of sex faded, I found myself able to get my role-play footing back. "All the orgasms in the world, huh? That sounds like a challenge to me."

"Hah. Dream on."

I rolled onto my side too, so that I could face her and reach around to swat her ass. "I don't have to dream. This piece of tail has me wide awake."

She looked down between us to see my cock stirring, still wrapped in its semen-swollen latex sheath. "Yeah. How did I know that was coming?"

"Must be learning something at college."

With a sigh, she rolled off the bed and stood. Even straight-shouldered and beautifully mimicking her daughter's haughty bearing, Gloria's body couldn't really be mistaken for a college girl's. Her modest breasts had held up to age okay, but certainly not with teenage pertness. The round swell of her belly and the kink of her waist showed too much maturity, her skin too many little telltale wrinkles. But somehow she had the energy and the fire. And while she was obviously no fresh-bodied teen, she still had a shape lots of women could only pray to Jenny Craig for. I could totally buy the package - which, technically, I guess I was doing.

Hands on hips, she said, "So what am I going to have to do to get you out of here?"

I kept my eyes on her while stretching for the condoms on the nightstand, which meant I had to fumble around a little before I found them. Every second watching her defiant, delicious form got me harder and harder. By the time my fingers landed on the strip of rubbers, I had a full-fledged boner again.

"I think," I said, peeling the used one from my erection, "that I want to fuck you on that pile of laundry."

With a flick of my wrist, I sent the little cum-filled balloon sailing across the room to plop right in the middle of the clothesbasket. Gloria's jaw slid open into a gape as a viscous runnel of my semen drooled out of the condom and down the front of a blouse, gooey white on soft powder-blue. Something genuine in her look of horror made me realize those were definitely her daughter's clothes, and that she'd expected to just hang or fold them back up after we were done. Then her mouth started to shape an astonished laugh, only to freeze and clamp down on the sound. Then something clicked and she was Brandy again.

"What. The. Fuck." She marched over to the basket, grabbed up the condom, scrunched it in her fist and then threw it at me. I ducked, and it splatted against the wall. Part of me felt bad about going too far, but another part of me spotted a playful flame in her blue eyes that said she was rolling with it and everything would be fine. She lifted the blouse from the clothes heap, staring at the pearly dribble that streaked its breast.

"What's the big deal?" I asked, taking a couple of casual steps toward her. "It was dirty anyway, right? Why don't you just suck the cum off, drop it back in the pile, and we can get to it."

This time, her dropped jaw was clearly deliberate, followed up immediately with a tooth-clenching scowl. "Oh, no. I'm not lapping up your spew and letting you ream me over my own dirty-clothes pile. You want me on that basket, you lick this thing clean."

"Me?" I asked, blinking.

She just thrust the jizz-spattered top toward me, spread across her hands.

I tried to figure out what the asshole version of me would do.

"What's the matter, scared of a little of your own man-juice? Haha, this is good - Mister Big Man's all squeamish about sucking up a couple drops of cum."

I took a half-step forward. She held the blouse farther out. Then, with a flare of inspiration in her eyes, she said, "Tell you what, you lick and suck it up, and I'll even pretend to like it while you're banging me on the laundry."

All by itself, the taunt in her tone put enough real humiliation into me to make me do what she said. Add in the layer of Gloria pretending to be Brandy pretending to enjoy getting fucked in a heap of dirty clothes, and I was moving before I knew it.

I grabbed the shirt from her and brought it up toward my face, meeting her I-dare-you gaze until it was almost to my mouth. Then I looked at the load of goo on the cloth and had a momentary shiver of distaste. It's not like I'd never tasted my own cum before, but this was cum that had been sitting in a lubricated condom for several minutes, and for some reason it was particularly unappealing.

A glance up showed a gleeful smirk on Brandy's face, so I screwed up my courage and stuck the slimy patch of cloth in my mouth to suck. Cold, salty-bitter goo slid off the blouse and across my tongue, with just enough hint of latex and chemical aftertaste to make it really nasty.

"That's it, work some spit into it and really get it clean!"

I tried to leer with my eyes while sloshing saliva through the weave of the fabric. Gloria just watched and laughed like a teenager reveling in superiority over all of adulthood.

"Blah. There." I tossed the blouse to her, a great dark stain of spit where the semen had been. "Clean enough?"

She put it to her nose, sniffed lightly, and shrugged. Dropping it back onto the basket-heap of clothing, she turned her ass to me, keeping her eyes on me over one shoulder. "Sure, mister cum-sucker. Now put one of those on and I'll hold up my end of the deal."

As I tore open another condom to obey her, Gloria knelt and got to her hands and knees across the laundry basket. She'd really piled it high, and the crest of the heap embraced her breasts and rib-cage as she nestled into it. Her ass, with that freshly marker-drawn heart tattoo, wiggled and rolled at me, flashing a bare, glistening slit and lovely mound.

"Come on, you spooge-drinking creep," she said, wallowing into the laundry, "get it in here and see if you're as good at getting a woman off as you are at slurping up your own jizz."

The insults only inflamed me more, and I quickly knelt behind her, finished rolling on the condom, and got my tip aimed at her flush, swollen pussy lips.

"Oh, mister!" she said at the touch of my crown, voice an artificial octave high. "Is that your penis back there?"

I put one hand flat on the hard plane of her tailbone, guiding myself in with the other.

"Ooh!" she cried out in a mocking porn voice. "Oooh, it's so big and hard!"

The sarcasm dripped as thick as her pussy-juice did, both of them driving me crazy. I took her by the waist with both hands.

"Get ready for the fucking of your life, you little cunt," I said.

"Yes, yes, ooh, give it to me!"

I pulled half out and rammed in.

"Oh, it's like a baseball bat inside my poor teeny teen pussy! What a stud man you are - oof!"

The last sound wasn't entirely faked, as I smacked into her hard enough to scoot the whole laundry pile. Without giving her time to recover, I started fucking hard and fast. She kept her sweet, round bottom at a receptive angle, but didn't otherwise join in. Or rather, her hips didn't join in, but her vagina took me in with that incredible clench that she used to a mimic tight college co-ed fuck-hole.

"How's - this, Brandy?" I asked as I laid it into her.

"It's soooo good," she husked exaggeratedly. "Oh, gosh, mister, I'm coming already!"

She tipped her head back and forth, swinging her long red ponytail.

"Oh yes, I'm coming so hard from your, nff, your big stiff cock."

Still pumping fast, I leaned down onto her, digging my hands into the heap of her daughter's clothes. They felt soft and clean, at once beautiful and disappointing, because the fantasy of plowing into her atop a jumble of soiled laundry would have been that much better if they'd felt the part, if I could have dug up a handful and smelled the lingering girl-sweat and deodorant scent.

"Uh, yeah, Brandy. Uh, uh, you hot little cunt ..." My dick slid in and out of her as fast as I could thrust, and now she'd started pushing back in time with my plunging jabs. "Yes ... cunt ..."

"Yes, yes, it's so big in my tight little pussy!" The mocking edge faltered a moment as I drilled into her and made her gasp. "Ogh -"

Breathing hot into her ear, with a series of firm pumps, I said, "Yeah, you're starting to like that for real, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes, of course, you're such a stud with your giant, auhh ... penis ..." She'd started to quiver and pant now, and I kept working her as fiercely and steadily as I could. She rocked and twisted and shoved back in time. "Oh, oh, oh, your penis ..."

"Take it, Brandy," I gasped. "Yes, take it, girl ..."

Suddenly, she gave a deep and womanly groan. "Ahhh, god, Denny! Fuck me, fuck me ..."

Her head went down into the mounded clothes, muffling a scream of ecstasy.

"That's it - Brandy - you just pretend, just - like - that -"

Almost without warning, my orgasm boiled up out of me and exploded. Gloria's movements had gone spasmodic, uncontrolled. Her snatch quivered loosely around me as I throbbed cum out against the latex barrier of the rubber, filling it up with so many bursts I thought for sure I'd feel the blowback against my pubes before it ended. Wordless female pleasure squealed out through the laundry as I kept coming and she kept coming and the sweat poured off us both to drench the clothes beneath us.

When the last tremor of climax ran through my cock, I wrapped my arms around her and rolled us both off the basket onto our sides in the spill of clothing around it. We lay there panting, Gloria moaning softly, the blue blouse and a couple of other garments trapped against her breasts by my embrace. My erection softened and slipped out of her. Slowly we each got our breath back.

"Some, ah, really good acting there at the end, Brandy," I hushed into her ear.

"Shut up," she said, tightening her arms around mine.

I didn't argue with her, but rested, sated, flush against the naked curve of her back with nothing but our mutual sweat between us. Eventually a sigh went out of her and her arms relaxed.

"So," I said when I thought enough time had passed. "When's the next time you're going to be home to your mom's for a visit?"

She breathed in, then paused for a minute as if trying to decide whether to be nasty or just answer.

"Thanksgiving."

"Mmm," I said, nuzzling her ear. "Maybe I'll come over and give your juicy bird a good stuffing."

"No. No bird to stuff. My mom takes the holiday off, but she never cooks. We just sit around and argue or watch shit on cable."

"Really?" It surprised me to realize that I'd spent the last twelve years, whenever Thanksgiving rolled around, imagining Gloria the picture of loving motherhood baking up a traditional feast for her beautiful daughter.

She nestled against me. "My dad was a prick about Thanksgiving. Made her cook everything, and it all had to be perfect or he'd get pissed."

That's more than she's said about her husband in twelve years. What kind of asshole treats a woman like this that way? Or goes off and leaves her?

"So now she hates Thanksgiving?"

"No, now she hates to cook it. I bitch at her about it because I haven't had a real Thanksgiving since I was nine, but she just tells me I should cook it then, and she'd be happy to eat it."

"So why don't you?"

She sighed. "I tried once, but I just ruined twenty bucks worth of turkey and burned the hell out of some rolls."

"Well did you ever try asking her nicely if she'd help you cook?"

A laugh snorted out of her. "Do I seem like the asking-for-help type to you?"

"I guess not," I said, squeezing her and kissing her cheek. "Let me have my arm back, okay? I need to get up and piss."

She raised herself up off the arm I had beneath her, and I disengaged and stood, stretching. Gloria rolled over and looked up at me.

"What time is it?"

I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. "It's - what? It's eight ten. Good god, was I fucking you so hard we missed the chime?"

"What chime?"

When I looked down, she had a perfect teenage what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about expression on her face. All about her lay her daughter's clothes, damp with the sweat of our sex.

"Your, uh, mother has a chime that goes off. To remind us time's almost up."

"Shit, that's a good idea. I'll set my phone next time. And it really gets rid of you?"

I grinned. "Hah, if you're really that anxious to get rid of me, why are you already planning for 'next time?'"

That got me a scowl. "I thought you needed to piss."

"I'm going," I said, turning toward the powder room.

Her voice brought my head around after a couple of steps. "Hey, Dennis?"

"Yeah?"

She was still flat on her back, head tilted to look at me upside-down. I couldn't read the expression. Then it went sharp again and she said, pointing, "Take your damn clothes in there and get dressed so you can get out of here, and I can go back to studying."

I walked back past her to my clothes strewn across the room.

"Sure, Brandy. Whatever you say."

* * *

By 11:00 a.m., when I pulled up in front of Gloria's house, I felt about ready to keel over from exhaustion. I'd been up since four that morning after a long, insomniac night, and I'd swear my heart rate climbed steadily with every hour past sunrise. The line at the restaurant might as well have been a cardiac stress-test. Traffic was light between the restaurant and Gloria's, but I still forced myself to drive slowly and with extra care, for fear that my jittery arms and hands would send me crashing off the road if someone honked or a squirrel ran in front of me.

It's just going to be a couple of minutes. Knock on the door, wait, say hi, hand over the food, she'll be surprised and say thank you, maybe we'll talk just a bit.

But of course I'd had over a month of should-I-or-shouldn't-I arguments with myself, along with daydreams of being invited in for a chat or to actually share dinner. And the inevitable fantasies of being invited to stay after dinner. So nothing I told myself did anything to calm me down.

Unbuckling my seatbelt with a shaking hand, I'd reached the point of hoping Brandy - or whatever her real name was - would open the door instead of Gloria. That would be quick. No chatting, no angst over whether she was about to ask me inside. Just a puzzled scowl and a handoff of the pre-made Thanksgiving dinner in its festively printed carry-carton.

She did make it sound like Thanksgiving was a lazing around day, I thought as I walked around to the passenger side of the car. It wouldn't be a surprise at all for her to make Brandy get the door. They're not expecting anybody.

Or what if they were?

Popping open the passenger door, I looked up and down the street for any sign of approaching cars, but saw none. Just a chilly, breath-fogging Thanksgiving day along a quiet suburban street, some houses with extra cars parked in front, maybe - I couldn't tell because I never saw this side of the house. I had no idea how many parked cars would be normal here; my visits always took me in through the alleyway to her covered drive and finished-out garage.

Maybe I should have gone that way today, too. They could have somebody coming over - her friend Delia, or some of Brandy's friends. I'd heard a lot about Delia over the years, and I knew the daughter had made some very close friends in high school, the kind she'd really hated to leave when going off to college. If I bumped into some other visitor, would it end up causing awkward questions for Gloria? "Who's this guy bringing you Thanksgiving dinner?" But no, she could always just say I was a massage client. They all buy into her massage therapy cover story. She seems pretty sure of that.

But ... it would definitely be less intrusive to ring at the back. There'd be no doubt about which side of her life this unexpected visitor came from. And it wouldn't seem like I was presuming I'd be welcome, even briefly, at the doorway to the personal side instead of the business side.

Ultimately, though, if I wasn't really enough of a friend to make a happy surprise of dropping off holiday food, that meant I didn't really understand where Gloria and I stood. It probably meant I'd bought into some professionally applied white lies - that I had been kept more walled off from the real Gloria than I knew.

And if that was true, she might not even have Thanksgiving off.

So what made the decision for me was the horrifying specter of pulling through the alleyway and finding some other guy's car in her drive, maybe even seeing him come out straightening his tie and whistling. I knew that wouldn't happen. I knew Gloria really did think of me as a friend, if not even more than that. Someone special. She wouldn't lie to me about whether she worked the holidays. But paranoia just wouldn't let me have the confidence to test that certainty, and so I took the route that was maybe presumptuous and maybe risked me bumping into some other holiday visitor of hers. If that happened, it might be awkward, but it would work out okay. If the other happened - the guy in the driveway - I would be gut-punched.

As I made my way up the walk between her two tall elm trees, the front of the house said "ordinary family homestead" in a voice of reddish-orange brick and white trim. Charcoal shutters framed the windows, which showed only the slats of hanging blinds, and a finely polished door of dark wood stood centered behind the porch, an oval window with pebbly glass running from waist-high to hat-level.

I heaved myself up onto the stoop and stood there taking deep breaths, fingers clenched tight through the handle-holes of the restaurant box.

Okay. Just hit the doorbell and let things go from there.

With a little maneuvering, I lifted and turned the box until I could get a thumb out and press the round button for the bell. Just like always when you really want to know if a doorbell works, this one made no sound that carried out through the door, and I had to stand there fighting the urge to press it again.

After a minute, a figure moved up to the rough glass of the front-door window, rendered hazy by the texturing - but too tall to be Gloria.

The door opened.

Though I'd only seen her face twice, and she'd only seen mine the same number of times, I recognized her at once and saw that she caught up just a second or two later, her look changing from curious to suspicious as her dazzling blue eyes dropped from mine to the box and swung back up again.

"Why ..." She stopped herself, crinkled her pretty nose, then started again.

"What are you doing here?"

I gave the box an explanatory heft. "Sorry, I'm not trying to butt-in on your holiday. Your mom mentioned she didn't cook Thanksgiving dinners, so I got this to drop off for the two of you. I thought you might like some traditional turkey and fixings for a change."

The suspicion turned to bafflement, then to discomfort, as if she realized I was just there to be nice but she didn't want to believe it.

Holding the box, and keeping my eyes off her tall, full figure in its sweater and jeans, I nodded back toward my car and said, "You can just take this and I'll -"

But the girl I thought of as Brandy whose name wasn't actually Brandy turned and shouted, "Mom, it's for you!" pushed the door to just a crack, said, "She'll be here in a second," and fled.