The Sentinel Ch. 06byJPMMURPHY©
Marge walked around the kitchen in her old blue bathrobe, tattered for the wear, but comfortable and familiar; she used it every morning to start her day. Her house slippers, green fuzzy things that had been given to her by her kids a couple of years ago, made swishing sounds as she shuffled from the counter to the refrigerator to the table to the sink and started the routine of her morning "chores" - cleaning up the war zone left by a parting husband and two kids.
She smiled to herself as she thought about it, trying to recall what it had been like before - what it had been like when her world consisted of chores, scheduled around her favorite TV soaps, with the occasional outing to the grocery store. She remembered how the highlight to a week might have been a trip to the mall where she would have walked among the store fronts and looked at the plastic people in the store windows, draped in fashionable clothes that she would never dream of wearing. But all that had changed.
Having put the kitchen in order, Marge moved from bedroom to bedroom, making beds and picking up dirty clothes which were always deposited more or less in the same place each morning. Since her husband was able to find the same spot to drop his dirty underwear in every morning, day in and day out, she wondered why that spot couldn't be the clothes hamper just outside the bedroom door? And he'd been drinking last night; the bed 'smelled' of it - reeked would be more like it, she thought with disgust.
Idly, she moved around the upper floor of the house, wondering when their bed had become another negative in their lives. She searched for the moment as she pulled discussions and memories out of the closet that she kept her life in, turning them over and putting them on like a homeless person trying on clothes at the Goodwill. They all seemed shabby, and nothing fit quite right so she shoved it all back into the closet and firmly locked the door. No, she decided with resolve, not today. Today was one of her special days, and she wasn't going to let it be ruined by aimless wanderings down memory's dead-end street.
Her daughter's room was a stark contradiction to Marge's. As she made the bed and dusted the furniture, she was watched by gaudy, full color posters that covered most of the wall space - longhaired rockers with anorexic bodies poised over guitars as they stared out, inviting her to come along for the ride. Their only redeeming feature was one that spoke of prowess - imagined or real - the bulge in their leather pants. Walking around with a duster, she flicked here and there, trying to set things in place and put shoes back into the closet. How could her daughter do it, Marge wondered as she turned the four-inch spikes with ankle straps upside down and put them on the shoe rack at the bottom of her daughter's closet? If she only knew what those things were going to do to her feet by the time she was 30, maybe then, she'd spend more time in her Nikes. But then, the Nikes wouldn't go too well with this, she guessed as she picked up a red leather mini-skirt that was barely as wide as a belt.
She and her daughter weren't talking much these days. It had all come from that fight three months ago when Marge had found the thigh highs tucked away in her daughter's bottom dresser drawer. She wasn't really sure what they were at first, but pulling them out and looking at the lace top a few seconds, she'd figured it out. The following Saturday, she'd studied her daughter a little closer as she'd run back upstairs to get something she'd forgotten before going out, and there they were, just under the edge of her skirt - the lace top of her thigh highs. Monitoring her daughter's shower, she had finally put the routine together. The lacy thongs that scarcely covered seemed to be for school during the week, but the weekend produced no damp panties hanging on the inside of the shower door so Marge figured thigh highs meant no panties.
It brought new meaning to the lecherous smiles that her boyfriends always seemed to have as they waited in the foyer for Vicky's appearance before leaving for a 'concert' or 'movie'. Right, Marge thought, and I'll be having tea with the Queen.
A few more weeks passed before Marge finally decided that she needed to talk to Vicky. If nothing else, Marge owed it to her daughter to try and save her from a life of regrets - something Marge knew all too well. She knew the drudgery of marrying too young; she had given up the last two years of college for the dream of a marriage she had witnessed in her parents' lives. But in her own marriage, the dream had always seemed just out of reach. Just one day, she wanted to keep Vicky home from school to have her pick up her father's dirty underwear and to make the bed that stunk of whatever he'd been drinking the night before when he was up until all hours, shut up in his study.
She wanted to shake her daughter and say, 'there's more to it than this', but when Marge tried, one Saturday afternoon over coffee, to make her daughter her friend, the only reaction to her attempt was a defiant stare. Then her daughter had told her that 'sixteen was the time to live', and she had to do it now because 'she was sure she'd end up a frumpy old mom just like her'. Sitting across the table from this stranger, dressed in a mid-drift top, her nipples hard and pressing against the fabric, her jeans molded to every curve and crack of her ass and thighs, it hadn't been the words that had hurt; it had been the defiance. It had been in the body language and the look that had said 'look at me, I'm hot' while you're nothing but a 'frumpy old mother'; what do you know anyway?
Then things had become heated as they often do when two generations suddenly find the chasm between them entirely too wide for crossing - when the only thing left is yelling at each other from opposite sides as they slowly drift farther apart. And all that time, Marge had been watching her daughter whose body language oozed sex in a well-developed 'cum fuck me' façade, and she worried. 'You're just jealous', her daughter had finally intoned as she pushed away from the table and strode off, her ass moving with the same hypnotic sway that movie starlets often had to practice to get right.
Later, Marge had reflected on her own life and wondered if she was angry because her sixteen-year-old daughter was probably having sex at her age or that she was having more sex in a weekend than Marge did in a month.
Closing the door on those memories, too, Marge moved on to her son's bedroom, 'a chip off the old block' with his dirty underwear and wadded up socks; video games, stacked and strewn around; and dirty balls of Kleenex thrown under the bed. At fourteen, he seemed to be living the transition from games to girls, indicated by the pimples and the Playboys she'd found stacked in his closet between his gaming magazines.
Her life had become bathrooms and beds, she thought as she finally finished the upstairs. She planned on making quick work of the rest of the house; she had things to do. This was one of the special days, and she didn't plan on being late.
Vacuuming the den, she decided the living room and dining room were fine today. Besides, no one seemed to notice, anyway. What was the point? The study was in its usual morning disorder with cigarette butts overflowing and a half empty, old-fashioned glass that smelled of watered down bourbon; the sides of the glass were filthy with smudged fingerprints from hands that had been doing who knows what. She picked up the glass in disdain between two fingers, much as a maid in a motel might, unsure exactly what the glass had been used for or what those smudges might really be. She picked up the wads of Kleenex on the floor with even more care, knowing exactly what was in them. Yes, she had to admit; she'd married a pig.
But she couldn't begrudge him too much, not now - not after he'd opened the door to her new 'life' by forgetting one night to turn off his computer. Making her rounds one morning, she'd found it - the screen saver, running with pictures of dancing girls, surely as young as his daughter, in swimsuits that barely covered every nipple or pubic hair. Even when the swimsuits managed to cover those parts, the material did little to disguise the folds of their lips under the bikini bottoms, inviting a touch or second look.
Her duster, hitting a key, had actually opened the door because she would never have dreamed of touching the computer otherwise. At first, she'd been gripped by fear when the screen had gone black and she thought she'd broken it. A small green light blinked, and motor seemed to start running. Then, suddenly, the screen had come to life - a blue grey background with a lot of writing, small symbols that looked like a microphone, a speaker, and other things she couldn't quite make out. There was a list of strange names to the left - some of them black, the others grey, and a few colored banners that moved and changed without prompting, inviting the viewer to 'Sign Up Today' and get a free porn CD. But what really caught her attention were the five little boxes open at seemingly random locations around the screen.
They all had grainy pictures of people in different settings - most of them in chairs and one on a bed, three alone and two couples. She had gasped when she realized they were all naked or almost so. Two of the naked bodies were women, sitting in chairs, feet propped up somewhere out of camera range, fingers frozen over the space between their thighs. The pictures were so grainy that she couldn't see the detail of what their hands were doing, but she knew, at once, what her husband had been watching the night before. In another 'box', she saw a fat man, his flabby, white stomach stretched as he leaned back in a chair and a woman, eyes closed, with his cock in her mouth, her face clearly visible as she sucked him off. Another one showed a man sitting alone in a dark room, barely visible, but she could still see his hand on his cock which was huge. She felt the flush on her neck as she leaned in to inspect his balls which seemed as big as golf balls and his cock that could accommodate easily both of his hands and still not be covered.
Suddenly, another movement caught her eye, and she'd looked at the last box to find a young woman, lying on her back, in bed with what looked like another woman who was lying on her stomach between the other woman's legs. The movement seemed jerky, and Marge wasn't sure exactly what she was watching. At first, she thought her husband had been watching porno films on his computer, but then, she finally realized what the round ball on top of his monitor was - a camera. She was watching people having sex using a camera like his.
Looking back at the moving box, she saw the woman, lying on her stomach move up and over the other woman and then lean down to kiss her. She was transfixed as she saw the woman on top reach out to a keyboard between them and the camera and begin to type. A second later, she'd seen the woman laugh, or appear to, and then move back down between the other woman's legs where she'd started to lick again.
Marge had fallen into her husband's chair, her mouth open as she struggled to breath. What the hell is this, she wanted to know? What had the asshole been up to? She'd spent more than an hour sitting there, watching the women 'do it' - seeing the arched backs as they'd traded positions; noticing how they constantly paused to type; sometimes laughing, their mouths opening wide; their bodies shifting in each other's arms as they seemed to find something very funny. While watching, she'd noticed the dark picture with the man and his cock had come to life as his hand started moving up and down, slowly, around his cock.
She'd been mesmerized as the man would release his cock to reach for something before grabbing it again. Finally, she'd figured out he was typing, too. She watched the two women finish, and after a few minutes of lying in each other's arms, they'd both moved to the edge of the bed in front of the cam. Both their heads were cut off as they took turns passing the keyboard from one to the other, typing something, and then laughing again. Watching the man, she noticed how his cock stood there hard, bobbing over his thighs, each time he released it to type. Then she saw how he stopped releasing it - how one hand was constantly moving on it as he leaned in to type with the other hand. She wasn't sure if he was talking to the two women or not, but she noticed that one of them had spread her knees for the camera - showing it all - bare lips with the pubic hair shaved away completely. As the other woman stood and kneeled, burying her head between the thighs of the other woman, the image of kneeling woman's ass was clearly visible for the camera. The man seemed to have stopped typing in order to give his full attention to his cock, and Marge stared slack-jawed as the head erupted in white with so much cum that it covered the head of his cock and ran down over his fingers. So much cum. Marge was sure the man was deformed; no one could have such a huge cock and balls and be able to produce so much cum.
She had felt so hot, flushed from the whole thing. She'd left the computer running and practically run to the shower where she'd stood under the water, sobbing - not sure why she was sobbing exactly or what should be upsetting her, but sobbing just the same. At last, finding the soap and starting to shower, her fingers had discovered what her mind had denied; she was wet between her legs - not just wet - soaked.
Half an hour later, warm and relaxed from her shower, she'd been back in front of her husband's computer. With a little trial and error, she'd discovered how to open and close different boxes and where everyone's typing appeared. It had all been confusing the first week as she wandered aimlessly, learning how to turn the computer on, and how to find the program, and real panic had occurred when she thought she couldn't get it back. But finally, she had discovered how to type in the box and could follow most of the lines of text as it streamed across the screen in the 'Chat' box.
After another month of midday surfing, she'd stopped going to the shower to enjoy the sensations her body was left with and had started staying in the study with the blinds and curtains closed tight, lest a neighbor walk by and see. She'd even discovered how to create her own user name and identity, as well as how to get her picture up on the screen with the camera. Angel_ eyez appealed to her, and she'd been overjoyed when she discovered no one else had the name and it was now her 'chat' ID.
But that was long ago, she thought, as she finished showering, having carefully shaved between her legs and stepping out to find a towel. It was 12:30; she still had half an hour. In her bedroom she went to the closet and pulled out an old hatbox her mother had given her that had contained old family photos and letters - all long ago pasted and tucked into scrap books. At the time, she was unsure why she'd kept the box, but now, she was glad to have the extra clutter in the top of her closet.
Removing the top of the hatbox, she pulled out a white silk camisole and matching white thigh highs; then she walked to the closet for some black high heels which looked like her daughter's shoes with ankle straps and four-inch heels. Yes, today was one of her special days, she thought.
* * * * *
And there she was. The Sentinel smiled, having grown fond of her. She'd appeared several months ago, tentative in her frumpy blue robe - a 'newbie' as they were known in the rooms. But this was not a timid woman; this was not someone to be brushed aside as her husband and children had. This was a noble being, trapped in a life she had finally decided to change. It all came out, didn't it? Phrases here, little bits of information there. If you watched long enough, you could learn someone's life, know their desires, what they liked and didn't like, but most importantly -where their buttons were and how best to push them.
Yes, the Sentinel always enjoyed time with angel_eyez. The Sentinel knew it had become like clockwork for her, always putting her house in order before going to her hideaway to pull out her attire for the afternoon. What really struck the Sentinel was how vigorous a lover she was - how beautiful she was when her back arched, her breasts thrust up, and her body shook with an orgasm.
The Sentinel knew she was thirty-eight; had two children, fourteen and sixteen; and a husband that seemed to have little use for her anymore. What an idiot he was, thought the Sentinel, watching her move her cam around, checking the lighting in the picture before lying on the bed in front of the keyboard to strike a seductive pose. The gaudy posters of her daughter's bedroom were a sharp contrast to the elegant lover waiting on the bed, dressed in a white camisole that ended at the top of her hips. The smooth skin that went from the camisole to the thigh highs was completely bare; the small line that was her crack was exposed and defiant between her thighs above the lace that lead down to the ankle strap heels. Yes, she was special, but having discovered who her husband was, had been a godsend to the Sentinel. Watching angel_eyez had become more than just a passing whim, it had become a priority.
* * * * *
With her chores done and her life put away for the afternoon, Marge lay on her daughter's bed with the keyboard at hand. Once she'd found 'him', it had seemed the most comfortable place in the house for their 'dates'. If it were just a day of chat - fun and giggles - she would have been downstairs, albeit, dressed to the nines in something just as revealing. But today was a 'date' day, and she wanted to have room to stretch while she probed her body, touched it as no one else knew how to, but him. Even if it were her fingers, to her, they were his.
It had dawned on her one day that she was the only person in the house that didn't have a computer and planned on fixing that this Christmas when she talked her husband into finally giving Vicky the laptop she'd been asking for. And Marge had smiled knowingly when she'd found her daughter's cam tucked away in the back of her closet. Well, it was the safest sex you could have, she'd thought; at least, you couldn't get Aids from it. Besides, she now had a cam to use for special days like today.
And there he was. Her body rushed at the thought of what would happen for the next few hours as they enjoyed each other's minds and bodies.
It had been as if he'd been created for her alone. Even his name, devil_dude, which was a contrast to hers, spoke of hidden pleasures she should stay away from. He'd just appeared out of nowhere one day and swept her off her feet with his quick wit and fast mind. Always interested in her life, but respectful of her space; and always asking about the family and talking at length about his wife, devil _dude had become her lover. What a slut his wife was. How could she possibly screw her boss when she had 'devil' at home, waiting patiently, in their bed. He had opened up to her and only her, telling her his secrets and sharing ideas. Yes, how could she hide her life from such a sweet, sensitive man? It was part of the sharing and giving that he'd taught her.
"And do I get a picture today like you promised?" angel_eyez asked.
"Shortly, babe; first, let's talk some. By the way, you are ravishing as always."
God, he made her wet. And something inside loved the idea he was black. She'd been shocked the first time he'd turned his cam on for her. He was a little shy; and besides, so he said, men weren't that interesting to look at anyway. But yes, on special days he would turn on his cam for her; he did this only for her. And what a body he had - a cock and balls even bigger than the man in the dark from her first day of discovery; Devil could cum a gallon, and cum again, as she showed and gave him all of her. It was amazing he found her so attractive when her husband only noticed she was alive when he needed a meal or the remote for the TV.