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, extra- sensitive 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.