Chapter 76: Randy Monroe, 14, Caught...

The trouble with the sleepover began almost as soon as Naomi Monroe left Carole’s house after she delivered Randy.

The two women agreed to meet for coffee the next morning, and Naomi admonished Randy, “‘Don’t be a twat.”

The Monroe family was interesting because they were Yankees. Fish out of water. Naomi’s husband, Harold was an executive vice president for the largest utility company in the South. He’d been hired away from his Cleveland position — the rumor mill speculated about his supposed exorbitant salary and benefits package.

The Monroe’s didn’t flout their relative wealth, although they did buy one of the larger homes in town.

Carole liked Naomi because she had an acerbic sense of humor — she looked at life from odd angles. And was a straightforward, opinionated broad.

As she left, she nodded at her son, “He commits any felonies, don’t call me. You do know the sheriff don’t you?” An insider joke because Carole had shared the bedroom news about Rémy and her.

It was after Naomi left that Carole began having trouble keeping a straight face. Randy could barely tear his eyes away from her — that picture having been seared into his little brain.

She got through dinner without cracking up and told the boys, “Clean up — I’m off to Kitty’s for a while. Don’t stay up too late.”

A little heavy-handed, but she wanted Randy to feel he would have plenty of privacy. She winked at Richie — their prearranged signal — he would send the nude photo to Randy as soon as she left. And, he would immediately strip.

Richie told her the next morning, “Mama, he was staring at his cell and I barely got my hand around him before he came.”

“Excellent.”

“I cleaned it up, and then I put your picture on the flatscreen.”

“Good boy.”

But the important action really began an hour or so later when Carole returned through the front door. In the kitchen, she could hear the boys’ excited jabbering out back. She flicked on the kitchen light — sudden silence.

Then Richie said, “No, it’s cool, come on in. She’s cool, believe me.”

Carole had purposely worn her skimpiest booty shorts — they literally looked painted on. White, to contrast with her skin. For a top, she had repurposed one of her silk headscarves — nipples clearly outlined.

Richie led the way in, trying to act casual. Randy followed reluctantly, both hands cupping himself for privacy.

Carole took a breezy attitude, “Whoa! It’s not every night I come home to find two nudie boys in my house.” She cupped her chin in her hand and tilted her head, “A couple of cuties, gotta admit that.”

She turned her back and reached up to an upper shelf. This would be Randy’s chance to escape. “Who wants popcorn and a beer?’

Richie, “We do, thanks, Mama.”

Still with her back turned, “Well, sit your little butts down then.” When she heard two chairs scrape, she knew she was home free — Randy was hers.

She poured the boys a couple of beers and hopped up on the counter facing them. As she waited for the popcorn, she drew both heels back by her butt, crossed her arms over her knees, and pointed her pussy right at them.

Randy had turned from red to pink. Richie picked up his clue, “Mama?”

“Yes, my dimwitted one.”

“I don’t see any panty lines.” Randy sucked in his breath.

“Well, Sherlock Holmes, as I live and breathe. Why in the world would you come to such a deduction?”

“Um, the dog that didn’t bark?”

Carole had to laugh, “Not bad, peabrain, not bad. But it’s really more about pussy than canines, wouldn’t you say, Randy?”

“Uh, yes ma’am. I mean, uh, yes ma’am.”

She looked at Richie, “Bowls, butter, salt, more beers.”

He hopped up, fully erect, “I aims to serve.”

Randy stared from Carole to Richie, hard-on to booty shorts. He began to realize that Riche’s mother was, indeed, cool. She hopped down and joined them at the table. As instructed, Richie was taking his time, walking back and forth, drawing things out.