Chapter 9: Next Friday Evening

As promised, Karen – and, especially, Jen – asked me to come to dinner at her/their house this evening. Actually, “asked” isn’t quite accurate – I was told that I would be coming for dinner Friday, and there was really no room for debate, or even for a polite, pro forma acceptance from me. It was a simple fact.

As I walked up the steps to the kitchen door, my feelings were a mix of excitement and apprehension – excitement about seeing Jen again, and serious apprehension about whether Jen had told her mom anything, and what she might have told her – and how much she might have told her. One part of me foresaw a delightful evening, another part of me saw the whole thing – and my life, for that matter – going completely off the rails, big time.

I brought a bottle of a nice white wine – okay, I thought it would be a good “chick wine” for Karen – and flowers for Jen – a bunch of daffodils that I thought might be just the right touch, considering...

Karen answered the door, opening it and letting me step in before giving me a quick kiss on the cheek – a new level of familiarity for us. Maybe the evening wasn’t headed “off the rails” after all. Jen apparently heard her mom say my name, because she rushed in from the living room and threw her arms around me, chest high, and gave me a big hug. Her mom watched this display, a bemused expression on her face.

Given the height difference, I put my arms around Jen’s shoulders and kissed her on the head, quickly. So far, so good – with both women.

Karen was quick to tell Jen, “Look what Dave brought for you, Honey.”

Jen’s face lit up, so much so that it was almost heartbreaking. “Oh, Dave – thank you – they’re beautiful! I love them! Mom, is there a vase we can put Dave’s flowers in?”

Karen directed her to one of the base cabinets, and Jen rushed to get the vase and fill it, then put the daffodils in the vase, carefully positioning each one “just so.” We expressed our approval.

Karen explained, “Jen wanted to cook something for you tonight. She made a baked macaroni-and-cheese, with a special extra ingredient that she insisted on. And we have some salad. Jen, Honey, if it’s done, why don’t you take the baked macaroni out of the oven, and we can sit and have a drink while it cools down a bit.”

She opened the wine I had brought, even setting out a wine glass for Jen and pouring a small amount of the wine for her. We sat around the dining table and talked, about last weekend’s snowstorm, and the inconveniences it had caused, and what still wasn’t open, or working, or something. As we talked, I observed Jen take a few sips of the wine. It looked like she really didn’t like it but wanted to participate with the “grownups.”

Finally, dinner. I watched Jen as she dished out the mac and instructed her mom to carry the salad bowl out to the dining room table. I swear, I actually felt my heart swell with affection as I watched her carefully spoon precise portions of the mac onto each plate.

Jen directed us as to where we should sit: her mom across the table from me, and Jen – right next to me. Again, ‘laying claim” to me? Karen was smiling another one of her smug, bemused smiles.

The baked mac-n-cheese was, well, for want of a better word, amazing. Instead of traditional elbow macaroni, Jen had used ziti. And the cheese was not Velveeta (which is great), but a combination of a cheddar, Monterey jack, and a bit of Grana Padano, a sharp-but-creamy Italian grating cheese.

“I got the recipe off the Web.”

Then Karen said, “But there’s something special in this – have you discovered it yet?” And that’s when I discovered a piece of tender, sweet white meat, with just the tiniest hint of seafood flavor.

“Crab?”

“Yes, it’s crab meat! Do you really like it, Dave?”

“Jen, it’s amazing! You know I’m going to want more.”

When Jen got up to get us seconds (well, a second for me and “just a spoonful” for her mom), Karen leaned in toward me and said, “She really wanted this to be special for you. She was going to buy the crabmeat herself from her allowance, but I convinced her that you had done such a big favor for us last weekend, and she was doing all the cooking, so I could contribute the crab.”

Jen came back and set out plates down, and when she did, I noticed some streaks of red in the mac.

“Paprika?”

“Yes! I read on the Internet that it goes good with seafood. Do you like it?”

... and it was at that moment that I almost lost it. Jen had worked so hard to make this meal special, for me, and at that moment, I realized – Jen was not making this dinner for the nice neighbor (or even for the guy she’d spent the weekend doing sex – and other – stuff with). She was making this dinner for a boyfriend – a very special boyfriend.

I had to bite down on the inside of my lip – hard – and focus on the pain to keep tears from running down my cheeks. Sitting across the table, Karen could see my expression, and she smiled at me, not unkindly.

We finished and cleaned up. Dessert was to be hot chocolate with whipped cream while we watched a movie. With my concurrence, Jan and Karen had selected the new version of “Little Women.” Karen went upstairs to change out of her business clothes and into some jogging pants and a worn gray sweatshirt while Jen and I queued up the movie. It was kind of a chick flick, but also a really fine story, and beautifully produced and acted.

Because we had lingered so long over dinner, it was past even Jen’s weekend bedtime. She scuttled up to her room to get ready, and Karen and I finished up the last of the wine (including the little bit that Jen had left in her glass). Jen came back down, teeth brushed, hair brushed-out, and wearing a pair of PJs that looked like they might have fit her a year ago but were pretty “form-fitting” now. Her mom took a look and again turned and gave me a little smirk.

Jen came around and plopped down on my lap, and putting her arms around my head, gave me a kiss that was full on the lips. Then she popped up, gave her mom a quick kiss, said “‘Night,” and headed down the hall. About half-way down, she looked over her shoulder to make sure I was watching, then smiled at me and gave a twitch to her tightly-clad butt and headed upstairs. Her mother did not fail to notice this performance, either.

Karen asked, “Can you stay a little longer?”, and when I said of course, she got up, went to the kitchen, and came back with a bottle of a nice brandy I recognized.

“This OK?”

“Perfect.”

She got two snifters off the sideboard, poured moderate amounts for both of us, and sat down beside me on the couch.

“Jen tells me you guys had a really good time last weekend.”

Okay, what did she tell? And “how much” did she tell?

I replied, “Yeah, for a weekend that looked like it was going to be a snow disaster, we ended up having a really good time. We got to watch a couple movies she’d never seen before, and she cooked some of her ‘specialties’ for me, and she even helped me do laundry.” (I didn’t mention that many of the ‘movies’ we watched were pornographic, or that our activities accounted for a lot of the laundry that had to be done.) “The funny thing is, she’s really good company.”

“I’ll bet. She told me about some of the movies you watched.”

Uh-oh.

“Yeah, she said you two played a lot of games, and even helped each other in the bathroom, if I got the story straight.”

And now things were looking far less ambiguous. I could be looking at a life of being Prom Queen of the Cellblock, unless maybe I could get protection by becoming the bitch of some huge skinhead Nazi Neanderthal named “Spike” or “Bubba.”

What puzzled me was that Karen actually seemed to be amused by my obvious discomfort.

“In fact, she said that she peed in your mouth, a couple of times.”

Maybe the Nazi Neanderthal would be named Erich”

At this point, Karen couldn’t control herself anymore, and she burst out laughing.

Laughing? That her young daughter had been molested – for an entire weekend – by a pervert neighbor?? What the... ?

She put her hand on my thigh, almost as if she was reassuring me, and said, “Here, take another sip of your brandy.

“It’s OK, Dave – don’t worry. See, what you don’t know is that my brothers have been fucking me since I was Jen’s age. Actually, that’s not quite right – my brothers and I have been fucking since I was Jen’s age.”

I thought about her brothers. Three pretty good-sized men. The oldest, I think his name is Bill, is maybe four years older than Karen, and one’s a year younger. Her third brother, who I don’t think I’ve ever seen, is somewhere in-between.

“In fact, that’s what I was doing while you and Jen were shacking-up.”

She was spending that long weekend having sex with one or more of her brothers? And she viewed Jen’s and my weekend together as “shacking up?” With her young teenaged daughter? More WTF?

“Dave, Jen’s fourteen now − her birthday was just last month...”

(I realized I didn’t know that)

“ ... but she’s kind of advanced for her age. She’s always been precocious sexually, and maybe even a little bit perverted, to tell the truth. And she doesn’t think like a 14-year-old girl. Her concerns are more like mine were when I was 17 or 18. When I warned you that she had a crush on you – well, it’s not the ‘crush’ of a young girl...

“So, what I really mean is, when she first started telling me what you and she did last weekend, I found myself getting angry – really pissed, and ready to ... to – I don’t exactly know what.

“But then, as she went on, I realized that I wasn’t so much angry as I was jealous. I was envious...” Here, Karen stopped and took a long drink of her brandy, seemed to think something over before she spoke, then took another drink and said, “I was envious – that she had someone to pee in his mouth ... and I didn’t.” Then, she slugged down the last of her brandy, and waited...

I was stunned. This was not the direction I thought this would be going. If not the threat of arrest and prosecution and being a registered sex offender, I at least expected to be yelled at and told to never come near her daughter again, maybe with the hint that I should plan on moving soon.

And instead, she’s telling me that she “envies” Jen because I played pee games with her?

“Are you – let me get this straight – you’re not mad at me – or at Jen – because you’d like to have someone – a man – to pee on, like Jen?”

She lifted her snifter again, but there was nothing left in it. She looked down, away from me, and said, so that I could barely hear her, “Yes, I guess that’s what I’m saying, isn’t it?”

I didn’t have a clue as to what I should say next.

And then, I remembered my reaction the first time I saw Karen, when they were moving in, about wanting to bury my face in between those athletic ass cheeks and “lick her shit.”

Was I now getting signals that that image might not stay consigned to the realm of fantasy?

I took her hand, put my face straight in front of hers, and with my heart pounding and my head thudding, I said, “Karen, you don’t ever have to be envious again.”

That was apparently the answer she was hoping to hear – desperate to hear. She turned on the sofa and put her arms around my neck and kissed me on the cheek and quietly, gratefully said, “Thank you, Dave, thank you. I was so afraid, but I had to take the chance that ... and I thought that this might be my only opportunity. Thank you,” and another kiss before backing off.

She settled back on the couch, tried to take a drink from her empty brandy glass, and ended up going to the kitchen and returning with the last of the brandy.

“You know, Dave, I think Jen acquired a lot of her perverse inclinations from her mother.

“Like I said, my brothers and I started fucking when I was 14. The first time was with my oldest brother, Bill. One day he was working hard in the barn. He was wearing bib overalls, but the day was hot that he didn’t have a shirt on, and I was being a little brat, annoying him, kicking hay back where he’d just raked it up – and wiggling my little ass at him. And to this day, I don’t know why. Why do brats act bratty?

“There must have been something – I don’t know if I was wearing shorts that made my skinny teenage ass look sexy – at least, to him – or if it was more that he was simply a horny teenage boy and just about any girl’s ass looked sexy. He had a steady girlfriend, but at that age I don’t know if I even thought about them fucking or not.

“Anyhow, in spite of his threats – maybe because of his threats – I became more provocative (although I certainly didn’t even know that word then) and pulled down the back of my shorts and wiggled my ass at him, and that’s when he threatened to give the little brat the spanking she deserved.

“So I made a show of trying to get away from him, but I was having so much fun at what I thought was my game that I let him catch me. And true to his word, he pulled my shorts the rest of the way down my ass and gave me a good swat. It stung, and I wiggled when he hit me. But the funny thing was, it didn’t really hurt that bad, because I treated it just like it was part of the game we were playing. But I guess when I wiggled on his lap, it rubbed against his prick just the right way, and I remember him getting hard – I didn’t recognize all this at the time, but later I put the pieces together.

“And for some reason I’ll never know, I teased him, ‘Is that all? Aren’t you going to spank your little brat sister some more?’

“He was angry and gave my butt another smack, but this time, he didn’t hit so hard, and he left his hand there on my butt instead of pulling it back. Then he started squeezing my ass, and I wriggled under his massage. Then, and I don’t know how he got the nerve – or maybe it was just the teenage boy in him – he let a finger slide down between my ass cheeks. He rubbed my asshole just briefly, then slid his finger farther down until it touched my pussy. And I guess it must have been wet, because I remember him sliding it around, and I don’t remember it hurting, so I must have been aroused by then.

“So he continued to finger my pussy, and then, driven by his own hormones and the slickness of my wet pussy, he pushed a finger inside me, and then another, and just began to explore around in there. And since he was pretty much a naïve teenager, he didn’t know enough to be gentle about it, so we were both surprised when I felt something pop inside, and he felt his fingers pop through something, and then everything stopped, and I twisted and looked back up at him, and he was looking at me, and we both knew that something special had just happened.

“And something else snapped, too – inside our brains. He figured out what had happened, of course, but I didn’t know, exactly, but I sensed that it had to do with putting things into my pussy.

“He shoved my shorts the rest of the way down and off of my legs, and then he stood up and pushed aside the shoulder straps and pushed his overalls down. He didn’t even bother to step out of them – he just took me under the arms and lifted me up and pulled me to his bare body and started kissing me – and I knew that I was supposed to kiss back. So we kissed each other, like the frantic, inexperienced kids that we were, but Dave, that was the most memorable kissing of my entire life – I’m not sure I’ll ever experience that particular kind of thrill again.