Coming Home to Poppa
Jessalyn was seeing red. She'd navigated her car in a blind rage from her house all the way to the old driveway without having noticed the traffic signals or other cars on the road. Luckily it was late afternoon, not time for rush hour yet, otherwise the blank spot in her mind filled up with her shock & resentment might have caused her to run over a gaggle of nuns crossing the street or head-on an errant semi-truck.
She brought her compact car to a halt in a fury, barely engaging the parking brake and not bothering to pull her keys from the ignition when she'd shut the vehicle off. Then she stormed from the car and across the lawn to the porch without even bothering to slam her drivers door.
Luckily this was still a safe and quiet residential neighborhood. It had been years, almost half her lifetime that she had avoided it, but little had changed while she'd sought refuge on other parts of the island. Never fully leaving this house's orbit--but resisting the constant tug of it's gravity well until today.
Not that in her anger that she was taking any note of the manicured front yards, or the crisp paint jobs. The little touches that made it clear that her open car door wasn't an invitation to likely theft.. Nor was she bothering to make unflattering comparisons with her own somewhat grimy neighborhood, where leaving her apartment building she or her daughter were likely to be aggressively propositioned, treated to shouted obscenities, crude gestures, and waggled male genitalia.,
Not that even here she wouldn't have at least been subject to the hungry eyeballing of men and boys alike. She had barely dressed: a sports bra was struggling to contain the acrobatics of her enhanced breasts (she'd justified this by claiming that her pregnancy at age 18 had left her with a case of "droopy-tits"--but over the ensuing 18 years she'd gone back to have them enlarged further as she found the kind of men who's generosity she relied on to keep food on the table and clothes on her and Caitlyn's backs preferred her top heavy to the point of low back pain). Meanwhile her recently Brazilian butt-lifted behind had not even been parted by a thong before she'd sheathed it in some lululemon workout tights which dated to before her derrière's recent upsizing. As such the seam was buried in the cleft of her, now dangerously curvier haunches as she steamed in her tunnel vision towards the front porch.
Honestly, while the house she was charging towards saw it's share of attractive female visitors, any of the local male retirees catching a glimpse of the youthful 36 year old in her clinging exercise wear with her curves rolling and bouncing might have suffered a coronary, if not a more benign revival of even long dormant erections.
But the potential delighted consternation of the local elderly was of no consideration to Jess. She was blind in anguish as she stormed onto the porch. A sense of betrayal so profound that it made her want to scream left her deaf and unconscious to anything but the front door of the house that now confronted her.
It was locked, obviously visitors would be unwelcome interruptions to what she was certain was unfolding inside. But even at 5'5 she could tiptoes reach the top of the doorframe and slide her hand blindly in search of the old key that swiftly granted her access.
Her entrance was greeted by no response. Further confirming what she had known but still wished to deny. The house was remarkably silent. She knew that the same soundproofing that kept the neighbors from knowing what various young women got up to with the house's owner would inevitably keep her from being heard--even had she been stomping through the house in combat boots instead of her thong slippers. And she doubted the householder would be eyeing his security system to register her intrusion. Given that he was probably distracted by an intrusion of his own that he was perpetrating down on the house's soundproofed bottom floor.
Jess' formal education had stopped at 12th grade, and while she had never lacked for intelligence, life had not exposed her to the works of Proust. Nor to discussions of why the olfactory nerves have such a strong influence on memory and emotion. Nevertheless, as her angrily flaring nostrils pulled in the odors of the old house, she found herself almost bodily struck by a sense of tragic nostalgia. A longing that she had thought buried or fully renounced. So even in her bloody-minded fury a flurry of other feelings assaulted her and penetrated her fog of violence.
It left her momentarily confused. Knocking her back on her heels emotionally like a fighter taking an unexpected punch, leaving her almost disoriented. Lost in time and memories.
Literally shaking her head as if to clear it and unconsciously wiping the first bitter tears that were starting to drip unbidden from her soft brown eyes, the scantily clad brunette resumed her rapid charge forward through the near silent house. The layout was unchanged, and she knew that the studio would still be where it had always been. Only the basement was large and isolated enough to allow for certain activities. So she was through the kitchen and down the basement steps without registering the décor or any other changes the building might have undergone since she'd charged out of it equally vehemently more than eighteen years prior.
Downstairs the studio door still bears the girlishly scripted homemade sign reading: "Ssshhhh! Daddy's working." And a lifetime's habit causes her to slow and swing the well oiled door outwards towards her in total silence. But as soon as the portal is even cracked her ears are met with a cacophony of slapping flesh and an duet of grunts and pants and high pitched moans. Meanwhile, a different wave of odor washes over her and her nose draws in a gasped lungful of sweat and pussy and a smell she associates with a man's taint. A crotch perfume that activates something in the base of her pelvis. She feels almost sick with herself, her frailty given that she can well imagine what awaits her inside and has given rise to this ordure of hard fucking and it's accompanying symphony of sexual satisfaction. Tears in her eyes, but she can still feel her labia swelling against her tights. She is Pavlov's bitch, lubricating and salivating despite herself at the scent of a certain man's dirty crotch.
She has always been a victim of her eager pussy. It has always leaked aggressively. Men on dates would tell her they could smell it, and she could hardly deny it. Since she was a teenager her disobedient fuckhole has betrayed her at the merest provocation. Dripping fuck-honey and swelling like a "goddamn baboon's ass" as her older sister used to mock her when she'd find her in her room slapping away at her clit or fingering herself silly. Now, bathed in a musk of raw fuck, even in her blind rage, and, under that her burgeoning unreasonable sense of hurt and loss, Jess can't ignore that her vagina is eagerly lubricating herself even as her nipples are swelling to diamond points that struggle against her sport-bra's elastic.
The door is suddenly fully open and now vision accompanies the feast of aroma and sound that has caused her body to start further derailing her careening emotional roller-coaster.
She is out of the line of tripod'd cameras' angles. She can take in the couple who still consider themselves alone in their bliss as well as the monitors that are capturing the cameras recordings. So she is treated to multiple intimate angles of what awaits her; what she has been dreading since finally horrifyidly understanding what her phone was telling her half an hour earlier.
She'd wrenched the thick silicone shaft from her nether aperture, cut off the live cam session she'd been filming in her decidedly simpler home studio set up, thrown on her used workout clothes, and raced here. Knowing all the while what she was likely to find. But seeing it in the flesh...
The naked man is older, his late 50s with some salt to the pepper of his hair, but still trim and with a muscular back and thighs that suggest someone who continues to surf and swim (and possibly visit an anti-aging clinic for testosterone enhancement). The nude young woman belly down on the ottoman beneath him is slim with b-cup breasts that swing forwards and backwards in steady time with the regular hammering thrusts of the man's hips into her welcomingly up thrust buttocks. She has a woman's curves, but only just.
