Bernice Pomeroy's mouth closed perfunctorily against her husband's, then melted away like frost at first sunlight. "There," she said with finality, as she pulled back and side-hugged her daughter. "Now, off you both go... have a good day. Dinner at six, okay?" As she shooed Edgar and Suzanne out the kitchen door to their vehicles, parked in the driveway beside the house, she glanced again nervously at the wall clock. Expecting Butch Carlson, if he showed at all, to arrive in twenty minutes, at nine, she fretted, "What if he's eager and comes early? That could be bad."
Then, as Bernice thought about eighteen-year-old Butch Carlson's fat hard prong, her eyes twinkled and she felt her pussy contract on itself. She didn't know why her daughter was throwing the boy over, or, for that matter, why she couldn't have broken with him personally and directly, but there he had stood yesterday evening on the Pomeroy porch, with Suzanne gone off to who knew where, while Edgar waved good-bye on his way to go bowling. She remembered smiling politely as, in her normal fashion, she used his true given name and asked rhetorically, "Are you here to pick up Suzanne for a date, Howard?"
Bernice wasn't prepared for the calamitous sparking surge she felt as she gazed at the strapping high school three-letter athlete's grown-up body and chiseled face. He'd been her daughter's classmate since the sixth grade and was no stranger, but last night she'd seen him in a different light for the first time. Maybe her after-dinner Manhattan had been stronger than usual, but even so, she was hard pressed to explain the hot flash which had shot from her legs to her throat. "Certainly," she had mused in her flustered mind. "At forty, I'm too young for menopause, and anyway, my periods are as regular as ever. In fact, my last one ended only the day before yesterday."
In her kitchen, Bernice tried unsuccessfully to remember the last time that she and Edgar had made love. She didn't hold their abstinence against him, it just seemed like they both preferred to go to sleep as soon as they were in bed and the lights were out. However, she had no trouble recalling how last night she had squeezed the life-sauce from Janelle Carlson's hunk son's well-spring. Or how, afterward, she had used that event as leverage to arrange to satisfy her own needs by cuckolding her husband while ensuring that the boy would stop dating her daughter.
Butterflies fluttered low in her belly as her girlish anticipation heightened while Bernice walked to the white Hotpoint refrigerator. Removing the Cook's Spumante which she had set in there last night, she opened, then re-corked, the bottle and transferred it, with a half-full bottle of Tropicana orange juice, to a lacquered wood tray on the kitchen table. As she carried the Chinese tray to the wet bar, she crossed the entry hall's parquet floor just as a light knock, followed by two, more confident, raps came from the front door. Continuing into the living room, she called loudly over her shoulder, "Just a moment! Be right there!"
Bernice's pulse quickened while she moved back to the foyer to answer the door. She reminded herself, "You're the same age as his mother. Use that to your advantage. Don't let him know how exciting you find him. Remember, you are the one in charge!" Fluffing her hair with one hand while she pushed the latch tab down with the other, she opened the door and invited, "Good timing, Howie, I was just getting ready to fix our mimosas. Come in and get comfy."
Butch Carlson crossed the Pomeroy threshold and said, "Hi, Mrs. P., I walked here, like you asked me to. My mom likes me to take my shoes off in the house. Do you want me to do that, too?" His words, betraying his anxiety, poured out faster than he had planned as he concluded, for no reason that he knew, "Uhm, my socks are clean."
Bernice withheld a chuckle and looked away from the unsettled teen's flushed ruddy complexion to the white patent leather two-inch-heel pumps on her feet and thought, "Perfect!" Aloud, she answered, pleasantly, "I don't mind either way. You look like you might be overwarm, though. There's a closet right there where you can hang your letter-sweater." Turning about, she headed back to the wet bar, saying, "I think you know where the living room is, don't you?"
Butch's throat and blue jeans tightened as, once again, he was enthralled by Bernice's retreating hourglass figure. Her pale green house dress was modestly simple in its design, but it clung provocatively to her tapering, slightly thick, waist and swung alluringly at her knees below her sashaying bottom. Ashamed of how fast he had ejaculated in her hands last night, he desperately wanted to show her he could control himself. As he untied his white Nike Air 1 shoes and put them in the closet with his sweater, he said to himself, "You said that I should last longer and cum lots, Mrs. P., so get ready!"
When he passed through the archway into the living room, Butch saw Bernice standing in front of the bar with two filled crystal flutes in her hands. As he approached, she held one out and directed him, "Have a mimosa, Howie."
Butch hadn't understood the strange word when he first heard it in the hall, but now realized it was something to drink. "Thanks," he said sincerely. "I don't know what a 'mimosa' is, but I am pretty thirsty." He laughed and added, "It's only a mile, or so, from my house to here, but it's hillier than I realized. I kind of hustled, so I wouldn't be late."
Bernice nodded knowingly as she answered, "A mimosa is just a fun way to drink orange juice, Howie." She watched carefully for his reaction as he rapidly downed the eight ounces of sparkling Tropicana. Then, taking back the glass, she said, "I guess you were 'pretty thirsty'. Did you like it?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah, Mrs. P. Sorry, if I guzzled it," Butch replied sheepishly. "It's not all orange juice though, is it? It was kind of fizzy."
Bernice downplayed the Spumante content as she confessed, "There's a little sparkling white wine in it, but only just enough to give it life; not enough to hurt anything." Stepping back behind the bar, she re-built the cocktail, with a heavier load of Cook's, then led the way to a loveseat in front of a coffee table as she gently commanded, "Let's sit over here and talk a moment."
Butch lost all the resolve he had had only five minutes earlier and docilely followed Bernice to the settee. As she bent to set down their glasses on coasters, the opened top two buttons on her shirt-front dress briefly hinted at the fullness the other three buttons kept contained. Unconsciously, he touched his swelling doubled-over dick through his blue jeans and Jockeys. As if she had not noticed, she sat, then patted the cushion beside her right hip and urged, "Sit, Howie."
There was barely enough room on the small sofa them both. Butch was tightly penned in between the armrest on his right and Bernice on his left. He squirmed his butt uncomfortably, hoping to encourage her to give him more space, but instead, she hooked her right arm around his shoulders and not only didn't move away, but wiggled herself against him even closer. She beamed at him, "Oh, that's nice, now. Isn't it?" Then, indicating the glasses with her left hand, she said with a easy, but assumptively firm, tone, "Let's have our drink together and take our time, this time, shall we?"
