Snowed In Ch 01

A few words of introduction . . .

My heartfelt thanks to all of you who responded so warmly to “Spying.” Naturally I like to get votes as much as the next writer, but I especially enjoyed reading your comments -- they were the true reward for my efforts.

And hey -- those of you who sent me pics? All I can say is you made my day. I always hoped that my writing could “inspire,” but it was extra nice to see the actual photograph evidence! (BTW, if that really is you, “FrankO,” your wife is a lucky woman. If not, thanks for sending the pic anyway -- yum.)

Thanks also to my fellow writers on this forum, who offered great feedback and suggested further reading for me. Hugs and kisses.

Some readers wanted to know why “Spying” was so long. Since this story will end up being three or four times longer I figure I better answer this.

My stories are my own fantasies -- the loose thoughts I play out lovingly in my mind in quiet moments. They are composed not only of sexual acts, but of what led to those acts, which makes them hotter for me. So I tend to tell them my way, which means I tell them slowly. My story is about sex -- there’s sex all over it -- but it’s also about anticipation, expectation, seduction, gratification . . . a whole lotta “-tion’s” that make the characters more real and, I hope, the sex scenes more rewarding and imaginative.

So what can I say? I let my imagination go (at the same pace as my fingers), then I write it down. And if it takes many pages to tell you about it, so be it. You can always skip around for the gritty details, of course . . . Readers like me who like a bit of story woven in with their sex, read on.

So this will be Part One, more to follow as I finish it. Personally, I’ve always found it’s easier to accept something of greater-than-average length if I calm down and take it slowly, one inch at a time . . .

--Nicole32

Snowed In -- Part One

December Twenty-third

Neal Ford parked his car around the back of the house, between the porch and the old barn. He got out quietly, slowly, looking away west across the field to where the sun was just beginning to descend behind the thick veil of clouds, turning them pink and blue and an eerie green. The west side of the property was the most open; the woods receded here, allowing the chilly wind to whip down over the house, and whistle through the cracks and crevices of the barn. He liked to stand here -- it was a good spot to think. He had plenty to think about.

It was, he decided, a total shambles. He might as well give up on it all. There was no way he was ever going to satisfy Sherry, and no way he would ever be satisfied with her alone. The past three months had spoiled him. Melanie had spoiled him. She was too young, yes. Too impetuous, too sensitive. Not realistic in her outlook at all. She said things that shocked him, they were so immature. He couldn’t remember ever being so naive about the world, and was sure that Sherry had never been that impulsive or reckless. Sherry was always eminently sensible. It was one of the reasons he loved her. It was also one of the reasons he was so very tired of her.

If Melanie was nothing else,

she was new

. A change, a departure. A different flavor of ice cream.

He was walking out into the field before he knew it, neglecting the ghostly sunset to focus on his steps. There was no way, he thought, that he could stay with her -- especially not if she demanded he earn back every bit of her trust or respect. Yes, he’d gone off the rails and had an affair -- some women would get a clue from that, and try harder to please their husbands.

There was no need for them to stay together.

The kids

, Sherry always said.

What kids?

Neal wanted to know. Josh was eighteen now -- not the sharpest tack in the drawer, but with any luck he’d pass his exams and graduate. And Vanessa? Vanessa was a wife and mother. Well, okay -- she and Brad Carlson weren’t officially married. And her being pregnant at nineteen was an accident, and the only reason for her unofficial marriage to Brad, or whatever they considered it. The point was, she was growing up -- she was a woman, not a kid. He’d always do what he could for her, sure -- but it wasn’t like what he said or did made a whole lot of difference to Vanessa. Neal shook his head, thinking about her. Nessa might as well have been from another planet, she was so hard for him to understand.

And then there was the house, and all the work it needed. The gigantic eyesore of the barn. Tons of work at the office, troubles with Sherry’s car . . . oh God, it was all so overwhelming.

At some point Neal had stopped walking; he was now standing in the middle of the field, the icy December wind whipping around him. Cold, he thought, for Florida weather. He stood for a minute or two with his hands in his pockets, then turned slowly to begin the trudge back to the house.

May as well go in. Why prolong the inevitable? It was going to be hell, the whole week. In this mess of a house, with his mess of a family, he now had to endure the most home-centered and familial of rituals: the Christmas holiday. At worst it would be a disaster: a week of arguments and swearing, raised voices, flushed faces. At best it would be totally artificial. They’d all pretend they were still some sort of unit. He wasn’t sure he could do that.

He had made the wrong choice, staying with her, trying to make it work. He knew that now. Maybe Melanie wasn’t the right choice, but Sherry was definitely the wrong one. Leaving her for good would be a terrible wrench -- at the very least, he’d be losing a home, and alienating his family. But then, he didn’t really have enough of either to make staying worthwhile.

I won’t kiss her, he thought as he neared the back porch. I’ve been kissing her for twenty years when I come in the door -- I won’t do it tonight. Maybe she’ll see the significance of that. Maybe she’ll understand it’s over.

***

“Ah! . . . Unngggh, yeah . . . ah, God, I’m gettin’ close! . . . I’m gettin’ close --”

“Mmmmm . . . ”

“Yeah, I’m close, baby . . . ah! . . . ah shit, you gonna keep it in your mouth this time?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Oh fuck! . . . fuck fuck fuck . . . almost there . . . ah shit, you ready for it?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“You ready?”

“Mmm-hmm --”

“Aw fuck I’m there! -- Ah! -- Ah shit! -- Ah shit shit shit!”

“

Mmmmm . . .

”

“Unngh! -- Unngh! Oh damn! -- ooohhh damn . . . ”

“

Mmmmm-hmmmm . . .

”

“Oh . . . oh damn. Damn.”

“Mmm -- he shoots, he scores!”

“Oh, hell yes!”

“Like that?”

“Hell yes.”

“Gotta smoke for me?”

“Ohhh . . . no.”

“No? What’s that then?”

“Back off, it’s my last one.”

“Josh! I just sucked your dick for you, jerk-off!”

“So?”

“So!”

“I thought you did that cause you wanted to.”

“Fucker!”

“Here, I’ll share it.”

“Shove it up your ass.”

Joshua Ford shrugged and took a long pull on the cigarette. The girl changed her mind, snatching it from him. Now the old Charger was full of smoke; he let the window down slightly to clear the air. She exhaled a stream of smoke and glared at him.

“You are some kind of bastard, you know that?” she snapped. “You’ll share it with me. How’d you like it if I

shared

my pussy around?”

“How do I know you don’t?”

“Well, maybe I should start if you think that!”

He sighed and shook his head. This was getting old fast.

“Where’re we going?” he said, pushing his wet cock back into his pants.

“Take me home.”

“What the hell for?”

“Just go!”

He cranked the car and swerved out of the parking lot, tires screeching. On the drive back, all was silent between them. When he pulled into her neighborhood, she asked:

“Are you coming over Christmas?”

“No, I can’t,” he said. “Mom wants me home.”

“Christmas Eve?”

“I don’t know. Doubt it.”

“Have you even asked?”

“Yes, I have,” he lied.

“Well, can I come over there then?”

“I don’t think so -- it’s Mom. She wants it to just be family or something -- I don’t know . . . ”

Actually he had mentioned nothing about her to either of his parents. Christmas was going to be enough of an ordeal without having to worry about her, or playing meet-the-parents.

She sighed in frustration and stared out the window.

“So am I gonna see you at all over the holiday or what? I mean, what’s the fucking deal?”

“I don’t know, Jeanie! Look, I’ll find out something and call you. I promise.”

“You can come over here, you know.”

Josh shook his head. “Nah. Your mom hates me.”

Either this was true or she didn’t feel inclined to argue the point. She was silent, though not so brooding, until he pulled up in front of her house.

“You’ll call me?” she asked.

“I’ll call you.”

“You promise.”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Okay.”

She leaned toward him to give him a kiss. At the last moment he turned his head, and they kissed cheeks awkwardly, like Frenchmen in a movie. She drew back, her eyes flashing.

“So now you can’t even kiss me?” she spat.

“Your mouth was just full of cum!” he replied.

For several seconds she stared at him in disbelief. Then she snatched up her bag from the floor of the car and was out, slamming the door behind her.

“Hey, don’t slam the --”

“

Fuck you!!

”

Josh watched her storm away up the walkway, pulling her panties out of her crack as she went. When the front door slammed, he put the car in gear and pulled away.

Oh well, he thought. No more Jeanie.

***

“Ow, dammit!”

Jasper jumped and whined at her from his corner as Sherry Ford popped her thumb into her mouth and sucked it. That made four times she’d poked herself with the needle -- maybe making popcorn chains wasn’t such a great idea after all.

Well, to hell with it, she thought, letting her shoulders slump. What in God’s name was she thinking anyway -- trying to manufacture an actual living, breathing Christmas out of a house full of doom. She’d put the wreaths up the first week of the month, by herself; that same day she and Neal had a ferocious fight about her having to do it by herself. She had erected a sort of tree, an old fake one she found in the attic (

by myself

, she thought). Later they had a knock-down-drag-out about not getting a real tree together, like they used to -- Neal had told her, laughing, that the fake tree looked “a porcupine on steroids.” It was she who insisted they put up the lights outside along the trim, even though their house was far out on the edge of town, and probably no one but stray dogs and meandering cows would see them. That job she had refused to do by herself, and when Neal shocked the shit out of himself at the fuse box and she laughed -- well, that hadn’t produced a happy holiday mood either.

She had bought gifts, she thought, reaching for a cigarette. Yes, and she shopped for those alone as well, though Vanessa had gone along once. At the time, her daughter’s sniggering suggestion that they get a blow-up doll for Neal was not appreciated by Sherry; now it did seem kind of funny.

That was the thing -- if Vanessa was in here with her, working alongside her like she promised, then she might not feel so bad. For all her wildness and unpredictability, Vanessa had a sense of humor and

joie de vivre

that could enliven any situation. Sherry glanced over at the single half-completed popcorn chain her daughter was supposed to be doing. Now where the hell was she anyway? Sherry had a suspicion.

She stubbed out the cigarette and made her way into the den. Yes, as she thought. Vanessa was in front of the tall mirror, admiring herself again.

“Oh not again, Vanessa,” she said. “I need help in here, you know.”

“I know,” her daughter said, never removing her eyes from the mirror. “I haven’t abandoned you.”

She was standing in profile before the old mahogany floor mirror, turning this way and that to study her changing shape. It was unreal, watching her. In her shorts and tanktop, her shiny hair still retaining some of its baby blonde, she still looked very much the little girl -- by rights she should be devouring the tree with gleaming eyes, and trying to guess the contents of her gifts. But there she was, her belly swelling with a child of her own. No longer an innocent.

Brad Carlson, she thought, her lips tightening.

Brad

. She had always hated Brad’s. The stuck up, spoiled brat punks in the movies, the ones who always mistreat the girls until the heroes arrive -- it seemed like they were always named Brad. And this Brad wasn’t even spoiled, or stuck up, or particularly good-looking. Brad Carlson was the son of the man who owned the gas station up the road. He wasn’t good enough to change Vanessa’s tires, much less father her child.

She would never admit it aloud, but the two of them made the most appalling couple Sherry had ever seen. As pretty and clever and infectious as her daughter was, Vanessa plus Brad equaled an ugly combination. Yes, her daughter was given to tattoos and piercings, and dying her hair the most shocking colors imaginable, and wearing clothes that would make a hooker blush. But despite all of that strangeness, Vanessa’s own beauty shown through. While Brad -- tall, skinny, gangly even, pimply, with spiky yellow hair and a face like a dog -- Brad Carlson was so far beneath her it was scary. For him to worship her from afar, okay. But to marry her? Definitely not.

Hell, they weren’t even married yet! They’d been just living together, just playing house in a low rent mobile home near the gas station. Brad hadn’t even stayed in town for the holidays -- he’d gone with his parents to visit relatives up north. Her beautiful daughter, who could be or do anything she wanted, paired with some pimply, gangly creep who couldn’t even stay with his pregnant girlfriend at Christmas -- oh, the mind boggled.

Well, she thought bitterly, at least I don’t have to feed him.

“Mom,” said Vanessa, interrupting her thoughts, “what did you look like when you were pregnant?”

“Oh God,” said Sherry, “I’m not sure. That’s ancient history now.”

“Oh bullshit. You have to remember. Did you look like me?”

She pulled up the hem of the tanktop as she asked, securing it beneath her breasts. Sherry laughed softly and studied her daughter’s long tanned legs, her narrow hips, the smooth, gentle outward curve of her belly. The soft glow of the hair around her forehead.

She smiled in spite of herself.

“I think you look prettier.”

Vanessa smiled delightedly. “Really?”

“Really, you’re looking . . . very beautiful. You have a glow.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh . . . ” Sherry moved behind her daughter, looking into the mirror with her. “Just an extra healthiness, I guess. Your cheeks fill out, your eyes brighten. You’re really starting to show now, you know that?”

“I know.”

Her daughter ran her palm slowly along the slope of her belly. The motion looked so pleasing, so enlivening to the touch, that Sherry had to try it herself. Standing close behind her, she ran her own hand over the warm, glassy skin -- she watched her hand in the mirror. Vanessa only smiled, dreamily.

In truth, she did look a lot like Sherry had when she was young. It was a surreal moment: standing before the mirror, stroking a young, pregnant belly, studying a face that might have been a younger version of her own.

“I’m gonna get bigger, aren’t I?” said Vanessa.

“Yes, you are.”

“I seem huge as it is!”

“No, it looks good on you, hon. You were too skinny before.”

“It’s funny, I don’t mind it. I useta spend hours at the gym trying to keep a flat tummy -- now I’ve got a fucking beer belly and I don’t even care!”

She laughed at herself. Sherry, on automatic pilot, told her not to use the “F word.”

“Oh Mom -- what’s the point?” her daughter replied.

The remark startled her out of her reverie. She stepped away, mechanically straightening the Christmas knick-knacks on the mantle.

What indeed was the point? Her daughter not only said “fuck” on a regular basis -- her daughter had been fucked! She wouldn’t tell Sherry how many times, or with how many different guys, or how young she was when she started. The whole prospect made her head swim. What’s the point was right -- what did she think she was protecting anymore?

“Do I still look sexy, you think?” was Vanessa’s next question.

Sherry rolled her eyes, planted Baby Jesus firmly in his manger.

“Yes, you still look ‘sexy,’ Vanessa. Honestly, who have you got to look so sexy for?”

“Oh come on, really! Do I look sexy? I don’t want to be one of those porker mamas -- I wanna be slim and trim and sleek, but still kinda

voluptuous

. Were you like that when you were preggers?”

“Oh Vanessa, I don’t know. I didn’t think about it, it was a different world.”

“Oh, boo hoo, life is horrible, woe is me, everything sucks!”

Baby Jesus was staying put, but now Joseph kept slumping over to one side, against Mary. He looked like he was sneaking a peek down her shirt.

Typical male, she thought. She jammed him between two sheep to keep him straight.

“I’ll tell you one thing --” her daughter continued, unmindful of her struggle. “My tits are bursting. No one told me I’d go from a B cup to a D in just a few weeks!”

“Well, I hope you didn’t get pregnant just to make your boobs bigger,” Sherry snapped.

“No, really -- I mean, look at this!”

Sherry looked. Her daughter had pulled the tanktop all the way up to her collarbone. Her breasts, which had been pert little mounds a few months ago, could now fill the seemingly enormous bra she was wearing with no trouble, and still wanted to pour out the top. Really, the girl did look like she’d just had a top-knotch Hollywood boob job. Vanessa giggled and shook her jutting chest from side to side.

“God, I look like a damn porn star!” she cackled. “Is this how your tits got so big?”

Sherry balked at the matter-of-fact compliment.

“It helped, yes,” she said. “So does eating now and then.”

“Well, I’m digging this!”

She suddenly yanked up the edge of the bra, letting her two swollen globes fall out; she cupped them and struck a pose.

“Whoa -- check it out!”

“Vanessa, go put something on. It’s cold outside, there’s a draft in here --”

“Oh, I’m fine!” she chirped. “Anyway, they’re not hard cause it’s cold -- they’re sooo sensitive now. I’ve been horny as hell lately, is that normal?”

“Vanessa!”

Sherry squirmed uneasily. Her daughter’s frank attitude about sex always made her uncomfortable, but it wasn’t just that. It was true that discussion of enlarged breasts or increased nipple sensitivity was perfectly appropriate between mothers: one of the prerogatives of the job. But she usually thought of it as a discourse between equals -- not a conversation that a married, middle-aged woman has with her knocked-up, unmarried daughter. She was embarrassed to find herself in this context, and even more embarrassed that she was so obviously embarrassed.

And her daughter -- her half-naked, horny-as-hell little girl -- so at ease was she with the situation that she was now actually running her fingers over her dark, distended nipples. Right there, in front of her.

“Ohhh, God --” she said, giggling.

“

Vanessa!

”

“What? Look at ‘em, they’re fantastic.”

“Cover yourself up! -- you don’t know who could be looking . . . ” Sherry glanced around at the frosty windows uneasily.

“Oh, get real, we live in the middle of nowhere, Ma.”

Of course, Neal would pick that moment to walk in, of all moments. And through the back porch door, straight into the den -- not through the front where they would have heard him.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed in the doorway, immediately turning his head, cupping a hand over his eyes. “Jesus, Nessa, put them away! What the hell is going on in here?”

“See?” Vanessa said, pulling the bra down again. “It’s only Dad.”