When I showered I thought of him, rubbing my soapy hands across my erect nipples, trying to imagine they were his hands touching me, I’d feel them g...ow and harden to my touch. My heart rate would increase as my hand dropped across my soapy wet smooth stomach, stopping at the soft sparse growth of pussy hair, anticipating what was to come next. My fingers sought out, finding my erect clit, rolling it between my fingers. Each time I touched myself, the feelings became stronger and stronger,. That might have been the worst thing I could do. But hey, I was young and naive. To be perfectly honest with you, at some point during the sex, I got into it with him. Maybe somewhere in the middle of it all I realized that there had to be a reason why my mother was fucking him. And she was fucking him: In the car--I could smell her every time I got in it. On the kitchen table--and no, I didn’t smell it there, I saw them rutting away after clearing off the dinner dishes when I was supposed to. More

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