Blood runs thicker than soapy water

Amber Dextris

Sandy had been looking forward to this Wednesday ever since her last class on the lazy afternoon the day before. The matric maths class always had a huge effect on the gravity that pulled her eyelids shut - especially final exam revision - but when the bell rang, signalling the end of the day, her eyes snapped open as she slapped her maths book closed and left the school premises. She had spent the rest of the afternoon lying on her bed, reading. She would have been outside at the pool had it not been for the rain.

She woke up later that evening with her finger between the pages she had been reading, and a blanket pulled over her. A call, "Hello!", had roused her from her subconscious stroll. She must have fallen asleep hours ago because the coffee mug next to her bed was half full, and the coffee was cold.

Mike got home from work early. He always took the afternoon off before a public holiday - it just made the following day seem longer, more drawn out, and more productive when he worked on the old Ford in his garage. He never had much time for his mechanical interests any more, so he justified his half days as time for himself, time well-spent at home. Trish, working the full day, would arrive home only in about three hours' time, and she also had to go to work on the public holiday again.

When he walked through the back door, the house was silent. Usually Sandy had her radio playing, or she would be watching TV if she didn't have homework, or lying by the pool. He wondered if maybe she'd gone over to Cheryl's house again, or perhaps there was a new boy interest. He smiled knowingly. Sandy had had plenty of boy interests since grade 8, but now that she was so close to matriculating, she would be looking for affection beyond the confines of the tall school gates.

When he walked down the carpeted passage, Mike noticed that Sandy's schoolbag had been dropped clumsily in her doorway. Books spilled through the half-open bag. Mike stepped into Sandy's room.

She was asleep on her bed, book in hand. She was curled into the foetal position with her knees drawn in. He noted that she perhaps needed a new school uniform because the one she was currently wearing was faded, and a bit short. He supposed that since it was her last school year, it would be a waste to buy a brand new uniform. But with the way in which she lay, the skirt nicely exposed the backs of her thighs and the smooth bottom edge of her bum. He also realised that he'd never known that school girls wore lace underwear. This particular pair cut gently and neatly between the two firm cheeks that the skirt was supposed to cover. Mike reflected on the fact that Sandy insisted that she walk to school or walk to friends' houses, even when a car ride would not inconvenience anyone. He now understood the benefits of her obsession with walking, and wondered how firm her posterior really was. While contemplating this, he was startled out of thought by a murmur escaping through Sandy's lips. In her somnolence, she turned slightly, resting on her back. Mike felt his senses stir, heat prickling in his groin at the sight of the puckered nipples pressed up against the fabric of her uniform. When she had turned in her sleep, her shirt had twisted, tightening against her chest. Sandy's maturing body had until thus far escaped Mike's notice.

He had, however, accidentally seen Sandy's breasts two years ago, but then again, so had the rest of the visitors to the 'Toti resort. She had exited the supertube and splashed into the pool, and that was when her bikini top decided to stay beneath the water when she surfaced. Her breasts were still small and perky when she was sixteen years old and they had not yet developed to their current roundness.

Mike could almost feel them in his hands. His face flushed as he mentally numbed his growing arousal. He thought she might be cold - her nipples hard and the bumps of gooseflesh suddenly rising on her thighs - so he unfolded the blanket at the foot of the bed. As he leaned over her to cover her shoulders with the blanket, he inhaled the smell of stale coffee on her breath, and the scent of perspiration that triggered a picture of her in his mind: walking briskly from school, breaking a light sweat to avoid being soaked by the rain, her breasts bobbing within her bra as she strode along the pavement.

It was 5:30 pm when Trish called "Hello!" in the kitchen. Mike walked in from the garage to greet her with a kiss. He was rubbing his hands with a rag which, unfortunately, would not remove the dirt from under his fingernails. Receiving a hug from her, Mike dropped the rag on the floor and trailed his hands down his wife's back, grasping her round butt cheeks, pulling their bodies together. Mike made a subconscious and unpreventable realisation that Sandy's firmness had once belonged to Trish. Trish didn't walk all that much any more.

Sandy offered to make dinner that evening. Trish was tired and had been grateful to be able to take a glass of wine and go and recline on her bed. The sound of Sandy's clattering in the kitchen faded the further down the passage Trish progressed. She lay in silence, the taste of sweet red wine lingering in her mouth, her eyes closed. Suddenly Trish felt a hand on her inner thigh, creeping higher. She got a fright, her eyes wrenching themselves open, but the sight of Mike pacified her. He grinned - lust in his eyes - to which Trish said in a low voice: "Sandy's in the house … don't …" Mike slit his eyes, his smiled broadening as he pushed his hand further under her skirt.

Sandy had been pottering around in the kitchen for only twenty-five minutes when she finished making dinner. Her bare feet padded silently down the passage. She had imagined that both Mike and Trish had gone to grab forty winks before dinner, which - she was about to tell them - was now ready.

The main bedroom door was slightly ajar, but as usual, Sandy walked into the room, unperturbed. Her footsteps had gone unheard.

She started, recoiling automatically, hiding herself behind the chest of drawers next to the door. She held her breath.

The soft moans continued.

She had not been observed.

Sandy exhaled silently, clarifying in her mind what she had just perceived. She shook her head in confusion at her emotions, but suddenly her hands were warm; her curiosity bristled.

She peered slowly - millimetre by millimetre - from behind the drawers. She watched Mike's hands touching Trish's body. With his back towards her, Sandy thrilled at the sight of the muscles in his buttocks flexing and relaxing as he thrust his hips forward. Trish's legs were wrapped around his waist, and Sandy noticed that every time Mike thrust forward, Trish's toes flexed. The soft moans were also synchronised with his thrusting, his flexing and relaxing buttocks, his steady back, and his planted thighs.

Mike's slight erection earlier that afternoon had not dissipated. As he worked on his Ford truck, his overall pants felt uncomfortable and he tried to rid his mind of the picture of Sandy's hard nipples and exposed flesh by slowly and thoroughly paging through the dog-eared Hustler magazine he kept under his toolbox. None of these glossy women turned a page in Mike's mind. Their naked bodies (huge breasts, oiled skin, and thighs spread wide open) could not outdo the powerful pull that Sandy's oblivious posture had inflicted on Mike's consciousness. When Trish appeared in the kitchen, Mike had found his obvious outlet, and had come onto his wife so strongly that even when she cowered like a virgin, he pursued his desire and made her give in to his unrelenting body.

Now here they were in the dark bedroom. The only light that entered this atmosphere hovered at the door, barely crossing the threshold.

Mike closed his eyes and thrust long and deep, feeling the hard friction against his aching tip, and Trish's scant wetness around his shaft. At first she had said that she was tired, but she then hinted that she'd been feeling naughty and desirous for the past few days, and had entertained the idea of surprising her husband with a blowjob. Mike laughed it off, along with his wife's pantyhose and underwear. He was in too much of a hurry for a blowjob, and he wanted the feel of a woman's body against him as he pushed his pleasure into her.

The sex had been slow at first, but when Mike speeded up his rhythm, he took a swig of pride when his wife started panting, moaning softly. He was still far from his orgasm - it would take hours to rid him of this erection.

Something interrupted the scene in his peripheral vision. Something about the light in the doorway had changed at second glance. Mike realised that there was a thin shadow in the light that fell on the carpet at the door, and that this shadow belonged to Sandy. Suddenly his orgasm was imminent. He had grown painfully hard again, but his control was about to give. Flashes of imagery - nipples, bum, thighs, too-short skirt - lashed his mind and he felt his hands tighten around Trish's arms in steadying himself at his release. He must have grabbed her a bit too hard, or she was coming too, because she let out a little shriek as Mike groaned and exploded inside her.

Sandy suppressed a shrill cry of wonder when she saw Mike's body jerk and his head roll back. Trish made a strange noise and her toes curled inwards, then Mike groaned and his head dropped forward again. Sandy's face burned. She couldn't believe what she was seeing, and wanted to turn and run from her hiding place in the doorway, but all she could do was slink up against the wall and tiptoe slowly out of the room, back down the passage, and into the kitchen. She took a couple of deep breaths, then called, seemingly nonchalantly, "Dinner's ready!"

Sandy woke up with a fright at 9:20 on Wednesday morning. She thought she was horribly late for school, but realising that it was a public holiday, she smiled and her head settled more comfortably on her pillow.

She didn't hear anyone in the house. She knew that Trish had to work, and assumed that Mike had also left for work earlier that morning. Sandy pushed the blanket off her body. She usually slept in just a T-shirt which, during the night, didn't stay on all the way. Some mornings she woke up and her T-shirt would barely be covering her breasts. This was one of those mornings.

The sun shone brightly outside, but a cool draught of air fluttered over her body as she drew back the blanket. Alone, Sandy touched herself. It was Cheryl - over a Fanta orange and a cigarette one afternoon - who had awakened Sandy's curiosity about masturbation, and she had only just begun to make use of her time alone, exploring her nodes, notches, and nooks, and finding out just what a good lesson endurance can teach.

Her fingers easily discovered that her dreams had been pleasurable. She was wet and tingly, and she slid her fingertips over those parts that turned bright pink when she touched herself, looking between her thighs in the mirror. Slippery, and creating jolts of new pleasure throughout her body, Sandy encouraged her secret places to ooze more juices, and the more they oozed, the more she rubbed. The wetness covered her fingers, so she touched her nipples and shivered with pleasure when they hardened and shone with the moisture she'd gathered up down below.

Trish had been reluctant to go to work this morning, but Mike had sleepily encouraged her to try and have a good day. His stubble itched against the soft pillow, and he turned over and went back to sleep after she kissed him goodbye.

It was 9:30 am before he extracted himself from underneath the covers. Walking down the passage to turn the kettle on and make some coffee, Mike noticed that Sandy's bedroom door was slightly open. He hesitated before entering, thinking that she may be getting dressed, or that she might be on the phone.

Movement beyond the cracks between the door hinges caught his eye. It took a while before he realised what he was looking at …

The images passing over his retina astounded and aroused him: Sandy was discovering herself in a big way. He could see her waist, her hands, a fraction of her right breast - the nipple wet - and then he glimpsed her fingers caught in the sand-coloured downy hair that covered her treasure. He ached in silence, standing in the passageway beyond her bedroom door, as her hips moved against the rhythm of her fingers. Automatic and uncontrollable thoughts were couriered through his mind: he wondered how soft her skin was, how she tasted with all that moisture buttering her inner thighs …

Guilt wracked him.

Mike strode in silent, angry steps to the kitchen. He realised that Sandy didn't know he was staying at home today, so he exaggerated his actions so that she would hear him busy in the kitchen. He bumped the kettle as he flicked the switch on. He almost slammed the fridge door when he retrieved the milk. He banged a mug down on the counter …

Sandy was pushing herself further and further this time. Each time, since two months ago, was different. The first time that she discovered the pleasure her body gave her - the pleasure that no one in her household spoke about - was by accident. She'd forgotten to wash between her legs one day, so the next night in the bath she scrubbed twice as hard, and her clitoris made itself known. This morning, her body was feeding her a new kind of pleasure. She only ever touched herself for five minutes or so, until she felt guilty enough about it to stop. But this morning, images in her mind made her go on. She picked naughtily from the bank of memories that had accumulated from the previous night. Mike's dark hands on Trish's pale skin. Mike's body; its movements; the way he thrust his hips and clenched his muscles and moaned and threw his head back.

Moisture flooded her fingers all the way to the knuckle.

Suddenly she heard noises and banging in the kitchen, and realised with horror that Mike was still in the house. Her door was open! What if he'd just walked into her room?! Had he seen her? Did he know she'd seen him last night?

Sandy's face went red, and she choked back tears of shame and embarrassment, based on what could have happened. She needed a shower. She yanked her T-shirt down again and when she stood up, it dangled around her thighs. She thought she should rather not avoid Mike, in order not to appear suspicious, so she went to the kitchen to say good morning.

Mike waited patiently for the kettle water to stop bubbling. The steam rose, but it didn't rise nearly as hot and thick as his erection. He heard a pair of bare feet slap on the kitchen tiles and turned his head to see Sandy standing in the doorway.

"Morning," she said, her throat sounding froggy.

"Hello …" came Mike's reply, "Are you getting up this early?" he teased, trying to distract himself. He wanted to give her the usual morning hug that they exchanged every day since he could remember, but if he stepped away from the kitchen counter, if he turned to face her, she would see the huge bulge straining against the track pants he excused as pyjamas. "You want coffee?" he asked, needing justification to continue standing where he was.

"I'm going to take a shower first," she said, turning from the kitchen in the hope that he didn't notice the blush on her cheeks.

The shower curtain wasn't even slightly transparent. It hung like tent canvas in front of the occupant of the shower. For this reason, Sandy didn't mind if she was taking a shower and Mike came into the bathroom to shave, or if he was in the shower and she came to use the big wall mirror to do her hair. Weekdays were always a rush and everyone was late if they didn't share the bathroom. The bathroom was communal in every sense of the word.

The water ran hot on her skin. Sandy rubbed her hands over her face repeatedly, but she could not scour the curiosity from her mind. Images of Mike's body and what it was doing to Trish stuck like stubborn mildew behind her eyes. She had only seen the back of him, so her imagination worked overtime to provide her with an image of what he looked like from the front. She wondered if his shaft was thick and powerful like the ones she'd giggled at in the magazines under Cheryl's mother's bed, or if it was narrow and short like those that the boys in her primary school class joked about with each other.

Guilt, again.

Sandy's conscience hurt her head, but her imagination won the battle, and endowed Mike with a forest of dark, masculine pubic hair and a thick and powerful shaft. Giving in to her imagination's efforts, Sandy smiled, forgetting her conscience and allowing her body's response to take over.

"I'm coming into the bathroom to shave," Mike alerted her, raising his voice above the splash of the shower. Sandy confirmed his presence with a muffled "Mmmm" behind her hands, still rubbing her face. She looked around the shower and realised that there wasn't any soap.

Mike didn't need to shave, but when he heard the squeak of the shower taps being turned, giving way to the force of the water, he had to be in the bathroom. For once, he wished that he'd listened to Trish and they'd bought the transparent plastic shower curtain instead of using the heavy, non-transparent one that hung closed like stage curtains at the theatre when the audience was desperate for the encore. His conscience chastised him, but his fantasies continued their Everest hike through his head.

Mike plugged the basin and turned the hot tap on full. He usually moderated the filling of the basin, but if he stole the hot water supply, then only cold water would run in the shower …

"Hey!" screamed Sandy.

Mike pictured her goosepimpled body and her puckered nipples. He pushed his hand down against his hardened cock as he slowly turned the hot tap off.

"Sorry …" he said, completely insincerely.

"Please pass the soap," Sandy asked, and Mike glimpsed her hand, palm up, in the gap between the top of the shower wall and the ceiling. She was waiting for him to get the soap from wherever it had been misplaced to, and pass it to her. He reached over to the bathtub and retrieved the bar of soap, stretching his arm up to reach her hand. As he placed the soap in her hand, her fingers touched his, and he could have sworn he felt a slight tremble. But when her warm, wet fingers made contact, the soap felt slippery in his hand, and his memory bombarded his consciousness with flashbacks - her bum peeping out from under her skirt, her lace panties riding her crack, her nipples under her school shirt, her wet fingers between her legs. She had been completely oblivious to her voyeur.

Sandy wanted to feel Mike's skin, so she purposefully touched his hand when he passed the soap to her. She filled in the tactile blank that her imagination had omitted by feeling his hand, assuming that the rest of his skin felt the same way. Her pussy cat burned as she tacked the sensory data together: Mike's outline in the scarce light in the bedroom, his working muscles, his jerking hips, his strong legs, and now, his warm skin on her fingertips.

She revelled.

Pulling herself back to the situation, Sandy heard Mike's voice: "Where are your manners, girl?"

"Excuse me?" she asked, voice raised above the rushing water.

"Your manners. I gave you the soap, so what do you say?"

Sandy blushed, having forgotten something so inexcusable. She turned the soap over in her hands, allowing the foam to bubble through her fingers. "Thank you, Daddy," she replied.



LitNet: 24 March 2005

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