* * * * *
We’d been seeing each other for about six weeks when, holding Jennie in the spoon position – we’d just rocked each other’s worlds on my one-room apartment’s undersized bed – she said, “You think my mother’s hot, don’t you?”
There was no point in denying it. Jennie and her Mom surely knew and neither seemed offended; Mrs. Hollins had been enthusiastic about my dating her daughter from day one.
“Yeah, it’s clear you come by some of your good looks naturally.”
“Some?”
“As hard as you and your Mom work-out, there’s a lot of sweat and dedication there.”
Bringing my hand to her mouth she kissed it and said, “Nice rescue,” then, smiling indecipherably, looked over her shoulder.
I said, “What?”
“The guys I’ve known, they all think Mom’s hot. Most look at her furtively, sneakily, thinking they’re slick, that we don’t notice, but we do. Then there’s the guys who stare and drool, not cool. There are a few, I don’t know if they have more or less control, who look away even when they should be looking at her, like they don’t know how to handle it. You’re different. You don’t take creepy little looks, but when you have a reason to look you do and don’t seem to feel weird about it. Plus, you’re the first one to admit it.”
I didn’t say that, in addition to having a thing for hot younger women like her, I had a thing for hot older women, that I’d bedded a few back home. Instead, since it was clear that not only didn’t it bother her, but that she dug it, I said, “Yeah, I like looking at your Mom. Why do you bring it up, interested in a threesome?”
Laughing she said, “What makes you think I do women, and why are guys fascinated by threesomes, especially mothers and daughters?”
Making a mental note – she hadn’t said no or gotten offended – I said it must be some kind of biological or evolutionary imperative, and avoided the first question by kissing her. She kissed me back, reached for my dick.
Soon I was driving into her, shaking the flimsy bed, and she was totally into it, writhing, moaning, clutching my back, digging her fingers into me. Not that she wasn’t always into it, but if I wasn’t missing something this time more than ever.
The conversation about her mother had turned her on.
* * * * *
My phone rang, no name appeared. I thought about letting it roll to voice mail, but there was something familiar about the number, then I got it. It was one digit different from Jennie’s.
“Hello.”
“Hey Michael, it’s Theresa. Jennie gave me your number, we figured it’d be okay.”
“I never complain about a beautiful woman with my phone number. What can I do for you?”
After a moment’s hesitation, but no objection, she said, “Jennie’s talked about you so much that her father wants to meet you. Can you come to the house for drinks, then we’ll go to dinner.”
“Sounds fine, when?”
“Sunday at 7:00.”
“I’m open, where are we going?”
“Morgan’s.”
* * * * *
I checked Morgan’s on-line. Coat and tie? I didn’t own a coat and tie and my bank account was in no shape to buy them. While looking up the local consignment shops I realized I didn’t have Jennie’s home address; we’d always met in town. I considered texting Jennie, but pleased by the tone of my conversation with Mrs. Hollins, called her back.