Marge's mind returned from its mental journey, and slowly focused on the familiar surroundings of her bedroom. Her body was sweating and taking, its position completely altered by the force of her memory. She found herself balled up on her side, one hand pressed fiercely between her drenched thighs, her other hand rubbing passionately beneath her blows.
She flushed with embarrassment at her own manipulations, and rolled on her back, spreading her arms to each side of her.
"Shit," she whined, "why can't it still be like that? Why doesn't he still see me the same way he did that? Have I changed that much? Am I still beautiful?"
Suddenly she was consumed with curiosity. Maybe it was her body. Maybe she just wasn't attractive any more. Quickly she scooted down, and off the foot of the bed. She stepped over the vacuum cleaner and walked to the huge dresser mirror that dominated a large section of one wall. She paused to stare, and choked down one more rush of embarrassment before beginning to slowly undress.
First she removed the scarf from her head, watching as the soft white-blond curls fell to frame her youthful, angular face. Her features refused to away her thirty-five yearn. She possessed bright, almond-shaped eyes, and a slightly protruding lower lip that almost begged to be licked and nibbled.
No, it wasn't her face. She was still pretty. Next she reached below her breasts and knotted the loose ends of her blouse, pulling it slowly off her rounded white shoulders, and letting it drop to the floor. She stared critically at the braless perfection of her full tits. There was a little more sag perhaps, a few stretch marks as a badge of motherhood, but still they hung large and firm, the small pointy nipples marking them dead in the center.
No, it wasn't her tits.
Finally she unsnapped her cut-offs, and pulled them down, pulling the thin, white panties with them. She dropped them down the full velvety length of her slender, white legs, and with a quick flip of her tiny ankles, kicked them off. She stared again, studying the soft vee of her blond crotch. The hips were a touch wider perhaps, but still tempting, retaining all the set and resilience of her ex-cheerleader's body.
No, it wasn't her at all. She was the kind of woman men kill for – beautiful, and hungry for a man's loving touch.
The sight of her own body was exciting her. The electric pulses of her previous remembrance still tingled beneath the thin layer of her glistening, sensuous body. "Oh Roger," she sighed, grabbing the wedding picture from the dresser before her, and clutching it to her gently heaving chest. "Why? I'm still beautiful. Why can't you fuck me like you used to like you did that night?"
And now she relived that night again, blocking out all the parts but the feel of his hand, his mouth, and his cock as she pressed the cool glass of the picture against her breasts. Her mind flashed its images, each sensation playing across her body, while her baud idly moved the photograph from one tit to another, speaking to it as though it were living flesh.
"It's so good, so good when you suck or touch my tits. You pull the love right through them. It pours out my nipples into your beautiful hard body."
She could see her tits in the mirror. The full pink nipples were awake and stretched as the brown skin around them began to contract and squirm. She continued massaging them, moving the squared frame across her body, and staring dreamy-eyed at the reddened buds jutting out boldly from the soft white mounds.
She was sinking now, sinking into the vivid picture of his hard, muscular body, clawing and rubbing against her tingling flesh. No longer able to see, her eyes shut tightly, her mind concentrating on the glorious insanity of that first erotic night of sex.
"Take my body," she groaned. "It's yours. Take it, anyway you want it… oh God! Take me!"
The picture slid unconsciously from her hand, and began circling the milky expanse of her flat, smooth stomach, gliding effortlessly on the thin veneer of sweat that now coated her body.
A moan escaped her throat, and a weakening charge erupted in the pit of her stomach as the picture frame grazed the wet, clinging curls of her blond bush. She pressed the picture's cool edge momentarily on the glistening mound of her cunt, and trembled while a shiver climbed defiantly up her tingling spine.
Her nipples seemed to grow even stiffer, crying out for more and fuller contact. Her hand involuntarily flew up to clutch the hungry orbs. Her fingers worked frantically at her straining nipples, twisting and turning them like dials to raise the maddening volume of passion that was radiating from her drenched thighs.
"Oh God!" she cried, her mind guiding, then following the lustful lead of her imagined seduction. "More… I want more of you. Take my body. Take all the pleasure I have to give! Fuck me!"
Her hands switched positions. The picture came up to crush and slide across her sweaty tits while her other hand dropped lower and began to search gently in the swelling folds of her pulsating cunt. Her finger brushed against the tiny knob of her clit, startling the tiny bulb into instant erection, and jolting her with a sudden shock of ecstasy.
For one brief moment the awareness of her actions interrupted the smooth chain of imagined events. She was stunned by the realization she was masturbating, something she had never done, and with it came all the torturing voices of guilt so firmly associated with the act.
But nothing could prevail against the yearning borne of yearn of frustration and longing. As quickly as it had come, it fled, leaving her once again in the warm, delicious grasp of her sexual fantasy.
Her fingers persisted, tracing up and down the throbbing length of her cunt, swelling to wanton firmness the pink fleshy gash. Her fingertips slid gently around the screaming clit, and down into the inner folds, drawing ever nearer to her hungry, neglected hole.
And still the mind pictures flew by. "I need you in me," she mewed. "I need your cock in me, filling me up. Give it to me! Give me your cock!"
She sunk to her knees, spreading her legs wide and opening her burning pussy. Tauntingly she pulled, her finger up, barely touching the dripping gash. Her loins were aflame, her head swimming with the strength of her overwhelming need.
"Now," she uttered, her breath raspy and gasping.
"Give it to me now… now… uuuuugggghh!"
With a savage lunge she rammed her finger into her inflamed cunt. Her breath exploded in an animal growl, the sweat flying from her jerkins taking head. The want, fleshy walls of her cunt collapsed around the juice-drenched finger, and sucked ravenously at this pleasure-giving intruder.
But the powerful force of her hunger drove her ever on. One finger was not enough. Desperately she plunged another, and then another into her hot, dripping cunt. She frantically twisted her hand, driving the hard probes deep into the cavernous depths of her quivering pussy.
Her other hand now opened, allowing the photo to drop unnoticed to the floor. Her fingers began to knead at her breasts, the nails digging into the tender tit-flesh, trying to crush the overwhelming fire that raged within them.
She was moaning incessantly now, her hips jerking and twisting to the unyielding probing of her cock-like fingers. The whole lewd rhythm of her frenzied dance gained momentum until her lust-crazed body toppled, thrashing wildly in the soft pile of her bedroom carpet.
"Ooooohhh shit! Let it come… God! Let it come!!"
Her head rocked frantically, sending the sweat-drenched, matted locks of her hair flying to each side of her. Her hips rose up in spasm after spasm of delight. Her hand battered mercilessly at her driving cunt as every muscle in her body stood tensed and ready, waiting for the final releasing blow.
Suddenly Marge's twisting body was convulsed with a gigantic spasm. She girded her loins and checked the motion of her hands, holding her trembling body on the very edge of orgasm before finally shattering into the climactic abyss. It broke over her in wave after wave of screaming tremors.
Her body jerked like a hooked fish, her breath gasped out in low, sustained moans, leaving her unable to breathe, and her heart seemed to atop beating as the raw power of climax raced through her.
In one final great sigh she collapsed, exhausted and satisfied onto the carpet. For several moments she lay there, allowing every ripple and shiver of her orgasm to play itself out before moving.
Now, finally, she stirred. She leaned over and grabbed her cut-offs and panties, putting them on quickly. She was suddenly self-conscious about her nakedness. She lifted her scarf, and wiped the sweat from her face, rising at the same time to check her face in the mirror. She adjusted the curls, blending the wet locks into the dry ones, until only her red swollen breasts remained to expose her wanton act.
And then it happened. Every feeling she had suppressed in the heat of her passion now welled up. Every bit of guilt, humiliation, every dirty feeling that she could associate with the word masturbation ran through her.
"Goddamn it!" she cried. "I've managed to avoid masturbating my whole life, and what do I get? Fifteen yearn of marriage, five years of no real husband, and I'm ramming my hand into my own cunt."
Her feeling quickly surrendered, giving in to an anger more intense than possibly any she had ever experienced before. All directed at Roger.
"You Prick!" she screamed, her balled-up fists crashing against the dresser top. "You motherfucking prick! You son-of-a-bitch… SON-OF-A-BITCH!"
She was blinded with rage and humiliation. She turned and kicked at the nearest object, the vacuum cleaner, but only succeeded in hooking her ankle around the hose and falling to the floor.
Undaunted, she pounded her fists into the bed, the dust swirling up with each blow, her voice screaming her curses to the full limit of her rough, angry throat. On and on she slammed, only stopping when her gaze caught hold of the wedding picture face down on the floor.
She got up, and rushed to it, pulling it up to glower at her husband's grinning face. It was still streaked and smudged from the grinding contact of her tits, only serving to inflame her anger.
In one quick, decisive move she cocked her arm, summoning every ounce of strength and emotion, and threw the picture against the wall. She watched gleefully as it shattered, sending fragments of glass flying in every direction. But with it, her anger too seemed to shatter and she staggered back, limply sitting on the bed.
She only had time for one heavy sigh before the door burst open.
"Mom! Mom, you okay?"
She stared mutely at this younger reflection of herself for several seconds before she could answer.
"Your mother was sick for a while, honey. But she just made herself well."
"What?"
"Nothing Laura, nothing. I'm just mumbling."
The young beauty walked over. Picking up Marge's blouse from the floor, she placed it over her mother's bare shoulders. "It's Dad… isn't it?"
"Oh great!" she moaned. "I think it's a secret, and now you come to tell me everyone knows."
"Not everyone, Mom. Just me… remember me? I live here. It's hard to miss."
"Yes… I guess it is."
She stood silent a few seconds, unsure of her mother's mood. "Look, Mom, I know I'm only eighteen and not supposed to know… but, if you ever want to talk…"
"No! I don't need to discuss it! I'm quite capable of handling it, thank you!" She was not sure why she was snapping at Laura. Maybe it was the fear that her daughter might know more about her sexual problem than herself.
At any rate an uncomfortable silence followed her outburst, a silence that now made her aware of the presence of Laura's boyfriend Larry Melrose. He had apparently been standing in the hallway since Laura came in, and at the moment was devouring her naked tits with his eyes.
She thought a moment about covering up, but decided the hell with it. At this point she was too confined and spent to be anything but grateful for his appreciative glances.
The moment hung stiffly, it was an impasse, with each player waiting to see if the other would resume the action. It was the phone that finally broke the static.
"Oh damn," Marge moaned. "That's Jenny wondering where the hell I am. Answer it will you, sweetheart? Tell her I'm on my way over."
Laura moved to the phone while Marge crossed to the mirror and retied her top. She was just finishing up when Laura hung up.
"Better warn you, Mom, she sounds real drunk."
"You sure?"
Jenny was frequently upset, as was Marge, but never upset enough to get really loaded.
"No doubt about it."
"Jesus!" she mumbled. "Whatever it is, it's worse than I thought."
Marge's thought was broken by a sudden outburst from Laura. "Oh my God! I forgot about Larry. He's standing out there waiting to help me pack."
"Pack? Where are you going?"
"God, Mother, can't you remember anything? My encounter group is having a one-week retreat, and Larry and I are going. Does any of this ring a bell?"
"Yes, yes I remember now. Well don't let him hang around out there. Bring him in so I can say hi." Marge waited while Laura grabbed Larry and pulled him into the room. She stared at him hoping to see some kind of embarrassed look, but instead found herself blushing as his eyes met hers confidently, his appreciation of all he had seen of her written clearly on his bold, handsome face.
"Hello, Mrs. Sommers… you're looking good." She winced at what she hoped was an accidental turn of phrase. "Thank you." There was a moment's pause in which Marge realized that she was too flustered by his incessant stare to talk. "Look, I've got to see Jenny. I'll see you both before you leave. Have fun packing, kids."
She gave Laura a quick kiss and strolled out. In all that time Larry's eyes never left her for a second.
"You know, Laura, if I were your father, I'd never get out of bed."
Laura giggled, throwing her arms around his waist. "You like that action, huh?"
"You know it. I'd sleep with that lady any day." Suddenly Laura was a beaming ball of excitement. "Oh my God, that's it! That's just what she needs!"
"What is?"
Laura stared at him thoughtfully. "Never mind… I think I've got a way to help Mom out, and you, my good man, are going to help."