Taboo Times Ten(44)

She'd half-expected to hear their bed go crashing to the floor at any moment, their moans, groans, cries and frenzied pantings eventually becoming even louder than their rapidly creaking bedsprings.

Apparently, though, the sturdy structure beneath them somehow withstood the challenge-repeatedly.

For they would go at it for an hour or so, then apparently rest for a lengthy interval, and then go right back at it again, just as feverishly as before, several times throughout the entire night.

This was a young father and an even younger daughter with amazing stamina.

Adding to their fucking sounds, the encouragements from fragile young Stephanie of “Fuck me harder, Daddy! Harder! Oh, Daddy, I'm going to come again!” had further melted the slippery core of Mrs. Rimfield's already overheated pussy.

To merely say Mrs. Rimfield had masturbated to their illicit erotic activity, using her nimble fingers and a variety of vibrators from her substantial collection, would be gross understatement.

Listening to their bedroom noises, 10-year-old Stephanie's frantic urgings, and their unbridled passion (and inadvertently giving her face a near-permanent carpet imprint marginally visible the next morning), Mrs. Rimfield had literally fucked herself into a frenzy.



“So, Mr. Wolfe,” she'd started, in the laundry room, “are you and your darling little daughter enjoying your new… position?”

He seemed surprised for a moment, embarrassed almost and then perplexed, before finally realizing she meant his new job.

A washing machine was pushed out from the cement block wall as far as the two hoses, hot and cold, would allow. He was half-kneeling, half-stooping beside it, in jeans and a black Def Leppard tee-shirt, his hands greasy to his wrists.

His immediate reaction upon finally understanding her question was one of barely concealed annoyance at the interruption, but when he looked up he hesitated as his eyes moved slowly up her body.

“So far, so good,” he nodded, with what seemed a genuine smile. “And please call me Alex.”

“My name is Katherine,” she told him. “But you can call me Kitty.”

She'd decided that any fact finding would be best accomplished with a sexually seductive approach, her specialty.

If she could get him to admit to his wrongdoing with his daughter by seducing it out of him during a fervid sexual encounter-when he'd be most likely to discuss such a thing-she could then perform her duty: reporting him to their employer and/or, possibly, the authorities.

She couldn't imagine any other way to accomplish it.

Mrs. Rimfield also suspected they'd be alone in the laundry room due to the late hour, so had dressed accordingly: in a skimpy white halter top showing her flat tummy and firm breasts to best advantage, the outlines of her large nipples (extended rubbery tips almost poking right through) presenting themselves directly to him.

In addition, her clingy yellow cotton short-shorts, worn to show off her jaunty buttocks, were cut very low in front, low-rider style, to make visible her slender hipbones and the shaven top of her gently protruding pubic mound.

Just below that, the tautly stretched fabric at her crotch purposely formed a visible cameltoe, a new term she was aware of due to her frequent time looking at erotic material on the Internet.

Mrs. Rimfield was leaning against the laundry room doorway, displaying herself as it were, in a purposely vague yet noticeably indecent manner. Her hips were canted slightly forward to better present the goods, in this case the obvious indentation of her compressed, partially open labia.

Her new friend, maintenance man Alex, had frozen in place next to the washing machine, staring openly at the front of her tiny yellow cotton shorts-where her virtually displayed vagina was staring him right back in the face.

When he finally straightened, wiping his hands on a dirty red shop towel, the obvious bulge in his jeans caused Mrs. Rimfield to suddenly feel weak in the knees. She was definitely having the desired effect upon him.

“What do you think of these shorts?” she asked, near-genuine concern in her sultry voice.

She stepped away from the doorway and turned slightly so he could take in the superb roundness of her stretchy-cotton-encased buttocks, another part of her expert presentation.

“My little know-it-all high school niece, Veronica, says they make me look like a total whore!”

The dark-haired man nodded numbly, but no sound escaped his lips for many long moments. But, finally, he managed to say, “Your shorts look great.”

He was no longer even pretending to be repairing the broken down washing machine.

“Veronica thinks she's a sex expert,” she continued. “Because she's given out a bunch of blowjobs at a few pool parties. I told her, 'Veronica, I'll bet you barely know how to give a decent blowjob. It's a learned skill, dear, believe me.'”