Message-ID: <51350asstr$1118128202@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: <nntp-bounce@supernews.net> X-Original-To: ckought69@hotmail.com Delivered-To: ckought69@hotmail.com X-Original-Path: corp.supernews.com!not-for-mail From: "Al Steiner" <do_not_resuscitate_ever@yahoo.com> X-Original-Message-ID: <11aa2fiefb6sp88@corp.supernews.com> X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-RFC2646: Format=Flowed; Original X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2900.2180 X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Mon, 6 Jun 2005 19:44:03 -0700 Subject: {ASSM} Overcome by Lust by Al Steiner (Mf, teens) 1/2 Lines: 967 Date: Tue, 7 Jun 2005 03:10:02 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2005/51350> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, newsman This is another of my stories that was originally posted at Ruthie's Club. The six-month exclusion on it is now expired and I offer it here for your pleasure. Mormons, please, don't send me angry email for blaspheming your religion. If you're reading stories at this site you are a hypocrite and I will ignore you. All others, please feel free to offer feedback. And, yes, I am still working on Intemperance. Chapter 3 will be out soon. For those of you at ASSM, I'm only posting Intemperance (a novel length story about a rock band and all the trials, tribulations, and debauchery they encounter) at www.storiesonline.net which is a free site. This is because the formatting of the text is important to the narrative and it is impossible to preserve it here. Overcome by Lust by Al Steiner Chapter 1 The Gardenia Galleria was an upscale shopping mall in one of the more fashionable suburbs of Heritage County. Strategically located just off Highway 99-the main freeway through the metropolitan area-and surrounded by six-lane arteries that allowed access with a minimum of traffic jams, it was the mall to shop in. People came from all over the region to patronize the four major department stores that anchored the mall, or the dozens of smaller specialty shops that gave it character. The parking lot surrounding the Gardenia Galleria contained over two thousand parking slots, all connected by a beltway that circled the outside. During business hours, even on the slowest of shopping days, this parking lot was typically at least three-quarters full. During the Christmas season, the Gardenia Police Department had to assist with traffic control and shuttle buses were often used to ship patrons in from other parking lots several miles away. On this particular Saturday evening in late May, however, the parking lot of Gardenia Galleria was almost completely deserted. It was 9:45 PM and the mall was now closed. All of the patrons had long since departed with their purchases, and all of the employees had gone home. Even the security force-which cruised around in small pick-up trucks with orange light bars mounted on the roof-had shut down operations for the night. The only activity to be seen was a couple of teenage skateboarders practicing maneuvers on some of the decorative planters. Behind Nordstrom's Department Store, in a dark recess where customers never came, even when the mall was open, was the loading dock. A concrete inlet that dipped down against the loading doors, it was wide enough for two trailers to park side by side. Currently there was one trailer there-a delivery of overpriced clothing from Malaysia. It had not been unloaded by closing time. In the space where another trailer would go was a six-year-old Toyota Corolla, its engine off, the windows more than a little steamy. Inside the car, in the front seat, were two employees of Nordstrom's Department Store who had elected not to go home just yet. Kyle Swanson was a nineteen-year-old salesman in the electronics department. Samantha Isaacson was a seventeen-year-old clerk in the shoe department. The two of them had been dating each other for nearly four months now-the longest boyfriend/girlfriend relationship either had ever been involved in. They liked to think they were in love with each other, that they would one day marry, and perhaps it was even true. It was one of those things that time would tell. At the moment, however, marriage was the last thing on Kyle's mind. Samantha's alluring body was pressed up against his tighter than it ever had been before. He could feel her ample breasts pushing into his chest as they leaned towards each other across the center console. His mouth was pressed to hers, his tongue sliding in and out, dancing with her softer tongue, exchanging saliva, swirling and probing. She was kissing him back with unmasked passion, the likes of which she had rarely displayed in the past. His left hand was resting on her knee. Like the rest of her legs, it was clad in nylon. Her black, conservative skirt, which hung to mid-calf when she was standing, had worked its way up to mid-thigh, and those lovely thighs were slightly parted in a manner that was just suggestive enough to make him think that tonight might be the night he finally got somewhere with her. "Oh, Lord," Samantha breathed, breaking the kiss for an instant. She was breathing very heavily, her blue eyes shining from behind her glasses. "We should stop, Kyle. Don't you think?" Kyle was not discouraged by her words, not in the least. On the contrary, they excited him. She had actually taken the Lord's name in vain in response to what he was doing to her. And she didn't even realize she had done it. As the oldest daughter in a strict Mormon family, that was remarkable indeed. He had never heard her say anything stronger than "Oh, gosh" or "Jiminy Crickets" in the past. "I love kissing you, Sam," he said, leaning forward again, letting his tongue probe out and lick her pouting lower lip. "Don't you like kissing me?" "Yes," she said, almost moaned. "Oh yes." He leaned into her again, attacking her lips with his, sliding his tongue back into her mouth. His hand slid up a few more inches on her leg, onto the lower part of her thigh. His fingertips caressed the nylon there. She made no attempt to stop him. His right hand he slid up her back, passing over the protrusion of her bra strap beneath the white, button-up blouse she wore. He slid it under the locks of her golden blonde hair and onto the skin of the back of her neck. He caressed her gently here. She cooed into his mouth and her legs came apart a little bit more, unconsciously he was sure, but apart nonetheless. Her hands were on his back, stroking up and down through his shirt, her nails lightly scratching at him. When he moved his mouth from her lips to the side of her neck and began to kiss and nibble at the soft skin there, she melted. Her head went back, exposing more skin for him to pleasure. Her eyes closed in an expression of surrender. Her arms tightened around his back. Her legs fell open just a little bit more. Kyle knew she was as turned on as she had ever been before. He was tempted to try sliding his hand further up her leg, possibly to the junction between them. He longed to feel the wetness he knew had to be there, to feel the heat, to transfer the odor of her musk to his fingertips. But he had been in enough make-out session with Samantha to know that might be pushing things too quickly. Samantha was determined to follow the teachings of her church and save herself for her future husband on her wedding night. If he pushed her too fast she would clam up in an instant, pushing him away, her passion deflating like a life raft with a bullet hole in it. She probably wasn't ready to be touched between the legs. But maybe. just maybe. she was ready to be touched somewhere else. With reluctance, he removed his hand from her leg and slowly placed it on her upper abdomen, just below the swell of her softball-sized breasts. He scratched lightly at her here for a moment, feeling the cotton of her blouse, feeling the firm skin beneath it, feeling the way her diaphragm was heaving up and down with her excited breathing. He let the hand move upward, inching it northward, until, at last, he felt the underswell of her right breast just touching his knuckles. She made no objection to his actions, if fact, it seemed as he'd heard a little moan come from her mouth, had felt her twist a little in his arms, trying to increase the contact. He gave another soft nibble at her neck and let his hand move upward, passing over the underswell and directly onto the breast itself. This time, the moan was quite clear, as was the push towards him. He could not believe his luck. He was cupping her tit and she was moaning! She was pushing into him! She liked it! He moved his lips back to hers and started kissing her again, driving his tongue further into her mouth than ever before. She kissed back enthusiastically, almost drooling in her passion. He cupped the breast a few times, running his hand up and down, pressing it from all angles. It was as soft and squeezable as he'd always imagined it would be, the epitome of femininity. He let his right hand come down from her neck, across her shoulder, and down to her chest. It found her left breast and cupped it as well. It was as soft and sensuous as its twin and Samantha moaned again as he felt it up. Encouraged, he let his right hand twist inward, his fingertips probing for the gap between the buttons on her blouse. Samantha always wore blouses and skirts to work and he had spied fleeting views of her white bras and the pale pinkness of the tops of her breasts on many occasions between these gaps when she twisted her body just right. Now he exploited the opening, going for tactile stimulation instead of visible. His plan was successful. He gently pushed his index and middle finger through and the tips of them were touching her bra near the top. She moaned again, her tongue driving harder into his mouth, telling him that he needn't stop just yet. He let the fingertips roam up and down, touching everything they could reach. On the downward end of their extension, he felt her fat nipple pushing through the cotton of the bra insistently, demanding attention. He stroked it a few times, eliciting more moans, more passionate kisses. It was the upward end of his probing, however, that truly excited him. For the first time in their relationship, he found himself touching the bare skin of her breast. True, it was high on her breast, well north of the nipple, but it was her tit! The skin was soft and silky. He ran his fingers back and forth along the border between bra and skin, pushing at it and finally managing to get a few millimeters beneath. She did not try to stop him. He began running his fingertips into the bra itself, worming them in from the top. With each stroke, a little more flesh was touched, a little more of her tit was opened to his exploration. She was still into it, obviously liking what he was doing to her, obviously not ready to call a halt to things yet. He tried to probe further, to reach his fingertips down far enough to touch her bare nipple. If he could get that nipple in his hands, she would be his. He was certain of it. But the gap between her buttons was not wide enough to allow his hand in that far. No matter how hard he stretched his middle finger out, no matter at what angle he dipped it, he could not reach the nipple. He thought he felt the edge of her areola at the far end of the stretch, but that might be nothing more than wishful thinking. He needed to get his hand in there more. He pushed it forward, meeting nothing but tough resistance around the back of his fingers from the material of her shirt. He tried squirming and twisting it, trying to drive it in further, and this seemed to work. His hand went in a few more centimeters, a few more millimeters. Just a bit more and he would feel nipple. Just a bit more. There was an alarming sound of cotton starting to rip. They both heard it, even over the sound of music coming from his stereo system, even over their enthusiastic pants, even over the slurping sound of their tongues making wet contact. She suddenly broke the kiss. "You're gonna rip my blouse," she hissed at him. "Sorry," he mumbled, figuring he'd blown it, that the encounter he'd so carefully plotted was now coming to an end. But Samantha surprised him. She smiled and reached down to the button around his hand. With a few manipulations of her manicured nails, she undid it, widening the gap to twice its size. "There," she said. "Is that better?" "Yeah," he said, gazing down at what was revealed. Though the light was dim, there was enough moonlight and ambient lighting from a nearby floodlight that he could see her entire, bra-encased tit. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Their mouths came back together and his hand went inside her shirt. Now he was able to get three fingers inside the top of her bra. He probed downward and within a few seconds, the nipple was his. She moaned as he touched it, as he began twirling it and stroking it. "Oh, Lord," she said again. "Oh, sweet Lord." "You know it," he mumbled into her mouth, driving his tongue in further. He tweaked the nipple up and down, back and forth, feeling its dimensions. It was about the diameter of a dime and sticking up more than half an inch from the areola. Its surface was covered with ridges that were both rough and soft at the same time. It was obvious she was enjoying his attentions. She was moaning almost continuously into his mouth. He was enjoying it as well. His penis was a rigid pole within his work slacks, throbbing in the intensity of its yearning for relief. He dropped his left hand into his lap for a moment, giving his cock a brief squeeze and adjusting it to a more comfortable position. Once that was done, he put his hand back on her right leg, just above the knee. Her legs were open a little more now and he slid his fingers slowly upward, under the pulled-up hem of her skirt, onto her middle thigh, touching the nylon that covered it, feeling the muscles beneath. He twisted the hand inward, going to the inner part of the thigh. And still, she was not stopping him. Her hands, meanwhile, dropped down his body too, going to his lower back, pausing there for a few moments, and then sliding slowly down to the top of his ass. She cupped him through his pants, her movements hesitant but full of passion. Now it was he who moaned. He slid his left hand further up her thigh, moving more quickly now, driven by lust. He was now on the upper thigh, just inches from her heavenly junction. He went for broke, twisting his hand around and moving his fingertips to her crotch. He felt the material covering her vaginal area, the panty portion of the pantyhose. It was hot to the touch and very damp. He ran his fingers up and down, transferring that moisture to the tips, feeling, for the briefest of instances, the roughness of her pubic hair beneath and the outline of her swollen vaginal lips. "Oh. God." she panted, feeling his touch. "Oh, sweet Lord!" And then, just as he was sensing the kill, just as he thought he was about to finally make some headway, she broke the kiss and put her hands on his shoulder, pushing him away from her. "We have to stop!" she said breathlessly, alarm in her voice. "Stop?" he asked, trembling in his desire. "Why? Didn't you like it?" She nodded vigorously. "That's why we have to stop. Things are moving too fast. I'm getting carried away." "There's nothing wrong with getting carried away," he said, trying to lean in and kiss her again. But she was having none of that. "No," she said firmly, closing her legs. "We can't!" He slowly backed off, a sigh of frustration coming from his mouth, a sigh Samantha picked up on. "I'm sorry," she told him gently. "But you know I just can't do this. I was getting overcome by lust. So were you." Overcome by lust. That, he knew, was not something Samantha had come up with on her own. It was from a guidebook for Mormon teenagers produced by the church, a pamphlet full of recommendations of proper dating practices and what pitfalls to avoid, particularly with non-Mormon types. Samantha's mother had given him a copy of it the first time she'd brought him home to meet her. Dating was supposed to be done only with other people present. Affection was supposed to be limited to handholding or touches "outside the strike zone," meaning above the shoulders and below the knees. Kissing was considered an acceptable activity when things were very serious between a young man and a young woman, but the touching of lips together was supposed to adhere to the "1.2 second rule", which meant it was not to last longer than that. French kissing or passionate kissing was forbidden, as was being alone together unsupervised, engaging in any conversation that might arouse sexual feelings, and, most assuredly, anything that could be described as "petting". Such things, the pamphlet assured its audience, put you in danger of being "overcome by lust." The consequences of that were considered quite grave. "It's not lust," Kyle assured her. "It's more than that, Sam. Much more than that. Don't you feel it?" She was still so flushed and tingling with sexual excitement that his words sounded reasonable to her. "Yes," she whispered. "I felt it." "You're so beautiful," he told her, reaching out and stroking the side of her face. It was perhaps the first church-sanctioned show of affection he'd performed all night. "I just like being with you, kissing you. touching you." "Oh," she melted, leaning forward and giving him a kiss on the lips. It was not exactly a passionate kiss, but it was not exactly a chaste one either. He took her hand in his and slowly lowered it to his lap, placing her palm directly on the bulging protrusion of his turgid member. "Do you feel that?" he asked her. "I shouldn't," she said, though she made no move to pull her hand away. "Do you feel how hard I am?" he asked her. "That's what kissing you and touching you has done to me. You did that to me, Sam. You and your beautiful body." "Oh, Lord," she said, her voice breaking, her hand making an experimental squeeze of what was beneath his pants. It was obvious she had never touched one before-had possibly not even seen one before, at least not apart from watching her younger brothers get their diapers changed (and even this visualization, Kyle knew, was discouraged by the church). "It really needs some relief," Kyle whispered to her. "Re. Relief?" He nodded. "I need to come, Sam. I need it so bad it hurts. Will you help me?" She licked her lips nervously, a struggle obviously going on behind her eyes. She was intrigued by the thought of helping him, he could tell. But her upbringing was pulling her in the other direction. "How?" she finally asked. "I'm not going to, you know, kiss it or anything. We're not allowed to do that even after marriage." "You don't have to kiss it," he assured her. "You could just use your hand on it. Have you ever heard of a hand job?" "Yeah," she whispered. "I've heard of it." He reached down with his hands and slowly undid his belt buckle, letting it fall open. He then undid the snap on his slacks. Her hand remained over the bulge of his erection, her eyes looking downward at what he was doing. Encouraged, he slid down his zipper, revealing his blue bikini boxers. There was a large wet spot from pre-come seepage in the front of them. He put his fingers inside the waistband and pushed down. His hardness popped out, standing straight and tall, as swollen and congested as it ever got. Samantha gasped as it came into view, her eyes riveted to it. He took her smooth hand and placed it on the shaft. She hesitated for the briefest of instances before closing it around him. "Oh yes," he moaned, his head falling back just a bit. "That's it, Sam. Now move it up and down." "Like this?" she whispered, beginning to stroke him. "Yesssssss," he groaned, feeling the exquisite union of her touch. "Just like that." He leaned forward, bringing his mouth to hers once more. She kissed him back eagerly, her tongue sliding back into his mouth, her hand continuing to jack up and down, smearing his pre-come around, making his entire shaft slippery, increasing the sensation greatly for both of them. Within seconds, he felt the spasms start. His hips began to rise up and down from the seat, driving him harder into her clenching hand. Pleasure began to build within him, centered in his groin and spreading outward. "Oh, God, Sam. I'm gonna. I'm gonna." "You're gonna what?" she asked fearfully, frightened by the desperate tone in his voice, the desperate look on his face. She stopped jacking his cock, afraid she was hurting him. "Oh, God. no!" he cried as the sensation was suddenly removed. "Don't stop!" "Huh?" she asked, confused. But it was too late. His orgasm, though not exactly being driven forth anymore, was not to be denied. He grunted in a mixture of pleasure and dissatisfaction and a jet of semen shot out of the end of his cock with incredible force. It splattered all over the front of her skirt, just above the hem, a few dribbles actually making it onto her pantyhose. "Oh, my God!" she cried in alarm as she saw it hit her, her very first thought being what her mother would think if she saw it. Fortunately, Kyle, despite being in the throes of a broken orgasm, had the same thought. He quickly grabbed his cock in his hand and pointed it away from her, towards the front of the car. More spurts blasted out, more than he could ever remember shooting before, each with a force that was almost frightening in its power, but all landed harmlessly away from her body or clothing, splattering on the dashboard, his stereo panel, and the gearshift. Finally, the spurts dribbled to a halt, the dark pleasure and spasms retreating. His body gradually relaxed. He slumped in his seat. What should have been a tender moment, a period of hugging and kissing and reassurances, was taken over by alarm. Samantha was looking down at the front of her skirt in horror. "Its on my skirt!" she told him. "Oh, Lord, its on my skirt! I need to clean it off, right now!" "Okay, okay," he said, reaching down and pushing his rapidly deflating manhood back into his pants. He buttoned, zipped, and buckled in record time. "I think there's some tissues in the back." He fumbled through his schoolbooks and jacket in the back seat and finally located a box of tissues. He pulled out a handful and handed them over to Samantha. In a near panic, she wiped away as much semen as she could, grimacing as she observed the stickiness of the liquid. Kyle turned on the dome light to assist her. The moment the illumination hit her skirt, both saw that the damage had been done. There was a smeary white stain, about two inches across, all along the bottom of her skirt. Both knew that no amount of rubbing with tissue was going to remove it. "Ginger ale," Samantha said in desperation. "Huh?" Kyle asked, having no idea what she was talking about. "We need some ginger ale to get the stain out! Hurry! Drive me somewhere and buy me a can of it before this dries all the way!" He nodded, his hands going quickly to the key in the ignition. He didn't ask her if she was sure that would work. If there was one thing Mormon girls were taught to do, it was basic housekeeping duties, including laundry methods. If she said ginger ale would take out the stain, than she probably knew what she was talking about. He started the car and pulled out of the loading dock, heading towards the feeder road and the main avenue. There was an AM/PM mini-mart less than a mile away. "I should've known better," Samantha said, almost tearfully, as he drove. "Heavenly Father is punishing me for my lust. I should've known better." "It was just an accident, Sam," Kyle told her. "Just one of those things." She shook her head. "It wasn't an accident," she said. "I should've known better." He didn't argue with her any further regarding the religious implications of the ejaculate on her skirt. In fact, they didn't talk at all. He pulled into the parking lot of the AM/PM three minutes later and ran inside, using his ATM card to pay for a can of Canada Dry and a package of cheap dishwashing cloths. The moment he got back in the car, she snatched them out of his hand, ripped open the cloths and pulled one out. "I hope this works," she said. "If it doesn't, we'll never be able to see each other again." He took encouragement in the fact that not being able to see him again was considered a bad thing. He watched silently as she opened the can of ginger ale and carefully poured a dollop directly onto the stain. The soda immediately began fizzing and bubbling. She let it soak in for a minute and then began to scrub at it with the dishcloth. To both of their relief, this worked just as she had said it would. When she finished, all traces of the semen were gone. The only evidence remaining on the skirt was a large wet area about twice the size of the original stain. "Okay," Samantha said, breathing a sigh of relief as she saw the results of her work. "That should do it." "What about the wet spot?" Kyle asked her. "Are we going to stay out until it dries?" She looked at her watch. It was now 10:15 PM. She had promised her parents she would be home by 10:30-which was thirty minutes past her normal curfew on Saturday nights. She had begged and pleaded for that extra thirty minutes, telling first her mother and then her father on the telephone that she, Kyle, and some other friends from work were going out to the ice cream parlor after work. "There's not enough time," she said, shaking her head. "If you don't have me home in the next fifteen minutes, my dad will have the police out looking for me." And that, Kyle knew, was no exaggeration. Although Samantha's mother actually seemed to like Kyle, and to find him to be a suitable boyfriend for her daughter even though he wasn't a Mormon, her father strongly disapproved of him. Joseph did not believe that Mormon girls should date anyone outside the faith. Kyle's strong Baptist upbringing meant nothing to him. Nor did the fact that Kyle had been class valedictorian and was now a first year student at one of the finest structural engineering schools in the state. Most other fathers would have been pleased to have Kyle dating their daughter. He was intelligent, smart, respectful, had a good upbringing, and good prospects in life. But none of that cut any ice with Joseph Isaacson. Kyle was not a member of the Mormon Church and therefore, in his eyes, was unworthy of his daughter's affections. He had made it quite clear to Kyle from the beginning that the relationship between he and Samantha was against his wishes and, if there was any hint whatsoever that Kyle were pulling Samantha away from the teachings of the church, the full fury of his vengeance would come down upon him. The threats of police involvement were not idle. If the clock in the Isaacson household turned 10:31 and Samantha was not safely in the house, Joseph would indeed pick up the phone and call the police. "So how will you explain how your dress got all wet?" he asked. She thought for a second and then a slight smile crossed her face. "I'll tell them the truth," she said. He raised his eyebrows up in alarm. "The truth?" She nodded. "I'll say I spilled something on it and had to clean it off with ginger ale. That's the truth isn't it?" "Well. yeah," he admitted. "But what about when they ask what was spilled? You're not going to admit that, are you?" She smiled. "I may be blonde, but I'm not dumb," she told him. "We were supposed to be at the ice cream parlor. I'll say it was vanilla ice cream from my root beer float. That will work, won't it?" He thought it over, looking for holes or potential pitfalls. There didn't seem to be any. The beauty of the lie was its simplicity, something that appealed to his engineer's brain. "I guess it will," he said. "Okay then. Ice cream it is. You'd better get me home now." "You got it," he said, reaching for the ignition. She put her hand on his shoulder. "Kyle," she said softly. "Yeah?" "I. uh. I really liked what we did earlier. I liked it a lot." He smiled back at her. "Me too," he told her. "I. uh. well, I'm not ever going to do. you know. anything else," she said. "But. you know. maybe sometimes. when things are right. maybe I can do that for you again." His smile widened. "I'd like that, Samantha. I'd like that a lot." ***** Gwen Isaacson opened the door as Kyle walked Samantha up the front walk. She was still dressed in the clothing she'd worn during the day-a pair of loose-fitting, conservative slacks and an even looser-fitting sleeved blouse that hid what Kyle suspected to be a tremendous set of breasts. There was no way on Earth she would allow herself to be seen in her nightclothes, no matter how conservative they were. At 36 years old, Mrs. Isaacson-as he had been instructed long before by Samantha to call her-definitely passed what Kyle and his friends referred to as: the mother test, which was based on the scientifically reliable theory that a girl would eventually evolve to resemble her mother. She had the same blonde hair as Samantha, the same soft, pale skin, the same glasses upon her face. Though slightly heavier than her daughter-almost chunky in fact-she was not even close to obese. This was remarkable considering the fact that she had birthed five children. "How was the ice cream parlor?" she asked brightly as they stepped up onto the porch. "It was fun, Mom," Samantha told her. "Except I spilled some ice cream on my skirt." She lifted the hem up the slightest bit to show her mother the wet spot. "I guess I was being a little inattentive." Mrs. Isaacson gave the slightest frown of disapproval. "That's one of your best skirts, Samantha," she said. "Did you get the stain out?" She nodded. "Kyle took me to the store and bought me a can of ginger ale right away," she said. "It came right out." Mrs. Isaacson nodded in approval. "At least you had the sense to do that," she said. She turned to Kyle. "Thank you for helping her." "It was no problem at all, Mrs. Isaacson," he told her. She beamed at him, no doubt reflecting what a nice boy he was-even if he wasn't a Mormon. She then turned back to Samantha. "Well don't just stand there, young lady," she said. "Tell Kyle goodnight and then go get those clothes in the laundry hamper. We have church tomorrow." "Yes, Mom," Samantha said. She turned to Kyle and wished him a goodnight. Kyle returned her farewell blandly, the way experience had taught him he should. They did not touch each other or even give a meaningful look to one another. A moment later, the two elder Isaacson women went in the house and closed the door behind them, disappearing from view. Kyle breathed a sigh of relief as he headed back to his car. Mrs. Isaacson had bought the ice cream story. It appeared a bullet had been dodged. ***** Sam's father, Joseph, was lying in bed when his wife entered their bedroom. He was a balding man, forty years old. He wore thick glasses and was dressed in flannel pajamas that covered both his torso and his legs. His reading lamp was on and he was attentively reading a thick hardback called From God to Us. This, Gwen knew, was a text high on the recommended reading list put out by the church. "Samantha is home safely," Gwen told him as she went to the closet and took out her nightgown. It was a thick, ankle-length piece of clothing in a bland earth tone color. "Thank our Heavenly Father for that," Joseph grunted, lowering his book just a bit. "I still think we shouldn't have let her stay out that extra thirty minutes." "She was home on time," Gwen told him as she put the nightgown over her arm. He grunted again. "She shouldn't be out with that. boy in the first place." Gwen gave a little sigh. They had been over this point time and time again. "He's a nice boy," she told her husband. "If things continue between them I'm sure he'll join the church. We've taught Samantha well. That's the only way she'll have him." "The church doesn't need people who join just to marry one of our members," Joseph said. "I'm sure his conversion would be sincere," she retorted. "Believe me, I worry about our children as much as you do. I wouldn't have fought so hard to let Samantha date Kyle if I didn't think he was sincere." "Uh, huh," he said, frowning. He returned to his book, refusing to discuss the matter any further. Gwen stared at him for a moment and then walked to the bathroom to change into her nightgown. In the Isaacson household no one was allowed to see anyone else nude or even partially undressed, not even husband and wife. Gwen had never seen her husband naked, nor had he ever seen her so. It could cause one to be overcome by lust, he said, and that was not allowed. When they made love-something that happened very infrequently these days-it happened in the dark, always in the missionary position, always without removing any clothing. She locked the door and removed her clothing piece by piece until she stood nude. She put on a fresh pair of underwear and a fresh brassiere, and then pulled the nightgown over her head. Only then did she look into the mirror to check her appearance. Satisfied that no lust-inducing flesh was visible, she left the bathroom, carrying her discarded clothes with her. Joseph did not acknowledge her as she passed through the bedroom and out into the hallway. She passed by the room that Samantha, Christine, and Elizabeth shared, and taking a peek inside. All three were either asleep or heading for it. Next she checked on the boys, Isaac and Daniel. They were both out as well. All was good. She went to the upstairs bathroom the five children shared and groaned good-naturedly at the overflowing laundry hamper. She had held off on doing her daily loads until Samantha came home, not wanting to miss her clothes. It looked like she had better at least put the darks in so she could dry them before church in the morning. She put her own clothes in the hamper and carried the entire thing downstairs to the laundry room where she dumped it out on the table. She began to sort through the mass of fabric, dividing the pile into whites, darks, and towels. When she picked up the skirt Samantha had been wearing she took a look at it. It was still damp where she'd poured the ginger ale over the ice cream stain. She rubbed it a few times, looking for any spots that had been missed and finding none. She was glad her eldest had the common sense to do that. Had she ignored the stain, it might have dried and become impossible to remove. Ice cream was one of the worst things to get off clothes. Right up there with blood. She set the skirt aside and picked up the white blouse. She was just about to toss it in the whites pile when something caught her eye. The third button down looked funny, like it wasn't hanging there right. She looked closer and saw that her impression was correct. The button was hanging by a single thread. It was about to fall off completely. A look at the buttonhole revealed something else. It had been ripped. It was about half an inch longer than it was supposed to be. "Samantha," she whispered to herself. "What have you been doing?" She dropped the blouse and looked to the pile again. She dug through it until she located the pantyhose her daughter had been wearing. As soon as she picked them up and brought them near her face to examine them, the smell hit her. It was the thick, musky smell of vaginal secretions. The crotch of the pantyhose reeked of it. This was not a result of poor hygiene on Samantha's part. Samantha was a very clean girl, and always made sure her clothes were fresh. No, this smell was the smell of lust-the result of a prolonged period of sexual excitement. Gwen began to suspect that maybe the ice cream stain had not been an ice cream stain after all. She examined the pantyhose a little closer and, sure enough, confirmation came within seconds. On the right leg, about halfway up, was a white, crusty smear. Gwen had seen such stains on her own nightgowns and underwear many times during her married life. She knew exactly what it was. Her teeth clenched and her eyes closed for a moment as she fought to maintain composure. Finally, she stood up. She left the pantyhose on the laundry table and walked upstairs, her mind reeling. She poked her head into her own bedroom and saw that Joseph was now asleep, loud snores coming from his mouth, the book resting on his chest. She closed her door and walked across the hall, to the girls' room. She walked in, moving directly to her oldest daughter's bed. Samantha was still awake. Her eyes opened in surprise. "Mom? What's wrong?" "Come with me," Gwen whispered sternly. "We need to talk." Concluded in Chapter 2 -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>| | FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> | |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}| +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+