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Message-ID: <51350asstr$1118128202@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Al Steiner" <do_not_resuscitate_ever@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Overcome by Lust by Al Steiner (Mf, teens) 1/2
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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

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.
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