J. H. Russell

Mother_s ass

Chapter 1

Helen Fredericson's auburn hair, piled high in a French twist, accentuated her creamy complexion and the shimmer of her emerald-green eyes. The stark white of a high-necked hostess gown revealed a pair of firm, big tits that even a severe bra failed to confine and the curvature of well-rounded hips; the effect was to give her five-foot-six-inch figure a regal appearance that was reinforced by her grace and composure. She busied herself straightening up evidences of company, emptying ashtrays, wiping away rings left by glasses, and smoothing wrinkled cushions.

Art Fredericson hovered over his wife, hands thrust deep into his pockets, lips compressed, and weight shifting from one foot to the other. His gaze wandered over her body, drawn by each movement of a muscle, and he continually wetted his lips with his tongue tip. His sun-bleached hair was tousled, and it seemed natural above a face roughened by years of exposure to the weather and eyes whose blue had faded in the wand. His lean six-one frame saved him from looking short in contrast to his wife's height, and he had an aura of suppressed explosiveness about him.

Helen brushed past her husband and bent to wipe a spot from the corner of the coffee table. Art's hand came out of his pocket to caress her ass. She jerked away and whirled to face him, angry red spots flaming over her cheekbones.

"Art! For God's sake!"

"Sorry," Art mumbled and returned his hand to his pocket.

Helen doubted that. "After all, there's a time and place for everything! Honestly, I think you're getting as bad as Barry."

"Sure, sure. Dirty old man."

"Don't be sarcastic. He is. I don't know why Van lets him get away with it." Vanessa Rush was the closest friend Helen had – they'd been like sisters since high-school days – but Helen disapproved of Van's permissive attitude. Letting him look at other women the way he does! she thought. And giggling and simpering when he feels her up – right out in public! Ugh! Grandma would have had a word for it. She'd have called Van a strumpet!

"Shit! He's only thirty-one. How can he be a dirty old man? And she lets him because it's natural and she likes it!"

"That's right. When you can't think how to get out of it, use bad language." She moved out of Art's reach and continued her work.