Lincoln Loud had never been happier than he was after he and Carol started going out. Aside from the thing with Mom and Dad, he was a happy and well-adjusted kid anyway and not really sad or anything, but looking back on his pre-Carol life, it looked dark and somehow lacking. He had ten sisters and many friends and acquaintances at school and never felt lonely, but in retrospect, he was lonely.

Everyday after school, Carol came over and they held hands under the table, being careful so that no one saw them. On weekends, they hung out at the park or in town, laughing, sneaking kisses, and enjoying each other's company.

One Saturday afternoon, Carol borrowed her mother's car and they went to enjoy the crisp autumn day at Westover Farm.

Westover Farm covered 250 square acres of hilly pastureland fifteen miles northwest of Royal Woods. Stands of autumnal forest spread across its southern reaches and along the dirt road connecting it to Route 50. A big white frame house stood on a ridge overlooking a pumpkin patch, flanked to one side by a red barn, and a disused grain silo rose into the piercing November sky like a monument to the gods of agriculture. An apple orchard, rows of squat trees bearing red and green offerings, occupied a gentle slope behind the house, and a corn maze sat at the end of a narrow pathway, hidden by a screen of trees. Baby goats, pigs, and calfs stared out from a wire mesh pen, eating from the hands of giddy children, and a number of folding tables laden with metal urns of hot apple cider, trays of caramel apples, pies, cookies, and other treats stood across from a tractor pulled cart; families sipped cider from styrofoam cups as they waited to load on for a hayride to the maze, adults chatting easily and children shifting restlessly.

Farther down the road, ranks of Christmas trees waited to be cut down, patiently biding their time, and faded wooden signs pointed to the river, where, in the summer, you could fish, swim, and barbeque.

Sitting in the passenger seat of the van as Carol navigated along the rutted lane, Lincoln took it all in with the wide-eyed wonder of a child on seeing paradise. "This is awesome," he said.

"I thought you'd like it," she said.

Their dates were never expensive and not very fancy, but that suited them just fine. For Lincoln, they didn't need to be special or memorable, because every moment he spent with Carol was special and memorable on its own.

Another dirt road wound up a hill before filtering out into a wide, grassy parking area a quarter mile from the homestead. She turned up the road and the van jostled as its tires rolled over stones and dipped into ruts.

Carol pulled between a pea green Prius and a silver hatchback crossover and killed the engine.

"Do they have face painting?" Lincoln asked as they got out.

The sun was warm but the breeze cold. "I think they do," Carol said.

They made their way to the house, around which much of the festivities were centered. Children ran back and forth playing tag and screaming laughter, and an older farmer in a plaid shirt and baseball cap sat on a bale of hay smoking a pipe; crisp wood smoke lightly scented the air and put Lincoln in mind of childhood falls where everything was magic, even the mundane. Carol paid an old woman five dollars for a large paper bag, then they walked to the orchard; the heatless wind blew in the branches and made the fruit sway, as though Mother Nature herself were shaking it enticingly back and forth.

Carol spied one that was the perfect mix of green and red, and pulled away from Lincoln to get it. Standing on her tippy toes, she yanked it down and turned it over in her hand, looking for wormholes and not finding any.

She turned and tossed it into the bag, laughing when Lincoln flinched. "Three points," she said. She scanned the branches, found another she liked, and pulled that one down too. She started to put it in, but the sweet smell tempted her, and she took a bite instead. It was tart, fresh, and succulent, like an apple should be. She walked over to Lincoln and held it out, and leaning over, he took a bite as well. "Good?" she asked sanguinely, as though she'd grown and tended it herself and his approval would make or break her ego.

"Good," he confirmed.

She smiled and leaned into his lips, and they kissed. "That's even better," he said.

"I agree," she concurred.

With another bite, she grabbed a third apple and dropped it in, then they moved down the line. In the next row over, a little boy yelled at someone named Amanda to stop - doing what, Carol didn't know. She stopped in front of a laden branch, twisted restively back and forth, skirt swishing around her knees, and judged one apple against another before choosing one. She added it to the bag and went back for a second. "We're going to have so many apples," she remarked.

"You can make apple pie," Lincoln said.

Carol bunched her lips contemplatively. "I've never made apple pie," she said. "I wouldn't even know how to do it."

"Well...I kind of know how," he said.

Putting an apple on top of the others, she flashed a winsome smile. "Good, we can do it together."

"We can try," he corrected.

"Shoot for the moon," she quoted, "if you miss, you'll still land among the stars."

He laughed. "Or mess up the kitchen and ruin everything."

Later, they bought cups of hot apple cider from a table and moved to a picnic table, where they sat and people watched. The low rumble of the tractor drifted through the woods, and Carol looked for it, catching flashes of it through the trees. It turned onto a rutted dirt tract leading away from the homestead and started toward them, the puttering roar of its engine swelling until it hurt Carol's ears. It parked fifty feet away, and everyone in the cart piled out.

"Hayride?" Lincoln asked.

Carol grinned. "Hayride."

After the hayride, they visited the pumpkin patch. It was starting to get late by the time they were done, and Carol called it a day. Sitting in the passenger seat of the car, Lincoln reached out and took her hand. Looking up at her sun-washed face, his chest swelled with emotion and he heard himself say, "I love you."

She smiled at him. "I love you too, Lincoln."

At home, Lincoln kissed her, got out, and went inside. He closed the door and started when his father appeared before him, his face hard and shadowy. Lincoln's heart dropped. "I know what you and Carol are doing," he hissed.

Lincoln's blood froze. "W-What? W-We're not -"

"It's sick and it's wrong. She's basically an adult."

"Dad, I -"

"You are to no longer see her," Dad growled.

Lincoln's heart squeezed. "But Dad…"

"If you do...I'll call the police and have her put in jail."

With that, Dad turned and stalked away.

Tears filled Lincoln's eyes and he ran up the steps. In his room, he flung himself onto the bed and began to cry.


Rita Loud rolled out of bed at half past nine, still bleary and headachy from the night before, and shuffled into the bathroom like a zombie freshly risen from a tomb. Her eyes were bloodshot and glassy, her hair stuck out at weird angles, lending her the appearance of a troll, and dried drool crusted her chin. She stumbled on something, and pitched forward, heart in throat, but slapped the wall and saved herself at the last minute. She shot a withering look over her shoulder, and fixed a venomous glare on Lynn's slipper; her rage, kept down these past two days with all her might, boiled over, and snatching it up, she twisted it violently in her hands, her features contorting with hatred.

She bought them for him...and he had the gall to wear them even as he was fucking that slut K, had the audacity to sleep in her bed with that whore's juices drying on his shriveled, middle aged dick. Though it was impossible, she imagined she could smell that woman's wild scent lingering on her sheets, her robe, everything, and her lips curled over her teeth in a dog-like grimace.

The shoe wouldn't break the way she wanted it to, so winding up like a pitcher at the mound, she flung it as hard as she could; it flew through the air, hit the blinds with a clack, and dropped to the floor. She stared at it and glowered. Fucking bastard, off getting his dick wet while she sat here so pent up she could barely move. Son of a bitch, fucking prick, she hoped he died. Did he leave the van? He better have left the van or she was going to raise holy cane. She'd call him at work, no, she'd call his boss and scream like she was crazy until they threw him out on his ass. There, if I can't have release, you can't have a job, you faggot. We'll all be miserable.

Spinning on her heels, she went into the bathroom, snapped the light on, and slammed the door behind her, relishing the way it quivered in its frame. She pulled her night dress over her head and tossed it at the overflowing dirty clothes hamper; it landed on top, then slid off and fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, bringing a snarl to Rita's lips. She wasn't picking it up, and she sure as hell wasn't doing laundry. No, actually, she would, she'd do everyone's laundry but his. If he wanted clean clothes, he could go to his little girlfriend.

Naked, Rita padded over to the hamper on bare feet, bent, and sifted through, pulling out Lynn's shirts, socks, pants, and underwear and throwing them onto the floor. She pictured his face when he found that his crap didn't make the boat, and savage satisfaction filled her. Would he be as disappointed as she was when she uncovered his betrayal? As profoundly hurt? She hoped so. She hoped he felt the pain she did a thousand times over.

The contents of the hamper were so impacted that she finally picked it up, overturned it, and dumped it onto the floor. Kneeling, she pawed through, put everything of hers back in, and left everything of Lynn's in the corner. She got up and turned toward the shower, then caught a flash of movement from the corner of her eye and stopped. In the mirror on the back of the door, her jaw was clenched, her eyes frenzied; her sagging breasts quaked with her jagged inahaltions and the juncture of her sex was all but hidden between her fat, ceculose thighs, the flesh pock marked with creases and ugly indents. She flicked her eyes away before the self-loathing set in, went to the shower, and turned the water on. All they'd been through, all she'd done for him - bearing his children and making his home - and this is the thanks she got. He wouldn't touch her or even look at her; instead, he goes and gives his love to some little homewrecking tramp.

Adjusting the temperature, she climbed into the shower and let the water sluice down the front of her aching body. She squirted soap into her loofa and lathered her breasts, lingering longer than she had to on her throbbing nipples. Next, she dipped it between her legs and rubbed, the scrape of the abrasive material against her sensitive lips and leaky center making her heart pound. She braced one hand on the slick wall, squatted slightly, and ran the loofa deliberately between her folds, a shudder bursting through her when she reached her clit. She pressed her forehead to the wall, bit her lower lip, and, letting the loofa drop, swirled her middle finger around her pulsing nub, quivers of intense sensation rippling out from her center. She swallowed thickly and licked her lips. This was a mistake...she couldn't cum through masturbation...she would only get hotter and hotter, the pressure more and more until she shook and moaned and gritted her teeth. She could reach the peak, but she could not tumble over.

A desperate, watery sob escaped her throat, and she stood up, resigned to her fate. She finished washing, got out, and toweled off. In the bedroom, she dressed in a pair of tan slacks and a pink blouse, both of which clung tightly to her expanding curves.

By now, the kids were awake and the sounds of life filled the second floor; Lynn Jr. pounding on the bathroom door and yelling for Leni to hurry up; Lana chasing her frog; Lori leaning against the wall and texting, click, click, click; Lucy reading Lincoln one of her poems and Lincoln groaning because it was awful. Lisa emerged from her room holding Lily's hand, and when the toddler saw Rita, her face lit up. She pulled away from her older sister and lumbered over, arms outstretched. Rita picked her up with a weary sigh and pecked her cheek. "Good morning," she said.

Lily grabbed Rita's face in both hands, pulled her down, and gave the tip of her nose a sloppy kiss, shocking Rita into a laugh. "I'm glad to see you too," she said.

That didn't last long, though. Inside of an hour, with the kids off school and cooped up in the house, Rita's patience began to wear thin. Worse: She was out of wine.

Given the amount of the stuff she consumed, she had to opt for a cheaper brand...that came in a box. She bought one Saturday afternoon and stowed it in the fridge, and was shocked when she went to fill her glass only to be rewarded with a trickle. Sighing heavily, she sat the glass aside, took the box out, and, holding it up to her ear, gave it a vigorous shake.

Dry.

Great.

Just great.

She flashed and slammed it to the floor, then kicked it into the wall; the plastic spout snapped off and skitted away, the remainder of the wine spurting out and staining the floor like drops of blood. She had to go to the grocery store anyway, but she expected to have at least a full glass first. She looked at the counter. She was lucky if she had a quarter, just enough to wet her throat and get that awful taste in her mouth.

In the living room, Lola cried out in frustration, and Rita winced. "LAAAAAANNNAAAA!"

First she had to get rid of the kids; she was not going to the store with them. Every time she did, they misbehaved and pestered her for toys, junk food, and magazines. If she refused, they would cop an attitude or throw tantrums like disrespectful little monsters. God forbid we all don't get our way in life.

An image of Lynn flickered through her mind, and she growled in the back of her throat.

They were just like their cheating dog father.

Grabbing the glass, she downed it, sat it in the sink, and went off in search of Lori, finding her in her bedroom. The girl, who favored Rita at seventeen, sat Indian style in the middle of her bed and smiled stupidly down at her phone. "I want you to take the kids somewhere so I can shop," Rita said without preamble.

Lori looked up from her phone, a put-upon expression creeping across her face. "Ugh, really?"

"Yes, really," Rita said tightly, "I don't want you all up my ass at the grocery store."

The teenager opened her mouth to protest more, but Rita scowled challengingly, and she thought better of it. "Fine," she sighed. "Where?"

Something about the snotty, ungrateful, cheating tone of her voice enraged Rita, and every muscle in her body tensed for a spring forward; she could already feel the girl's hair in her hand, already hear the meaty thwacks as she battered her face with a flurry of mad blows. She was sick of everyone disrespecting her and she called forth every ounce of willpower she had to keep from attacking her daughter. "I don't care, just away from me."

With that, she spun on her heels and stalked out.

Half an hour later, Lori herded all the kids out the door, and Rita watched from the kitchen, arms folded over her breasts. "Be safe," she called as an afterthought.

"We will," Lori called back.

Once they were gone and silence reigned, Rita took a deep, calming breath. Finally, some peace.

Lynn danced through her head again, clad in a mocking smile, and she sneered. She got up, went to the fridge, and opened the door. She reached for a bottle of water, but stopped. A tall can stood at the very back of the top shelf, hidden behind the milk and a gallon of orange juice. She moved them, and glory be to God, it was a wine cooler. She vaguely recalled buying it, but she was drunk at the time and completely forgot.

She grabbed it in a shaky hand, bumped the door closed with her hip, then went to the breakfast nook and sat down. She popped the lid, took a long, grateful drink, and sighed in contentment.

Over the course of nearly an hour, she nursed the drink, taking small sips and willing her body to derive as much alcohol from them as possible. By the time she was done, the edges of her consciousness were blunted and fuzzy, and for the first time that day, she felt halfway good.

And horny.

So, so horny.

Her center smoldered with need and her nipples thumped with every beat of her heart, begging to be touching, tweaked, and suckled. The back of her womb itched crazily, and the only thing that could scratch it was the hot, creamy balm of a man's load. She reflexively swallowed and squirmed. This was ridiculous.

Getting up, she swayed, held out her arms to keep her balance, and staggered into the living room. Upstairs, she shouldered her purse, grabbed the van keys from the dresser, and returned to the living room. Did she have everything? She took a quick inventory, decided she did, and went outside, shutting and locking the door behind her.

The morning was blustery and cold, but bright, the amber sun setting fire to the trees marching up and down Franklin. Wind blew through their boughs with a quiet rustle and shook brown and scarlet leaves from jittering branches. The front lawn was covered in drifts of dead leaves, and even though Rita didn't care how the house or yard looked anymore, she made a mental note to yell at Lynn about it later.

She followed the flagstone walk to the driveway, unlocked the van, and slid in behind the wheel; a spring stabbed her in the butt and the faint odor of mildew plunged itself into her nostrils like an olfactory rapist. She went to pull her seatbelt on, but the strap ripped with a crisp tearing sound and the buckle came off in her hand. She sighed, tossed it onto the passenger seat, and dropped her purse onto the center console. This van was a nightmare and she hated it. She begged Lynn to trade it in for something better, but boo hoo hoo, that cost too much money, Rita. He spent that bonus check on K instead of taking her on a vacation and buying a better vehicle, she just knew it.

Shaking her head, she turned the key in the ignition, threw the van into reverse, and backed up without consulting the mirror. She ought to confront him tonight, corner him and give him an ultimatum: Dump K or get the hell out. They had eleven kids together, family court would have a field day with him. She'd wind up with every red cent he made and -

THUMP!

Rita's heart jumped into her throat and she slammed on the brake; the van jerked roughly forward and her breasts pushed smooshed against the wheel, tripping the horn.

For a pulse pounding moment, she sat there with harried bangs veiling her eyes and catching her breath, then she cast a worried glance at the rearview mirror.

Nothing.

She took a deep breath and stilled her throbbing heart, her nostrils flaring and her breasts palpitating beneath her blouse. She hit something, of that much she was certain. It sounded too large to be a cat; maybe a dog?

Putting the van in park and cutting the engine, she threw the door open, climbed out, and walked to the rear.

It wasn't a dog.

Lincoln's friend Poppa Wheelie lay curled up on his side, his bike next to him, the front tire mangled and bent. Rita's stomach rocketed into her throat and her hand fluttered to her mouth. "Oh, my God!"

In an instant, she was kneeling beside him, her heart blasting and her hands trembling as if with Parkinson's. Her mind blanked in panic, and she locked up. What should she do? What should she do? GOD WHAT DO I DO?

After a moment, Poppa Wheelie groaned and woozily pushed himself up to a sitting position. A spider vein crack ran down one flank of his red helmet, and when he pressed the heel of his palm to his temple, Rita winced; the flesh on his elbow was torn and bloody,

"Are you okay?" Rita asked, an edge of desperation in her voice.

Poppa shifted his weight. "I think -" his words cut off in a hiss and his jaw clenched shut. Chewed and oozing skin showed through a tear in the knee of his jeans and Rita's gord rose. It was especially bad, just a scrape, but the knowledge that she was responsible - and probably legally drunk - made her sick.

She could go to jail for this.

Suddenly cold all over, she whipped her head left and right, searching for witnesses to her crime, but the street stood empty, the only onlooker a fat, rotting Jack O'Lantern perched on a stoop across the way.

Poppa tried to get to his feet, but his knees locked and he wobbled on his butt like an overturned turtle. Rita stood and held him up; leaned heavily on her and favored his good leg like a wounded animal, his brow crinkled in pain. A car crept past on Franklin, and Rita shot a fearful glance over her shoulder, terribly certain it would be a cop coming to take her away. "L-Let's get you inside," she said. "Can you walk?"

He hesitated, then gave a jerky nod. "Yeah, I-I think."

Stooping slightly and slipping one arm under his shoulders, Rita helped him up the stairs and to the front door. She realized she didn't have the keys, panicked, then remembered they were dangling from the ignition. She rushed back to the van, grabbed them, then hurried back. Poppa leaned against the side of the house, his left leg bent off the ground. Sweat sheened his pallid face, and the sight of his obvious agony dispelled the mist in Rita's brain and struck a bolt of sympathy into her heart.

She unlocked the door and helped him to the second floor bathroom. She closed the toilet lid and he sat stiffly. "How do you feel?" she fretted and unthinkingly brushed his hair away from his forehead.

"It's just my knee," he said after a contemplative moment.

Kneeling, Rita rolled the cuff of his jeans up his calf, but stopped. That wasn't going to work. "Take your pants off," she said and stood.

He blinked in surprise. "M-My pants?"

"Your pants," she absently confirmed as she rummaged through the medicine cabinet. She took down a bottle of peroxide, sat it on the sinktop, and cocked a glance over her shoulder; Poppa stared nervously down at his lap, his cheeks blazing fire truck red. Rita's brow furrowed quizzically, then it hit her.

He was embarrassed.

"You have to take your pants off so I can clean your knee," she said, making a conscious effort to soften her tone. She could understand his reticence, but she didn't have the patience for this right now. She got drunk and ran a kid over, she thought she could be forgiven for being a little edgy.

Something occurred to her. "You have underwear on, right?"

Poppa nodded. "Yeah, I just -"

"Then take your pants off. I have a son, it's nothing I haven't seen before."

His blush deepend, and she supposed she could have been a little less blunt.

Even so, he took a deep, steeling breath and unbuttoned his pants. While he did that, Rita went back to looking through the cabinet. Where were the Band-Aids? She knew they had some - with eleven kids running, jumping, fighting, and playing, they were a necessity. She got down on her knees with a grunt, opened the under sink cabinet, and spotted a box in the very back. She reached in, grabbed them, and stood. Poppa sat on the commode in a pair of light blue boxer shorts, his hands fisted in his lap and his head hung. His pants were balled up at his feet, and his knees pressed gently together like a coy girl's.

Rita couldn't fully suppress a wry chuckle. Lynn was like that their first time together; he sat on the edge of her living room couch in his underwear blushing and shaking while she knelt beside him and took off her bra, a look of holy terror written across his face. She had to physically take his hand and put it on her breast. When she told him to slip his underwear off, his eyes grew to ten times their normal size and she thought he was going to have a heart attack. Her was a virgin and she had to do everything: Climb into his lap, guide him to her opening, and set the pace. Luckily for them, she knew what she was doing; even at sixteen, she'd been around.

She told him he was her first. Hahahaha.

Taking the alcohol and Band-Aids, she knelt next to Poppa, sat back, and slipped a Band-Aid from the box. The silence between them was deafening and uncomfortable. What do you say to a boy you just mowed down with your van? "I'm really sorry about this," she said, the apology sounding contrived to her own ears, "I didn't see you and I have a lot on my mind." She twisted around, dug in the cabinet, and found a plastic container of cotton balls.

"It's okay," Poppa said quickly, "I wasn't watching where I was going either."

She picked a cotton ball out, unscrewed the peroxide's cap, and, pressing the cotton to the lip, turned it over, soaking the material. "It was my fault," she said. She considered asking him not to mention what happened when he got home, but stopped herself. That might make him suspicious.

Setting aside the bottle, she scooted closer, leaned forward, and examined his knee. His skin was ripped in several places and scraped white in a few others, but it didn't look too serious. She delicately dabbed it with the cotton ball, and he hissed. "Sorry," she said sheepishly, "I know it hurts."

Using light, quick strokes, she cleaned the whole area, paying special attention to the cuts and abrasions. Poppa squirmed and she told him to be still, then leaned over even more. Her head was nearly between his legs, and when she breathed in, she caught a whiff of his musky scent. Her core tingled insistently and her heartbeat sped up. She faltered, then pulled quickly away. Jesus, Rita, she scolded herself, really? A child? He's Lincoln's age!

But like a shark, she had the taste of blood in her mouth, and her deprived body instantly began to respond: Her pupils dilated, excess saliva flooded her mouth, and her middle dampened.

She turned to grab the Band-Aid. In the corner of her eye, she caught him staring at her chest and blushing furiously. She darted her eyes to her breast, and realized that from his angle, he could see a generous amount of cleavage.

His breathing was ragged and his eyes wide, hungry, gazing fixedly at her body with boyish intensity...appreciating her, wanting her…looking at her the way Lynn used to, the way all the boys used to. No one had looked at her that way in years, and she was shocked to feel her face flushing. She reminded herself that he was a kid...a boy…

...like the ones she fooled around with in the coat closet at school, eager, ready, and drenched in hormones. Oh. how their hands clumsily searched her middle, tentatively prying apart her sticky lips and charting the wilds of her center; their penises were rigid, soft, and hot in her grip, pulsing and slick; their salty loads splattered her knuckles, the front of her shirt, and sometimes even her lips...

The Band-Aid fell from her trembling hands, and she sucked a deep, shuddery breath, coming back to herself like a woman from a trance. Her nipples and pussy throbbed in time and her heart ambled along at an unsteady pace. Lust, dense as smoke, choked her brain, and she licked her chops like a dog.

As wrong as it might be, she wanted to fuck the little boy in front of her.

Her stomach coiled with disgust and she got aimlessly to her feet, turning to the sink and washing her hands for something to do. She could feel Poppa's eyes crawling over her butt and back, and the spot between her legs clutched. She would put the Band-Aid on, send him away, and -

And what? Continue without release? Go about her life as a cuckquean whose cheating faggot of a husband wouldn't get her off? Let the pressure build and build and build until she was on fire with no hope of salvation?

Let Lynn fuck someone else without paying him back and fucking someone else too?

She uttered a sharp cough that started as a sardonic laugh. That was a horrible way to look at it, having sex for revenge...and with a child to boot. She glanced over her shoulder, and Poppa Wheelie whipped his head away, confirming that he was openly staring at her butt. Child or not, he looked at her in a way she hadn't been looked at in years, and it made her tingle. She bet he'd never even seen a woman before. She would be his first, as she had been many boys' first over the years. There was nothing like inducting a boy into manhood to make you feel alive...powerful…

And young.

Throwing caution to the wind, she made her decision. Keeping her back to him, she undid the top two buttons of her blouse and pressed her breasts together, pulling her bra slightly down to expose maximum cleavage. Her stomach tangled with nerves like it hadn't since she was a little girl, and a sly smile she couldn't contain spread across her lips. She couldn't believe she was doing this...but she was doing this, and she was going to do it good; Poppa Wheelie wouldn't now what hit him, and before he knew it, he'd be as far inside her as his little boy dick could go.

A shiver dropped down her spine, and her swelling lips pinched the already sodden fabric of her panties like a starved and gnashing animal. She turned and knelt down again, not meeting Poppa's eyes. She picked up the Band-Aid and looked at him; he stared shyly down at his lap, hands writhing thereon like anxious snakes. He glanced at her chest, then away, the soft, fevered touch of his eyes sending tendrils of electricty into her center. She placed the Band-Aid on the biggest of the wounds and smoothed it down with her thumb, her mind working. "There," she said proudly. She laid her hand on his thigh, and he tensed. "Do you feel better?"

She watched him expectantly, the crashing of her heart so loud she could barely hear his reply in the affirmative. She brushed her fingertips along his skin, and he jumped. She stared at his crotch, searching for the telltale signs of a budding erection, and when his thing twitched against his underwear, her heart skipped.

"Are you sure?" she asked in her most alluring tone. Forestalling his reply, she positioned herself between his knees and pressed both of her palms to each one of his legs. He tucked his chin against his chest and squeezed his eyes closed as if to will away the arousal even now pooling in his loins.

Nodding, he croaked, "Y-Yeah. I-I'm okay. R-Really."

She hummed incredulously. "I better check. Just to be sure."

Rising up on her knees, she trailed her fingernails lightly down his flesh, and he looked up at her, expression stricken, questioning, and just a little hopeful. She bit her lower lip to show him how fucking ready she was, and his jaw dropped stupidly open. She issued a firm giggle, arched her back, and tilted forward until her chin rested on his soft, squishy stomach. Locking her eyes with his, she slid her hands under his shirt and ran her palms slowly over his warm, quivering chest. Poppa wiggled uncomfortably, mouth opening and closing like a fish, and his boner jabbed the hollow of her throat. A shadow of horror flickered across his face, and Rita offered a salacious little smirk. She sat up on her knees and stared down at his tent, her heart pounding even faster now.

He was hard.

For her.

That knowledge - that a boy was turned on for her - brought a rush of satisfaction over her, as it always did. Even more so now, because she was old, fat, and disgusting. Any pretty girl can make a boy erect, but her?

She looked up at him, panting, and he lowered his head as if to hide his shame. "Am I making you hard?" she asked, even though she knew she was.

His throat bobbed, and after a hesitant moment, so, too, did his head.

Rita's smile widened. "Do you like my boobs?"

He nodded. "Y-Yeah."

Straightening her back and thrusting out her chest, she deliberately unbuttoned the front of her blouse, revealing smooth, creamy flesh. Poppa Wheelie stared, transfixed, and when she shrugged out of it and tossed it aside, his eyes widened. She was clad in just her pants and bra, the cool air raking goosebumps up and down her arms. She was practically naked, exposed to his wandering eyes, and her panties dampened even more.

Poppa gawked at her chest with the awe of a boy who'd never been this close to the real thing; his bulge twitched again, and Rita licked her lips. Reaching behind her back, she undid the strap and looked at him. "Would you like to see them?" she asked, wanting, needing him to say yes, to hear the need in his voice...the need for her.

"Y-Yes," he said weakly.

She left the bra drop to her lap, and her large, teardrop breasts fell free. Poppa's jaw clacked open and his penis throbbed in the confines of his boxers. "Do you like them?" she asked self-consciously.

He nodded.

She smiled and leaned into him, her fingers hooking into the waistband of his underwear. "Can I take these off?" she asked huskily.

"Yes," he squeaked.

She tugged, and he lifted his butt; the boxers slipped down his legs, and he penis sprang free, making her breath catch. It wasn't very large, maybe four and a half inches (was that normal for a boy of his age? She couldn't recall), but it had been so long since she'd seen one that it was perfect nevertheless. His head was ridged and tinged red with desire, the cord as his base throbbed like a small, beating heart, and a bead of clear precum formed at his tip like the first dew of morning. She wrapped her fingers around his shaft with a playful flourish; Poppa jumped and his fluid dribbled onto her knuckle, reminding her of all the boys she jacked off in elementary and middle school. They writhed and gasped for air just like Poppa did now, and through the simple act of stroking his dick, she was magically fourteen again, and pretty, her body adored by every boy in her class...with their eyes and their hands.

Bending over, she brought his dick to her lips and drew his wild, masculine scent into her nose, its hot, musky character triggering reptilian sensors in her brain long dormant. She flicked her tongue fleetingly against his head, and he sucked a shocked intake of breath. The intoxicating taste of penis filled her mouth, and his thin, salty precum coated her tongue like ambrosia. She moaned and molded her lips to his tip, then went down slow. Poppa's nails dug into his meaty thighs and his head flopped back as if in surrender to her ministrations. She laid her hands on the backs of his and guided them to her head; he reflexively grabbed her hair and held on, and her middle rippled.

She reached his base, curled her tongue, and swirled him in her mouth, mixing his essence with her spit and rolling her eyes at the paradiscal feeling of him pulsing and pulling her hair. She drew back until he was almost out, then surged down again, his dick touching the back of her throat and making her shiver.

Part of her wanted to spit him out and maul him like a lioness with an unaware gazelle, but another wanted to feel his hot, thick load shooting into her mouth and sliding down her throat. She didn't know which she wanted more, so she kept pumping his shaft between her lips, swishing their combined fluids around him, and thirstily lapping his underside, her brain addled and her head bobbing up and down, silvery strands oozing down her chin. Poppa threaded his fingers through her hair and tugged hard when she slurped his tip, bringing tears to her eyes.

"I'm gonna c-cum," he strained through his teeth. He was leaking like crazy, his essence heavy in her mouth and slipping down the back of her throat, his skin tighter, hotter, rod twitching and jerking like an epileptic going into a Grand Mal seizure. His body clenched and tensed, and his lips pulled away from his teeth in a pained grimace. He was doing everything in his power to keep from cumming, and that was so fucking hot that Rita nearly came herself. She lifted her head to his tip, then slammed down, taking him all the way, his sparse public hair tickling her upper lip.

Crying out, he yanked on her hair like a rider on the reigns of a horse, thrust into her face, and uncoiled; dense, rich, scrumptious jizz spurted against the back of Rita's throat, and moaning in delight, she swallowed every last drop, its heat settling in her stomach and spreading through her like liquid fire. She pulled back and looked up at Poppa with hazy, cum drunk eyes; her bangs veiled her vision and sticky fluid glistened her pink rimmed lips. Poppa gaped at her in something approaching stupefaction, face red and sweaty hair plastered to his forehead. It dick lay spent against the inside of his leg, a fat glob of cum trickling down. She tilted forward, hands clasped to her knees, and looking him dead in the eyes, she darted out her tongue and licked it off. A shudder wracked him, and she laughed.

"Did you like that?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, "a lot."

She grinned. "Let's go in the bedroom."

Getting to her feet, she led him into the hall by his hand, then into hers and Lynn's oom. He stood awkwardly by the foot of, his half-flaccid penis poking out from between his legs, while Rita pulled her pants down. Letting them pool at her ankles, she kicked them away. She was entirely naked now save for a flimsy pair of blue panties, the crotch so wet that the fabric might as well be translucent. The air was downright cold on her fevered flesh, and bending slightly at the waist, she brushed her panties down, freeing the source of her baking heat. She watched Poppa from the corner of her eye, deriving immense satisfaction from the fact that he was rock hard again.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she swung her legs on and laid back. Her breasts jiggled with palpitations of her heart and her coarse blonde pubic hair rustled when she shifted her hips into a more comfortable position. For a moment she reveled in the simple act of lying naked before a boy, offering him the sweet fruits of her body. Poppa's eyes caressed her, and she blushed like a virgin. "Come here," she whispered.

Poppa swallowed hard, then knelt on the bed and crawled beside her, his eyes never leaving the tangle of hair covering her sex. He stopped and, kneeling next to her, let his gaze travel over her nude body, from the clear polished tips of her toenails to her parted, semen sheened lips. "Touch me," she said, her voice kneading, "wherever you want."

He looked at her, then to her breasts. She tilted her head back and laced her hands behind her neck, giving her girls extra lift. Poppa looked at her again, uncertainly, and she smiled. "Anywhere," she said.

Gulping, he laid his hands on her breasts, and the heat of his touch flowed into her. She closed her eyes, bit her lower lip, and purred. He rubbed in a slow circular motion, and Rita turned herself over to the sensation of his curious hands exploring her, running over her stomach, her hips, down the outside of her legs. When he reached her sex, she spread her legs, and he hesitated. "Touch me there," she said.

Poppa studied her wet crotch, intimidated, and darted his eyes dubiously to her face. "Go on," she urged, a needful whine creeping into her voice. Waves of sickly heat fumed from her middle and she was delirious with lust, the air on her skin and the timid, though intrigued boy staring at her naked form combining to push her fatally close to the edge. Poppa leaned over, and her heart jogged against her breast. He examined her cautiously, as though it might bite him if he weren't careful, and reached out, then pulled indecisively back. "Please," she panted, suddenly scared he would refuse the way Lynn did, "please touch me."

He waffled for a moment longer, then he bent forward and gingerly cupped her in the warm palm of his hand; Rita's hips bucked and her eyes rolled back in her head, a long, breaking moan rising from her lips. He looked at her again, looking for all the world like a lost puppy. "N-Now what?"

Rita's heart slammed so hard she couldn't speak. Instead, she took his hand and guided it to her opening. "Put your fingers in me."

She let go and tried to regulate her breathing, but it came in ragged gasps anyway. Poppa prodded her entrance with one impertent finger and Rita's body responded by leaking faster. "Two fingers," she said.

Obeying, Poppa carefully slipped his fore and middle fingers into her, and Rita's heart exploded at the sensation of being penetrated. Her seething walls greedily squeezed his digits every muscle in her body contracted at once; her eyes narrowed, her butt clenched, and her back arched off the bed, her thirsty cunt drawing him deeper. She threw her arms behind her head and gripped the pillow, her hips twisting of their own accord, stirring her body around his fingers like an insistant cat rubbing against its master's leg. The smell of her excitement filled the room like perfume and increased her arousal. "Push up," she said, "and c-curl your fingers."

Poppa did as he was told and brushed a hyper sensitive bundle of nerves that set her entire being on fire. "That's my G-Spot," she said in a shocked moan. "Finger it. Fast."

He began to thrust his arm back and forth, and Rita's middle pinched hard. Months of pent up frustration swelled in her stomach and started to dislodge. There were times when she was young - a horny girl steeped in unbearable hormones - that she came in under a minute, but never this quickly. She tried to save herself, but the coming tide was too strong, too hot, to withstand, and all she could do was clutch handfuls of the blanket, buck her hips, and give in. Her orgasm rushed from her in a torrent, and her back bent deeply, a silent scream forming in her throat. She started to shake, then came with an earth-shattering cry, her climax so powerful it hurt.

Poppa yanked his fingers out and watched, mouth agape, as she humped the air, twisted the blankets, and tossed her head back and forth like a woman possessed.

Slowly, Rita drifted down from her high, the warm, good sensation of release spreading through her like morphine. She licked her lips, turned her head, and regarded him with a hazy smile. His penis jutted out before him, and though she just finished, her body was already aching for him.

"Lay down," she said and sat up.

He didn't immediately move, then coming alive, he stretched out on the bed. Rita got to her knees, braced her arms on either side of his head, and swung one leg over his lap. He stared transfixed at her hanging breasts, then took them in his hands, making her shiver. His tip skimmed her lips, and she situated herself so that it nestled against the indent of her dripping wellspring. He clumsily tweaked and kneaded her breasts, a twinkle in his eye that reminded her of Lynn when he was younger, and she coquettishly bit her lower lip. She never noticed how cute Poppa Wheelie was; his muddled brown eyes, his button nose, the smattering of freckles across his cheeks.

Of course he was cute, he was a little boy.

That thought gave her pause; after that incredible orgasm, her mind was clearer than it had been in weeks, and for the first time, she realized the magnitude of what she'd done.

Child molestation.

Or, if you caught a liberal judge on a good day, statutory rape. How old was Poppa Wheelie? Certainly not much older than Lincoln. Eleven, maybe twelve.

And she only put his penis in her mouth...she let him finger fuck her.

Now she straddled him, her knees caging him and his tip one swift movement from penetrating her. She'd already gone way too far, far enough to land her in jail for probably the rest of her life, was she really going to go the rest of the way?

Poppa brought one of her breasts to his mouth and wrapped his lips around her nipple. Her breath caught and she threw her head back with a deep pur. Awful or not, it fel so fucking good.

Making up her mind, she sank slowly onto his dick, her lips curling over his slick rod and drawing him into her boiling core. His head flopped back against the pillow; Rita laid her hands on his chest and started to rock her hips. Lynn was huge and she was used to being filled with cock, but Poppa was much smaller and not as thick. That didn't matter, though, because he was just big enough to hit her G-Spot; the ridge beneath his slit stroked it and she went faster, losing herself to sensual abandon. The bed squeaked and the headboard slapped the wall; Poppa held tight to her breasts as if to keep from being blown away, and Rita moaned. Lead filled her belly, and all at once, her orgasm tore through her like a hydrogen bomb. Her muscles clamped down on Poppa's dick and it expanded, then spurted against the back of her womb. Her climax intensified, and she fell limp against him, their bodies writhing in mindless unison.

They lay together in a sweaty, panting tangle of flesh, then Rita rolled off and laid next to him, spent; cum oozed from her and she closed her legs to trap it in. For the first time in forever, she was not pent-up, and she allowed herself to drift on a tide of sleepy bliss, savoring the transcendtal feeling you could only capture in the shimmering afterglow of satisfying sex.

Poppa Wheelie started blankly up at the ceiling, visibly trying to process what just happened.

"That was awesome," he finally said.

Rita hummed. "Yes it was." She turned to him and narrowed her eyes severely. "You can't tell anyone, though."

"I won't," he said, then: "Can we do it again? Like...another time?"

She opened her mouth, intent on putting him off, but a vision of Lynn flickered across her mind, and a wicked smile touched her lips. "We sure can," she said.

In fact, they did it again five minutes later, and Rita discovered something:

When he did her from behind, he could ride her G-Spot to heaven.

Let Lynn have his little fuck toy.

Because now...she had one of her own.