Dweeb Ch 04 1

Ch. 04 Discovery

*****

Edgar Pomeroy was a good bowler. His one-ninety-two average wasn't the highest in the house at Freeway Lanes, but it was up there among them. Tonight, he had rolled exceptionally well, while the other guys had more than held their own. And so it was, at eleven-thirty-five on May eleventh, 'The Kahunas' were the champions of their twenty-four team, five-man, Friday Twilight Men's Scratch League for the first time in six years.

Jonesy, 'The Kahunas' youngest member, insisted on buying a round of beers to celebrate, and Stephen, the team's anchor, followed with another. Thirty minutes, and two Heinekens later, Edgar tossed a twenty on the table, raised his hand to signal the waitress, then said, "There's for four more for you. Great bowling, guys! I've gotta get going. Got a job early in the morning." Fifteen minutes later, he parked his Dodge Ram 2500 pickup behind to his wife's Caravan and switched off the motor.

As he dismounted from the four-wheel-drive truck's high crew cab, Edgar noted his daughter's old Honda sitting next to her mother's mini-van and smiled proudly. Even though she was eighteen and might, like some other people's smart-ass kids, argue that she was an adult who could do whatever she wanted whenever she liked, Suzanne was a good respectful teen. She knew that she was still dependent on the family for her support as she developed into a self-sufficient responsible grown-up. He was grateful that she always honored her midnight curfew when she went out on dates and even seemed interested in getting parental guidance sometimes.

Walking up the path from the driveway to the porch, Edgar looked up at the second-story's dark gabled window panes and drawn curtains. He sighed, because he had hoped someone would be awake to hear him brag a bit about 'The Kahunas' big victory. After stowing his bowling bag in the entry hall closet and hanging up his light windbreaker, he trudged upstairs. Suddenly, midway, he thought, "Wait a moment... That Carlson kid was coming up to the house when I left. If she's only been home a short while, maybe Suzie's only just turned out her lights and isn't asleep yet."

Stepping onto the top landing, instead of turning left and heading to the master bedroom, Edgar veered right, down the hall, past the bathroom to his daughter's room. The door was closed, but not latched, and when he tapped it lightly with his fingertips, it silently swung inward about three inches. In a stage-whisper, while he pushed the door wide open, he called into the dark bedroom, "Suzie? Are you asleep, honey? Daddy had a great night bowling, if you want to hear about it."

Edgar didn't know, couldn't know, that Suzanne had been in bed for three hours and was impossibly deep in dreamland. He felt a let-down when he saw her sleeping form on her double bed and heard no response but normal peaceful at-rest breaths. "Oh, hell," he sighed to himself. "And Bernice is no doubt snoring off her nightly Manhattans. Guess I can tell them at breakfast, if they don't have something else to distract them."

As Edgar was about to turn and depart, the shaft of light from the hall illuminated his daughter's carelessly piled navy tights and paler aqua panties surmounted by their matching demi-cup bra. Blinking twice, he picked up the discarded underwear and headed for the hamper in her closet while he clucked softly under his breath, "Suzie, Suzie, Suzie. How many times have your mom and I told you to put dirty clothes in the laundry basket?"

Edgar didn't know what made him lift his daughter's clutched lingerie to his face and inhale its intimate scents. It might have been the impact on his judgement from two quick successive Heinekens at the Freeway Lanes. Possibly it had to do with the fact that he was forty years old, twenty years married, and hadn't made love to Bernice for at least eight years. One thing was certain: He couldn't remember the last time he had touched used women's-underwear, but his brain ordered his blood to rush to his flaccid spongy penis and in moments he was painfully rigid behind his gabardine work pants.

Holding the aromatic cotton and rayon clothing close to his nose with his right hand, Edgar sniffed its personal fragrance deeply while he clawed at his crotch with his right hand to liberate his erect dick. As he unbuckled and unzipped his khaki trousers, then forced them, as a unit with his orange-striped white boxers, past his butt to the floor, his fat cock and dangling heavy balls emerged like a sprung Jack-in-the-box. Immediately, but unconsciously, he petted his pet's bulbous nose and veined neck while his hyperventilating lungs tightened his chest. Uncontrolled by reason, he hobbled to the small stool in front of Suzanne's vanity, then sat as unrelenting horniness swept through his whole being.

Edgar pulled his illicit nosegay from his face, but couldn't bring himself to relinquish it. Bending at the waist, he untied his brown Wolverine work boots with his right hand and then toed their heels until they were off his feet. All the while, his rock-hard boner rubbed its velvet-soft glans on his bowling shirt and every time it bumped a button it fired electric messages to his groin's center demanding a more lasting remedy to its needs. Finally, still wearing his socks, but leaving his pants and shorts behind on the floor, in violation of the very principle he had just mentally chastised Suzanne over, he got up, returned to the closet, and tossed her undergarments onto the rest of her dirty laundry.

At this point, Edgar could have walked twenty feet to the bathroom, jacked off, returned for his left-behind clothes and escaped to his bed. Instead, however, he was drawn, like iron filings to a magnet, to Suzanne's bedside. The summer-like May weather was his ultimate undoing. Not hot enough to make the central air conditioning automatically kick in, it was sufficiently warm to cause his daughter, despite her lightweight sleepwear, to throw off her covers and lay on her back with her left arm bent behind her pillowed head.

As Edgar looked down at Suzanne's angelic oval face, he was not only beside her, he was beside himself. He knew his admiring stare was lustfully nonpaternal, but the guilt didn't prevent him from slowly rubbing his cock and imagining his left hand was her hand; or mouth; or pussy; or ass. Risking discovery, he reached out his empty right hand to turn on her nearby table lamp. He held his breath as the switch clicked as loudly as any strike he'd ever rolled and the sixty-watt bulb lit the room like a Klieg light.

Suzanne's eyelids didn't flutter, nor did her breathing change at all. Edgar relaxed and swallowed the tennis-ball-size lump in his dry throat as he realized she was fast asleep. "If that didn't wake her, then as long as I just look without touching, I should be okay," he thought hopefully. He moved as close to the mattress as he dared without bumping it with his legs and jiggling her. He tightened, then loosened, his grip on his shaft while he slid his fist in longer, more deliberate strokes.

During Suzanne's earlier restlessness, before she finally made herself comfortable outside her covers, her pastel lilac-grass-and-rose striped gauze camisole top's long hem rode up above her matching wide-legged sleep-shorts' ruffled waistband. Edgar studied the flat elongated navel which stared back at him from her bared midriff and cursed silently, "Damn my eyes, if her belly-button doesn't look like a miniature cunt-slit." He squeezed himself harder and prompted a clear viscous dew-drop to issue from his dick's gasping mouth. Looking lower, he was disappointed that her pajama bottoms were too bunched between her thighs for him to see her actual pussy.

Above her toned athletic tummy, Suzanne's top's spaghetti straps had succumbed to any number of shoulder rolls. Now they in lay useless loops upon her upper arms and the triangular pockets intended for her mounded pert breasts inadequately performed their duty. Edgar sucked in his breath at the expanse of pale flesh which notably lifted, then fell, as she regularly inhaled and exhaled. Still, it wasn't enough and, rationalizing that touching fabric wasn't the same as touching her, he gently tugged loose the key-hole bow-tie, then peeled away entirely her protective puckered cotton tents.

Once again, Edgar dodged detection as his bold move went unnoticed by his slumbering daughter. Her beautiful blossoming boobs made his mouth water. He ached to plant tender long kisses on each pebbled puffy areola and tease its nipple to hardness with his tongue before sucking as much of the tit top as possible as far into his mouth as he could. Only his overwhelming fear of waking her kept him from satisfying his desire.

Edgar let his imagination go, but he did not let go his prick. His left hand sped up while his right hand cuddled and caressed his tightening nuts. He stared at Suzanne's perfect hills and visualized his cock sliding in the valley between them until his nuts could deliver their product to her dimpled chin. Responding to his thoughts and actions, his scrotum shrunk around his throbbing balls and hugged close to his root.

Edgar hated himself, but loved every thrill that raced from his gonads through his gut to his gullet. Switching visual targets to Suzanne's elliptical umbilicus, he pretended he was penetrating her virgin membrane and initiating her to full womanhood. His prick pulsed against his flexing knuckles as he capped his flared helmet just in time to catch and contain his jetting jism. Backing away from her bed, he stuffed his shooting cock under his Beefy-T T-shirt and held the spasming meat against his heaving belly until he felt no more fresh warm spurting semen.

Checking belatedly to see if Suzanne still slept, Edgar sighed his relief that he had gotten off and now would get away with her being none the wiser. Quickly he turned out the bedside light, then collected his clothes from her vanity stool and slunk out of the room leaving the door just as he had first found it. As he started to pad down the hall to the master bedroom, he thought, "Never again." But a second voice in his head snidely suggested, "Unless fortune smiles on you. She does seem to be a very sound sleeper, doesn't she?"

Abruptly, a groggy voice called out, "Da'? Daddy? 'Zat you?"

A burning chill ran down Edgar's spine as he heard Suzanne's rebuttal to his less-than-honorable alter-ego's argument. Over his shoulder, he answered, loud enough for her to hear, but not so loud as to completely awaken her, if she were only half-conscious, "Yes, Suzie. Home from bowling. Sorry to have disturbed you, honey. Go back to sleep, now."

"'Kay, Da'," drifted the weak reply, followed by no further sounds. Edgar shivered and swore once more not to stray from his trusted parental path into the realm of evil. Moments later, he slipped into their king-size bed beside his softly snoring wife. Cuddling up to her curved back, he rested his left hand on her silk-clad hip and said, sotto voce, "G'night, Bunny." Bernice snuffled and mumbled an unintelligible acknowledgement before returning to her own cloud-filled world.

Two hours later, three miles away, Colleen Womack, Charlie's forty-year-old widowed mother, woke with a start, discombobulated and wondering what she was doing naked in the arms of a man. Of course, she remembered as soon as she was alert enough to read the green digital bedside clockface, but that was no solace; the damage was done. Rolling left, out of her brother-in-law's sleeping embrace, she angrily pounded her fist into the mattress, as if that could do anything to change the facts. The shaking bed roused her late husband's equally nude forty-one-year-old brother.

Sensing her upsetment, Wilford Womack asked, "What's wrong, Collie?"

"As if you don't know," Colleen muttered, through building tears. "Or can't guess..." Flopping onto her back, then continuing her turn until she again faced him, she said, "It wasn't supposed to be a 'date', Ford. We agreed on that. But, even if it was, I've never been the kind of woman or girl to jump into a man's bed like a tramp! In fact, except for Wally, I've never been with a man, until now, and this was wrong."

Wilford reached out to touch his sister-in-law's bare shoulder, but she shrank back and stood from the bed. "Come on, Callie," he pleaded. "You know it wasn't like that. For either of us. I was as much caught up in the moment as you. Maybe it was fast, but that doesn't make it 'wrong'... I have feelings for you."

"Maybe so, Ford," Colleen replied as she turned on the ceiling light and looked around. Switching gears from the emotional to the practical, she demanded, "Where are my clothes, anyway? I need to get home. I can't be out all night with an eighteen-year-old to set an example for!"

"Umm, well, I think your panties and high-heels are in the kitchen," Ford answered. He couldn't help grinning as he stared at Colleen's full dishwater-blonde bush. "Your skirt, slip, blouse and bra are probably on the living room carpet by the couch." His cock thickened as he thought about the places where they had fucked the evening away. "Don't spend too much time looking in here, you weren't wearing any clothes at all when you grabbed my arm and pulled me down the hall begging me to try to keep it up for another go."

Colleen blushed, turned around and left the room, saying, "I'm serious. As soon as I'm dressed, I want to go home."

Wilford rolled off his side of the bed and grabbed a pair of chinos from his dresser as Colleen disappeared down the hall. Pulling them on without any underwear, he scuffed barefoot into some Sperry loafers, buttoned up a Tommy Bahama palm-leaf print sport shirt and followed her into the main house. While she retrieved and donned her scattered clothing, he said, as neutrally as possible, "I'm ready to go when you are, Collie."

The Monte Carlo's dash clock showed three when Wilford pulled into the driveway behind Colleen's silver Altima Hybrid. She didn't object to him walking up the front path with her, but she recoiled when he tried to kiss her goodnight at the door. "Don't, Ford," she said firmly, as she put her palm flat on his chest and pushed him away. "I need to think about what happened. Don't call me; I'll call you next week sometime." Turning the knob behind her, she backed into the bungalow and closed the door.

Wilford frowned as he heard the lock's click underscore the finality of his dismissal. Sighing, he manfully accepted his sentence for his unknown crime and walked back to the Chevy shaking his head. By the time he got back to his house, he had resolved himself to let things play out. "Surely," he thought. "I'm not going to be completely shut out. I'm still Charlie's uncle."

Charles Womack was just leaving the main bathroom when he saw his mother, at the other end of the hall, back up into their darkened little home and push the front door closed with both hands. Retreating cautiously into the shadows, he watched her twist the dead-bolt, then turn about-face and lean back onto the wood panels. He couldn't hear her sigh, or see her shoulders sag and her chin drop to her chest, but he sensed something was off-kilter. Having no memory of her ever being out this late, he had no desire to pry and hoped that she wouldn't see him as she passed by to her bedroom.

Charles didn't need to worry; Colleen was too self-absorbed to notice anything in her surroundings. Her mind spun, her heart pounded, and her lips trembled as the enormity of her predicament hit her. "Ford's right," she reflected resignedly. "I wanted him... no! I needed him... at least as much as he wanted, or needed, me. But it sure would have been smart for me to remember that I am at the middle of my cycle and could be ovulating at any moment, if I haven't already."

Pushing herself upright off the door, Colleen strode purposely to the kitchen. This would've been the perfect time for Charles to scoot away to his bedroom undetected. He worried that if his mother found him, he wouldn't know what he could say that wouldn't sound dumb, but his feet felt nailed to the linoleum. So, there he stood, like a stupid dweeb, waiting for whatever might happen to just happen, while hoping that nothing would.

When Colleen reappeared, however, she marched straight down the hall without a second glance through the open door to the darkly shadowed main bathroom. Just before she flicked off the kitchen lights behind her, Charles did a double-take at what looked to him to be a bright yellow tennis ball in her right hand. A powerful new curiosity overrode his fears as he wondered what she was carrying and why. He decided he had to snoop and, if he was caught, pretend he was sleep-walking.

After a few moments, Charles thought he was safe to creep from his blind and cautiously move toward his mother's bedroom. Its door was ajar perhaps three or four inches, much as it had been yesterday afternoon when he peeped on her lying on her waterbed in only her underwear. A shaft of light poured through the crack into the otherwise pitch hall. As he remembered what he had seen once, and might see again, a more tangible shaft pressed against his pajama pants' fly-front.

Inside the room, Colleen had already shed her gray sharkskin suit and hung it in her closet. Now, she stood barefoot in front of its closed sliding mirror-doors. Her ivory-white rayon half-slip clung like Saran at her thirty-nine-inch hips and showed off her underlying panties' leg hems indenting the hidden flesh where her broad bottom's curve met her hams. Her underwired wide-band cream cotton bra well supported her magnificent thirty-eight-inch boobs which fully filled its soft-sided net D-cups.

Charles swallowed hard as he gaped through the gap at Colleen's reflected three-quarter profile. Her breasts defied gravity as she bent in an 'L' at her waist to push her half-slip down her legs and off. Not that it mattered whether they fell out from her bra. Its cups' daring diagonal top seams and sheer ultra- fine mesh completely revealed every detail of the meaty mature nipples stabbing up from her large areolae.

Snapping back upright, Colleen folded her slip against her slightly thick twenty-nine-inch waistline, then turned away from the mirror. Luckily for Charles, since she pivoted to her right and only ninety-degrees, she didn't spot him over her right shoulder. As she walked to her dresser to put away the slip in her lingerie drawer, her buttocks bobbled hypnotically in their transparent ivory nylon tricot hammock. He pulled his pud through his pajamas and rubbed himself slowly while he leaned against the wall groaning.

Twenty feet removed, on the other side of the master bedroom, Colleen was both too physically and mentally distant to hear her son's moans. Distractedly, she reached behind herself and sprung the double plastic clips on her bra strap, then bent forward again at her waist. Catching the falling brassiere, she tossed it onto the bed where it landed beside the ReaLemon four-ounce plastic squeezable fake lemon she had put there when she entered from the kitchen. Finally, still stooped over, she peeled her panties past her butt, stepped out of them and added them to her discarded bra.

Charles was in a state of wonder, like a kid at a three-ring circus. His fist regularly pulped his prick as he stared first at his mother's pendant tits, then at her fleshy moons breaking from their ivory film into clear view, and then at her erect classical alabaster-statue beauty in its nude entirety. His regretted that he wasn't actually invisible and therefore couldn't walk in and look her over close-up at leisure. He also frowned, uncomprehending, at the yellow lemon juice squeezer, which wasn't a tennis ball, at all, as if that would've made more sense.