I.
It was 6 a.m. in the Midwest. Pink and grays drifted slowly off the horizon like curtain being pulled back from over the breaking dawn.
In a non-descript neighborhood in a non-descript subdivision a woman who was the feeling very opposite of non-descript was stirring around her admittedly non-descript one story ranch home.
Katherine "Kitty" Clark was downstairs in the family kitchen making breakfast. As she set aside pepper, habanera peppers, butter and eggs her usual uptight mannerisms were noticeably absent. These tensions had developed over the course of a two-year marriage to man that resembled a dopey-eyed sloth but were notably missing. Instead, she shifted with an easy feminine grace as she shuffled around the kitchen with ingredients in tow.
Her full c-cup chest, a firm measure of sumptuous breast for a 37-year-old woman, shifted and bobbed comfortably in her small blue baby t-shirt.
She peered down at her impressive rack, which she'd seen so many other gazing lovingly over like her tits were really cheery ambassadors of love and kindness and the all-American way.
No man could argue with these kinds of ambassadors. They seemed to smile up from her petite frame and speak with a perky upbeat voice of their own saying: "Well hello there, Slim! I just dare you to be in a bad mood we're I'm around."
The thought of talking tits made her giggle a little.
The lower edges of her vanilla white breasts peeked out from the small baby-t.
"The ambassadors of Mammaria must've had a tough night - they're falling asleep on me!" She thought with another barely suppressed giggle.
Any other day her beautiful breasts being semi-exposed would have made her feel self-conscious. This morning it made her feel a little wild.
Kitty wiggled her hips every so often to a happy beat that she hummed to herself and decided she was dressed enough for making breakfast.
Katherine, Kate to her close friends, cracked the shells of three delicate white eggs and dropped the syrupy contents into a pan.
Franklin Clark, Katherine's 19-year-old stepson and guest for the summer, wandered downstairs and into the dining room. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes he groggily shuffled into the kitchen in a state of semi-awareness.
As the last of his sleep cleared from his vision his attention became blearily focused on a soft melody that was apparently coming from a half-naked MILF in a modestly adorned kitchen.
"I have to be dreaming." Franklin said, not really meaning to speak this thought out loud.
Franklin wondered how a porn star had wandered her way into his uptight stepfather's kitchen. And then it hit him --
"That's my Kitten."
The thought hit him like a subway car coming off the rails and careening directly into his better judgment.
Before him, his beautiful stepmother purred a tuneless, upbeat rhythm. It was the only sound in the early morning of the Clark household.
Teenage hormones being what they are it's an understatement to say that she, like a burning bauble or a diamond lit by a million watt bulb, had his total and undivided attention.
Franklin observed Kitty's loose pair of baby blue cotton pajama pants as they swayed dangerously low on her hips following the beat of the smooth, low humming from her lips.
Kitty, for her part was takin' her time enjoying each movement each sound in the still quiet warmth of the morning.
The yellow waistband curled dangerously low around her full hips and "bodacious" ass (bodacious was a word Franklin used she reminded herself), but she didn't seem to mind too much.
Daily rituals. They can begin with the first face you see of the day. And according to many unnaturally chipper morning TV show "scientists", this "first face" will usually define how most of the rest of the day will go for a person. Call it a mental impression if you will.
Whether Franklin was aware of this pseudo TV fact or not he looked up to his sexy stepmother's perky round face. Her elfish, lightly pointed nose and large brown eyes had a way of settling easily on his own. This morning, hers was Franklin's first face -- the face of his beautiful stepmother, Katherine "Kitty" Clark.
Franklin decided today was going to be a very unusual day. What the 19-year-old didn't know was just how unusual this day was going to be.
Out of the corner of her eye Kitty caught her admirer.
Even now, as Kitty allowed him to survey in the full bounties of her amazing body the sexual tension inevitably built. It began in slow gulps that caught in the throat and revealed itself in troubling trickles of sweat in the palms, and threatened to reveal itself in slight flutters of the vocal chords.
Franklin, becoming keenly aware of this unmistakable brand of sexual tension, began trying to decide exactly how he was going to keep his hands off this creature -- today or any other day. The two had developed a naturally flirty relationship that seemed to alleviate this particular kind of tension but like any other drug: the more you get the more you want.
He'd been so bold as to kiss her on the lips on several occasions. This resulted in his young, beautiful stepmother allowing for longer and longer durations, growing accustomed to the heat of each other's mouths. They each had begun to savor the stolen, desperate kisses while they slowly and gently tumbled over each other's lips.
Each time Kitty would bring these unexpected intimacies to a sudden halt. She would never mention them except in passing. But she did remember them.
She secretly remembered their stolen kisses the way a woman would greedily cherish the look of burning lust in a former boyfriend. Mentally, she would caress a mental photo of that moment and carefully turn a long red fingernail over her his picture-- trying to remember every detail of a former life through each desperate sexual encounter from another life.
Part of the recent shift in Katherine's mood from being uptight to enjoying a more upbeat and mellow attitude was due to having her stepson around.
Franklin, in her opinion, was what was commonly referred to as an old soul. Her 19-year-old stepson, full of wildly conceived of philosophy written by outlawed and damned thinkers long since dead or burnt at the stake, He had a darkly comic sense of humor that constantly caught her off guard. For example, Franklin labeled %99 of the world full zombies - the cannibal variety. He would smile and make the sign of the cross at glorified flesh-eaters in Nikes and Porches.
It was not uncommon to hear him wondering aloud in public why zombies were always so gosh darn hungry for some brains.
"This time they really are coming to get us, Barbara!" he'd whisper knowing she would instantly recognize the infamous zombie movie line.
The looks on passer-by's was priceless, Slack jawed bleach blondes would pause in mid-sentence or scowling yuppies would ball up their faces in practiced disgust.
He'd manage to do this in the middle of their mundane, mindless errands, pointing to a particularly decrepit husk of a human being dragging it's carcass down the street w/it's ear buds firmly implanted in each ear.
"And they're bringing barbeque sauce!" he follow up, making sure to leave enough confused, blank expressions on passers-by's faces.
It was enough to break Kitty up into giggles. He was so different...
Between laughing fits and bemused smirks Katherine had noticed that his sea blue eyes flickered with something more than humor. Those sea blue eyes spoke to Kitty as if they were sharing a quiet secret with her alone -- no matter what anyone else thought.
In light of all this, it was very difficult for Katherine to resist the urge to lean into his body when they were together. She felt drawn to him in some inexplicable way. His wide shoulders and thickly muscled frame did not scare her -- they reassured her.
As for Franklin, although a boneheaded teenager, noticed this innate and particular kind of trust between them. His six-foot beefy frame made her think that she was completely safe when he was around -- why would she think otherwise?
On top of the mental and immediate physical attraction, Franklin had a habit of calling her of all things to call a cute 37-tear-old MILF (another one of Franklin's words) - Kitty.
Sometimes she was "Kitten" to him and no one had ever called her that.
He only used this private pet name for her when no one was else was around, like he imagined she was secretly a luxurious, feline creature. The way he said the word, Kitty, it suggested that Katherine was secretly something that he desperately needed to pet, to paw at the gentle arcs and curves of her sexy body like an eager pup, or perhaps to even ravage her like demon.
But, besides the stolen kisses, Franklin always behaved with the greatest amount of restraint around her.
"Was he struggling with more than a playful need for her?" She wondered again as she re-arranged eggs in their carton.
She was glad that Kitty was his pet name for her. It was much better than "Wife-O-Mine" like the 49-year-old man she had married called her. "Kitty" was worlds better than her sloth-like husband's preferred nickname for her like she was toy he'd lost interest in decades ago although their marriage was only two years along.
Sometimes Katherine wondered why she married an even dumber version of Fred Flintstone. Then, she remembered that love was the last thing that she had married him for. When they met Edward Clark was a well off yuppie and she was a struggling waitress. With Edward she didn't have to worry about sharing a filthy house with three other desperate types. No bearded weirdo's offering her strangely colored pills or eyeballing her purse over and over.
Katherine, thinking only of a better future with a tolerable man, quickly married her husband for a sense of financial security alone.
