I want thank, so very much, for all her precious time, and quick turn-over rate, Anekri. She's been a wonderful editor, and I hope she'll do more of my stories in the future. Thanks, Anekri!
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Faking sick hadn't ever been hard, and it wasn't because her parents were gullible. It was probably because she was such a stupendous actress. All right, it was because her parents were a little on the manipulated side. But Camille was accustomed to faking sick so she could stay home from school or work, not to miss out on one of her family's dinners. She loved her family dearly, and enjoyed sitting around a big table, talking and debating, catching up on all the things that had happened between visits.
"Do you want me to bring you up some dinner after we've finished eating, baby girl?" Her father's big, comforting hand smoothed over her brow, sweeping her bangs back from her clear green eyes, which were heavily lidded and fringed with thick black lashes.
"No thanks, Daddy, my tummy hurts too much to really think about eating." A hand fluttered down her pink and white comforter, caressing her own tummy through the plush fabric, as if to try to soothe away the ache that twisted low in her abdomen.
"I guess it would be fairly rude if I kicked Nathan out just before dinner, huh?"
Aghast, Camille lightly smacked her father's arm, "Daddy! That would be beyond rude. You'd make my boyfriend think you didn't like him. And now you can get to know him better." With a teasing roll of green eyes that matched his daughter's, Michael rose from where he was perched on the edge of his sick child's bed.
"You know I wouldn't do that. You get some rest, and I'll go entertain Nathan in your absence."
The moment her bedroom door clicked closed, Camille jumped from the bed and darted to her dresser. Dinnertime was rapidly approaching, and she still had to get ready.
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Ten minutes to seven, Camille Baker was peering around the couch and into her family's dining room. She was certain she looked goofy on all fours trying to be discreet and hidden, but it was pertinent that she wasn't caught. Likely, nothing bad would come of the situation, but she'd feel humiliated, even if no one knew the reason for her sneaking around.
At five foot, four inches, Camille Baker had grown into a stunning woman of eighteen years. Her platinum blonde hair was long and silky, falling in spiraled curls past her shoulder blades. Her eyes were a clear green, and her skin a soft alabaster that gave her the appearance of a fragile porcelain doll. Her pink lips were full, her cheekbones high and prominent, her eyebrows perfectly sculpted to a delicate arch. Her neck was thin, and at the hollow of her throat rested a simple white dove in flight that hung from a slim silver chain. Proportioned to her body, her breasts weren't large, but high and perky, the nipples a rosy pink, which strained against the thin white cotton tank she wore, making it obvious she had chosen not to wear a bra. Her hips weren't wide, and her backside certainly wasn't large, but her waist did narrow and flare once more in the feminine shape of an hour glass, tapering down to toned, slender thighs, and legs that were long considering how petite she was in height. Through elementary school, she had been teased about her fair skin and even lighter hair, the merciless bastard children calling her names such as vampire, and Wednesday, even though she wasn't dark-haired, or a member of the creepy Adamm's family. Middle school had been less awkward for her, most of the children maturing enough to get over teasing her, and even sheepishly apologizing and befriending her. But in high school, oh how she had blossomed, and had even begun to date one of those cruel children who had taunted her. Right now, he was standing with her father in the kitchen, who was introducing him to the rest of the family.
Camille had to make a quick break. With a quiet shuffle she darted from the living room, to the dining room, and dove underneath the long, trailing white tablecloth that reached almost to the floor. It was excessive, but it hid her. In wait of everyone to be seated, the girl settled in the center of the table so that no one brushed unintentionally against her, how awfully embarrassing would that be?
To pass the time, Camille dipped a hand beneath the baggy blue plaid boxer shorts, and stroked her fingertips gently up her inner-thighs. She loved the feel of her own skin, so soft, especially closer to her nether lips. Freshly shaved, her skin was silky, and she dipped a finger beneath the band of her thong panties to stroke a digit teasingly over her clit. Her teeth slid over her bottom lip, and she repeated the gesture, her eyes squeezing closed, blocking out the sight of legs appearing as her two visiting aunts, their husbands, and her mother's parents sat. Lids fluttered open, and she counted the khaki colored pants, and absently noted that her mother was missing in her chair. She was probably still preparing something or another for dinner.
Uncertain, Camille gazed at the length of masculine legs, trying to decide just which pair belonged to Nathan, though she didn't have to decide much longer. It must certainly be the pair with the cock that was straining against the zipper, begging to be freed of its confinement. With a quiet shuffle she shifted forward.
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Above the table, Mike spread his legs out before him, kicking back, relaxing. Work-worn fingers were curled around the neck of a bottle of Coors Light, and his lips twitched upwards in a smile at something fairly amusing that his sister's husband said. He couldn't recall. He was too busy thinking about how nice it would have been to be alone with his wife in that very dining room so he could bend her over the table and fuck her good and hard. What was keeping her, anyway? Yeah, she'd spilled spaghetti sauce all over her dress, but did that really warrant her to take all the time in the world to change and return down here?
Brooding thoughts were interrupted with a feather light touch on his thigh, so faint, he was certain it was the tablecloth. That is, of course, until he felt, rather than heard, the zipper of his pants being drawn slowly down. His eyes about bugged out of his head, and he almost choked on his beer. What the fuck? Rather than peering underneath the table, and attracting attention that could be humiliating and difficult to explain, Mike tried to ignore the hand that tap-danced up his thigh until it delved into the front of his pants and pulled his dick out. Wide-eyed, he glanced expectantly amongst the faces, certain that they knew exactly what was going on, but they all appeared oblivious.
