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Bonnie - Chapter One (M+f, inc, Ff, bd)
by Friar Dave (friar_dave@*mhbbs.com)
Contents copyrighted by the author, 1991
***
This will eventually contain some pretty explicit descriptions of
sexual contact between adult men and women, and between adults and
(legal) minors. There are references to drugs (caffeine and alcohol),
and the threat of violence. Not all parts contain all or any of these
things. There is no bondage, dominance, submission, humiliation,
piercing. bathroom sports or projectile vomiting. All characters
guaranteed to be totally fictitious -- well, intended to be; I never
met anyone like them. If the presence or absence of any of the
foregoing is a problem, read no farther. Now that that crap is out of
the way, I hope you can enjoy reading this as much as I still do.
***
Chapter One
I invited Mark, my cousin, to bring his family out to my summer place
on Long Island for a weekend. He hesitated, saying he had to arrange a
sitter for the younger kids. I told him I expected them to come, too.
I had plenty of room, and it would be good to have some youngsters
making a racket in the place. It was too big and empty for a 40-year-
old guy who liked kids, and the house and grounds demanded the patter
of little feet busily raising Hell.
Let's get one thing straight: I'm not crazy about Mark, who's five
years older than me. He's okay, and sometimes fun, but he's prone to
self-pity. Still: He's family. And I remembered more than a few times
-- when I was a loner kid -- when Mark went out of his way to pal
around with me. Now he was on some hard times, I was doing pretty good
for myself, and I figured it was payback time. He'd been essentially
solidly established and was making good money working for a financial
paper -- until the big crash. His income went from Real Good to
Unemployment, and to Mark, the job was everything. A little fresh,
salt air and sunshine and barbecuing -- not to mention, a change of
scene -- would do him good.
Besides which, I genuinely liked Kate, his second wife, and his kids
-- one by her and two by his first wife. Kate had a wicked deadpan
sense of humor; always welcome. I'd been a little suspicious of her,
at first. After all, she'd essentially broken up Mark's (already
crumbling) first marriage and quickly accepted the proposal of a man
14 years her senior and from a totally different background. But Kate
had Stood By Her Man when it hit the fan, and all three kids happily
called her "Mom." In fact, if Kate weren't married, I could have been
looking forward to her visit for more than friendly chatter and
companionship. She was a damn good-looking woman, in the full bloom of
femininity, and with all the self-assurance and sexiness that comes
with it. And she still had a helluva fine figure and a great, strong
face and --
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Anyhow, about a week before they were going to come out -- for the
third weekend in August, an excellent time to get the hell out of
Manhattan -- Mark called me. He was sheepish and uncertain, and I
finally wormed it out of him:
"Well, Kate's kid sister is going to be in New York for a couple of
days, and we hate to leave her alone in the condo..."
Kid sister? Yeah, I was beginning to remember -- and then it all came
back in a flash, from the wedding. Kate's kid -- but not "little" --
sister, one Miss Irene Marie Pound.
YES!
"Well, there's plenty of room, Mark -- bring her along." I tried not
to drool on the phone, all the time figuring: Irene was six years
younger than Kate, which would make her about 24 or 25 now and she had
been an absolute knockout at the wedding, at which time she'd been no
more than 13. Yes, I had done a good job of burying that memory; every
time I'd looked at her, I'd had an instant physical reaction and had
been growling to myself, "Jailbait -- Down, boy!"
"Are you sure it's not too much trouble?" he whined.
And I was thinking: If it is, you and your clan sleep in the yard, but
she is *definitely* invited.
"No -- no problem. Let her tag along."
In fact, I suggested they come out on Thursday night and plan on
returning Monday evening. A nice, long weekend.
I hung up and found I had the same physical reaction to the thought of
Irene. I told myself she'd probably not handled the ensuing years
well. Most women who are stunning at 15 are, er, somewhat less than
appealing 10 years later -- as if they've burned out all the
`beautiful' assigned to them much too early. Or she was still
stunning, but was going to take one look at a 40-year-old guy and
immediately begin ignoring him, when possible. Or had gone dyke. Or
turned nasty. Or was embittered.
None of it worked. At 40, I had to take the time to relieve the
tightness in my trousers before I could concentrate on anything.
It didn't help.