="" bookman="">The new family next door, the Whites, really didn't fit into the neighborhood.

          It bothered Jo that she should feel this way about them.  For apart from their color—the Whites were black—they fit the neighborhood quite well.  Perhaps, for their five-bedroom house was large, their cars expensive, they would have made an even better fit in a more upscale neighborhood—a Bel Air rather than a Brentwood, a Flintridge rather than a La Canada, an Anaheim Hills rather than an Anaheim.

          Not that she had any aspirations of her own to move further up the ladder.  Her house was perfect—thank you very much—it sat on a third-of-an acre lot—and now that her husband was gone and her daughter away at college, it was just a bit more than she could handle.

          Mr. White—she did not yet know his first name—drove a huge Lincoln—a realtor's car, and Jo surmised that he owned his own business.  He was often away for days at a time and whenever his car turned up in his driveway, he would be on the cell phone in a conversation that often went on long after he was parked.

          Marge White drove a sporty two-seater Mercedes.  The car looked small on her, for she was a big woman, broad tipped, and ample bosomed. "I's a big woman all over," she said once in a put-on ghetto accent for she normally spoke perfect English.

          The Whites had their groceries delivered for the most part; Jo always went to the store herself. She'd done so even when her husband was alive, and now, of course, she couldn't afford to do anything else.

          Jo loved her own house with its backyard pool, though the daily cleaning the pool required could be a chore.  The Whites had both a terraced outdoor pool and an indoor swim-in-place.  She could occasionally glimpse shadowy figures through the frosted glass.

          The Whites had a 14 or 15-year-old son named Noble who went to the local high school.  At least, she supposed he did.  The boy didn't seem to have made any friends yet, so she couldn't be sure whether he was in high school or middle school.

          There was a second son, also, much older, who put in the occasional rare appearance, usually in a full-dress army uniform.

          He could have been Mrs. White's brother, of course, rather than her son.  Jo really didn't have any way of knowing.  In fact, given the number of months the Whites had lived next door to her, it was amazing how little she knew about them.

          This bothered her.  She knew all her other neighbors but not the Whites.  She wasn't a racist, she knew that.  She'd gone to school with Hispanics and although she hadn't actually dated any of them, they'd been friends.

          No, her not knowing them was simply another part of the grief process, her almost-complete withdrawal from society after her husband’s death.  This was a pity, for she was still a relatively young woman albeit one with a college age daughter, and her body still firm and desirable was simply going to waste. 

          The time came—it was inevitable that it would--when she and Mrs. White pulled into their driveways one morning at almost the same moment.  When Jo got out of the car to carry her groceries in the house, there was Mrs. White to give her a hand. And from then on it was Marge and Jo.

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Chapter 2

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The Whites had not been well-to-do long, Marge confided.  But they had been moving steadily upward during the past decade.  "It's the Internet.  Joe doesn't understand how it works or even how to hook up our own computer, but he's really made it pay off for us."

          Jo wasn't sure just how the Internet had paid off for the Whites or what it was they sold exactly.  But she knew it had made Marge very happy.  The White's house was the proof.  "Each of our houses has been bigger and better.  And the neighborhoods.  This is such a wonderful place to live.  And the schools are excellent." 

          Thus it was that Jo learned the names of the White's two sons, Noble the youngest who lived at home and had just started high school, and Ronald who had graduated and was in the Marines.

          She also started to meet Marge's friends, most of whom were left over from the previous neighborhoods in which the Whites had lived.  An older friend Millie, a cousin of Marge’s, was a frequent visitor along with two of her friends whose names Jo learned and as quickly forgot.  Another regular caller was Velma, a younger woman, with a truly startling bosom, "False," Marge confided, "She gets them bigger every year."

          Marge was quick to confide in Jo although Jo was not sure she wanted to hear all that Marge had to relate.  Millie was post-menopausal, had hot flashes, and a husband who was demanding as ever.  Marge's own husband had moods; he was also, Marge suggested, uncaring, "he wants oral sex and forgets about me."  But, "he was a very good provider," and Jo gathered that in Marge's view this was what really counted.  "Besides," Marge's said with put-on accent, "They's plenty of younger mens who likes big titties" and shook her giant bosoms by way of illustration.

          To Jo's relief, Marge did not demand equal confidences in return.  Jo did not want to discuss her own sex life, which had been virtually non-existent since her husband's death.

          In truth, it had been non-existent unless one counted the deputy sheriff who had informed her of her husband's accident.  He'd come back later, held Jo in his arms, stroked her hair, played with her bosoms, and although she'd had an orgasm as they stood for what had seemed an hour in her living-room, pressed against one another, at the last moment she'd asked him to leave.  Since then, nothing.

          "She needs to be milked," Jo had overheard Millie say of her.  And it was probably true.  Jo missed the loving attention her late husband had given to each of her small breasts.

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Chapter 3

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Marge swam in Jo's pool. And Jo swam in Marge's.

          Occasionally, Marge would swim nude in the indoor pool, not when the children were there of course, but Jo couldn't quite bring herself to do it.

          "What if your son comes home?"

          "Oh poo, look at the clock."

          Marge had a beautiful body, not fat as Jo had first surmised but big-boned, ample, all the bosom a man could ask for and perhaps a tad more.  And hips, Marge said, broad enough to guarantee a man would not fall off.  Jo couldn't recall a man ever falling off her own and giggled.

          In the afternoons, Marge would often have friends over to play whist.  At first, Jo, who had absolutely no idea what the game was about would just watch.  Then she was persuaded to play a few hands, "at least until Millie shows up."

          And then, abruptly, she was a regular at the table, and both the cards and money in front of her were hers.

          Innocent and innocuous though the penny per point game of whist seemed, somehow, one afternoon, Jo had lost two hundred dollars.

          "Don't worry," Marge assured her. "I took care of it."

          "But you can't," Jo stammered, "Two hundred dollars.  That's too much.  I'll pay you back."

          "Don't be silly.  You don't owe me anything.  Besides, I got you into the game.  Anyway, the money didn't come out of my pocket.  I simply explained to everyone that this was your first time and it would be unfair to take advantage of you."

          Relief swept through her. "It was my first time."

          Marge laughed. "You do owe me a favor, though."

          "Anything," Jo said.  She was immensely grateful, pleased a debt she could not afford had been so easily swept away.

          "I want you to go out with my son."

          "Marshall?" Jo thought that was the name of the son that served in the army.

          "No, Noble.  Now don't give me that strange look.  He's at the age where he should be dating girls, but he's too shy.  Doesn't know how to ask them, and when I tell him how easy it is, he'll say, 'Where shall I take them and what if I don't do the right thing?'.

          "You know how it is, you had teenagers."

          "Girls," said Jo, "But I do understand."

          "I want him to take you to a movie.” 

          "But why me?  I mean surely one of your friends."  Jo realized she’d almost said, one of your African-American friends, and blushed.

          "You mean one of my colored friends? Don't apologize.” She added when Jo continued blushing.  “There's something you should know and that's the reason I chose you.

          “Follow me."  Marge led the way down a long hallway to her son's room.  It was everything to be expected of a teenager's bedroom though perhaps neater than most.  A desk, a rug, a bed. A poster of Puff Daddy on the door and one of Kobe Bryant above the desk. A closet whose door closed and locked, Jo hoped, so the boy could at least have some area that could be considered private.

          A bureau held a series of trophies.  Noble must be some kind of athlete.  One for Little League, one for soccer, but most were for basketball.

          Photos were also taped to the wall about the bed, candid snaps rather than the staged photographs on the wall above the bureau.  "Take a look at these," Marge said with a wave of her hand. 

          Each and every photograph was of Jo, snipping roses, collecting mail, or simply walking into her house grocery bags in hand.

          Most of the snapshots were in side view revealing a bust that Jo had never realized she possessed.  Her breasts filled a B-cup at best, had filled out to a C only once late in her last pregnancy.  Not more than a mouthful.

          Marsha saw where Jo was looking.  "I loved breast feeding," she said, "I hope you did too.

          "Noble and Marshall were both rabid feeders.  My husband does his best, but it's not quite the same. I'm always having to shout, 'Suck harder.'”

          Jo blushed, remembering.  She still couldn't believe how casual Marsha and her black friends were about sex.  Sexual references and stories had occupied most of the conversation at the whist table.

          Breast-feeding was wonderful. And it had been a long time, even since her husband had.  If the truth were to be told and Jo certainly wasn't about to tell Marge, the first time she'd ever had an orgasm was while someone was fondling her breasts.

          "You're blushing," Marge said.  "Us black folk blush, too, it just doesn't show up as easy."

          They both laughed at this and until Marge gave her a call almost a week later, she'd almost forgotten about her promise to go out with Marge's son.

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Chapter 4

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"That dress won't do," Marge said and Jo was somewhat offended. 

          Jo thought the clothes she'd selected for the finally to-be-realized date with Noble were ideal.  The baggy dark black ribbed sweater that fell to just below the hips of a stylish gray long skirt was both conservative as befit an older woman and flattering to her figure as befit a female who was really not all that old.

          As Marge led Jo into what Marge called her sewing room, she said, "I want my son to think of you as a woman not a mother."

          "Too conservative?"

          "Exactly."

          Marge reached into a pile of folded clothes and pulled out a gray cardigan.  Try this on instead, she said.

          "It looks even more ... "

          "Try it on."

          Jo changed clothes, feeling uneasy particularly as the cardigan was a good deal smaller and tighter than she felt comfortable with.

          "It's the bra," Marge said. "Look in the mirror."

          Marge was right.  The cross-your-heart brassiere that had gone well with the baggy sweater had stretched the cardigan out of proportion.  "Slip it off," Marge said, "I'll get you another one.

          "No, don't take off the sweater, there isn't time."  Jo wriggled like a contortionist slipping the bra off one shoulder and down the other and out a sleeve.  Removing, then replacing the sweater, she thought would have been far less time consuming. Or had Marge simply wanted to watch her struggle.

          An adolescent wail sounded from the hallway, and Marge slipped out of the room.  "I'll kill him."

           Apparently, Noble did not want to wear a jacket and was being told in no uncertain terms that he would wear the clothes his mother has laid out for him or else. This went a long way to explaining why Marge was so pushy; she was used to ordering men, a husband and two sons, around.

          What Jo saw in the long vertical mirror opposite the sewing table while waiting for Marge to return was not at all reassuring.  The sweater was the right length and its color went well with the gray of the skirt, but it was far too tight and without a bra was not much better than going topless.

          "Time to go," Marge said almost the instant she re-entered the room.  "Leave the boy alone for another minute and he'll either faint with fright or get his clothes dirty."

          Jo couldn't believe Marge was serious about leaving. She was far from ready to go out.  Where was the brassier Marge had gone to fetch?  She gestured toward the mirror. Marge looked at the mirror, looked back at her, and then gave a shrug, "So?"

          "My nipples are showing."  And indeed Jo's nipples were standing upright like soldiers eager to leap forth from concealment.

          "Oh pooh, you can handle it and him, too." was Marge's only comment. "He's going to learn to be a gentleman."   And so braless, Jo went off with Noble on his (and her) first date.

          Noble had said virtually nothing to her after a simple mumbled greeting in Marge's living-room so that she'd been forced to make most if not all of the conversation.  He’d held the door open for her, and then, once outside the house, he'd started to run across the grass toward her car, stopped, as if suddenly remembering the instructions he'd received from his mother, and returned to walk sedately by Jo's side.

          To her surprise, he waited by her car door till she was within, and only then dashed around to the passenger door.  He was every inch a young pup who'd received one too many instructions.  Not quite sure of all he'd learned, but desperate to please his mistress with what he did remember.

          Jo wanted to laugh, but of course she couldn't, not without offending him.  Instead, she gave what she hoped was a motherly smile.

          Once underway, Noble quieted and again all efforts at conversation were left to Jo. His fingers reached out once for the radio, till remembering whose car it was and the instructions he'd been given, they dropped back frustrated in his lap.

          "Would you like me to turn on the radio?"

          "No mam, no Mrs. Turner."

          And it was no mam and yes mam to virtually all other questions including "do you like school?" and "what's your favorite sport?."

          Occasionally, Noble would run a finger along his neck under his collar and tie—yes, he wore a tie—but he sat still, almost rigid for the most part.

          When she glanced over at him, he would usually be staring straight ahead, though once, she was sure, he'd been staring sidelong at her.  At the same view that was in his photographs, although with, she realized blushing, a little more nipple showing.

          The theater was a multiplex . This meant they had to go through a series of "what would you like to see?" "It doesn't matter, whatever you like." "No, you choose."  In the end she'd named a picture she'd thought would please him. As it turned out, he wasn't sure that was the movie he'd bought tickets for or, later, if the movie for which he'd bought tickets was the one they actually saw.

          He was very very nervous.  His only moment of take charge, one which reminded her curiously of his mother, was at the refreshment stand when without consulting her he bought two large 7-Ups—no problem, she liked 7-Up—and a large, no, a gigantic bucket of popcorn.

          The bucket of popcorn, she could tell once they sat down, hid a marked erection.

          He was so cute, yet so terrifying at the same time.  What could one say to a boy that age that would put him at his ease? While they watched the previews, she thanked him for the popcorn, sipped her drink, and gave him several bright smiles.

          Twice she caught him looking at her breasts, but that was to be expected, what with the tight sweater Marge had given her to wear and no bra.

          Because he'd been so shy before, had been so inarticulate, the hand that reached up in the darkness after the lights went down in the theatre and touched her chest was all the more surprising.

          Of course, she was partly to blame.  She'd followed Marsha's instructions to some extent, letting her breast "accidentally" come in contact with his arm, taking his hand and touching his knee him each time there was an exchange of popcorn.  But still the hand on her breast was unexpected.

          Even more unexpected were the fingers that had grasped and begun to stroke her right nipple.  She ought to tell him to stop but the sensation was so pleasurable, the strokes and tugs were so gentle that she simply gave way to it.

          What was showing on the screen was a blur.  She looked up and down and to the side, but when once she looked at him, he was staring back with such intensity that she had to look away.

          At some point, the hand had gone beneath the sweater and had begun to explore each breast in turn.  His other hand had ventured once onto her thigh, but she'd grabbed his wrist before his hand could go further had gripped it tightly while she had the first of her orgasms and heard him give a cry of pain.

          She'd had one and perhaps several orgasms by the time the lights went up and the film was over.  I hope nobody asks me what the film was about, she thought inanely, because I don't remember anything.

          What do you say to someone who is fourteen or fifteen who has taken you on a first date and given you more pleasure than you'd had in a almost a year, more pleasure then you ought to have let him give you on a seventh or eighth date?  "Are you fourteen or fifteen?" she asked.

          "I'm almost fifteen," he said.

           Of course, he was in high school not middle school; he'd told her earlier.  Then they were walking up the aisle, across the lobby and into the fresh air. "It was a great picture," he said, "I liked it a lot."  Then, as if once again remembering instructions he'd been given, he added, "Thank you for coming with me."

          They sat quietly in the car for a few moments, before she remembered to reach down and turn the key.  Before she could complete the action, he leaned toward her across the seat as if to kiss her. Quickly, she leaned away.  Kissing wouldn't do at all, would only present the wrong message.  But her lips had never been his intention.  And retreating so that her head was back against the car door had only placed the real targets more firmly in his reach.  It took only half a second for him to lift her sweater and his thick lips to engulf her turgid nipple.

          The feeling was wonderful and it was all wrong.  It went on for several minutes, five, ten, before the sucking ceased momentarily.

          In between, she'd resisted several attempts to have her place her hand in his lap but finally, worn down from the struggle she let her hand lay where he'd placed it.

          His pants were damp; obviously, he'd already come once with excitement.

          Her own crotch was damp and sticky. She wasn't sure how much more she could take of his form of lovemaking.

          His sucking was so frenzied, just as his mother had described, that after awhile she asked him to wait.  "My breast hurts," she said, and carefully transferred his attention to her other nipple.  She held his head there for several moments, her hand gently cradling his neck.

          "Finish me," he said.

          She looked down at him puzzled. "I'm sorry," she said, "You'll have to stop; it's really beginning to hurt.  Both of them.  I'm out of practice."

          "But I haven't come yet. I'm almost there."  She could hear him unzipping but did not want to look down.  She could imagine his penis though, big and black and throbbing.  The next moment his big dick was in her hand and she was stroking it up and down as he'd requested.

          It took only seconds before his cum filled her hand and began to drip from her arm.  "Wait," he said and got out the handkerchief his mother had so obviously ironed and folded so he might look impressive on his date.  He carefully dried her hand with the handkerchief, and then, unexpectedly, took the cum he'd gathered and held it to her lips. She tried to back away, but he separated her lips and poked the cloth inside. She licked the cum from the cloth as was his intention, then remained passive as he cleaned her arm and again brought the handkerchief to her mouth. Again she sucked the drops from the cloth.

          "I've still got some 7-up left," he said.  "Do you want it?"

          She nodded and rinsed her mouth.  "Why did you do that with the cloth?" she asked.

          "My Dad told me girls really like it.  Did you like it?"

          She could tell he was eager to have her say that he did and would be disappointed if she were to say anything else. The fact was that she did like it and had missed the taste.  She couldn't believe that at one and the same time, she was worrying about whether any had spilled on the sweater (which she would have to return—where had Marge got such a small sweater from?) and how she wanted to take his penis in her mouth and suck the last few drops from its tip, though by now his penis was sure to be shriveled and small.

           The parking lot grew dark suddenly as the lights of the movie theater were extinguished.  She could see the last of the theater employees exiting the now-darkened theater.

          "Are we goin t'go," he asked from the seat beside her. His voice was firm and controlled, no longer hesitant and unsure of itself.

          She gave a half-ashamed smile and started the car. "I'll take you home." He reached over before tightening his safety belt and gave her a peck on the cheek.  Something he must have seen his father do. And then they left the lot.

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[To be Continued.]