Read Online NIGHT CRUISING by Billie Sue Mosiman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Billie Sue Mosiman
Ads: Link
there was
little hope in that direction.
Hell, look at the
pictures of missing kids on the sides of milk cartons. It was an
epidemic; no one knew what to do. He must go forward and hope Molly
headed for California the way she'd told her Florida friends. If
she'd lied, if she'd changed her mind, he was shit out of luck. It
might be years before he found her. Dammit.
He washed, shampooed
his short, crew-cut hair, rinsed, and stepped from the shower stall.
After drying off, shaving, brushing his teeth, donning the bottoms of
a pair of plain white pajamas, he threw back the covers on one of the
two double beds and flopped onto his back. He had a wake-up call for
five-thirty. He should do a few sit-ups--it was harder to stay in
shape since his retirement--but sleep pulled him into its silky
depths.
He slept with the table
lamp on, his mouth open, his hands straight at his sides. He never
moved a limb all night. And if he dreamed, the dreams fell over the
precipice of his subconscious and were lost the way the waterfall in
the lobby fell from its great height and disappeared in the foaming
aquamarine pond at its sculpted base.
THE THIRD NIGHT
Molly floated in a
flushing pink dream of sex. Hormone typhoon, she thought at the edge
of waking. Stop it , she thought, dream something else .
But the dream was too exciting and blessedly real for her to stop it.
She felt every inch of her body ripe and full to the bursting point
with lustful feelings. Her muscles clenched and unclenched creating a
wave of yearning that washed down through to her core.
She fantasized a lover
with long, silky hair that swung on each side of his face as he moved
above her, his weight familiar, his warmth increasing her own. The
hair of his legs slid along her own bare calves and inner thighs and
she sighed in her sleep, twisting a little to better position herself
to open and receive him.
Then a car door banged
shut nearby and Molly came up from the reclining seat of the Chrysler
like a shot. She was trembling, the heat that had been spreading
outward from
her thighs now creeping
into her cheeks. She looked over quickly to where Cruise lay
peacefully sleeping. She sucked in a breath and rubbed her eyes
against the afternoon sun beating through the windshield. It felt
like midsummer here in Texas. Hot as a griddle.
Her heart beat fast and
strong in her chest. She felt as if she'd used up as much energy as
she might have running laps around a football field. She'd been
dreaming of making it with Cruise. A whole truckload of shame
suffused her. Guilt at the betrayal of her body made her bring her
arms in close to her sides and squirm in the car seat. She sometimes
had these disturbing sexual dreams. She'd never had the nerve to ask
other girls if they too sometimes woke from naps or in the night
after experiencing vividly detailed romps with men. She was afraid
they'd tell her no, and then she'd know for sure she was abnormal,
her sexual appetite too large for so young a girl, so inexperienced a
girl.
Before losing her
virginity--or rather, before giving it away--she had these same
dreams, but they were what she called "baby" sex dreams
once she knew better. She fantasized being touched, kissing, fondling
in the dark. She would wake to find herself rocking belly down,
massaging herself against the mattress. She didn't know what it felt
like to make love.
After having sex the
dreams changed completely. They had little to do with foreplay, with
kissing or snuggling or touching. They got right down to the crux of
the matter where she dreamed of penetration, of the slick thrust and
pump of the act itself. She dreamed of being filled. Of reaching for
orgasm and nearly missing each time she woke dripping sweat, her
small breasts tingling, nipples swollen, a fire burning down below.
Sometimes when she was too excited to forestall it, she masturbated,
gently with her finger, probing, then furiously until she came, her
breath caught in her throat, her hand
little hope in that direction.
Hell, look at the
pictures of missing kids on the sides of milk cartons. It was an
epidemic; no one knew what to do. He must go forward and hope Molly
headed for California the way she'd told her Florida friends. If
she'd lied, if she'd changed her mind, he was shit out of luck. It
might be years before he found her. Dammit.
He washed, shampooed
his short, crew-cut hair, rinsed, and stepped from the shower stall.
After drying off, shaving, brushing his teeth, donning the bottoms of
a pair of plain white pajamas, he threw back the covers on one of the
two double beds and flopped onto his back. He had a wake-up call for
five-thirty. He should do a few sit-ups--it was harder to stay in
shape since his retirement--but sleep pulled him into its silky
depths.
He slept with the table
lamp on, his mouth open, his hands straight at his sides. He never
moved a limb all night. And if he dreamed, the dreams fell over the
precipice of his subconscious and were lost the way the waterfall in
the lobby fell from its great height and disappeared in the foaming
aquamarine pond at its sculpted base.
THE THIRD NIGHT
Molly floated in a
flushing pink dream of sex. Hormone typhoon, she thought at the edge
of waking. Stop it , she thought, dream something else .
But the dream was too exciting and blessedly real for her to stop it.
She felt every inch of her body ripe and full to the bursting point
with lustful feelings. Her muscles clenched and unclenched creating a
wave of yearning that washed down through to her core.
She fantasized a lover
with long, silky hair that swung on each side of his face as he moved
above her, his weight familiar, his warmth increasing her own. The
hair of his legs slid along her own bare calves and inner thighs and
she sighed in her sleep, twisting a little to better position herself
to open and receive him.
Then a car door banged
shut nearby and Molly came up from the reclining seat of the Chrysler
like a shot. She was trembling, the heat that had been spreading
outward from
her thighs now creeping
into her cheeks. She looked over quickly to where Cruise lay
peacefully sleeping. She sucked in a breath and rubbed her eyes
against the afternoon sun beating through the windshield. It felt
like midsummer here in Texas. Hot as a griddle.
Her heart beat fast and
strong in her chest. She felt as if she'd used up as much energy as
she might have running laps around a football field. She'd been
dreaming of making it with Cruise. A whole truckload of shame
suffused her. Guilt at the betrayal of her body made her bring her
arms in close to her sides and squirm in the car seat. She sometimes
had these disturbing sexual dreams. She'd never had the nerve to ask
other girls if they too sometimes woke from naps or in the night
after experiencing vividly detailed romps with men. She was afraid
they'd tell her no, and then she'd know for sure she was abnormal,
her sexual appetite too large for so young a girl, so inexperienced a
girl.
Before losing her
virginity--or rather, before giving it away--she had these same
dreams, but they were what she called "baby" sex dreams
once she knew better. She fantasized being touched, kissing, fondling
in the dark. She would wake to find herself rocking belly down,
massaging herself against the mattress. She didn't know what it felt
like to make love.
After having sex the
dreams changed completely. They had little to do with foreplay, with
kissing or snuggling or touching. They got right down to the crux of
the matter where she dreamed of penetration, of the slick thrust and
pump of the act itself. She dreamed of being filled. Of reaching for
orgasm and nearly missing each time she woke dripping sweat, her
small breasts tingling, nipples swollen, a fire burning down below.
Sometimes when she was too excited to forestall it, she masturbated,
gently with her finger, probing, then furiously until she came, her
breath caught in her throat, her hand
Similar Books
