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copyright ©2009 by A_Satori. All rights reserved.
[Author’s note: This story is Part 2 of A Prison Break, which I recommend be read prior to the story below.]
[Acknowledgments: My thanks to Andrea4328 for her editorial input and especially her tutelage on comma splices in compound sentences, although some of it may have fallen on deaf ears. Her work on this story is greatly appreciated. Any mistakes remaining in the text are mine alone.]
A PRISON BREAK, PART 2 – COMFORT AND ANXIETY
I hate waking up with a hangover. I guess no one does. I’ve often wondered if a little ‘hair of the dog’ works as a cure. I’ve never tried it. The last thing I want to do when I’m really hungover is have a shot or beer or bloody Mary, or anything alcoholic.
The worst kind of hangover for me, is when it’s not just the physical elements of — the queasy stomach or true nausea that leads to vomiting; the stinking cotton mouth; the splitting headache; the dizziness; the possible sore muscles which depends on what you did the night before, sitting on a bar stool isn’t bad the next day, throwing punches in the parking lot can be; and that general physical malaise that feels like you tried to poison yourself the night before, which in essence, is what you did — no, it’s when you wake up with all that plus, instantly feel that tight knot in your gut that signals you did something the night before you’ll cringe with guilt if not shame about today, as soon as you can recall what it is. I usually have that with my hangovers, maybe a little less often since I met Barb.
The only thing that tops all that to make it the absolute worst, is when you’re also disoriented. Possibly you don’t know where you are, or you don’t know what day it is, or you don’t know who you’re sleeping with in bed, and the worst version of latter is being in bed with a woman and thinking she’s someone else. Actually the ultimate absolute worst is a combo of all those things.
I hadn’t opened my eyes yet, when I realized the odd sensation on the outside of my lower left thigh was a small foot. I wondered if Barb got as drunk as I did last night. I next became aware of my pubic hair being stuck to my skin in a few places which told me Barb and I screwed when we got to bed. I somewhat recalled I really got my rocks off. I hope she did too.
Wait. Wait a second.
I felt my gut tighten even more. It couldn’t possibly be Barb next to me. My head hurt worse as some flashes of the previous night momentarily illuminated my mind. Lana. I fucked Lana last night. Oh jeezuz. I screwed her a lot last night. We were drinking bourbon. Jeezuz… I gave her whiskey! Shit! She’s going to tell Barb, she’s going to tell Barb about it all!
Wait a second.
Jeezuz. I paid her for sex. I fucking paid her for sex! The week of teasing and then she propped me. I fuckin’ bargained with her. I paid her. We fucked. We fucked a lot. Oh jeezuz. I fucked Barb’s daughter like she was a whore! She said she wouldn’t tell Barb. She said she hadn’t told anyone. Didn’t she say that? Did I believe her? I think I did last night. Do I believe it now? Ohhhhh shit.
My throbbing headache intensified. I wished I could hit the rewind button on my life to yesterday afternoon when I had the fucking shouting match with Jim. I would keep my mouth shut, and then… come home and give Lana $15 to go out with her friends to… what the hell was it? Was it a movie? Then, just had a few beers and gone to bed. Jeezuz… I fucked Lana! I fucked Barb’s daughter!
I told myself to relax, to get a grip. If Lana was going to tell Barb, there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Same with her blabbing to her stupid friends, nothing I could do about it. What if she told the cops? Did I commit a crime last night? Because I’m married to her mother? Because I signed those goddamn guardian papers? I didn’t have a clue about the criminality regarding any of it, except me being the john part. And of course her being the prosti. Yeah, those two things were criminal. Jeezuz. I fucking paid her for sex!
I opened my eyes just a slit to see if somehow she could have her sole against my thigh yet still be looking at me. No, she was turned away from me, lying on her side. Jeezuz… she looked fourteen again. A disquieting wave of revulsion for myself coursed through me as I remembered during the past few months that aspect, her looking so much younger than her age, got me hard. Maybe I’m nothing more than a fucking pervert. A pedophile? NO! I don’t gawk at fourteen year old girls, unless they look legal. Lana looks eighteen… most of the time! I’m not a fucking pervert. No, I’m just a fucking john!
Jeezuz… I paid her for sex. I had always told myself I would never, NEVER pay for sex, and I never did, until I get married, then I pay the daughter of my wife for sex. Not only was I scum, I was fuckin’ STUPID scum!
I opened my eyes wider. She was lying in one of the poses illegal bahis she had used during her teasing shows. She was on her side, her back to me, her legs folded, her torso twisted so her shoulders were nearly flat on the mattress, every sensual curve on her little body was accentuated. Her dark brunette hair was mussed and sexy looking, spilled around the pillow. I held my breath and listened. I heard soft, regular breathing from her. I figured she must be asleep. I exhaled.
I tried to think of what to do first. My head was throbbing so much, and my mind was either reeling or hazy, or maybe both, that I didn’t know what to do first. Then, my body made up my mind for me. I really needed to piss.
As quietly and gently as possible I slid to the edge of the mattress, then out from under the sheet and stood. My dick was sore. We must have really fucked a lot last night. It was also flaky from my jiz. I looked down on Lana. I hoped she slept for a couple more hours so I could think, so I could get a grip, so I could figure out what the hell to say to her, figure out what to do.
I glanced at the master bath. I didn’t want to wake her making noises in there. I decided to use the hallway bathroom, which was really Lana’s bathroom now. I silently walked into the master bath just to get my toothbrush and toothpaste, then left the bedroom, actually tiptoeing part of the way.
I headed to the hall bathroom realizing I hadn’t been in there for months. She never told me not to, I just stopped using it. I thought if I didn’t use it, I would never have to clean it. I don’t have any friends who visit the house, so no one associated with me pisses or shits in there either. A month or so after Barb went to prison, I stopped using it. Around last Christmas Lana had started keeping the door always closed.
I opened the door and stepped inside. Two astonishing things hit my dulled brain. The first was that it was freakin’ clean, almost spotless, even the plastic wastebasket was clean, I mean it had some tissues in it, but the plastic itself was clean. It had never been this clean and orderly, even when Barb was still living in the house.
The second thing was that she had transformed it into what I call a “girl’s potty room.” There was a sort of placemat cloth on the lid of the toilet water closet, centered on it was a softball sized round ceramic vase with a few very realistic silk flowers in it. In the corner of the room were more flowers, flowers and weeds actually, large, dead and dried which were stuck in and held up by a tall, wicker, horn shaped, faux vase. There was a short, four legged chromed wire rack with two shelves I had never seen before, similar to one of those old fashioned TV stands. It had two matched sets of thick, fluffy bath towels, hand towels, and washcloths neatly folded, stacked on the lower shelf, a wicker tray on the top shelf held another ceramic vase with a few silk flowers, and two small white dishes with scented, different pastel colored, scented soaps balls. Patterned, dark fabric was draped around the top and side casings of the small window, not really curtains though.
It seemed the walls had been painted recently, I couldn’t remember it being the powder blue it was now, which complimented the colors of older style tile work. The white ceiling had definitely been recently painted. It also seemed the door and casing on the very narrow linen closet had been too. I didn’t recall it being off-white, or semi-gloss before. There were a handful of pictures hung on the walls, not large, mostly watercolors or photos of flowers and landscapes. For some reason, I wondered if she had painted the inside of the linen closet door.
I closed the hall door behind me, and pushed the lock button, noting that door back had been painted too. I set my brush and toothpaste on the vanity top. The bottles and jars on it were all neatly arranged, no hairdryer or curling iron with the cords all tangled up like it used to be in the master bath when Barb was here.
I stepped to the linen closet door and opened it. I saw older towels, toilet paper rolls, and a few older looking bottles of shampoo and bars of soap on the shelves. The jamb was painted as well as the inside face of the door. My gut knotted tighter when I saw the 4 x 6 inch picture frame hanging on the door. A photo was under the glass.
It was a pic of Barb sitting on a blanket at a beach. She looked to be eighteen or so. She was wearing a red bikini. The wind had blown a few strands of her hair across her forehead. She was sitting pretzel legged, holding a toddler standing on her lap, a dark brunette little girl who was wearing those white plastic frame kid’s sun glasses and a little, white, floppy sun hat. Both of Barb’s slender arms were wrapped around the little girl, her cheek was pressing against the side of Lana’s head. A slender, petite, fortyish woman in a blue tank suit, also a dark brunette and also wearing shades, sitting with her legs folded to the side, was leaning illegal bahis siteleri into Barb holding herself up on an outstretched arm which was hidden behind Barb. She had her cheek pressed to the side of Barb’s head. All three females were grinning, maybe laughing. Lana looked so cute and pretty. So did Barb. The older woman was attractive too.
I knew immediately the woman in the tank suit had to be Barb’s mother, Lana’s grandmother. I felt my guilt swell within me. At the right edge of the photo, I noticed part of a dark blue, white topped, plastic cooler poking into the scene. Sitting on the lid was a bottle of a wine cooler. Barb had told me once, she used to love those.
The photo had to have been taken just about the time Barb said her parents had thrown her out of the house and completely disowned her and Lana. I stared at the woman’s face. Barb’s story and that face didn’t seem to match. I knew that really didn’t mean anything. My parents’ home movies proved that. You can’t really tell anything about people, especially if it’s just from a photo. But… that woman’s smile was definitely genuine, so was her caressing hand on Lana’s foot. I knew in my gut that woman could never disown her granddaughter, and probably not her daughter either.
I suddenly felt even worse, like I was snooping in Lana’s personal things, defiling her privacy. I guess I was. I realized I hadn’t pissed yet. I closed the narrow door, then stepped to the toilet and raised the seat and lid. Jeezuz… I really needed to piss. It was making a lot of noise in the water. I turned around and looked at the tub. It was a hell of a lot cleaner than mine. I wondered if I should just hold off and use my bathroom later. Hell, I was the one paying the fucking rent! I’d shower here.
I turned towards to the toilet again. Shit. I had peed on the rim of the goddamn bowl. I shook my dick to get the last few drops out, then yanked some toilet paper off the roll and wiped up my lousy aim. I tossed it in the bowl, flushed, then lowered the seat and lid.
I turned on the shower. I stepped to the wire rack and reached for one of the fluffy big towels, then pulled my hand back. I muttered, “Fucking chicks.” I returned to the linen closet and grabbed an older towel. I looked at the photo again for a few seconds. I wished Barb’s mom didn’t have the shades on. I wanted to see her eyes. I closed the door, set the towel within reach on the toilet cover. I brushed my teeth and tongue thoroughly. I finally stepped into the tub and drew the shower curtain closed. I looked around for the bar of soap. There were only bottles on the plastic holder rack hanging from the shower nozzle.
“Fuckin’ chicks,” I muttered again. I looked at the bottles. Two of shampoos, one conditioner, finally one that read “body wash.” I poured some of that in my palm, then realized I should have shampooed first. No, actually I should have taken vitamin pills, two ibuprofen, and drank a couple glasses of water first. Her surprising interior decorating work had gotten me all fouled up, so did that damn photo.
I used the dollop of body wash on my groin first, lathered up my pubic hair. My dick was sore, maybe friction burned. I then grabbed some green bottle marked shampoo. As soon as I poured some, I thought of Lana. It was that herbal scent of her hair. Great. I was going to smell like a chick all day! I’d just take another shower with my bar of Dial and my non-scented shampoo as soon as Lana got up and out of my bedroom. My gut clenched tighter again. I’d have to figure out what the hell to say and do before then.
I finished the shower and reached for the towel. I dried off in the tub so I didn’t get the throw rug wet. Even that thing looked clean. I realized I hadn’t grabbed any clothes on my way out of the bedroom. “Fuck.” I toweled my feet last, then stepped out of the tub. I wrapped the damp towel around my waist and noticed I had forgotten to turn on the exhaust fan. It felt humid and the mirror was covered with condensation. I flipped the switch on, then got pissed at myself for worrying about shit like that. I left the door open to get the moisture out of the room as I headed down the hall. The fan wasn’t too loud, I didn’t think it could be heard in the master bedroom.
In the kitchen I put cubes in a tall glass and filled it at the tap. I drank it all then refilled it. I got two big multi-vitamins and two ibuprofen and drank more water to get them down. I opened the fridge, grabbed the carton of orange juice and shook it. Dammit. There was only about a glass worth’s in it. I raised it to my mouth, then just before it touched my lips, I swore under my breath again and put it back in the refrigerator. I needed a smoke. I got a fresh pack of cigs from the cabinet, looked around for matches because my lighter was probably in my jeans. I couldn’t find any. I opened the pack and lit one on the stove burner, then sat at the kitchen table.
I took a drag. I had to figure out what to do canlı bahis siteleri about last night, and what to say to Lana today. All I could think about though, was how goddamn clean her bathroom was and that hidden picture in the linen closet. Why couldn’t she clean any other part of the house like that? That fucking giftwrap paper from Barb’s graduation gift to her was still on the living room floor. It had been what? Two weeks since she ripped that off the box?
Had Barb lied to me about her parents? I was now absolutely sure she hadn’t told me the entire story. I blinked. Was it she who had disowned them? What would make her do that? What would make her parents disown her? Lana was at least two if not three in that photo. That woman in the pic didn’t look like she was about to toss her kid and grandkid out on the street. Who was taking the photo? Was it Barb’s high school boyfriend, the guy who knocked her up? She never talked to me at all about him, like the guy who fathered Lana was dead. Was it some different boyfriend, or was it Grampa behind the lens? Does Lana even know who her father is? Does she even remember her grandparents? Why don’t I know any of this shit?
I could recall a few things from when I was three years old, maybe even younger, stupid seemingly mundane moments. I didn’t know enough about kids to be able to judge her age in that pic. She was standing, not just being held up by Barb’s arms, at least it looked like that. And her face was starting to look like her, so she couldn’t be extremely young. She had to be two or three, and… Barb might have been older than eighteen. She looks younger than her age too, like Lana does now. Well, before she went to prison at least.
My gut tightened again with the image of Barb crying that day in the prison visiting room. Me being cruel to her, and Lana being a lying little bitch. How the hell did the beautiful young woman and that cute baby in the photo end up to be the people who were at the prison that day? Pictures may speak a thousand words but they don’t tell the entire story, nor the truth.
The story. The story Barb told me about her parents disowning her. Truth or bullshit? What does Lana know about it? Did Barb tell her the same story she told me? I blinked. Why was I thinking about that? I crushed the cigarette out in the half full plastic ashtray. I should have emptied it before I lit the cig.
Damn. I had truly fucked up royally last night. It would kill Barb if she found out. How will I be able to face her tomorrow? Jeezuz. Will she be able to tell just by looking at me? Why can’t I lie better than I do? How could I have been so goddamn stupid? I was fucking horny and drunk, that’s how. That’s how I’ve fucked up over and over again since I was in high school, drunk and horny since I was fifteen. Or, maybe Dad’s been right all these years – What the hell is wrong with you? Do you have your brains up your goddamn ass?! Yeah, maybe fuckhead Dad was right.
I brought myself back to the present. I decided to clean up the evidence of last night. Why have any reminders of it? I started on the kitchen counter. There was more bourbon in the Comfort bottle than I thought there’d be. I put that in the cabinet. There was a can of tea next to the sink. I shook it. It was nearly empty. Lana drank that crap sometimes. I spilled the remnants in the sink and from the mud room door I tossed the can in the recyclable box in the garage. I emptied the kitchen ashtray making sure nothing was still smoldering, then wiped down the sticky countertops and the table; every moment trying to think of what to say to Lana and how to handle the situation. I kept drawing a blank.
There was a putrid odor coming from the sink full of dirty dishes. I felt angry for a moment, knowing at least half were dishes and glasses Lana had used. As I grabbed the dish sponge and put some liquid soap on it, I glanced at the digital clock on the stove. 7:18AM. I wondered how long Lana would sleep. I started on the dishes. I thought about how spic ‘n’ span her bathroom was, and my jaw tightened briefly.
It took me nearly twenty minutes to do the dishes, a good part of that was getting the big and small skillets cleaned of burnt shit stuck on the ‘no stick’ surfaces. I did a quickie scrubbing of the sink after that, then realized I hadn’t checked the living room for glasses. I went in there and saw the end table shoved away from the side of the couch. A vision of the previous night flooded my mind. I had forgotten about laying Lana over the armrest, tonguing her cunt and asshole, then really pounding my cock into her. I vaguely recalled she had an orgasm there. Maybe I was wrong about that.
I pulled the end table back to its proper place, then tossed the throw pillows to each end of the couch. There were four glasses and two dishes around the room. Once more my jaw tightened when I saw the giftwrap paper on the floor. I took the dishes to the sink, just put them in to wash later. I opened the fridge and was about to drink the OJ, but again thought I should leave it for Lana. I cursed under my breath, closed the door and grabbed the dish sponge and soap once more and washed what I had brought in from the living room. I just could not get my thoughts organized.
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