Mafia Desire (Erotica)

In mid-October there was something called Parents’ Weekend, where the parents of all freshman were invited to show up and make sure their little darlings were doing all right in their first month or so of college. Bridget’s mother and father, Tara and Joe, were scheduled to show up, and everyone was looking forward to meeting them. But when the Friday of Parents’ Weekend arrived and there was a tentative knock on Joyce’s front door, Hilary found that only one person was there–a woman, presumably Tara.

She was a real beauty–or would have been if there wasn’t a kind of spooked expression on her face. She floated into the living room as if she was in some sort of trance, barely answering Hilary’s query, “Are you Bridget’s mom?” When Gerald emerged from the kitchen, he was especially impressed with her appearance: she was about five foot six and was wearing a superbly tailored business suit that showed off her luscious curves around bust, hips, and bottom. But the look on her delicate oval face, surrounded by masses of jet-black hair, alarmed him.

“Ma’am, is everything okay?” he said.

She looked at him as if he was a ghost who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, and made no reply.

Bridget now came into the room and gave her mother a token hug. But she too was concerned.

“Mom, what’s up?” she said. “You don’t look well.”

When Tara saw her daughter, her face suddenly crumpled in misery as she cried in agony, “Your daddy has left me!”

There was a thunderous silence–broken only by the sobs of the poor bereft woman.

“Left you?” Bridget cried out in disbelief. “When did this happen?”

“About a week ago,” Tara said.

“And you’re only telling me now?”

“I didn’t want to upset you while you were working hard at school.”

“Mom, I think this is something I needed to know. What exactly happened?”

“I don’t know! Your father suddenly announced that he was running off with his secretary. That girl is barely older than you!”

“Mom, I know that ‘girl.’ She’s at least twenty-five.”

“Oh, so that makes it all right?”

“No, of course not. But–but why? I mean, have you been having troubles?”

“I suppose we have. I think we got into a rut–and I also think that he was just waiting for you to go to college so that you wouldn’t be around to see his betrayal of me.”

“So where is he now?”

“In Florida, I think.”

“Florida! He took off for Florida with–”

“With this floozie.”

“I’m not sure she’s a floozie, but it’s a pretty rotten thing to do.”

It was only now that Joyce, who had been baking cookies in the kitchen, came out into the living room. She’d caught only a part of the heated conversation, but was quickly supplied the basic information on Joe’s disgraceful behavior.

“Oh, you poor thing!” Joyce said, embracing Tara awkwardly.

There was a general round of sympathy from all the occupants of the house, and a decision was quickly made to get Tara out of the sterile hotel room she’d booked (in expectation that she’d be there with her husband) and put her into the second guest room here in the house. Bridget and Hilary would be in the other guest room, and Gerald and Joyce would hold the fort in the master bedroom.

Hilary and Joyce tried to make some comfort food for dinner–a kind of miniature Thanksgiving dinner with sliced turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and so on. It seemed to help, although Tara mostly picked at her food and kept staring at her plate, refusing to engage in conversation. The others tried to keep up a lively chatter, but it didn’t seem to be having much effect on Bridget’s mother.

It was no surprise that she chose to retire early, around 9 p. m., trudging morosely up to her room and closing the door.

The others looked at one another.

“Gee, what a horrible thing to happen,” Gerald said.

“You got that right!” Hilary said, for once taking things seriously. “That guy must be a real scumbag.” Then, after a quick glance at Bridget: “Oops! I didn’t mean that. I’m sure he was a good father to you.”

“He was. I love him. But I just can’t believe he’s done this.”

“You had no inkling?”

“Oh, I heard them arguing every now and then–but all husbands and wives do that, don’t they? I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“Well, it’s a shame,” Joyce concluded heavily. “We’ll have to make sure she has a nice time this weekend.”

Everyone retired fairly early, not feeling in the mood for frivolous entertainment. But as Gerald and Joyce were cuddling naked in their bedroom (they were too embarrassed to engage in actual coitus, although they were leaving open the possibility of some sort of quiet mutual masturbation), they heard a disturbing sound coming from the second guest room.

“Omigod, what’s that?” Gerald whispered.

“What do you think it is, you dummy?” Joyce said. “She’s crying.”

“Tara?”

“Of course! What do you expect her to do, given what’s happened?”

“It sounds awful!”

“No joke, Sherlock. But women need to do that sometime.”

“Oh, Joyce, I can’t bear it! It’s like her heart is breaking.”

“It probably is breaking. Her husband of twenty years has just dumped her for some sweet young thing just a little over half his age.”

“Isn’t there anything we can do to help her?”

“You mean, isn’t there anything you can do to help her.”

“Me?” Gerald squawked. “Why me?”

Joyce actually slapped Gerald (lightly) on his forehead. “Do some thinking, silly! This woman has spent her whole adult life getting comfort and sympathy from a man–namely, her spouse. So who else can make her feel better but you?”

“But–but what do you want me to do? Just go there and–”

“Yes. If you really find it so painful to listen to her bawling, then it’s your responsibility to go over to her and make her feel better.”

“I can’t go like this!” he cried, gesturing at his nudity.NôvelDrama.Org: text © owner.

Joyce made a face. “Oh, I suppose not–although it’s nothing she hasn’t seen before. If that’s all that’s bothering you, then put on some underwear.”

Gerald peered closely at Joyce as if trying to figure out exactly what she was saying. “You really want me to–to–”

“Yes, I really do. I think you could help.” Then, looking at him straight in the eyes: “You have my formal permission to do whatever it takes to make her happy.”

Like a zombie, Gerald got up from the bed, slipped on his boxer briefs, and padded down the hallway to Tara’s room.

His hand shaking, he opened the door. He had a sense it would be unlocked, and it was. Slipping in, he was barely able to see in the dark room the figure of Tara lying on the bed; she was resting on her side, facing the window with her back to the door, so she didn’t see or hear Gerald come in. By this time her sobs had quieted down to a sort of soft weeping–but in some ways that was even worse than the wrenching wails he’d heard earlier.

He circled the bed and knelt down beside it, his face now very close to Tara’s. In his gentlest, most sympathetic voice he spoke her name.

She gasped and backed away, finally noticing him for the first time. She stared wide-eyed at him, her tear-streaked face now registering acute fear. “Wh-what are you doing here?” she whispered.

Gerald was now kicking himself for being so thoughtless. His blundering into Tara’s room, nearly naked, had frightened her and made her misery even sharper. Extending a hand and stroking her cheek, he said, “I’m really sorry you’re so unhappy. I wish I could make you feel better.”

That seemed, amazingly, to be the ticket. A broken smile came over Tara’s face, and she slid away to make room for him on the bed, holding out her arms in welcome. “Thank you,” she said.

He slipped in. He wasn’t sure how much she knew or cared that he was practically nude, but he was heartened by her embracing him closely and curling up against him as if he were a trusted father or uncle. Then she began to cry again–but Gerald knew that this was something she had to do. Now that she had a man to be her rock of stability, she poured out her grief and held him even tighter. He could feel the tears dropping on his shoulder.

For his part, Gerald merely draped his arms lightly around her. This was, after all, a woman he’d only met a few hours ago–and here he was, wearing only his underwear and hugging her in her thin, short nightgown! He could feel her large, heavy breasts against his chest, and she was unconsciously pressing her abdomen against his also, as if she needed to touch him from head to toe to gain the comfort she sought.

One of his hands was around her shoulders and the other in her lower back. That second hand he gradually lowered so that it was on her bottom.