SNOWED IN

Neal Ford parked his car around the back of the house, between the porch and the old barn. He got out quietly, slowly, looking away west across the field to where the sun was just beginning to descend behind the thick veil of clouds, turning them pink and blue and an eerie green. The west side of the property was the most open; the woods receded here, allowing the chilly wind to whip down over the house, and whistle through the cracks and crevices of the barn. He liked to stand here -- it was a good spot to think. He had plenty to think about.

It was, he decided, a total shambles. He might as well give up on it all. There was no way he was ever going to satisfy Sherry, and no way he would ever be satisfied with her alone. The past three months had spoiled him. Melanie had spoiled him. She was too young, yes. Too impetuous, too sensitive. Not realistic in her outlook at all. She said things that shocked him, they were so immature. He couldn't remember ever being so naive about the world, and was sure that Sherry had never been that impulsive or reckless. Sherry was always eminently sensible. It was one of the reasons he loved her. It was also one of the reasons he was so very tired of her.

If Melanie was nothing else,she was new. A change, a departure. A different flavor of ice cream.

He was walking out into the field before he knew it, neglecting the ghostly sunset to focus on his steps. There was no way, he thought, that he could stay with her -- especially not if she demanded he earn back every bit of her trust or respect. Yes, he'd gone off the rails and had an affair -- some women would get a clue from that, and try harder to please their husbands.

There was no need for them to stay together.The kids, Sherry always said.What kids? Neal wanted to know. Josh was eighteen now -- not the sharpest tack in the drawer, but with any luck he'd pass his exams and graduate. And Vanessa? Vanessa was a wife and mother. Well, okay -- she and Brad Carlson weren't officially married. And her being pregnant at nineteen was an accident, and the only reason for her unofficial marriage to Brad, or whatever they considered it. The point was, she was growing up -- she was a woman, not a kid. He'd always do what he could for her, sure -- but it wasn't like what he said or did made a whole lot of difference to Vanessa. Neal shook his head, thinking about her. Nessa might as well have been from another planet, she was so hard for him to understand.

And then there was the house, and all the work it needed. The gigantic eyesore of the barn. Tons of work at the office, troubles with Sherry's car . . . oh God, it was all so overwhelming.

At some point Neal had stopped walking; he was now standing in the middle of the field, the icy December wind whipping around him. Cold, he thought, for Florida weather. He stood for a minute or two with his hands in his pockets, then turned slowly to begin the trudge back to the house.

May as well go in. Why prolong the inevitable? It was going to be hell, the whole week. In this mess of a house, with his mess of a family, he now had to endure the most home-centered and familial of rituals: the Christmas holiday. At worst it would be a disaster: a week of arguments and swearing, raised voices, flushed faces. At best it would be totally artificial. They'd all pretend they were still some sort of unit. He wasn't sure he could do that.

He had made the wrong choice, staying with her, trying to make it work. He knew that now. Maybe Melanie wasn't the right choice, but Sherry was definitely the wrong one. Leaving her for good would be a terrible wrench -- at the very least, he'd be losing a home, and alienating his family. But then, he didn't really have enough of either to make staying worthwhile.

I won't kiss her, he thought as he neared the back porch. I've been kissing her for twenty years when I come in the door -- I won't do it tonight. Maybe she'll see the significance of that. Maybe she'll understand it's over.

***

"Ah! . . . Unngggh, yeah . . . ah, God, I'm gettin' close! . . . I'm gettin' close --"

"Mmmmm . . . "

"Yeah, I'm close, baby . . . ah! . . . ah shit, you gonna keep it in your mouth this time?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Oh fuck! . . . fuck fuck fuck . . . almost there . . . ah shit, you ready for it?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"You ready?"

"Mmm-hmm --"

"Aw fuck I'm there! -- Ah! -- Ah shit! -- Ah shit shit shit!"

"Mmmmm . . ."

"Unngh! -- Unngh! Oh damn! -- ooohhh damn . . . "

"Mmmmm-hmmmm . . ."

"Oh . . . oh damn. Damn."

"Mmm -- he shoots, he scores!"

"Oh, hell yes!"

"Like that?"

"Hell yes."

"Gotta smoke for me?"

"Ohhh . . . no."

"No? What's that then?"

"Back off, it's my last one."

"Josh! I just sucked your dick for you, jerk-off!"

"So?"

"So!"

"I thought you did that cause you wanted to."

"Fucker!"

"Here, I'll share it."

"Shove it up your ass."

Joshua Ford shrugged and took a long pull on the cigarette. The girl changed her mind, snatching it from him. Now the old Charger was full of smoke; he let the window down slightly to clear the air. She exhaled a stream of smoke and glared at him.

"You are some kind of bastard, you know that?" she snapped. "You'll share it with me. How'd you like it if Ishared my pussy around?"

"How do I know you don't?"

"Well, maybe I should start if you think that!"

He sighed and shook his head. This was getting old fast.

"Where're we going?" he said, pushing his wet cock back into his pants.

"Take me home."

"What the hell for?"

"Just go!"

He cranked the car and swerved out of the parking lot, tires screeching. On the drive back, all was silent between them. When he pulled into her neighborhood, she asked:

"Are you coming over Christmas?"

"No, I can't," he said. "Mom wants me home."

"Christmas Eve?"

"I don't know. Doubt it."

"Have you even asked?"

"Yes, I have," he lied.

"Well, can I come over there then?"

"I don't think so -- it's Mom. She wants it to just be family or something -- I don't know . . . "

Actually he had mentioned nothing about her to either of his parents. Christmas was going to be enough of an ordeal without having to worry about her, or playing meet-the-parents.

She sighed in frustration and stared out the window.

"So am I gonna see you at all over the holiday or what? I mean, what's the fucking deal?"

"I don't know, Jeanie! Look, I'll find out something and call you. I promise."

"You can come over here, you know."

Josh shook his head. "Nah. Your mom hates me."

Either this was true or she didn't feel inclined to argue the point. She was silent, though not so brooding, until he pulled up in front of her house.

"You'll call me?" she asked.

"I'll call you."

"You promise."

"Yes, I promise."

"Okay."

She leaned toward him to give him a kiss. At the last moment he turned his head, and they kissed cheeks awkwardly, like Frenchmen in a movie. She drew back, her eyes flashing.

"So now you can't even kiss me?" she spat.

"Your mouth was just full of cum!" he replied.

For several seconds she stared at him in disbelief. Then she snatched up her bag from the floor of the car and was out, slamming the door behind her.

"Hey, don't slam the --"

"Fuck you!!"

Josh watched her storm away up the walkway, pulling her panties out of her crack as she went. When the front door slammed, he put the car in gear and pulled away.

Oh well, he thought. No more Jeanie.

***

"Ow, dammit!"

Jasper jumped and whined at her from his corner as Sherry Ford popped her thumb into her mouth and sucked it. That made four times she'd poked herself with the needle -- maybe making popcorn chains wasn't such a great idea after all.

Well, to hell with it, she thought, letting her shoulders slump. What in God's name was she thinking anyway -- trying to manufacture an actual living, breathing Christmas out of a house full of doom. She'd put the wreaths up the first week of the month, by herself; that same day she and Neal had a ferocious fight about her having to do it by herself. She had erected a sort of tree, an old fake one she found in the attic (by myself, she thought). Later they had a knock-down-drag-out about not getting a real tree together, like they used to -- Neal had told her, laughing, that the fake tree looked "a porcupine on steroids." It was she who insisted they put up the lights outside along the trim, even though their house was far out on the edge of town, and probably no one but stray dogs and meandering cows would see them. That job she had refused to do by herself, and when Neal shocked the shit out of himself at the fuse box and she laughed -- well, that hadn't produced a happy holiday mood either.

She had bought gifts, she thought, reaching for a cigarette. Yes, and she shopped for those alone as well, though Vanessa had gone along once. At the time, her daughter's sniggering suggestion that they get a blow-up doll for Neal was not appreciated by Sherry; now it did seem kind of funny.

That was the thing -- if Vanessa was in here with her, working alongside her like she promised, then she might not feel so bad. For all her wildness and unpredictability, Vanessa had a sense of humor andjoie de vivre that could enliven any situation. Sherry glanced over at the single half-completed popcorn chain her daughter was supposed to be doing. Now where the hell was she anyway? Sherry had a suspicion.

She stubbed out the cigarette and made her way into the den. Yes, as she thought. Vanessa was in front of the tall mirror, admiring herself again.

"Oh not again, Vanessa," she said. "I need help in here, you know."

"I know," her daughter said, never removing her eyes from the mirror. "I haven't abandoned you."

She was standing in profile before the old mahogany floor mirror, turning this way and that to study her changing shape. It was unreal, watching her. In her shorts and tanktop, her shiny hair still retaining some of its baby blonde, she still looked very much the little girl -- by rights she should be devouring the tree with gleaming eyes, and trying to guess the contents of her gifts. But there she was, her belly swelling with a child of her own. No longer an innocent.

Brad Carlson, she thought, her lips tightening.Brad. She had always hated Brad's. The stuck up, spoiled brat punks in the movies, the ones who always mistreat the girls until the heroes arrive -- it seemed like they were always named Brad. And this Brad wasn't even spoiled, or stuck up, or particularly good-looking. Brad Carlson was the son of the man who owned the gas station up the road. He wasn't good enough to change Vanessa's tires, much less father her child.

She would never admit it aloud, but the two of them made the most appalling couple Sherry had ever seen. As pretty and clever and infectious as her daughter was, Vanessa plus Brad equaled an ugly combination. Yes, her daughter was given to tattoos and piercings, and dying her hair the most shocking colors imaginable, and wearing clothes that would make a hooker blush. But despite all of that strangeness, Vanessa's own beauty shown through. While Brad -- tall, skinny, gangly even, pimply, with spiky yellow hair and a face like a dog -- Brad Carlson was so far beneath her it was scary. For him to worship her from afar, okay. But to marry her? Definitely not.

Hell, they weren't even married yet! They'd been just living together, just playing house in a low rent mobile home near the gas station. Brad hadn't even stayed in town for the holidays -- he'd gone with his parents to visit relatives up north. Her beautiful daughter, who could be or do anything she wanted, paired with some pimply, gangly creep who couldn't even stay with his pregnant girlfriend at Christmas -- oh, the mind boggled.

Well, she thought bitterly, at least I don't have to feed him.

"Mom," said Vanessa, interrupting her thoughts, "what did you look like when you were pregnant?"

"Oh God," said Sherry, "I'm not sure. That's ancient history now."

"Oh bullshit. You have to remember. Did you look like me?"

She pulled up the hem of the tanktop as she asked, securing it beneath her breasts. Sherry laughed softly and studied her daughter's long tanned legs, her narrow hips, the smooth, gentle outward curve of her belly. The soft glow of the hair around her forehead.

She smiled in spite of herself.

"I think you look prettier."

Vanessa smiled delightedly. "Really?"

"Really, you're looking . . . very beautiful. You have a glow."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh . . . " Sherry moved behind her daughter, looking into the mirror with her. "Just an extra healthiness, I guess. Your cheeks fill out, your eyes brighten. You're really starting to show now, you know that?"

"I know."

Her daughter ran her palm slowly along the slope of her belly. The motion looked so pleasing, so enlivening to the touch, that Sherry had to try it herself. Standing close behind her, she ran her own hand over the warm, glassy skin -- she watched her hand in the mirror. Vanessa only smiled, dreamily.

In truth, she did look a lot like Sherry had when she was young. It was a surreal moment: standing before the mirror, stroking a young, pregnant belly, studying a face that might have been a younger version of her own.

"I'm gonna get bigger, aren't I?" said Vanessa.

"Yes, you are."

"I seem huge as it is!"

"No, it looks good on you, hon. You were too skinny before."

"It's funny, I don't mind it. I useta spend hours at the gym trying to keep a flat tummy -- now I've got a fucking beer belly and I don't even care!"

She laughed at herself. Sherry, on automatic pilot, told her not to use the "F word."

"Oh Mom -- what's the point?" her daughter replied.

The remark startled her out of her reverie. She stepped away, mechanically straightening the Christmas knick-knacks on the mantle.

What indeed was the point? Her daughter not only said "fuck" on a regular basis -- her daughter had been fucked! She wouldn't tell Sherry how many times, or with how many different guys, or how young she was when she started. The whole prospect made her head swim. What's the point was right -- what did she think she was protecting anymore?

"Do I still look sexy, you think?" was Vanessa's next question.

Sherry rolled her eyes, planted Baby Jesus firmly in his manger.

"Yes, you still look 'sexy,' Vanessa. Honestly, who have you got to look so sexy for?"

"Oh come on, really! Do I look sexy? I don't want to be one of those porker mamas -- I wanna be slim and trim and sleek, but still kindavoluptuous. Were you like that when you were preggers?"

"Oh Vanessa, I don't know. I didn't think about it, it was a different world."

"Oh, boo hoo, life is horrible, woe is me, everything sucks!"

Baby Jesus was staying put, but now Joseph kept slumping over to one side, against Mary. He looked like he was sneaking a peek down her shirt.

Typical male, she thought. She jammed him between two sheep to keep him straight.

"I'll tell you one thing --" her daughter continued, unmindful of her struggle. "My tits are bursting. No one told me I'd go from a B cup to a D in just a few weeks!"

"Well, I hope you didn't get pregnant just to make your boobs bigger," Sherry snapped.

"No, really -- I mean, look at this!"

Sherry looked. Her daughter had pulled the tanktop all the way up to her collarbone. Her breasts, which had been pert little mounds a few months ago, could now fill the seemingly enormous bra she was wearing with no trouble, and still wanted to pour out the top. Really, the girl did look like she'd just had a top-knotch Hollywood boob job. Vanessa giggled and shook her jutting chest from side to side.

"God, I look like a damn porn star!" she cackled. "Is this how your tits got so big?"

Sherry balked at the matter-of-fact compliment.

"It helped, yes," she said. "So does eating now and then."

"Well, I'm digging this!"

She suddenly yanked up the edge of the bra, letting her two swollen globes fall out; she cupped them and struck a pose.

"Whoa -- check it out!"

"Vanessa, go put something on. It's cold outside, there's a draft in here --"

"Oh, I'm fine!" she chirped. "Anyway, they're not hard cause it's cold -- they're sooo sensitive now. I've been horny as hell lately, is that normal?"

"Vanessa!"

Sherry squirmed uneasily. Her daughter's frank attitude about sex always made her uncomfortable, but it wasn't just that. It was true that discussion of enlarged breasts or increased nipple sensitivity was perfectly appropriate between mothers: one of the prerogatives of the job. But she usually thought of it as a discourse between equals -- not a conversation that a married, middle-aged woman has with her knocked-up, unmarried daughter. She was embarrassed to find herself in this context, and even more embarrassed that she was so obviously embarrassed.

And her daughter -- her half-naked, horny-as-hell little girl -- so at ease was she with the situation that she was now actually running her fingers over her dark, distended nipples. Right there, in front of her.

"Ohhh, God --" she said, giggling.

"Vanessa!"

"What? Look at 'em, they're fantastic."

"Cover yourself up! -- you don't know who could be looking . . . " Sherry glanced around at the frosty windows uneasily.

"Oh, get real, we live in the middle of nowhere, Ma."

Of course, Neal would pick that moment to walk in, of all moments. And through the back porch door, straight into the den -- not through the front where they would have heard him.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed in the doorway, immediately turning his head, cupping a hand over his eyes. "Jesus, Nessa, put them away! What the hell is going on in here?"

"See?" Vanessa said, pulling the bra down again. "It's only Dad."Safely covered up again, though Sherry's heart was still thumping in her chest, Vanessa crossed the room to greet her father.

"Hi, Daddy," she said.

"Hi, sugar. Are you decent now?"

"Yep. Just showing Mom my titties."

Sherry watched them peck each other's cheeks with a sinking feeling, a smoldering in her heart so akin to jealousy it surprised her. She couldn't help it -- in Neal's eyes Vanessa could do no wrong. Oh, he might rant and rave at her occasionally, or criticize her actions and attitude out of her hearing. But ultimately that girl had kept her father wrapped around her finger since the day she was born. Even this, getting pregnant by some local eyesore -- even this breach of trust, this shattering of innocence was not enough to disrupt the easy affection of their relationship. The kiss, the friendly embrace, the loving look bestowed upon Vanessa before she disappeared down the hall (getting out of harm's way, Sherry thought) lay in stark contrast to the greeting she got herself: a disembodied and hollow "hi" from across the room. Even Jasper, who had always been "that dog" to Neal, got more of a greeting than she did.

With Vanessa out of the room he quit acting. His features hardened, and he lay down his coat and flopped into an easy chair without paying her the slightest attention. Sherry turned back to the nativity set. Joseph was now bending indecently over one of the sheep. She snatched him up and lay him on his side, away from temptation.

If only she could do the same with Neal.

***

" . . . and this high pressure area is going to get things crankin' for us over the weekend. Crankin' down low, that is. As you can see here, the front is going to extend down well below the central part of the state, certainly reaching Ocala and probably into Northern Orange county. That's gonna push those temperatures down into the 'teens , and with strong chances of precipitation for the weekend, that means we could be looking at some genuine snowfall for the holidays. Sandy?"

"So we might be getting a white Christmas after all, huh? Thanks, George. Coming up next --"

"Did he say snow?" asked Vanessa incredulously, buried in gloom on the couch.

"Oh, that's horseshit. It'll be flurries, nothing more."

"Would be kind of neat, though."

"It would."

"Does it ever snow in Florida, Daddy?"

"It did once, when you were little -- don't you remember?"

"Kinda."

"Just an inch or so. But it shut down the whole town."

They fell silent again, remaining so for the rest of the news. On the floor before the television, the dog snored softly.

Neal wasn't really paying attention -- the news was the same every day anyhow. As the talking heads droned on, he stayed perfectly still in the armchair, occasionally wondering where Sherry was in the house, but more often than not, feeling miserable and lost.

It was very simple -- he was missing Melanie.

They met at work, as so many men meet their mistresses. Not that Melanie could be described as such, really. Mistress had such an air of mystery and sophistication about it, even glamour. Married men who were insanely wealthy and frighteningly powerful -- they had mistresses. A man like Neal, of an average intelligence and income, a cog within the wheel of commerce and office politics -- he had nothing so urbane as a "mistress." A squeeze, a bimbo, a symptom, a sideline, a piece of ass: these were terms that might be applied to Melanie, depending on who you asked.

He worked in a Sales Solution team for a software company; she was a programming assistant. It was as simple as that. They both worked in the unreal world of computers. There their professional similarities ended.

Their relationship had been the result of two months solid flirting that suddenly turned serious. Every man flirts on the job; it's expected of him, almost a prerequisite of his being accepted as a man. Most women make nothing of it. They may enjoy it if he's reasonably handsome, powerful, or especially good at it. They may object to it if he's too forward, too sleazy, too clumsy or too damned unattractive. Very few women take it seriously, as a promise of things to come, a precursor of actual intimacy. Melanie had.

Their first time together was on a long lunch break -- cliched but true. They arranged to meet without seeming to, retired to a cheap motel, and got back to work late. He wondered the entire time what the hell he was doing, but found himself unable to stop. Afterward he felt wretchedly guilty.

When the world didn't cave in around him, and the anchor man failed to mention his little adventure on the six o'clock news, and Sherry welcomed him into her bed as though nothing had happened, then it began to get easy for him. Perhaps too easy. They met whenever they could, most often at her apartment, near the office. Soon he had invented various clients and problems to keep him at work late, or to explain overnight trips, thus allowing he and Melanie better and more leisurely play time together. He was shocked at just how well he could lie to Sherry, how much bullshit she would swallow so that he could get what he wanted. It was astounding the sacrifices he would make just to satisfy his dick, and even more amazing that she would let him get away with it.

Hon, it's me.

Hi baby!

Look, I can't make it home for dinner tonight.

Uh oh.

Yeah -- the VoxPop thing again. Bob wants me to take them to dinner, wine and dine them -- you know the routine.

All right, well . . . I'll see you when?

Oh, eightish maybe. I'm not sure, depends on how much the old farts can eat.

"Kay, well, be careful on the roads.

I will -- bye, sweetie.

Hon, baby, sweetie -- then right into Melanie's bed, devouring her naked body. It got to be childishly simple, so simple he couldn't not do it. And in exchange for a missed meal and a few readily swallowed lies, he got everything that Melanie had to offer him. Which was considerable.

Put together a large book of women he might go for and Melanie would not have been in it. She wasn't especially his type physically: a slight figure, not terribly pretty, possessing little conventional sex appeal. Neither was she particularly adept at being sexy, either in manner or deed. She was bookish, smart, rather shy, even a little awkward. The kind of girl men befriend, not pursue. In high school she would have been the go-between for various romantic partners, never involved herself. It would have been her job to listen to her prettier girlfriend unravel the lovely details, to console her when the guy broke her heart, or to seek out and counsel with the offending male. In due time she might become a Lesbian, so little did she understand of men.

What Melanie did have was youth. She was barely twenty-one, to Neal's forty-five. Everything about her was fresh and unspoiled, new, vulnerable. Her body, for all its lack of womanly curves and crevices, was tight and gleaming and smooth. Compared to his wife's, her breasts were ridiculously small -- just little hillocks, no wider than his palms. There was no burying his face between her tits, one of his favorite things to do with Sherry. Not when he could suck almost all of a tit into his mouth. On their first time in bed he had almost felt embarrassed for her, she was so tiny.

But she was also clean, and white, magically serene and unvarying. All over her body she glistened with youth; there were no blemishes, no stretch marks, no history. Even her pussy hair was soft and downy, almost transparently blonde. He had wondered at its silky translucence, like it was baby hair. And when he decided he wanted her to shave it, she did. Right there, while he watched.

That performance was a good example of another invaluable feeling Melanie brought him: complete and total control. He was not, she told him, her first lover, but he was the first who "knew what he was doing." The remark, highly flattering in itself, set the tone for much of their sexual relationship. If Neal wanted slow, steamy, passionate sex that lasted for hours, she gave it to him. If he wanted things hard and fast and dirty, she also obliged, just as happily. If they didn't really have time, and he just wanted a blow job in her car, she sucked him hard, took all his cum, swallowed it and wiped her lips, smiling.

Many, many times he spent hours licking and kissing and touching every inch of her -- in a trance of disbelief at how young and beautiful her body really was. On more than one occasion, however, he had been short and rough with her. He threw her on her bed one night and ripped her panties apart, trying to get to her pussy. When he got them off he lashed her cunt with his tongue, savagely and selfishly, like a brute. He used her body to channel his angers and frustrations, treating her far less sensitively than she either needed or deserved. She just took it.

So far as he could tell, she didn't want his money, his job, or his baby. She just wanted him: his time, his attention, his cock. To a man his age, there could be no more addictive arrangement. He couldn't believe his luck -- had no idea why she was so enthusiastic to love him -- had trouble believing that younger guys were surrounded with so much easy pussy that they could afford to pass her up. It was all so improbable that it was impossible to stop.

Yes, there were times when he wanted more from her than she could give. At times he wished her body darker, less angelic. Often he wished she had bigger tits, or that she would gush when she came, like his wife did. He regretted her lack of experience, and could think of many a nearly perfect moment that had been spoiled because of her ignorance or hesitation. He had to teach her to suck him right (although honestly, he thought, all men should have such problems), to use her tongue as much as her lips, and her teeth not at all -- and even when he had done so, he knew Sherry could do it better any night of the week. But Melanie would blow him enthusiastically, extemporaneously, and at "no charge." She would suck him any time, and almost anywhere -- all he had to do was pull his dick out. And though he loved making her cum, it wasn't required. She expected nothing back, and her pleasuring him was not just one step in a set routine. There was something so gratifying about possessing such total power over a young woman that he sometimes abused it just to revel in the feeling.

He did not love her, not with one ounce of his soul, one bone in his body. She probably did love him, though she had never said so. Somehow it wasn't important -- their relationship was about needs, not about love. He fulfilled some need for her . . . father? brother? teacher? And she definitely satisfied his own needs for youth, excitement, variety, and domination.

Sherry had discovered Melanie at the eleventh hour, right when his interest was beginning to flag. He had overdosed on Melanie's selfless sexuality, and was beginning seriously to consider what risks to his life and family he was regularly incurring, when Sherry got tipped off by a colleague's wife, and ruthlessly dissected every gory detail of their affair, right down to their last bed session.

Neal had eventually opted for the "smart" course, choosing wife and family to oversexed coworker. But now, sitting alone in the dark, a cold wife haunting the house and the news girl preaching death and destruction, he wondered just how smart he had been. He hungered for Melanie's soft, slim pussy, and the look her pale blue eyes assumed as she watched him eating her. He longed to lose his whole hard length in her, feeling how impossibly small and light and cool her body was beneath his bulk. To hear her prattle on about her ridiculous concerns would now be music to him; the moods and mannerisms that had seemed so childish were now feverishly erotic. The lightness of her voice, the clean smelling skin. The nonchalance of her sexuality once their affair had acquired its rhythm . . .

There was that time when he came over after work and sat in the little recliner by the door. They were chatting, talking shop, things that happened at work that were beyond understanding. The look on the boss's face, what a colleague said in reply. All the while she was straddling him, swaying against him; he held her tiny waist as she leaned back to pull off her shirt. As she added her own opinions, she was feeding him her pert little titties, pulling his head close. The story lost substance as he rubbed her through her shorts, as she unbuttoned his shirt. He finally stopped talking when she melted to the floor to unzip him . . .

Neal sat up in his chair and peered through the half-light at his daughter. Strange.

Yes, it had been some motion of hers, some gesture, that had brought that night to mind. That had got him thinking of Melanie in the first place, in fact. When she had arced her back and stretched out on the couch, maybe -- such a smooth, liquid motion, so like Melanie during sex. Or had it been when she nestled against the back cushions, so childlike and unselfconscious -- like Melanie after sex?

He sighed and shook his head: what animals men were. So insidious were his lusts that even his own daughter could trigger them. He had nearly resolved to pop into the bathroom for a quick wank when the back door jogged open and his son strode into the room, reeking of cigarettes.

"Hey, boy," said Neal.

"Hey, Dad."

"Y'allright?"

"Yeah."

The boy immediately collapsed onto the floor next to the dog and the coffee table, his youthful senses detecting the nachos and cheese even in the dark. Impossibly loud crunches filled the room, drowning out the news.

"So . . . what's up?" Neal said, trying again to make some effort at conversation.

"Nothing," Josh replied, then added, incongruously, "Broke up with Jeanie."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, you are shitting me!" moaned Vanessa across the room. She sat up quickly, preparing to do battle with her brother. "What the hell is your problem?"

"I'm not the one with a problem, tubby," sneered Josh derisively. She ignored him.

"Josh, you galactic dipshit -- Jeanie Crews actually liked you! She wasn't just dating you for your car, or 'cause you could buy her cigarettes! When're you gonna wise up, dumbass?"

"Yeah, that's right -- you're one to talk, you slut!" Josh snarled back. "Go ahead and tell me what to do, you old fat-titty bitch!"

Neal leaned forward and stopped Josh from saying more, but not before Nessa's contemptuous fuck you had been sounded. After that they were both silent for a few seconds until Josh finally left the room. His daughter then muttered a few curses for good measure and switched the lamp on beside her.

"I cannot believe he did that," she told him. "Jeanie's nice -- a hell of a lot nicer than most of his little twits! She actually has some class. And she really does like him. Myra -- that's her sister -- she works at Denny's too and she told me . . . "

Neal nodded now and then, grunted in acknowledgment, but he heard none of it.

The movement Nessa had made -- that oh so graceful movement, reminiscent of Melanie in all her glory -- she had been taking off her bra. It was the first thing he noticed when his eyes recovered from the lamp's blinding glare: those unthinkably large cups and wide straps, discarded on the seat beside her. The next thing, which he couldn't help but notice, were the broad fleshy lines of her cleavage, and the sharp dents her nipples made in the thin blue cotton of her tanktop. When his daughter gestured, those enormous breasts swayed hypnotically beneath the scrap of material.

He muttered some response, but he was thinking, unguardedly -- that's twice, three times, five times as much tit as Melanie has! More than enough to lose your face in . . . more than enough to wrap around your cock . . .

Neal broke away as soon as a pause occurred in the conversation, as soon as she was looking at the television and not at him. He was so hard inside his slacks that walking ten feet to the bathroom felt like walking a tightrope.

Okay, so I'm a pig, he thought minutes later, as the rhythm of his fist finally slowed, and great blobs of cum spilled from his cock into the toilet. But I desperately needed that.

***

The house was incredibly still, and quiet. Sherry could hear the wind whistling through the attic -- or was that the barn? It may well have been; there were no other noises to interfere. Occasionally she heard the heater kick on, filling the house with a low, ominous hum that was somehow even more silent than dead silence. What she did not hear, and had pretty much stopped listening for, were Neal's steps outside the bedroom door.

The glowing red digits on her bedside table read two fifteen. It was obvious that he wasn't coming to bed. If he had come to bed two hours before, they would have argued. She would have asked him who the hell he thought he was, giving her the silent treatment when she had done nothing wrong. If he had come to bed an hour ago, after she had lain there alone and tearful, there would have been no argument. After all, he had been trying to appease her lately, attempting to push start the normal rhythm of their life together. And she did love him, despite everything. No matter how crushed were her feelings, her trust, and her vanity, she did love him. An hour ago she might have welcomed him into her bed -- they might have kissed and touched each other, and stayed awake until two fifteen making love, trying to get to know each other again.

But he hadn't come at all. No words, no kisses, no presence even. She felt divorced already.

She knew where he was: asleep on the couch, in front of the television. The kids had gone to bed already -- she heard their feet on the stairs, their doors shutting. He alone would be downstairs, bathed in the flickering light of the TV screen, snoring and squirming in his sleep, unable to get comfortable. And here was a perfectly good bed, with fresh sheets and a down comforter, not to mention a girl in it. He preferred the cold discomfort of the den to this, solely because she was the girl. In some ways, it was the final insult.

Sherry turned onto her other side, hugging the coverlet around her. How did they ever get here, she wondered. How did two people with so much together let it all crumble away? Couldn't they fight for it? Did everything have to be so bitter, so final?

They fought, all right. Incessantly, and usually in circles. When she first found out about Melanie, Neal had been apologetic and shameful. He had shouldered all the burden, taken all the blame. Perhaps he had not expected her to agree with him so wholeheartedly. When she did -- when she made it clear that she had done nothing to bring this on, nothing to deserve it -- then, she supposed, he had sickened of humble pie, and had gotten angry and spiteful. Then the accusations had come pouring in from his side, and all the things she "might have done" to prevent his straying were laid out before her.

If she worried more about being a wife, and less about being a mother, then maybe . . . , he said. If she were more of a mother and less of a layabout, then perhaps . . . If she contributed more, and criticized less -- if she listened to him instead of putting him down -- if she acknowledged him instead of tolerating him . . .

Everything she did, everything she was fell under his withering scrutiny, and he fired callous remarks with a rapidity and venom that made her head spin. Everything, from her sexuality to her spending habits, even her housework, came under the gun. They spent hours wickedly debating the details while the bigger picture -- their marriage -- quietly decayed.

Sherry had tried valiantly to understand it all, to fathom the source of his hatefulness and malice. She knew he felt trapped, of course -- every married woman expects a forty-something husband to feel "trapped" sooner or later. She thought she could relate to this emotion, since it was not uncommon for her to feel trapped herself. Helpless to prevent Vanessa's waywardness, her insistence upon dressing and talking and living like slut despite all her talents and intelligence. Doomed to watch Joshua's initiative sputter and die, so that he lived up to none of his promise, and gradually became just an ordinary man. She was even trapped in this bad play about mid-life crisis and "the other woman," even though she had anticipated it, had taken steps to prevent it! No, it was no unusual thing for him to feel trapped. What was the line from that old movie? We are all caught in our private traps. Something like that. From Rear Window or Vertigo -- definitely a Hitchcock film, she was sure of it.

No, the real crusher had come when he admitted to feeling "bored" with her. Feeling trapped is conditional, it is circumstantial. You can change those conditions, alter those circumstances, get beyond it. But being bored? How do you counter that? How do you tell someone "No, you're not bored with me"?

Above all, how could he possibly feel that way?

Okay -- putting sex aside for the moment. They shared everything, and enthusiastically. Neal had gotten her interested in history, and computers, and British Invasion rock. Mystery novels and science fiction. Cooking, gardening, travel -- these were things she had shared with him. She got him hooked on her old movies, so that Saturday had long been a ritual with them: dinner at a restaurant, back home for a classic film, and sometimes, up to bed for fun. It was all cozy, steady, and (she had thought) happy. It wasn't boring -- surely not so tedious that he needed to hook up with some little tramp at work, to lie and pretend just so he could fuck her.

And speaking of fucking, what the hell was wrong with their sex life? Okay, so she wasn't a teenager -- her body was older and plumper. Her skin wasn't tight as a drum, her breasts sagged a little. But damn it, she wasn't some old slug either! When she had stopped working a year ago, she had determined not to take it easy, not to allow herself to slide, physically or mentally. She power-walked or rode her bike. She treadmilled. She did sit-ups, every day. Okay, so she didn't have a 22 inch waist, but she had a waist! She had big, glorious tits and a nice, rounded ass. She kept her hair long like Neal liked it.

And in bed? She was a tiger in bed. No, they didn't fuck every night like honeymooners, but they did it often and it was good. Keeping the noise down was a fairly frequent concern in their bedroom, even though Sherry was sometimes tempted to let her kids hear them at it -- just to let them know that sex doesn't have to be dirty, cheap and illicit. It could be nothing short of fantastic, even (especially!) between two old married people who loved each other. She liked sex, liked being fucked, liked Neal's big dick and what he did with it, and how much spunk he shot when he came. She actually enjoyed going down on him, feeling that big man buck and hearing him cry when she made him cum. Honestly, the man had nothing to complain about. He had no reason to go wandering for fresh fields, no cause -- certainly no sexual cause! -- to find some other outlet for his passion.

Another line: I'm your wife, dammit! And if you can't work up a little passion for me, then the least I require is respect and allegiance!

Broadcast News, was it? No, it was Network, with Bill Holden.

"Oh fuck it," she muttered, sitting up and reaching for her cigarettes.

She may as well watch an old movie now, rather than lying there awake, remembering lines. Maybe there would be some much too long, big budget saga on -- something to get sucked into, or at worst, something so boring it would lull her to sleep.

She turned on the TV and huddled the coverlet around her as the eerie gray light filled the room. The sterile light made the room seem even more empty and cold; she flicked through the channels quickly. It was nice, this -- not having to fight over the remote control, just watching what interested her. Ah, the little freedoms of a manless bed.

Trouble was, nothing interested her. Sitcoms from the seventies, infomercials, the utterly depressing shopping channels. A black-and-white movie caught her eye briefly, making her pause and sit up. But it was a silent film, and she quickly became frustrated with the actors' broad histrionics. They reminded her of evil circus clowns.

Almost at the end of the dial, she stopped. A man and a woman, grinning a bit stupidly at each other. He was forty or more; she couldn't have been twenty-five. Dreadful fashion from the eighties: multicolored sweatsuit and headband on the girl, big open-collared shirt on the guy. Her blonde hair was teased and frosted, the man had a mullet. They were grouped closely in the shot, standing in a nondescript set that might well have been a hotel room.

Sherry smirked. She had never been a fan, but even she knew this was Reagan era, straight-to-video porn at its worst. And this was what her cable dollar got her.

Nevertheless, she edged up the volume curiously.

HER: -- said he'd be gone for a few hours.

HIM: Hmm, okay. Well, did he tell you exactly what your new job is?

HER: No, he didn't say. He just told me to wait here. With you.

HIM: I see. Well, maybe we can find something to do . . . while we're waiting.

That was it. Big shit-licking smile from the guy, they moved in close to kiss. Awful lounge jazz swelled up behind them.

So much for classic lines, Sherry thought, smiling. If that was what passed for dialogue, the script must have been three pages long. Good thing too, since the girl couldn't act to save her life. She couldn't have ad-libbed a cough, for Christ's sake. And this was male fantasy: smile and say hello, and the beautiful girl wants to fuck you. Amazing.

Still, the girl had lovely tanned boobs -- real ones, no silicone -- which Mullet Guy didn't hesitate to pull out for her. She was moaning ridiculously and biting her lip, watching the guy fondling and sucking on her nipples. Between the noise she was making and the sleazy soundtrack, Sherry was forced to lower the volume. But she kept it on, kept watching. There was something so raw about sex that even the poorest example of it had power enough to draw her attention. And though she personally wouldn't have let Mullet Guy near her on her worst day, what he was doing to Headband Girl's big pink nipples did look like fun.

Within seconds of first contact the girl was completely naked and on her knees. Sherry was intrigued by her natural curves and her all-over tan -- she wasn't "perfect," but she did look real, and gloriously sexy. Sherry didn't think she'd ever looked that good herself. The girl's expression as she fumbled with the man's belt and zipper was one of giddy amusement, her face seeming to indicate her joy at getting her hands on his cock, although really, Sherry thought, she was probably just glad she didn't have to deliver any more lines.

Sherry actually gasped a little when Mullet Guy's cock popped out of his pants. He had a thick, fat dick rather like Neal's. Even longer, perhaps. But it had that same lazy heaviness to it, bigger and thicker when flaccid than lots of guys were when hard. The girl put its ridged head between her cherry lips and sucked inexpertly; the fleshy rod throbbed and surged into life. No wonder Mullet Guy was a porn star, she thought. His dick just kept on going.

Along with the acting, the script, the set, the make up and the music, the editing was awful too: they cut to the guy's face briefly, and then back to the sucking, which had obviously been going on a while. Someone had apparently told the girl she wasn't taking him in enough, and now she had so much dick in her mouth her eyes were bugging out. She still made the occasional supposedly ecstatic moan, but she was clearly struggling to swallow inches of cock without gagging. Sherry shook her head disgustedly, knowing that she could have managed it perfectly. Stupid men and their young girl fixation.

Still, she couldn't deny that the porn, crappy as it was, was having its effect: she was getting warm, and wet. Her nipples, already firm in the chilly air, were growing into solid, tingling points. She hated to succumb to such amateurish junk, but hell, it had been six weeks or so since she had any sex.

Sherry leaned back against the wall, untied her nightgown, took out her breasts. Yes, she had nice, pretty tits -- pearly white and glowing in the faint light. Powdery smooth to the touch, and intensely warm. She toyed with her nipples carelessly and sighed, watching the poor girl smearing her spit and her lipstick all over that gigantic dick. What a dipshit -- all that to play with and she doesn't know what to do with it. No finesse, no rhythm. She was making a blowjob look like work.

Now if it was her . . . oh it was so easy to close her eyes and imagine it was her, servicing that big, swelling piece of meat. She licked her palms and ran them lightly over her nipples, thinking about how hot and electric that dick skin would feel against her lips, how it would throb on her tongue, the closeness of the tight brown curls, the scent of sex filling her nostrils. The soft, heavy balls brushing against her chin. The little jerks and spasms of the man as she worked her magic. And always, that delicious indecision -- should she take him all the way, suck and lick and coax until he shuddered and groaned, flooding her mouth? or should she pull off when he got close, when she felt his head grow tight and rock solid -- should she use all her oral skills merely to prep him for her pussy? She always lingered interminably between these two pleasant options, never knowing which she would opt for until the glorious moment came.

She had a hand in her panties now, was decisively and unabashedly pleasuring herself. If Neal were to come to bed now he'd find himself superfluous. The thought made her smile -- what would the poor man do? If he had been surprised to glimpse Vanessa's tits that afternoon, how would he react to finding his "boring" little wife watching sleazy porn and jilling herself crazy?

What a lovely, satisfying message to send him. Go away, you cheating mother fucker -- I'm managing well enough on my own.

She opened her eyes only occasionally to watch the screen, using what she saw there as fuel for her own rapid, spinning fantasy. Now they were fucking on the sofa -- Headband on top, facing away, Mullet thrusting upward into her. If that big dick had looked good in the girl's mouth, it looked fucking marvelous barreling into her neatly coifed cunt. It was wide and thick, looking as big and round as her own wrist in the close up. Again and again it plunged deep into her as she thrust her hips back to envelop it. The hairs on his inner thighs were plastered down with sweat and sticky juice; the base of his enormous cock glistened with her moisture . . .

Oh god, if that was her she'd fuck herself crazy. She'd impale herself on that fat dick until she couldn't stand it anymore, until she flooded his lap with her cream. Then she'd have to pull off him slowly and clean him up, just bury her face in his lap and lick him clean, driving him out of his mind in the process . . . ooohhh she could be such a dirty little slut when she wanted to be, and she wanted to be now.

She opened her eyes again, just a peek: they were still at it, fucking their lives away. How did they do it, those porno guys? How did they just keep drilling away, endlessly, with such hot little tramps servicing them, and not lose their control? Were they just that disciplined -- true sexual athletes? or were there many many takes, or even (she shivered at the thought) many many cocks on hand? On and on Mullet Guy plowed, showing no signs of slackness, while the girl's pussy had become a funky, frothy mess . . . Sherry's own cunt began aching with every thrust. She burned to feel all of that magnificent prick inside of her, cupped her pussy and burrowed fingers between her wet lips. Oh God, the ache, the emptiness . . . For one weak instant she was desperately tempted to go find Neal -- not to make up or to please him, just to use him, just to exploit his big cock and scratch her itch. No, never . . . she wouldn't do that. But oh shit, how she wished she had something -- a dildo, a vibrator, carrot, cucumber, anything.

Now the camera angle changed -- she watched the man's fingers kneading into the girl's descending butt, leaving bloodless white handprints when he let go. God damn it to hell, it all looked so damned good. So good. Her fingers were strained and tired, cramping even -- but she couldn't stop.

To have a man like that -- oh not Mullet Guy with his medallions and his sleazy grin -- but to have a man equipped like that, with that much control. To have him right now, with her, in her. Better: to have him with her, fucking seven bells out of her, and to have Neal know it. Now that was a fantasy. Now every thrust, every penetration had new delight as she imagined his powerless, anxious face . . . Perhaps he'd be just outside the door, listening, unable to interfere . . . Or maybe he'd be watching, his puzzled and desperate expression only spurring her on as this other man, this giant stranger stabbed her relentlessly with his huge tool, while she moaned and sighed and wriggled against him, loving his heated breath against her back, and his possessive hands on her ass, and the heat of his immense dick filling her belly . . .

Eyes open: now he was on top. It was incredible, just in-fucking-credible. The camera was in way, way close, and he was pulling his length and girth almost completely out of her sopping pussy, and then slowly sliding all the way back in. All the way, every single inch of him, up to his balls. He was disappearing in her, the lucky little bitch.

Sherry whimpered and looked at the night stand. Oh why the hell didn't she get with it? Why couldn't she be a proper twenty-first century woman and own a damned dildo? Vanessa probably had one, probably had several.

Cigarettes. Lighter. Can of Coke -- better not try that.

Remote control?

Yes. It was long and narrow and it was there, in her grasp. She snatched it up, turned her eyes back to the screen in time to see the man's pace increasing, his big balls slamming against the girl, his ramrodding cock bathed in clinging girl cum. Sherry gasped aloud as the slender instrument touched her pussy; her breathing came in fits and starts as she shifted downward on the bed, trying to raise her cunt to accommodate the makeshift dildo. An inch of it in -- lovely. Another inch, oh so nice -- the little rubber buttons rubbed her clit!

All the way in, all the way in, yes just like him, just like his monstrous, merciless cock was sliding all the way into her . . . ooohhh Jesus Mary and Joseph . . . all of it, every last bit, you son-of-a-bitch! Oh god yes, every fucking inch!

Mullet had pulled out now, he was jacking in the girl's face. Every vestige of delicacy, femininity, prettiness was drained from her -- she shuddered and grimaced before his tremendous cockhead, her hair a mess, her make up smudged, mascara running, lipstick smeared all around her gaping mouth . . . His hand wrenched a tangle of her hair, held her head still, made her look, forced her to want it. It was absurd, preposterous, thoroughly sexist -- the girl waiting in the office, responding to the pathetic advances of a slimeball, now being humiliated, subjugated, facially raped. But oh god, it looked good, and Sherry couldn't stop plunging the device, in and out, in and out.

She came like a freight train: long and slow and steady. Chills swept over her whole body just seconds before the man's cock spat its thick spume onto the girl's cheeks and lips. Her pussy clenched and contracted around the remote and a fire spread through her chest as the girl accidentally caught a huge spurt of cum in her mouth. Her weary, cramped fingers were bathed in a surge of juice, while the man slapped the girl with his deflating dick, and wiped its slimy head against her cheeks. She shivered and sighed, long and unsteadily, the last gut-wrenching spasms resounding through her from head to toe, while the shaken girl took the dying monster between her untidy lips, to milk out its last drops.

She lay there a long time, trying to decide whether to be relieved or ashamed. When the ticklish process of extracting the remote control was completed, she decided that -- however weird that had been -- she had nothing to be ashamed of. If there was a real willing dick in the house she would have fucked it instead. If Neal wasn't man enough to provide her with pleasure, then damn it, she'd provide her own. Hell, she'd find someone who would provide it -- every single fucking inch of it.

At the very least, she'd never have to fight him for the remote again. It was now unquestionably hers, she thought, as she casually touched its sweet little buttons to her tongue.

***

The soft pads of footsteps in the chilly hallway. A groaning creak; he winced. He'd forgotten about that board.

He tried the knob gingerly: locked. He frowned, tapped the door with only his fingernail, but steadily.

"What?" came a harsh whisper, eventually.

"Open up," he whispered back.

"What do you want?"

"Come on, open up!"

Footfalls within. The door opened a crease, painfully slowly.

"What?"

"Christ, did you hear her?"

"Yes, I heard her. You shouldn't be listening -- go back to bed!"

"Lemme come in a while."

"No."

"Aw come on, you said no last night!"

"Josh! It's too quiet tonight! Dad's not in there snoring, Mom might hear us --"

"Just for a little while. Come on, please?"

She sighed, opened the door wider. He passed into her room silently. It was crazy, but she had the toughest time saying no to him.

December Twenty-fourth

Everyone in the Ford home arose late the next day. Even Neal, the proverbial early bird, did not awaken until nine thirty, though the couch was horribly uncomfortable and his neck painfully stiff.

One reason for the tranquilized condition of the family was that they had all enjoyed gratifying and powerful orgasms the night before.

Sherry of course was completely spent after her solo flight: beyond doubt, the most fun she had ever had with a piece of video equipment.

Neal recovered sufficiently from his furtive wank in the bathroom that evening to coax another cum from his prick around one o'clock -- a cum inspired, in roughly equal proportions, by the porn channel, memories of Melanie, and a torrent of guilty, half-suppressed thoughts about his daughter's milk-filled breasts.

Of course, another reason for the Fords' late rising was the weather. It had remained bitingly cold all night long, even with the heat going. And the light which managed to penetrate the blinds and curtains throughout the house was feeble and dim. At first Neal had thought the den clock must be wrong -- that steely, gunmetal gray outside belonged to the sky of six o'clock, not half past nine. Upon arising at last, he peered out the window into the backyard, stopped rubbing his neck, and whistled.

"Well, I'll be damned," he said.

Everything was white. Bright, glistening white. It had actually snowed.

Amazing. Oh, it wasn't much by any standards. Just a light frosting. Still, he hadn't seen snow of any kind for nearly fifteen years. He loved the look of new snow -- it always made everything look so clean and fresh. It took him back to his childhood in Indiana. For a long while he just stood at the frosty window and drank it in.

So . . . the weather man had been right, for a change. He remembered the conversation he had with Nessa last night -- it came swimming back to him through a wave of indecent fantasies. Wouldn't she be thrilled when she awoke? Automatically, he wondered what Melanie thought of it, how she must look at her window, how cozy it would be to be standing behind her there, stroking her hair. How lovely some lazy, late morning sex with her would feel, with all that cold whiteness just outside . . .

A noise on the stair distracted him. Improbably, it was Josh, his six-foot-four frame stumbling about like one of the living dead. He halted at the entrance to the den, and one-upped Neal by exclaiming, "What the fuck?"

"Well said," Neal laughed. "It's snow."

The boy yawned and scratched his nuts.

"This is Florida," he offered.

"That is correct. Go to the head of the class."

"Kewl."

They stood together by the window, looking at it.

"So obviously it got pretty damned cold last night," Neal said. "Hope you remembered to check your antifreeze."

"Oh yeah -- no prob."

Neal nodded. Silly question, really. His son so worshipped that Charger, he would keep the engine warm with his naked ass if he had to.

A minute later, while Josh stood munching his Lucky Charms, Nessa came down. She was grinning from ear to ear, and raining happy told-you-so's all over him. She was also wearing (he could not help but notice) only an oversized Donald Duck T shirt and some pale blue panties. When she hugged him there beside the window he tried hard not to notice the delicious warmth of her body against him, or the way her tits bounced around beneath her shirt.

One very strange moment came when Nessa was walking into the kitchen; Neal's eyes were following the twitch-twitch of her blue-pantied cheeks when they met Josh's. The boy's eyebrows were raised in a familiar, "between men" signal. Nice, huh? they seemed to say.

Ten minutes later, sipping coffee with her, he was trying seriously to convince himself that he wasn't lusting after his daughter, that he was only hard up for Melanie, that he wasn't becoming a genuine pervert, when Sherry finally came down. Of course, she would find something negative to say.

"Oh crap."

"What?"

"Well, I've got stuff to do today, stuff to buy, stuff to cook." She had immediately moved to the sink for some water, and was now taking a pill which, Neal noted, looked like a Valium. "And how am I gonna do it, I don't want to drive in this!"

"I'll take you, Ma," Josh offered.

"Oh . . . no, sweetie. You don't need to do that."

"No, it's okay. Really."

"I think she means that you don't drive safe even on warm days," said Nessa, sniggering.

"Oh hell."

"Sherry," Neal interrupted, his voice sounding more annoyed than he had intended, "I'll take you, it's no big thing."

She shot him a wry smile.

"Oh, will you? Well, aren't I lucky -- my hero."

"Okay, then I won't."

"If you want anything to eat tomorrow, you will --"

"You know what? I would gladly eat . . . turtle shit if it would stop your crappy attitude."

The kids laughed. She didn't.

"Come on, I said I'd take you. It's not far, we'll be okay."

"Yeah," Nessa added, giggling, "you guys go. I don't wanna eat turtle shit for Christmas."

Neal busted out laughing too, ignoring Sherry's petulant expression. He realized, of course, that it wasn't just her unceasing negativity that had annoyed him. It was her smell.

The kids probably (hopefully!) hadn't noticed, but he caught it. He knew that scent, had known it ever since their honeymoon: the musky scent of her freshly fucked pussy. She was so ripe he could smell her across the room.

Kee-rist, he thought, has she been diddling herself?

With what, a truck?

Minutes after their parents had stormed out of the house together, Vanessa appeared in the doorway.

"Hey," she said, "get your clothes on, fast."

"Get 'em on or get 'em off?" he said, grinning his cocky smile.

"Go on, dumbass!"

"What the hell for?"

"You're taking me to the store -- I got Christmas shopping to do!"

***

The grocery store was ten miles away. In half that distance Sherry had spotted four cars in the ditch. Even at the crawling pace Neal had adopted, their own car tried to fishtail on the slick pavement. When he braked in front of the post office, the car kept on going for a good ten feet.

"Jesus, Neal!" she muttered. "Be careful!"

"I'm being careful, Sherry! I don't have any chains, you know."

"So what the hell are we doing out, then, if we've gotta have chains?"

"I told you, this is barely anything -- nothing to worry about."

"Yeah, tell that to those people in the ditch. Why do we keep sliding? I thought you knew how to do this."

"Aw, for God's sake! We're doing fine, shut up about it!"

They continued in angry silence for half a mile.

"Were you doing yourself last night?" Neal asked suddenly.

Sherry blushed, then smiled confidently.

"Were you?" she replied.

Neal glanced at her, his face registering guilty surprise, just before they careened off the road.

***

Josh and Vanessa finally mounted the back steps, sighing wearily, puffing out frost. It had started snowing again, very softly. And they had only walked a mile or so. But they were Florida kids, so a mile's trudge in light snow made them feel like arctic explorers. Jasper met them at the door, sniffling the snowflakes on their clothes suspiciously.

"Oh my god," Vanessa panted as she plunked down her shopping bag. "That was seriously fucked up."

"Sorry," said Josh. "I'm not gonna drive it if it's overheating."

"Yeah, Josh, I know you love your fucking car but I am fucking pregnant, you know!"

"I know, I'm sorry. I don't what's wrong with it. I carried the heavy stuff."

"I know you did. Okay . . . they'll be home soon -- help me get this crap up to my room so we can wrap it."

"I don't know how to wrap shit."

"Well, you're gonna learn."

"You think it'll be okay there?" he asked her, as she curled the ends of a red ribbon. "The car, I mean. Maybe I should get it towed."

"Josh, your precious car is fine. It's only a mile away and it's off the road and locked. When this shit outside melts you and Dad can start it up and drive it home."

"I'm not driving it if it's over --"

"Yes, yes, I know -- then you can push it home, okay?"

"'Kay." He reached across the bed for a small plain bag, one he didn't remember from their shopping. "What's in this one?"

"No, not that!" Vanessa said sharply, snatching it away from him just as he touched it. "I'll wrap that myself."

"Uh oh, what is it?" he leered, making a grab at it. "It's for me, ain't it?"

"No, it isn't. It's for Mom and you can't see it."

"What -- you get her some tampons or something?"

His sister laughed, shook her head pityingly.

"Oh, you are such a dipshit."

Josh let her have the bag, returned to making a mess out of wrapping the cologne for their dad. It was kind of cool, being in his sister's old room again. All of her girly things lying about -- bras on the floor, pantyhose hanging from the doorknob, her discarded Denny's uniform draped over a chair. It was almost like she'd never left.One thing that was weird about her now: the way she had suddenly taken to wearing next to nothing around the house. His sister had always dressed a little slutty, but ever since she got knocked up, it was like she just didn't care anymore -- she let it all hang out. Maybe she got used to hanging around Goofy Brad's trailer in the nude or something; now that she was home again she just couldn't seem to keep her clothes on.

He wasn't complaining.

He hurried to tape the package shut and moved around behind her, surveying her. She had shed all her layers of clothes by now, and was wearing only a big tee shirt, some Florida Gator butt shorts and little white socks. He cupped both of her ass cheeks tightly, unable to resist touching her. She swatted at his hand once, half-heartedly. He couldn't feel any panties beneath the satiny shorts, and wondered if --

"Speaking of dipshits, dipshit," she said, breaking his thoughts. "Have you called Jeanie yet?"

The question caught him off guard.

"When?"

"Last night, this morning. Who cares, have you called her?"

"Why?" he demanded.

"To invite her over for Christmas or something."

"I can't do that!"

"Why not?"

"Because. Why do you want me to call her?"

"Josh," Vanessa said impatiently, "you need to hang onto her. She's a good girlfriend for you. For one thing she's more mature than you."

He grunted noncommittally. Quickly, experimentally, he ran one hand up inside the leg of her shorts along her crotch. Warm, furry slit, as he expected. God, what a teasing little slut she was.

"Why did you break up with her?" she asked.

"I didn't," he said distractedly, feeling himself growing hard as his fingertips touched her treasure. "She broke up with me."

"Oh crap." She stopped wrapping and stood up to face him. "What'd you do?"

"Ah shit, Vanessa! What's it to you anyway, why are you pestering me about this?"

"Because. What did you do?"

"Nothing."

"You did something. Are you going to tell me?"

"No," he said, then added, "Not right now."

She pouted and sighed, turned back to the rustling of paper. He immediately resumed playing with her ass and crotch.

"Josh, you're supposed to be helping me wrap packages."

He chuckled.

"And don't say you've got a package for me to unwrap. I'm not in the mood."

"You're always in the mood, Ness," he said, stepping up behind her. He pressed his hardness up against her ass insistently, and reached around to grope her tits through her shirt. "That's why I love you."

For a moment she straightened to give him a better feel, let her head fall back against his shoulder. He kissed that oh so sweet spot behind her ear, along her neck. She even wiggled her ass a little against him.

"You need to call her," she said softly. "Today. She's a good girlfriend for you."

"I don't want a good girlfriend, I want you," he growled into her ear. He could see the hairs on the back of her neck stiffen. "I'm so glad you're home again."

"Yeah, but I won't be for long." She pulled the hem of her shirt away from her belly, let him slide his hands up inside.

"Why did you have to hook up with that guy anyway?"

"Josh, you know why. Now come on -- stop it and help me wrap some more."

But her hands were closed over his own, making him fondle her huge, warm tits.

"Huh uh," he said, pulling and stroking the stalky nipples. "I'm not stopping."

For a few minutes she rolled her head against his shoulder sensually, little sounds of pleasure welling up from deep inside her. He remained pressed against her, hard and happy, massaging her breasts.

"Oh fuck," she said at last, in fidgety resignation. With one swift yank she bared her ass and dropped the shorts to the floor. Before he knew it she had stepped away from him, across the room to the frosty window. She hoisted herself onto the top of her dresser with a grunt, swiveled around and spread her legs; in no time he was looking at her slim little pussy.

"C'mere and lick me," she ordered peremptorily. "I'll keep watch."

Minutes later, when his lips and chin were covered with her juice, and his jaw was aching, she slapped him on the head.

"Oh shit," she said, staring fixedly out the window. "Go clean up -- hurry."

"Why?"

"It's Mom and Dad. In a taxi."

***

She took the empty plate from her father and kissed the top of his head before taking it to the kitchen. His head was hot -- he was obviously still very angry. She clucked to herself and resolved to make the best of it. She was going to calm them down and make them be nice to each other if it fucking killed her.

They had a hard time understanding her, her parents. Hell, they had a hard time understanding anything these days, especially each other. It didn't take much to throw them for a loop -- die your hair orange one time, get a tattoo, listen to Manson. They started thinking you were an alien, started treating you like a headcase, tiptoeing around you. But she wasn't so strange; she just didn't have any prejudices. Not against race, creed, or sexual orientation, certainly -- but also, not against making things work. Learning to live with things, improving, moving on.

She knew, for example, that they were both dead set on fucking up their whole relationship. Because her dad had found him a piece on the side, they were both going to let everything go to hell. Vanessa had decided, weeks before, that she wasn't about to let that happen. Not if she could help them find what they needed, could nudge them in each other's direction again.

It wasn't that she didn't take their anger or their pain seriously. No, their anger was genuine enough, especially tonight. Apparently they'd lost her father's car in the ditch, which left only her mother's mysteriously ailing Volkswagen in the drive. So they were now officially stranded, forced to coexist within the same walls, and hating every minute of it. It was absurd; they'd been coexisting for years, and happily too. For all their adult problems, she thought, they were behaving like children.

Now her dad was sulking in front of the television. Her mom was slinging things about in the kitchen, cursing a blue streak. If they could only see themselves . . .

Vanessa hurriedly washed up the plate, edged close enough to her mother to kiss her, and then hastily retreated to her room. The packages she had wrapped -- and the two her brother had sort of wrapped -- were arrayed on the bed, waiting for the dead of night. She inspected each one carefully, insuring that it was labeled and that the paper was tight and smooth.

So her dad wanted some excitement, some variety. That surely wasn't so hard to understand -- he was just a man, after all. He apparently was determined to rob the cradle too, if that girl was as young as Mom said. Well, there had to be some way to satisfy him, even if she couldn't think of one at the moment. She thought they might become swingers, but rather doubted her mom would go along with that one.

As for her mom -- Vanessa knew exactly what she needed, at least for the present. The noises that came drifting through the wall the night before told her the whole story. At first she'd hoped for the best -- that her dad had snuck up to give her one in the night. But their nastiness to each other that morning had convinced her she was wrong. The only alternative, though it was a surprising one at first, was that Mom had been taking care of business, all by herself.

Good for her, she thought. More power to her busy little fingers. If that was helping her out, Vanessa wanted to help her help herself out. And so she would give her this little present tonight . . .

Vanessa shook the box thoughtfully and smiled. What they failed to understand, her parents, and what she had already learned from life, was that sex solved almost everything. Take care of yourself sexually, and there really wasn't much else you had to take care of. Good sex gave you the confidence and the bearing to handle just about anything else. And especially in their situation, so obviously a sexual crisis . . . well, anyway. She would do her best for them, whatever it took. They would split up only over her dead body. Until she saw them before a judge, with her own eyes, she refused to believe it would happen. They would find a way, even if she had to find it for them.

Firmly resolved, she lay back on the bed, sighing. Now if she could only straighten out her little brother. She smirked, remembering that afternoon. Actually, "straightening him out" was never a problem for her.

***

After a bitter lunch and a worse supper, after cleaning in the kitchen and prepping the turkey for the next day, after either fighting with or ignoring her husband for most of the long, dreary day, Sherry was finally at her wit's end, and decided that all her intentions of sharing a relaxing family Christmas had been flights of lunacy. She gave it all up, consigned it to the winds, washed her hands of it. She'd cook tomorrow but that was it. Neal could go fuck himself.

To top things off -- just a little twist of the knife from God -- the cable had gone out just an hour earlier, apparently due to the snow. How that could happen, she didn't know -- she was born in Florida, yes, but she certainly didn't see how cold shit falling from the sky could knock out the cable. Oh well, said God, it can. So her cherished plan for her evening's release (there was no fucking way Neal was coming to bed with her tonight!) now had a major kink in it. She had hoped to catch some more porn tonight and get herself off again. She had enjoyed herself the night before, and had doubly enjoyed Neal's aggravated questioning about it. Hilarious. He had an affair for months, but he was jealous of her intimacy with a remote control.

Disgusted with the whole damned day, and highly dubious that the morrow would bring them any "peace on earth," Sherry took a Valium, turned off the lights on her pathetic little tree and headed for the stairs. On the landing she met Vanessa, coming out of her room with a wrapped box in her hand.

"Hey!" she chirped. "What's wrong -- where you going?"

Sherry stopped and shook her head wearily.

"To bed. I . . . I don't feel very good --"

The sob in her voice started her off; she fell into her daughter's arms and let herself be held, crying against her shoulder. Her daughter -- now an unfamiliar set of protrusions against her body, all tits and tummy -- held her tightly.

"What happened?" she asked, the warmth in her tone surprising Sherry.

"It's all so fucking disastrous, so stupid and hurtful . . . I can't stand it anymore! I just want out."

"I'm sorry, Mom . . . God, I'm so sorry. I should have come back down sooner."

"Oh, it's not you," said Sherry, releasing her, a little ashamed of herself. "I'll be okay -- I just need to sleep. And forget about it."

Forget about it -- sure, she thought. And how do you propose to do that?

"Okay, well . . . I know we usually open one gift on Christmas Eve. So I . . . "

"Oh baby, look -- I shot that in the foot this year. You're sweet but . . . just save it till tomorrow, okay? I'm not really in the mood right now."

"No, listen," her daughter countered, pressing the package against her. "Just take it with you. Um, open it in your room, tonight. It's just a little something from me to you."

She smiled, that beautiful rosy smile, even prettier now that she was pregnant. Sherry nodded quietly and took the package. Her daughter kissed her cheek and started down the stairs.

"Open it now, okay?" she called back. "In your room."

"Okay, baby."

"I love you."

Minutes later, Sherry stared in awe at what lay before her on her bed, there amid the colorful shredded wrapping. Next to the long gold necktie box that had contained it, and the box that read The Big Bear, and the little card that read TO MOM FROM NESSA -- SOMETHING EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE.

It was a dildo, she thought.

More, it was a vibrating dildo.

More, it was a long pink gel vibrating dildo, with a realistic penis head, three speeds, and a handle shaped like a teddy bear.

Sherry had never been so embarrassed, nor so gratified, in her entire life.

***

That night Neal pulled the cushions off the couch and slept on the floor atop them -- a slight improvement. He jerked himself off while thinking about Melanie, but he had a long, intensely wicked dream about Vanessa. He awoke from it hard and throbbing.

If he could have, there was no doubt in his mind that he would have driven to Melanie's apartment that very night, even if it meant leaving Sherry forever. Things were getting too difficult around here.

Josh fell asleep stroking his meat, waiting to hear Vanessa coming to bed. Instead he listened to his mother in the next room, getting off again. As he played with himself, he thought of Jeanie, her sister Wendy, his ex-ex-girlfriend Sarah, his mother, his sister, a girl behind the bakery counter at the Winn Dixie and Katie Couric. It was a mixed-up world.

Vanessa stayed downstairs for three hours after giving her mom the gift, trying to let the poor old girl have a little privacy. When she did go to bed, she was surprised, but delighted, to hear Sherry still going at it next door. Everything finally fell quiet about twelve-thirty; she snuck downstairs to put her presents under the tree, and returned to bed with Jasper in tow by one o'clock. She then had such vicious sex with Laurence Fishburne that it shook the bed and made Jasper whine.