Tumblr MILF

by Robert Lubrican

zbookstore Edition

Copyright 2013 Robert Lubrican

2^nd Edition 2025

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to zbookstore.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Rights to use cover art purchased from iStock.com

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Foreword.

When this book was originally written (in 2013) Tumblr was a site that was packed with erotic photos. There were a seemingly endless number of sites with a seemingly endless number of pictures. And there were sites for every taste, and I do mean every taste, including the ones I'd classify as weird or perverted. And I write what many people would call perverted stories. So the Tumblr described in this book was real in 2013. Then special interest groups got busy making sure that all that perversion was properly buried, as it should be, and in 2018 Tumblr banned all adult content. So the Tumblr of today does not resemble the Tumblr in this story any longer. All that stuff moved to a host of other sites who aren't necessarily trying to make money and therefore don't care if a bunch of religious-right types boycott them. It's ironic, really. If you read the Bible, it's clear that God gave us free will so we could choose to be "good" or "bad". There are consequences to both, but it's clear choice was a pivotal part of the whole deal. And now all the people who say they are all about God and the Bible want to make sure there's nothing "bad" to choose to do, or watch, or think about. They think that by suppressing dirty pictures, no one will have dirty thoughts. I also don't care if somebody wants to boycott my work. So I kept the story in the public view, even though Tumblr, as described in the book, is only a memory.

 

It is because of those people that publishers refuse to print anything that depicts someone under the age of 18 being sexual. They're tired of being sued by the self-appointed moral police for "printing obscenity." The publisher always wins that suit, but it costs too much to hire the lawyers to do the winning. And there's always another "upright, decent" person to file suit again. I have to play that game, so I edited the original idea, which was a coming of age thing, to an idea where everyone is over 18 and there are places where the character(s) act … well … stupid. But hey, self-appointed moral police. Everybody in this book is, in fact, over 18. There's nothing to see, here. Just move along. Go pedal your public righteousness elsewhere. We know all snow is dirty, even fresh-fallen snow. And we all know your thoughts are in the gutter sometimes, too.

 

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Table of Contents

Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Afterword

 

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Chapter One

Have you ever looked at dirty pictures?

Pardon me … I should be more sensitive.

Have you ever looked at erotic photographs?

Of course you have. You found this book by looking for literature with an erotic (dirty) component, so that begs the fact that you've also looked at erotic (dirty) pictures. Nobody but you may know that. I mean we tend to keep things like that secret from those around us. That's what the parentheses are all about. Western culture (and most others, too) have gotten this sex thing all twisted up and somehow it comes out being labeled as dirty. Sex is normal. It's natural. It's unavoidable. But somehow, we also keep teaching our young that it's dirty. So it's likely you've looked at dirty pictures.

But don't feel bad. We all have dirty little secrets. Most of us anyway.

And yes, I know that characterizing all this as "dirty" may offend your sensibilities. Nobody likes to think they have dirty little secrets. But if I had called them "uncomfortable aspects of my life I'd prefer to keep private" you'd have laughed at me and called me gay or something.

Not that I have anything against gay people. Only about a third of them have that particular dirty little secret these days.

And that's because the world is finally being dragged, kicking and screaming, into admitting that there have been people for-practically-ever who liked their own gender better than they did the other. Big deal. Those people don't contribute to the gene pool, so they do no harm whatsoever. The ones who want kill everybody who isn't like them are the ones we need to worry about. They not only breed, but they teach their young to hate and hurt people.

Okay. Let me take a breath here. I did not intend for this to get started on a negative or violent note. I think I'm a little tired of being judged by all those people out there who look down on me for my situation, when they are hiding dirty little secrets about their situation from the rest of the world.

Let me rephrase some things.

I believe that Mother Nature is a pretty smart cookie. She has regulated things for millions of years. Yes, some species have passed into memory, never to roam the earth again or grow in the soil or whatever. But there is much beauty in this world, and I think we'd all be a lot better off if we worshiped nature instead of worshipping money.

So I do not think that the naked body is "dirty" because the naked body is just part of the natural order. Clothes are fine for protection from the elements, or maybe to titillate each other, but I think that's all they should be used for. There is much tension and distress created by those who characterize naked bodies, and sex, and eroticism as being undesirable or dirty. Those people are the ones that help things become extinct.

So from here on out, while I accept the fact that some people call the pictures I'm going to talk about "dirty" ... I'm just going to call them pictures.

You know the type of pictures I'm talking about. They're for sale at literally tens of thousands of sites on the internet. But if you're a poor eighteen year old, who doesn't have a credit card, you have to scrounge around, kind of like dumpster diving, lying to Google that you're eighteen when you put "Selena Gomez nude" into the search box. Of course all you get then are fakes, because Selena Gomez doesn't let anybody see or take pictures of her naked. Except maybe Bieber. Anyway, I didn't care they were fake, because they were all I could get.

Until I discovered what I call tumblr sites.

I got to my first one when a friend sent me a link to a picture that took me to this web page. I came to find out it was hosted by a web domain called tumblr.com. You can establish your own space hosted by tumblr and post your own pictures on it. They don't have to be pictures featuring nudity or eroticism and all that. You can post anything you want, in fact. But there are a lot of sites that feature naked men and women. And on almost every one of them there is an invitation for you, the average web surfer, to send them your picture, naked, of course, and they'll put that on their site too.

And I like those a lot.

Why?

Well, that's pretty simple. When you're an eighteen year old boy, who has no hope of actually getting a girl naked in bed so you can do what nature intends for you to (someday) do, then the only recourse you have is to simulate. And, to be honest, I love to simulate, so I do it a lot.

Don't wince, please. If you are in a stable relationship that includes sexual intercourse, you know how much fun that is, and you know how often you want to engage in that pastime. Why wouldn't I want to have just as much fun, just as often? And I might point out that my hand never has a headache, and is never mad at me, and never sulks or pouts. So I might even be able to have more fun, more often than if I did have a girlfriend who wanted to fuck like a bunny. I'm told that married people – both male and female – masturbate, too.

Anyway, that was when I was eighteen. I had been masturbating long before then, of course, but it was when I was eighteen that that friend helped me stumble upon tumblr sites.

Like I said, each tumblr site is a collection of whatever that particular person likes, so there are usually a lot of the same kind of picture at a site. Call it a "theme" if you will. My own thrill, back when I was eighteen, was in finding a site that had a collection of girls who went into the bathroom and stripped down and then took their own picture in the mirror. There was often a bright flash beside their face or whatever, which kind of marred the image, but I liked these because I felt like they wouldn't do this if they had ever let a guy actually see their body. And if they hadn't let a guy actually see their body, then they were probably virgins. And then I could fantasize that they would let me be the guy who actually saw them for real, the first time, and so on and so forth.

Then I found a site that specialized in having what I call split pictures. That's where you have a picture of the girl or woman, dressed and looking completely normal on one side, and a picture of her naked and doing something sexy on the other side. The normal side usually looks like a plain snapshot some friend did. At least the best ones do. And then you see the "secret" side of her, being wild. If you got to know her, she might do something wild with you, too, right? It's possible, as the defense attorney suggests. Anything is possible, after all. "Possible" kind of means "anything."

I know I've been rambling along here, but pay attention now, because this is very important to the rest of the story.

When you see a picture like this, it's easy to fantasize about her being wild with you ... because you know she gets wild. You have photographic evidence of that.

So I saved a bunch of the pictures from this guy's site and used them to look at while I masturbated.

And since his seventy-three followers posted things like "studlytenincher.tumblr.com likes this" it seemed like those people might have pictures I'd like too. So I started visiting each of his follower's sites, to see what they had.

And that's how I found the picture that changed my life forever.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

You'll guess who that picture was of, but I'm going to give you the background anyway.

We moved to Hanley when I was ten, but it's the only place I really know. I remember a few things about the other town, but not much. My dad had gotten out of the Army and started working for an insurance company in Hanley. My mom was a nurse and she worked at the hospital in town.

I only had one sibling, a sister five years older than me. Like a lot of sisters in that situation, she wanted nothing to do with a bratty little brother so I was pretty used to spending time alone, and I read a lot. I mean a lot. When they tested me at my new school, they said I was on a ninth grade reading level.

My dad had regular work hours, though sometimes he had to work late. My mom was on a rotating schedule and went from days, to swings, to night shift. So there were days I got home from school and there was nobody home. Of course in Hanley, Kansas, there was no way to get into trouble because there was nothing to do. There was a park near my house, and it had a tennis court that had basketball hoops at each end. You couldn't play full court because of the net, and if any adults were playing tennis you couldn't shoot hoops at all. The tennis players seemed to like evening and night play, though, so that left it open for us kids after school, and in the daytime, most of the summer. So I spent some time shooting hoops with some other kids, and playing H.O.R.S.E and like that.

When I turned twelve, I was allowed to start mowing lawns in the summers. It didn't actually start out as a business. An old man named Mr. Zimmerman lived on one side of us. He was retired, and used a walker. A lawnmower can sort of simulate a walker, and he had mowed his own yard since I moved there. But it took him forever and when my dad offered that I'd do it for free, he accepted. Except he didn't make me do it for free. He paid me five bucks. And that was with me using his mower and gas. I know that doesn't sound like a lot, but I only got five dollars a week allowance, so it seemed like a lot to me. Plus the lady across the street, Mrs. Jackson, saw me doing his lawn and asked if I wanted to do hers too. And she paid me ten dollars.

By the time I was fifteen, I had twenty-five regular customers and a college savings account. I called it my "first car account" because my dad said he wasn't going to buy me a car. But my parents called it my college savings account, and I knew deep in my heart that that's what it would end up being spent on.

It was the summer I was eighteen that Mrs. Prater moved into Mr. Zimmerman's house. He had died of old age (that's what my mother told me) and his house had been up for sale for quite a while.

Mrs. Prater was a new kind of adult in my life. I knew lots of adult women. There was my mom and all her friends at work, mostly other nurses. There were my teachers and everybody we went to church with. But none of them were what you might call "fantasy-worthy."

So I didn't know any beautiful women. Not like Mrs. Prater. I had seen beautiful women. I'd seen them on TV, and in movies, and in a couple of magazines guys I knew had. And there were some online, at the tumblr sites I had only recently discovered. But I hadn't met any, much less been able to talk to one.

And this one was kind of sprung on me. I had just finished Mr. and Mrs. Franklin's yard, which was pretty big, and was walking home, thinking about the cold bottle of Nehi Orange I knew was in the fridge. I turned the corner to find a moving truck parked in front of Mr. Zimmerman's house. He had died in January, so of course he hadn't hired me to mow his lawn all year. Neither had his son, or whoever had inherited the property, but wasn't interested in living in it. My dad told me to mow it once, in the hopes that would help it sell. I had been expecting him to tell me to do it again, but then the new owner showed up.

So there I was, pushing my mower past the house and I had to stop to let two guys hump a great big piece of furniture off the ramp that went up into the truck and up the sidewalk to the front door. There was a lady standing there, holding a baby in her arms, watching them.

She turned out to be Veronica Prater.

"Hi," she said, smiling at me.

"Hi," I said back, staring.

The reason I was staring was because she was a stone fox babe. And what made that so startling was that it was obvious she wasn't all fixed up. She had this long, thick, honey-blond ponytail hanging down to her shoulder blades, and eyebrows to match. There was no makeup on her face. By that, I mean I didn't see any eye shadow or dark cheekbones or any of that stuff most women wear. Her lips looked more red than pink, but it didn't look like lipstick. I guess it could have been, but it wasn't obvious. She had high cheekbones and her neck looked long, kind of like those busts of ancient Egyptian women in the museum.

Her face was just wonderful to look at, especially since she was smiling.

But her body took my breath away.

She had the baby on her left hip, kind of sitting there being held close to her by her arm. Her hip jutted out in his direction. It was a boy baby ... I could just tell that, but I couldn't see him that well. That's because she was standing sideways to me and her chest blocked my view of him. She had, shall we say, rather large breasts? I found out later they were bigger than usual because she was still breastfeeding. At that moment, however, they just looked huge to me.

She was wearing a blue checked button-down shirt, and cut-off jeans shorts. Her legs looked like they were a mile long and they were tanned and smooth. She had on tennis shoes with no socks.

"Do you mow lawns?" she asked.

She had a southern accent. And I mean the real deal, not Texas, or Oklahoma. She had that Alabama or Mississippi kind of drawl that makes a man stand up and listen.

I realized my mouth was hanging open. I closed it. I had to swallow before I could answer, because my throat was kind of dry.

"Um ... yes, Ma'am," I said.

"Mine needs mowing pretty badly," she said. "How much do you charge?"

I had never charged Mr. Zimmerman more than the five bucks he'd originally paid me. He was kind of special. I suspect that's why my mind just equated his yard with that amount.

"Five dollars," I said.

She stood, looking at me for a while.

"That doesn't seem like very much," she said. "Are you experienced?"

My brain started working again.

"Sorry," I said. That meant I was sorry for having just imagined her naked, but of course she didn't know that. Or maybe she did. "That's just what I charged Mr. Zimmerman."

"He used to live here?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Well, why don't you go on ahead and cut it and then we'll decide if you should update your fee or not," she said. When she said "your fee" it came out as "yo-ah fee."

I'll be honest. She basically owned me at that moment, and I didn't even know her name.

"Okay!"

So I turned the mower through her gate and into her yard, even though what I really wanted to do was convince her to read me War and Peace, so I could listen to that voice until I was old and gray.

"I didn't necessarily mean now," she said, smiling.

"Oh." I stopped.

"But I s'pose now is as good a time as any," she went on.

I was still looking at her. Not being experienced at looking at a beautiful woman, I suspect I was rather blatant about it, but she didn't say anything. Eventually she just waved her hand at the yard and said, "Feel free ..." Her pause made it obvious she was waiting for my name.

"Bobby!" I blurted. I pointed at our house. "I live there!"

She smiled again, and a look of sympathy came onto her face. I had seen that look before. There was a kid at church who had Down's Syndrome and that's how lots of people looked at him.

"Well bless your (yo-ah) heart! Okay ... Bobby," she said. "You go on ahead, then. But you be careful ... y' he-ah?"

I could feel my face flushing and I suddenly felt as stupid as she thought I was. So I just pushed the mower into her yard and paid attention to mowing the lawn, instead of looking at her.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

It was an inauspicious beginning to a relationship I neither expected nor would have believed possible. While I mowed the lawn, the mover guys kept going in and out. Sometimes she was out there watching them and sometimes not. Every time I saw her she was holding the baby. When I got finished, she wasn't outside watching the movers. I didn't know what else to do, so I waited until the movers went in, and followed them.

I'd been in Mr. Zimmerman's house before, lots of times, in fact. But of course all his furniture was gone and everything looked different except for the wallpaper. It was pretty strange.

The mover guys were taking stuff into various rooms, based on what was written on the outside of the box. Mrs. Prater (whose name I did not yet know at that point) wasn't in any of the regular rooms. There was only one other place she could be, and that was the walk-in pantry off of the kitchen. So I figured she had to be in there and it never occurred to me that she might be hiding from the men, so I just opened it to make sure she was in there, so I could get my money.

"Ma'am?" I called out as I opened the door.

She has blue eyes. Did I mention that? Those bright blue eyes turned on me just about the time I realized she was feeding her baby.

Breastfeeding her baby.

"Oh!" I blurted.

The baby, who I later found out was almost a year old, turned his head and a fat, brown nipple popped out of his mouth. It was kind of like I was in a dream, because I saw a thin stream of white arc up and off to one side. I realized it was falling right on the baby's shoulder and wondered if it felt like rain to him.

"I'll be right out, Bobby," she said, her voice calm. "I'm just feeding Timmy. Would y'all please close the door?"

I closed it, except that I was so rattled that I stayed inside when I did it. Then her, "I'll be right out" comment sank in and I realized I was supposed to be outside, waiting for her there. Timmy had blue eyes too, and he kept looking at me. I kept looking at that fat, stiff nipple.

"Oh man!" I sighed, and managed to turn around and get the door open. I went out and closed it. I was panting like I'd run a mile.

I felt like leaving. I was pretty embarrassed. But just as I was about to do that, her voice came through the door.

"Don't leave, Bobby!" she called.

So I stayed.

About five minutes later, she came out. Timmy was back on her hip and she looked normal.

"I'm really sorry," I said.

"No harm done," she said. "I take it you're done with the yard?" She pronounced it 'yahhd.'

"Yes, Ma'am."

"You mustn't call me Ma'am," she said. "You make me feel like an old lady."

"Sorry," I said again. I was apologizing a lot to this lady.

I followed her outside and she walked around the yahhd.

"You do good work," she said. "I think it's worth at least fifteen dollars, don't you?"

"Yes Ma'am," I said. Then I followed that up with, "I'm sorry, Mrs. ..." I stopped.

She turned around and those blue eyes landed on me again.

"How rude of me," she said. She stuck out a hand. "Veronica Prater. And it's Miss, not Mrs. But you can just call me Ronnie. Everybody does." She looked at her baby. "And this is Timmy."

"Oh," I said. "Okay."

"Okay what?" she asked, raising one beautiful eyebrow.

"Okay, Ma'am," I said automatically.

She sighed. "Do you ride the special bus, Bobby?"

I had to think about that, which shocked me when I figured out what she meant.

"No!" I said, outraged. "Why would you think that?"

She smiled.

"You seem a little ... um ... I don't know ... maybe slow? I'm sorry if I hurt your feelins'. My mamma always said that it was our duty to treat God's special children kindly, because they didn't choose to be that way."

"I'm not slow!" I complained. "I'm just not used to seeing ... " I stopped. I had been about to finish with "a woman as pretty as you," but I realized that would be entirely unacceptable, should it ever get back to my mother.

"A breast?" she asked, completely misunderstanding my intent. "Surely a big, strapping young man like yourself has seen a breast before."

"No!" I said, meaning to correct her misinterpretation of events. She didn't give me time to explain.

"Well, as I said, no harm done. They all look pretty much the same. And now you've seen one. But how about let's not advertise that fact. I just got here, and that's not how I want my introduction to the neighborhood to go."

I couldn't let it go. I didn't want her thinking I was thinking about her breast. Of course now I was thinking about her breast. But I had to set her straight.

"I wasn't talking about that," I said. "I meant I'm not used to seeing such a pretty woman."

I realized I'd said what I wasn't supposed to say, and covered my eyes with one hand.

"I gotta go," I said. "You can pay me later."

I turned and hurried toward the mower, which was parked by the gate. She called, "Bobby!" after me, but I didn't stop. I felt pretty embarrassed. I just got my mower and pushed it home. That took all of twenty seconds, seeing as how we lived right next door, but at least I was out of sight quickly.

Actually, to be honest, I wouldn't have even gone back to collect. Well, maybe next time it needed mowing or something. But I wouldn't have gone over there the next day or anything like that.

At supper my dad filled my mom in on the goings on next door. Mom was on swings and had slept all day. On days like that he sometimes brought work home so he could make sure her sleep wasn't interrupted. My supper was her breakfast.

"We have a new neighbor," my dad announced. He said it like it was big doings. Actually, I suppose it was. It was always a slow news day in Hanley.

"Really?" asked Mom.

"Yes. I guess Frank's nephew, or whoever inherited the house finally got rid of it. Seems to be a young woman with a child. Didn't see her husband." He turned to me. "I saw you mowing her lawn. What's she like?"

I know I blushed. I couldn't help it. How do you answer a question like that? Well, come to think of it I suppose it depends on who's asking. If it had been any of my buddies from school, I'd have said, "She's a stone fox with a body to die for and eyes that make you want to drop trou and jerk off right in front of her."

Of course parents frown on being that honest.

"She's okay, I guess," I said.

Then began the interrogation. I had seen her up close. I had talked to her. I had valuable information and they were going to get every bit of it, whether I tried to keep things secret or not.

I was saved by the doorbell. You'll never guess who it was.

My dad got up and answered the door. We could hear his deep voice and a higher female one. I heard the word "y'all" and my penis stood up, stretching to get a look. Dad brought her into the dining room. Timmy was welded to her hip, as usual.

"We have plenty," he said. "Please, join us. It's the least we can do for a new neighbor." He looked at me. "Bobby, set a place for Mrs. Prater."

"Miss," she said. "And please just call me Ronnie. Everybody does." She looked at my mom. "Hi. I didn't realize y'all were eating or I wouldn't have bothered you."

"Nonsense," said my mother, who had that frown on her face that meant she had not yet made up her mind about Ronnie, but was working hard on it. She stood up, even though it was me who was supposed to be getting a plate and silverware. I thought it was to get a better look at this new woman who now lived next door, but she went to an empty chair and pulled it out.

"Please," she almost begged. "Moving is stressful. Sit. Eat something. Relax." She went into Grandma mode, then. My older sister has a baby a little bit older than Timmy. "And who do we have here?" she asked in that singsong voice adults use with all children.

"This is Timothy," said Ronnie. "He's about to turn one year old," she added proudly. Timmy gurgled and cooed, on cue.

"We must have a party!" gushed my mother.

My dad, who had been staring at Ronnie, looked at me and said, "Bobby!" I jerked and hurried to the kitchen. I moved quick so nobody would see that the front of my pat was tented out. I was able to adjust things in the kitchen and came back with everything needed, balanced on my left arm and held to my chest. I almost dropped the glass, but saved it with what I thought was a great catch.

"I neglected to pay Bobby for mowing my lawn," said Ronnie, sitting down. My mother hurried to the space between the china hutch and the wall, where she kept the high chair we used when Cathy was here with my niece, Tiffany.

My dad was looking at me oddly. He knew how eager I usually was to collect from my customers.

"She was busy with the movers," I said. "I figured I could collect later."

"Shall I fix something for Timothy?" asked my mom. "I have a variety of baby food in the pantry. My daughter has an eighteen-month-old."

"I just fed him," said Ronnie. Of course the first thing I did was think of that fat, brown nipple, spurting milk, and looked right at her chest. My boner flexed in my pants.

If all this sounds like it was a little awkward, that's because it was. At least it seemed that way from my perspective. Everybody was acting a little stiff. But that didn't last. While my parents had been in interrogation mode where I was concerned, they were not as pushy with Ronnie. Of course she didn't seem to mind supplying them voluntarily with the kind of information they would have asked anyway.

She had moved to Hanley from Atlanta, Georgia, to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city and slow down her life. Nobody asked her why it took moving a thousand miles to get away from Atlanta. She owned her own web development business, which she explained meant she designed websites for people and then did the maintenance on them. If people wanted her to, she would also be the webmaster. My parents were all agog. My dad uses a computer every day but I doubt he understands how it works. My mom's the same way. They have a whole tech support office at the hospital, and it has like ten people in it.

I know they wanted to know about Timmy's father, but they were too polite to ask. Instead, Mom offered to take Ronnie around town and introduce her to various people, and show her various places where she might want to shop. Of course they invited her to church and I was pretty astonished when she smiled and agreed to go. All in all, things got pretty relaxed. Of course my dad's a great cook, so I'm sure that helped.

But finally Ronnie said, "I should go. I have unpacking to do. They're supposed to be here in the morning to hook up my broadband, so I can get back on line."

"Surely you have time for just one glass of wine," said my dad.

"Can't," she said, smiling. "I'm nursing Timmy."

"Excellent!" gushed my mother. "I'm a big fan of keeping a child on the breast. Too many people stop nursing much too soon, in my opinion."

"I agree," said Ronnie. "I want him to have the best start possible."

That set Mom off again and she recommended doctors for both Ronnie and Timmy and said she'd talk to them both if Ronnie wanted her to, because she wasn't sure they were accepting new patients. "I'm a nurse," explained my mother hurriedly, which explained why she knew all the doctors and was entitled to an opinion on how long Ronnie should breastfeed her baby and all that.

It was amazing, really.

There was a flurry of "Y'all are so nice," and "Think nothing of it, you're welcome any time!" and grins all around and nodding and bobbing of heads, and those blue eyes swept across the room and hesitated on mine for a few seconds.

Dad escorted her to the door and closed it, only to open it again as she knocked again and hurried back in and stood in front of me. I had stood when she rose from the table, of course. That goes without saying. Except I just said it, didn't I? Goes to show you how much this woman unsettled me. But there she was, with those blue eyes pinned on my face again. Her hand went into the pocket of her jeans shorts and pulled out a small wad of cash. She extended it to me.

"I'm sorry you had to wait for this," she said.

"It's okay," I said. "It goes in my college fund anyway."

"Well bless your heart!" she said. "I heartily approve."

Then she patted me on the shoulder and turned around and left.

My dad came back in and sat down.

"How about that," he said.

"She can't be more than twenty-two," said my mother. "Alone with a baby. How sad." How Mom intuited she was alone escaped me.

"Seems like a nice girl," said Dad.

"She does!" said my mother. "I should introduce her to Cathy. With children so close to the same age, they might have a lot in common."

My dad said, "What do you think of her, Bobby?" but I know he didn't mean it. He says things like that when his own mind is going a mile a minute and he wants somebody else to fill in the empty spaces so he can think.

"She thought I was a retard," I said.

"Well," said my dad, clearly distracted, "so do we sometimes. So do we."

Before I could respond (angrily) to that he turned to my mom.

"You'd better get ready to go," he said.

It was my mother's turn to show that she was also thinking furiously about things other than the fact that her husband had just called her only son a nitwit.

"I have plenty of time," said my mom. "I wonder what happened to him?"

"Don't ask," said my father, his voice stern.

"I won't!" complained my mother, sounding hurt that he thought she might even contemplate being nosy. "I just wonder, that's all. Did he die? Why didn't they get married? It's so mysterious!"

"It's not mysterious," said my dad. "Single mothers are a dime a dozen these days."

"But she seems so nice!" argued my mother.

"There's no reason a single mother can't be nice," said Dad.

And that was my introduction to Ronnie Prater, the woman who would change my life forever.

 

Chapter Two

 

Now, if you're a guy, then I don't have to explain what happens when a guy in high school meets a beautiful woman who is only four or five years older than him, which means he could think of her as a girl, instead of a woman. But I'm not sure women understand that. Actually, I have very plain evidence to suggest women don't understand it. That is, in fact, what this story is about.

It's a lot like fishing. I know that might seem odd, but again, if you're a fisherman, you probably already get where I'm heading.

A fisherman is among the most hopeful men in the world. He puts himself in lonely, sometimes uncomfortable, or even dangerous places, where he sits for hours and hours, maybe even days, all the time hoping for a bite. His anticipation can keep him on a razor's edge for hours at a time. He's patient, because he knows, deep in his heart, that there will, in fact, be a bite and that he will, in fact, make the catch if he's alert and ready.

And in all that time he sits there being hopeful, the fisherman doesn't think about the fact that a hundred other guys have tried to land this monster fish, and failed, and that it's quite possible he doesn't have what it takes to lure it from the depths so that he can make it his. He doesn't think about that because there is so much hope in him that there isn't any room for doubt.

So when a boy meets a girl like that, she's a little like that elusive monster fish out in the lake, and that boy's level of hope rises to the point where catching her is about all he can think about.

Except the age difference, and little things like maybe her having a child, are the kinds of things that strip him of his gear. He has no rod, and the only line he has is two pound test. There is no bait and no boat. He doesn't even have a hook, for that matter. To drive this rather bizarre analogy into the dirt ... er ... water ... the fact of the matter is he knows he can't possibly catch her. He can glimpse her gliding serenely along, just under the surface. He can see the swirls she causes in the water as he watches her tail flick carelessly. He yearns, with an impossible hope to feast on her flesh one day ...

Okay. That got a little weird. Sorry. But you get my drift.

She lived right next door, rather than out in the middle of the lake, and I saw her all the time. And, being a woman, she had no idea what she was doing to me. She just saw me as that nice young man who mows her lawn, or carries the cans of paint from her car into the house, or who climbs the ladder to clean the gutters because his father sees her getting ready to do that and says, "We can't have that, now can we, Bobby?"

The cheery words, "Hi, Bobby!" rang out frequently, usually followed by, "What y'all doin'?" and my body would react and I'd get embarrassed and have to figure out a way to adjust things before she saw what was happening. I got to be an expert at that, by the way.

It might not have been so bad, except my mother took her under her wing and they became friends.

And I'm not talking "wave-at-each-other-over-the-back-fence-and-exchange-a-recipe-or-two" kinds of friends. Oh no. That would be too easy on Bobby. No, they became the "I-have-something-you-just-have-to-see!--I'll-be-over-in-a- minute," kind of friends. My mother crocheted stuff for Timmy and Ronnie un-fucked years of unintentional abuse on our PC. Then she worked on the firewall and advised them on a virus protection program and installed a router, so suddenly there was wireless in the whole house. Stuff like that. She even gave me her old laptop, because she said it was a dinosaur and useless for what she did these days.

So she was over a lot and I got sent to her house a lot. And the next thing I knew, she was treating me like her little brother and smiling at me, and I was in the kind of agony that leaves permanent mental and emotional scars for life.

I guess it wasn't that bad. Not really. It's just that I was pretty sure the lake was empty of fish at that time in my life. I wasn't buff, or popular. I didn't have any special skills or talents. I was just a regular kid in a small town, waiting for school to start so I could do my senior year and graduate, who was insanely in love with an unattainable woman who was actually six years older than me and thought of me as a boy who was so harmless that, if I showed up on one of my mother's errands and she was breastfeeding Timmy ... she didn't even stop.

Of course, now that I'm a little older I can look back on all that with glasses that aren't fogged by Ronnie Prater. There were fish in that lake. Lots of them. There were dozens of them my own age. But they were as minnows compared to a twelve pound Big Boob ... er ... I mean Big Mouth Bass. She put every other woman to shame. And, of course, that wasn't true either. I did actually ask Cynthia Johnson to the Prom and we had a good time, except she tripped over her dress, which was a little too long, and when she fell her glasses flew off and somebody stepped on them. So she was blind for most of the night and didn't want to go to the after party. So I took her home and I even got a kiss. Trouble is Cynthia's eyes are blue ...

So you get my drift.

Ronnie was very good for my hormone levels, meaning she gave whatever makes hormones in teenage boys a pretty steady workout. And I bled those hormones off in the time-honored tradition of flogging my log practically every single night. I'd lie there and stroke slowly, thinking of the last time I'd seen Ronnie nursing Timmy. She had just pulled up her T shirt to get to the front of her bra, which had these little doors on it she could flip open, revealing a milk-packed nipple. Truth be told, you couldn't actually see anything if Timmy's cheeks were working. But then there was this little baby, sucking like crazy on a nipple you wished you were sucking on like crazy.

And then one night, I forgot to get the old torn underwear I used to catch my spunk with. I kept it on top of my dresser behind a trophy. So I got up in the dark to get it, and as I passed my window I glanced out and there, in the window across our yards, was Ronnie's silhouette through the shade she'd pulled down. She was in the bathroom, and she was facing the mirror, taking the pony tail she always wore out and combing her long hair.

It was just her silhouette, but I knew she was naked.

And I stood there and masturbated, looking at her, until I spurted right on the wall.

I got so weak I had to put my left hand on the wall and lean there.

And I felt awful. I was looking right at her! Peeking ... sort of! I felt like I was a pervert.

And that's why I sat down at my laptop and decided to go check out a list of tumblr sites I had made that I hoped would have the kind of pictures I liked.

It wasn't that I just wanted to see a bunch of naked women. I mean I did, of course. I was eighteen, after all. But the primary reason I wanted to look at all those naked women was that I wanted to try to get Ronnie out of my mind so I didn't feel like such a pervert while I beat off.

And it worked.

The "average" tumblr site is basically just a mosaic of thumbnail pictures that fill page after page. They are sorted by the month that they were posted, and each month might have thirty pages of thumbnails. If you click on one of those thumbnails, it takes you to a page with a full size picture and a list of other tumblr members who "follow" that poster, and may have left comments about the picture.

So if there are thousands of pictures posted, there may be thousands of comments, and each comment is a link that leads to another tumblr site, where there is another collection of photographs and sometimes videos.

In other words, once you find one tumblr site, you have unlimited access to free porn of every imaginable stripe. Not that I like them all. I saw one where this chick was riding this guy in a video, and took a shit, right there on film. And the camera zoomed in on that turd being expelled. And somebody thought that was sexy!

But you can generally tell right away what a tumblr site is into, so you can go on about your business if it isn't quite your thing.

It's endless porn. You could literally sit there for hours, days, weeks, months or even years just clicking on one more picture of somebody naked, doing something associated with having sex.

And the best part of it was that a lot of it was amateur stuff, sent in by the woman in the picture. And that meant she didn't mind me looking, right? I mean it was right there for everybody to see, so it was okay to look, right?

Some of those women were getting fucked too, which meant that if I wanted to pretend it was my penis that was doing the fucking, she wouldn't care either. She actually did that stuff! So it wasn't perverted for me to imagine doing it with her.

So that's what I did. I sat up in the dark, and looked at tumblr sites until I found the right picture. Then I wanked like crazy until I spurted. And then I could go to sleep with a clear conscience because I knew I had not soiled Ronnie's sweet nature by imagining it was her warm, luscious pussy I was fucking when I spurted.

As you can see, I was only partially successful in avoiding fantasizing about Ronnie. But Tumblr helped, so that's what I did.

Until, one night, as I clicked through pictures, one expanded and there she was ... Veronica Prater … right there on the screen.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

I didn't believe it. I know I stared at that picture for at least five minutes, thinking, 'It can't be her.'

But it was. There was no doubt.

Her hair was down and her eyes were closed. She was facing the camera and sitting on a guy whose cock was up inside her. Her left hand was holding another rigid penis and her mouth was open as she leaned to her left. It was just as fucking obvious as possible that she was about to suck the cock in her left hand.

Whoever was fucking her had his hands on her breasts, but they weren't covering her nipples. Those nipples were not as dark as the one I had seen Timmy let go of, but I knew it was still her. Something told me she was younger in this picture, but no matter how I tried to squint my eyes and make her look like somebody else, I knew it was Ronnie.

Of course she was gorgeous. Her breasts were big and round, but with that bastard's hands on them it was hard to see them properly. Her pussy, above where that prick entered her body, was bare. Her pussy lips looked purplish and thick, even though they were stretched pretty wide by that guy's penis.

I saved the picture.

I was stunned. I was also hard. And I felt confused. How could she do that? How could she put herself out there like that and let every-fucking-body see her like that?

I closed that picture, and stared at the page of thumbnails. Like a magnet, another picture nearby drew my eyes. I clicked it, and there she was again.

This time she was on her hands and knees and the guy fucking her was gripping her hips. She was looking over her shoulder at him with this look like, "Don't you ever stop, you son of a bitch!" Her breasts were hanging down, and they just looked fucking perfect!

I saved that one too.

This time, when I minimized that frame, I looked for more.