Home-Made Loving

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Mara Fletcher woke to the song of birds outside her window. She stretched, feeling the goodness of a full night's sleep blessing her body. The sheet spilled down, exposing her large, full breasts, with the thimble-sized nipples, erect fleshy strawberries in the morning air wafting through the cabin's open window. She recalled where she was and, rising, looked out. All around, the lake washed at the island sand just a few feet from her bedroom. As far as she could see there were forests, sky, and water.

Her island! Sitting in the very center of a large lake. Secluded and nearly inaccessible. She smiled. Her man had been no dummy. Then she frowned. But he had up and left her. Dead. Killed in some sweaty, steaming jungle swamp. One more time, she had heard him say. One more time, and then we can live on easy street. One more war. That was what it had been, one more. His last. She heard the sound of running water down the hall and knew Tim, her son, was up and around. She threw the sheet back and, going to the door, opened it and went into the hallway, her plump butt-cheeks tic-tocing. Tim was in the bathroom with the door slightly ajar. She thought to call to him and then realized the water running into the basin would drown out her voice. She stepped to the door so he might hear her. Her eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat. Then blood rushed to her face and she felt her loins moisten. Her son was jerking off and using the sound of water to mask his lewd movements and groans of pleasure.

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