up her dressing gown, a quilted, concealing garment, put it on and belted it as she went out the kitchen door to the back lawn. She fluffed her hair, realized that she had not combed it, looked a mess, but did not give a goddam. She angled toward the gap in the hedge and entered the greenhouse by the side door.
The place was already steamy. The cement floor felt mucky under her bare feet.
Bill Polsom met her at the, center aisle. He wore only shorts. He was a large, rugged, hairy-chested man- there was gray in the dark hair-a cigar stub clenched in his teeth, unshaven. His hair was uncombed. She pictured him as having climbed out of bed, stepped into his shorts, then moving directly to the greenhouse, perhaps picking up the cigar stub on the way, chewing it for breakfast.
His eyes twinkled. 'I wish my flowers were as pretty as you, Kit.'
She grinned. 'You always make my day, Bill. I should come over every morning to get my ego pumped up.' She reflected that he always said something sweetly flattering on meeting her, then turned cold. She watched for the line of muscle to tighten his jaw, hardening him against her. He had a jaw like a horseshoe. It moved now, the cigar butt twitching as the muscle set. She thought, this husky man must have a terrible weakness for women inside to have let his wife take such advantage of him. But he had developed iron armor since then.
'Come see my orchids,' he said, turning and leading her up the center aisle.
Following, Kit studied his broad back, his rocky buttocks and hairy legs stiff with muscle. Despite the hardness of his physique he moved with the grace of a born athlete. Curious, she thought, that a pro ball player would turn to what many considered a sissy business, flower growing. She guessed she did not really know Bill Folsom.
He swept an arm over the orchid display, a dozen or so large flower pots mostly hidden by a froth of blooms like a tangle of ribbons and lace, canary yellow and mauve and violet, a profusion of such delicacy that Kit gasped.
She said, 'They're so beautiful, Bill. I couldn't endure a whole greenhouse full of them.'
He shrugged. 'They become less beautiful, more of a scientific problem, how to breed for richer colors, stronger stems, petals that won't bruise. It's sort of detective work, figuring the secrets of growth and manipulating them.' He pinched off a bloom, mauve wit gold edges, and handed it to Kit.
The flower was so exquisite that she was afraid to touch it.
He said, 'You see; I'm starting up in orchids again. My debts are paid off.'
'You're quitting violets?'
'I will when I can afford to. African violets are Mickey Mouse plants. Anybody can grow the damn things. You want challenge, take orchids and roses. Roses are maybe worse. Nine million diseases and insects prey on them. I mean real roses, hybrid teas. Not your back yard rambler.'
Challenge, she thought. That was the key word in his vocabulary.
She told him then that she was taking Sonny shopping, that he would not be able to help transplant violets until later in the day-if they got back in time.
'He's a big help,' Bill said. 'And the work is good for him.'
Kit had her own ideas about what would be good for Sonny today.
Sonny had always enjoyed watching his mother drive. Her manner was relaxed, her touch on the wheel light but firm. She seemed to always enjoy it.
Today she wore a crisp blue dress shorter, than any that girls at school dared wear. She had hiked up the skirt when she climbed into the car, and he watched her lovely pink-gold legs move with easy sureness as she braked and stepped on the gas.
He had of course promised to help in the greenhouse. But last night had so changed his world that he would do anything his mother wanted.
She was whipping the car toward the shopping center at Knowlton, twenty miles from home. Why? There were a dozen nearer. But watching her he forgot the need to hurry back to work. The windows were open and her hair flagged like an auburn banner, and her face looked softer, more beautiful than he had ever seen it. Her tits stood out like a pair of melons, jiggling when the car hit a rough spot in the road. Her thighs were spread. As the wind ruffled her skirt, he glimpsed lacy white panties and the shadow of her cunt hair.
She said, 'You need a new bathing suit. And shot.'
Buying clothes always bored him. He said, 'The stuff I've got is all right.'
'Not your shorts. They're too tight. They show your crotch bulge.'
Peeling impish, he said, 'Don't you like that?' She shot a glance at him, a blush tinting her cheek. 'Yes, but there's no need to make a public display, especially since your package is rather large.'
'Why not? You wear a bra to make your breasts stick out.'
She smiled. 'That's not the same thing.' 'It is too.'
'You're being sassy, Sonny.'
She spoke sharply but he saw a crinkling at her eye corners. She was enjoying the repartee.
He said, 'Mother, your titties are so big that I'd think you'd want to pull them in out of the way.
'Do you want me to?'
'I'll have to study the problem.' He slid across the seat and reached up under her arm and caressed a plump, bra-firmed cone of tit. He did it right there on the highway, cars passing, in blazing daylight.
'You horny thing,' Kit murmured.
He guessed that meant that she loved it.
Despite her talk of tight shorts, she bought him a swimsuit like a jockstrap. It packaged his cock and balls up like a jutting tit.
She then drove toward Willow Lake. He got the idea then, that she wanted to put space between them and home, so nobody would recognize them. He felt guilty about leaving Lily and her father to do all the transplanting, but as they traveled his thoughts centered on Kit, and how great she looked in a bathing suit.
There was a small amusement park at the lake, a long curve of white bathing beach, floats anchored a hundred yards out, and islands not far beyond the floats. Hills surrounded the lake, thickly forested except for the outcroppings of gray rock on the higher slopes.
Kit parked behind the bathing cabins and there they separated.
In his cabin Sonny put on the jockstrap swimsuit. It was mostly straps holding a patch of material to his pubes and ass cleft. He was blushing when he left the cabin and moved into the crowd of people on the beach. But then he saw Kit and forgot himself.
She wore her yellow bikini, which like she had said did more to lift her tits than to cover them, and the bottom was so meager that a fringe of red cunt hair showed out one side.
She came toward him, trudging through deep sand, smiling broadly, titties jiggling, hips switching, a small, chubby, beautiful woman whose loose auburn hair tossed in the breeze.
She wound her arm about his as though they were dates, and whispered, 'Mr. Sexy, your penis looks like a banana.'
Eyes flashing, she bit his shoulder lightly, then broke into a run for the water, leaping over sunbathers with the lightness of a teenager.
Grinning, he trotted after her, watching the bobbing of her asscheeks and the flutter of her hair.
She dove in, struck the water flat, arms already flailing at it. She was a terrific swimmer. Sonny broke into a dead run and plowed through the shallows as far as he could to gain on her before starting to swim. He knew she could beat him to the float. She always did. He dug hard, pulling himself a dozen strokes face down before taking a breath. When he surfaced he saw that he had caught up.
Had she slowed to let him match her speed? He saw her glance toward him. She was stroking smoothly but not reaching. Yes, she would let him win the race, like a girl would when she was a guy's date.
The float, white-painted wood on oil drums, was empty. They reached it, panting. Kit glanced at him, laughed, then plunged underneath. He followed, caught her in the cool water shadowed by the float, in near- darkness, trapping her seal-sleek body in his arms.
She floated against him, tangling her slippery legs about his, her mouth open for his kiss.
He tongued in and sucked his mother's lips. His cock gave a surge as her arms vined about him and her hot belly dissipated the water's chill.
She fingered his cheeks as her tongue wove about his. She turned his head, her mouth yawning to consume his tongue, his lips, sucking in long, rhythmic gulps. At last she shuddered, groaned, drew away rubbing her
