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Her eyes were trained on the television, but her ears were tuned to Ben. He was talking to his daughter, Tammy, on the phone.Priscilla couldn't wait u...til it was her turn to talk with Tammy. She fidgeted impatiently in the living room chair, unable to concentrate on the TV show."I'm through," Ben said to Priscilla. "You can talk to her now."Priscilla leaped out of the chair. "Can I take it upstairs in the bedroom?" She wanted privacy. The things she was planning to say, she didn't want Tammy's. She frowned. She pictured a former teacher, strict, mean all the time, pictured him softening for her, disciplining her, punishing her. But he had given her a low grade.So, she thought about Caledon, her mother’s new husband, and smiled.She rubbed herself against the hard edge and sang, “Mm.”She wiggled her hips and held on the edges of the table and ground into it.Daisy the dog barked at her. She looked down at Daisy and giggled at him. She leaned back so she could see the lips of her pussy. She had married Reverend Simpkins about fifteen months ago, he a gangling Texan she'd met at their college in Oklahoma.Her father, who ran a large and prosperous congregation up in Broward County, was sponsoring Simpkins, backing the younger man's satellite church in inner city Miami. Why the two newlyweds had set up in an area that was populated by Central American immigrants was a mystery, especially as neither spoke fluent Spanish.And yet, in spite of all this, Mrs. Simpkins was a striking. ‘The beer,’ I said doggedly, though I allowed a grin to cross my lips in acknowledgement of her pedantry. ‘A Firkin,’ she said, her grin continuing and if anything, widening. Was she expecting a firkin risqué response? She didn’t get one. ‘Seventy Two Pints?’ I said knowledgeably, drawing on past experience working in a bar. ‘I hope most of it was drunk – I couldn’t lift a full one.’ She looked impressed. ‘Yes, I’m sure most of it went last night.’ Again the expectant wait. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘You.
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