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*Author’s Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, utilizing Microsoft Spell-check. You have been forewarned; expect to find mistakes.
Venice Apartments had a sign out front, with the name ‘Venice Apartments’ in black against a background of the Italian flag of green, white, and red. Encircling the name was the silhouette of a gondola and gondolier.
The complex was comprised of four separate buildings arranged in a square. Each building faced inward, faced the pool and small courtyard. The first building, the northeast building was three floors, with five apartments on each floor. Apartments 101, 105, 201, 205, 301 and 305 were two bedroom units. The three units in between each two bedroom unit were one bedroom units. The southeastern building had apartments 106 and 107 on the ground floor, each a two bedroom unit. The second and third floors had four single room efficiencies on each. The southwestern building was a duplicate of the northeastern building, each floor with a two bedroom unit on the corners, separated by three one bedroom units. And the northwestern building was a duplicate of the southeastern building, a ground floor of two units, each with two bedrooms, then eight one room efficiencies atop. Behind the northwestern building was a large laundry room and an exercise room.
Across the parking lot in front of the northeastern building was the rental office. And on top of the rental office was the apartment building’s clubhouse. Each tenant had the right to reserve the clubhouse for parties, but they must notify the apartment manager of the desired time that they planned to use the clubhouse.
The two bedroom unit had a spacious living room. Turning the corner from living room, one was in the dining room. The miniscule kitchen was separated from the dining room by a small counter. That counter had the sink, the dishwasher, and the apartment’s twenty five gallon hot water heater. The opposite wall had a small oven and range and four cabinets overhead. The refrigerator dwarfed the kitchen.
To the left of the kitchen, if one was facing the sink, was a three-quarter bath. This consisted of toilet, sink, and small shower stall. To the left of the bathroom door was the first bedroom, a ten by ten foot room.
Stepping out of the small kitchen and turning left, one walked straight into the second bedroom. It was also a ten by ten room, but to the left of the bedroom door was a second door that opened into a full bathroom. Just past the bedroom door was a second door which hide a full closet.
Barbara Garcia glumly looked around the apartment, then nodded to Keisha, the apartment complex manager. Brandon Garcia, Barbara’s eighteen year old son looked out the open door of the apartment at the three bikini clad girls that cavorted in the pool.
“Sweetheart? What you think?” Barbara asked her son.
“Yeah, I guess,” he shrugged. “Man, kitchen kind of sucks, huh?”
“Yeah, but remember last one we looked at?” Barbara pointed out.
“Huh? That matchbox?” Brandon agreed.
“Okay,” Barbara told Keisha.
Three days after seeing the apartment, Barbara and Brandon were putting the last of the flattened boxes into the large dumpster. Brushing her long blonde hair back out of her eyes, Barbara noticed she had an audience; two young men had been watching her stretch to toss the box up into the dumpster. She nervously tugged down the hem of her cut off jean shorts, but the Daisy Dukes were firmly wedged in the crack of her buttocks.
“All right. How about sausage sandwiches?” Barbara suggested to her son.
Barbara turned and glared at the two young men when she heard one of them say something about ‘sausage sandwiches’ to his friend. The two young men smirked at her, unaffected by her glare.
“Hey,” Brandon said, turning to walk toward the two young men.
“Sweetheart, no,” Barbara said, grabbing Brandon’s shirt sleeve.
Walking back to the apartment, Barbra held onto Brandon’s arm. Mother and son did not talk as they walked, each deep in their own unhappiness.
Inside the apartment, Barbara found the skillet and put it on the miniscule stove. Quickly figuring out which button to push, she put the burner to medium high, then put a driblet of vegetable oil into the skillet.
She popped the top on the can of Vienna sausages and sliced them in half length-wise.
The sausages sizzled merrily as Barbara slapped mayonnaise on four slices of white bread, then slapped a slice of American cheese on two pieces.
“Want chips go with this?” Barbara asked as she used the spatula to guide hot sausages from skillet to bread.
“Uh huh,” Brandon agreed.
“Not ‘uh huh,'” Barbara said.
“Yes,” Brandon agreed.
Barbara fished out a small bag of corn chips and put that on the plate with his two sandwiches.
For herself, Barbara used the same skillet to quickly make herself a scrambled egg and American cheese otele gelen escort sandwich. She dug out a bag of cheddar flavored potato chips. Then son and mother sat at the small dining table and silently chomped their way through their meal.
“Says its cheddar flavored,” Barbara finally said. “Never had cheddar cheese taste like this.”
“Uh huh,” Brandon agreed.
After Barbara cleaned the kitchen, she went to her bedroom, Brandon went to his bedroom. Barbara slipped out of her sweat soaked clothing then padded to the bathroom. She checked that she had both soap and shampoo in the tub before stepping in and twisting the taps.
“Ooh!” she exclaimed when a blast of cold water pummeled her.
The water quickly warmed and Barbara wet her hair, then lathered it. She grabbed the bar of soap and ran it over her small breasts, her flat belly, and her bald mound.
A check of mound, arm pits and legs showed Barbara that she needed to scrape them with the razor blade that sat on the rim of the tub. She made quick work of whisking pits, legs and mound smooth.
“Not that anyone gives a damn,” she thought glumly.
The thirty seven year old woman wondered how Kevin Garcia, her husband of eighteen years could so suddenly, so callously decide that he no longer loved her, no longer loved her son. He was not the boy’s father; Barbara had been five months pregnant when Kevin had smiled at her in Early’s Grocery Store, had asked the pimple faced pregnant cutie for a date.
But for all of his life, Brandon had thought Kevin was his father. For eighteen years Brandon had called Kevin ‘Dad.’ So, the boy had two shocks. One, losing the home they’d had for the last twelve years; it had belonged to Kevin’s mother and she had given it to her son, and two, discovering that his Dad wasn’t his dad.
Penny Jones, her attorney did say that Kevin most likely be ordered to pay alimony, but Penny did concede that child support was an improbability. Brandon wasn’t in school, was of the age of majority, and was not Kevin’s biological child.
Together, Penny and Barbara agreed, since spousal support would be minimal, if at all, they’d wait for Kevin to file. That way, he’d be the one responsible for court costs. At that time, Penny would also petition the court that Kevin be made to pay her fees.
“You the one wants this divorce? You pay for it,” Barbara mumbled to herself.
Stepping out of the shower, Barbara listlessly toweled off and slipped on a short tee shirt and panties. She then wedged her small feet into a pair of fuzzy slippers.
“Done?” Brandon asked, standing in the doorway of his room, dressed in only a pair of micro-briefs.
“Yes, Sweetheart,” Barbara smiled.
He was a handsome young man, even if he was a few pounds overweight. He had dark brown hair and deep brown eyes, a pug nose and pouting lips. Standing at five feet, six inches, he was the same size as Kevin, and the same size as Barbara.
“‘Bout time,” Brandon teased his mother. “La de dah, think I’ll use up all the hot water.”
“Uh huh, careful or I’ll start the dishwasher,” Barbara retorted.
Brandon made quick work of showering that day’s sweat from his body. Then, dressed in another pair of micro-briefs, he joined his mother in the living room.
They sat together on the futon and tried to find something to watch on their television.
“Fine, fine, get us a movie,” Barbara said, handing Brandon the remote. “Want some ice cream?”
“Uh huh,” Brandon said, searching for a movie.
A moment later, Barbara reappeared, fuzzy blanket tucked underneath one arm while holding onto two heaping bowls of ice cream. Brandon took the bowls of ice cream while Barbara spread the blanket over their legs and waists.
“Okay, what are we watching?” Barbara asked.
Brandon named a teen slasher movie. Barbara pouted.
“Ooh, oh Brandon!” Barbara whined playfully. “You know those movies scare me!”
Mother and son watched as one by one, promiscuous teenagers were slaughtered. Barbara cuddled close to her son as the mysterious killer went on a rampage.
“Brandon!” Barbara whined. “Why you like this stuff?”
“I don’t know,” Brandon shrugged as a nude girl ran, screaming from the unseen menace.
“Like seeing their boobs?” Barbara asked, running her fingernails over Brandon’s exposed chest.
“I guess,” Brandon shrugged, blushing.
“Well, big deal,” Barbara said. “I got boobies too. See?”
“Aw come on, Mom, huh?” Brandon complained as his mother lifted the hem of her snug tee shirt, exposing her small breasts.
“Woo-woo,” Barbara giggled, wiggling her chest. “And these are way better than those.”
“What? They are not,” Brandon said.
“Uh huh,” Barbara insisted. “These are real and you can touch these boobies. All you can do is look at those big old fake boobies.”
“Mother,” Brandon said.
“See? These might not be puffed up like those, but they feel a whole lot nicer, huh?” Barbara said, dragging her breasts pendik escort over her son’s bicep.
“Mom!” Brandon protested.
“Oh, fine,” Barbara giggled, pulling the hem of her tee shirt down.
Two ‘teen girls’ that looked closer to thirty years of age were kissing one another and playing with each other’s large chests. Brandon leaned forward slightly, intently staring at the screen.
“Uh huh. Why do guys always like that kind of stuff, huh?” Barbara asked as the eerie music started to play. “I mean, girls don’t get all excited watching two guys swapping spit.”
“I don’t know,” Brandon mumbled as one girl began to lift the hem of her friend’s tee shirt.
“Is your pee-pee all hard? Watching this get your pee-pee big and hard?” Barbara asked, hand reaching under the fuzzy blanket to cup her son’s erection.
“Mom, huh?” Brandon yelled, getting to his feet.
He stood, face a mask of humiliation. Barbara shrank back from Brandon’s anger.
“Huh? Rubbing your titties all over me? Grabbing my dick? What is wrong with you, huh?” Brandon yelled.
Without waiting for an answer, Brandon stomped to his bedroom. He slammed the door shut.
Barbara quietly turned off the television as the two girls fell prey to the crazed killer. She grabbed the two ice cream bowls and brought them to the kitchen. Then, dragging fuzzy blanket behind her, Barbara went into her own bedroom.
It took a while for sleep to come. But finally, Barbara did fall asleep.
“Going look for work today,” Barbara announced over their bowls of Frosted Flakes cereal the next morning. “I mean, part time at O’Neil’s isn’t going cut it, huh?”
“Yeah. Me too,” Brandon said.
“Oh? Where you going look?” Barbara asked.
“I don’t know,” Brandon said.
With no real destination in mind, both left the apartment. Barbara went to Kendricks Engineering, as well as other industrial businesses in the area. At each business, she was met with the standard ‘okay, we’ll hang on to your resume…’ brush off.
After a fairly flavorless meal from a local fast-food chain restaurant, Barbara resumed her job search. The heat and humidity, as well as the numerous rejections began to weigh heavily on Barbara Garcia. She finally decided to call an end of this day’s job search.
Returning home, Barbara began stripping off her sweaty clothing the moment the front door was closed. Brandon was parked on the couch, glumly watching an insipid dramedy rerun on Channel 12.
“You been in that pool yet?” Barbara asked, standing in just bra and panties.
“Nuh uh,” Brandon mumbled.
“Well, I’m going jump in; God! Just how hot is it huh?” Barbara said, shimmying out of her bra.
“Mom, huh?” Brandon whined. “Really? Need see you running around naked?”
“Oh good God,” Barbara scoffed as she walked to her bedroom.
A moment later, she returned, stark naked. Her face was tightly pinched.
“Listen. This is my apartment,” Barbara snapped. “Hear? I pay rent here. I pay the utilities here. I feel like running around naked in my apartment? I’m going run around naked in my apartment, you hear?”
“Mom, huh? God damn,” Brandon yelled.
Barbara was too upset to notice, but even as he complained, Brandon did not tear his eyes from his mother’s compact body. Brandon did not take his eyes from Barbara’s small breasts, her belly, or her hairless slit. When she turned to stomp back to her bedroom, Brandon did not look away from his mother’s tight looking backside.
Barbara put on her bikini, grabbed a beach towel from the bathroom cabinet, then put her flip flops on.
“Code is one plus our apartment number,” Barbara read from the lease agreement. “Get tired of watching that stuff, come out, huh?”
She looped the apartment key on a lanyard around her neck; knowing Brandon would most likely forget his keys and lock them out of their apartment. She left the apartment and walked along the cordoned off courtyard. There was one young lady in the pool, in something that might pass for a bikini but was just two strips of cloth over her nipples and a swash of cloth over her vulva. Another young woman lounged on a chaise lounge, oiled body glistening brown in the sun. The young woman in the pool glanced over and the young woman on the chaise lounge did raise her head slightly when Barbara punched the code into the gate. Then both young women resumed their previous activities.
“Ooh!” Barbara gasped out when she came into contact with the cold water.
The young woman in the pool giggled at Barbara’s declaration. The young woman said something to the other young woman and rolled onto her back. The young woman got out of the pool, well-rounded buttocks very visible in her thong bikini bottom. Barbara briskly swam, trying to warm up. She did not watch as one young woman applied suntan oil to her friend. Barbara swam the length of the pool a few times. She did see the young woman dive back into the pool but paid the woman no mind.
Forty minutes later, Barbara rus escort decided she’d had enough of the pool, enough of smelling and tasting the heavily chlorinated water and got out. She did notice that both young women watched with some interest as she dried herself. With a curt nod to her neighbors, Barbara left the pool area.
“This is Rodney Prejean,” Barbara heard as she entered the apartment. “Today? Our guests are dancers, performers at various night clubs in and around DeGarde, Louisiana. You may have heard of Mickey’s, or perhaps the Dead End, or how about the Desire Factory, formerly Elegante? These young women will strip away the mask; they will expose what goes on behind closed doors at these gentlemen’s’ clubs.”
Barbara paused as the camera showed three attractive women. One did seem to be very young, but the other two women appeared to be in their late twenties, early thirties.
Barbara was surprised, none of these women wore any disguises. Their faces were not pixelated.
“Rodney, I’m not that young,” one young woman smiled.
“I’m not either,” the woman to her left tittered.
“And I’m not either,” the third woman declared, smiling widely. “Even though I still get carded when I try to buy beer.”
“Oh?” Rodney smiled smugly into the camera.
Barbara had always thought the man looked like a greasy swamp rat. He had pinched features and greased his hair back. His manner of speech was laced with innuendos and sleazy comments.
“No. I’m forty nine; about to hit the big five oh,” the first woman declared.
“She’s, there’s no way she’s forty nine,” Barbara gasped, plopping her towel onto the couch and sitting down next to Brandon.
“And I’ll be forty six in a couple of weeks, the second young woman agreed.
“Me? Thirty nine and holding. Holding everything I can,” the third woman stated.
“Huh?” Barbara asked. “There’s no way that girl’s older than me.”
Throughout the hour long program, the three women named the nightclubs they danced for, as independent contractors. They debunked the myth that the women that danced there were suffering from low self-esteem, or had fallen onto hard times, or were actually prostitutes disguised as dancers.
“Rodney, I’ve got three children in a good private school,” the oldest of the trio disclosed. “Dancing puts money in the bank, food on the table. As a secretary, I’d make maybe twenty five hundred a month? And that’s before taxes. As a dancer, I make that in a week.”
Barbara watched as Rodney ‘coaxed’ each woman to give a small demonstration of their dances. It didn’t take much coaxing; each woman was already wearing their dancing outfits.
“Allison, you danced to ‘You Really Got Me’ by Van Halen,” Rodney observed when the three women again sat, now dressed in pasties and thongs. “But that’s not what you listen to at home, is it?”
“At home? I put on Tchaikovsky or Rachmaninov,” Allison admitted.
“Girl, give me some good old Johnny Cash, or Loretta Lynn,” the second woman said.
“Melissa Etheridge,” the third woman said.
“I could do that,” Barbara declared, getting to her feet.
“But Rodney, men like Van Halen, they like Bon Jovi…” Allison said.
“Led Zeppelin,” the second dancer offered.
“Oh yeah, put on ‘The Immigrant Song’ or ‘Black Dog’?” the third woman agreed.
“Girl, you really got me now, got me so I don’t know what I’m doing,” Barbara sang as she reached back and unhooked her bikini top. “Girl, you really got me now. Got me so I can’t sleep at night.”
“Mom, huh? Come on,” Brandon yelled as Barbara wiggled and waggled her nude body in front of him.
“You really got me, you really got me,” Barbara continued, humping her hips at her hotly blushing son.
“And then, in the, what did that Allison call it? The Hurricane Room?” Barbara said and flopped her nude body onto her son’s lap. “I’d…”
“God damn, Mom, come on, huh?” Brandon whined as his mother rubbed her buttocks over his jeans-clad rampant erection.
“Oh yeah, you really got me now,” Barbara sang, rubbing her moist pussy against Brandon’s hard cock.
“Ugh!” Brandon grunted, filling his briefs with his semen.
“Did you, I made you, you came, didn’t you?” Barbara crowed, triumphant.
“Get off me,” Brandon sobbed out, shoving her off of him.
Brandon ran to his room, sobbing in shame. Barbara got up, carried her bikini and towel to her room and hung everything over the shower rod.
Brandon would not answer when Barbara knocked on his bedroom door. He did not come out to eat the canned spaghetti she’d prepared. Even the smell of freshly popped microwave popcorn did not entice him from his room.
“Good night,” Barbara quietly said.
She even checked; the knob was securely locked. With a sigh, Barbara went to her room.
In the morning, neither Barbara nor Brandon said anything. They both crunched through their Frosted Flakes cereal. As they prepared to leave the apartment, Barbara gave her son a tight embrace, then kissed his lips.
“Love you. Good luck today,” Barbara said.
“Uh huh,” Brandon said.
At her job, Barbara did approach Tim O’Neil, one of the O’Neil brothers that co-owned the furniture store. She asked about the possibility of becoming full-time and explained her new living arrangements.
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