For a long time she tossed and turned, fighting the nasty urge. Then, finally, after making sure he child was asleep, she relieved herself with her fingers, feeling like a silly schoolgirl until it started getting too good to think about anything else.
The forty-three-year-old woman sank into a deep and dreamless sleep only a couple of moments after she'd made herself cum.
To Marge's dismay, after a brief and intimidating tryout on a monster of a sewing machine, the Negro foreman of the pants factory refused to hire her. He told her she didn't have the digital dexterity which the job required, and he didn't even have the kindness to take her aside and tell her in private but chose to degrade her by informing her that she wasn't good enough in front of a bunch of other women seeking work, all of whom Marge would've considered beneath, her a few months back.
She stammered and stuttered, turning five shades of red before she snatched up her purse and ran in horror from what was to Marge a dreadful scene of scathing humiliation. A compassionate smile on the weather-beaten face of a snaggle-toothed Mexican woman made Marge's embarrassment all the worse, for she mistakenly interpreted the display of empathy as a smirking grin.
Outside the building, Marge buried her face in her hands and broke out sobbing, for the bitter incident had completely punctured her illusion of superiority. It was a terrible slap in the face, being turned down for a low-paying, menial job in a pants factory, the very offer of which had insulted her at the employment agency.
Dejectedly Marge trudged back to the bus line and, after repairing her make-up in the ladies room at a service station, she boarded a bus and started for the garage apartment which was now her home, wondering what in the world she was going to do to support herself and her young son. If she couldn't land a job in a pants factory – which to Marge's way of thinking was about as low as a lady could go – then what kind of job could she hope to get? Maid at a motel, perhaps? After-hours cleaning lady at some store or office building?
Strangely Marge's sense of humor – which had been woefully lacking since her husband deserted her – suddenly reappeared and she found herself laughing out loud on the bus. A Mexican girl two seats up on the other side of the aisle turned around and smiled at her. Marge quit laughing, but she nodded and returned the smile.
To hell with feeling, sorry for myself, she thought. I'll find a job, and if maid or cleaning lady is the best I can do right now, then I'll work at it with dignity until something better comes along.
But she wasn't up to being rejected twice in one day, so she went on home.
Bobo met her in the yard, and reared up pawing her shoulders and trying to lick her face. She pushed him down, patted his head and allowed him to follow her up the outside stairs and into the apartment. It was a warm morning, so she shut the screen and left the door open to catch the breeze. Then she flopped down on the couch, kicked off her shoes and lit a cigarette. She'd transferred Kenny to the school four and a half blocks away. It was a good school. There were quite a few Mexican kids in it, but they were from middle-class Mexican families and that made all the difference in the world to Marge. Jumping around wasn't good for a child. She liked this cute little apartment and wanted Kenny to stay in his present school at least for the rest of this school year, so she began seriously reevaluating her attitude, and trying to determine what type of work she could realistically hope to find.
There was just Marge and the dog in the apartment. At first Bobo left her alone, for he was busy nosing around here and there, reexploring the new surroundings. After a while the German shepherd lay down on the floor at her stockinged feet and started to go to sleep. But when Marge absently drew up her right leg and rested the sole of her foot on the couch, the faint odor of her perfumed, somewhat sweat-moistened crotch wafted into the animal's keen nostrils and his eyes snapped open, his head coming up with the memory of her cunt's flavor.
Unlike humans, the lower creatures do not have a highly developed sense of time. To them any memory, whether from a day or a year in the past, is as urgent and pressing as if the event which caused the memory had occurred a mere moment before it cropped up. That being the case, it is readily understandable how a dog who has tasted woman's pussy, and is having a vivid recollection of doing so, could very easily imagine that it had only just happened.
And so it was with Bobo, who seemed a bit mystified as to how his mistress – he remembered her lying in near nudity on the floor – had suddenly become fully dressed and sitting on the couch, which seemed different from the one in his recollection. But couches and clothing hadn't been the stimulus of the animal's pleasant memory. The fragrance of her crotch is what had triggered his recall, which had set his mouth to watering just like Pavlov's bell. Only it wasn't food Bobo was salivating for: what he wanted was more of Marge's delicious vaginal fluids. Up off the floor he came, giving only a single, BARF! for warning before he stuck his head up under her dress and started avidly lapping her clefted mound through the sheer nylon covering of her perspiration- and secretion-dampened panty crotchband.
The unexpected action took Marge, who'd been lost in thought, totally by surprise. She sucked in her breath in pleasured shock, then let it out with a high-pitched squeal of alarm. Between the index and middle fingers of her left hand was a freshly-lit cigarette, rendering it useless for slapping, so, pushing at Bobo's dress-concealed head with the heel of her left hand, she swung her right frantically, slapping the family pet rapidly but lightly – she couldn't see where she was hitting him and didn't want to gouge his eye with one of her long fingernails – in an attempt to drive him out from between her legs.
Bobo was not to be put off so easily, however. Only a few years back had Kenny given up trying to ride him for a pony, and the child's "Gitteup" slaps at the other end of him had caused him more discomfort than the woman's did now, and her slaps were becoming lighter not harder. If she wanted him to quit, she was going to have to cuff him good, the way she'd finally done the other time in that other place.
But this wasn't the other time and the other place, and Bobo's tongue, which had felt good from the start, was getting better and better with each lewd lap he took at her panty-protected pussy. She stopped slapping him, and although she knew she shouldn't, even though they were alone and no one would ever know, she heaved a sigh and lazed back on the couch with her legs open, letting him have at it.
I won't take my panties off, Marge kidded herself. And I'll make him quit that lovely ticking as soon as I finish this cigarette.
It didn't work out that way, however. Marge didn't realize it yet, but her morals, once as high as it's humanly possible for an ordinary woman's to be, had been irreparably lowered as a result of her ill-fated love affair with Frank Dixon. Her self-image had taken quite a nose dive, too. She'd been feeling sort of like a kicked dog when she got home from the pants factory.
Now a dog was licking her pantied crotch. It didn't exactly make her feel like a queen, but the physical sensations of the harmless lapping – after all, she wasn't going to take her panties off, was she? – were very sensual indeed. The incessant tugging sensations produced by Bobo's tongue dragging up over her nylon-protected furry slot were lolling away Marge's tensions and worries and causing her to slip rather swiftly into a pleasant, euphoric mood of lazy voluptuousness.
By the time she mashed out her cigarette in the ash tray, she was thinking, God, that feels good. I'm tempted to take off my panties and let him finish me off. He's got me leaking now. I'm pretty hot. Didn't expect that. If I get worked up and don't get relief, it always leaves me tense and irritable for hours afterwards. Oh, what the hell, I let him lick me off the other night and the world didn't cave in, did it? What will it hurt? No one will ever know! Just this once, though, because I sure don't want to make a habit of this!