"Did you have a nice time last night?" Catherine asked her daughter, at the breakfast table.

Robert was still upstairs, sleeping late.

Joanne shrugged.

Joanne was a very pretty girl. She looked a great deal like her mother, with the same tawny hair and green eyes and sensual mouth. Her body was slim, pert and nubile – with firm little tits that pressed out saucily against her blouse and a trim ass shaped like an inverted valentine molded by her tight jeans.

"You don't seem very enthusiastic," Catherine said. She was curious about the details.

Joanne shrugged again.

"You were out quite late," said Catherine.

Joanne blushed slightly. "Johnny wouldn't bring me home."

"Oh?" Catherine said, raising an eyebrow, interested.

"We went to a movie and then he wanted to go park. You know?" Joanne said, looking a trifle embarrassed.

Catherine knew now. She smiled. "And did you?" she asked. "Yess-yes. I didn't want to, really. But he just drove out to this place in the country, and I didn't have much choice in the matter. Nothing happened, of course. But, he's all hands."

Catherine felt oddly disappointed. "Anyhow, I spent most of the evening pushing his hands away," Joanne went on. "First in the movie and then in the car. He was going to make me get out and walk home unless I let him feel me up. So I had to let him play with my tits for a while, to keep him happy."

Catherine smiled.

"Oh? Did you enjoy it?"

"Well, gee – I mean, it feels kind of nice when a boy rubs your tits, I guess. But I'm not that sort of girl."