"Really? Maybe my daughter can meet them sometime," Frank said, still grinning at her. Sheila felt her nipples scratching angrily against the stiffened cotton material of her bra. They seemed to be broiling in those big cups, and Sheila would have given anything to unbutton her sheer white blouse and unsnap that uncomfortable halter.

"Oh, then you're married?" Sheila said uncomfortably, wondering just what he needed the room for. She hoped he wasn't some kind of freako who was into whips and dead bodies or something.

"Widowed – for about three years. Marianne's been living with me since then. It hasn't been easy being father and mother to a eighteen-year-old," Frank said as his smile faded slowly.

"I'm-I'm sorry," Sheila said, a little ashamed of herself for prying.

"Don't worry about it," Frank said, brightening, obviously pleased with Sheila's concern. "I don't groan about it any more. All I want is some place where I can do my writing. You know, Marianne and her friends turn the house into an asylum sometimes. Even the basement sounds like a bomb-testing site when those kids are over," Frank said, laughing loudly.

"I know what you mean. It isn't much easier with two sons that same age," Sheila agreed. She felt herself relaxing now. Any worry that Frank might be a weirdo was gone now. That meant all he had to do was make the first move and she'd be shoving her burning pussy into his face.

"You're widowed too?" Frank said, slowly moving his right hand across his leg toward his bulging crotch.

"No, divorced," Sheila said, opening her mouth slightly and wetting her lower lip in excitement as she watched the muscular man begin to squeeze the rock-hard protrusion between his powerful legs. "Then you're alone too?" Frank said as he began to play with himself openly.