Mel s cabin break part 3
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Mel Gibson's Love Child free porn video
Note: The following story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
for Lorrin MurrayFirst of all, it wasn't my idea to take the bottom bunk. My mom and I got to the dorm room early, and she just made up the bed for me. "Oh, good, Erin," she'd said, "you get the bottom. Here, help me with the corners." Then she rearranged the clothes I'd hung in my closet, tidied up my desk to be more efficient, and adjusted the position of the throw rug she'd gotten me as a going away present so that it was two inches closer to the bed. "Your bare footsies will thank me on those icy winter mornings," she said. I knew better than to make a fuss. The quicker it was done the sooner she'd be out of here, on her way home, and I'd be on my own at last. College! My real life about to begin.
But first we had to have lunch. Mom drove us to an Olive Garden that we'd passed on the way in, and she even debated ordering us glasses of wine. In the end we had Diet Cokes, and then she drove me back to campus and dropped me off in front of Keller Hall. We hugged, and I promised to write her on the new dancing bear stationery she'd given me. "Be good," she said, and then she was gone without once mentioning condoms or safe sex, although I knew that had been preying on her mind the whole time.
I went up to my room, and my new roommate was unpacking stuff from a new suitcase. "Hi, I'm Molly," she said, "Molly Wren." She was pretty in a waif-like way, thin, with dark, medium length hair and big brown eyes. We shook hands, and I felt so grown up.
"I'm sorry about the bottom bunk," I told her. "We can switch sometime if you want."
"That's okay," Molly said. She was arranging a couple of photographs on her desk, small photos in plain metal frames. One was of a young woman holding a little boy on her lap, the other of a man helping a little girl up onto a big white horse.
"Your family?" I asked.
"Uh-huh," she said, and she smoothed her finger across the top of one of the frames.
"Is that you getting on the horse?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "I think I was about nine then."
"Nice horse," I said. "Big. Do you ride much?"
"That was the only time."
"Oh," I said.
Molly began hanging skirts and blouses in her closet. There weren't many. I got my laptop out of its case and plugged it in to charge up the battery.
"I think we're about the same size," I told Molly. "We can switch off stuff if you want."
"Sure," she said.
"And if you want to borrow my laptop or anything..."
"I'm not real good with computers."
"I could show you," I offered.
Molly nodded.
I played mine-sweeper on my computer. Molly sat at her desk and began to write a letter.
"You know your dad's kind of cute," I said. "He looks a little like Mel Gibson."
"Yeah," Molly said.
"I suppose you get told that all the time."
"The thing is..." She turned to look at me. "The thing is my dad is Mel Gibson."
She'd said it so simply and seriously that for a moment I thought she wasn't kidding. "He is?" I said. "Your joking, right?" When I stood up and moved behind her to take a closer look at the little photograph, Molly covered up her letter with her arm. "Wow, so your dad is really the real Mel Gibson?" I still couldn't tell if she was joking. "Did he just drop you off here?"
"No, I took a bus. A bus and then a taxi cab."
"Oh," I said. "Long trip?"
"Pretty long. My butt is sore from sitting."
I sat back at my desk, and Molly smiled at me. I didn't know what to say. I thought it was a sad, lonely smile. "Do you want to get something to eat?" I asked, even though I wasn't a bit hungry. "I don't think the cafeteria opens until tomorrow, but I noticed a little sandwich shop a few blocks from here, if you don't mind the walk."
"That would be okay," Molly said.
"At least it'll get you up off your butt." I laughed, feeling quite grown up to be saying "butt" so casually. Molly's smile made me happy. She put the letter into her top desk drawer, and out we went.
It was on the walk back that I asked the question. "How come your name's not Gibson?"
"I'm a love child," Molly said.
"Oh," I said. We were passing the vacant lot just east of our dorm. I was trying to think of the right question to ask next when suddenly Molly stopped. She bent down and started gathering up a tangled strand of cassette tape that was snagged on some weeds.
"What are you going to do with that?" I asked.
"I don't know," Molly said.
"It's not as if it's good for anything. You can't salvage it."
"I know," Molly said.
She left the tape, and the rest of the walk back to the dorms we were quiet.
That evening I studied the maps and orientation schedules for the next day while Molly worked on her letter. I wanted to ask her who she was writing to, but I didn't.
"If you need some stamps, I have some," I said. "I mean some extra stamps."
"That's okay," Molly said. "I have stamps."
"It looks like you're going to need quite a lot of them--with all those pages."
Molly smiled at me but didn't say anything. A short time later she put her letter into an envelope, affixed the stamps, and left the room. I thought she would be back soon, but she wasn't. I played around on the computer for a while, and then I decided to go to bed. The bathroom was down the hall, and I wasn't sure whether to lock the door of our room. I was pretty sure Molly had her key, but what if she didn't? Should I leave the door unlocked? I decided to lock the door, but in the bathroom I brushed my teeth extra quickly just in case. When I got back to the room Molly still wasn't there. I changed into my pajamas and put my clothes away and played on the computer some more and thought about calling my mom. Finally I got under the covers. Then I remembered that I hadn't locked the door. Maybe I should. If Molly didn't have her key she could knock. And if the door were locked I'd be more likely to hear her when she got back even if she did have a key. And I could touch myself--this might be the time to do it. Lately I'd been touching myself before falling asleep. Not every night but almost every night. If I were going to do that maybe I should lock the door. But maybe if I locked the door Molly would think I was touching myself. I lay there in the dark. I didn't touch myself. I wondered whether Molly ever did it, and I couldn't fall asleep for a long time, but finally I did fall asleep, and I didn't hear Molly come in, whenever that was.
When I awoke the next morning the sun was shining in the window and Molly was up, pulling on a pair of jeans. I couldn't help notice that she wasn't wearing any underwear and her soft triangle of hair was small and dark and wild before it disappeared. "Breakfast?" she said, and she pulled a jersey over the bobble of her breasts, shook her hair, and looked at me.
"Oh. I'm not ready yet," I said.
"Okay," she said. "I'll just go pee."
"I'd need to take a shower and stuff."
"Okay. I guess I'll see you later then. Bye." And she left.
I looked at the clock. It wasn't even seven yet. I had to pee, too, but I didn't want to pass Molly in the hall, so I curled back up under the covers, and for some reason I thought of her sitting on the toilet, and I thought of her soft dark triangle, of a boy touching her there, his fingers probing, and my hand slipped beneath the waistband of my pajama bottoms. I thought of a boy's fingers moving into Molly, and I thought what if she comes back while I'm doing this, but my fingers kept moving, and it didn't take long for the shivers to come.
I took a long slow shower. When I got back to the room Molly was sitting at her desk writing another letter.
"How was breakfast?" I asked.
"Breakfast, you know," she said and offered an apologetic shrug.
"Ah-ha," I answered, as if we had exchanged profound wisdom. "Writing to your dad again, I see." I hadn't meant to say that. It just came out.
Molly turned to face me. Her face was red. "What makes you think I'm writing to my dad?" she said. She sounded hurt and a little angry.
"I don't know," I said, flustered. "I mean are you? I mean who are you writing to?" I could feel the blush shooting along my skin, not just my face but my whole body.
Molly didn't answer. Instead she bit her bottom lip and slipped the pages into the top drawer of her desk.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"That's okay."
"It's just that... I don't have a dad, either. I mean, I don't have a dad."
Molly shook her head. "Hey," she said, "maybe you could share mine sometime. In exchange for computer lessons or something."
"Okay," I said, having no idea what she meant.
"If you want breakfast you'd better hurry," Molly said. "The fresh fruit was going real fast."
"Right," I said. "Like racy bananas?"
Molly smiled and I wondered what was in her mind. I got my purse and went down to breakfast. When I got back to the room Molly wasn't there. I picked up an empty notebook and was about to set off for the orientation meetings, but at the last second I sat at Molly's desk, tore a blank page from my notebook, and wrote:
You were right--the fruit was really yummy yum yum.
What a stupid note. I crumpled it up and tossed it in my wastebasket.
The photos on Molly's desk stared at me. I wondered if Molly's brother was older or younger than Molly. I wondered if Mel Gibson was his dad, too. I wondered if the man lifting the little girl onto the horse was really Mel Gibson. Even if it was Mel Gibson, that didn't mean he was her father. I eased Molly's top drawer open, just enough to see if that letter she'd been writing was still there. It was, covered partly by a small soft tangle of cassette tape. Gently I brushed the tape to the side. I could read part of what Molly had written:
shoulders like snowshovels, a cinderblock head and balls like baby birds and when he
Quickly I shut the drawer and hurried off to orientation.
I didn't get back to the room until nearly dinner time. Molly was sitting at my desk working at my computer. "Oh, hi," she said. "I just thought I'd try a few things. I don't think I messed anything up too bad."
"No problem," I said.
Molly closed the lid. "Ooh, is it supposed to beep like that?"
"It's just a warning," I said.
"I should probably get my own computer," Molly said.
"It might be more convenient," I said. "Then we could send each other e-mail."
"Why would we want to do that?"
"I was thinking of over the summer."
"Oh. Right. Over the summer."
"Anyway, you can use my computer. It's fine."
"Or they have a bunch at the library. I could use those."
"Right."
"You were right about our sizes, too," Molly said. "As you can see, this is your blouse."
"Hey, it looks good on you."
"It feels good, too."
But even as she was saying these words she was unbuttoning the shirt, taking it off, handing it to me.
"Don't you want to wear it?" I asked.
"Not really," Molly said. "I just wanted to feel what it felt like." She handed me the blouse and smiled at me and I couldn't help but lower my eyes.
Small and bare and free, her breasts had tiny pink nipples much like mine but pointing up more. I didn't want to stare, but I couldn't help it, and the blush shot through me again.
"Boobies," Molly said, and her grin grew wider. Then she turned and tugged her jersey from her top bunk and pulled it on. "You know what's seriously good for boobies?"
"What?" I said.
"Come on," Molly said. "I'll show you."
She led me down the stairs, flight after flight all the way to the basement, and then along the bright yellow corridor past one doorway which opened to a laundry room and another which contained a dilapidated ping pong table until we finally we reached the end of the hall. "Ta da!" she said, gesturing through the last doorway. "Work out room. Weight machines galore."
The small room contained two treadmills in the center. Four weight machines sat against a mirrored wall at the rear. Otherwise the room was empty, no one but us. We stepped in. The air seemed heavy. Molly strode over to one of the machines. "This is the one I wanted to show you," she said. "Lat pulldowns. They're great." Molly patted the padded bench seat, and I sat. Overhead a bar connected to a cable which connected to some weights in front of me. "I usually do fifty pounds," Molly said, and she pushed a metal locking pin into a hole in the weight marked "50." "Twenty reps, ten sets--and then some tummy stuff."
"What do I do?" I asked.
"Just grab the bar with your hands forward and sit down," Molly said.
I stood up and grabbed the bar. Sitting down wasn't so easy. "It's heavy," I complained. I could feel the strain. "Real heavy."
"You don't work out much, do you?" Molly said.
"I guess not."
"Okay, pull it down. Smooth and slow."
I tried to but I couldn't. "It's too heavy." My arms were quivering.
"Not even one?" Molly said.
"I'm trying," I said.
"Here, let me help." I could feel Molly behind me, her body against my back. She helped me lower the bar. The pull was so strong.
"Now let it up," Molly said. "But slow. Don't let it... "
But I couldn't hold it. The bar snapped upwards. I let go. The weights clanked.
"... jerk," Molly said.
"I'm sorry."
"I don't mean you," Molly said. "The motion should be slow and smooth, not quick and jerky."
"I didn't mean to," I said.
"You'll get there," Molly said. "Let's try twenty." She pushed the locking pin into the twenty pound weight. I stood up and grabbed the bar and sat down. The bar came down much more easily.
"Yes, this is nicer," I said, holding it at the bottom.
"Right," Molly said. "Now let it up, smooth and easy. Controlled."
I let it up. I pulled it down again.
"Good," Molly said. Our eyes met in the mirror. "Very good. Keeping doing it. As slow as you can without stopping. Slow and smooth is best."
I moved the weight up and down. At first the pull was pleasant. Soon I was starting to feel the strain.
"You should feel it a little here," Molly said. She touched her hands lightly to my sides. "Do you feel it?"
"Yes," I said.
She kept her hands there while I pulled. I could feel her fingers firmer now just below the sidebands of my bra. I wasn't sure I could do too many more times, but I didn't want her to move her hands.
"Mm, you're doing it good now," Molly said. "I can feel the muscles work." She was grinning in the mirror. "Your boobie muscles." When she let go her hands brushed the sides of my breasts. Her touch sent shivers through my nipples straight to my center. The weight clanked down when I let go.
"Whew," I said.
"You've got to keep doing it," Molly said. "Every other day. Six sets of twenty. Switch your hands between each set."
"Right," I said. I got off the seat, and Molly adjusted the weight back to fifty. Then she sat and started pulling down. It looked so easy when she did it. I stood behind her and watched her work. "The key is to do low weights with lots of repetitions," she said. "Do it every other day-- alternate with running."
I wanted to feel her while she worked, to touch her like she had touched me, but I didn't know how to suggest it, and I didn't dare to just do it.
"Did your dad teach you this stuff?" I asked.
"Mm," Molly grunted. I wasn't sure if that meant yes or no.
"I bet your dad's really strong," I said. "Like in that movie the Sixth Sense in the basement with his kid where he lifts like three hundred million pounds. I really liked that."
Molly stopped pulling. Her eyes in the mirror locked on mine.
"What?" I said.
"That was Bruce Willis. In the scene you're talking about."
"Oh," I said.
"And it's not from The Sixth Sense it's from Unbreakable."
"Oh, yeah," I said. "Sorry. Sometimes I get them confused. Bruce Willis and Mel Gibson. I mean your dad."
"Right," she said.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it."
"It's okay," Molly said, getting off the seat. "But you're right about one thing. My dad really is strong. He can lift me easily. Like I'm totally weightless. Next to sex, it's the closest thing to flying."
"Sex?" I started to say. The word caught in my throat. "But you hardly weigh anything."
"I wish," Molly said. "I bet you can't lift me."
"I'm sure I can't."
"Go ahead and try."
"I can't lift you, Molly."
"Try."
I put my hands on her sides a little below her armpits and tried to lift her. Sure enough, I couldn't. Not even an inch.
"See?" I said.
"If you keep working out, I bet by the end of the semester you'd be able to." And then Molly put her hands under my arms. I froze. The next thing I knew I was over her shoulder.
"How much do you weigh, one-ten, one-fifteen?"
Before I could answer, Molly hoisted me all the way up. I was over her head, way way up there, resting on her hands, one hand on my chest just below my breasts, one hand on my mound. I was in the air, gliding around, but it was the press of her hands that made me shiver. And then I was on the ground sprawled on top of Molly, and she was laughing.
"Ready for a shower?" Molly said. We were back in our room. Did she mean that we'd take a shower together? Molly grabbed her towel and left the room. I wasn't sure what to do. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do. Eventually I took my towel and my shower bucket and went down the hall and into the bathroom. I could hear the water running. The gentle splash and spatter. Steam billowed out from the opening of the nearest shower stall and drifted across the room. The long mirror was beginning to fog. I wanted to go into Molly's stall, I really did, but I wasn't brave enough. I undressed and slipped past her stall, taking care not to look, and stepped into the adjoining stall and turned on the spray. Soon the water was warm and comforting. I soaped myself and thought about Molly doing the same. I thought about Molly soaping me, about her fingers moving over my skin. I made the water hotter and harder and lathered more and more and then I made the water as hot as it would go but it wouldn't go hot enough. When I turned it off the room was quiet. I dried myself and scampered back to the room. Molly wasn't there.
Maybe she went to dinner, I thought. I waited a while, and then I went to the cafeteria. No sign of Molly. I got in line and scooped out a plate of salad and a slice of broiled fish. I sat by myself nibbling slowly and not tasting anything. After dinner I went for a walk. Shirtless boys were playing Frisbee on the quad, their shoulders glistening in the last of the light. Balls like baby birds, I thought, and I thought of Molly's soft dark nest.
When I got back to the room she had my computer on her lap. "Hey," she said, "I think I'm getting the hang of this."
"You don't have to stop," I said.
"That's okay, I was just fooling around. Unless you want to show me how e-mail works."
"You've never sent e-mail?"
"I guess I'm a virgin that way."
"It's really easy," I said. "You just plug this cable in here; that's to connect to the Internet. Then you just click here to open up the mail program and here to open up a blank letter. Then you just type your letter in the box. Easy, huh? Of course you need to get your own e-mail address. You probably already have one through the college. Didn't you get a letter about it over the summer?"
"I came here kind of last minute."
"Oh. Well, I'm sure you can get an address."
"So how does the letter know where to go?"
"You just type the person's address up in the little box on top. Like if I want to send an e- mail to my mom I just type 'Mom.' Of course my mom prefers real mail. She claims she doesn't really trust e-mail. But she has a computer for her work. Anyway, there's an address book that automatically converts to my mom's real e-mail address. Then I just click on the send button."
"Neat," Molly said. "What kind of work does your mom do?"
"She runs a gift shop. Actually three of them. She's a part owner. During the summer and after school I had to work there, too. I am so sick of the smell of candles. If I never set foot in a gift shop again it will be too soon."
Molly laughed. "I kind of like candles," she said. "Did you have dinner yet?"
Charlize
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