The reason Christine wouldn't have them in the house, though she didn't admit it even to herself, was sexual jealousy. The little kisses and hugs they exchanged during the day and her daughter's obvious adoration of the boy were bad enough. But lying alone at night, listening to the girl's barely muffled moans as he did whatever it was he did to her was unbearable. Christine swore not to masturbate but in the end she always did, imagining the boy's mouth on the girl's breasts and nipples, his finger teasing her wet clit or his cock deep in her cunt. Her weakness shamed her. She'd been acutely aware since the girl passed puberty that she had bigger tits and a slimmer body and her casual nudity when they were alone at home irritated the mother as a flaunting of the daughter's greater desirability. There was nothing incestuous – or so she thought - about Christine's reaction although she saw for herself how innocently irresistible the girl was in her early teens, still was in her twenties. If someone had suggested that she might want, secretly, to caress the girl, she'd have been outraged. Now she was exasperated and frustrated by the sounds of love and pure pleasure from their room. She imagined the boys hands on her own body, his cock in her cunt, the cunt that had given birth to her daughter. Then she saw herself and the girl, both naked, standing side by side for the boy's inspection. She saw her own imperfections, the small breasts that drooped, the little stretchmarked pot belly that resisted every diet, the untidy clump of her untrimmed pubes, the sags of incipient age. Clothes hid all that but Chris knew it was there. Beside her, the girl, 25 years younger, prettier, taller, her boobs firmer, her pale body unblemished and eager to please her lover in any way he chose. The mother noticed that the girl's vagina was shaved so that her body looked like that of a large, happy baby. He would never chose her, she thought bitterly. So she wouldn't have them in the house and they had moved in response to some excuse or other, blithely unaware of the real reason for their eviction and the mother's torment. They had gone but the torment had not. Alone in the silent darkness, it seemed that the girl's sighs still reached her from wherever she was as she gave herself up to the boy's caressing hands. Her own hands squeezed her unloved but desiring breasts and she felt the trickle of a tear on her cheek. She almost wanted them back.