Dancing Teens, Ch. 05

"John Morgan," young miss Amy Greene thought to herself as she hung up the phone. Somehow it was OK for her now to think of her life long best friend's father, who'd practically been a part time stand in father for her as well since she'd spent so much time over at the Morgan home over the years, as 'John' instead of 'Mr. Morgan', since she'd just had him inside her, and since at that moment he was upstairs in the arms of his own daughter.She'd been transfixed by the sight of it when the clanging of the old fashioned phones the Morgans still had around the house went off, like firehouse alarm bells in the middle of a five alarm fire. A man fucking his own daughter. A girl being fucked by her own dad. And all as she sat aglow from within from having at last made love to the only man she'd ever really wanted, at long, long last. The ringing phone was a clarion call back to reality from the dream world she'd been living in. They were all terrible sinners, istanbul travesti and going to hell. And the devil was calling long distance.Quickly she ran to the phone on the bedside table, but stopped herself. What if it was Mrs. Morgan on the phone? Couldn't have her hear the heady, out of tune symphony of sex in the background in that room! What sort of a soundtrack would that make for telling a man's wife that he's "indisposed" at the moment? So she ran for the door and padded barefoot, well, in truth bare everything, into the kitchen to get the phone that hung on the wall by the refrigerator, the yellow one with the long twisted cord. Standing there reaching for it she suddenly thought how silly it would be if this were not Mrs. Morgan on the phone but perhaps her own parents - and what, then, if Mrs. Morgan came walking through the door and found the teen girl naked in her kitchen, her makeup smeared, her istanbul travestileri hair all askew, her skin sheened with sweat and her body emitting the odor of sex?Fortunately, it was Mrs. Morgan on the phone. "Oh, hello Amy," the woman said, her tone sounding only mildly surprised, "isn't it late for you to be over?""I suppose, Mrs. Morgan," Amy said dispassionately, being an old hand by then at lying to parents over the phone, "we're just hanging out up in her room", though actually that wasn't really a lie. They were hanging out up there alright, the teen thought, supressing a giggle, they were letting it all hang out!"Hmm," was all the older woman had to say about that, not sounding truly interested. After all, the girl had been a fixture in their house now for years and years. "Is John there," she asked the girl, "I need to talk to him.""Umm, yeah he's around here somewhere," the girl said smoothly, as travesti though she had no idea that where he was, was upstairs in his daughter's room, in his daughter's bed, in his daughter! "Hold on a minute and I'll find him.""Ok," said the career woman, and a moment later she heard the phone set down on the countertop. In the background she heard the opening and closing of a door. Probably her husband's study, she thought. "Mr. Morgan? Mr. Morgan," she heard the girl say in a muted, distant tone in the background, as the girl called into the empty study. Then she went to the bathroom door and knocked on it, the sound being barely picked up by the mouthpiece in the phone in the kitchen. "Mr. Morgan," the girl could be heard saying softly, "are you in there?" There was a pause, and then the girl said, "it's your wife. She's on the phone. Will you be long?" Then another pause. Mrs. Morgan had, of course, already figured out what the girl wanted her to. Then there was the loud sound of the phone being picked up and jostled to the girl's ear. "I'm sorry, Missus M," the girl said, smiling wickedly, "he's, ummm, indisposed at the moment. Can he call you back?""Just tell him I'm not sure what time I'll be home, but it's gonna be several hours.