and talked to me for two hours about the Gemini and Mercury crews and how they were the real pioneers of the space age. Lucky for us, there is a plexi-glass astronaut in Illinois dedicated to the Gemini men. My dad is practically frothing at the mouth from excitement over the damn thing.
“I’m going to hit the shower.” My dad kisses the top of my head and pats my shoulder. “So glad you could come with us, Buttons. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too, Dad.”
“Come on, Paul, you smell like ass.”
When I was young, it was always me and my dad and Paul and my mom. I was in charge of the map and giving my dad directions, while Paul helped mom in the kitchen, hence his pineapple upside down cake skills. When I moved across the country, I knew it was a big adjustment for my dad, especially since Mom was no longer alive, but he encouraged me, knowing it was the best move for my career. I try to visit back home as much as possible, but I know it’s not like it used to be, something my dad is still adjusting to.
While the men are showering, I step up into the RV and stare down the bitch bed, aka, the dining table. If it’s anything like I remember, I’m in for a night full of the inability to stretch my body out, my arms getting stuck in the crevices of the cushions, and the worry if I’m going to fall through the table only to end up with a particle board piece of scrap shoved uncomfortably up my ass.
Dreading the night in front of me, I toss the cushions to the floor and grab the leg from underneath that’s holding up the table. It’s a little rusty, so trying to fold it up is challenging.
“Come on you geriatric plate holder. Get in there,” I say to it.
With fear of being pinched by the rusty leg’s button that won’t go in, I grab the hem of my shirt and bring it up to the button to protect my fingers. The cotton shields me, giving me more confidence to press harder.
“Don’t be a little bitch; work with me here.”
I grunt and shift my body to apply more pressure. Sweat starts to tickle my temples and I swear some more, throwing my entire body into the table.
“Do you need me to warm you up before I push your button? Are you a needy little lady? Fine. I can stroke you.” I take a break from the button and start running my hand up and down the leg of the dining table. The cold metal starts to warm from my pumping. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you, leg? Come on, work with me now.”
Moving my shirt back up to the button, exposing almost my entire front half, I press it in, throwing my back into it. With a final grunt and a thrust from my upper half, the button gives in. I scream from surprise and my fingers slip, trapping my shirt in the button hole while the leg of the table still stands straight as an aroused pencil cock.
“Damn it!” I flop to the ground, the hem of my shirt rising up around my neck, my entire front exposed just in time for Porter’s viewing pleasure.
Mid stride, he stops on the second step of the RV’s entrance when he sees me sitting on the floor, stuck in the table. He takes in the scene in front of him and his eyes turn a shade darker when his eyes land on my bare skin. If I didn’t think he was by far the hottest piece of male ass I’ve ever seen, I would have considered him a perv for the amount of time he took observing my appearance.
Scrambling out of view, I turn my back to him and fumble with the stupid leg again.
“Having some trouble?” I can feel his chest against my back, leaning over to see what I’m up to.
“Nope.” I scoot closer to the pole, my legs straddling it as if I’m borrowing the steel rod from a gnome’s strip club to conduct my own tantalizing dance.
“Seems like you’re stuck.” There is mirth in his voice and I hate it. His hand reaches around me as his head leans over my shoulder. “Let me see what you have going on here.”
“Do you mind? I have this under control,” I say, turning my face so our noses are
“I’m going to hit the shower.” My dad kisses the top of my head and pats my shoulder. “So glad you could come with us, Buttons. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too, Dad.”
“Come on, Paul, you smell like ass.”
When I was young, it was always me and my dad and Paul and my mom. I was in charge of the map and giving my dad directions, while Paul helped mom in the kitchen, hence his pineapple upside down cake skills. When I moved across the country, I knew it was a big adjustment for my dad, especially since Mom was no longer alive, but he encouraged me, knowing it was the best move for my career. I try to visit back home as much as possible, but I know it’s not like it used to be, something my dad is still adjusting to.
While the men are showering, I step up into the RV and stare down the bitch bed, aka, the dining table. If it’s anything like I remember, I’m in for a night full of the inability to stretch my body out, my arms getting stuck in the crevices of the cushions, and the worry if I’m going to fall through the table only to end up with a particle board piece of scrap shoved uncomfortably up my ass.
Dreading the night in front of me, I toss the cushions to the floor and grab the leg from underneath that’s holding up the table. It’s a little rusty, so trying to fold it up is challenging.
“Come on you geriatric plate holder. Get in there,” I say to it.
With fear of being pinched by the rusty leg’s button that won’t go in, I grab the hem of my shirt and bring it up to the button to protect my fingers. The cotton shields me, giving me more confidence to press harder.
“Don’t be a little bitch; work with me here.”
I grunt and shift my body to apply more pressure. Sweat starts to tickle my temples and I swear some more, throwing my entire body into the table.
“Do you need me to warm you up before I push your button? Are you a needy little lady? Fine. I can stroke you.” I take a break from the button and start running my hand up and down the leg of the dining table. The cold metal starts to warm from my pumping. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you, leg? Come on, work with me now.”
Moving my shirt back up to the button, exposing almost my entire front half, I press it in, throwing my back into it. With a final grunt and a thrust from my upper half, the button gives in. I scream from surprise and my fingers slip, trapping my shirt in the button hole while the leg of the table still stands straight as an aroused pencil cock.
“Damn it!” I flop to the ground, the hem of my shirt rising up around my neck, my entire front exposed just in time for Porter’s viewing pleasure.
Mid stride, he stops on the second step of the RV’s entrance when he sees me sitting on the floor, stuck in the table. He takes in the scene in front of him and his eyes turn a shade darker when his eyes land on my bare skin. If I didn’t think he was by far the hottest piece of male ass I’ve ever seen, I would have considered him a perv for the amount of time he took observing my appearance.
Scrambling out of view, I turn my back to him and fumble with the stupid leg again.
“Having some trouble?” I can feel his chest against my back, leaning over to see what I’m up to.
“Nope.” I scoot closer to the pole, my legs straddling it as if I’m borrowing the steel rod from a gnome’s strip club to conduct my own tantalizing dance.
“Seems like you’re stuck.” There is mirth in his voice and I hate it. His hand reaches around me as his head leans over my shoulder. “Let me see what you have going on here.”
“Do you mind? I have this under control,” I say, turning my face so our noses are
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