Staying Put

"You should get one," she said, smiling. "You deserve the luxury."

We sat there, smiling at one another for a couple of minutes, then she said, "If you sit on this side, you get a much better view." It was true. Other than the view I was getting of her, all I could see from where I sat was the back wall of her house. So I slid over to her side of the tub, conscious of my hard cock waving in the water as I moved. The seat was not large enough for the two of us to sit without touching, so I settled in with my hip and thigh pressed against hers and my arm on the back of the tub behind her head.

"This is the life," I said, just to say something.

"It gets better," she said and her hand dropped to my cock, which she grabbed and gave a squeeze. An involuntary shudder ran through my whole body. It felt very good. But I also felt very conflicted. Knowing what I knew about Chris, it somehow felt wrong to be doing what we were about to do. But it also felt right.

"You're right," I said. "That feels very nice."

She just sat there, squeezing my cock for a minute or two, then she turned and we kissed. It wasn't the rough, passionate kiss of new lovers, but rather was the soft, slow kiss of two people who know each other well. We didn't really, but it was just the way it happened. I found myself growing increasingly excited by her insistent squeezing of my cock and the softness of her lips and the dance of her tongue was doing with mine.

Finally, I needed to act, so I turned in my seat and said, "Sit up on the edge for me."

She did as I asked, spreading her legs. The lips of her pussy were very red and distended from a combination of excitement and hot water and the crossed lightning bolts pointed me to my destination. I kissed my way down one thigh, up to her tattoo and then down the other thigh. She shuddered several times as I did this and ran her fingers through my now wet hair. Then I kissed my way back to her center and began to flick my tongue across the edges of her lips. This earned me a moan.

"That feels so good Mark. Please don't stop."

I didn't. Instead, I began to bore in with my tongue, sliding it in and out of her folds, tasting the saltiness of her juices as they began to flow into my mouth. And then, when I had my fill, I worked my way at last to her clit. It was already very hard and standing up, begging for my attention.

I began with a soft tapping, slapping it gently with my tongue, which made her shudder violently. Then I bore down harder, sliding back and forth, up and down, and around in circles, teasing, rubbing, nipping at her. As I looked up toward her face, those lightning bolts quivered just at the edge of my vision.

The pressure she was beginning to exert on the back of my head was such that I knew she was getting close, so I increased my pace. She began moaning loudly now and tried to grind my head into her crotch. It was all I could do to keep from being smothered. Then, all at once, she stiffened, her thighs clamped around my ears, and she yelled something unintelligible.

Her orgasm felt almost like a shock that slammed through her body, taking me with it as it went. I just did more of what I'd been doing and she chanted "Yes, yes, yes," for another minute, before suddenly pushing me away violently.

I fell backward into the tub with a splash, my head going under for a second, then came up smiling. "Did you cum?" I asked.

"Ha!" she barked. "Very funny." Then she patted the side of the tub next to her and said, "Your turn."

I climbed out of the water, my very hard cock waving in front of me, and sat where I had been told to sit. Chris slid off the side of the tub and took her place between my legs. I looked down at her and she was smiling up at me, her hair now slick with sweat and steam. I smiled back and watched as she took my cock in her hands and guided it toward her mouth. Her tongue snaked out and began to probe all around the crown, making me twitch with pleasure. My twitches made her look up again at me and she smiled some more. "Nice cock," she said.

"Thanks," was all I could manage.

Then she slid her lips down over the head of my cock so slowly I thought I would die. As I disappeared into her, I could feel a mounting pressure as she sucked very, very hard on my cock, drawing blood into the head and making it flare. All the while, her tongue was circling me, sending waves of pleasure down toward my balls. Chris was a woman who knew how to suck a cock.

And then, from the back of my brain somewhere, came the realization of why she knew how to suck cock. The memory of her in her bed just a few days before, begging her father to have sex with her, came to me and as it did, as hard and excited as I was, my cock began to deflate. In my whole life I've never lost an erection during sex, but it happened. Despite her attempts to keep me up and going, I just went soft in her mouth.

"Mark?" she said. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes and no," I said. "What you're doing is wonderful. Really wonderful. But, uh, do you think we could go inside and talk for a bit?"

She looked very puzzled and lord knows I would have been if I'd been in her position. After all, two minutes earlier, I'd been responding just as any man would have to the amazing blow job she was giving me and the next, I was flaccid and wanted to talk. Very-unmale behavior to be sure.

"Okay," she said, hesitantly. We both stood, climbed out of the tub and grabbed our towels. I dried off as best I could and then wrapped mine around my waist. Chris did the same, wrapping hers around her breasts. I took her by the hand to let her know it was going to be alright, and led her back onto the screen porch. Sitting her down on the white wicker love seat, I sat next to her and stared into her eyes for a minute, wondering how to begin. She looked puzzled, and maybe even a little afraid.

"Chris," I said. "I have to tell you something, something I didn't want to tell you. But before we go any further I have to. If I don't it will be like a wall between us that we can't break through."

"Go ahead Mark," she said. "What is it?"

She had no idea what I was going to say. I was afraid. Very afraid, because I didn't know how to say this and was so scared of saying it the wrong way, of fucking up. But I didn't have any choice. I had to say it.

"Several days ago, when you were delirious, well, you remember I told you you tried to seduce me?"

"Yes."

"Well, uh, when you did that, you weren't trying to seduce me, you were trying to seduce the person you thought I was." She looked like she was about to ask who that was, but I plunged ahead. "You thought I was your father."

Her eyes changed immediately. Her look went from quizzical to scared. All at once. It was if she was a rabbit who had just realized the stick she was looking at was a snake about to strike. She moved away from me on the loveseat, pressing her back against the arm. Her hand went to her mouth and tears began to well up in her eyes. I could tell she was fighting like hell to hold on to her composure, so I waited a minute to giver her time before continuing. When her breathing settled just a bit, I went on.

"From the things you said to me then, I got the distinct impression that he abused you when you were a girl and you were reliving that time in your life. Did he? Did he abuse you?"

She leaned forward then and rested her head on her knees. I sat there and watched her for a minute, then put my hand on her back and began to stroke her gently, wanting her to know it was okay and that I was there. We sat like that for a long time. Ten minutes, fifteen minutes, twenty minutes. I don't know how long it was. She didn't move, didn't speak, didn't change her breathing. I wanted to say something, something to break through her sorrow, her fear, maybe her shame, but I didn't know what to say, so I just kept stroking her back gently and sitting with her as I'd done in her bedroom the week before.

All at once, she sat up, turned to look at me, opened her mouth to say something, and then just collapsed. At first I thought she'd fainted, but it wasn't that at all. She just fell against me, her forehead in the hollow of my shoulder and cried, loud, wrenching sobs that tore at my heart. Anguish is the word for what this was. I just patted her back, smoothed her hair, whispered, "It's okay, it's okay" over and over. I have no idea how long her sadness spilled out from her onto me, but I knew I was glad to be there to hold her as it did.

Finally, the pace of her sobbing began to slow and she shuddered as she tried to regain her composure. We sat there together on the porch in the darkness, me contemplating the darkness she'd been living in all these years, her contemplating I knew not what. Then I realized that she'd fallen asleep, worn out by the rending emotions and her still incomplete recovery.

If I'd been strong enough, I would have picked her up and carried her to bed. Instead, I slid out from under her weight and lay her down on the loveseat, then went to her bedroom and grabbed a pillow and a blanket for her and another for me. Returning to the porch I slipped the pillow under her head and covered her with the blanket, then sat in the wicker armchair across from her, propped my feet up on the coffee table, covered myself and sat with her.

When I woke up, the sun was just breaking through the trees, shafts of light playing across the grass of the back yard. Chris was still there on the loveseat, but she wasn't asleep. She was sitting up, wrapped in the blanket I'd brought her, watching me.

"Hey," I said.

"Good morning," she said, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. "You snore, you know."

"Guilty as charged," I said. My snoring had been one of my wife's many complaints about me. "How long have you been awake?"

"Just a few minutes. You want coffee?"

"Yes," I said, trying to turn my head to the left. It would go to the right, but the muscles in the right side of my neck were bound up so tight I couldn't get much rotation to the left.

"Stiff, eh?" she asked.

"Very. Chairs aren't exactly conducive to comfortable sleeping."

"You're very sweet, you know," she said. "Sitting our here with me like that. Why didn't you just make me go to bed?"

"You seemed so, well, safe right where you were that I didn't have the heart to move you. And I didn't want you to be alone."

She nodded. "Thanks." Then she pushed the blanket aside and stood up. She was, of course, naked. Casually, she reached down, picked up the towel, and wrapped it around her waist, leaving her breasts bare, and headed off to the kitchen. I sat there for a minute, massaging my neck, thinking about the night before and what would happen now. I wasn't sure, but the bare breasts told me something. I decided it was time to find out what that something was, so I wrapped my own towel back around my waist and headed off in search of coffee.

Chris was standing at the counter slicing a Cantaloupe and placing the cubes she was making into two bowls. I could see bagels toasting in the toaster oven. "Smells good," I said, meaning the coffee.

She turned, handed me a mug, then went back to what she was doing. I couldn't help but watch the way her muscular shoulders rippled as she sliced the melon. Knowing her bare breasts were just on the other side of those shoulders was certainly a bit unnerving and caused the first hint of arousal between my legs. To divert myself from such thoughts, I fidgeted with the coffee, looked for and found the half and half in the refrigerator and then sat at the small kitchen table and watched her some more.

This vantage actually made things worse, because now I was looking at her in profile and the way her left breast bobbed up and down as she worked was, well, very sexy. I felt my towel begin to rise off my leg just a bit, but what could I do? Close my eyes?

The entire time she worked on the fruit and the bagels, Chris didn't say a word, but when she was done, she brought breakfast to the table, sat across from me, and said, "I think I'm ready to talk about it now."

"Okay," I said. "I'm ready too."

She handed me a bowl of melon and my bagel, took a bite of her own, chewed it, then swallowed. "I'm the youngest of three children, two older brothers. It started when I was ten. Ever since I could remember, my father would read to me at bedtime and would scratch my back as I fell asleep. I loved the feeling of his fingers on my skin as he eased me into sleep. One night he asked me if I liked the way it felt and I said 'yes'. Then he told me it would feel good if he did the same thing on my chest. I trusted him, of course, so I rolled over and he gave me a "front scratch" as he called it. It did feel good and I fell asleep as he was doing it."

"Over the next couple of weeks, he did the same thing—first a back scratch, then a front scratch. But with each successive night he would spend more and more time "scratching" my nipples. It felt good in a way I couldn't really identify, but I didn't say anything. I just let him do it. One night he asked me if I liked the feeling I got when he scratched my nipples. I admitted that I did, but felt a little odd about it.

At some level I must have known it was wrong, but I was too young to identify why. Then he told me there was a place he could scratch that would feel even better than that. I asked him where and he said, 'between your legs.' I wasn't sure about that. After all, it was where I peed, but he pressed on, telling me it was okay, just to let him do it and I'd see how good it felt."

She wasn't looking at me as she told this story. Instead, she was staring out the back window, but I could see that her eyes were unfocused. She was obviously back there in her bedroom with her father. I felt a tightening in my throat, the kind you get when you think you might vomit.

"It did feel good, of course. He knew what he was doing and he was recruiting me into his desires slowly and carefully. Each night after that he spent a bit more time with his hand between my legs and somewhere along the way he told me we had to promise never to tell anyone about this, that it was a secret that the two of us would share, that it made us special. I loved my father very much and trusted him completely, so I agreed to his secret. And, I was worried that if I told anyone that he'd stop reading to me at night. He spent most of his free time with my older brothers, so our bed time ritual was one of the few ways I had his full attention."

"After about six months, he asked me one night if I wanted him to feel as good as he was making me feel. I said of course and asked what I should do. At that, he unzipped his pants, pulled out his penis and placed my hand on it, telling me what he wanted me to do. Remember, I was ten and now part of a secret society with my father based on sexual feelings, so I did what he told me to do and before long he came.

He was smart, though, and before he did, he told me what was going to happen and that if it did, it was a sign I'd made him feel very, very good. I was fascinated by the white stuff and the way it came shooting out of him. He called it his "happy juice." From that point on I wanted to see it happen as often as I could. It was the way my father showed me how happy I made him."

She shook her head sadly then, as though she were remembering how easily he'd duped her.

"You can imagine how it didn't take much to make the leap from giving him hand jobs to 'kissing him there.' He didn't actually penetrate me until I was thirteen. I think he was probably worried about my ability to accommodate him and that I might get hurt and thus expose the whole thing. By the time we moved on to actual fucking, I'd been having orgasms for close to six months and believed that they were the proof of how much my father loved me. He gave them to me as a gift of his love—at least that's what he told me.

Once he started fucking me, though, I began to feel differently about it. There was something about the act of fucking that was just different from the oral and hand sex we'd been having for years. It felt wrong somehow in ways the others didn't. But I was afraid to talk to him about that part, because I didn't want him to stop loving me."

Then she turned to look at me again. "It ended when I was 15. I'd been sitting around with some of my girlfriends in a park chatting about boys, how all they wanted was sex, that sort of thing. I felt set apart from them, because I knew that none of them had actually 'done it' yet, when I'd been doing it with my father for years. I knew so much more about it than they did, but I knew I couldn't reveal anything.

Then one of them told a story about her cousin who had been raped by her older brother and how he'd ended up going to jail for it. It suddenly dawned on me, don't ask me why it took this long, that what my father was doing to me was a crime. Then I thought about why that would be. And then I went to the library and read a couple of books on sexual abuse of children and I knew what I had to do."

"I made the mistake of telling my mother and she freaked out, not at him, but at me. She accused me of being a slut, of stealing my father from her, that it was all my fault that she and my father hadn't had sex for years. I ran out of the house, went to a friend's house and asked to spend the night. When her mother asked me what was the matter at home, I couldn't bring myself to tell her. I just said that my mother and I had had a huge fight and that I didn't want to go home. Thankfully, she didn't ask any more questions."

I nodded, seeing how it would be a relief to not have to say anything.

"When I went home the next day, my mother treated me with a sort of icy calm that told me I was in terrible trouble. One part of me wanted my father to come home and make it all okay, but a much more powerful part of me hoped I'd never lay eyes on him again. I was so disgusted with myself for what I'd done, but more than anything I hated him for what he'd done to me. I knew I could never be normal again."

"My mother never forgave me for the fact that he moved out that week and never returned. And she told my older brothers that Daddy had left home because of me. When my oldest brother confronted me about it, I told him the truth and for just a second I thought he was going to hit me. His face contorted with rage and then he spit out 'you fucking slut' and stormed out of the room. If there had been a gun or a knife in my room at that moment I would have killed myself.

My middle brother came in a few minutes later. Our brother had told him my story and he just didn't know what to do or say. Actually, that was better in a way because he just sat there with me while I cried myself to sleep. The next morning he walked with me to school and told me that he hated our father and that he loved me and that he'd always protect me and that if Daddy tried to touch me again he'd kill him. That just made me cry more, which I'm sure confused him even worse than he already was."

I offered, "At least he tried to do the right thing."

"Yes," she said. "He did, but it was all too much for him. He went off to college that fall and didn't come back. Every year since then he sends me a card on my birthday and at Christmas and I see him maybe every third year or so. But he's got his own life and has moved on in his own way. Our older brother hasn't spoken to me since. I'm dead to him."

"Sounds like a real shit," I said.

"I guess," she replied. "But you have to realize. He idolized my father and I took that away from him in the worst way possible. And when my father drove his car into a tree four years later, it meant I'd taken him away forever."

"What about your mother?" I asked.

"She died a year before my father. Cancer. But I think she really died of bitterness. Can you imagine what it was like for her to realize that her husband of 22 years had been fucking their daughter for the past five?"