The Big Bag

Cala kept glancing my direction, her small mouth a straight line. We said nothing, seldom did we talk on the bus. This would not be the place.

To say I was not hopeful the next day, I was. But this pang of guilt now overtaking me. My desire and libido was yet off the charts. I had never felt like this, like a teenager. I wanted to ask her to remember her sunglasses, what it all may mean. But again, Cala left without her glasses, were they in the bag? Put them on.

But I would not ask such a thing. I could not breathe, felt depressed. My whole life felt like a waste, a stupid waste, spending my time chasing after my own daughter. It is embarrassing. Today she sat nearer me, not toward the aisle as yesterday, and she seemed more relaxed as well. The moment had passed, it was gone. I kept my hands to myself.

All day I wondered, worked through in my mind every conceivable facet of Cala's thoughts. But I said nothing, we had no contact at all that week, I left her alone. Feeling she wanted it that way. By Friday it would be another week with her mother, and I would not see her at all.

On Friday I left work early, thinking of catching the bus home, knowing what time Cala rode the bus home. She may think it was weird, but I wanted to see her. Should we talk about this? She would be leaving tonight, but as I went past the stop she was not there. Then I felt stupid and realized how things needed to be normal. My mind exhausted, so much emotional adrenaline. When my phone rang. It was Lisa, no doubt coordinating the transfer. They would be leaving either tonight or tomorrow and be with her for the following week.

I answered, "Hello."

I had been so distracted, it never occurred to me it was anything but a perfunctory scheduling call.

"Hi." Her voice sounded different, her hi was drawn out, but still with a playful edge.

"Yes." I turned myself toward the window speaking low. The bus was full and I had a little difficulty hearing, hunching over my phone and holding it tight to my ear.

"Say, I never got a chance to thank you for, uh, the other night." Pause. "Don't know what got into you."

"Yeah, well thank YOU."

"But, uh, well I wanted to add that I thought it might have been a little inappropriate." Fuck. "You being at the house and all. It's not a good idea. The kids could have seen us."

"Fine." I answered in an even, measured tone. Here was the Lisa I knew, who shit on everything.

"Oh, and, uh, I might of said some things that I didn't really mean."

To that I responded, "I think I might of known that." I wanted to say No Shit Sherlock.

"I just wanted to be certain." She was heading me off, afraid I might be calling her again. Shooting me down, it had crossed my mind.

I did say, "So, only boring sex from now on, got it." I was beginning to tremble with anger.

"Not what I meant...."

I cut her off, "You know what, I've had a horrible week. And now the one good thing that happened in it, you SHIT on..."

"Nickie, I..."

"So you're welcome for some great sex. It will never happen again."

"Nickie I don't want it to end this ..."

I cut her off, did not want to hear it, "SERIOUSLY! You call me...Look, I got to go, I'm on the bus. I can't talk." And I hung up the phone.

My heart beating harder than it had all day, my hands trembling. I shoved the phone into my coat pocket. Fuck her. Fuck her. This has been the story of my whole life. This was the Lisa I knew. Take every bit of spontaneity in my life and kill it. It's what she's been doing to me for the last twenty years. Killing everything, EVERYTHING, in my life I enjoy and feel good about. Crafting me into this stable, routine, reliable, shell of a man. Behind the anger, an unsettled guilt. I had used her to play my fantasy. I shouldn't have gotten so angry. But what the fuck!

I pressed my hand to my temples and squeezed. Fuck. FUCK.

What had my life become?

*********************

FORGIVENESS?

Now I was not quite such a mess as, up to this point, it may appear.

I recovered admirably over the weekend and had a quiet weekend and was determined to settle down the following week. Though with a tinge of depression. I was hit hard by midweek. But I had managed to take my mind off things and the following weekend had Cala and Mark again, and we engaged in several activities. I grilled and we had a generally nice time, and Cala seemed more herself. She was warmer, everything back to normal. By the following Monday, I too was back to normal, albeit anyone looking at me would know I was down. All the drama was behind me. Though I was thinking about trying to apologize to Lisa, do something with her. My arousal was off the charts. I needed to apologize and somehow reconcile to our 'relationship.'

Monday passed and Tuesday, Wednesday. I was adjusting, a thing of memory.

Except this morning, Thursday.

Cala came down the stairs dressed for school, leaving with me as always. Normal. But as we left the house she slipped on those dark sunglasses, and stepped out ahead of me looking back as we walked toward the stop. I felt my heart flutter.

Coincidence.

Now, there was a mist of rain, the smell of spring, enough chance of rain I brought my umbrella. No need for sunglasses, was there? I could not help it, as she slowed her walk, letting me catch up, her ear buds in, silent. She was transforming, becoming this mysterious woman again. Her small chin, the straight line of her mouth. Impish grin. My heart quivered, my breath catching in my throat. Remembering what I had done.

I boarded the bus and stared out the window, distracted. What was this about? I was not even going to try get my hopes up, it was too exhausting. I kept looking at her, noticing, again her body, her hair, her outfit. A tight pair of jeans and a loose jersey. A blue and white extra large jersey. As I glanced, not knowing if she noticed or not, my heart racing, feeling warm and trembling.

But I was determined, no, I was not going to do anything. It's chance, she doesn't even know what the glasses do to me.

No. No way. The fun was over. The whole experience had become too painful. One can experience too much arousal.

But my rising lust was betraying my reason. I felt as if the heat of her was radiating along my body, and her smell. Her wonderful perfume. I glanced her way and could see this shimmer, a mist of water droplets in her dark hair. The misty rain. The way the clouded daylight shined through the windows, it created this light shimmer, like small diamonds in her hair. An angel. And she still had the large bag and the phone, and those dark glasses. My heart was pounding and I could feel my cock stiffening. I glanced at her legs, and also realizing the 'tight' jeans were not jeans at all. They were tights the color of blue jeans, of course, form fitting to her body with that jersey fallen around her lap. The fabric was even slightly faded along the top of her thighs, and had seams imprinted on the sides. The jersey was large, and loose. Blue and white with a picture of an angel on the front, the school mascot.

Angels. How appropriate.

I felt like I could not breathe, as my resistance melted away.

Fuck, I wanted to touch her again. One time. Cala, would you let me? Same as before. This is something I need, human contact. But I just could not bring myself to. I looked out the window and felt it, her leg pressing along mine. God she was right there, pressing her leg to me. I pressed back in return and she held the pressure. Smoke. Fire. My heart beating in my chest.

I lay my hand at her thigh. I can't describe the feeling, like eating food after having nothing for days.

She was looking down at her phone, wearing her ear buds. No reaction. Same as before.

I began drawing small circles on her, began stroking along her thighs, more quickly than before, hungry. A wave of lust, relief, desire. I traced the printed seam up along her inner thigh, slipping my hand down between her legs, lightly stroking up the inside of her legs as I had now weeks before. Feeling her legs open for me. Stroking her, higher, higher up to the edge of the jersey. The fabric of the tights were just like nylons, with a jean pattern. It felt as if I were rubbing her skin. Just the movement of fabric beneath my fingers. I was more openly looking up and down her legs as I stroked her, the open space between her legs, the length of her thigh still pressing to mine. She, turning her chin to me, a small smile on her face. Almost as if welcoming me. A hello after long absence.

I'll play.

God, each smooth stroke of her leg, I could feel the warmth of her body, so intoxicating. How she let me do this. I continued to stroke my hands softly over her legs, same as the last time. Down to her knees and back up between her legs, no hem of a skirt. I could reach up high into her crotch and let my fingers drift higher still. I could feel the heat of her, her warmth. Higher. The humid heat of her body. I held my breath as I brushed my hand right at her crotch, scratching my nails on the fabric. And no panties. I could tell immediately. Fuck. She was crazy. She sucked in her breath at my touch. I could feel the swell, the perfect form of her two pussy lips, through the thin the fabric right between her legs, and the cushion of pussy hair. Her response was to open her legs still further and tug the bag over the top of my hand. Hidden, I slid my hand down, she was letting me palm her pussy. I curled my fingers and scratched there between her legs and held my hand there. Feeling her fire, and god she was hot and wet. Her juices staining the fabric, I could feel her. I simply wanted to hold her there, feel the heat of her. I could feel the cushion of her her pussy hairs in the fabric. Her little cunny separated by a bit of fabric. No panties again today. My heart pounding in my chest. She slid the tiniest bit down, causing her jersey to rise a bit and I could see my hand laying over her puss. Like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, I raised my hand up, back under her jersey, hiding it from view and lay it now over her abdomen just below her navel.

She turned her head to me slightly, cocking her head, waggled her hips. No expression, but the impish smile was there. An, 'I can't believe you just did that look.'

I had just run my hand over her puss. And she had let me. She was probably thinking the same thing as me, what the hell am I doing? But the look she gave me felt more like, what now? I let go again, it was too much. I was about to explode, so I caressed her thighs some more, and she looked away again.

But once again rubbing higher, repeating my prior path. Scratching at her upper thigh, right at her crotch, and to the side back over her abdomen. Avoiding her puss this time, honestly, it was too much. I would have cum. And something else. I realized I had to touch her, skin to skin. I wanted to feel her flesh. Her head cocked toward me again as I left her tights, tucking my hand beneath the jersey and began to rub her bare tummy. Following along the edge of her tights, could feel the indent of her navel. Her powdery skin, no movement other than the rise and fall of her breathing. My eyes on her, silence. Permission.

My hand drawing these delicious strokes over her tummy, the feel of her soft warm flesh was electrifying. Oh my god, my hand was tucked up under her jersey and I could feel the coolness of my hands by the heat of her tummy. I could feel her body clench at my touch, it probably felt cold. I wanted to say, 'sorry' but she had those ear buds in, there were no words between us.

The transition to nothing between my hand and her flesh was exhilarating. It is not an exaggeration to say I nearly came from that, and my cock was a pole in my pants. My hand lay over her tummy now, as I traced the edge of her ribs with my fingers. Could feel her breath and her rapidly beating heart. My mind an utter blank, only sensation, I haven't a clue what thoughts there were. Only sensation, her smell, her warmth, the powdery feel of her skin. Nothing more.

I continued to stroke my hand higher, so my fingers began to press at the edge of her breasts. Far enough to feel the fabric of the softest little silk bra I had ever felt. The kind with no under wire, a thin silky fabric covering the softness of the swell of her breasts. I traced the fabric higher. Her soft flesh, and the sudden edge of her bra, a bra that barely covered her nipples. A little bow in the middle. This bra was not lace and I rubbed the top swell of her breasts and could feel the beat of her heart. Covering her breast with my hand and I squeezed.

Do you want to know the exact size and shape of her breasts? Do an internet search for 'Champagne Coupe' a glass molded from the breasts of Marie Antoinette. To look at a champagne coupe is to look at the breasts of my little girl. She was looking toward me now as I touched her, and had even moved her bag a little to cover my hand. Her aloof demeanor had broken, and she eyed me as my hand could be seen rustling around beneath her jersey. But again, she let me touch her, had even positioned her bag for me to continue. I began to rub the side of her breasts with my palm and to press her nipple with my thumb.

I looked at her, at her face, she was biting her lower lip with her teeth, nothing more. May not have even known she was doing that. But she was looking my way now, watching. Definitely watching. Desire rising in her, her cheeks were flushed. Desire, and with it a nervousness. I continued, though at one point as I attempted to tug her bra higher, wanting to feel her nipples to expose her breasts beneath the jersey, her hand covered mine. Sudden, but not hard, a soft hand pressed to her breast where my hand was. Stopping me. The rules of red light green light, and I relented. She did not, however, seek to pull my hand out. But, no, I was not to remove her bra, pull it up and off her, expose her. Instead I moved higher and insinuated my fingers over her soft breasts from above and tickled my fingers over her nipples, feeling them stiffen at my touch. This apparently was allowed. Green light! To this also, she did respond by shifting herself, turning herself toward me and moving a little closer. If I could just see her eyes, they would be closed I thought. And yes, as I had imagined, her breasts were sensitive. She loved what I was doing, I could tell, as her chin rose and she lay her head back on the chair, so my ministrations continued. Squeezing and rubbing her little nubs. God damn, it was wonderful.

My hand now drifting back down her front, caressing her rib cage, her tummy, her abdomen. Continuing, I began slipping my fingers beneath the edge of her tights, pressing low on her abdomen, between her hips, narrowing to that little puss, but still rubbing bare flesh. I could feel the downy hairs form a line from her navel, opening into her little bush. To this her head tipped down again, toward me, her chin nearly touching her neck. I could imagine her thoughts as she looked slightly my way, 'Really?' and her impish smile forming a line, was there any 'behave' in it. Her lips pressed together, our entire conversation an indecipherable read of her mouth. I paused, no response means permission, as I let my palm simply lay over her abdomen beneath her tights, the tips of my fingers playing with edges of short pussy hairs. I could stay like this all day. She was still turned toward me. My god, and she letting me, all of it. Unbelievable. Time again, stopped.

I was just drinking her in, feeling the curve of her body. The quiver of her flesh, her warmth. The heat of her was melting me, my hand trembling as I held to her. Her legs remained comfortably open.

After a long while, and realizing we were in the city now, I pressed slightly further. My movement readily allowed by the stretchy material of her thin tights, the fabric opening as my hand pressed lower, as my fingers brushed into the forest of her little bush, feeling the ridge of her pussy mound. Further, her leg opening a little more, and my hand was again cupping her bare pussy. I could feel the ridge, the swell of each lip. The hairs tickling my palm.

At that moment I believe we were both surprised at where my hand was, what I held to. I almost felt as if I had gotten further than intended. To continue was to split open this pussy ready to burst, I was imagining how wet she was. To feel her juices, and it was I who suddenly became shy, reserved. My hand in this little girls pants, her legs open, cupping and palming her pussy. I squeezed, squeezed. And her chin went low with each squeeze, her head cocked to the side, and she clung to her bag which she had now pressed right over her lap. I did not press into her, open her, slide inside, press my finger in her, burst her open. Her fruit so ripe and ready. She was chewing her lip again. Her cheeks were flushed now, betraying her arousal. A slight undulation of her hip. Her hunger, I could feel it now. Crazy, we were crazy. Using my thumb and forefinger I squeezed again, squeezed her pussy lips together from the edge, rubbing her like a piece of clay, applying a pressure where I imagined her clit to be.

She breathed in deep, stifling a moan, and her fingers clung to the bag she was holding, I detected a shiver. Her body trembling at my touch, her hips trembling, her body all a quiver and breath quickening. I closed my eyes, as I let my fingers press down, the pressure of the tights on the back of my hand, could just feel the beginning of her parting labia her leaking puss. A seam of wet flesh, a ribbon of her juices. Her aroused inner lips swelling. Oh god, her bare pussy, her nicely trimmed bush. I was so god damned close.

Her head was cocked to me again, and then eying the front of the bus. I looked up, realizing the bus was approaching her stop, moving past stop lights, her stop was coming. I did not have long, and I never wanted this to end, but neither had I intended to have my hand covering her bare pussy.

I let go, held my hand to her abdomen for a moment, felt her relax and release a deep breath, as she lay her hand right over mine and held it. A soft pressure separated by the fabric of the Jersey. And I did not move, letting my hand lay on her bare skin, wanting to touch her as long as I could. Feeling the pressure of her hand on the back of mine. So nice. Now this felt innocent, intimate. Having held and stroked, caressed, and touched her most intimately.

What would she taste like? I looked at her mouth, her shiny beautiful lips. A kiss. To hold her in my arms, to hold hands. To talk.

As the bus came to the stop I was aware, as was she. Time to go. I did not want this to ever end.

As the final stop came and passengers began to rise, she squeezed my hand and shot me an impish smile and pressed a piece of paper in my hand.

I HAVE STUDY PERIOD AT ONE DADDY. I THINK WE BETTER CHAT

On the other side it said said

TEXT ME

It felt as if I had taken a grenade in my hand. Placing it in my pocket I felt as if everyone was looking, knew.

I remember thinking, if I sucked my fingers hard enough, I could probably taste her.

***********************

THE DEAL IS . . .

The meditation of my day: What do I do now? Should I? Do I write? Or wait until the evening. Writing would be so much easier than facing her.

Followed by: What do I write? What could I possibly say?

The answer was inevitable, the invitation, the compulsion was too great. I could no more have not contacted her than I could not draw my next breath.

That afternoon, at one o'clock, I sat at my desk and tapped out:

hello sweet

i feel I should say i'm sorry

i don't know what has come over me

it won't happen again.

There. What else could I possibly say? I sat there and stared at the words, unmoving. How was it? Stupid. Admission of guilt. I had to apologize. Ultimately I had no ability to even assess - and hit send. It was too late, and I was on to recrimination and self doubt. Undoubtedly, the worst text ever. I could not stop looking at the screen.