Sexy Erotica...
"In My Father’s Footsteps," a sex story by Jeremy Edwards
The day I was to see Vicky, I awoke in a steady-state of physiological readiness. I had a morning hard-on but I wasn’t really aroused; it was more like I was prepared. I floated in bed, relaxed but alert, enjoying an interlude on the verge of action.
Outside, the air was cold but promising. On my neck, it felt like ice cream that was still too frozen to eat.
When I’d finally resolved to take this step, Vicky’s secretary had made my appointment under a first name only. I was simply “Carlton,” who allegedly sought career-counseling advice and would be there at ten o’clock on March 14, 1992. Would the name ring a bell? I had wondered.
She recognized me right away, though she hadn’t seen me since the funeral sixteen years earlier. “Carlton,” she said. She hesitated a moment, then ushered me to the inner office while the secretary looked after us quizzically.
I, of course, had seen her professional headshot in the yellow pages. So the fact that she seemed simply to have become a more definitive version of her younger self, rather than doing much in the way of aging, was at this point no surprise to me. But, to be honest, it hadn’t surprised me when revealed by the phone book, either.
The token quantities of makeup and jewelry that she wore—perhaps merely out of deference to business conventions—could not conceal the timeless, natural gracefulness of her features, which were at once vivid and soft. And even though she’d evidently been put off balance by my arrival, she carried herself with a sensuous dignity that evoked all the women of my favorite fine-art canvases.
No sooner had I taken a seat than she broke the ice, releasing its chill into the room. “Why are you here, Carlton?” Before I could reply, she added the six words I’d readied myself for: “I’m sure you must hate me.”
I knew that people from my parents’ world often used to think that way, and I’d recognized the possibility that Vicky might be carrying this type of baggage.
“No way,” I said. “Never.”
“Why are you here?” she repeated, as though I’d never said “never.”
“It’s a little hard to explain.” I wanted to ease into this, insofar as that was consistent with the admitted abruptness of my uninvited reappearance in her life. “Part of it is curiosity.”
“I’m a monster to you.”
It was sad, though understandable and not unexpected, that she perceived me as such a dark cloud that she’d uttered this first-class soap-opera dialogue. All the more reason that I should keep talking.
“I promise, it’s not like that.”
“No?” She was unconvinced.
“No. It’s like this: My father loved you once. I wanted to meet you again.”
“The woman who took him away from your mother.”
I smiled—reassuringly, I hoped with all my heart. “You know that’s not how it was. My parents were on the rocks as far back as Pittsburgh, and I know for a fact they’d separated before Dad even met you. And the split was mutual—it wasn’t as if he quote-unquote left her.”
For the first time, she spoke gently, without the edge in her voice. “Yes, I know all that.” She paused. “But I wasn’t sure you would.”
I got her drift. “Oh, Mom is a good egg. Just like Dad was—but I don’t have to tell you about him. Mind you, she and Dad were right to divorce—I could tell even as a kid they didn’t click. Anyway, she never . . . she didn’t begrudge him anything he did afterward, or harbor anything against . . . well, they really did want each other to be happy, you see? No”—I cleared my throat to make way for the ten-dollar word—“no demonizing occurred in our house.”
“I’m glad.” She was finally smiling, if faintly.
“Pretty soon, Mom had somebody else, too. Bert is terrific—he’s been part of the family for years now. But you . . . I realize it didn’t last that long. And then Dad died.”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t. You’ve been here all this time, and for so long I’ve wanted to . . .” Now that she was calm, her eyes held a warmth that both comforted and excited me. This was what I’d come here for—what I’d hoped I’d find here.
I allowed myself the recklessness that had given this entire adventure its purpose: “You’re as beautiful as I remembered. I hope it’s okay for me to say that.”
She looked cautiously pleased but, primarily, surprised. “I don’t know. Maybe you shouldn’t—”
But I felt that it was right, and I gambled on the hope that she might also feel it was right before long. “There was a picture of you with his things. I found it years later, when I took stuff out of storage.”
“That’s sweet. A snapshot from the seventies, huh?” She chuckled. “God, what was I wearing?”
I shook my head “no,” and Vicky caught my meaning and blushed. “Carlton . . .”
“It’s funny. In many ways, I’m not very much like Dad at all. I don’t even look much like him. But I guess I inherited some of his . . . tastes. Dad always had excellent taste—in wine . . . films . . . music, of course . . . and then, especially, there was y—”
“Okay, Carlton. Okay, now. Please.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
She was slow to answer. “I don’t know,” she confessed at last.
She got up, walking toward the window and keeping me out of her line of sight. “Damn, you may not look like him, but you talk like him.”
“That’s a compliment.”
“And . . . no, please don’t go.” The request was just barely audible.
She returned to the couch that she’d installed herself on when first showing me in. We sat quietly for a few minutes—cementing her decision that I shouldn’t leave, while not yet following any particular path forward.
I used this quiet to reflect further on why I was there. And, though it may sound twisted, I realized that lusting after Vicky was, in part, a way of relating to my father, albeit in retrospect. I had found something important that we could, across a span of two decades, share: a sexual appreciation for a specific woman. A woman who, despite her involvement with my father, had never been in anything remotely like a motherly role to me. Vicky was almost a stranger, linked to me only by the fact that she and Dad had been lovers, twenty years ago, and I had met her a couple of times.
A couple of times that had evidently made a strong impression on me.
Moreover, Vicky was a link to a Dad I didn’t get to see enough of, because of his untimely death—a Dad free of the burden of an unsatisfying marriage, a Dad who perhaps thrived on passion and laughter.
I reviewed my presumptuous speculation that I might represent something Vicky could use, too, in the way of an emotional connection. And a physical one.
“The sunlight is so pleasant on this side of the room,” she said after a while. “Won’t you join me over here?”
I crossed the floor to resituate myself at the far end of the businesslike couch.
“You said you were curious, and I understand that.” Her eyes still hadn’t met mine—not since she’d asked what she was wearing in the seventies photo. “First and foremost, I want you to know that your father never hurt me. Nor I him, I hope. We had two great, great years . . . but both of us were sort of in flux as human beings—you know, rediscovering ourselves—and at a certain point the chemistry was no longer there. We parted as lovers who’d morphed into a kind of brother-sister relationship, and we cherished each other in those roles until he died.”
“He still mentioned you sometimes,” I attested, “after you’d split up. My guess is that he would have done so more, except for a fear that you’d be a sore subject. Which I guarantee you were not.”
I took her hand, and she gave the appearance of not noticing—though to accomplish the task I’d had to extend my arm to nearly its full length, across the expanse of couch.
“Yes, I wished I could have spent quality time with you and your dad together. But he didn’t offer that, and I didn’t want to push it.”
“Well, I’m glad, now, that we didn’t spend any substantial time together when I was a kid, with you a sort of auntie to me. That wouldn’t have been compatible with . . . this.”
It was awkward trying to sidle over and kiss her all at once, but the advantage of it, as far as my conscience was concerned, was that she had ample opportunity to evade the maneuver—had she wanted to.
I kissed her delicately, but I lingered over it, letting the warmth of her body and the scent of her bosom cradle me.
“You’re a very handsome young man, Carlton.” Her gaze now ate me up.
I smirked. “I’m thirty years old.”
“You’re a very handsome young man, Carlton,” she repeated. Then she began unbuttoning her blouse.
As I cupped her breasts, I turned confessional, wanting to justify myself. “I said it was difficult to explain why I came here . . .”
“No, no, you don’t have to explain.” She grasped my wrists, urging me to squeeze her harder.
I squeezed. “I was drawn here by a complicated hunger that you inspired in me, across time. A hunger that became more compelling every time I looked at your photo.” I continued squeezing. “I hope it doesn’t mean I’m using you.”
“Please,” she groaned—or moaned. “We can worry about that later. But I don’t think a young man who was using me would be nervous that he was using me.”
I leaned in to kiss the flesh of her breasts where the brassiere left them exposed. Vicky inhaled with primal satisfaction. “Mmm . . . you smell nice,” she whispered.
I wondered if I smelled like—but, no, I told myself, now was the time to stop thinking about that. Now was the time for me and Vicky.
I took advantage of the front-side clasp to let her loose. Her nipples were rigid and rosy, inviting my tongue with their frank sensuality.
“Oh, yes,” she said under my ensuing ministrations. “More.”
Although she had closed her eyes, she located my zipper without much trouble, and soon my cock was her plaything. I rode the soft ecstasy of her caress while continuing to lick her nipples. She was making little pleasure squeaks, just like the woman in the picture might have, had I been able to touch her.
I was gloriously aroused as well. I wanted to sample her ass cheeks, and to that end I lifted her onto my lap. Her skirt was already rumpling up to her hips, and it took only a slight contortion for me to reach my head down to kiss her bottom. I tasted the delectable saltiness of her skin through her thin black panties. She wiggled forward, releasing my cock so she could rub it with her mound. Her gusset kissed back at me, moistening the underwear offered by my open fly.
In the back of my mind, I surveyed the situation. My prick swayed proudly as I established the fact that Vicky was bouncing on my lap, that I was pleasuring Vicky’s panties.
I needed to kiss her in there, to love her in there. Awkward as it was with the hard-on, I slipped to the floor and framed my face with her thighs. I kissed her here, as behind, through the damp satin for a minute before baring her cunt; and I kissed up and down her lovely legs while I peeled the knickers. She squirmed beautifully. As I tossed the panties aside with my right hand, I entered her with a left-hand fingertip, previewing the terrain for the best thing I knew how to give her.
She tasted like white wine and the sweetest herbs. Darling, darling Vicky, the woman I’d needed to touch for so long.
I went into a kind of trance while I tongued and titillated her juicy folds, mesmerized by her quick breaths and her coos of gratification.
The orgasm seemed to overtake her suddenly, and she no doubt gave the secretary an earful that resonated nicely with her ten o’clock appointment-book entry: “Oh, Carlton! Oh, Carlton!” Her thighs drummed the sticky vinyl of the couch.
Nude Reclining on Couch by Igor Vasiliadis, available at ObsessionArt.com
"My goodness,” she said when the coming subsided. “My, my goodness. Maybe I shouldn’t say this . . . but you’re as skilled at that as your father was.”
I toasted her with my eyebrows—and my erection—as I rejoined her on the couch. “Here’s to saying the things that we’re afraid we shouldn’t say.”
She endorsed the sentiment by easing my cock into her slick, nurturing pussy.
Having penetrated, I repositioned my legs outside hers, so that our only points of contact within her thighs were inside her cunt. Then I made additional contact just above, pulsing down with my abdomen to entertain her clit. Vicky sank into the couch, her legs pressed tight against the cushions by the weight of mine . . . her buttocks receiving a wealth of hand-delivered sensation . . . her pussy, I trusted, luxuriating.
I tried to take it slowly, but she was coming again very soon, and the incomparable erotic high of being in Vicky’s cunt while she was coming was nothing I could sustain long. “Oh fuck, so great, so great,” I whimpered in homage to her when I gave it up.
I rested in her lap.
“I suppose this is where you say that ‘what we just shared must never happen again.’” Now, sitting by her side, I was the one doing stock dialogue—though, I hoped, only as a formality.
“Oh, it could happen again,” she said dubiously. She was holding my thumb, letting my fingers tickle her knee. “But do you really want it to? And do I?”
So perhaps today would not repeat, after all. I’d come prepared for any outcome, and I remained prepared for any outcome.
She rose from the sofa, and I watched the rhythm of her handsome bottom while she paced the carpet. “This was an experience I will treasure. But . . .” She turned toward me. “To be brutally up-front, I’m not sure whether I want you as a . . . lover?” I was confident that Vicky didn’t do upspeak, so I took the question mark at face value.
“I—I hope that doesn’t make you feel rejected,” she said, wincing. “You’re sweet, and deep, and gorgeous—and, goodness, you sure know how to please a woman on her couch—and the last thing I want is to crush you. But . . . do you understand? It has nothing to do with the past or any of that. It’s just that maybe I won’t want to—”
I cut her off with a smile. “Even if you send me away, Vicky, when I look back on our morning together, rejection will not be the word that describes how you’ve treated me.” I stood. “Here again, I’m glad you weren’t my de facto auntie. You’re free. An auntie would have no choice whether to let me out of her life . . .” I approached her. “Or keep me in.”
She indulged in a moment of nervous laughter. “Be truthful with yourself, Carlton. Are you really that interested in me, beyond that . . . that hunger from the past that you came here to feed?” Her face was so sensitive and open, thoughtful and honest and slightly unsure. “So, okay, we did that, right?” She reached for my hand. “And it was wonderful. But . . . I don’t necessarily think we need to intersect again. Do you?” She spoke quickly, sounding a little frightened—frightened that she might be right . . . or that she might be wrong.
I kissed her—one brief, circumscribed kiss . . . finite, but not necessarily final.
Her composure abandoned her, and she accepted my embrace. “Fuck,” she breathed to my shoulder. “Now I don’t know.”
Sometimes uncertainty can make you feel so alive, as you hover below the rim of your present, trying to peer over the edge at your future. I think my Vicky and I both felt damned alive at that moment, while I held her in my arms in the center of her office.
“I don’t want to use you.”
“I sought you out. Besides, I don’t think a woman who was using me would worry that she was using me.”
“I don’t want to take advantage of—”
“I’m thirty years old.”
She laughed.
I laughed.
“So, you found the nude snapshots of me, huh?”
“Just one. Just enough to change my life.”
“Mmm . . . you smell nice.”
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Copyright November 2010, Jeremy Edwards
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.