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From: Monroe Stahr <lasttycoon@gmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} {ASS} Ash Wednesday {Monroe Stahr} (Mf inc)
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Date: Sun, 15 Jan 2006 05:10:03 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Ash Wednesday
Monroe Stahr

#

He was only a few weeks shy of 40 when Cain called him, and on days
when he felt guilty about the whole thing he hid it behind that
excuse: midlife crisis, staring into the abyss of mortality, the
appeal of youth, that whole thing.

But the truth was he'd found her attractive even before that.  In the
last photo he'd seen of her she must have been thirteen, and in that
moment right before recognition set in, he'd thought, "Wow, she's
hot."  Long legs, what they used to call "coltish," but who said that
anymore?  A bit of thigh paler than the legs, showing from where her
denim shorts had pulled up because of the awkward impossible teenage
way she was sitting, everything canted at angles.  Hair in that
transitional phase between childhood and the experiments she'd subject
it to in high school.  A lightly freckled face beginning to hint at
beauty.  And the lines of her T-shirt, the promise of breasts.

She had never been his step-daughter because he'd never gotten around
to marrying her mother.  But that was a legal truth and an emotional
lie.  For five years he'd gone to parent-teacher conferences, packed
lunches, overseen homework -- and done it for her more often than he
should have -- settled arguments, and gone to zoos, aquariums, state
fairs, and talking puppy movies a hell of a lot more than in the rest
of his life tallied up.

"Cain."  What a name for a girl.  For anyone outside of soaps and
pulps.  Her younger sister's name was Christ.  No shit, Christ Bodhi
McLean, but everyone had the sense to call her Christie.  Their mother
-- Delia -- had been quirkycute, the kind of effusive and seemingly
eccentric but secretly frightened woman who'd appealed to him so
intensely when he was in his late 20s and going through one of those
stupid not-yet-mid-life crises a parent's death can bring on.  It'd
helped that she was younger yet divorced -- someone he'd known wasn't
looking for a wedding any time soon, and still had all the charm of
young women, their enthusiasm that made even their jadedness and stabs
at cynicism cute.

It hadn't worked out, for all the reasons it began in the first place,
and eight years had faded it into some unstated Life Lesson -- the
time when he was a father, the time when he Got Serious for the first
time (two long-term relationships since then, clocking in at 2 years
and 4 respectively), when balancing his budget had Really Mattered,
when he'd first thought about Buying A House and Planning For The
Future.  He'd let it all slide once they split up, because that sudden
lack of responsibilities had made him feel twenty again.

Now here he was almost 40, and he hardly ever thought about those
times until Cain called him in the mid-afternoon on a day when he
should have been at work but had called in can't-give-a-fuck.  His
wife had nodded, probably ready for a black mood to come around the
time of his birthday, and just asked him to make dinner then, since
he'd be home.

He let the phone ring twice before he answered it, just in case it was
work.  Cain's unfamiliar voice asked for him tentatively, and he
thought she might be a telemarketer, but said, "Speaking."

"It's -- this is Cain McLean," she said, her name even worse in full. 
"I don't know if you remember me -- I mean, well, I'm sure you
remember me --"

"Cain!" he said.  "Wow.  Of course I remember you.  How are you?" 
It'd been eight years since he'd seen her, and he'd only talked to her
on the phone a couple times after that, in the months immediately
following his moving out.  Delia -- and Delia's family, who still
hoped she'd go back to her ex-husband -- had thought it best he cut
off contact cleanly.  "Is your mother all right?  Is anything --"

"Oh, she's fine, she's fine," Cain said.  God, she sounded like a
teenager.  She <I>was</I> a teenager, which was hard to fathom.  He'd
been there from age 3 to 8, years that offered little hint as to young
adulthood.  "No, I just called because -- is this an okay time?  I
actually thought I'd get your voicemail ..."

She didn't want to talk to him, he realized.  This was awkward and
weird for her.  Well, of course it was.  "I had the day off," he said.
 "It's all right, Cain, what's up, what do you need?"  That was such a
parental thing, he realized, his knowing she wasn't calling to chat.

"Well, I heard you were living in New Orleans these days?"

Ah.  "I'm fine," he said.  "I evacuated before the storm, and my
neighborhood didn't get hit very bad.  My fridge was the worst of it,
personally.  It's --"

"Oh no, I know," she said, "I know.  I googled you.  There's -- I
checked lists of missing people and everything, it said you were in
Texas?"

"Yeah, I evacuated to Texas until things blew over."

"Yeah, I saw that on the message board thing.  And that you'd moved
back.  You can find like anything on Google now.  But the thing is, we
were -- my friends and me, we were going to come down for Mardi Gras? 
Because that's when our Spring Break is?"

"Oh okay," he said.  "Does your Mom know?"

"Yeah, of course.  Missy, my friend Missy -- I don't know if you
remember Missy -- oh no, I was ten when I met her, wow, that was a
long time ago -- Missy's older sister lives here, she'll be like our
chaperone.  She moved here for college, she's like twenty-five.  She
works at Octavia Books?  You might know her?"

"I don't think so," he said.

"Well," she said.  "Anyway.  I was wondering -- there's a lot of us,
and Missy's sister's place isn't very big, and when she found out my
-- my step-dad, my ex-step-dad -- lived in New Orleans, well, do you
think I could crash on your couch?"

"For Mardi Gras?" he asked.

"For that week.  Like afterwards and everything."

His wife wasn't home to ask, but she'd gone through a thing once of
saying he ought to track Cain and Christie down anyway, get back in
touch, in case they ever needed anything -- there was a hint like he'd
abandoned them -- so he shrugged.  "Yeah," he said.  "Yeah, let me
give you my email address too, so you can let me know your itinerary."

"Totally," she said.

It was months from Mardi Gras, and his birthday came and went and left
him 40 in its wake.  He celebrated with a surprise party featuring
friends from college, a few awkward and maudlin moments, and a
spectacular blowjob from his wife that had left him wondering why they
weren't usually that good.  She thought it was great that his
step-daughter would be visiting, but reminded him she wouldn't be in
town for the first half of the week.  His wife had been raised in New
Orleans and not part of the crowd that got ecstatic about Carnival the
way some towns had people who got ecstatic about local sports -- so it
was twenty-three years since she'd stayed around for parade season,
and these days she stayed with her sister in St Petersburg Florida,
going to Ash Wednesday mass with that part of her family and coming
back the next day.

His wife gave him this news with a grin, like it was sitcom-funny that
he was going to be home alone to deal with a teenager who'd probably
be a little secretly drunk, as though he was a sitcom husband who had
miscapades -- escapades? misadventures? -- every time she turned her
back.  Oh, he loved his wife, he'd kill a puppy for her, but he hated
the way she fell into those stereotypes.  He made dinner as often as
she did, and they unofficially alternated laundry duty.  He'd been
separating whites from darks so long he coulda run a Mississippi lunch
counter.

Cain arrived the Friday night before Mardi Gras, a few hours after he
got back from driving his wife to the airport.  He buzzed her in at
the gate and went down to make sure she found her way through the
courtyard and to see if she had anything that needed lugging.  He
grinned when he saw her, and so did he, because they had both looked
right past each other, looking for someone familiar instead of someone
changed, before the mind caught up to the eye and dialed it back.

She was sixteen now, and he had no idea if she looked her age or not,
because everyone under 25 looked about the same to him now.  Her legs
were longer than they'd been in that photo her mother had emailed him
a few years back, but less spindly -- her hair less transitional, and
he was relieved that it wasn't shaved on one side or dyed blue or
anything -- her clothes showed a lot of midriff but no cleavage,
although she had it to show.  It was very, very strange looking at her
-- as though trying to find the eight year old buried by adolescence,
a shadow beneath the skin.  He tried to remember distinctive features
to look for, and none came to mind -- no memorable birthmark or mole,
no oddity, only the freckles on her nose and beneath her eyes, which
half the girls in the world seemed to have.

When she opened her mouth, he saw two of her front teeth still
overlapped a bit -- and that brought it back for him, all those
childhood smiles on Christmas and at the zoo.  Christ.

"Cain!" he said.

"Oh geez," she said, and he supposed he meant he'd changed too.  Well,
he was supposed to, that's how it went.

He gave her a hand with her luggage, which was heavier than he would
have expected.  "Are you here for dinner?" he asked.  "Or just
dropping stuff off, or what?"

"Either way," she said.  "We can hang, I can split.  I don't have any
plans till like, eleven."

So he set her up in the apartment's spare bedroom that was storage
more often than a guest room, and they got fried chicken and dirty
rice from the only joint still open in walking distance.  More and
more opening every week, though, he told her, and she nodded with just
enough wide-eyedness that he knew she'd seen some of the city's ruins
already.  He was determined not to dwell on that -- not to let this
kid associate him with the damage of the city.

"You're really cool," she said at one point, through the closed door
behind which she was trying on yet another of her outfits and gauging
whether it was appropriate to the weather, the humidity, the chance of
rain, and the tenor of whatever party she had lined up.  "I don't
remember you being cool."

"I don't remember me being cool," he said.  "But it's been a long
time.  People change."

He hardly saw her through the weekend.  She's be out all day
touristing -- parades, beads, Bourbon Street -- and out late partying,
crashing in the guest room when he buzzed her in and dutifully having
oatmeal and coffee the next morning when he insisted she shouldn't be
going out on an empty stomach.  By Tuesday morning she was dragging,
and he recognized the look on her face, the face of a Carnival-goer
who was too wiped out for the last hoorah on Mardi Gras but would
force themselves to it anyway, because how could you say you went to
New Orleans for Mardi Gras but didn't do anything on the day itself?

For his part, he did what he did every year, he went to one weekend
parade in the parish and Zulu and Rex on Tuesday, and this year it
felt a little more important -- damn right uplifting when he saw a
familiar face in the crowd, one of those faces you only see at a
Carnival parade but you see them every year, like the neighbors you
only know from the grocery store or midnight mass.

He buzzed her in at three in the morning the night of Mardi Gras, or
the morning of Ash Wednesday, however you looked at it -- three hours
after the streets had been shut down and Carnival officially over. 
She looked pale and sick, just straight-up overpartied, and he
wondered if these days overpartying included coke or ecstasy or
whatever they did now, or if it was just pot and cheap booze like when
he was that age.

"Hey," she said, and gave him a little one-armed hug, her second since
arriving in the city.  "Can I -- some water?  Can I have some water? 
Sorry."  Her voice was slurred and her eyes bleary.  He remembered a
thousand nights -- God, that probably wasn't an exaggeration -- from
college and its aftermaths, when his mirror had had a lot in common
with her.

When he brought her the glass of water, she was passed out on the
couch, with the Saints throw half pulled onto her.  He thought about
carrying her to the guest room, but she wasn't eight anymore -- if she
woke up, she could find her way herself.  He left the glass on the
endtable behind her head, and adjusted the blanket to cover her feet,
after slipping her shoes off.

Back in his own bed, pretending he was thinking about other things, he
masturbated to thoughts of her -- to the smell of her perfume, which
wasn't quite right for her and was therefore perfect for her age.  To
the image of her slender neck and the concavity where it met her
collarbone.  To the hint of full breasts beneath her clothes, and the
curve of her thigh.  He rocked his hips up off the mattress, pushing
his cock through the hole of his fist, and kept her face out of his
mind until the moment before he came, when she looked up at him with a
child's eyes as he plunged into her forbidden cunt.

In the morning, he overslept.  He'd used his vacation days for Ash
Wednesday and the day after, like a lot of people, and didn't bother
with the alarm.  He went into the kitchen to make coffee, walking
quietly to keep from waking Cain up -- and before he entered the
kitchen, looking beyond the open expanse of hallway, he saw her on the
couch.  Her eyes were closed, but she was awake -- the Saints throw
covering her from the waist down and pinned under the arm closest to
the back of the couch -- her shirt pushed up, one of her hands on her
breast as the other busied itself beneath the throw.

She was masturbating.

Her feet were planted on the arm of the couch, canted against each
other, toes clenching and unclenching, her heels rocking back and
forth as her hips moved.  Her eyes weren't just closed, they were
squinted shut -- and she was biting her lip, which he had always
thought was maybe the sexiest thing a girl under thirty could do.

He watched her.

She stayed to a regular rhythm, clench unclench, rise rock, squeeze
release, and he noticed she was using quite a lot of pressure on her
breast.  Her mother had loved tit play, had loved to have her tits
bitten and twisted and pinched.  It was only when things began to go
stale between them, in that year or two before they split up, that her
breasts had a chance to lose their bruises -- until then, there was
always some old yellow mark lingering when a new one was left.

He watched her.

She was getting closer, her heels thudding against the couch arm now
when she pushed her hips up at her hidden hand, and she adjusted the
position of her hand on her breast, giving him the briefest glimpse of
the soft flesh there.  She arched her slender neck back, and he could
hear her breath hitching -- hear how she was holding her breath as she
came close to coming, instinctively.

He was abruptly so hard that his head went light and everything swam. 
He put a hand out to grab the jamb of the kitchen door, and saw her
pause -- not stop -- at the sound of him, her foot twisting against
the couch in frustration, her hand leaving her breast and pulling the
blanket up.  He stood still, not moving out of sight, and she held
herself still as well.

When she didn't hear anything, she resumed, faster and more erratic
now like to make up for the kick in her rhythm.

He wanted to jerk off, to watch her like this and jerk his achingly
hard cock, but there was no way he could do it without her realizing
he was there ... so, he decided, why let her finish?  He went into the
kitchen -- quietly but without trying to be silent -- and turned the
faucet on to fill the coffee pot.

There was almost a yelp from the living room, and he filled the pot,
dumped the beans in the back where the machine would grind them, and
flipped it on.  The brief brrrr of the grinder gave way to the trickle
of water as he poked his head into the living room.

"Hey," he said.  "Morning.  Hope I didn't wake you."

She had the throw pulled up over her, and her foot was still twisted
into that tensed, frustrated position.  Her hair was matted to her
temples with sweat and her mouth and eyes showed how tense she was,
how anxious.  "No," she said.  "It's okay.  Can't sleep all day."

"Coffee's on," he said, just as he realized that if she chose to look,
she had a perfect view of the bulge of his hard-on.  Jeans made it
less obvious, but it was still there.  "I'll get you a mug and some
hair of the dog.  Just booze?"

"What?"

He went back to the kitchen, got a clean mug, calling to her, "Was it
just booze that had you so wasted last night?  Pot?  Anything more
serious?  I'm just asking."

She didn't answer until he'd brought her the coffee, with a splash of
whiskey in it and a bit of sugar to take the bite off.  She grimaced
at the taste at first but kept drinking, and he put a bowl of satsumas
on the table next to her.  Floridian, not local -- the local season
hadn't lasted long enough this year.  "Pot," she said.  "A little pot.
 Lots of daiquiris."

He nodded.  In Louisiana, daiquiris were frozen drinks like Slurpees
with high-test alcohol in them, sold in drive-throughs and daiquiri
parlors in styrofoam cups you could bring anywhere because of the
liquor laws.  They were just about the only thing locals and tourists
agreed on, and even the most alcohol-phobic person could get fucked up
on one damn quick.  "I should take you to a movie," he said.  "You can
get daiquiris at the movie theater.  How fucked up is that?"

"That is for real fucked up," she said, and scooted her legs to the
floor so he could sit down, when it was obvious he wasn't going to
leave and let her finish off.  He clicked the TV on, and that's how
the rest of the morning went -- him getting her something to drink,
something to eat, to rehydrate herself, but staying near her, not
leaving her alone for more than half a minute.  It was unbelievable --
engrossing -- fascinating, even -- how much he was turned on by
deferring her orgasm.

"Ash Wednesday's usually pretty low key," he said.  "You're not the
only one who overdid it."

"Yeah," she said, fidgeting.  She shivered a little.

"Your friends aren't going to be mad you're recuperating here or
anything, are they?"

She shook her head but didn't seem to be paying attention.

"Cain?"

"Huh?"

"Do you need to call your friends or anything, make plans?"

"Oh.  No, no, it's okay.  I'll call them later and see what's
happening, but today we're just hanging back."  She sounded
frustrated, distracted, and he pretended to flip through channels,
watching her out of the corner of his eye.

She was masturbating again.  It was like she just couldn't wait any
longer, and had bunched up the throw in her lap so as much of it
covered the motions of her hand as possible.  Her shoulders were
tensed up, her head bent down just a little, and her feet kept
shifting nervously.  He gradually turned so that he could see her
better without looking directly at her.  Her eyes kept squinting shut,
as it became harder and harder for her to keep composure.  Under her
breath she made the smallest of noises that she tried to swallow up --
tiny grunts, hummingbird moans.  He could feel the echoes of her hip
movements on the couch.

When he thought she must be close but not there yet, he reached for
the blanket in her lap.  "Let me take that," he said, "I'll get you a
real blanket."

"Oh!" she said, and he saw her impulses spasm: she wanted to grab the
blanket, to finger herself, to make herself come, to cover up and
camouflage, all at once, and she couldn't do it all.  She succeeded
only in making a feeble grab for the blanket, a hand still shoved down
her panties.  God knows what had become of her skirt.  He pretended he
hadn't noticed anything ... but part of him wanted her to know he had.
 Part of him wanted her to know he was torturing her on purpose.

When he came back from the linen closet with a blanket, she'd gotten
up to use the bathroom, and he sighed, figuring that was that.  He had
a couple few shots of whiskey poured when she came back, on an
endtable he pulled to the front of the couch.  "Little hair of the
dog," he said.  "Your mother would kill me, but she'd do the same
thing.  Besides, it's a holiday."

She smiled at him.  "This is unreal.  I can't imagine what it's like
living in New Orleans all the time.  How does anyone get anything
done?"

"It's not like this all the time," he said, but tourists never wanted
to hear that.  It was like pointing out Disney World was in Orlando
and not everyone there was a mouse or a princess.

She hadn't had anything to eat and was still dehydrated.  It didn't
take much to get her tipsy again, and it only took one drink for him
to decide that he wanted her, and to convince himself that deep down
she knew it.  He wondered for a moment if he'd ever really been a good
person, a truly good person, and tabled that as a
forty-but-not-yet-fortysomething thought he'd be plagued with for a
good time to come.

He reached over and stroked the back of her neck with his palm, from
her hairline to just below her shirt collar.  "Remember I used to do
this when you were upset?" he said.  "When you got grounded for
flunking that class, whatever it was.  Math?"

"Reading," she said absently, her head tilted slightly away from him. 
"I was always good at math."

"Reading," he said, nodding.  "I don't know how the hell you flunked Reading."

"I didn't do the homework," she said.  "You and Mom were always
arguing then."  He kept stroking her neck, and she sighed a little,
nodding her head forward.  "It feels better now than it used to," she
said.

"Yeah?"

"Do you remember," she said quietly.  "When I walked in on you -- um
-- ja -- masturbating?"

"Jamasturbating?" he asked and grinned.  "I don't remember that.  Are you sure?"

"It was when you and Mom were right about to split up.  Like, that
week.  You were in the guest room -- I think, did you sleep there
those last weeks?"

"I think so," he said.  "It's been a long time."  And he had been
drinking a lot.

"I came in for something, and there you were, and -- I just left, I
thought you saw me, but if you don't remember, I guess not."

"That had to be weird for you," he said.  "I'm sorry."

"I guess we're even now," she said in a louder voice, like she had
forced it out.

He didn't say anything, just looked at her.  When he started to pull
his hand away from her neck she arched towards it, keeping it there. 
"Well," he said.  "If I don't remember it, I don't think we're even."

"No?"

He unbuttoned his jeans, watching her.  She was impossible to read. 
He pulled the flaps of the fly out of the way and slid his hand into
his boxers, wrapping his fingers around the stiff thick shaft of his
cock.  Her expression didn't change, except for a flick of her eyes
toward his crotch, and when he started to stroke, she turned her head
downwards, watching him.  He still had his hand on the back of her
neck, and without meaning to, stroked her skin to the same rhythm he
was stroking his cock.

They continued like that for minutes, silently.  He didn't shift at
all, afraid he'd break the spell if he did.  He just jerked his cock
for her as she watched, her head tilted down too far for him to see
any expression, and if he thought he felt a shiver from her, a ripple
of goosebumps across her skin, it could well have been his
imagination.

"Unn," he said soon.

"Are you close?" she asked.

"Yes.  Should I --"

"You didn't see me come," she said bluntly.  "It wouldn't be even."

"I don't care," he said, and he didn't, he was so close to coming that
he didn't care about anything.  He couldn't remember the last time he
was this hard.  His cock felt eighteen again, like sun-warmed marble.

She grabbed his hand away and swung a leg over his, settling down on
him.  She'd put her skirt back on, but her panties were gone.  She
didn't look at him.  Not at his lap, not at his cock, not at his eyes,
nothing.  "In me," she said, shivering again and blushing so hard he
thought her arms might have actually pinked.  "Do it in me."

It was all he'd been thinking about all morning.  He slid in easily --
she was so wet it was like pushing into her mouth -- but snugly, every
inch of her pussy clinging to him, clenching him, gulping him.  "Oh
fuck," he said, against her ear as she wrapped an arm around her neck
and pulled herself against him.  "Oh fuck you're so tight."

"Yes," she said, grinding against him and pushing her tits against his
chest.  "Say it again, say that again."

"You're so tight," he murmured against her ear, and then louder,
"You're so fucking god damn tight."

She rocked against him, and he grabbed her ass, grunting as he
adjusted her rhythm, settled her into it, her hips meeting his, his
cock sliding in and out of her hot and wet.  Her ass was the firmest
flesh he'd touched in years, and he couldn't resist smacking it -- not
a love tap, but hard.

"Oh!" she said, startled.  "What was that for?"

"Shh," he said, and smacked her again, harder.  He loved the sound it
made, loved the tautness of her skin and the muscle beneath -- loved
feeling the vibration of the spanking, and the way her thighs clenched
against him in response.

She still hadn't looked him in the eye.  "Come in me," she said, and
grabbed the bottle of whiskey, drinking from it.  She gagged like she
was going to cough it up, but kept it down, and bucked her hips hard
against him.  "Please, please come in me.  Come in me.  Tell me I'm
tight.  Tell me I'm tight and come in me.  I'm so tight for you.  Oh,
tell me how much you love my tight pussy."

She sounded so self-conscious, but not forced -- self-conscious
because she wanted to say so much more than she was, not because she
would rather be silent.  That girlishness got to him -- both repelled
and engorged him.  He put both his hands on the small of her back and
pulled her against him, hard -- thrusting his cock deep in her little
pussy, looking at her even if she wouldn't look back at him.  He
didn't say anything, just fucked her.  Up and down.  In and out.  It
was the most delicious, most natural, most incredible thing he'd felt
since his first blowjob.

"Tell me," she said, and now she was whining.  Now she was desperate. 
"Oh God," she said.  "I want to come again.  I'm going to come again. 
I can't.  Oh God, tell me, come in me, tell me you like it, you like
it, I know you like it so much."

"I like it," he said, kissing her neck.  Beneath the astringence of
body spray and the accumulation of pot smoke and sweat-salt, she
tasted familiar in an ages-old way -- the body chemistry of a young
woman.  "I love that pussy.  I love that tight little pussy.  I love
that little cunt."

"Oh God," she said, leaning back and bucking him hard, needing it now,
needing that spasm.  "Oh God, fuck that tight pussy.  Fuck it.  Fuck
it.  Fuck it, Daddy.  Oh Daddy, fuck it.  Oh Daddy, Daddy, be my
Daddy, fuck me like a Daddy, fuck that tight tight tight--"

She ran out of words and ways to put them together, and he stopped
listening.  He held her against him tightly, one hand on the back of
her neck and the other on her ass, fucking her with no thoughts of
anything else, thrusting into her the way he'd thrust into his fist
the night before -- and that's what she's like, he thought, she's like
a fist, I didn't make my hand but I made a fist, and I didn't conceive
her but I raised her, I made her who she is, I'm fucking something I
made, I'm inside someone who's mine, oh God --

He came so hard he lost track of the world, and as he leaned back
against the couch, he saw he'd left a bright bitemark low on her neck,
red and wet with his saliva.  She grimaced when she touched it, but he
could tell from her body language, the looseness of her movements, the
feel of her pussy around his spent cock, that she'd come -- and harder
than the first time, if she'd come at all in the bathroom.

She put her hand against her throat as though she were having trouble
breathing.  "When does your wife get home?" she asked.

"Tomorrow night," he said.

And she smiled.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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