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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Copyright 2015 - All rights are reserved for the author
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Sometimes Later Is Better Than Sooner
by Secret DC Guy (secretdcguy@hotmail.com)
***
Somehow in high school the star baseball player falls in
love the outcast girl. Things are great before she
abruptly ends it without giving a reason. When they meet
later in life all is revealed. (MF-teens, 1st, inc, rom,
preg)
***
Authors note: This story is very loosely inspired by the
"Always with Me" series, where we get a slice of life
further out in the country. It deals with romance,
incest, and shitty parents. However, it doesn't have
underage sex. If you don't like the former or wanted the
latter, this is probably not the story for you. If you
want to learn more about their stories, take a look at
my page: www.asstr.org/~Secret_DC_Guy.
***
I first noticed Molly halfway through freshman year.
Though we were from the same school district she had
gone to elementary and middle school out in the
countryside, while I lived in the small town. Unlike the
close knit patch towns in the Valley on the other side
of the mountain, here people tended to stay closer to
home. It was ironic that everything was further apart
but people seem to want to travel even less.
She was quiet and didn't seem to have many friends. But
what was most notable was that she was a freak who just
didn't fit in. She wore black jeans and a black T-shirt
every day. While you might see that near New York or
Philadelphia, that's just not something people did here.
Moreover, you could not tell if they were the same
outfit because all of her jeans and T-shirts were
exactly the same.
It was as if she had gone to one of those overstock
stores and bought a box of each. And it was even unclear
if she washed her clothing as in the winter she often
smelled like burning wood. The one thing she did have
going for her though was beautiful blonde hair and a
large chest.
I wasn't particularly nice to her, and I didn't go out
of my way to try to be friends. As I was one of the
stars of the soccer, basketball, and baseball teams, she
really wasn't the kind of person I would've hung out
with. And even more importantly, most of my athlete,
cheerleader, and otherwise popular friends loved to make
fun of her.
However, I couldn't seem to shake her. We were in one
class together first semester, and second semester she
seemed to choose almost every class that I was in. I
could have brushed it off as us being in all the
advanced classes, but in the first semester of sophomore
year, it happened again. On top of that, she started to
pester me about working on projects together.
I envied a lot of the other kids who had parents they
could talk to about things like this. But that was me.
My mother somehow rotated between being self-centered
and overbearing. Everything I did, right or wrong, she
took as a reflection on herself.
When I got all A's on a report card, she bragged to her
friends or the women at church or the women at the
beauty shop about how great of a mother she was—though
that seems to be the only time she had an interest in my
academics. But if I had a bad game in any of my sports,
my home life became hell. I was an embarrassment; I was
doing it to hurt her; I was a terrible excuse for a son
and would never go anywhere. It was always about her.
My father on the other hand, was the town drunk. Before
I was born apparently he had been that lovable drunk
everybody loved. He was a member of Rotary and Kiwanis,
he drank at the American Legion, and supposedly people
always greeted him with a smile. Then apparently
something happened and things went downhill quickly.
He stopped drinking in town, and instead would regularly
go to a seedy bar out in the country. And money started
to disappear too, more than even my mother thought he
could drink away. There was something hidden in the
background which I didn't know about, but it seemed
every year—no every month—no every day, he seemed to get
more frustrated and angry.
When I was young, he took his frustrations out on my
mother. He would push her and slap her. He would call
her the vilest names in the book. But eventually as I
approached my teenage years she began to give as good
she got. I even remember that once she sprayed cleaner
in his eyes, then him writhing on the floor in pain, and
finally her kicking him in the stomach. After that I was
the target. He didn't come home early most days, and
when he did come home he would ignore me.
However, on days my mother was angry at me, she would
call him at the bar. He would come home angry and it
might be his belt, the back of his hand, or his fist. In
middle school, I had told one of my teachers. But things
were done differently where I grew up. Nobody called
Child and Youth Services or the police. Instead, they
said they would talk to him. That Friday I got the worst
beating of my life. I learned not to say anything or
answer any questions.
Making matters worse, I was an only child. While most of
my friends had brothers or sisters, I was the only one
to take the brunt of my parents' abuse. It wasn't that I
wanted somebody to share the abuse with. Instead, I had
this fantasy that I would have a younger brother or
sister who I could protect.
It would be somebody that I could take the abuse for—
somebody that I could hold and protect—somebody who I
could take the blows for. That would have made the abuse
worthwhile. It would have given it a point. But most of
all it would be somebody who I could share my deepest
feelings with, who would understand, who would know what
they were like.
But that wasn't my life. So whenever Molly annoyed me, I
would turn it over to my friends. She wasn't the
slimmest girl—big breasts but a little bit of a belly
too. The girls hated the former, while the boys laughed
at the latter. That coupled with the clothing and the
smell made her an easy target. To share my pain with
somebody I prodded my friends, but I never said anything
myself. In my head I was just venting to my friends. But
they knew better, and most importantly Molly knew better
as well.
However, she was like a lost puppy who wanted to follow
me home. There was something about me that prevented her
from acting like any rational human being would have.
Every time she got made fun of she would look at me with
pleading eyes as if to say how could you do this to me,
how could you hate me like this, why don't you love me.
First, this was just another girl with a crush—the kind
of girl who really isn't much, but she's everything. As
sophomore year wore on though, it became apparent that
she just wanted my friendship.
Eventually I relented. I finally agreed to work on an
English project with her. It was something relatively
simple, to act out the death scene from Romeo and
Juliet, something that two of the top students should
have mastered easily. Instead, it was the first thing
that either of us had done in high school that had been
an abject failure. After doing the scene, our English
literature teacher told us that we were supposed to be
lovers not relatives.
As we walked out of the class disappointed, something
had changed between the two of us. We had both
experienced it, what really was a relatively minor
failure, but we had done it together and for some reason
it felt special. My friends thought that it was strange
that I did a 180 degree turn, and instead of complaining
about Molly, I started to include her whenever we could.
However, as I was trying to get to know her better, at a
certain point she began to be very reserved. She was
perfectly willing to talk about school, her dreams, her
plans for after graduation, and even about how upset she
was with how my friends treated her. But when it came to
her family, she wouldn't say anything.
I thought I began to understand that summer. Early, on
the morning after a particularly bad Monday night, I
borrowed a friend's 10-speed bicycle and decided to take
a long bike ride. About two hours later I was way out in
the country and painfully tired. Though I didn't have
Molly's address, out in the country you knew where
people lived based on what their house was near. So when
I got to the dirt road past the firehouse, I walked the
bike up into the woods.
I didn't know what I should have expected, none of the
houses out here were particularly nice. In fact, many of
them were just trailers on a big lot. Molly's house was
even less than that. It was somewhere between a cabin
and a shack, and I was surprised to even see electric
lines running into it. There was a propane tank at the
side, and a big chimney coming out the roof. In reality,
it looked like it was going to fall apart.
At first I was tempted to turn around and walk away. I
didn't know if Molly would be embarrassed, but I would
be embarrassed for her. But as I stood in the yard
trying to figure out what to do, the front door opened
and a beautiful woman when came out and asked me what I
was doing. She was wearing Daisy Duke shorts and bikini
top. She had large breasts like Molly, but not the same
belly. Instead the skin hung a little bit loose with
stretch marks. Apparently she had a baby.
I decided it was best to tell her who I was, and when I
did a smile came to the woman's face. She walked into
the yard came to me and gave me a big hug. She said,
almost crying, that I would never know how much my
friendship meant to Molly, and how grateful she was that
I would share friendship with her.
With that she went back to the door and called for
Molly. In a second my friend was at the front door. She
looked scared but appreciative at the same time. I
thought that the best thing to do would be to show some
acceptance so I walked up to the house and hugged her
too. At first she tensed up, apparently people didn't
touch her very often. But after a few moments, she
melted into our first hug. I felt that there was some
kind of connection, something more than just friendship.
I decided I loved this girl.
We were both somewhat surprised when the woman told
Molly and I that we could go back to her bedroom and
talk. We were even allowed to have the door closed. As
we walked through the living room filled with what
looked like secondhand mostly broken furniture, I
wondered how this shack could have two bedrooms. The
only thing I noticed was a kitchen to the side. However
Molly's bedroom was immaculate, there wasn't much but
her bed was newer than mine, she had a nice desk, and it
seemed everything she would need to be successful at
school.
With the door closed, we sat on opposite sides of
Molly's bed and she began to tell me her story. The
woman outside who looked so young was actually Molly's
mother, and she was only 29 years old. Knowing that
Molly was 16, I realized that she must've had Molly when
she was 13. Things were beginning to make sense the
clothing, the house, cheap wood heat in the winter
instead of propane. How could a woman who had gotten
pregnant so young do anything to support a daughter?
I listened to Molly's story and tried to be sympathetic.
Really it was impossible to be anything other than
furious. It turned out Molly had the only bedroom in the
house. Though her grandfather had lived with them for a
number of years and she and her mother had shared the
bedroom, when he died a few years before, Molly's mother
moved to the living room, sleeping on the floor most
nights.
When I asked about her father, I felt I had made a
mistake. Closing her eyes and looking as if she was
about to cry, she turned and looked away from me. For a
few minutes she said nothing. Then still looking away,
she said, "I don't know who my father is." I didn't know
what else to do, so again I hugged her.
After that day things changed. Molly and I spent time
together every chance we had. And our feelings for each
other grew exponentially. Both of us understood the
delicacy of the situation as I had been Molly's chief
persecutor. So we gradually worked our relationship in
at school. We let ourselves act more friendly in school,
and a little bit more physical. Then one by one we began
to let our friends know. Eventually, it became obvious
we were a couple.
When it became public though, disaster struck. One night
my mother came ranting about the girl I was dating. She
called her trash and the root of everybody's problems.
She called my father at the bar, but this time he never
came home. So the next morning I got up especially early
and left the house so I didn't have to see my mother.
Then at lunch time as I walked to meet Molly, I heard a
commotion in the cafeteria. I rounded the corner and saw
my father with Molly up pinned up against the wall,
everyone around them in shock. He was calling her bitch
and raving about Molly's 'whore mother'.
There are times in life we act in the exact way we hope
we would without even thinking about it. I yelled out to
my father to stop. He did, but then came across the
lunch room and met me. Reeking of alcohol and
cigarettes, he thrust his finger into my chest and asked
me if I knew what I was doing to him. In a way I never
would have done at home, I slapped his hand away. But
that infuriated him, and moments later his fist was
hitting my face.
I guess he reacted before anybody else could as I was on
the ground and he was kicking me. But in a room full of
students and teachers he was unable to do anything for
long. A couple of my friends from the football team
managed to tackle and pin him down. As they held him,
Molly ran over and cradled my head in her lap. Her
clothing didn't smell of firewood. Instead I could smell
her body, the sweat that comes from nervousness
beginning to flow. It was strangely intoxicating, and
somehow familiar.
This time people couldn't ignore with the things my
father did. He had scared the shit out of a high school
girl and beaten his own son in front of a cafeteria full
of students. For some reason, he refused to accept a
plea deal which would have kept him out of jail. Instead
the case went to trial, and the jury deliberated for 15
minutes, not even staying around long enough to get a
free lunch out of the deal. He was found guilty, and the
judge sentenced him to 10 years in prison. The physical
pain was over, but I was left alone with my mother.
If you live in the country and spend any amount of time
outside, you know that night is coldest just before
dawn. And that seemed to be the way it happened. My
father hadn't worked in years, so he had no income. But
apparently at some point he had worked for a local
construction company and the owner of that company
decided to help out my mother and me with some of the
"expenses we would have".
So while my mother's attitude got even worse, at least
we had some more money to live on. At the same time
apparently a long-lost relative of Molly's had seen the
story on the news. Though he wanted to stay anonymous,
one of the local bankers approach her mother about a
monthly stipend. I don't know how much it was, but Molly
and her mother were able to move into an apartment close
to the high school and her mother was able to start
taking night classes at the local community college.
Even more importantly, the attitude of kids at school
began to change. My friends all became supportive of our
relationship the guys would talk to Molly with respect.
But the girls showed the most change, integrating her
into the group of friends and tried to bring her more
into the school life. Some of them took her under their
wings, helping her to have better fashion sense and
buying her clothing on occasion.
Some of the athletes even got her to go out for the
girls' basketball team in the winter. That was a great
arrangement. Every night I would stay and watch her
practice right after school and she would stay and watch
us practice after they did. She took to the sport very
quickly and within months was one of the best players on
the team. People joked that we were the jock couple
before anybody knew she was a jock.
Every night after practice, or after school if it was
between seasons, I would walk Molly home. Even if it
were a miserable rainy day, just being with her and
walking along like we belonged seemed perfect. Most
nights I would stay at her apartment while I did my
homework. We were still in mostly the same classes so we
were always able to help each other.
Since her mother was now taking classes and working
evenings we had the place to ourselves. Molly had taken
some home economics classes, and cooked for us every
night. We both stayed on training diets so what she
cooked was relatively simple, but we were eating it
together. And then after dinner interspersed between
subjects we had some wonderful make out sessions.
Occasionally, one of us would bring it up first.
However, usually it would just happen. We would be
sitting across the table talking about a subject. When
we finished our thoughts and we put down our pens we
would stand up and walk to the couch together. In
silence, we would sit and turn our faces to each other.
Molly's eyes were always serious as our faces came
closer, but would close just before her lips touched.
Her arms would fall to her sides, and as we kissed her
body would melt into mine. I would hold her, one hand on
the small of her back, the other running through her
long soft blonde hair. Her mouth never tasted like what
we had just eaten for dinner. Instead, it tasted of the
strawberry lip gloss she wore. I didn't know what I
should have been expecting but again it seemed familiar.
Almost like the way mine tasted on mornings I woke up
with dry mouth.
There always seemed to be limits though. While we would
end up dry humping on the living room floor many nights,
and sometimes Molly would let me feel her large but
still growing chest, we never went to her bedroom. In
fact, any time I tried to put my hand down her pants she
would stop me telling me she didn't want things to go
too far—no we couldn't let things go too far. It was as
if there was some kind of wall that was holding her
back.
As a whole though, I had a better high school
relationship than anyone I knew. Though I never stayed
at her house, neither of our mothers would tolerate the
scandal, we lived almost like a married couple. And I
secretly hoped that someday we would be. When I got my
senior ring, I bought a gold chain and gave it to her
saying it was a promise that I wanted to end up with
her. At first Molly seemed uncomfortable, but when I
pushed she admitted that she wanted to end up with me
too. I hoped beyond hope that it would be true.
Senior year wound down with mixed emotions. At first
things were great. Molly and I had both been accepted to
good colleges, though I was going to put college aside
for a few years as I was being scouted by three major
league baseball teams. Things took a major downturn
though when word had it my father would be paroled from
prison. It was my mother who broke the news to me,
saying that he was sober, found God, and was a changed
man. Neither Molly nor I believed it though and started
trying to make a plan to be together and not have to
come back to the town.
The year ended on a crescendo though. Going to the prom
with the woman I loved and then standing next to her at
graduation was more than any high school kid ever
deserved. The next week, I was drafted in the sixth
round of the Major League Baseball Amateur Draft, and
after signing a minor league contract was told to report
to Florida for rookie ball. Molly and I were both
nervous but truly believed somehow we could make it
work.
I've only ever truly been in love with one woman, but
others have told me that when you love somebody
eventually you can't resist it anymore. At some point
love must be consummated. It's natural. The night before
I left for Florida, Molly and I drove to the Valley. On
the mountain at the other side, we parked in the mall
parking lot looking out over the lights of the patch
towns. There was a finality to it, as we knew that
tomorrow I would be the first one out. Then at the end
of the summer, Molly would be out too. It might take a
few years, but somehow we would end up together.
We stayed out especially late that night. We had both
recently turned 18, and our driver's licenses were now
good for 24-hours. Eventually though, we got tired. That
night though, instead of dropping Molly at her
apartment, we went back to my house. My mother was
across the state visiting my father in prison, and we
had decided that it would be okay to sleep together for
one night holding each other in our arms.
When we got to my house, there wasn't much to say. We
went to our individual nighttime routines, explaining to
each other as we went along why we like to do things a
certain way. It was funny, we had practically lived as a
married couple for the last two years, but there are
always been a stop to our evenings. Tonight we got the
full view of what the other did.
We got into bed, Molly in her pajamas and me in boxers
and a T-shirt. We kissed each other good night and
cuddled. Since we had planned this we had sworn up and
down that things would not go too far. Our first promise
was that we wouldn't even make out in bed—best not start
ourselves down the road to temptation. But then kissing
was okay, then dry humping. Soon enough our clothing was
off on the floor on either side of the bed.
Since we had been together, I had hoped that one day
Molly and I could share intimacy. So even though she had
resisted every move I made, I kept a supply of condoms
in my nightstand drawer. When things had gotten very hot
between us, I asked Molly if she would reconsider. She
said she wanted to, but said she couldn't let me get her
pregnant. When I told her that I had condoms she said it
was okay and to put one on.
It was my first time, and I was nervous. Molly seemed
nervous to as I knelt above her between her legs. As I
lined myself up to enter her, she asked me to be gentle.
It was her first time as well, and she was sure it would
hurt. Thinking quickly, I pulled my jerk off towel from
under the bed and slid it under her. I thought that
blood on the sheets might be too much for my mother.
When I started to slide myself inside of her, Molly let
out a wince and clenched her teeth. She held me back for
a second, but then told me to continue. I went slowly so
as not to hurt her anymore. That was good because I was
able to enjoy every movement of my first time. Slowly I
worked myself in further and further. Eventually, I
could feel her still somewhat sparse pubic hair rubbing
against me.
As I continued, I picked up speed. Molly was enjoying
this as well, and began to thrust her hips up to meet my
rhythm. As I slid in and out of her I looked down at her
face. Her blonde hair spread across the pillow, her eyes
closed, and the most beautiful smile I had ever seen on
her. It wasn't a smile of ecstasy, but a smile of happy
contentment—as if she were in the one place she really
wanted to be.
Though we were teenagers and it probably didn't last
very long, our love felt like it took all night.
Eventually, Molly held her breath as she began to
contract around me. I let out a grunt and truly came for
the first time in my life. Cumming inside of a woman, a
woman who I loved, was infinitely better than jacking
off.
When we had finished, we held each other naked. From
time to time we exchange tender kisses, and gave each
other heartfelt I love-yous. It was a beautiful moment,
that I hoped would be repeated many, many times. I
pictured myself standing in the batter's box in a major
league stadium, ready to get my first major league hit.
Molly was standing in the wives box clapping and
shouting for me. It might be five years down the road,
but that's how I wanted things to end up. I don't know
exactly when, but eventually I fell asleep. The last
thing I remember was Molly saying, "I love you. I will
love you forever."
The next morning when I awoke, Molly was in her pajamas
sitting at my study desk. She was writing something on a
thank you card pulled from the supply I kept in my desk.
When I got up to look at it Molly gave me a sad smile
and closed it. She told me to give her a few minutes
that the letter was something I should read when I got
to Florida. I gave her a kiss on the cheek, and went to
the bathroom.
While I was going through my morning routine, I wondered
why Molly had seemed sad. Back in my room I asked her.
Looking away from me at the floor, she said that she was
sad to see me go. I could understand that I knew that we
would have some trouble seeing each other. During the
spring and summer when I was playing, she would be home
from college. In the fall and winter while I was home,
she would be at college. However, I knew we'd figure a
way out. Perhaps in the off-season we could share an
apartment wherever she was studying at the time. I
didn't feel like I needed to say anything though, so I
didn't think too much of it.
A few hours later, Molly was kissing me goodbye, as I
waited to get on an airplane from my local airport. I
wasn't that high of a draft pick, but the team still
wanted me to join the instructional league and was
willing to fly me down on their dime. Soon enough the
plane was in the air. I thought about reading the
letter, but I had promised Molly that I wouldn't read it
till I was in my apartment. I was not about to break her
trust.
In Orlando, a representative of the team picked me up
and drove me to the spring training facility. After I'd
settled in and unpacked, I finally picked up Molly's
letter. Before even reading it, I could sense that it
wasn't something I wanted to hear. First, Molly told me
how wonderful I was, how our time together was more than
she could ever have imagined, and that she would love me
forever. However, she also said that she felt like her
part of our relationship was built on a lie.
She said there was something that she should have told
me, that her mother begged her to tell me. But if she
had told me, we could never have had what we had had.
She said it was irrelevant now because she didn't think
we could ever speak to each other again. Things had gone
too far the night before, to a place they never
should've gone.
She had always feared that the world would crash in
around her because of our relationship. And now she knew
that we shouldn't be together and shouldn't speak to
each other again. If I really loved her, it was the one
thing I could do for her.
I sat on my bed and thought about it. I don't know what
I did wrong, but I had a feeling that I would never get
an answer. I didn't feel like I would ever love again—at
least not in the way I had loved Molly. But when you
love somebody a lot—when you truly love them—you will
always do what's best for them. I put the note away and
decided that I would concentrate on baseball. When I
made the major leagues, Molly would know how to find me.
Maybe someday she would come back.
For the vast majority of professional baseball players,
the major leagues never call. In my case I just wasn't
good enough. By standards of all people who had played
baseball, I was the elite, but only the elite of the
elite from the entire world get to see the lights of the
big city stadiums.
Five years later I was still playing single A league
baseball, on a team in southern Virginia. I wasn't
unhappy and loved the game. But it became a chore to try
to find work every off-season, and I didn't have other
means of support. My father had indeed been a changed
man when he got out of prison. He had gotten sober by
attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings every day. He
had become a Christian, though not over-the-top.
Finally, he had earned a college degree, and was working
as a drug and alcohol counselor.
Unfortunately, an explanation for my mother's behavior
also came. She suffered from bipolar disorder and her
condition had deteriorated over the years. She was
unable to work or participate in community life.
Eventually, because of his past and her present, they
had to leave my old town. They were living near
Baltimore, Maryland, which can be an expensive area.
Thus, they lived in a small apartment where I could not
crash during the winter, and he didn't have any money to
share.
For five years I hadn't dated, I told myself that it was
because I was concentrating on my game, that all I had
to do was practice a little bit more and try a little
bit harder and I would move further on. But one evening,
sitting alone in my apartment, I realized it was a lie.
It was all about Molly. At that point I realized
something had to change. I loved baseball, but would
never make it to the majors. And I had to move on in
love again.
While thinking about what to do, I remembered talking to
the general manager of the major league team at extended
spring training one year. It seemed like he was going to
tell me they were going to trade me, but instead he had
told me that I was a smart guy. When I was done playing
he said that I should consider going into team
management. That evening I realized it was time to make
a change.
The next day I walked over to one of the local colleges.
I looked it at their brochure and saw they had a sports
management degree. That would be perfect. I went on to
the admissions office asked what I needed to do and was
told that with my high school grades and my life
experience I could probably be accepted for the next
semester. Within a month they had my application and
transcripts, and I had an acceptance letter.
Over the next four years I dedicated myself to my
studies. I was older so college girls didn't want to
date me, and because I had no money local women didn't
want to date me. In addition to sports management, I
majored in statistics because I heard teams were
beginning to use them for player evaluation. However, as
they say sometimes you fall in love with the one you
least expect to. That was how it was with my studies,
and I grew to love statistics. After I graduated I got a
doctorate in statistics and a job with the research
company halfway between Baltimore and Washington DC.
I had started to date, but nothing really worked. It's
not as if 'all the good ones were gone'. Where I lived
people generally didn't get married until their 30s. The
problem was that nobody seemed just right. I never met
anybody who I felt that connection with. But I kept
trying, and eventually met Samantha. She was a second
cousin—a kissing cousin—on my father's side of the
family. Because of my father's problems, I had never met
her until a family reunion when I was about 33. We hit
it off, and had a lot of fun together.
Luckily, she lived close to me and we started a
relationship—though that caused some scandal in the
family. I enjoyed being with her and more importantly
felt very comfortable. After years dating I asked her to
marry me. She said yes. My life was on a new trajectory,
and eventually I stopped thinking about Molly.
Three years later, we still weren't married. Samantha
kept pushing, but I always found excuses not to.
Something inside of me said that even though things were
good they weren't right. Our relationship became a
little strained, though not terribly so. Eventually
though, we settled into being a long-term engaged couple
who would get married 'someday'.
When life is bad, like it was in my childhood, it never
seems like it's going to get better. When we become
comfortable with the good life, we never anticipate a
downturn. One night while I was sitting in bed with
Samantha, me watching TV and she reading the book, I got
a telephone call. It was my mother and she was
hysterical. Apparently, my father's drinking and smoking
from when I was a kid had caught up with him. It was
unexpected, but one night while they were out at a
restaurant, he fell off his chair midsentence. By the
time he hit the floor he was dead. It was a massive
stroke; there was nothing anybody could have done.
Over the next few days I made the arrangements, as my
mother was too devastated and too mentally ill to do any
of it herself. I had only told a few people, but word
spread quickly. I got calls left and right, to the point
where Samantha got tired of fielding them. It seemed
that even some of the guards from my father's old prison
wanted to come to pay last respects. I was grateful. But
I was also devastated. I was moody and refused to talk
to Samantha.
Finally, two nights before the funeral I came home from
work and all of her stuff was gone. There was a note
written on a thank you card from the stash I kept in my
desk that said it was just never going to work. Samantha
talked about how she wanted the storybook and most
importantly how much she wanted kids. She realized over
the past few days I couldn't give her either. She said a
clean break would be best, and I decided I would respect
that. In a large part, that was because I realized I
didn't care. But I did find myself even more devastated,
not because Samantha had left me, but because I started
to remember Molly.
The night before the funeral service, the viewing was a
bittersweet experience. It was bitter because of the two
parents I had left the one who grew to be a good person
lay in a casket in front of me, while the one who was so
broken that it hurt to be around her stood next to me.
It was sweet because so many people came out to remember
my father.
He was apparently so popular that two life prisoners
from Pennsylvania were allowed a supervised furlough to
come down and pay their respects on behalf of his entire
prison. As they passed through the line though, one of
them who was a career criminal mentioned that I should
be careful. He had seen some nervous looking woman out
in the parking lot, just hanging around.
I was too busy really to think about it. There were just
so many people to meet and to share some laughs with.
Meeting people who my father had helped change for the
better made me realize that it's not always how
something starts that matters. What matters is how
things in life end.
Hence, I was taken off guard when a somewhat tall
nervous looking blonde woman slipped into the back of
the viewing lounge. She looked my way and shot me a sad
smile. I got the distinct feeling that she may not have
wanted me to see her. I was also taken by how familiar
she looked. She didn't exactly look like somebody from
my past. Rather, she looked a little like Samantha.
Looking back towards the casket, I noticed that she
looked a little bit like my father as well.
Confused, I stepped out of the receiving line, excusing
myself to the men's room. I didn't need to use the
bathroom, I just needed to get out of there and think
about what I had seen. I splashed some water on my face
and ran my fingers through my hair. Then I noticed it—
the woman looked like me.
Though the rational part of my mind told me that it was
probably a long-lost relative from my father's side,
something deeper in my psyche told me that it wasn't. I
resolved that I was going to ask her when I got back
into the viewing lounge. However, when I got there
things had taken a turn for the chaotic. My mother had
taken off her high heel shoe, and was beating the woman
with her shoe. She was yelling about how the daughter of
a whore should not have come to her husband's funeral.
She was going off about how my father had been hers and
had always been hers.
The woman's whore of a mother shouldn't have ever
touched him. Two of the prison guards who had come down,
eventually were able to subdue her. However, when the
police showed up though she got away and attacked one of
the officers. She grabbed his gun, aimed at his chest,
and pulled the trigger. Luckily, he was wearing a
bulletproof vest and only suffered a few broken ribs.
Before the police could get the gun away from her, she
put it in her mouth and pulled the trigger.
A few hours later, I was sitting in a different room.
Everything had been cut and dry, and there were dozens
of witnesses. The only question the police still had to
resolve was why my mother had attacked the woman. I had
had too much though; I needed to be alone and could get
the answer to that question later.
As I was standing looking in a mirror, seeing what a
person truly alone in the world looked like, the woman
quietly and nervously walked into the room. In the
mirror I noticed that she had long flowing blonde hair,
beautiful curves, a large chest, and the most beautiful
sad smile I've ever seen. I didn't know what to say, so
I didn't turn around. Instead, I acted like I didn't see
her. Why bother reacting when you have no idea how to
react?
She didn't say anything at first either. Instead she
came behind me and stood with her front to my back. She
put her arms around me, holding my arms tight against my
body. Her embrace had an unexpected effect. It was
unfamiliar and strange, but very welcome. It didn't feel
friendly or affectionate. It felt unconditional. It was
the kind of embrace I had always pictured getting from
my parents.
Then her cheek was on my shoulder, her face touching my
neck. I could feel her warm slow breath against me. She
nuzzled slightly, and I felt her eyelashes tickle me. It
was inappropriate as I had no idea who she was and I was
about to bury to parents, but I began to get aroused.
Then she spoke in a voice so familiar. "Jeff," she said.
"I have been nothing but a disaster in your life. I love
you and I never wanted this to happen to you. I'm
sorry." It was Molly.
Breaking the embrace I turned around. On her neck I saw
a gold chain with a high school ring on it. It was mine.
Without saying a word I touched it. Molly smiled still
sadly and said that she had worn every day since I had
left to pursue my baseball dreams. When I asked how she
explained to people, she said she just told them it
belonged to her brother. That made sense—how else would
you explain a high school boyfriends ring around your
neck. When I told her so, she looked very serious and
said, "I don't think you understand, Jeff. I came today
because I wanted to say goodbye to my father. Jeff, you
are my brother."
Suddenly, everything came flashing back to me. As an
adult, Molly looked like me. She had been a basketball
star like me. I even remembered in high school a time I
accidentally picked up her T-shirt instead of mine, and
her sweat and body odor smelled like mine. Even more
importantly though I remembered how desperately and
persistently she had wanted to be my friend, how her
mother had said that my friendship was more important to
her than I could ever realize, and how when we had
become friends and a couple I felt perfectly at ease
with her. She was indeed the sister I had always wanted,
but had never had.
I hugged Molly with love and desperation. I had lost her
once, but she had come back. I was not going to lose her
again, it made sense that sex was too much for her, but
even if I could never have that again I would keep her.
I was now alone in the world except for her. I would
never let her go. When I asked her if we could go
somewhere else she smiled and said yes.
A little while later we were sitting in a mostly empty
24-hour IHOP. We were close to a few trucking routes,
but it seemed as if we had had hit at a good time as we
were two of the few people there. I told her about not
being quite good enough at baseball, but had found my
real calling as a statistician. At her prompting I told
her about the women I had dated, and how Samantha had
left me just days before. Her face seemed to have a
façade of sympathy, but it seemed like she got some
pleasure in knowing that nobody measured up to her.
When it came time to talk about her life, Molly started
from the beginning. Her mother was indeed 13 when she
was born. Her grandfather, who had died a few years
before I met her, had been even worse than my father.
The worst part was that he had prostituted her mother
out since she was a very young child. My father, the
happy town drunk, had paid one night to sleep with the
12-year-old girl. That was the night Molly's mother got
pregnant. Because of timing he was the only possibility.
There were some rumors around town, but nothing
definitive. And eventually people stopped trying to
figure out who the father of the little hooker's baby
was.
It occurred to me that for whatever problems I had,
Molly's were at least as bad as mine if not worse. When
I asked her when she found out that my father was hers
as well, she said that she knew from a very young age.
For all his problems my father had privately taken
responsibility. The bar he drank at was just over the
hill from her house. Once a month he would come by to
visit her and give them money. Even when his alcoholism
got so bad that her mother would not let him come
around, the money would always be on their doorstep at
some point.
Molly continued that eventually she found out more about
him, and he mentioned he was married and had a son. So
when high school came around she decided she needed to
find me. She needed to have more of the family than just
her mother. She didn't know how she would tell me, but
she always planned to eventually tell me, but she just
wanted to be friends first. However, it happened so
suddenly. After trying to be my friend for so long, she
went from frustration to affection very quickly. She
loved being close to me, so she put it off.
Her mother insisted that she needed to tell me. "You
can't to date your brother," she would say. But Molly
figured if she did not let things go too far that there
would always be a better time. Then the night before I
left for Florida—the night we made love--she realized
she had blown it. There was no going back; things would
never be the same. So she wrote the letter and tried to
leave me behind.
She had continued to play basketball in college, but had
still done well in school. After majoring in biology,
she stayed on after undergraduate to get a Masters and
then a PhD in genetics. Ironically, she lived about half
an hour away from me, doing research with the federal
government.
When I asked her about dating, she said that she had.
Very soon after she started her freshman year, one of
the most popular male athletes asked her out. She said
yes hoping it would help her forget about me. Next, she
mentioned she also gone on the pill immediately,
convinced that she would never want to have a family
with anyone other than the person she knew she would
always love—with anyone besides me.
That relationship didn't last, and not wanting to have
to face the pain of dating another man, she accepted an
invitation to the apartment of one of the other women's
basketball players who she knew was a lesbian. They had
unfulfilling sex, but Molly was able to use her newfound
reputation as the universities token bull dyke to avoid
dating any other guy. After she finished her doctorate,
she moved to DC and decided that she would give things
another try. Again though, no man was fulfilling.
Eventually she gave up.
I was heartbroken for her. My luck had been only
slightly better than hers, but that didn't matter.
Whether I ever found love or not was irrelevant. This
was my sister, the person I now realized that I cared
about more than anybody else in the world. She was the
person I wanted to be happy. She was the person I wanted
to make happy.
It seemed only natural that I would put my hand on hers.
I meant it out of affection and sympathy, but the
reaction was different. At first, touching her soft skin
again began to excite me. I sat transfixed, looking at
what somehow was a remarkable connection—one that had
formed almost two decades before and now had been
revived. When I looked at Molly, I saw shock in her
face. I knew that she felt it too, and it was just as
unexpected for her as it had been for me.
Looking into Molly's eyes though, I realized that it
wasn't just physical. Though the connection was
originally a physical reaction it started to be more. I
felt like Molly was the solution to my problem with my
loneliness. I didn't know if she felt the same though. I
wanted to tell her how I felt, that I wanted her to stay
with me. But I hesitated, afraid of how she would react.
But I knew how she felt when she asked if she could come
home with me.
I had convinced one of my father's friends to drive my
car back to my townhouse, so we hopped into Molly's car
and I directed her to my place. We rode over mostly in
silence. However, from the moment we pulled onto the
street we were holding hands. The connection that had
been revived a few minutes earlier was not something
that either of us would let break.
We entered my townhouse still holding hands. Turning to
each other, we smiled and kissed, stopping only long
enough for me to bolt and chain the door. I was not
going to let anything interrupt tonight. I didn't bother
giving Molly a tour, she would see the place soon
enough. Instead I led her upstairs to my bedroom. After
turning on a dim lamp on my dresser, I held her in my
arms in the center of the room. It was an embrace I
wanted to feel forever.
Eventually though, we started kissing again. Slowly at
first, but eventually our mouths opened and our tongues
danced in desperation and excitement, working off all of
the frustration we had felt over the years. Then her
shirt was on the floor and then mine—then her bra and
the rest of our clothing. Still standing, our hands
wandered each other's backs. I ran my hands through her
soft hair, down her back, and then over her still
athletic but ample curves.
Slowly, and somewhat awkwardly, Molly inched us
backwards to my bed while we continued to kiss. She
ripped the covers back on the bed, and pulled me
backwards on top of her. I got between her legs and was
about to start, but she said, "No, Jeff. We're going to
do this like adults today." With that she pushed me back
got on her knees between my legs and took my cock into
her mouth.
She started slow teasing the head. Then she got faster,
taking me in as far as she could. My hips started moving
up towards her. My cock started hitting the back of her
throat. On one of the upswings she mumbled for me to
fuck her face. I couldn't help myself, so I put my hands
behind her head, grabbed her hair, and started ramming
her up and down. I didn't know whether she liked it or
not, but when I pulled her down as I shot my cum deep
into her throat, she gagged. When I finally let her go,
she sat up and gave me a wry smile. She leaned over,
kissed me on the forehead, and said, "Now, is that any
way to treat your sister?"
I laughed, pushed her back on the bed, and kissed her. I
had never kissed a woman after cumming in her mouth
before, but for Molly I would do it. Her mouth had the
faintest taste of strawberry lip gloss. But it's
something I could deal with. When I got back up I told
her that it was my turn. With that I slid between her
legs. As I looked at her pussy, I realized she was
shaved. It was ironic that when we were kids she had
hair there, but now as an adult she didn't. I love
giving oral sex, so I had gotten quite good at it.
I started by slowly running my tongue up and down over
her pussy. She must have liked it because she arched her
back and sighed. As she got more excited and wetter, I
noticed an intoxicating musky smell. As much is that
turned me on, her taste did so even more. I can't
describe it, but was better than any woman I've ever
tasted before. Gradually, I worked along the side of her
lips and up to her clit. Almost the instant I touched
it, she exploded in orgasm, squirting all over my face.
I don't know which one of us it would be, but somebody
would be sleeping in a wet spot tonight.
Even though I had already come, I was still hard as a
rock. When I sat back up Molly grabbed it and began to
stroke me. With a big smile she said she hoped I had
another one in me. At the very least I was willing to
give it a try. So I got between her legs and slid myself
right in. Both of us were experienced so there was no
awkwardness. And because both of us were excited there
was no need to go slow.
Instead I drove myself in and out of her with a
desperation I had never felt before. She thrust her hips
up and down in rhythm with mine trying to get me in as
deep as possible. She begged for me to do her harder and
to fill her with my cum. A few minutes later, I obliged
and sent the biggest orgasm I ever had shooting inside
of her.
I collapsed on the bed next to her, and we embraced
again. Molly would leave in the morning, or maybe the
day after that, but it wouldn't be long before we were
together permanently. We cuddled and told each other I
love you, but soon fell asleep.
The next morning when I awoke, Molly had pulled out some
paper and was quickly doing some kind of calculation.
Curious, I sat up and asked her what she was doing.
Nervously, she looked at me and said that she was
calculating some probabilities. I looked at the
equation. It was rather sophisticated and I had no idea
what the variables were. When I asked her, she said that
was the probability of genetic disorders if a half-
brother and half-sister had a baby.
I looked at her quizzically, so she told me that because
she wasn't dating she had gone off the pill, and was
just about the right time. Though I probably should have
been nervous, my love of statistics took over and so I
asked questions about the equation. By the time she had
calculated a rather high probability of genetic
disorders in any child we would have, we had somehow
talked ourselves down. There was more excitement and
anticipation as opposed to fear.
In statistical analysis, there is the concept of an
outlier. What that means that out of every 100 cases,
five will be significantly different from the average,
and one will be radically different. It turns out that
Molly and I were like that. Even though we were
obviously genetically related, we were different in all
the right places to have a beautiful healthy baby boy.
We named him after our father. With the way he turned
his life around, he deserved it.
By the time the baby was born, we had already moved in
together. However that didn't seem like it was enough.
One date night, while some friends of ours were
babysitting, I lamented to Molly that I wish we could
get married. When she asked why we couldn't, I reminded
her that we were brother and sister. She laughed, and
reminded me that legally she didn't know who her father
was. Her birth certificate had only her mother.
I had already seen the Maryland marriage license
application, so I said that the form asked specifically
and clearly if we were related by blood or marriage.
Molly shrugged and said, "Then we lie." A few months
later, we were married on a North Carolina beach. A few
months after that, we were pregnant again.
A few very close friends know that Molly and I are
related. But they are all people we trust, people who we
know would not care. At first Molly's mother was
uncomfortable with the situation, but eventually she
understood and is now supportive of us. After becoming a
nurse, she started dating again—well really for the
first time in her life.
I don't know whether it was being forced into
prostitution by her father or just something natural,
but quickly she figured out women were her real
interest. She and her partner, a public school teacher,
live about an hour and a half away in Virginia. They
come and babysit quite often.
When Molly and I went back to our hometown for our 20th
high school reunion, everybody was glad to see that we
had ended up together. When they heard the story, some
people were upset that we had been apart for so long. I
just told them that sometimes it's better for something
to happen later rather than sooner.
Eventually one of the girls I was friends with in high
school, one who had very readily persecuted Molly before
she and I became friends, pulled us aside and
apologized. She confessed that one reason she was
willing to be so mean was that her mother had said there
were rumors that Molly's father was my father.
I don't know whether she expected a response, but Molly
gave her one. Laughing, the love of my life said, "Well,
we get along so well who knows maybe we are related."
Our friend laughed and gave us a big hug. We laughed as
well, just for us it was because of our happy secret.
END
Author's Note: This story is dedicated to all of those
female friends who said something to the effect of, "you
are like a little brother to me".
I always appreciate feedback. If you really like, really
hate, or can see some improvements to my stories, send
feedback to secretdcguy@hotmail.com. I am also looking
for story ideas, so if you have one please let me know.
This is my favorite genre, but I do others as well.
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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life in
any way, shape or form. Anyone tempted to act out any of
the scenarios in this story should seriously consider
seeking professional help.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 83