Life as Story Pt. 01

It was slow, I was only half awake, she probably less. I let all the sensation wash over me, the feeling of my penis in her, the soft, moist friction, the swell of her cheeks against me, the swell of her breast in the palm of my hand, her scent, her soft, escaping moans but most of all the utter naturalness of it, like we were supposed to be together in bed — it felt like we had done this hundreds of times together, that we knew how to hold each other, please each other. And we knew how to sleep. The moment after I erupted in her the bed felt like a cocoon we were sharing, her body and heat making it indescribably soothing. I may have been asleep before my prick even got limp.

And I was gradually coming awake as it was getting stiff again. She was down there, she was sucking, it took me a blissful minute to realized what was happening and I was back to last night with her body in my arms and her heat penetrating me. This orgasm almost put me out again but quickly she was lying next to me, holding me, and my hand caressed the small of her back. I have never, ever felt better.

She was wearing Clair's dressing gown as she stood at the stove frying eggs. I drank the coffee she had ready for me and watched her. While I was showering I had neatly melded last night and this morning into my on-going story. They fit perfectly.

"Too bad about them damn labia. Without them getting in the way, last night would have been an unqualified success."

"That's not funny ... I shouldn't have told you. It matters to me, don't joke about it." She didn't turn around.

The moment the eggs were put down in front of me Clair materialized with her usual burst of frantic energy. She gave me a muscular kiss on the cheek then went right up to her mother, parted her robe, put her arms around her mother's naked body, kissed her — kissed her like a lover, then pulled her gown together as Sally tied it up.

That image stayed with me all day, of course it did, but so did the feeling of Sally next to me in bed. That felt positively life altering — so alluring I never wanted to sleep alone again, so, naturally, I thought of our story and for the first time thought of how I could possibly make that emerging fantasy come to life — up till now I knew my pecker had been doing most of my thinking but my brain was now starting to get engaged, too.

Clair called me mid-afternoon to tell me I had to be home no later than 5:30, we were going hiking, she and I and her mother and Susan.

We were on a trail by 6:30, by 7:00 I had walked off all the stress of the day and was starting to really enjoy the fading sun and the cooling air. When I put walking into our story I had done so because I like the idea of it, the idea of travelling around the world looking for the most beautiful environments to wander through; it had been subliminal, I had never actually thought of doing such a thing. Now I was thinking a lot about that and the more I thought about it the more I became determine to make it happen. I have long been a slave to my company, I didn't have to be; half of what I do could easily be delegated ... three-quarters; I could easily spring time for vacations, I just never have.

We were sitting on the ground in a rough circle overlooking a small lake in the valley below. We had walked for almost 90 minutes at a pretty brisk pace as if all of us had energy we wanted to burn off.

"Instinctively, you're going to say no to this but you shouldn't, you should think it though. It would be very helpful to you both." Susan was talking mainly to me but she was clearly drawing Sally into it.

Rather than bite, I waited for her to explain. She did, after a dramatic pause. Clair had (obviously) told her the backstory of her mother's and my relationship, such as it was. Further, she had learned that Clair was piecing together a creative story for both of us to follow. Turns out the sociologist thought Clair's weird flight of fantasy had real possibilities. What she was asking, and this was what she wanted us to think through, was if one of her students could take us on to write a case study on this approach to a life together ... the case study may well evolve into a thesis, she said.

"I'm here for two more days," Sally said with a shrug, ostensibly putting an end to the whole thing.

"Ya, but you don't have to go," Clair jumped in quickly, "you can ask your boss for more time, you have all kinds of it banked — you never go anywhere ... like him," she motioned towards me with a dismissive thumb. "That's the point."

Susan was looking at me like she totally expected a decision.

"You don't actually think it's possible, do you? Creating a story and having two people walk into it like a 3D painting?"

"I've had the same boyfriend for 11 years. He's a nice guy, he's a friend of the family, my parents would dearly love us to give them a grandchild, trouble is, I've never brought our stories together. Ever. I'm gay for one, I only recently admitted that to myself, but even without that we could never be in the same story ... he may not know that but I do. So what story do I want for myself? The answers start by asking the question ... I never have and the time isn't right for me to be asking it now — I'm still learning about who I am and dealing with what I am. But you two are older, you've both been through a lot, you know who you are. Why can't you put a story together? There would be no point, I agree, if you weren't inherently compatible but if you are, and the timing is right, that's obviously important, then isn't it all about interests and opportunities? Can't you intelligently create a viable blueprint and then work towards building a solid relationship? Why is that not possible?"

She is an earnest, intelligent looking woman as spare in body as she is in affectation.

She was on a roll. "I went to a wedding last year where the preacher said that the couple who were to be married didn't meet each other in a blinding flash of white light; didn't swoon at the sight of each other; didn't fall into a blissful love ... they liked and admired each other and thought that over time they could learn to deeply love each other and that's why they were there exchanging vows: they had decided on each other — they hadn't fallen in love, they had decided on love; they planned to work to create a life together. The preacher made this sound much more poetic than I have but the message was clear. There was no flighty falling in love in this relationship, it was all about decision and once that was made the work would begin ... and it would take work, as it always does with all marriages but the marriage would begin with pragmatic commitment. That's essentially what Clair is talking about with her story idea."

Clair said, "Ya," and we all laughed.

"You pragmatically find out where you can connect then work, constantly work to make the relationship work. Why can't this story idea work? Seriously, why can't it?"

None of us had even twitched as she went through this, now she looked at Sally. "Do you want to give it a try?"

Clair suddenly shoved her mum's shoulder so hard she all but toppled her towards me so I had to help her sit up. "Of course she's going to give it a try ... give it a try? She's going to make her part of it happen. Ask him about his part," she pointed at me almost angrily, "but first ask him how useless his life is, how lonely he is — he had to invite a street urchin into his house just to liven it up — ask him ... how is he going to turn down that woman, with that body, with those skills, with that tolerance — he's never ever going to get a better deal ... younger, sure, and he's probably into that, they all are, but better? No way."

Susan looked at me, her calm so dramatic beside Clair's frantic histrionics.

"You don't just walk into a story someone else creates for you ..." I protested, or tried to before I was interrupted.

Susan has a militant streak. "She didn't create the story, you two did with your answers to her questions — you move into a new house, you take walking vacations together, she starts a small business, you become more social — you get out and about as a couple, you admit that's a radical blueprint compared to what you're doing now. Why isn't that doable ... why isn't that advisable? You're not necessarily committing to each other, you're just committing to trying to make the story work ... a few months, see how it goes. Why isn't that time well spent? My student can write up your story."

Move into a new house for a few months trial? "I'll think about it." I jumped to my feet and started walking.

I got just a few paces when Clair called after me, "How many guys get woken up with a blow job?"

Jesus, I'm a fucking CEO. Who needs this shit from a twerp like her and what mother tells her daughter that?

"She guessed," Sally told me when, a while later I let her catch up to me; the two girls must have been lingering. "I can't hide anything from her, I never have."

"She undid your robe to hold you this morning."

This pissed her off. "Look, don't be so judgmental, how my daughter and I relate to each other has nothing to do with you. Am I going to phone and ask for more time or not? Tell me."

"Do you think this story thing can work?"

"It's not about a story for me. I want to get into a relationship, if it's with a rich, good looking guy who cares about my daughter ... and you do, it shows, then all the better ... but, sure, let's create a story where you get to do the things you want to do and so do I, makes sense to me."

"Ok, call your boss."

"Do I quit or ask for time?"

"Jesus, come on, we barely know each other ... two weeks, then we can look at it," I tried to lighten it up, "maybe we can ask the student to speed write."

"A month, I've got way more depth than you can ever understand in two weeks."

I have really good antennae, they have served me wonderfully in all my years in business, but with the mum and the daughter they pick up nothing. "OK," I said meekly.

Clair had to come home to pick up some clothes. When she was leaving she handed me a bottle. "She loves a good rubdown after a workout. Have fun with it, I'm going to rubdown Susan ..." she grinned, "if you know what I mean."

I grimaced. "Some things you don't have to report."

She just smirked again. "It doesn't turn you on to imagine it — that body? Liar, I saw you looking at her ass on the trail — pretty nifty. Anyway, we're driving up to mum's place tomorrow to get her some more clothes — it's the kind of thing a daughter does for her mother ... so her mother can sleep in ... enjoy the four Saturday mornings you've so graciously promised her. Should I pick up her sex toys? Does she need them?"

"You need a good spanking."

She turned and walked out the door wiggling her ass. "You're right about that."

Sally was sitting on the bed when I walked in; she had just peeled off her t-shirt. She was wearing a shiny black bra that instantly gave me an erection. I waved the bottle at her to deflect her attention from it, but she would have known; I hide nothing from these two. "I'm supposed to rub you down. Where do you want me to do it?"

She grinned that grin. "Not here, not on a bed, I like all the pressure to go straight into my body. How about that table in your office?" She said this so quickly it's as if she had already scouted out the house for the possibilities ... or more probably been there when her daughter did.

I cleaned off the table and was waiting for her, trying to calm my nerves. If I had stirrings the moment Clair handed me the bottle and gave me the orders, and I did, and a full-on erection at the sight of her bra, what I had now in anticipation of what I was about to do was flat-out painful. I have never given anyone a massage before, no great surprise — I have never done much of anything with women.

"Clair said she and Susan are going to your place to pick up some clothes. Is she going to get you a robe? That thing just doesn't suit you."

She came up to me, removed it, handed it to me then, using a chair, climbed somewhat awkwardly onto the table and lay down, folding a towel to rest her face on. "If you like to do this we should get a massage table."

"I've never done this before ... needless to say."

"You'll be great at it." She edged up to the top of the table and visually sagged in relaxation as she lay her arms along her sides, unfortunately blocking the side view of her breasts so wonderfully flattened beneath her.

I opened the bottle and poured some oil onto my palm. "Do I talk or just work?"

"Work, from the toes up, then I'll turn over — those are the last directions you'll get from me, the rest is up to your imagination."

I think she's 44, a year younger than me. She's been on her feet a lot with her job so she's in pretty good shape although her feet have seen better days. When I lifted her left foot and pressed my thumb into the relatively soft sole she let out a long melodious moan — obviously into it.

I don't think I ever looked at my wife, not really. Why would I? I resented her from the beginning. I knew she got pregnant deliberately, and more power to her — if I was dumb enough to fall for that I deserved my fate, I've always felt that way. But it doesn't mean I had to like it, or her. She had her good points, we all do but, ya, I resented her and you don't tend to admire the people you resent and you don't tend to want to be around them a lot which was fine with her and fine with me because my business took up all my time.

There is an intimacy to touch that is entirely new to me. I have shaken 10,000 hands and never once did the touch ever mean anything to me. Ditto the hugs I've given to any number of women; they were always just meaningless performance. But my fingertips on this woman's naked flesh, even the relatively tough skin of her feet sent a confusion of signals through me which only started to come into any kind of focus as my fingers worked their way upwards.

I have been fascinated by women my whole life. My mother and her two sisters, who lived near us, faced life in ways I never could. They are strong, self-assured women who, entirely unaware of complexity and doubt, eagerly rolled up their sleeves and got at it, whatever it was. Life to them was an endless series of tasks which they took on as small challenges, mostly tiny hurdles they just dealt with on their way to the end of the day.

Not so my father, who I grew up to become. We see these tasks as irritants to be understood so they can be avoided or allocated, delegated, assigned, ignored — managed. While I spend my entire day thinking, my mother and her sisters spend their entire days doing. The net effect is that at the end of the day they had all these tiny accomplishments that made their lives so enriched; my only accomplishment at the end of a day is my company's bottom line ... and that only matters at the end of the quarter or year, or that's the way it feels.

But fascinated though I am with women I admit they intimidate me, mainly because they expose my soullessness, but also because I find them a mystery, in mind and body.

Her's had meaning beneath my fingertips and almost all that meaning is personified by what she has created and shaped: her daughter. How could this remote, placid woman create such a ribald anarchist? How could a body like this, strong, robust, gentle, curvaceous, feminine produce a stick figure of malevolence like her daughter? When all is said and done, I will be remembered, alas, just for the business I've created. She, I'm sure of it, will be one of those who will be remembered for the child she spawned. I felt a tinge of sympathy.

She strained to look back at me. "What are you snickering about?"

My fingers had just moved high enough up her thighs to cower at further advance ... until she opened her legs slightly in obvious invitation. "I was just thinking of something."

"What?"

I hesitated, but only from instinct, in fact I knew that whatever relationship we have, and will have, will be based on me telling her the absolute truth — that's the way I am anyway, no matter how brutal that truth may be. After the numbing confusion of my first go-around I want any relationship I ever get into to be as simple and upfront as possible. "I was marvelling at how this body could produce one like your daughter's."

"It's her father's, I've told you."

I put my palms on her hips and pressed down hard, squeezing, then kneading her cheeks, really leaning into them, letting my fingers slide along the oil into her gullies.

She let out a soft, encouraging moan. "She adores you, you know, absolutely adores you, it's fun to see — there's not a chance she would be with Susan if she hadn't spent so much time with you. You're a rock to her, you show her the way in ways I never could. She wants to be like you, tough, centred, caring. Susan is kind of like that — solid."

"I know less than nothing about lesbians but the thought of those two together, never mind the sight of them together seems ... impossible."

"They've known each other for two years, Susan was one of her profs. There has always been something there but Susan was having a hard time coming out. She sort of did a year ago ... opened the door a little anyway; her boyfriend and parents apparently still don't know. Clair wasn't much interested then, she had her friends and she was kind of aimless ... she's always wanted to be a teacher, I think that started in kindergarten when she learned the teacher was allowed to be the bossy one ... and she'll put her heart and soul into it. But there was never much chance she was going to get into a relationship ... until you showed up. Now, all she wants to do is settle down, focus, accomplish and start looking for meaning. That's on you."

"Are you serious?"

She let out a little laugh. "She's always been a bit of a wing-nut ... well, more than a bit. But she has a whole lot of layers to her and because of that a whole lot of depth. You inspired her to get real, which is not her basic instinct and when she got serious she focused on Susan and when she did that Susan didn't have a chance and she knows it, she told me as much. She's asked Clair to move in with her but she insists first on a commitment. They were out last night. Clair put her hand up under Susan's shirt and kissed her. Susan freaked; Clair dragged her into the washroom and in front of a few others she read her the riot act: either everyone on the planet knows they're each other's possession or it's over ... that's the word she used, possession. When they went back out Susan was still struggling but it was a lot better. The few times they've had sex wasn't very good. But it was great last night, and Susan kissed her at the door this morning, in front of some neighbours in the hall. Clair is taking her to a party tomorrow, actually we've been invited if we want to go and I sort of do. Obviously, I want to see how things work out with them, but I also want to see them together in public."

I pulled at her leg, she opened it. The hated labia were on full display. The only other view I've had of this was Patricia's gaping pudenda. This sight was far less erotic, more cute than anything. I resisted the temptation to pull on one and moved up to the head of the table and poured oil on her back and was starting to lay into her shoulders.

She strained to look up at me. "Do you want to go ... go late, leave early."

"To the party?" My thoughts had been elsewhere. "Will we be out of place?"

"Of course we will," she muttered into her arms, "but that's half the fun."

I worked on her shoulders and arms and was now on her back with traces of her usual tell-tale welt, working the oil in and working down to her butt when she abruptly turned over and grinned up at me. "Let's go, I want to show you off, even if it's to people I don't know and are half my age. I'm proud of you, already I'm proud of you. And I'm excited ... about them, about you, about this, about whatever future we have."