Strawberry Blond Summer

Cindy wanted to think that the choice she made was because there never could be a man for her like Tim and she couldn't conceive that any man her father gave her to would be good to a child that wasn't his own. But she never stopped agonizing if she'd made the right choice. Maybe it had been selfishness that sent her to college up at Buena Vista after she'd stayed with an aunt up in Fairfax Virginia, in the Washington, D.C., suburbs until she'd had the baby—Tim Junior—and had given him for adoption up in Northern Virginia. Numb and in shock at the time, she'd returned to Bennett's Hollow and, eventually, to the college in Buena Vista.

Her mother died while she still was in college, which became the catalyst for her father to come to her, whether for solace—because, other than the hair and eye color that she had gotten from her father, Cindy was the spitting image of her mother—or a long-festering desire, there was no telling. Increasingly Cindy's father had referred to her fall from grace and how she had made herself unfit for any man who had the right to wed a virgin. "There is only one thing you are good for now," he kept saying. And then one hot, sweaty, summer night of drink and struggling with himself, he had appeared at her bedroom door, beyond which she lay, under the whomp, whomp of a ceiling fan in the still-stuffy summer-night bedroom, naked on top of the sheets, on her back.

She struggled, but only briefly. He was too strong for her and his belittling of her and made her think that he was right, that she wasn't worth anything more than what he did to her. He crushed her from on top as she lay in her bed, on her back. She'd been taking care of herself with her fingers when he opened the door. No doubt he'd seen that and it had propelled him to an action he most likely had long been thinking of. He had his trousers and briefs off before he reached the bed and came down on top of her, knocking the breath out of her so that her struggle came late and ineffectually. He already was hard and probably had worked up to that before coming to her bedroom. Grabbing her wrists and pushing her arms above her head, her fists gripping the brass rungs of the headboard above her, he shoved her legs open with his knees, and was crushing her lips with hers as he entered her. Once he was saddled and pumping, to Cindy's shame she raised her hips and joined the rhythm of the fuck.

It wasn't like she'd never been fucked before and hadn't gotten tension-releasing pleasure from it. It also wasn't like others back in the Virginia hollows weren't being fucked by their fathers.

Whomp of the ceiling fan, thrust of daddy's cock; whomp of the ceiling fan, thrust of daddy's cock; whomp of the ceiling fan, thrust of daddy's cock met with an up-thrust of Cindy's hips and a deep moan. "Yes, daddy, yes."

Her father said nothing—and neither did Cindy—when her brothers started to come to her too at night, having seen how it had become between their father and her. At first numb to it, Cindy came to accept it as just what her family did—and eventually she came to desire it. Each of the men had his own way with her that she took pleasure from, and although in the back of her mind she suspected that the arrangement was unusual and unconventional, at best, and sinful at worst, her need to be wanted and sexually satisfied overcame any inhibitions she might otherwise have had.

The relationships went on until a couple of months after Cindy took her associate degree from college. Ultimately, though, because the memories were too much for her in the hollow and because she had no desire to take her mother's place, increasingly causing her father to look to her to take up the slack in the home, she'd broken away from her father and brothers and moved on to Lynchburg.

In Lynchburg, although she had many acquaintances, she had few friends—none to substitute for the family she both craved and feared—and she lived alone.

* * * *

She had given him up to have a life of her own. Cindy looked over at Madge as John returned, set the drinks down, and sat down beside her. Madge had been there to give Keith what Cindy hadn't given him. She was the one who deserved to be here, not Cindy. Cindy started to rise from the table. "I can't. I really have no right—"

"Look, the lights are coming up on the stage area," John said. "They're about to go on. I think you're going to like this, Cindy. He's really very good, and the rest of the band isn't so bad, either."

She collapsed back into the chair and, not being able to help herself, let her eyes scan the stage in a panic as young men streamed onto it. She could hardly make out any of the figures because she was viewing the stage through tear-filled eyes. But then, of course, there he was—the distinctive strawberry blond hair. He was beautiful. He was Tim—her Tim—in nearly every way. Her heart puffed up until she thought it would burst.

But it wasn't just Tim. She should have seen that before. The strawberry blond hair, the hazel eyes. It also was her father . . . and her brothers . . . and her. And it was the young stud from the night before. She wildly looked at the other members of the band, hoping, while knowing there was no hope, that Tim was some other member of the band. But no such luck. The young stud who had fucked her last night was her own son.

She was in shock. But, strangely, her main thoughts were of how peculiar the situation was and then, with not near the shame she knew it should give her, of the naked body of the young man—her Timmy Junior—as beautiful and sensual of her own Tim and of how divinely equipped he was—just like his father—and of how well he had fucked her last night.

She knew she should rise from the table and leave, but the shock of the discovery had her glued to her chair. She watched the band form up, with Timmy—no, Keith, she had to keep telling herself—settling behind the drum set and scanning the room to pick out his parents. Having seen them and given a smile, Keith saw Cindy, who instinctively, had pulled her chair away from Madge and John's table and turned the chair enough so that he wouldn't know she'd been sitting at that table too. There was a moment of confusion when he saw her, but then he inclined his head and gave her an air kiss.

He didn't know, and, looking at Madge and John, she could see that they didn't know yet either.

The lingering smile was spontaneous, genuine. It was his father's smile.

Wild horses couldn't have pulled her out of the music hall then. She sat, mesmerized and totally absorbed, watching his every movement, lost in the merging of her past and present, oblivious to the sound. He could have been playing an accordion off key and she'd have been no less lost to the beauty and grace of him. She melted each time he looked out into the audience, caught her eye, and smiled.

When it was over and the band was disappearing through the door backstage through which they'd entered, John spoke up. "Wasn't that terrific?"

Cindy looked at him, glassy eyed, still lost in the moment. Then, embarrassed, she said, "Thank you for bringing me here, letting me see him. Now, I'll find my own way back to my hotel and let you three—"

"Nonsense," John said, with a snort. "Another band is coming on, but we can go backstage and see Keith now."

But Cindy was already on her feet. They would know eventually, of course, but not now, not tonight when they were so proud of their son—and were still being cordial and accepting of Cindy.

"No. This is your night with your son," she stammered out. "You two go back stage to congratulate him. And don't mention I even was here. We'll take this a bit slower."

And then she was gone.

* * * *

A bit slower, she thought as she was driving faster than she should have on the road back to Lynchburg from Roanoke. The revelation couldn't go slow enough. She couldn't have stayed the night in that hotel backing up to the railroad tracks. He knew she was supposed to be there. She'd said she'd be in Roanoke for another night. She'd said he could come back—if he wanted to—to her after the concert he said he'd been playing in. He had said of course he wanted to—that she was one sexy bombshell—and that he would come back the next night, but that it would be very late. His family was coming to the concert and he'd have to visit with them after the concert. She gave him the extra room key card she'd had made when they'd come to the hotel and said any time he came he'd be welcome.

Then he had fucked her again, pulling her up on her knees on the bed, covering her close from on top, with his arms embracing her, his hands cupping and squeezing her breasts, as he moved to a steady, deep pumping in a rhythm of give and take that they had quickly attained. Young, viral, happy as a puppy dog in what the older, fascinating, easily yielding, strangely comfortable, woman was giving him, he fucked on. Moving deep inside her, with her pelvis moving with the rhythm of him and of the ceiling fan overhead. Memories of Tim and her father and her brothers moving inside her. He released one of her breasts, cupped her chin, and turned her face to his, taking her in a deep kiss. He'd let his pony tail down, and his red hair mingled with hers in complete, inseparable unity. His hazel eyes captured her hazel eyes. He pumped on, sensing when she was going to explode, the two moving in synch like long-time lovers, holding himself so that they could fire off together. And they did.

Careening away from each other and collapsing on the bed, Cindy moved her lips down his heaving, sweat-slicked, muscular body, seeking and swallowing him, already coaxing him to another erection, already achieving success.

She should have connected the dots then, when he had mentioned the concert and his family—but she was consumed by desire, and if she was too dumb to see both Tim and her father and brothers in the beautiful young man who had covered her so well . . .

Headlights blinded her, but it was only the blare of the horn that told her she'd drifted into the oncoming lane and prompted her to pull the wheel hard to the right, bringing the car to a stop on the shoulder.

She sat there, trying to regularize her breath and steady her trembling hands.

What in the hell was she doing? Chances were good that he didn't know who she really was—that Madge and John and honored her request and not told Keith that his biological mother had been in the concert hall. Last night had been divine. It also couldn't be erased. The situation couldn't be changed now no matter what. What would happen—and there was no chance it would be anything but ugly—would happen no matter what she did tonight. She wasn't really his mother. There had been no interaction between them once his was out of her body until he'd come looking for her. Madge was his mother.

Doing a U-turn, Cindy got the car back on the road, back to Roanoke. She'd prepaid the room and hadn't checked out. Her room card still worked. His—Tim's—no, Keith's—room card would work too. She could get back to the hotel before he slid his room card in her door—and then slid his cock inside her again for another divine night that he need not know the horror of until later.

Horror for him, maybe. Not for her, though. This was nothing new for her.

Sometime later, but not before it had to happen. And then, thanks to her father and brothers, the shock wouldn't be hers.