Mother And Child

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May 15, 2023 // By:analsex // No Comment

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My breathing finally slowed to the point where I could talk again. I had been huffing, like a lion right after a kill, I was so wound up, my mouth wide open and working hard on getting enough air. I had just had an orgasm that was a mind-bender and it took me several minutes to slow down enough to say, “I think that was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I love you beyond words. I write about sex, erotica that I publish but I do not have words for this.” She was on her stomach and I was on top whispering to her, buried in her and pushing into a very sensitive spot, her G-Spot, and she was convulsing as she came. Clenching me so hard with her pussy it hurt in a marvelous way. She’d squeeze me so tight it felt like a fist and rock her hips forward then relax slightly and rock back burying me in her again and hitting that spot . Then clenching again and doing the same thing, over and over. She did that for a minute before she started to slow and it took another minute or two for her to stop. We lay there with me supporting my upper body on my elbows but my cock as far in as I could get it. I’m not “Big” but it seems adequate for her. This was our first time and it had worked better than anything I had felt since Paige gave up on sex twelve years ago. She moaned and squeezed me. I could feel her butt tighten and relax and wondered if she liked anal that well. God, I hoped so. Not a requirement, Paige had never liked it, but it would be nice if she did. I knew she liked oral, she had almost sucked the head off my dick earlier on the sofa. She liked using her hands too and that was a favorite of mine. I was also hoping that she liked oral from me. I wanted to sixty-nine with her for a few day, or until we needed a bathroom or food. I didn’t get hungry any more and she’s kept me fed and healthy. She has a soft way of beating me up until I acquiesced and did what she wanted. I called it “Gentling”, a term and method I learned 50 years ago when I spent a lot of time with horses. “Breaking” them is exactly that and you can kill the horses spirit. Gentling builds trust and the horse will jump straight into hell if asked. I found this to work with people too and my life has always been pretty good. Few enemies and I got what I wanted many more times by being that way. I rolled to the side taking her with me and snuggled, spooning into her and she pulled herself off my cock then reached back and spread her butt cheeks and put my half-hard cock in the crack against her ass. “Okay, she likes anal,” were my thoughts and I smiled as she squeezed me and nestled into me. I couldn’t believe this. She had been my housekeeper for three months and tonight told me who she was. I am still in a state of shock over that. I don’t know what I’m going to do but letting her get away from my eyesight again is just not gong to happen. Shit, “I’ll have my eyelids removed so I can always see her,” were some really dumb thoughts I had. I lost her once, two years down the tubes and that thought pissed me off. That will not happen again! If I could figure a way to slaughter bureaucracy for the time they cost us, I would do it in a second. “Musing? That’s what I’m doing. I liked that word, it was a fifty cent word. I enjoyed just free-floating in my mind. When I wrote I would lay and start to build an image. Maybe a picture or a glimpse of something. Maybe a thought, a sound or a book, anything that catches my attention. Then I add or remove things until I have something I like. Could be anywhere or anyone or anything, but it had to be what I wanted. Then I would try to move in the scene. Describe it and decide if that was right. Right being what the character I had built would do if he or she (it’s quite hard writing women’s thoughts) were real. The guy was always me. He did what I would do because they were My Stories and I could be what I was. I didn’t have to pretend. I played the parts (I am an actor) and could work out most stories so the action didn’t read stupid. For a couple months I had a “girlfriend?”, Donna, a woman that needed what I did, someone to just be with. We did that for six months until we both healed and then moved on. She had helped and played the female part several times and, yes, the sex was great. She was great. She would suck so hard when I came that it literally felt like I was spewing fire into her mouth. She never complained though. We didn’t “Click?” I don’t know, but we both just kissed goodbye and went on. Last I heard she was married and happy. I’m happy for her and, yeah, I still love her. The women in my stories were always strong, independent women that were, “capable of standing toe to toe with god in a screaming go to hell fight, and not back down.” Not dominant, strong and capable of standing up or stepping aside to make the right decision. A partner. That’s what I helped Donna become. Then the scene moves. What would they do? If I did or said this what’s her reaction? Some women do not like certain things, slapping her face with your cock can really piss some off. I have to try to think what a woman would think. Thank god for female erotica authors. Thank all of you goddesses I read trying to ” get it right.” I’m still not sure I do. She had seen my stuff, read all my stories and posts I made on a site I used, Lushstories. Wonderful people, a family I could be with and love like I had when I did theatre. My fusion killed that for years and now I probably couldn’t memorize the script. I’ll do it again though. I knew an eighty-five year old woman that had trouble remembering her name (not really) and we spent hours talking during one production. I was forty-six and I loved that lady. She just had fun and didn’t worry about “the small shit”, as she would say. I learned a lot from her and some times think about her so she still lives. How did I get here, this time, this place, with this woman? And I went back almost two and a half years. “Musing.” ************************* It had been almost four years and I was getting used to being alone. I traveled a lot in an old eighty-four VW Vanagon, a camper, that had everything I needed within arms reach. Not really but it’s not far to get it. I modified it, insulated, curtains and I had a gas heater. I carried four huge truck batteries too and I could survive Escort Erenköy a week, cooking and lights, internet, using just them. I wrote a lot in some very remote areas. Paige and I had put close to two-hundred thousand mikes on it, traveling and screwing ourselves back and forth across the country. We have fucked in some marvelous places. The best was a waterfall that we found. In the van at the base, the water falling eighty feet and hammering the base pounded our bodies with pressure waves that we finally synced our movement to and seemed to dissolve us when we both came. One of those rarities, simultaneous and if I had died then I would have been okay with it. I don’t think I’ll ever feel better. I was just daydreaming, casual memories and thoughts as I drove through this storm. “It’s a fucking blizzard and if I don’t find someplace soon I’m going to get stuck and freeze to death,” I thought. It is cold and my thermometer showed an outside temperature of minus ten on the “F” scale. Right now that’s the Fuck-Me scale unless I can find a place to stop. A parking lot would do, I didn’t want to get hit by a plow. I’m rather cautious at times. My mind kind of drifted thinking, “Wow, I’ve had this van for twenty-five years. Rebuilt that engine twice myself too,” and was remembering Paige and I traveling and screwing our brains out in it when I almost turned it over because I wasn’t paying attention. “I will die if I don’t stop that,” I thought and my attention focused on the problem at hand, living and not dying. I had been traveling since Paige died. I took care of her until her dementia got to where she didn’t know me and then found a place close to our kids and put her there. Then I tried, unsuccessfully obviously, to kill myself. No, not anything like what you think, I tried with very expensive scotch and pot. A LOT of scotch and pot. I had seen the Nicolas Cage movie about him drinking himself to death and he seemed happy, so, why not? It took my kids almost a year to figure it out then twenty-seven of them beat the crap out of me in an intervention. They even flew my thirty five year old grand daughter from Scotland to be there. Every fucking one of those ungrateful little bastards threatened me with an incompetency hearing and a home (not the one Paige was in) if I didn’t stop. I stopped! And I loved them more. I was loved by a lot of people and the thought of disappointing them made me do it. I was getting back on my feet again six months later when Paige died. That time I hurled myself off that fucking cliff again. Heaved, threw, flung, pitched, anything to end it immediately. An Olympic jump a swan dive, chest first and seeing those fucking rocks I would slam into and splatter myself all over, ending all those thoughts and emotions that constantly tore at me. I wanted to hit bottom so hard they would need a sponge to pick me up. I guess I was hoping for alcohol poisoning or something when I bought two cases of scotch. None of my kids are what I would call dumb and figured it out quickly. They found me in my back yard Christmas Day screaming. I was ranting and railing against the whole world, breaking anything I could find, waving an empty scotch bottle like a club and screaming at God, “Come on you chicken-shit bastard. Kill my wife will you, fight me you motherfucker, I’ll kill you!” Thankfully I don’t remember any of that but all that were there swear to it. The cops called them and they saved my life, again. They said the cops were there and waited for them because they knew about it, me. I donated a lot of money to them for their charities. Threw a party or two also. I still talk to one and she said people had been around asking about us but no one would admit to knowing anything. ************************* It was March then, the fifteenth, twenty-thirteen, how prophetic, the Ides of March, the day Julius Caesar was assassinated and the world changed. “Idus Martie,” or something, a religious holiday for the Romans, and for me too it turned out. I had been visiting Grande Island, New York, because I lived there as a kid for ten years. I intended to drive to Warren, Pennsylvania to visit my cousin Mona and at Dunkirk on US 90 took a smaller state road, NY 60, to save some time. Yeah, right, and if I had been listening to the radio I would have known about the fricking blizzard. I was over half-way to Jamestown when it hit me. A wall of white and wind that almost blew me off the road. I even had a chuckle at that while I was sliding all over the road trying very hard not to die. The Brits use that expression but it’s a “Fart.” I study words and slang, I write stories. Mostly erotica that some like and I publish them. When I finally came to a stop I was cross-ways to traffic if there had been any. I got straightened and went on, hurrying a little more slowly to get there. Forty-five minutes later I was axel deep in snow at places and plowing it with my front bumper. I was making an astounding eight Miles an hour when I saw the lump. The snow thinned or I would never have seen it. It was just a dark hump, mostly covered with snow but what looked like a leg was sticking out. I came to a quick stop, sliding and spinning and this time I thought I’d, “Blown one off,” or worse. I was thinking I may never get this damned thing moving again but I couldn’t just drive by. I backed until the sliding door was close and scrambled through to exit that way. It was a body . Wrapped in a blanket and a coat, what looked like a female leg showing and I got very frantic. I hit that snow bank like an insane dervish, throwing snow, pulling on whoever it was, yelling and crying, dragging them to my van. I got the sliding door open and heaved her in and followed quickly. With the door shut it started to warm again (I had not turned it off) and I began furiously ripping everything off her body. When I got the frozen blanket off her coat was frozen as stiff as her dress. Wet had gotten to her skin and she was very cold. Breathing shallow and slow. She was going into hypothermia; She was freezing to death in front of me, and she wasn’t shivering. “Oh Shit!” You can’t leave this crap on someone. She would freeze to death in my warm car so I literally ripped everything off her, down to bare skin. içerenköy escort I had to use a knife a couple of times, her bra and panties! Her dress and underwear were in shreds when I finished and tossed them in the front. She moaned and said some garbled thing as I got her out of those frozen clothes. I had a couple sheets and blankets that were sitting out and much warmer. I grabbed a towel and dried her body. Her breasts and between her legs. It took two towels. When I touched her back she let out a moan, almost a scream, that scared me to death. I lifted her and rolled her slightly and saw, finally, she had blood all over her. Her back was stripped like she had been whipped and I gently laid her back down, turned slightly, and put a towel over the wounds. I finally looked and she had bruises and lots of blood across her breasts and face and she was very swollen. My mind stooped dead and I shouted, “Oh My Fucking God”,” when I realized she was pregnant and quite far along. I had six kids and sixteen grand kids so I was quite familiar with it and I figured about seven months or maybe eight. Turned out to be seven and a half. I was almost panicked by then, worrying about getting somewhere and having to leave her side while she was so cold. I had two heating pads (I get cold) and a converter installed in the van for house-power so I plugged them in and put them on her chest and stomach, pulling her into a fetal position, then wrapped her in two sheets and three blankets. I got back in the drivers seat and got it going again. I was crying then, wanting to hurt someone for doing this to her, and a baby! I forced myself to stop because I would kill us if I couldn’t see. It’s funny what you think when your pretty convinced you’re going to die and take two more lives with you. One an innocent, and I kind of thought bad thoughts about a god that loves his “children” so much they allowed that. Fuck this free-will bullshit, she had no free-will. Since then I’ve decided that maybe I was wrong, that I was there for a reason. And an old nursery rhyme ran through my mind, repeating itself. That little train that could, chugging up that hill, saying over and over, “I know I can… I know I can…”, on and on. And I started moving. Either I scared God or my will power was stronger than I thought. A drift had built against the front and once past that we sped up. I saw a sign a little later that said, “Jamestown 6 Miles” and my heart sped up. We would make it if I had to crawl the last few miles carrying them on my back. I was going to save this woman and her child or die. Probably die were my thoughts, but not yet. “Not.. Quite… Yet!”, I kept thinking while I repeated that rhyme. A silly line from a silly movie, Galaxy Quest, kept repeating in my mind too. I used it a lot after my kids saved me the second time. “Never give up, never give in!” I didn’t and almost an hour and three more, “Oh fuck! We’re going to die’s,” ran through my head when I almost went off the road. I pulled under the over-hang at the emergency room and stepped out and promptly fell face-first into almost three feet of snow. Two people came running out in heavy clothes and grabbed me but I was shouting, “She’s in the van, don’t fuck with me you asshole, save her, and the baby.” Then, “Watch her back for Christ’s sake, she’s hurt!” I was a little distraught right then. One took me and the other must have used a radio because two more came boiling out and I heard the van door slam as they carried her and I into the hospital, her on a stretcher on her stomach. “Thank you.” I said and I’m not sure I’ve ever been more thankful for a kind act. We were put in the same room in different Heated beds (maybe there is a God), wrapped in electric blankets and packed in heated pillows of some kind. No curtain because they wanted me to calm down and seeing her seemed to do that. I could see her until they needed to be more private and they pulled a curtain. Right then, seeing her alive and the baby safe made her the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. And very pregnant. “Twins?” Went through my mind before the curtain closed. The nurse said something to me about my wife and I didn’t correct her, it wasn’t important then. I worried a lot though. A couple hours later we were in adjoining rooms (husband and wife?) they messed with me, one nurse undressed me and washed me. She said I was sweaty. In a blizzard, freezing my ass off, and I was sweaty? When she finished she leaned down and gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, “I cleaned you and no one else knows. I’ll wash everything at home.” Her name is Libby and I love her to death. It hadn’t been a “Fart,” and I never knew. Then the cops showed up. They were called when the staff saw her back. I explained what had happened and gave them all my information and they left, with skeptical looks on their faces and I didn’t blame them. They left a guard on my door to keep me company, and her safe I assumed. Mostly for her, and that thought was a good one to have. They gave me some hot broth, which took a lot of will power not to gulp. I saw them rush her down the hall on a gurney and the world seemed to slow as she went by. Shining and pink, soft, monitors everywhere, and then it sped up again and I wondered about that. Then they brought me a breakfast from their kitchen and I was asleep ten minutes later with the last fork-full in my mouth and the fork stick ing out the side. They woke me and made me swallow, then I passed out again. I was absolutely wasted from all the tension. I slept for over sixteen hours and found out later that three people had frozen to death in their cars in that storm. The next afternoon the cop was gone but a detective was sitting and watching me when I woke. He had to ask what I knew. I told him I knew nothing but we talked for hours. He asked a lot of questions about me and my history and eventually went away after taking a picture. Mike was his name, nice guy really. She had no ID on her. It took four days for the storm to clear and another to get the roads free so I left on the fifth morning. I had checked on her, sneaking in a couple times late at night because I wasn’t related to her. I just sat and looked. I found a picture of her after they bathed her. Tuzla escort bayan The monitors attached and ready for surgery. I kept that picture and it’s a prized possession. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Maybe because I had saved her but I didn’t care. That made me feel bad when I remembered Paige but I thought she would understand. They had to take the baby, Caesarian, to save both their lives and I took a couple pictures of her and the baby with my iPad. One of her after the surgery and a couple of the baby too. I probably spent twenty-four hours just sitting outside the viewing room staring at that small, red and wrinkled thing wrapped in swaddling and in an incubator. Some cultures believe if you save someone’s life you’re obligated to care for them, protect them. I was feeling that sitting there. I was thinking, “Wow, two more family, and a baby too.”, and I liked that. I felt so sorry for her, it was a girl, and her mom, and wished I could do more. What a hell of a way to start a life. I tried to pay before I left and they wouldn’t take my money. I was a local hero, a Samartin that deserved a reward and that embarrassed me. Libby, my nurse told me putting the heating pads on them and wrapping them saved both lives and that made me feel good. I wasn’t a “hero” though, all I had done was what was any man would do and any that wouldn’t weren’t “Men!” When I found out that she had no ID and they were going to move her and the baby to an eight bed ward I made them take my credit card and keep her in the private room. I left her a thousand dollars for new clothes, makeup and whatever else. She had a six week preemie for gods sake, what else could I do. I had it, she needed it, done! Fuck you if that’s not good enough. Then I did the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, I left without knowing anything about her. I headed as south as I could and four days later showed up at my brothers place in Beaumont, Texas. He has a couple hundred acres with horses. I stayed there for a week thawing out and tried to find out something about her and the baby but because I wasn’t related they wouldn’t tell me fuck all. Bastards. I wished I had stayed then. One of the nurses finally told me her name was Morgan, and her babies name was, Boadicea. That’s a Celtic name for a very strong Princess that almost kicked the Romans asses out of Britten around the year One. One of my hero’s and that made me feel better. A very strong name for that beautiful little thing. Maybe it would keep her safe, I hoped. I never forgot her or the baby. I tried several more times for information, getting pushy and rude at times, but nobody would tell me anything. My friend the nurse, Libby, didn’t know or she would have told me. She did tell me that Morgan woke up three days after I left. That is still probably the single biggest regret in all my life. How stupid a decision that turned out to be. She pestered everyone to the point of wanting to smack her, she wanted to know it all. I still talk to Libby, so does Morgan but we can never go see her. Beaudy calls her “Aunt Libby” and we think of her that way too. Morgan had talked to the detective that interviewed me, Mike, and we still all talk too. He told her I was a Scott but wouldn’t give her my name. Libby said she spent a couple hours on the internet and named her baby that because of me. That gave me a very good feeling that is still there. I had names and I wished them silent luck many times a day. I thought of them a lot. ************************* Two years later and I was having trouble keeping my house as clean as I wanted, and a bunch of other physical crap. Getting old really sucks but so far it still beats the alternative. I decided to hire a house keeper and just kick back until I could join Paige, where ever she was. I really did hope I had been wrong and there was a heaven where we’ll meet again, but I knew there wasn’t. I had my son, the IT guru, place an add and the next day I got a call. She was thirty-four and had a two year old girl. Her name was Andrea she said, and the baby was called Beaudy. She spelled it and it’s pronounced, “Boody.” We talked and she agreed to come by the next afternoon. I spent half the night cleaning the fricking house so she wouldn’t think I was a total slob and was exhausted when her and the baby showed up at noon. When I opened the door tired went on a trip because there stood this stunning woman, long, wavy blonde hair and eyes, staring at me, sucking me in. She was standing there holding hands with a beautiful, olive-skinned little girl. I Said, “Hi, I’m Paul,” and held my hand out. As she took it I looked down and smiled at this beaming, white smile and twinkling eyes and said, “and this must be Beaudy?” With a big grin. Beaudy said, “Yep, I’m named after a queen.”, and ran past me into the house. Her mom let go of my hand and darted around me to catch her, laughing and tickling her. She pulled Beaudy to her and rolled on her back on the floor wrestling and playing with her. I decided right at that moment I had found who I wanted. But I stood there watching and wondering. She hadn’t shaken my hand when I held it out as much as, “Worshiped?”, it. She had taken my palm in her left one and laid the right one on top of mine, and looked at me. I hadn’t really been paying attention, I was watching Beaudy and then the two of them. I could still feel a warmth, a tingle, in my hand and I looked at it for a moment or two, turning it over, while watching them. She had a suitcase and I picked it up and set it in the hall as I closed the door. I had had several of the pictures I took of Morgan and Boadicea printed and framed and had them hung in the hallway where I would see them every day. I had saved them and still wanted to find them. I had one of her before they took the baby, the one I stole. That was my favorite and was centered on the wall. A shrine? Maybe but, screw you if it’s too ‘cutsie’, I liked it. I found an artist that took the photos and worked with me, enhancing them until they matched the pictures in my mind. Beautiful color photographs now. It bacame a ritual, each time I passed them I would touch each one softly and spend a couple minutes being happy remembering, and then go on. I also did a weird thing. I read an article about a forgery of Madonna and Child, painted about 1300 by Duccio di Buoninsegna, an Italian that was active by 1278 and died about 1318 in Siena. It hangs in th Metropolitan Museum of Art. I finally bought that fake and it hangs alone, to the right of Morgan and Boadicea. That painting reminds me of them.

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