3 comments/ 13951 views/ 1 favorites The Wedding Story Ch. 01 By: Yinisanalterego It's hard to have sex on a plane. I don't mean physically, but emotionally. Judging the bathroom too small for any measure of real freedom, Marci decided that we should do it when everyone else was asleep. In our seats. I wasn't so sure, but Marci isn't someone I can easily refuse, especially now that she was twenty weeks pregnant. She gets these cravings, and I have no choice but to try and satisfy each one to the best of my abilities. She'd told me before we even boarded to be ready; it wasn't sex she craved, but sex on the plane. That was the clincher. Waiting for it was like waiting for the electric chair. I had my last meal, some time to myself, to reflect on what I'd done, and why I was here, then next thing I know (long before I was ready, or before I'd judged that everyone was asleep), she reached over and pulled down my zipper. I hissed, surprised. "Marci!" She smiled, licking her lips in that way that drives me wild. Nothing overly sensual, but playful and sexy all at once. It never fails and she knows it. Revels in it, even. "You knew this was coming, David," she said, fumbling around in my pants. Snaking her hand into my underwear, she lit upon my penis, awake and alert at her touch. It bounced against her palm as I tried to constrain myself, enough so that I was hit with an image of it as a cartoon dog, tongue lolling out, jumping around with its tail wagging, knowing that it's going for a ride. She pulled her hand back, gave it a few good licks, then replaced it onto my penis. Warm. I tried not to moan. "Come on, David," she said. "This isn't about you." "Damned if I don't like it anyway," I whispered. Standing (not yet awkward; it'd be a some time before her pregnancy became onerous), she threw a look around the cabin before lifting her skirt (I'd never seen her in one before; when I mentioned it at the hotel, she looked at me funny and said "Who wears pants for airplane sex?") stepping in front of me, and sitting down. I felt my penis touch her buttocks; she took hold of it, slid it between her legs, and up into her vagina. Quick and clean, no fuss, no muss. I'd never minded foreplay (and was quite good, she'd mentioned), but honestly, it was the air show before the fireworks: interesting, amusing, but not half the fun. Sensation hit me like a kick. Every time she slid up and down, a new wave would roll over me and to a dam somewhere that kept it all contained. With my face in her hair and my arms around her waist, I put my mouth on her shoulder to keep from moaning. Not that I was the louder of the two. At her loudest, Marci sounded as though she were being tortured for information by enemy forces. "Bite me," she whispered between mewing gasps. "What?" "Bite my shoulder." I did. Gently at first, then harder, I bit her as she fucked me and scratched at my legs with her nails. Her hands pushing up my shorts, she worked her nails into my thighs like a cat sharpening her claws. The waves built and overpowered the dam; it broke, and I shuddered as pleasure and relief shook me. From the way she trembled in my lap, the way her walls constricted against my dick, I could tell she'd felt the same effect. I counted her contractions; she stopped at three. After a minute's rest, during which she lay back against me, panting, she slipped off, stood, fixed her dress, and bent to give me a kiss before heading to the bathroom to clean herself. Not as concerned with hygiene, I tucked myself back in, pulled up my zipper, and reclined my chair to go to sleep, and just before I fell asleep, my head fell to the side, and I saw a stupid grin on the guy across the aisle. He was pretending to be asleep, but his pupils moved behind his eyelids, and his hand behind his blanket. "I don't want to go," I said. Marci had just gotten out of the bathroom, and startled me out of a light sleep as she shuffled her way to the middle seat. "It's your brother," she said, settling into her seat. Lifting the armrests, she lay on her chair and the empty seat next to hers, with her head on a pillow in my lap. My penis gave a small, limp hop before settling down again. "Your family." "Yeah, I got that." She turned her head to face me. "Your brother is getting married," she said. "Your youngest brother, the last bachelor of the lot." "I wasn't there for any of the other ones," I said. "Why should this be different?" "Because you didn't know me when the others got married." "I did for the last three." "Ah, but we weren't dating, love. Just fucking. That would have clinched it fer sure." "You don't understand," I said, laying my head back, and closing my eyes. "You're right, I don't." "I really don't want to go," I said. "I wish you hadn't made me." "It's a little late, innit?" she said. "We're on a plane headed for the States. Kinda late to voice an opinion, don't you think?" "I'm done voicing opinions," I said. "Now, I just want to whinge a bit." She put one hand on my own, and moved it to her stomach. "Feel this?" she said, with the same reverent tone she used when she spoke of our child. "This is you, and this is me. This is our family, and we can't have a family if you can't deal with your own. We can't make a new family if you don't what one ought to be." "No," I said. "They are not the role models. Not for us. They are not the standards to which I will hold us." "I want to meet them," said Marci. "Is that not enough?" "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't," I said. "I just . . . I'm not looking forward to it. Dreading it, even. Like a tax audit, only the auditors have known you your whole life, and remember every embarrassing thing you've ever done." "Oh? Like what?" A brief chuckle escaped. "Well, I guarantee that the fourth-grade play will be mentioned at least once." "What happened?" "The Farmer in the Dell. I was the farmer." "And?" "I. . . ." My eyes cruised the ceiling, refusing to meet hers, while my cheeks burned. "Well, urine was involved." She giggled. "Running down your leg, I imagine." "Yeah, laugh," I said, though I couldn't keep the smile from my own voice. "Everyone else did." "Oh, it must have been terrible for you," she said, but couldn't stop giggling. It got louder and harder, awakening a few sitting close to us. We got shushed, and more than one "shut the fuck up!" but we just laughed. Marci must have sensed how nervous I was. Even awaiting our luggage, my stomach was all butterflies. My eyes tracked each separate piece of luggage, but saw nothing but memories I'd tried to forget. We hadn't yet left the airport and I already wanted to turn back, to return to London, to our loft a whole universe away. I let our luggage pass us by, and we would have had to wait longer still if Marci hadn't spotted it. "Babe!" she cried, tugging on a large suitcase, one too large for her to lift. "Shit," I said. "Sorry." I took it from her and set it to the ground. "Sorry, Marci," I muttered again. She put her bag on her shoulder and tossed her hair aside. "Bit distracted, yeah?" I shrugged. "It's been a really long time," I muttered. "Jesus, even the airport gets me all nostalgic." She slipped her arm through mine, and we made our way towards the exit. "It'll be alright, love," said she. "You see if it isn't." "And if it's not?" Her elbow lightly jabbed my side. "Then you'll have proven me wrong, and this'll be the last time you see this side of the pond." "Jesus," I said. "You promise?" We chose the first available cab, and I burned red hot as I struggled to remember my own former address. The cabbie waited with forced patience as I stammered, then said "Yes sir," in a thick Middle-Eastern accent. I soaked up the scenery as he made his way through the hoards of cars and eventually found the highway. My heart thumped in my chest and refused to calm. My hand firmly in Marci's, she must have felt this, for after a moment, she reached over and unzipped my fly. The zzzziip! went unheard in the noise of the car's high speed on the highway. "Marci!" I hissed. "You need to relax, love," she said, reaching into my pants. "I know just the thing." "Neither the time nor the place, Marce," I whispered. "Bollocks. I can think of no better time," said she. I tried to pull her hands away. "Marci . . . " But she wasn't listening. "Jesus," I muttered, and relinquished what had been a half-assed resistance, at any rate, as she pulled my hardening dick from my pants. It jumped when she put her mouth, her warmth on it, and quivered when she moved downwards. The sucking was driving me mad. Pulling back, she let it go with a slight slurp, then ran her tongue up and down its length. I struggled to hold in a moan. "What lady doing?" said the cab driver, looking at me through the mirror. I jumped. Jesus! "Lady tying her shoes," I said. "Double knots. Very . . . h-hard!" Marci stifled a giggle by again swallowing my dick, and began moving her head up and down, up and down. My orgasm was rising. While her warm mouth worked the tip, she rubbed the shaft with her hand, working it perfect unison. I came quite fast, and she swallowed every bit. Straightening up, she kissed me on the mouth, her tongue running alongside my lips before pushing past them into my mouth. "Better?" she whispered. "Much," I said, and put my mouth to her ear. I sucked an earlobe into my mouth, and nibbled it for a moment. "Remind me to return the favor," I whispered. By the time the cab had taxied onto our driveway, the blowjob was all but forgotten and only the dread remained. It had slowly built ever since I'd gotten the invitation, and had received a considerable push when Marci had quite matter-of-factly informed me that she'd RSVP'd in the positive, but now, seeing the house, the memories came flooding back, bringing with them it anxiety and near-panic. "I don't want to be here," I said again, for what must have been the hundredth time. "I know, baby," said Marci. She opened the door, but I couldn't move. "David," she said. "David?" I couldn't move, my eyes frozen on the front of the house I'd tried to escape from. "David, is there something else?" "What?" "Is there something else," she repeated, her tone indicating how clearly she believed there was. I took a deep breath, sighed deeply. "There is," I admitted, and slid out of the taxi. "But it's not something I want to talk about right now. Tonight. When everyone's settled in." "David. . . ." I took her hand, and we intertwined our fingers. "Marci, please," I said. "This'll be hard enough." "Oh my God." The voice came from behind me. I turned and saw Franklin getting out of his car. I hadn't even heard him pull into the driveway. "Hey, Frankie," I said "David?" "Long time, huh?" said I, feeling like an idiot. Like we're talking about the fucking weather. "Jesus, David. . . ." he trailed off. "Yeah," I said, awkwardly rubbing the back of my neck. Old idiosyncrasy. "Twelve years' a long time, innit?" "You're talking funny," he said, candid as ever. "More than a decade in London," I said. "I guess I picked up a couple-a their mannerisms." "Please," said Marci. "He was talking like that when I met him. You know, I think he's deluded himself into thinking he's a genuine Brit." Frankie hardly so much as smiled, but I saw something in his eyes, something I saw in a lot of people meeting Marci for the first time. It was hard not to instantly like her. "David," he said. "Who's your friend?" "Name's Marci Baker," she said, and stepped up to him and gave him a hug. Taken aback, it took him a moment before he returned it. Then he jerked back, shocked. "Jesus, what was that?" "Oh, felt that, did you?" she said, putting her hands on her stomach. "Bugger's been kicking all day. Think he'll follow his uncle into professional football, I honestly do." "You . . . you're pregnant?" "Blimey, I hope so," she said. "Otherwise this thing's a tumor, and I've been getting sick for nothing." His eyes turned to me, bewildered. "And it's yours?" "Yeah, Frankie," I said. "It's mine." "We think it's his," said Marci, deadpan. "At least, we hope it is. But you never can tell, can you?" "Jesus, David," he said. I could tell from his face that he'd noticed the absence of a ring on her finger. "Yeah?" He shrugged, and shook his head. "Should make for an interesting conversation," he said, and put his hand on the small of Marci's back. "Shall we head in?" My heart leapt into my throat. I swallowed it down. "Yes, lets," I said, but had trouble moving my feet. Sidling up next to me, Marci put her hand into mine and pulled me into a hesitant walk towards the front door. Just don't leg go, I thought, and gave her hand a good squeeze. My stomach was an agonizing mass of knots that would not go away. I gave Marci's hand another squeeze as we walked onto the porch, gripping her tightly as we made our way up the steps, to the door. My hand on the doorknob, I took a deep breath as I turned it and pushed the door open. Standing on a porch I hadn't seen in a dozen years, I opened a door and entered a house I'd desperately tried to leave behind. The cacophony of a party in full swing was cut short at my arrival; a slew of guests fell silent and took to gaping wide-eyed or open-mouthed or both at me. My eyes sought out familiar faces: my mother (so much older, I thought), my brothers and my sisters. Stephanie, the youngest (thirteen when I left), had a baby on her hip, and a toddler holding on to her skirt. A young boy laughed and chased someone from the dining room into the living room, and was in turn chased by a tall blonde with her hair in a ponytail. She was bent low, her eyes hidden from me as she ran after whom I assume was her son, but I knew them nonetheless. They were green, I knew, a dazzling green like you sometimes see in fire, and they burned no less bright or hot. "Tobias Welcher you get back here this instant!" she hissed, then stopped when she noticed the awkward silence that had so suddenly befallen the room. "What's going—Oh my god," she breathed. "David?" I had to struggle to find my voice. God damn if she's changed in the least, I found myself thinking. "Hi, Jessie," I said, and added, after a noticeable moment, "And all." "David," my mother said. "What are you doing here?" "There's a wedding on," I said. "I was invited." "You were?" She hardly tried to hide her incredulity as her eyes flicked to Franklin's, who gave a slight shrug and shake of his head. "I RSVP'd," I said. "Weeks ago." "I got it," said Franklin. "I just—I didn't think you'd show up." "Well here I am," I said. "By all means," said my mother. "Put away your luggage and join the party. Who is your . . . friend?" She sounded hopeful, but doubting, like she knew better. "This is Marci," I said. "My girlfriend." "Oh," she said, her eyes falling upon Marci's swelling belly. "Oh, David, for heaven's sake." "Mother," I said, with a warning tone. Don't, I tried to tell her without speaking. She seemed to get the message, clamping her mouth resolutely shut, and pressing her lips together until they turned white. Her voice was silent, but her eyes spoke volumes. They spoke of disappointment, and of displeasure, and of condemnation at having lived what she would refer to as a Godless life of sin. My god, I thought. It's like I never left. Except for a number of wrinkles, and a proliferation of gray hairs, it was the same look she'd been giving me my whole life. I was over thirty years old, and she still wielded the uncanny power to make me feel like a child again. Marci wasn't quite so paralyzed; she moved to my mother and embraced her in a loving hug. Not too shy was the mother-to-be. It warmed me up all over again, melting ice and loosening knots in the pit of my stomach. "So happy to meet you, love," she said. "I've been dyin' to meet the woman who raised the man of my dreams. I feel like I should give ya a reward, or certificate, or something." "That . . . won't be necessary," my mother said. Her hands moved to Marci's wrists and pulled them away. "You two have . . . known each other long?" "About eight years," said Marci. "Been dating about seven." "Seven years," said my mother, throwing me a look. "That's a long time." A long time to not be married, that look said. A long time to be living in sin. "Not really," I said. "You'd be surprised how fast time can go." "I do hope we're not imposing," said Marci. "We can get a hotel room if you don't have the space." "Not at all," said my mother. "It'll be nice to have the whole family under the same roof again, for the first time in such a long time." She said that last bit with another pointed look at me, as though it were my fault the whole family hadn't been together in so long. I guess it was. "Yeah," I said. "It ought to be . . . interesting." "Your old room is unoccupied," she said. "Please, take it. And rest; the trip must have been exhausting." "Actually, I'm quite rested," said I. "I mean, there's not much to do on a sixteen-hour flight but sleep." And fuck, I wanted to say, but they didn't need to hear that bit. Marci hid a knowing grin, as though she could read my mind. "But I do need a shower before dinner," I said. "Marci, if you'd get me my blue shirt, with the stripes . . .? Marci?" Marci was frowning at the window overlooking the driveway. "Love," said she. "Where's our luggage?" The Wedding Story Ch. 02 I leaned against the cold tile wall as hot water sluiced off of me, running warmth down my shoulders and back. My head was throbbing, pounding my skull in time with my heartbeat. Three hours. Three hours we'd been at the police station, just to report some missing luggage, and in the end, all they'd told us was We'll do what we can. I was of the impression that my stolen luggage (fucking Raoul, I thought, recalling bitterly his unphotogenic cab license) was not their highest priority. I'd borrowed some of Jason's clothing, and Marci some of Stephanie's, and today after breakfast we'd go shopping. After three hours I'd come home and crashed (despite what I'd told my mother, I'd been quite tired), and given that I'd purposely stayed awake for nearly thirty-six hours to sleep away the time zone confusion, I hit the mattress around six-thirty and slept like a rock until three in the morning. Now, I was washing away a day and one-half of sweat and soreness, relishing how the hot water loosened tight muscles.. The door opened, and soft footsteps made their way into the bathroom. I felt a brief start as my heart jumped into my throat; after five years on my own, and seven years with Marci, I'd come into the habit of leaving the bathroom door unlocked. Now, with a full house, it occurred to me that such should no longer be common practice. "There's someone in here," I said, keeping my voice down; it was still quite early. I had a moment to feel like an idiot—of course they could tell someone was in here; the shower was running, after all, and was by no means whisper-quiet—before I heard a comforting voice. "I know, love," said Marci. She drew aside the curtain and stood before me utterly naked. Delicately stepping into the tub, she closed the curtain behind her and hugged me from behind, her breasts and distended tummy squeezed between us. "Hi." For one brief, terrifying moment, I thought it'd been . . . someone else. My heart pounded in my chest. "Marci, we're in a house full of people, chock full of people," I said, but the protest was half-hearted, at best. "You really want to—?" "I need you," she said, her hands on my stomach. "If right now's the only time we can be alone together, then I'll take it. Like you said, love, we're in a house full of people. Can't really go at it in the living room in the middle of the day, can we?" I grinned, remembering our loft in London, and turned around, pulling her into a hug. The top of her head came just under my chin. "I love you," I said, feeling a desperate need to be close to someone in a house full of distance. "You know that, right?" "Yeah, I know," she said. Then she looked up at me and grinned. "Babe, now ain't the time to get sappy, is it?" "Ah, if not now, when?" said I; my hands began moving up and down her back. She put her arms around my neck and pulled me into a warm kiss. My tongue darted between her lips, tasting her as my hands slid onto her hips and around to her buttocks. I squeezed them, and pulled her in closer. I slipped a finger between her buttocks, and alit upon her anus. I slipped the tip of it into her; she moaned softly against my mouth. Breaking away, I nuzzled my way down her neck; my hands ran up her sides, along her arms, and clasped her own. I pushed her against the wall as I worked down to her breasts and slid my mouth over a nipple as it hardened against my tongue. God, I loved her breasts. Even before she was pregnant, when they could have, without embellishment, been referred to as petite, I couldn't stay away from them. Now they were plumping, and more enticing than ever. I gave her nipple a final suck and moved rather hurriedly downwards until her cunt lay like an open flower before me. Its scent was no less intoxicating, nor its petals less divine. Normally, I'm not such an A-to-B-to-Cunt man, but it wasn't foreplay Marci wanted in times like this, it was intercourse. Hot, fast fucking, with as many orgasms as she could cram into each session; it made her feel closer to me, she said, and to the baby, somehow. Maybe because it had been in acts like this that it had been conceived, and not in the touching-petting-stroking that could go on for an eternity before getting to what was essentially the point of these endeavors. My tongue ran from the bottom, along its petals and folds—digging once into the deepness contained within—and reach the firm nub at the top. I gave it a gentle flick of the tongue before put my mouth on it and began sucking it like I'd done her nipple. I snaked one hand from her foot, up her calf, her thigh, and her buttock, and again stopped at her anus, wherein I slipped one wet finger to the middle knuckle. She loved anal play; I have no idea why. Women, as far as I knew, received no sexual gratification from it, and although Marci claimed otherwise, I think she was just trying to please me, trying to share in something I sometimes got a kick out of—not all our dildos were for her, after all, just most of them. She gasped, then put her hands on my shoulders. "David," she panted. "Can we—can we stop?" I looked up at her, puzzled. "What?" "I want to—I need to feel close to you," she said. "I want . . . I want . . . fuck, I don't know what I want." I got to my feet and looked her in the eye. "Marci, are you okay?" "I don't know," she said. I thought I saw tears in her eyes, but that could have been water. "I just . . . here." She turned off the shower, turned on the faucet, and plugged the drain. We lowered to the ground, and I leaned against the cold porcelain while the tub filled with warm water. Marci nestled in my lap and lay against my chest; my penis pressed against the small of her back, and jumped hopefully at her warmth. I don't know, little dude, I thought, never one with enough ego to name my member. I have no idea what she's doing; this is quite new. "I'm sorry," said Marci. "This whole thing was my idea and I . . . I can't, right now. I don't know why, I just can't." "Don't apologize," I said. "Never apologize." She leaned her head against my shoulder. "It seemed like such a bloody good idea at the time. Fucking hormones." I chuckled and took her hands, wrapped her hands and my own around her. The water level steadily rose; it now reached my hip. "Tell me about Jessica," Marci said. My heart skipped a beat. "What?" "In the cab, you said there was something else," said Marci. "Another reason you so dreaded returning home, and in the house, I saw how you looked at her. I saw how she looked at you, too. There was something there. Something old." "Is that what this is about?" I said. "No," she said. "But we're here, and we have time. Why not now?" "Marci. . . ." I said, then stalled. What? What could I possibly say? That she was wrong? "Sometimes," I said instead. "Your perception astonishes, love." "I'm right?" "Always." "Then?" I took a deep breath. "We used to . . . we had a . . . I, um. . . ." "You fucked her," she inferred, candid as I could never be. My face burned. "Yeah." "I figured." "I . . . it was idiotic," I said. "I was eighteen, gawky, self-conscious, and she was married to my brother. They hadn't been married more than a couple of months when he had that accident, and by the time this came around, they'd been going through a lot of hardships. He was so fucking distant then. "We talked a lot, Jessie and I. I've . . . always had trouble talking to people, but she made it easy, somehow. I opened up to her like I never had anyone else"—I felt her stiffen, and gear up for an objection—"except you, of course," I added, cutting her off. "Bloody right, except me," she said. She unwound our arms, and put my hands on her stomach. "Go on, then." "I have no idea how it happened," I said. "I guess—no, that's wrong. I do know, but I remember it quite strangely, like I'm outside myself looking in, you know? I remember deeds, but not doing them. Kinda like watching a movie." "What happened?" "I was at their house," I said. "Tyler was . . . I didn't know where. Out, I guess, enjoying the latest in a long line of new hobbies he could enjoy from his wheelchair. I'd been doing some work around the house for them -- yard work, mostly, the stuff neither one of them could do -- and when I finished, we got to talking." I found my voice softening as I remembered, and my stomach churned horrendously. Some liken reliving bad a experience to tearing open old wounds; this was like slicing open a wound so old, its scars had faded from memory. New wounds on top of old, more like. "We were having champagne," I said. "She'd just had a miscarriage—her second, I think—and drank a lot, in those days. I didn't like the stuff, but I didn't want to admit to it. Besides, there was a kind of thrill at drinking alcohol when I knew I shouldn't. "We put away the entire bottle," I said. "She'd drank most of it; I mostly sipped and nursed. I had a buzz, but not nearly enough of one to impair judgment." Marci rose from my lap to turn off the water, which had reached a comfortable level, then settled back into my lap. Positioned as I was, sitting up against the wall of the tub, the water barely reached mid chest; for Marci, who was lying back against me, it rose to her collarbone. "How did it happen?" she said, putting my hands back on her stomach. "I—is this weird for you?" I said. "Hearing this?" I was quieter now that the rushing water no longer hid our voices. I had no idea how early it was—still quite early, I imagined, but recognized that my often incorrect sense of time was made worse by the change in time zones—and didn't want to risk being overheard. "I always knew you'd dated before I came along, David," she said. "You must know I did the same." "You weren't exactly virginal," I agreed, grinning "Taught you a few things," she said. I brought her hand up and kissed her fingers. "You taught me everything I know, love," I said. "Everything that matters." "Continue the story," she said. I leaned back again, looked at the ceiling, and saw again a naïve teen, just out of high school, with no idea what he was getting into. "Normally, Jessica is a very controlled woman," I said. "I mean, you have no idea. She's so disciplined. But after putting away almost an entire bottle of some pretty hard stuff, her walls had been utterly demolished, and I saw every emotion soon as she had it. "We got to talking about the baby. I don't remember how or why; I like to think she brought it up, that I wouldn't be so thoughtless, but then, as now, I had a great potential for blind insensitivity. Part of the Welcher legacy, I guess. "David—" "Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry." She hated it when I was self-deprecating like that. Said I was insulting her man, which I thought was funny. "She was crying on my shoulder. Normally we sat on opposite couches, but I moved when she offered me a drink, and she moved closer as we spoke. It was so gradual, I hadn't even noticed it; then she her head was on my shoulder, and her tears on my shirt, and my hand was rubbing her back as I ineptly tried by best to comfort her. "She cried for a long time, and when she was done, there was a silence that grew and grew more awkward. I had no idea what to say or do. I remember wanting to move my arm because it was falling asleep." "Who kissed first?" said Marci. "You or her?" "She did," said I. "I didn't have it in me to make the first move. Not for a long time." "How did she do it?" "She just did," I said. "After the silence had stretched and stretched, after her tears had dried, she just turned her head towards me and put her lips on mine. "To say I was stunned would be a monumental understatement. I was utterly frozen. My heart pounded so loud in my ears, I heard nothing else. I hardly felt it when her lips left mine and she pulled away. I jumped from the couch in near panic, feeling like I'd betrayed my brother—and I had, I suppose—and that he was waiting in any number of secret places to spring forth and see us. Every shadow, every room looked suspicious. We were in their living room, which connected to the dining room, den, and hallway, and I felt like he was hiding in any one of these places. It was his house; who'd know it better than he? "I was whirling about the living room, trying to make sense of what had happened and how it had happened, formulating with increasing panic excuses should Tyler appear just then, and didn't notice her approach me. "She put her hands on my shoulders to stop me, and she told me that he wouldn't be home for hours. "I didn't believe her. I mean, I did, but it felt like she was trying to trap me, like she was setting me up, for some reason. It was ridiculous; I had no reason to suspect such deceit. "She put her arms around my neck, like you did when you got here, and told me that I'd done nothing wrong, that there was no fault to be had here. Then she pulled me in for another kiss. I resisted, tried to pull away, but not that much, because behind the subsiding panic—logic and reason was winning out over paranoia and blind fear—there was excitement, and eagerness for something new. "No, overeagerness, more like," I said. "I let myself be pulled back to the couch, and we did that for a while, and then we did something else. It . . . it happened so fast, it felt almost like a dream. Even lying there, under a blanket, my naked warmth against hers, it felt like a dream. I was sure it was a dream." "But it wasn't," she said. "No," I said. "It wasn't. God, I so wished it to be a dream." "Why?" "Tyler found out," I said. She tensed. "Oh?" "Mm. Not right away, I mean, but eventually. We had our little affair for a time—six months, I think—and grew careless. One day, he came home and saw on the couch. We were just watching the telly, and we happened to doze off, but we looked, I imagine, a bit more comfortable than we should have." "What happened?" she said. "He flipped," I said. "I mean, I'd fallen asleep, but suddenly I was awake and there was screaming and I was confused and getting assaulted. It was chaos." "Jesus, Davey," she said. "Yeah." "So what happened?" "What else?" I said. "We had a row. Lots of screaming. Some hitting—mostly one-sided, 'cause I could never bring myself to hit a man in crutches." "What'd Jessie do?" she said. "Tried to stop him. Calm him. Didn't much succeed, I think." "What did you do?" "What could I do?" I said. "I left. I got into my car and I drove straight home at what felt like the speed of sound in nothing but me knickers. When I got home, I found out Tyler had already called ahead, and the entire house was awake and waiting for me." "Jesus," said Marci. "I can imagine." No, love, I thought. You quite can't. "So what happened?" "I more or less pushed my way to my room," I said. "Jesus, it felt like a fucking obstacle course, what with their disapproving faces and admonishments blocking my way. I made it to my room if only because I couldn't face them in just me boxer shorts. Then, because I realized I couldn't face them at all, I packed some clothes into a backpack I hadn't used in the year since high school, and I made my way back out through the obstacle course and into the open night. I got into my car and hit a motel." "And you never turned back?" "Never," I said. "But more by incident than design. The next morning, I got in the car and just drove, with no destination in mind other than away. I drove until I hit Los Angeles and happened upon a construction job with a crew who worked all over the country. I bounced to three big cities before he told me about a job in Tokyo, then England. At this point, it'd been nearly a year since I'd so much as e-mailed a relative, so the decision kinda made itself." "After a year, they'd likely have forgotten, if not moved on," said Marci. "But you do like to let things build, don't you?" "I was never confrontational," I said. "Bullshit. You confront me all the time." I chuckled, and kissed the top of her head. "You're different. You make me better." "Aw, stuff it, you wanker," she said, and broke the tension of my telling the tale. I laughed as I hugged her close, and wrapped my legs around hers. She loved it when I held her like that. Said she felt cocooned. I felt a bit like I'd betrayed her trust, because what I'd told her wasn't the truth; at least, not the gospel truth. While it was true I hadn't contacted my family, I had been contacted by them, brothers and sisters all, each sending e-mails to the address I'd had since the eight grade. They knew I would never change it. Initially, their messages were scornful, and told me of how ashamed they were. Then, they were understanding. Then, as time passed, and I did not respond, they grew concerned. Tyler's last message, the last message I got from the lot of them, was simply: I forgive you. Come home. Please. I had nothing to say to that, and so I said nothing. That was ten years ago. There was more to the affair than just that, of course; more to Jessie's part in it, and more to mine, but it was something I couldn't bring myself to tell her. Not just yet. "Tell me about the sex," said Marci. Her voice, the way it—even whispered—rang out in the tiled bathroom, pulled me from my memories and into the present; the water had chilled considerably. "What?" I said, as I pulled the stopper with my toe and reached my foot up to turn on the hot water. Just a little, at first, but I'd turn it up as the tub drained. The water around my feet was infused with new warmth. "Tell me," she insisted. "You mean, like, details?" "Mm," said she, her hands on my arms. "Well, like I said, it all happened rather fast," I said. "So details are rather sket—sketchy." Her hands were rubbing my forearms. One moved from my arm to my inner thigh. Taking my cue from her—story time over? my penis seemed to ask, giving a hopeful hop; I had no idea what to tell it (she'd already stopped me once, after all, who's to say she wouldn't again?)—I followed suit and took hold of her breasts. "Try," she said. "O—okay. I . . . I, uh. . . ." How had it happened? I tried to recall. We were kissing, then—? I couldn't remember, precisely. Just kissing. Tiny pecks, then more. Open mouths. Tongues, and heavy breathing. Mostly I remembered the adrenaline and anticipation. Just start with the kissing. "We were kissing," I said, and Marci turned, laying her body on mine. My penis immediately sprang to full attention between her legs. She nuzzled my neck as I spoke. Oh, I see what we're doing. "We did that for I don't know how long. It felt like hours, but couldn't have been more than a minute or two. Then she put her tongue in my mouth." Marci began licking my neck and shoulder; I was really glad I'd been rinsing when she came into the shower, else the stench and grime might have driven her away. "And we . . . we did that for a while"—her mouth closed on my nipple—"when she pulled off my shirt. I was a little pudgier then (baby fat, you understand), but damned if her hands didn't try to cover every inch of me." Her hands began to move up and down my body; her mouth was still on my nipple. Wonder what a nipple hickey looks like, I thought inanely, suppressing a groan.