Tracy and Grant

“Tracy, why are you here?”

All 5 feet of her stood on the porch before the old man. She was slender and delicate and looked hardly her age, 19. She looked new, with skin of a pleasing pallor and yellow hair in two braided pigtails that reached down her back to her small, round bottom. She wore petite, black shorts that let just a squeeze of that bottom escape, a white tank top that was very thin, probably cotton; Grant could see the darkness and even the points of her nipples and the slight swell of her breasts. Her legs were slim where her thighs slid under the hem of her shorts. Grant took an obvious moment to look at her, from slender calves to green eyes.

It had to be Tracy, of all Jean’s students, he thought. What is it about her? For some reason, he always had impure thoughts about her. And I have a kid just a year older, he thought. Since he met her, she was to be avoided.

He felt his dick twinge. She smiled. Is she a woman? Her age makes her legal, but…. Has she ever been with a guy? Of course she must have, but still: maybe not? She was in college. He purposely twinged his dick then, and it was a little harder. No need for a blue pill with her, he thought.

His hair was gone white and slightly thinned and receded–but not too badly. He had gray hair on his chest, and some elsewhere. He was putting on the weight old men do once their wives stop having sex with them much; he thought it was connected. He was not short, but barely an average height. He looked and was still a strong man. He wore glasses to read.

Tracy canted her head. “Your wife, my piano lesson?” she asked. Her eyes had a playful look; was she disingenuous?

Holding the door, he said, “It’s Monday. Your lessons are always on Tuesday and Thursday. You know the missus is always gone on Mondays.” Jean’s piano teaching business was diminishing, but she still had three students. Tracy had been playing for almost a year.

She walked on in as if it didn’t matter, pushing his arm aside with her small hand and squeezing past. “Oh! I thought it was a Tuesday!”

She went over to the upright piano on which Jean taught lessons. “I’ll just practice a little. Our piano’s so out of tune!” She looked at him as if daring him to object, and then she turned and bent over to move the bench, pointing that marvelous volleyball bottom at him. He was harder and creating a bulge in the front of his pants. “When will she get home? Maybe I could get an extra lesson today?” She turned to him, her little tits pushing against her shirt that didn’t quite reach her shorts. “Daddy?”

Suddenly he was solid, despite no chemical help. “Mama Jean won’t be back this afternoon. Not until tonight.” All of her students called his wife Mama Jean and him Daddy Grant. Only Tracy called him just Daddy.

Tracy pouted and furrowed her brow. He finally closed the door; she ran her tongue tip over her lips as she put her hands on the piano keys. Grant sighed. He was rarely home on Tuesdays or Thursdays; those afternoons, he spent time working on his garden on some acres he had out of town.

“If you’re going to practice, go ahead. I’ve got some work to do in the kitchen,” he said and made an escape. He heard her play some simple songs then as he emptied the dishwasher. For all the lessons, Tracy was not very advanced.

*

After about fifteen minutes, he heard no more music. He emptied the dishwasher and threw away some leftovers. He decided to insist Tracy go home. He turned to look in the living room and she was standing in the doorway a few feet away.

It wasn’t right for her to be in his home alone with him.

“Tracy, are you ready to go already?” he asked. “I only heard a few songs on the piano.”

“I want a different kind of lesson today, Daddy,” she said. She grasped his right hand in hers and put it to her left tit. She stepped up to him. “Feel me? I want you to touch me,” she whispered.

Grant had never faced wanton seduction. Like many strong men, his strength was that he avoided such moments. He avoided certain bars, especially in the motels he occasionally visited on business. He didn’t go to parties, especially organized by grateful clients. He called Jean when he was out of town. He did not think he could resist a pretty woman who insisted, nor one who actually desired him. This occasion with Tracy was unforeseen. He could not help but squeeze that wonderful softness. He felt the prick of her stiffening nipple.

“Come with me,” Tracy said, pulling him by the hand to the couch. “Sit.” He did. She did not. She seemed to know his weakness for her. He looked from her hair to her small feet, slowly, seeing her skin and eyes and throat and shoulders, arms and stomach and legs. Her eyes were on him.

He noted the increasing vulgarity of his thoughts, the decline of his vocabulary as desire took more and more of his attention.

“I know you like looking at me, Daddy,” she said. “I like it when you do.” She put her hands on his shoulders, looking him in the eye. She was barely taller since he was sitting.

“You should go, Tracy,” he said. “Mama Jean would not like this.” He remembered fantasizing about Tracy, imagining impossibilities.

“I’m sure Mama Jean would want me to learn something new today, wouldn’t she?” Tracy said very coquettishly, canting her head again, then biting her lower lip.

“”I’m 60. You want me to have sex with you?” he asked. To fuck you, he thought. To lick your pussy. To suck your small breasts. After all this time, the occasion he’d always avoided was upon him. “I could never say no,” he’d told Jean. “I have to avoid the situation.” And he had. It was as if Tracy knew his fantasies and weakness. It seemed ludicrous.

Her smile grew bigger and she nodded. Her eyes were eager. She leaned into him and said in his ear, “I want you to fuck me like you fuck Mama Jean,” she said. “I want you to have fun with me.” She pulled his head against her chest. She kissed his forehead. “She never has to know.”

Years of sexual frustration and limits and “not tonights” justified him. I can’t do this, he thought. He said, “No, she doesn’t.” Sex, and Jean would never know.

Jean would never know, a lie he quickly accepted as truth. He squelched any guilt before it took purchase. He remembered books in which affairs always, always ended badly. Greene’s The End of the Affair, Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, and Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago flew from his mind. He remembered clients losing their fortunes in divorces and dissolutions because of adultery. None of it mattered as the young woman offered herself to a frustrated Grant. The decision was made.

He grabbed her firmly by the arms and sat her beside him. His left arm was around her shoulders.

She knew she’d succeeded. She had a small smile.

“Put your leg here, across my knees,” he said.

He straightened her right leg out then, across both his knees, and ran his right hand slowly from her bare foot up the inside of her leg, kneading it and squeezing it, tickling as he reached her right thigh, and then lightly running his fingers over the fabric covering her crotch. She put her head against his shoulder and moaned. He took his hand from her crotch to her chin, bussing her small breasts and nipples. He lifted her head, and kissed her on the mouth, softly and then roughly, pushing his tongue inside and feeling her tongue come back into his mouth. Her right hand found the bulge in his pants, and she felt him hard. She rubbed him hard, too.

“I want to feel you come in me,” Tracy said huskily, her cheek pressed to his, his right hand slithering under her shorts and panties. He felt her pussy, soft and hairless.

“You want my cum in you,” he said. “How should I put it there?” He was having trouble controlling himself. His desire was demanding action.

“I want you to use this,” she said, squeezing him. “Like you do with Mama.”

He remembered Jean accepting sex in the early years of their marriage, wanting it, preparing it. She would dress for it sometimes, demand it on others. He remembered hurrying home from court or work meeting several times to find a naked or half-clothed Jean on the couch or bed touching herself and saying, “I want you NOW.”

He hesitated a moment. “Usually I eat her cunt,” he said, “and then I fuck her from on top.”

Grant was on Tracy then, and had her like he wanted. It was frenetic. She was scared. Tracy thought he had gone berserk. She’d never seen a man’s barely-controlled desire for sex.

His mouth was on hers, hard, as he yanked her shirt up. Tracy whimpered as he mauled her small tits, as he bit at her nipples. His hands were everywhere: her chest, her neck, her ass, oh her ass, and her thighs. He was kissing her chest, licking her chest, sucking her chest, her one hand pulling his head into her and the other seeking his cock. He pushed his hard dick into her crotch and when that became a frustration, he stood her up like she was a plastic doll and yanked her shorts down, a button flying somewhere. Her panties came down with the shorts and she was before him, so young looking and her pussy right before his mouth.

“My, oh my, Tracy. You’re a wet dream,” he said. Physically, she was, anyway. He grabbed her then, pulled her pussy into his mouth and ravaged it. She was standing on the couch naked, his mouth fixed to her vulva, his hands pulling her bottom into him. She whimpered with pain but her hands were behind his head pulling his mouth into her sex. Suddenly, he grabbed her arms, lifted her and put her down on the couch on her back, and she was eager as he spread her as wide as he could by pushing on her thighs. She was so willing, she was so open and inviting.

She thought he was crazy, he didn’t seem like the gentle man she’d known these many months.

“Eat me more,” she said.

She groaned as his mouth plunged into her. His mouth sucked in her labia, hard. His tongue slurped at her. His nose at first pushed against her clitoris and then his teeth were around it, scaring her, but she noticed he was controlling that. She thought, he wants me to like the fear he’ll bite.

“Oh, yes, eat me,” she said. “Put your tongue in me. I want you to smell like me for hours.”

He made a map of her pussy that afternoon, exploring, pushing, probing. He tasted a musky dew from her. Her labia were red and swollen. She came, shivering for some seconds, calling, “Yes, yes, Daddy!” and feeling a release and moisture in her pussy. He sucked at her folds, one lip and then another, and it made her shiver and shake again.

He went on his knees between her legs, and she knew he was about to enter her. His eyes were dark, and he was not smiling.

“Give me you, Daddy Grant. Give me it,” she said as she looked into his eyes. Her hands were on either side of his round stomach, ready.

He ran his dick up and down her vulva, put it to her small hole, and pushed gently. He felt her start to open. He looked at her.

“It feels big,” she said. She looked pleased but a bit afraid.

He shook his head. “I won’t be able to stop.” He pushed and she opened again, and a little farther. He felt his dick inside her now, a good inch or two, but she was small.

“How does it feel?” he asked, expecting her, WANTING her to say it hurt.

“I have to spread for you,” she said. “I can’t help it.” Her feet were in the air, one over the back of the couch, the other waving wide.

“All of me,” Grant said, and she nodded. He pushed, and he slid into her, and she made a sharp intake of breath, and he pushed all the way in. Wow. All the way. Grant held steady for some seconds. Oh my, I’m doing it, he thought. I’m an adulterer. He gave in to the urge, completely, but not without guilt. The guilt made it better, more barbaric, stronger.

Her eyes were shut. She’d feared this moment, knowing how small she was. It hurt, but she was wet and now it was in and it didn’t hurt much.

“So full,” she whispered. “Warm. It’s like I was made for you.”

“You like dick,” he said. His voice was different, husky. He hopes it hurts me, she could tell. Like it makes him more masculine.

Her eyes were closed for a few seconds when she moaned a long, satisfied sound, loud enough that someone passing by outdoors might have heard.

“Is this how you do Mama Jean?” she said, her own voice husky now.

“Mama Jean,” he said, “liked nothing better than to spread her legs for this dick.” He began thrusting in and out of her, hard and then harder.

She whispered, “Take my pussy, Daddy.” A few seconds passed and she said it again.

He stopped, hearing that made him look like a thundercloud. He gathered her to him. “Your pussy is mine,” he said with his rough cheek against her soft one.

“Yes,” she said, looking at the ceiling, pulling him into her. “Like Mama’s.”

He built up then, sliding it in, pushing it in, then harder, then he gathered her legs with his arms and bent her back on herself and thrust as hard as he could, his gray hairy chest meeting her small breasts, his lips meeting hers. He was deep in her with each thrust, his tongue in her mouth and his dick up her pussy.

She moaned loudly and pulled her mouth from his. “Oh God I just want you to fuck me, fuck me,” she said feverishly, “Uh, uh, uh.,” she said with his thrusts. She was throwing her head from side to side. His excitement grew with hers.

He was suddenly ready. “I’m going to come,” he said.

Tracy was perspiring, her lips pressed determinedly together, eyes closed, nodding. Her sex moved to meet his every thrust. “Come in me. Come in me. I feel you getting bigger!” And then he gave a grunt and thrust, she squealed, and her hips rose to meet him, twice, and a third time. He filled her with seedless semen, one of a very few times his vasectomy had mattered. She didn’t appear worried about pregnancy.

He lay on her then, both of them breathing hard. She was wet with perspiration, hers and his. They were quiet for a long minute. She felt him shrinking inside, softening, and enjoyed it. She liked the feel of his chest hair, his increasing belly, his warmth. She looked up at him, and he rolled her over on top of him. She giggled, his arms around her.

“Oh, Daddy Grant, I feel it still in me.” She kissed him, softly. “I like it in there. You in there.”

She fell asleep on top of him for a half hour, and he listened to her breathing. She was so small and light, soft. Her tiny tits were mere suggestions. He felt a stirring in his groin at the thought, but knew it would not happen. A moment later he felt her hand on his chest and knew she was awake.

“You should go, Tracy.”

“I don’t want to.”

He shook his head, no.

“Can we do it again? Maybe next Monday?” she asked with a sly expression.

“We’ll talk,” he said, feeling guilt and the enormity of what he’d done. There was a woman he loved. He’d given away something he’d protected for so long. He stood up and held her hand as she rose also.

“Okay, Daddy. I’ll go now.”

Tracy dressed, pulling on her shorts very slowly as Grant looked at her legs. “I can’t find the button,” she said, looking about the room.

“No problem as long as your shorts stay up,” Grant said. She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth, hard. She could taste her muskiness on him as she pushed her tongue into his mouth. He broke the kiss, put her down, and she left with a smile. He watched her bottom sway and peek out of her shorts.

It had been so long for Grant. It was so wrong. Jean would be so disappointed.

Grant recalled Jean leaving that morning, saying, “I’ll not be home early today, for sure.” Jean, who had liked sex so many years ago, who now warded him off, would be late today.

Tracy was so oddly available. Coincidental? Not a word about pregnancy―perhaps she was on the pill. She was not worried about Jean appearing. As he thought about it, it seemed more unlikely than just wrong. Suspicion awoke in him. It was too much. Guilt and anger competed for his concern.

Something had been stolen, not given. He thought back over the last six months. Grant’s heart finally broke.

*

Tracy sent an email to Mama Jean almost as soon as she was home. “It was just like you said. I loved it! He had this look like he wanted nothing but to fuck me, nothing but. He had a darkness in his eyes. He loved my pussy.”

She received a reply some time later. Jean wrote, “I kissed him when I came home, and I could smell you on him! I loved it. Come early tomorrow; he won’t be home all day, and I want you all to myself.”

Tracy thought of Mama Jean, sexy and older and hungry for her. The woman’s curves were hot, and she was always wet for Tracy, “like I was for Grant years ago,” Mama said once. Tracy understood now; she loved that look in Grant’s eye, as if nothing mattered but getting into her. She liked Mama’s hunger for her sex and had experienced it with other girlfriends, but Grant’s powerful, primal focus on intercourse was unique in her young sex life.

She texted, “I’ll be there. I can’t wait until tomorrow.”

“Oh, I found your button,” Mama Jean replied.

*

It was a long evening for Grant. Jean was home after supper, greeting him with a light kiss on the lips. Since the kids had grown and left–Tony was married and working in Cincinnati and Lizbeth was a sophomore at a school in Michigan–their evening routine was quiet. Jean played games or texted with friends on her cell phone; Grant corresponded with friends, maneuvered their investments through the internet, and read books. He loved it. After a career finding the hidden money and discovering squandered fortunes, he finally had time to read the novels, to love his wife, and to travel a bit.

They were not rich, but they were very comfortable. Jean taught school for a decade, then quit to run her own internet business that usually lost money. It didn’t matter. Grant earned the living for the family as a divorce financial specialist, found the money for the kids to go to college, secured the retirement income that would see Jean and him through a long and easy retirement. He retired at 58. Jean’s company was still on the books, but she rarely had any business.

“How was your day, dear?” she asked. There was something smug in her statement.

“I made a list of books for my book club, did the dishes, watched an old Perry Mason. Otherwise, nothing unusual, Just another day in Ohio,” he said. He saw her hesitate slightly at that, and then she began to text on her cell phone.

He examined his life with Jean over the last year, questioning his suppositions. He thought of a word here or there, an expression. He had trusted her. He became convinced his conclusion, though sad, was correct. A big joke had been played on him, using their infrequent sex life and years of fidelity to put a nail in a coffin. He had noticed some things along the way, and that made him resolute. Falling out of love was easier knowing his trust had been betrayed cynically.

He picked up his laptop. He had a lot to think about. It was a sad evening, sitting across from Jean. Occasionally she would smile at something on her phone. He was working with bank accounts and insurance, investments and gold. He would have to sign some documents tomorrow. He did not want that moment, but he feared it was upon him. Jean probably had no idea what he was arranging from across the room.

She would be able to live. She’d have half the assets, but they would prove difficult to access. She might want to teach more piano. The divorce would be tough on her.

Grant watched her, who was smiling at her phone again. Love can end, Grant thought. I thought love was the one eternal. What happened to us? Adultery and manipulation broke his heart, finally, but what had led to it? All those years of rare sex, of request and refusal, were suddenly an embarrassment. He was deeply angry. They were suddenly lost time that no amount of searching could recover.