My understanding is that Thanksgiving is fundamentally a family holiday in the US. People will travel great distances to be together with their families on that day.
Erotica and families make uncomfortable bed fellows. Apart from stories with a (usually extremely unrealistic) fetish for incest, most protagonists in erotic stories spring whole onto the page with neither parents nor children to distract their focus from sexual satisfaction. Yet our families are an inescapable and sometimes inscrutable part of our identity.
In this story, I wanted to understand how little Helen grew up to be a sexually dominant woman and I wanted to set her relationship with Peter in to the context of her relationship with her parents.
I hope you enjoy the result.
“You want me to sleep here?”
“Well this is where you slept when you lived here, Helen. Why should it change now? I thought you’d be pleased to have your old room back.”
I try to read my mother’s face. She must being doing this deliberately. And she must know that I can see what she is doing. But she still has that innocent, not-quite-connected-to-planet-earth look that she uses to avoid any minor questions about her decisions that my father might be rash enough to voice.
I stare in disbelief at the single bed that I slept in as a child. It’s a very narrow single bed.
“I know that you prefer to ignore the fact that Peter and I are married mother, but he is my husband and I expect to have him in my bed. We can’t sleep here.”
“Really, Helen, I have no idea where you get these impressions from. I have no opinion about Peter. As I said at the time, who you chose to marry was up to you.”
What she’d said at the time was “Are you sure you want to marry Paul, dear? He’s such a bland man. I can see the advantage of having someone manageable but marriage needs a little spice if it’s to last. I’ve always preferred to wake up to Huevos Rancheros, the problem with Paul is that he’s just so… oatmeal.”
I’d stood there, with my hands balled into fists and my jaw clenched, trying to quell the desire to hit her.
“His name is Peter, mother,” I’d spat out.
“You see, dear, not even his name is memorable. Ah well. It is your decision of course.”
Now, seven years later, I find myself having to bite back my anger one more time. My mother is talking. I’m trying not to strangle her.
“I didn’t think that you and Peter would mind being separated for one night. I’ve given him the fold-down bed in your father’s den. He’ll be perfectly comfortable. I had to give the guest bedroom to Troy and Dianna; after all they have the baby to think of.”
The baby. Of course we should be thinking about the baby. My younger brother (what kind of mother calls their kids Helen and Troy?) produced a grandchild right off the bat. I of course committed the sin of putting my career ahead of my duty to deliver grandchildren, although even that became Peter’s fault in my mother’s mind. “If Peter has a problem dear, I can recommend an excellent clinic.” My mother had left that helpful tip on our answerphone in the second year of my marriage. Peter played it back to me when I got home from work.
I don’t resent the fact that Troy and Dianna got the big bed. I resent the implication that Peter is so bland that I won’t even notice his absence.
“I want him here with me, mother.”
Even I can hear how petulant I sound.
“Well if it’s that important to you, dear. I’ll ask your father to move the fold-down bed in here. I’m sure he won’t mind. Although of course he has only just set everything up the den. But then your father always makes sure that his little Helen gets what she wants, doesn’t he?”
I don’t believe it. She is still jealous of the fact that Dad will do things for me.
“There won’t be a lot of room in here. You’ll have to fold up the bed before you can open the door. But, if that’s what you want…”
Oh God. It is always like this. A constant trickle of words that erode my will. I either have to get angry or to shut down and give in. Giving in is easier. If I push her now, the topic will come up at dinner. And again in the morning. And in the next time we come to the house. If there is a next time.
“Never mind, mother. Peter can stay where he is. Let’s just concentrate on getting dinner ready.”
“Well, if you’re sure, dear.”
How did this woman live so long?
“You look tense, Helen. Why don’t you take a moment to freshen up? Dianna is changing the baby in the bathroom but you can use the en suite in the master bedroom. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready.”
And then she is gone. The relief is physical, like when your ears pop at altitude.
I don’t really need to freshen up but it gives me a reason to delay going downstairs. Nothing has changed in my parents’ bedroom. The huge wrought iron bed with the chintz canopy over it is still there. I used that bed the first time that I fucked Peter. I used it because I liked the headboard, because I wanted revenge on my mother for all the times I’d had to listen to her thrashing in this bed in the middle of the night, and because I wanted to see if good, nice, sensible Peter Brader would do what I wanted him to do.
I sit on the stool by the dressing table and summon up the memory of a nineteen year old Peter, lying on this bed with his wrists tied to the headboard; so calm and trusting that, except for the impressive erection he was saluting me with, he might almost have been ready to sleep.
Other boys I’d known had only pretended to submit. They’d made comments as I tied them to establish that it was all a game and as soon as they’d come; they’d started to fret at their bonds, demanding to be let free. Peter didn’t do any of that. He just waited for me to use him. But his serenity wasn’t passive. Somehow it managed to amplify everything I did. The harder I fucked him, the harder I wanted to fuck him. His cock was my lightening rod, calling me forth, daring me to spend myself on him, taking everything that I could give and leaving me discharged and sated.
Afterwards I’d left him tied to the bed while I sat and brushed my hair. A beam of sunlight was shining down on him, highlighting the sweat on his muscles and the small scratches and bites I’d visited on him. He looked happy, even grateful. I’d shown him my wildest side. I’d sworn and fucked and bitten and scratched and shouted my come with my head thrown back and he hadn’t pulled away, he hadn’t been threatened. He was waiting for more. He was waiting for me. For the first time in my adult life I felt as if I’d found a home.
Peter wasn’t my first fuck, but he was my first lover. Actually, he is my only lover. To me that is a statement of how rich my life is rather than how narrow my experience has been.
“Helen dear, if you’ve finished up there, you can help your father lay the table.”
The sound of my mother’s voice makes me feel guilty and furtive and childish. I get off the stool quickly and smooth the cover of the bed, as if I had just used it. Why does coming home always turn me back into a little girl? And why do I hate that so much?
There are six of us at dinner but there is food for at least a dozen. The conversation is stilted at first. Troy and Peter have the mandatory road-number-filled review of the drive to my parents’ house, even though I actually did the driving. I ask Dianna about the baby, revealing my ignorance of modern childrearing with each question that I ask. Mother fusses over dad, ensuring that he gets the best slices of meat, touching his hand when she passes him things, keeping his glass full. She always makes sure that he knows he is the centre of her attention. Dad catches me watching them and gives me an unapologetic grin. This is how the world is, that grin says, and it’s too late now to change it.
As the wine flows, words become easier for everybody but me. I feel as though an invisible barrier has settled between me and everyone else. I watch but I don’t speak.
Peter fits in so well. He is a good listener. People relax when they talk with him. When they talk with me it is as if they are always just a little on their guard. Dianna is talking to him now. Peter isn’t talking to her about the baby. Somehow he has learnt that she paints and within a few moments the woman I could barely exchange a word with is sharing her passion for abstract art.
As the courses go by I drink and eat more than I should. I want to speak to Troy. I want to sit and exchange deep truths with him, except that those truths remain just out of reach of my tongue so I remain silent. By the time we reach desert I am quite drunk. It seems to me that Peter has abandoned me. Everyone has abandoned me.
“I think you might want to have little lie down, dear.”
My mother is leading back to my little virgin bed. I’d protest except that I can’t find the words. And I’m tired. Very, very tired.
I wake with a fierce thirst and a vicious headache. It’s dark. I’ve slept through the afternoon. I groan in self-pity. I’ve made such a fool of myself. I know that mother will be secretly pleased.
I want Peter. Except Peter isn’t here, my mother saw to that.
Sitting up is not pleasant so I lie down again.
The room has not changed since I left it seven years ago. I’ve changed so much since then that it seems incongruous for me to be occupying the same space that I did then. Peter is responsible for most of those changes. Living up to how he sees me, using the quiet space he provides for me to seek refuge in, has changed who I am.
Who would I have been without Peter?
Back before Peter, I’d never really been that comfortable with boys. It wasn’t that I was shy; it was more that I saw them too clearly and I didn’t like what I saw. For them, girls were trophies to show off to other boys. I used to imagine them at swap meets, talking to each other about girls like they were baseball cards: “Had her. Had her. Had her. Want her. I’ll swap you two Heathers for an Alicia.” But the worse thing was that, when it came to sex, they all seemed to want to be in charge although very few of them seemed to know what to do.
I knew enough about my own body to know what I wanted: where and how I wanted to be touched and for how long. I also knew the kind of body I wanted to do the touching: tall, lean, strong. Unfortunately, most of those bodies seemed to come with the supersized ego option as standard.
I tried a few anyway. It wasn’t hard to get their attention, I was attractive enough in a petite, androgynous sort of way, the challenge was to stay in control. The first couple of attempts were an education.
“Tall ‘n’ Lean #1” put his hands everywhere but he didn’t know what to do with them. And he got irritated when I moved around. I was supposed to be his bendyfucktoy, something he could pose for his convenience. His dick was nice: smooth and hard; but he wasn’t interested in me touching it for long, he wanted to “slide it home”. I moved to climb up on his lap but he wanted me on my back. He wasn’t in me for long before he came. Then he asked me if I wanted to go get a burger. I realized I’d just had the sexual equivalent of a drive thru meal: smells good, is over too quickly and lies like a lump on your stomach afterwards.
“Tall ‘n’ Lean #2” wasn’t interested in entering anything other than my mouth. He wanted me on his knees, looking up into his eyes. I had no objection to the idea in principal. It was corny but it had a sense of theatre to it. What turned me off was him placing his hand on the back of my head and using my mouth like an extension of his hand. I’ve seen drains unblocked with more finesse. I had to grab his balls to make him stop. I thought he’d be angry with me, maybe even try to hit me, but he actually whined like a little boy, “What did you do that for?” It was the question I was beginning to ask about sex as a whole.
I decided to do some research before seeking out “Tall ‘n’ Lean #3”. I went to Barnes and Noble to see what kind of books I could find on sex. I’d done the “Insert Part A into Part B” manuals and the “Joy of Sex” hippy-type manuals but they didn’t give me what I wanted. They were too much like cookery lessons and not enough like good food. I moved on to the erotica section and found “The Story of O” and “The Taking of Sleeping Beauty”. They definitely got my attention. Hours of it. The thing was, I didn’t want to be O or Beauty, I wanted to be the person doing things to them. Well not them in particular. I wanted to be doing things to “Tall ‘n’ Leans”. I’d lie in my narrow little bed, exhausted from my reading or listening to my parents having sex in the room next door, and I’d think about what it would be like to have that kind of control. Then I got to thinking about how I might make it happen. As it turned out it wasn’t that difficult but it wasn’t that much fun either.
I found “Tall ‘n’ Leans #3” in a Karate class. I’d signed up because I wanted to be able to protect myself and because I figured the boys there would be more disciplined. He was beautiful, his sweat smelled good, he was a black belt and he was older than me. I waited for him in the parking lot after class. I had decided to be direct.
“Would you like me to fuck you?”
He didn’t look stunned, offended or even pleased, just curious.
“Are you sure you mean it that way around? Most girls want me to fuck them.”
“I’m very sure.”
He eyes licked slowly over me body. Then he smiled.
“OK.” He said, like he was agreeing to grab a pizza, “but I have a question.”
“What’s your name?”
I blushed at that. It hadn’t occurred to me that while I’d been noticing the muscles in his forearm and the tight curve of his butt, all he’d been paying attention to was his Karate technique.
My parents were away on one of their pagan weekends. Sex was the bedrock of their marriage; you only had to look at the two of them together to see that. The pagan weekends gave them the opportunity to concentrate on fucking each other’s brains out without worrying about making a noise.
I’d decided to have a mini pagan weekend of my own. I brought Tall ‘n’ Leans #3″ back to my house. I was more than a little nervous. He didn’t touch me or hassle me but there was a confidence behind his eyes that was unsettling. I took him into my dad’s Den and gave him the speech I’d rehearsed.
“OK, here are the rules. I want to fuck you. I want you to do what I tell you while I fuck you. If you don’t do what I tell you, the fucking will stop. Do you understand?”
It was supposed to be my first step to establishing mastery over him. He sat on the edge of my dad’s desk, like he had a right to be there, and said, “That speech would work better if you said ‘I am going to fuck you. You will do what I want’. You have to sound like you mean it.”
He slipped off the desk and on to his knees in front of me without breaking eye contact.
“Tell me how to serve you, Mistress.”
In theory this was just what I wanted. But he was laughing at me. It was gentle laughter, but laughter all the same.
“Shit.” I said.
For a second he looked surprised. He thought I was giving an instruction.
“I so wanted to tie you to my dad’s chair and tease you and fuck you. But it’s not going to work is it?”
He stood up, lifting me like I weighed nothing at all and placed me on dad’s desk. I felt a little bit of panic and a lot of excitement.
“Your dad’s chair? How old are you, Helen? No. Don’t answer that. You’re a pretty girl, Helen, and a brave one. You know what you want but you don’t yet know how to recognize who can give it to you.”
I’d known he was a little older than me but I hadn’t expected him to talk to me like I was a child. Who did he think he was, my camp counselor?
“Well why did you come here then?” My eyes were hot with embarrassment.
“You sounded convincing in the parking lot. And I don’t mind switching from time to time.”
“I’m a Dom, Helen. I normally do the tying up.”
“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?”
“No. But I think you need to learn to recognize a sub when you meet one.”
Then he kissed me. It was a slow kiss, passionate but friendly. It made me wonder what it would be like to be tied up by him. To let him do whatever he wanted. Then he wasn’t kissing me anymore.
“Gotta go, Helen. My name is Jon, by the way. I’ll see you at Karate next week.”
I picked up a book from the desk and threw it, but it only hit the door closing behind him. I was mad at Jon for the rest of the day. Then I started to think about how things might have gone wrong: about the risks that I’d taken; about how gentle he’d been. Gentle and strong. I could see why women would let him tie them.
Jon and I became friends but not lovers. He gave me things to read and told me about his life. I left the “Tall ‘n’ Leans” alone for a while and concentrated on getting to college. I’d gotten through two more “Tall ‘n’ Leans” in college before I met Peter, both of them one night stands, both of them left me feeling hungry and somehow cheated.
My head is feeling better so I check my watch. Somehow it has reached 10pm. I’ve missed Thanksgiving and they’ve all forgotten about me. I hug my sense of hurt to me tightly. It serves me right that I’ve been abandoned. You see I made a mistake. Such a big mistake. I gave Peter away to my best friend. I was so sure of him you see. So certain that I was what he wanted. I thought I could lend him out. Share him with a friend.
It started out Ok. Barbara was sad and needed comfort so I tied Peter and blindfolded him and then I shared him with her. It was fun. It felt human and loving. I was so proud of all of us. But the thing is, I get jealous. Just the way my mother does. I hate myself for it but I can’t help it.
I’d invited Barbara to stay with us, to join the Peter and Helen household. I knew they liked each other but I was too vain to think it through. And then I saw how Peter looked at her. How he wanted her. It was my doing, not his. Peter followed my lead, trusting me to do the right thing, and I gave him away.
Except Barbara gave him back. Barbara gave him back. I don’t know if he’d have come back on his own.
I must still be a little drunk. I’ve spent months carefully not thinking about this and now I’m crying into my pillow afraid that Peter hasn’t really come back to me.
You see, I know that I’m not worthy of Peter. I’m not really the person he deserves. For weeks now I’ve been watching him, wondering if I’m living in a charade; whether Peter would rather be with Barbara but is just too nice to leave me. Maybe my mother was right to put him on the other side of the house.
Peter is standing over me. I didn’t even hear him come in. I sit up on the bed, conscious of how red my eyes must be and how strongly I must smell of drink. I want to get up and hug him but I can’t make myself move.
Peter has brought the toybag with him. I didn’t even know he’d packed it. Shit, he’s brought the toybag to my parents’ house.
He places the toybag on the bed beside me. Normally I choose the toys, but this time it is Peter who opens the bag. He takes out the strap-on. It’s a complicated affair. The strap that goes between my legs will push a dildo and a buttplug into me and leave a long thin curved black latex cock jutting out from my belly.
“I’d like you to use this. I want us to make some noise”.
Peter wants me to fuck him and he wants everyone to know its happening. Joy spreads through me like liquid sunlight. Peter wants me.
He’s been watching me figure it out. When he sees my smile start, he kisses me. I am sleeping beauty being brought back to life. Except I’m going to reward my Prince by reaming his ass as hard as I can.
I take the strap-on from him.
“Strip, Peter,” I say.
He sheds his clothes calmly but quickly. He is already hard. I make him wait while I shrug out of my clothes, then I stand with one leg on the bed and tell him to tool me up. I mean to sound stern but I can’t keep the joy out of my voice.
Then it starts for real. Peter lubes me slowly and thoroughly and straps me tight. With both holes full and a strong black cock thrusting in front of me I feel powerful and as randy as hell.
“Get on your back on the bed, Peter, and hold onto to your ankles.”
I love the sound of that. Love the calm excitement with which he obeys. He doesn’t ask why he’s on his back when he should be bent over. He does what I tell him.
I spread lube over my mockcock, place my finger and thumb around the base of Peter’s erection and push the strap-on hard into his anus.
“Keep your hands around your ankles, Peter.” Then I make the noise he’s been waiting for: in my best rodeo tones I shout, “YEEHAW” and we’re off.
I ride him hard enough to make him buck on the bed. I keep his cock in my hand like a joystick or perhaps a saddle horn, squeezing it as I pound his ass. The harder I push into him the deeper the dildo rises into me. When I’m close, I slap his hands away from his ankles, lift his feet up over my shoulders and fuck for depth. The bed is bouncing now.
“Jack-off, Peter. Jack-off hard.”
His hand moves eagerly on his cock. I am so close that I’m groaning as I grind into him. The heat of his sperm splashing onto my belly pushes me over and I growl my come at him.
I pull out of Peter’s poor abused asshole and collapse on top of him. I feel strong and whole and loved.
Peter holds me gently and whispers, “Welcome back, Helen”.
It turns out that the bed is not too narrow if we lie like spoons. As I fall asleep I remember that I’m still wearing the strap-on but I’m too tired to move.
We are both sore the next morning but that doesn’t stop us grinning at one another.
“Do you think they heard us?”
“Your parents’ bedroom is still next door isn’t it, Helen?”
We both laugh.
At breakfast I wait for my mother to say something. She discusses the weather and asks if we really have to leave straight after breakfast but makes no mention of our exploits. As we say our goodbyes, mother hugs Peter and says something to him. I miss the exchange because I have a crying baby in my arms at the time.
When I’ve driven as far as the freeway, I ask Peter what my mother said.
“She told me you were lucky to have me.”
“What did you say?”
“I said that you would always have me and that I would always give thanks for that.”
I try to imagine the expression on my mother’s face when she heard that. I decide that it would probably be one of approval. “Thank God for Peter”, I think to myself. Then I start to look for the next rest stop. I want a quiet place where we can do a bit more thanksgiving.
© Mike Kimera 2003 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from firstname.lastname@example.org
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