This story could have gone in Mature or in First Time.
Given however that it is my entry for the
Literotica 2022 Valentine's Day Story Contest
,
putting it here in Romance seems quite appropriate.
Please enjoy yourself.
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It was my first dress like this - my first really ladylike black dress. I'd had dresses before, as a kid, but not like this one. They were school, for playing, for church, for good times and for less good ones.
This one was for mourning.
I was 12 years old and my best friend's mother had just died.
As my parents and I and about 50 other people stood at the graveside, I was ashamed that what I remembered most about Devon's mom was her always-welcoming smile and the ever-present smell of cookies in her house.
Devon was sobbing and her father looked haggard, as if all the weight in the world had just fallen on him, and all I could think about were Jessica's cookies. A shrink might talk about associative memory or something. To me, at 12, it was something to cling to, something to take my mind off what lay inside that too-shiny box in front of us. It was hard to believe that the friendly, gracious, beautiful Jessica was inside that thing.
Devon and I had been best friends since just about forever, like sisters without the inherent nasty sisterly competitiveness. We'd spent a lot of time at each other's houses. Well, probably more at her place - her dad was rich and the place was a lot bigger, with an indoor pool, even.
And puppies. Devon always had a dog or three and dog privileges were one of the serious perks of visiting.
But Devon was never spoiled, never played rich-bitch at school. In that respect, I think she took after her mom.
Jessica Moir had been just about the nicest woman I'd ever met. She listened patiently to the two of us spouting off like we were old enough to know anything and actually took the time to talk and discuss things with us as if we were adults. She always had time, always had a kind word.
So, Devon had had a pretty good grounding in nice. And she could have gone to some thin-lipped prep school in Boston or Switzerland or something, but there she was on the bus with us every morning, dressed like everybody else, carrying a packed lunch like everyone else.
Then a holidaying Jessica got over-confident at Jaws Beach in Hawaii and a mountainous wave mugged her, enfolded her into a seething wall of jealous green water and spat her out a minute later, a large surf-board dent over one temple. Paul helped carry her body out of the water.
Devon told me she'd never heard him weep, had never heard him complain. Some men would have grown more distant from their daughter. Some might have become overly protective. Not Paul Moir. He carried on with loving, solid parenting as if Jessica had just gone away on a business trip and was expected back next week. There was a large, professionally-taken photograph of the two of them over the main fireplace and he spent a lot of time sitting in his easy chair, a drink in his hand, just looking at it. There was a smaller picture by Paul's bed, too, a boudoir photo of Jessica wearing what I can now see as a fairly chaste blue negligée. We could see that her smile in that one was very different from the one over the mantelpiece, but it was years before we understood why.
And Paul never raised his voice to anyone that I ever heard. One time, I was there when Devon did something really, really stupid; it doesn't matter what now after all these years. Paul just looked at her and said mildly, "Devon, I don't think your Mom would have liked that." Those few soft words hit her like a solid blow, a physical slap. Her face melted, collapsed in tears before he pulled her in for a long, comforting, forgiving hug. He never mentioned it again and she never did it again, either.
He was a very patient man, too, and as hospitable as Jessica had been. There were endless pool parties and sleep-overs. Looking back, how any normal man could handle being in the house with a dozen perpetually-giggling teenage girls is beyond me, but he was always there, always friendly, always keeping us within the lines without ever making us resent them. When we got old enough for boys and booze to enter the equation, a patient, smiling Paul seemed to be everywhere in the house at once, collecting car keys at the door and somehow keeping unwanted pregnancies off the menu. The other parents knew their girls would be safe at Devon's.
So.
So, when a heart attack took my father a few years later, Devon and I had adolescent hopes...
But that only happens in Hollywood and Mom married Jimmy two years later. Jimmy was a nice man and treated me well, doing his best to be the male parental unit in the house without trying to be Dad. After some initial adolescent resentment, I started learning from him and grew to like him, even respect him. It worked out. When he got promoted at work, he and Mom moved across the country. I'd already been accepted for nursing school in another city in the other direction and that was the end of my time as a live-in. Jimmy's a good guy and has done well for Mom. We still talk when I call home, hug when I visit.
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Paul had never remarried. Devon told me once that he'd never even dated. I thought that so sad.
"Why not?" I asked.
"I dunno. I've told him that I wouldn't be mad, that Mom wouldn't him want him to be lonely for the rest of his life, but he won't even discuss it."
"He must've loved her very much."
"Yeah," she said, almost in a whisper.
I wondered about it. Yes, Jessica's death had been a tragedy for him and for Devon, but he wasn't the first man to lose a wife. How long was he going to mourn, cut himself off from the world?
It wasn't as if he couldn't have found somebody. The man had charm, dressed well and heaven knows he was handsome enough. True, his forehead was a little higher than it once was, but he hadn't quietly surrendered to middle age. His mornings when I visited were early ones, lap after lap after relentless lap in the pool. Devon and I swam, too, but Paul was a machine. About a mile every morning, he once told me, a mile and a half on good days.
I believed him.
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As we became adults and Paul's supervision became less necessary, we were left more to ourselves. If not actually present, Paul was always around though. He was an available resource, but never a lurking presence or overt chaperone; we cherished his trust. The sleep-overs became less frequent, but the pool parties endured, especially on special holidays. It was a chance to get the old crowd together.
And now it was February and who can pass up Valentine's Day? The Saturday before the 14th of the month became reserved for Devon's Legendary St. Valentine's Day Saturday Bash. Couples could have the Day to themselves, but the Saturday before was a crowd event.
Devon had of course sent me an invitation and I showed up the day before to help prepare for the party. I'd been there often enough that it was almost like coming home. I tipped the Uber driver with an unreportable bill, carried my suitcase to the front door and rang the bell. Paul's face broke into a broad welcoming smile when he opened the door.
"Samantha!" he said brightly and pulled me in for a deep hug. I let myself melt into the hug -- and then, to my surprise, into him. It had started out like hundreds of similar hugs over the years, a greeting between old friends, but I very suddenly became aware of the solid chest against my cheek, of the heartbeat under my pressed ear and of the strength of the arms around my shoulders. He suddenly smelled like Paul, too, his own special masculine aroma.
He let go, picked up my bag to take it to my room. I just stood there, staring at him. I remember having to tell myself to breathe as I bent to exchange greetings with a small carpet of ecstatic, welcoming spaniels.
"Devon," he called back into the house. "Your sister's here!"
I heard a squeal from upstairs and caught a wink from Paul.
"Nice to have you here, Sam," he said.
Devon flew by him on the stairs and launched herself into my arms. I was lost in BFF catch-up for the rest of the afternoon.
Paul BBQ'd his special ribs that night and we had a pleasant evening, just the three of us talking. I didn't mention Jessica and neither did they.
It was fun, a good time, but my dreams that night were confusing.
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There wasn't a lot of setup required (pool party, remember?) but there was a volleyball net to raise, stacks of towels to lay out and the bar by the pool to be restocked -- routine stuff, undemanding, but it gave Devon and me more time to talk.
People didn't start arriving until early afternoon. Paul was there to greet them, but always disappeared once Devon and I showed up to lead them to the pool.
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The setting...
Be amazed.
There was a 25-yard pool suitable for Paul's endless lengths and a smaller, irregular-shaped soaking pool beside it. The room was set out with warm-colored timber -- walls, beams and ceiling, rising from maybe 10 feet on one side up to maybe twice that on the other. It was a warm, golden place and, except for the snowdrifts built up against the outside windows, it was almost possible to believe that it was summertime. Two windows looked down from inside the house, one from the family room upstairs and one from the master bedroom beside it.
A net had been stretched from side to side in the shallow end for the always-hotly-contested volleyball game. Water volleyball, you ask? It's a thing; you can look it up. Playing volleyball waist-deep in water is a very different experience. Sprinting to reach a fast-moving ball isn't possible and it helps to have a lot of people. Diving for the ball is possible, but it takes a long time to get up and teammates have to cover the gap. It's different, but a lot of fun.
The usual crowd gradually drifted in. It was the same twenty or thirty people every year; some of us friends as far back as grade school. Oh, there'd be the odd new boyfriend or girlfriend, but it was always the same core crew.
My last boyfriend and I had split up when he'd enlisted in the Coast Guard; Devon and I were just about the only single girls there. As much as the party theme was romance and couples, I found that I didn't mind being there solo. Jerry and I hadn't been all that solid anyway, mainly just the person sitting highest on each other's friends list.
As couples arrived, the fun slowly built. It was a time for greetings, for admiring new swimsuits, new tattoos -- and a couple of rings not present the last time we'd all been together. Deep down inside, every woman likes looking at diamond rings on other people's fingers. Everyone being of age, there was a self-serve bar and spirits went both down and up.
Before there were enough people to properly fill two volleyball teams, the usual chicken fight started -- boys standing in waist-deep water, girls on their shoulders. While the object was to unseat the riders, the boys weren't permitted to do anything but try to keep their balance. That left the 'fighting' to the women on their shoulders. Like that made a difference in ferocity...
There were ten people in the pool initially. Bruce and Daga were the reigning champions from pool parties going back three years. Not very surprisingly, the other four couples independently decided that the champs would be the centre of attention for the everyone else.
