Martha died, raw chunks and grisly fibers from my soul and heart descended into the ground with her coffin. Soon I will know closure, I reasoned. But time was so much longer than I thought. For months I had no interest in anything or anyone. My neighbor's wife called inquiring about my new address: the cave where I now lived.
After the funeral, Len did not call at all...
Food was cardboard; any smile I had just cracked and curled into smirks and scowls. Any thought of sex was out of the question.
Acute depression, my friends all said. Furtive whispers about the tragic loss of someone dear and loved. Biology and instinct had deserted me completely.
I brooded this way in silence for three months. No TV, stereo, books, movies, dinners out. Nothing seemed important, of any value. No energy, ambition...
Then one night, Len's picture stared at me from the soft-white mantle. It was an old one but I'd always loved his glowing smile - lively, piercing eyes; soft brown hair, like mine, that rippled easy on the wind. Quite stocky for his age, even then.
Years ago that was. He was only 10 when she took it. I hadn't been a great father at that time, relying on Martha to advise and teach him the "birds and bees" stuff he should know. And that was such an
insane
fuckup
on my part. Dads should teach these things to their young sons! Somehow, at that time...I could not speak the words.
I had to find them now. It was imperative that dialogues open between us. I must, at last, address the fact that we had drifted too far apart with the years. New beginnings occur every day, but I wondered aloud if that time had passed us by...
Gazing more at his picture, something moved and multiplied inside; trauma marching in ranks and files of confident crack legions, reinforcements. These cohorts surged unhindered in my blood, coursed with light-speed through my trembling body. The surges had no name at first, but then I recognized a dusty old emotion:
Love, my heart screamed!...this is my lost friend, LOVE! A father's love for his son!
Also something else – urges known in the distant past...dormant for many years...sexual something...
Still staring at his picture, my tears flowed like a child's. The stream wouldn't stop, just gushed like raging rapids from eyes to chest. The sobbing hurt so much I feared a coronary!
"Purge!", I screamed to my insides! "Get it out of you!"
It had
NEVER
been this terrible before
.
"God, I
really do
love you, Len. So much! And never made the time to tell you so..."
That night was agony personified. Mental screams with bony cartoon monsters streaking about; graphic ghouls had flitted, zoomed, caroused in ethereal twists and swirls through every craggy crevice in my brain. I didn't believe I'd survive the terrors of this pain. Thrashings of my body literally threw me to the floor for timeless blackouts. I formed a first name basis with these demons that condemned me to despair and utter gloom...
In morning dawn, it ended. Sunlight can always find its way to even the darkest pit.
I smelled of putrid sweat. Unknown, brand-new odors had spewed like geysers, then dried in random gulches on my pitiful, shivering frame.
But then I got a glimpse of peace at last...perhaps the first token seed of hope that finally would crop to healing.
I called in sick...near dying, I moaned rather well, then watched silly, innocuous sitcom shows...and found I could finally giggle and laugh again! There still was sadness, sure. But the slashing, ripping edge was practically gone.
And then that "sexual something" welled again. There was...what do all the writers say?...a "stirring" in my groin once more.
In the shower I looked down and watched my cock respond to slow and gentle stroking from both hands. I wiped the misty mirror for more proof.
"There!" I thought, turned sideways. "It's hard! And throbbing like before!" My hand cupped and trailed over its veined and twitching length, mimicking a sweet mouth.
God, I was alive again! I leaned my back against the cool tile wall and spread my legs a bit; used my fingers, hands to squeeze and massage, producing great pleasure to the head, the shaft, and balls.
I propped my leg on the wooden bench and teased my ass with insinuating probes. For many years, I had been aware of just how sensitive that iris wrinkle was. Martha would put me on my knees and gently stroke my cock from behind, then flick her tongue around and on the pucker.
Ballistic was my favorite word for that!
Then she'd spread me wide and thrust her tongue very deep inside the quaking walls! Her hand would feel the floods of viscous cum from my squirting cock!
I never tired of many times cumming that way. Her tongue would lick along the saturated shaft, hold the cream inside her mouth, and kiss-transfer the cum for me to taste. It was exquisite and delightful. And that had always surprised me!
I waited another week before reporting back to work. After all, I nearly died, remember? And in that time I found new goals to ponder...including the "sexual else"...
I thought many times of all those nights with Martha, watching movies together on the sofa. We viewed them naked, of course, and we stroked and fondled each other through all those dripping, cum-drenched scenes.
We were never able to get through one completely without incredible arousals; always jumping into 69 with urgent, surging passion that needed sating! I loved the smell, the tang of her sweet pussy; licking, sucking...lapping the length and breadth of her cunt with my rabid tongue and nibbling mouth. God, her juice was syrupy cream, sweet to the palate. Her cum was my favorite food!
One day, before she died, I came home early. The house was warm and sunny and I stripped and put my trousers over the chair, wishing Martha was there with me. I got so lonely when she traveled out of town. Being rather short, I could stretch out on the long couch to full length.
