This is the story of a marriage which was supposed to be a dream come true, but it turned out to be a nightmare. The only good that came from this "dream" marriage to Gretchen was my relationship with her daughter, Miss Sarah.
Gretchen and I dated many years ago here in Georgia and then we broke up. Oh, how I wish it had remained that way. How very much better off I would be, but that is not what happened, and I have only myself to blame. When someone dies, we tend to forget their flaws and frailties and too often the dearly departed is soon canonized under the authority of their survivors' faulty memories. So, too, do we remember our failed relationships. We usually forget the good and remember only the bad, helping ourselves to detach and not mourn the loss of love. But sometimes, particularly for melancholics, we forget the bad and remember only the good, and we are haunted by the memory of love lost, dogged by the unanswered question of what might have been.
No, many years later, I went looking for the girl from my past who had haunted me, the girl who I could not get out of my thoughts, the girl against whom every other girl in my life had been measured. I found her in Ohio, in the midst of a divorce and raising her daughter.
When Gretchen and I had dated many years earlier, she had been a cute, sweet, slender, petite young girl who also happened to have big breasts. She was the kind of girl that would make a father proud if his son was dating her. That, however, was almost 30 years ago and time, unfortunately, had not been kind to Gretchen. Cute had become slightly wrinkled, petite had become a little dumpy, and big-breasted had become saggy-titted.
Perhaps I'm being a bit tough on her. Actually, she wasn't unattractive for her age and I really didn't expect that, at age 48, she would look like she had at age 24. However, Gretchen was no longer a beauty queen and she definitely had no potential to be called a "trophy wife." She was the kind of woman who would prompt guys to say, 'well, I wouldn't kick her out of bed,' but, of course, there are not too many guys who will kick any woman out of bed when they need to get laid, so this isn't exactly glowing praise for Gretchen.
To everyone else, Gretchen's daughter was Sarah. When it became obvious that Gretchen would move back to Georgia to live with me, I jokingly told her daughter that I would address her as I would any Southern young lady and I hoped that she would aspire to adopt some Southern mannerisms and gentility. With that explanation, I began to call her Miss Sarah and, from that day forward, I always called her Miss Sarah.
When I first met Miss Sarah, she was 18 years old but only a junior in high school. Thanks to her mother's lack of caring about education, Miss Sarah had failed a grade in elementary school and they had never pursued any opportunity for Miss Sarah to try to catch up with the other children her own age. This was quite shameful, because Miss Sarah was actually an intelligent young lady. She was not Einstein's cousin but she was definitely above average intelligence.
However, if was Miss Sarah's beauty, and not her brains, which was most captivating. She had the face of an angel. If she had been painted by daVinci, people today would be saying "Mona who?" She had big brown eyes which could melt any man's heart at any time and under any circumstances. She had big pouty lips which begged to be kissed. Like her mother, she had big breasts which were certainly too large to be called "pert" or "perky" but which were definitely young and firm and not saggy like Gretchen's hooters. Miss Sarah's little behind was so cute that I always just wanted to grab it and squeeze. She had a few – a very few – extra pounds which needed to disappear, the kind of pounds which usually were referred to as "baby fat," but she really wasn't fat. She was a nubile goddess, an undefiled example of sensual innocence and budding sexuality. She was a goddess, she was my goddess.
* * *
After I had located Gretchen in Ohio and re-established our communications, I eventually went there to visit. I won't bore you with too many details of me regularly fucking a 48 year-old, overweight, saggy-titted, used-up, has-been housewife in every room of her house, including her daughter's bedroom. I won't bore you because it was just fucking. Now, it wasn't bad sex because, quite honestly, I've never had bad sex. But, as they say, I've never had bad sex, but some of that sex is better than the rest. This sex wasn't the better kind. Of course, I told Gretchen that it was great sex, but, really, it was just fucking.
One morning, Gretchen and I awoke early, long before her daughter was capable of opening her eyes and putting both feet on the floor. I was horny, as usual, so we fucked on the sofa in the living room. The possibility that her daughter might wake up and catch us made it a little more exciting, and that at least partially compensated for the fact that Gretchen's pussy was a sloppy fit for any normal-sized guy. I don't know if it was loose from childbirth, excessive fucking in her youth, or years of her ex-husband stuffing an extra large dildo in her pussy three times a week (by her description, he was truly a twisted, sick son of a bitch,) but it was not a tight fit.
After Gretchen and I had sex, we got dressed and fixed a cup of coffee. I stood in the family room behind Gretchen, who sat at her computer desk and began reviewing her e-mails. We spoke quietly for a minute as she scanned the long list of unopened items and then she became absorbed in a rather lengthy missive from a friend.
I heard a noise in Miss Sarah's bedroom. Her bedroom adjoined the family room. She had slept with her door only partially closed, as was her habit. As you stood in her doorway facing into her room, her majority of her room was to the right, but her bedroom door was also hinged on the right side; very little of the room was visible from this vantage. In a more modern house, the door would have been hinged on the left side, but Gretchen's house was old and had several bizarre features.
As you stood in the doorway with the door halfway open, you could not see much of her bedroom, except her antique dresser which was against the opposite wall straight ahead. The dresser had three mirrored sections. The middle section was fixed to the back of the dresser and the two side sections were hinged to the middle section and were angled slightly inwards. Miss Sarah probably assumed that she had some privacy when her bedroom door was halfway closed, because she couldn't see out of her room; however, from my vantage point in the dining room, the angled mirror on the left side of the dresser afforded a rather good view of what lay behind her partially closed door.
I looked up and glanced towards her room. In the mirror, I saw that she had risen and was standing at the foot of her bed. She was wearing only bikini panties: tiny, white bikini panties. Just awakening, with tousled hair, she stood there, the sexiest vision of loveliness that I have ever seen. She had well-developed breasts, at least a 36C, and her areolae were a pinkish-brown color, each about the size of a silver dollar. As my gaze dropped to her panties, I could see a very prominent pubic mound. I immediately assumed that she had very firm and protruding labia.
From that moment forward, I felt that I was living a life scripted by Vladimir Nabokov. Miss Sarah was my enticing young Lolita and it was at that very moment that I truly fell in love with her. Yes, I know that this sounds absurd and I hesitate to commit this recollection to writing. If the wrong person reads this, I will be publicly condemned and humiliated. But, just as I fell in love with her without any conscious exercise of free will, I similarly feel compelled to express these thoughts in prose. Perhaps the writing of this story will help to free me from the demon which possesses me, my obsession with Miss Sarah.
Miss Sarah was totally unaware that I was watching her. Her mother was seated directly in front of me but fortunately still absorbed in her e-mail. My gaze continued unabated, my attention transfixed, my eyes feasting upon the delectable and innocent nakedness of Miss Sarah.
The young goddess then placed her hands on her hips and slowly pulled her panties down just low enough so that her pussy was exposed. A man with a heart condition might not have survived that moment, but my heart continued to beat ever so strong with the same virile pulse that energized my burgeoning erection.
I know that I would be flattering myself too much to think that she sensed my watchful eyes and simply wanted to lure me with a show of her most private treasures. No, the real explanation was probably much more mundane. She was likely waiting for her monthly flow to begin and was checking to see if it had started during the night. I can think of no other realistic reason why she would have pulled her panties down but, whatever the reason, I was glad for it.
Miss Sarah's dark pubic hair was so bushy that I could not see her pussy lips at all. As I attempted to perceive her young hidden slit, she placed her right hand between her legs and cupped it so that it conformed to her body as she brought it in contact with her hairy young mound. She then removed her hand, looked at it briefly, and pulled her panties up. She reached for a bathrobe. I turned to face Gretchen, drew close to the back of her chair and began reading over her shoulder.
When Miss Sarah emerged from her bedroom, she had no idea that I had just enjoyed my first look at her forbidden nakedness. Fortunately, she also could not see the tent pole in my pants. This stirring of my manhood was taking much longer than usual to subside.
"What would it be like to have my dick inside that enticing young pussy?" I wondered as I placed my hands on her mother's shoulders.
* * *
Months later, Gretchen and her daughter moved to Georgia because it was obvious that Gretchen and I would eventually be married. It was surrealistic, much worse that "Waiting For Godot." It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion. The simplest application of logic suggested that such a thing should not happen. It was absurd to think that I would marry this woman. But I made no effort to extricate myself from the situation. I was a prisoner of complacency, a steady customer for Gretchen's offering - available and regular sex - even if it wasn't great sex. Fucking Gretchen was definitely better than taking matters into my own hands and, occasionally, Gretchen gave me really good oral sex. So time continued and the entire universe stood by silently as the train wreck unfolded.
Gretchen, Miss Sarah, and I went camping just a few weeks after they had moved to Georgia. We had only one tent, so a certain amount of privacy would be compromised. We had one double sleeping bag which would be shared by Gretchen and Miss Sarah and another that would be occupied by only myself.
