Taking Mommy's Place, Part 4
All Characters are at least 18 years of age
*****
Daddy had just fucked me - again. It was wonderful. We had made love (and that's exactly what it was!) enough by now that it didn't cause me any pain, whatsoever, except for a slight soreness afterward. Yes, it was good; it was wonderful; it was exhausting; it made me want to just lay there as if I was coming down from a drug-induced haze (I'm just guessing about this, as I have never done drugs).
But no! Jeff, my big brother, was home. He was getting out of his car and would be in the house within seconds. Daddy and I were naked in Daddy's bed! Think! I grabbed the tee-shirt that I had brought, realized that I didn't have time to even put my panties or anything else on, and dashed upstairs to my room. There, I hurriedly put on the rest of my clothes and combed my disheveled hair. I still looked like I had been in bed, but I could claim I had just had a nap.
I heard the front door swing open. "Dad? Pammy?" Jeff yelled.
The door slammed shut and I heard Dad say, "Jeff, son! I didn't know you were coming in."
I thought about running down and jumping into Jeff's arms, but then I remembered that I was pissed off at him. More than pissed off. Disappointed. Hurt. Humiliated. You see, my Mom had gotten killed on my 18th birthday. Of course we were all devastated, but I actually feared that my father might do himself harm because of his deep grief. He wouldn't eat or talk to us and was in a very deep depression. I had asked Jeff to stay home from college for a semester, but he had adamantly refused.
There's more to the story. I was so distraught and flat-out scared to death that I couldn't imagine having to deal with Daddy alone. I was very attracted to Jeff, and he obviously was very attracted to me. He had even tried to play with my tits the day we buried our mother! So, when Jeff refused to stay and help me deal with our father, I played the sex card. I offered my virginity to him. And he refused. I know that sounds desperate and unrealistic, but I WAS desperate and people will do strange things in moments of extreme grief and despair.
I was fine with him refusing to fuck me. I didn't think I was ready for that yet and I had always been taught to save myself for marriage. But if he really loved me, if he was the kind of man that I assumed he was, he should have been willing to stay and help his little sister and his father in our time of deepest grief. I was hurt, and I hadn't gotten over it.
We had barely even spoken in the several months since Mom's passing. He texted me now and then and even emailed me sometimes. He had apologized, but had used the same selfish explanations as to why he couldn't sit out one semester of college. He now had a girlfriend. They had visited us once and she had slept in my room with me. I assumed they were having sex, but I didn't know for sure. Still, my brother would never have presumed that it was okay for his girlfriend to stay in his room in our parents' home. We were not raised that way.
Jeff was a nerd. Mom had told me, way back that he was probably on the autism spectrum a little bit. Maybe he was; I don't know. It wasn't something we ever discussed. He was often in his own world and if he were busy with something he was so focused that he was unaware of anything going on around him. Math was his thing and it was his major in college. My mother was a math teacher, and my dad was also good at math, so it kinda ran in the family. I had also decided that I wanted to become a math teacher, to honor my mother and because I liked it. But Jeff blew me away. What I could do on paper and a calculator, he could often do in his head. He had a hard time explaining how he got an answer. I was good at explaining, which is why I was going to be a great teacher - like my mom.
Jeff was also very nice looking. He wasn't a heavily muscled athlete, but was tall and slender with a handsome face, brown hair, brown eyes, and an attractive smile. In that regard, he looks a lot like me. I am kinda tall, also with brown hair and eyes, but I have 32C breasts, which he does not - (lol). My hair is down to my shoulders; his is short and he keeps it mussed up, as if he just got out of bed.
I walked down the stairs toward the sound of him and Dad talking. When I caught sight of them, I noticed several things at once. Dad was happy; Jeff had suitcases; no girlfriend with him; and he looked so good to me. Not sexually good - let's not jump to conclusions. This was my brother. I had always loved him and looked up to him and we had always gotten along with each other and trusted each other. I felt that void. It hit me hard. It made me flash back to those horrid days after Mom died and the heartbreak and heartache that I felt when Jeff refused to stay home. I remembered the humiliation of offering myself to him and being rejected.
"Jeff, what are you doing here?" I asked, sounding more cold than I intended.
"I guess I forgot to tell you guys that I decided to take the summer semester off. I remember now that I had told you I wasn't gonna. Are you not excited to see me, Sis?"
"Of course I am," I managed and gave him a hug. It felt so good. I loved him so much - at that moment in the very best, non-sexual, way. But I was still hurt. He had to know that.
Over the course of the next few hours, he informed us that he had broken up with his girlfriend and that had made him homesick for us. He said he missed getting to hang out and watch sports on TV with us, going down to the Dairy Freeze to get an ice cream cone, and going to church with us. That was one thing we had always done together. Jeff nor I had ever given our parents any grief about church attendance. They expected it and we did it. We knew right from wrong, but we also had mastered the fine art of rationalization.
Dad and Jeff went to the Supermarket to get some steaks to grill (the parable of the Prodigal Son and the killing of the fatted calf crossed my mind). I washed clothes. We had clothes from the beach that needed laundering and Jeff had brought a laundry bag full. I just washed them all. No need of being a stick in the mud.
Dad grilled the steaks while Jeff and I prepared baked potatoes and a garden salad. We didn't talk much. We made small talk, but it wasn't like it used to be. It made me sad. I wanted to cry. The meal, however, was delicious. Afterward, we watched the Braves beat the Dodgers, so it was an extremely nice evening.
Then it was bed time. I, of course, had planned on sleeping with Daddy. Now I couldn't - for the whole summer?? That was a major disappointment. I was afraid that Daddy would revert to "guilt mode" and put a stop to it for good. I knew he must still have major qualms about having sex with his own daughter. I would be lying if I said I didn't. I most certainly knew that it was wrong; maybe that was what made it so delicious?
I half expected (feared?) that Jeff might knock on my bedroom door. What would I do? I didn't even feel like talking to him. My pain was real. It made me want to cry, and I did. Silently. The knock never came that night. I was glad.
