The Anniversary Stories

by Lexy Harper

Gosh...shit, now she was making him mind his language, too...but she was absolutely dripping! He had thought that she would have needed the same length of preparation Helen had needed the first time they had made love, but though she was quite tight, Susan was ready.

  Ready for her younger brother’s cock.

  “Can I see it?” she asked, moving backwards to get a glimpse of him as he fumbled with his fly one handed.

  “Afterwards,” he promised, freeing his penis and aligning his body to press inside her. He wasn’t as big as some of the ridiculous stars of the porn movies he had watched in his solitary bunk late at night when he was in Iraq, but he was big enough to make her nervous and he didn’t want her to tighten up.

  “Is that all of it,” she asked innocently as he drew himself back a few millimetres and sunk himself a little deeper on his forward thrust.

  “No, there’s a little more to go.”

  “It’s real nice. Much nicer than I thought it would be and not nearly as painful as everyone said it was.”

  “It’s painful?” he asked, stilling his movement. She was so incredibly relaxed he hadn’t thought that she was feeling any pain.

  “Not really,” she quickly assured him. “I just feel full—like nothing else can fit inside me.”

  “There’s only a little bit more to go,” he lied, ripping the tights further and fingering her lightly as he tried to go deeper. Things quickly became more difficult. “I need you to be brave for me, honey. It’s going to hurt a little bit and then it will be all over.”

  “I trust you, John.”

  She had said the same words to him when he had taught her to skate. She had been absolutely petrified of falling and yet when he had taken her hands and told her to trust that he would protect her from falling, she had uttered those exact words and stepped onto the ice to join him.

  And maybe because he had protected her as promised and had had her skating like a professional by the end of that winter, she now displayed no sign of fear or anxiety as she gazed back at him.

  But he had to be cruel to be kind.

  Pulling a sticky plaster off slowly was much more agonizing than yanking it off.

  Taking a deep breath, he positioned himself and thrust quickly, deeply inside her.

  “Shh, shh,” he cooed softly, pulling her head against his shoulder to muffle her soft moans while he rubbed her back soothingly through the wool of her dress.

  It felt good...so right...to be inside her, he thought moments later as she relaxed and softened around him, allowing him to withdraw and then plunge smoothly back inside her.

  His heart felt as though it would burst with love for her—he had surely never loved her more.

  He had never felt closer to her.

  He had never acknowledged the closeness that had developed between them growing up together and sharing each other’s toys and dreams.

  The closeness that had now taken them into forbidden territory.

  But how could this be wrong when it felt so damned right? he thought as he quickened his thrusts and joined her in a shared orgasm that seemed as explosive for her as it was for him.

  ***

  John took a deep breath, rested his head against Helen’s and smiled. “I’m never going to repeat that fantasy,” he vowed, his chest still rising and falling as though he had just completed a hundred metre sprint. “God, I hope Mum drops the kids off and not Susan. I can’t look her in the eye for at least another ten years!”

  Helen laughed, slipped her arms around his waist and hugged him. “You’re too straight-laced for your own good! Incest stories are all the rage at the moment.”

  “To each his own I guess, but Susan was such a bossy, older sister I never fantasized about her even when I was a horny teenager.” His eyes widened in alarm as a thought struck him. “And please, please, don’t you dare be my mother next anniversary!”

  “Honey, I would never go that far!” Her green eyes twinkled.

  “Helen, I’m serious!”

  “Okay. You’re obviously not ready for your mum yet, so that leaves my mom—”

  “Helen, that’s just as bad!”

  “My dad?”

  John gasped in shock.

  “Alright, maybe not my dad or my brothers. What about my sister?

  “She’s sixteen!”

  “Okay, we’ll leave her for a couple more years.” Helen sighed as if in exasperation. “It’s becoming harder and harder to think up surprises for you on our anniversaries.”

  “Maybe next year you should come as yourself. I quite like the real you.”

  “Maybe I will...or maybe I’ll be Mrs Thompson.

  “Helen, she’s at least ninety!”

  “Yes, and I’m sure that she could teach you a thing or two.”

  “You little minx! Come here and I’ll teach you several things!” he threatened, reaching for her.

  Avoiding his hands, she screamed, jumped off the settee and raced towards the bedroom.

  With his much longer legs he caught her in a couple of strides. Lifting her bodily, he tossed her onto the bed, the look of a man intend on punishing a naughty wife on his face.

  *****

  It’s Good to be Neighbourly!

  Taking a careful sip from the oversized mug cradled between his palms, John Elliott sighed in contentment as he gazed out through the opened kitchen door. Freshly brewed coffee and a chance to drink to the last drop without any interruptions or distractions from his noisy, playful, demanding twins. Heaven on earth!

  He was on his first real vacation in nearly seven years and he’d already vowed that it wouldn’t be his last. The business was doing well; it was time he enjoyed the fruits of his labour. A few noses had been put out of joint when he had announced that he was taking a three-month vacation and leaving Carl, the second youngest of his bus drivers, as Office Manager. One of the other drivers had sniggered knowingly, but John had refused to acknowledge the inference that the openly gay young man was more to him than just an employee. It was a business he had worked hard to turn around. He couldn’t afford to be sentimental—if he left any of the others in charge he would constantly worry that things weren’t running smoothly. Carl was resourceful enough to handle minor emergencies, but had the acuity to call if a situation arose that needed John’s expertise.

  The first two days of his break had been tough. Helen, John’s wife, should have been off too, but at the last minute her employer had asked her to postpone the start of her leave because the young man they had recruited to cover her absence had had to work a longer notice period than anticipated for his previous employer. And with his seven-year-olds, Tim and Tina, on school holidays but spending a week with his sister Susan, John had had the house to himself. Used to dealing with a dozen or more emergencies daily, he had found it hard to adjust to the slower pace of life and had desperately looked for tasks to occupy the hours. But, by the third day he had gotten the hang of being idle.

  Remembering that he hadn’t yet read the newspaper delivered that morning, he turned and walked through the house to the living room. The neatness of the room gave him an unexpected pang—the twins were mini tornadoes, leaving mayhem and destruction in their wake—the room seemed sterile without them. Shaking his head to clear the feeling of loneliness, he took the newspaper out of the magazine rack where Helen had placed it earlier and settled into his favourite chair, a wide buff-coloured leather recliner.

  “Is there any more coffee?”

  Engrossed in the newspaper, John started at the sound of his next door neighbour’s voice.

  “Sure,” he replied, smiling across at the West Indian woman as he folded The Times over at the sports section and placed it and his half-empty coffee mug on a small side table and got to his feet.

  “No gardening today?” she asked over her shoulder as she preceded him to the kitchen.

  “Not today,” he responded.

  Florence and her husband, Sydney, had moved next door the previous summer, but until last
week John had not exchanged more than a dozen words with her. He had once invited Sydney to the local pub for a couple of pints, but finding that he and the man had little in common hadn’t extended another invitation.

  Helen and Florence on the other hand, had instantly become good friends. The woman had even cut her long, flowing curly locks into a pixie style similar to Helen’s. She and Sydney were both half-Black, half-Indian as were many Trinidadian and even in a thick plait down her back, Florence’s hair had been a thing of beauty. Loose around her shoulders and flowing down her back, it had been every man’s fantasy. Helen had told him that Sydney had not been amused when his wife had cut her hair. Secretly John hadn’t blamed the man; he would have been apoplectic himself!

  Earlier in the week when he had been in the garden vigorously attacking the weeds around one of Helen’s rosebushes, his t-shirt drenched with perspiration, Florence had popped her head over the dividing wall and started chatting.

  Now sinking carefully onto one of the sturdy chairs set around the kitchen table, she gave a soft sigh. “I shouldn’t really be drinking coffee but you make it so well.”

  “One cup of coffee won’t harm you.” John reached into the cupboard for a small cup and saucer.

  “The house is too quiet without the kids,” Florence remarked, taking the cup of sweetened milky coffee from him when he had made it exactly to her taste.

  “They have probably exhausted poor Susan.” John chuckled. “I was expecting her to bring them back after a day or two, but they seem to be having fun.”

  His older sister hadn’t had a playful bone in her body when they were growing up together, but she was the complete opposite with his children. They absolutely loved her and could barely contain their excitement when he’d told them that she had invited them over for an entire week.

  “So it’s just the two of us.”

  John’s heart had been beating erratically since he had turned and caught sight of her in the sleeveless, pale yellow dress. It beat even faster at her words.

  It was his and Helen’s wedding anniversary. Helen had often teased him that Florence had a little crush on him and had jokingly, he’d thought, said that she would ask the other woman if she wanted to sleep with him. He had dismissed the idea that Florence fancied him, but he had felt it each time the woman popped over to discuss plants whenever he was working in the garden. She loved flowers, roses especially, but Sydney who had grown up on a farm didn’t see the point of planting or growing anything that wouldn’t bear fruits or be eaten in some form.

  Sydney worked long hours and spent most of his leisure time travelling around the country with his domino club.

  Florence was a bored housewife.

  A heavily-pregnant, bored housewife.

  John just happened to be a man who adored pregnant women—bored or otherwise.

  He had enjoyed Helen’s pregnancy. She was usually on the slender side—a trait shared by both her parents, her three brothers and her much-younger sister—but she had bloomed during pregnancy. Her breasts, in particular, had surprised him completely by going up several cup sizes and becoming even more delicious to fondle and suck on.

  The twins had thankfully not been large babies, but carrying two babies instead of one had been tough on his petite wife. He had insisted that she stopped working six months into her pregnancy and though she had protested vehemently she had acquiesced when she realized just how worried he had been about her driving to and from work each day in her condition. Bizarrely—well, bizarrely because it seemed contrary to what most women experienced during pregnancy according to the pregnancy books they had read—Helen had been in an almost constant state of arousal. He had often come home in the evening to find her eagerly waiting for him. He’d often had to eat her and then his dinner.

  They had hoped for more children after the twins, but it hadn’t happened yet. They were largely content, blessed with a child of each sex, but they had planned on having four or five children when they had first married. They had discussed IVF when the twins were three years old and Helen hadn’t fallen pregnant again, but mutually agreed that it wasn’t for them. It seemed selfish to want more children when there were couples who had none, but they both prayed for at least one more child.

  “Another two and a half months to go.” Florence gave a long sigh and placed her hand on her distended stomach.

  “Aren’t you enjoying the pregnancy?” John asked, surprised. She seemed content enough, constantly stroking her stomach softly, looking dreamy as she hummed to it under her breath.

  “Yes I am, but I don’t think Sydney is very much.”

  “Are you sure?”

  John and the man might not have much in common, but surely their tastes could not be so dissimilar. Surely the man could not think that his wife was anything but beautiful.

  “He rarely makes love to me now that I’ve gained extra weight,” she explained.

  “He’s just worried about you. All men get worried about making love to their wives when they’re pregnant—it’s only natural,” John reassured her. “The little extra weight suits you.

  “But everything on me seems twice the size it was before,” she complained. “Even my feet feel bigger!”

  “Your feet look fine to me.”

  Actually, they looked better than fine. They looked dainty and soft and incredibly feminine even with toenails cut short and free of polish.

  “What about the rest of me?” she asked, holding her arms outstretched and looking at them.

  “Those matchsticks!” John laughed. If he tried hard enough he could probably snap one of her slender arms in two.

  “And what about these?” She pulled the top of her dress downwards suddenly, exposing her chest. “They are huge! I used to have small, firm bubbies. I didn’t really need to wear a bra until well into my twenties. Now I need all the support I can get.”

  John coughed self-consciously and then took a sip of the now lukewarm coffee he had fetched from the living room as she made no attempt to cover herself.

  “At least lingerie designers make pretty maternity bras these days,” she ran her hand over her left breast. “I particularly like the intricate lacework on this one, don’t you?”

  “It’s pretty,” he agreed, without looking at it too closely.

  “And look how well it supports me.” The next instant she had taken her breast out of the cup to demonstrate. “See. Without the bra my breast would droop slightly.”

  “But only very slightly,” he acknowledged, his eyes locked on to her uncovered breast. God, she was the epitome of lush womanhood!

  “Feel how heavy it is,” she offered, bouncing it gently in her palm. “And it will get heavier when it’s filled with milk.”

  “No, thanks.” John hastily clasped his hands behind his back, away from temptation.

  “Oh, don’t be such a prude!” she admonished, taking his hand and placing it beneath the heavy orb. “Surely you must have touched Helen’s.”

  Touched? An understatement if he’d ever heard one. He had been at Helen’s breasts constantly during her pregnancy. And had been only marginally better after she had given birth. He had been surprised and horrified to find himself a little jealous of his twins as Helen had breastfed them. He had needed to be close to her, sometimes sitting behind her and cradling both her and the feeding baby in his arms, unless he was occupied with holding the other twin. But even that had not been enough—for the first few days he had felt strangely disconnected from her and them.

  Thankfully Helen had always been able to read him like a book—sometimes it was scary the way she knew his thoughts before he had articulated them. She had known exactly what he’d needed to feel less isolated. One night, after they had put the twins to bed, he had been lying with his head on her lap—something he had done increasingly since the twins were born but had never done in the past; usually he cradled her head on his lap—she had opened her dressing gown and the flap of her nursing bra and guided her nip
ple to his lips. As though it was the most natural thing in the world, he had latched on, his toes curling as her milk obeyed the pull of his lips and surged from her body into his.

  The next day he had awoken feeling a hundred times better. He had looked at the babies with a new-found love and marvelled that he and Helen could have created such tiny miracles together. And later that day when he’d held her as she breastfed Tina, he had felt absurdly happy and content. Tim had been the better feeder of the two and when he’d finished with a breast there was nothing left for his dad, but Tina always the one more willing to share, had left just enough to keep John happy. They had all been weaned when the twins were four months old so that Helen would be ready to go back to work two months later.

  “John?” Florence’s questioning voice brought him back to the present.

  He had been fondling her breast rather ardently.

  “Sorry, I got a little carried away,” he apologized and released her as he straightened.

  “Oh, don’t stop!” she begged. “I was just telling you that the other one was getting a bit jealous.”

  “Is it as heavy as this one?” he asked, smiling at the absurdity of the question.

  “Heavier I think,” she responding playing along with him. She unsnapped the clasp of the front-closing bra and her glorious breasts tumbled free. “You can compare them and see.”

  Cupping them in his hands he closed his eyes for a moment in ecstasy. But only for a moment. He reopened them and watched his hands as they moved over the honey-toned flesh. The contrast of her darker skin against his was surprisingly erotic. Strangely, he had never fantasized about making love to a Black or Asian woman. Growing up in a small village his sexual yearnings had been focussed on the brunettes, redheads and the other blondes around him when not focused on Helen, the girl next door.

  “Did you know that I read a lot of Mills and Boons when I was younger? I used to dream of growing up and marrying an Englishman,” Florence confessed. “Someone with dark hair and blue eyes like you. I told Helen. She knows that I have the hots for you.”

  “Do you?” he asked and grinned like a schoolboy when she nodded her head.