Shooting in Hannah - Version Bravo

by Lubrican

Chapters : 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14

Chapter Fourteen

It was obvious she'd done this before. Obvious. It was also obvious it had been for shithead Rodney before he knocked her up. I tried not to think about that and concentrated on how very good she was at it. She explored my penis almost eagerly and handled it as if she'd found a new favorite thing to fondle. I lay back with my head on the backrest of the couch and groaned.

Not only was she good at it, she could tell when I got close. I felt her tense up and stop, freezing as if she was afraid to move lest I spurt in her mouth. I reached to caress her hair, but that was all. Even if this was all I got I counted myself lucky.

Then, suddenly, she was off to the races again, sucking, stroking, and humming as if she was happy.

I got close and she stopped again. This time she didn't freeze, but gripped my penis with a grip that had steel in it. She waited five or six seconds and then went after it again.

She did that four times before she didn't stop me again, just sucking as I croaked, groaned, and spewed in her mouth. I heard her swallow once and the vacuum cleaner attached to my penis never flagged. She kept sucking until I was fully soft, and only then did she sit back up.

I watched as she used the back of her hand to wipe her mouth.

"Thank you," she panted gently. "That was even more different than I hoped it would be."

"Any time," I gasped. "Any time at all."

She laughed, and her face lit up. After all the somber looks that had been on her face these last few months, it was a delight to see her smiling happily.

She licked her lips and swallowed again.

"You taste better than ... him." She tilted her head. "If I'd have stopped like that when I was doing that for ... him ... he'd have slapped me around."

I sat up, suddenly angry.

"I will never lay a hand on you that way," I said, tensely.

"I wanted to believe that," she said. "Now I know for sure."

"You have a funny way of proving your hypothesis," I said.

"I didn't like doing that for Rodney," she said.

"You didn't have to do it for me," I objected.

"I know, but I wanted to ... to see if it was the same." She brought her hands to her breasts and squeezed them. "I am delighted that it wasn't."

"You still don't ever have to do it again," I said.

"That's what's so amazing," she said. "I liked it. No, I enjoyed it. It was completely different. I was thinking of all these things, the past, Hannah, you. But it was so different than anything I felt before that it was like I'd never done it before."

"Trust me, it didn't feel like you'd never done it before," I sighed.

"Rodney was very demanding. I didn't understand how abusive he was until years later."

"I'm so sorry, Phoebe," I said. "No woman should have to endure that."

Suddenly she burst into tears, sobbing, shaking uncontrollably. I moved to enfold her in my arms, but that was all I could do. She cried like that for a long time and finally settled into hiccupping, more gentle misery.

"H-h-he was killed in a b-b-bar fight," she moaned.

I squeezed her and she looked up at me with red-rimmed, tear-filled eyes.

"I was glad!" she gasped. "I hoped he was being tortured by Satan!"

I hugged her harder and kissed the top of her head.

It took another five minutes before I began to feel her relaxing in my arms. She seemed to need to confess, and I wanted her to let it all out.

"It was six months after Chris was born, after Rodney abandoned us. I was miserable. My parents were still angry at me and I had this little baby to take care of and I knew I had to finish school, but it was so hard!"

I gave her a quick squeeze.

"When I found out he was dead I wanted to dance in the streets. And then I realized what kind of person that made me ... to celebrate another human being's death."

She clung to me with surprising strength.

"I think it was probably a normal response, considering the circumstances," I said, hopefully.

She finally sat up and separated from me, leaning against the back of the couch. I made myself look at her face instead of her breasts.

"That's what my therapist said, too," she sighed. "My parents put me in therapy when I swallowed half a bottle of aspirin."

"Good," I said. "I'm glad they did."

She stared at me for half a minute.

"Most men aren't interested in damaged goods," she said.

"You're not damaged goods, Phoebe," I said, patiently. "Come on. Surely you know that."

"I guess so," she said.

"You had a rough go of things for a long time, but that's all in the past, now," I said, earnestly. "You're a great mom and a great teacher."

She stared at me a few more seconds.

"And I have a great boyfriend."

"I wouldn't go that far," I said, smiling.

"I wasn't sure, but I'm feeling better and better about him," she said, speaking of me in third person. "At least you can understand why his little scandal might not have seemed as horrifying to me as some others would have thought it." She blinked several times. "His actions were based on love, instead of anger, intimidation, and domination."

She leaned closer to me.

"Instead of being repelled, I was fascinated. I wished I could feel love like that."

"I think you can," I said, softly.

We were both emotionally drained. Hearing about her nightmare had sapped my strength, just as telling me about it had sapped hers. We sat up and got dressed. For some reason I still don't understand now, I picked up her clothes and helped her into them. She did the same.

"I've never put a man's clothes on for him before," she commented.

"Neither have I," I said.

"I would hope not." She smiled.

"You know what I meant."

"Yes. I hope you do that again some day."

"Well, that would mean we have to take them off, first," I reminded her.

"Of course," she said, carelessly. "I have a feeling that's going to happen many times in the future."

"Like now?" I asked, only half kidding. I could feel my penis twitch in my pants.

"Like later," she said, poking me with a stiff finger.

"I'll be patient," I vowed.

I finished covering her and she kissed me with a quick peck.

"As I said, your patience will be rewarded."

"Oh trust me," I said. "It already has."

"You're sweet," she said, standing back. "I'm not used to that."

"I hope someday you can't imagine not being used to it."

She cocked her head.

"We'll see."

I'm sure you don't want to hear the details of how our physical relationship progressed, and I don't want this to become boring. If it was already boring then you wouldn't have read this much of it, and I want the message I'm trying to convey to be heard.

And that message is this: Go for it.

I know that sounds trite, but it needs to be said over and over again, because life bombards us with problems that try to beat us down and make us forget that there can be joy and love in our lives. We get so wrapped up in trying to exhibit this or that set of social skills, or in trying to find the dream job, or in making enough money to buy that thing we think will make us happy, that we forget the best things in life are small, even common.

I'm not saying you have to give all your worldly wealth away and become an ascetic. I suspect some ascetics aren't happy either. All I'm saying is that you should find someone you love, and who loves you, and concentrate on that. That will bring you contentment, joy, a feeling of self-worth ... happiness.

And yes, I know the concept of "true love" is also trite. But it was made that way by frustrated people who refused to forge a loving bond with someone because they kept thinking, "I can do better."

Phoebe could have done better. My 'rap sheet' as a human being was extensive, literally as long as my arm, if you put the pages end to end. My relationship with Hannah was something the vast majority of women could never have gotten past.

But the hunger in Phoebe's psyche, the hunger for the kind of love she sensed between Hannah and me, overpowered her rational mind's objections. That and the fact that she had seen on my face the look of a man deep in love with a woman ... and she wanted a man to look at her like that, too.

Even my relationship with my sister is an example of what I'm talking about. Was it "usual"? Nope. Would anyone else have approved? No one except maybe other brothers and sisters in similar relationships. Was there a real future for us as lovers? Parents? Not really.

Basically there were hundreds of reasons not to fall in love with my sister, or her to fall in love with me. But we went for it. Sure, it was a herky jerky journey, looking something like the shambling gait of a zombie. Including the groans and moans, to milk the analogy. But once we'd tasted that little flavor of love, we went for it anyway. As it turned out, while a life together as a married couple wasn't in the cards, I did get to have children with her.

We love those children. What's more important is that Phoebe loves them, too. Their kids and our kids are always thick as thieves at reunions, and exchange a week at each other's houses each summer.

That's because Phoebe decided to go for it too ... with me. Damaged me. Oddball me. Incestuous fucker me.

It wasn't easy. It was a shambling zombie walk, too, though not as long a one.

I've never asked her about it, but I had some suspicions for a while that she was punishing me for hurting her with Hannah. While she might have accepted that relationship, or at least the concept of it, that doesn't mean it didn't hurt her. Like a broken bone, there is pain, followed by gradual, slow healing. If the break is set clean, then maybe nobody can ever tell it was broken, once it knits. Other breaks heal badly, bent, or with constant pain. Lifelong pain.

I said punishing me. Let me explain.

We kept going out. About every third time she'd get a sitter for Chris and spend the night at my house.

She always got naked, and got me naked, too.

She always kissed me hungrily, like a woman in the throes of passion.

And we did everything in the world together.

Except have intercourse.

We could make the 69 for hours and love every minute of it. Her orgasms were accompanied by squeals and gasping giggles. I got the impression she was surprised by each one and delighted to be able to have it. When she decided to make me spurt she was a woman possessed, stroking, sucking, squeezing, whispering things like, "Come on, baby, give Mama a little taste."

I knew she wasn't afraid of my penis. What I mean is that when we lay there together, kissing and snuggling, she had no problem with my boner poking between her legs. More than once our gyrations caused the tip of my cock to part her outer labia. All she did was either roll or reach to move it so it wouldn't go in any deeper, but she kept kissing me.

A skeptic might argue she was trying to frustrate me enough to ask her to marry me, using intercourse as a bargaining chip. But she didn't act that way. She never said, "I wish we were married so I could feel okay about having sex with you," or something like that. What she did say, more than once, was simply, "Not yet." She said nothing about what combination of events might announce when "yet" might arrive.

I'm sure there are people out there saying, "No way. It would be too frustrating to be in that kind of relationship." But I wasn't frustrated at all. Not really. I loved being around her, seeing her, getting to touch her. I always got my rocks off, usually more than once a night on 'those' nights. I loved being around Chris, too. I liked teaching him things and playing games with him. Life was fun. So I wasn't frustrated.

Actually, what caused "yet" to arrive was her frustration with things.

I had, by now, uttered the three big ones to Phoebe on more than one occasion: I love you. The first time had been as my prick spurted into her mouth, so maybe that one doesn't count. Maybe something in my subliminal mind told me that, because the next time was after we'd been cuddling while watching a movie. Phoebe must have had a streak of nudist in her, because being naked with me (on those nights somebody else was taking care of Chris) was pretty normal. We weren't like a lot of couples who get naked, frolic around, get up and get dressed to eat, and then get naked again to frolic some more. She got rid of the 'middle man' and just stayed nude.

That wasn't why, during a very intense part of the movie, when the viewer's attention was being demanded by the tenseness of the action, that I turned my head and said, "I love you," to her. I just felt it well up inside me, so I told her. She gave me the briefest of glances, said, "I know. Thank you," and gave me the briefest of pecks on the lips before looking back at the screen. Phoebe was a good movie-watcher. If it wasn't worth watching, she stopped. If it was, she got into it.

I didn't wear it out, but I'd said it again. What I had never gotten was the return phrase everyone seems to expect. That didn't bother me. I wasn't saying it to get her to say it back. I just felt like telling her how I felt. And I knew she felt something deep for me. I was like a movie. She hadn't gotten up and walked away. She was 'into' our relationship.

I don't know what straw it was that broke the camel's back. When it happened I had just licked and sucked her pussy for half an hour, paying particular attention to her clit, which was large and prominent. I'm told some clits try to hide inside their sheaths. They still respond to pressure, but don't come out to play, so to speak. Phoebe's wasn't one of those. Hers fairly erupted. I have come to believe that's why Shithead was able to control her. Between her nipples and her clit, Phoebe could have an orgasm within ten minutes on any given day. She didn't actually need to have a penis in her vagina to get off easily. One time I got on my hands and knees and the only part of my body that touched hers were my lips, sucking gently on one of her distended nipples. She writhed and reached for me, but I pulled away, teasing her. When she finally got the idea, she lay there and let me suck. She had an orgasm within five minutes.

Anyway, after sucking her clit until she squealed and giggled, I crawled up to lie beside her while she caught her breath.

"Your beard smells like me," she commented.

"Then my beard smells delicious," I said. I already knew she didn't mind kissing me after such an exercise.

Then, whatever it was that caused it to happen, happened. Tears began leaking from the corners of her eyes.

I didn't expect it, and was concerned.

"Hey," I said, sliding my hand from her hip to her ribcage.

"I'm fine," she sniffled.

I didn't really know what to say. In such situations I have been known to say something stupid.

"So those are tears of happiness?"

"No," she sighed. "It's just that I want ... to be able to tell you ... that I love you, too."

"I think you just did," I said, softly.

"No I didn't. I said I wished I could. But I'm too scared. I'm convinced fate won't let me be that happy. Something will go wrong, I just know it."

"Phoebe ... do you love me?" I asked.

There was a long pause and she took a deep breath. Her perky breasts pushed out from her chest. She released it in a shuddering sigh and closed her eyes again. There were two ways to interpret that shuddering sigh. Either she couldn't say it ... or she wished she was in love with me but wasn't. I could understand that. She knew about Hannah.

"It's okay," I said, softly. "I understand if you don't."

Her eyes popped open and she rose as if she weighed nothing, to sit on her calves beside me.

"But I do!" she yipped.

I smiled.

"There. Was that so hard?"

She sat there, looking down at me. Her eyes strayed to my penis, which was as long and hard as it had ever been. She reached to grip it, almost tentatively.

"Do you want to put this inside me?"

I just told the truth.

"I do."

"The last one of these that went inside me got me pregnant," she said.

At last I understood her reluctance, the source of all those, "Not yet"s.

"I can understand how that might dampen the desire to engage in that particular pastime," I said, trying to be supportive.

"Oh, my desire isn't dampened," she snorted. "Not in the slightest."

"I can understand that, too," I said.

What can I say? I already mentioned how inept I am about saying stupid things.

"I'm not on birth control," she said, softly.

My inept phase persisted.

"Oh."

She closed her eyes and took a breath. It came out in a groan.

"Rodney was such an asshole to make me this way."

Finally, my brain kicked inept in the balls and let me say something worthwhile.

"I'm not Rodney."

Her eyes opened. She had maintained her grip on my penis, which might have caused a philosopher to reflect on the fact that, while thinking about a man she hated, about a penis she hated, she had nonetheless kept in contact with a different penis. Perhaps this was a penis that didn't offend her.

"No. You're not," she said. "You have no idea how often you remind me of that fact."

"I won't leave you," I said.

"Not even if you get me pregnant?" Her eyes were serious.

Inept crept back in under the radar.

"I got Hannah pregnant and I haven't abandoned her," I said.

Inept finally registered its existence with my girlfriend and she frowned.

"That's just stupid, Bob."

"I get that way sometimes," I sighed.

"You're getting soft," she said, squeezing my cock. "Don't get soft."

"It's probably part of being stupid," I said, helplessly.

"You're not stupid," she said. "You just say stupid things sometimes."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Don't be sorry," she replied, stroking me several times. "Be hard!"

"What do you want?" I groaned.

She leaned over me until her face was right above mine.

"I want you to make love to me. I want you to promise you'll never leave me. I want this ... what we have ... for as long as possible."

The conditions that had led to the softening of my manhood suddenly reversed. I could feel it happen.

"Then marry me," I blurted.

She stroked my cock several more times. It was easier now because I was rock hard again.

"Is that just your balls talking?" she asked.

"No, Ma'am," I said.

"Are you asking me to do that just so you can put this in me?"

"No," I said. "You can get dressed and go home right now. I'll ask you again tomorrow."

"You'll have to ask Chris," she said, sitting back up. "He's the man of the house, right now."

"Then I'll beg him for your hand," I said.

"This seems sudden," she said. Her hand was still gripping my cock. A memory popped up of me, asking Phoebe out the first time, and her saying that the request seemed 'sudden.'

"Really? Gee, we've only known each other for three years. I admit, of course that we've only been going out together for eighteen months or so. Maybe it is pretty sudden." I tried to keep the sarcasm in my voice to a minimum.

"Don't you dare get soft again," she commanded, ignoring the sarcasm.

"Phoebe," I groaned. "I love you. You're the one who said you didn't want an adult relationship, but I fell in love with you anyway. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to say. I don't know what you want."

"I told you what I wanted," she said, calmly. "And a girl has options. One of them is changing her mind."

"About what?" I whined.

"About this," she said.

With that, she straddled me and brought the tip of my penis to the labia it had kissed so many times. She made it kiss them again, swabbing it between them several times. The tip caught in her opening and, without comment, she flexed her thighs, lifting herself a little, and scooted forward.

I watched in awe as my prick was swallowed in one, smooth lunge, until it disappeared as if by magic.

I still felt it, of course, surrounded by a heat that was familiar. I did not, however, think even once of why that felt familiar.

Hannah did not enter my mind as the black-haired, elven beauty on top of me sighed, put her hands on my chest, and then fucked me like there was no tomorrow.

Something told me to just lie there, and let her do her thing. To be honest, we weren't 'making love' in one sense. I think she was pleasuring herself ... allowing herself to be pleasured in this way, with something inside her that, historically, had negative connotations. I think she was torn, wanting something but being afraid of it at the same time. She was a normal woman, with normal desires, but had been fighting those desires for half a decade. Perhaps "fighting" is the wrong word. She had chosen abstinence over having to deal with the turmoil of being fully sexual. She was abstaining from "Rodney."

Now, like a child convinced there is a monster under the bed, she had finally gotten a flashlight, gotten down on her knees, and looked into the darkness.

Happily, for me, all she saw were some dust bunnies.

"Okay. Yes," she panted. "I'll marry you."

Then I reached for her nipples and helped her have an orgasm.

"You didn't cum," she said, panting into my ear.

"It's okay," I said. "I had a great time watching you have one. Besides, you said you weren't protected."

"I don't think you understand," she said.

"That's quite possible."

"I normally keep sperm as far away from my womb as possible," she said.

"That's understandable," I said, thinking about Shithead.

"That doesn't apply to you," she whispered.

"You want to have more children?"

"If I can raise them in a stable home, with a loving father ... yes," she said.

"How soon can we get married?" I asked.

"You haven't asked Chris if we can," she replied.

"I'll deal with Chris," I said. "He and I are buddies."

"Yes, you are. That was a point in your favor, by the way."

"When he caves, how soon can we get married?"

"Are you in a hurry?"

"I don't want you to have to walk down the aisle with a specially made dress."

"What do you mean?"

"Bulging belly?"

"Oh. Do you think that will happen soon?"

I thought about Hannah. And Austin.

"Well, I'll take the risk of pointing out that I have a history of being pretty virile, and Chris proves you're fertile. I may have honored your wish to avoid this adult relationship we find ourselves in, but that's all dust in the wind, my beauty."

"You're a satyr," she observed.

"When it comes to you I will be."

"Pandora's box," she sighed. "I've opened Pandora's box."

"You said the magic words. They were, 'Yes, I'll marry you.'"

"So you really meant that."

"Of course I did."

"I want so much to believe this is happening," she sighed.

I squeezed her.

I was pretty sure she'd come around.

She just needed to go for it.

So there you have it. Hannah and I 'went for it' in the sense of exploring life and love, even though it was taboo. A lot of good came from that. I'm fully cognizant of how lucky we were, how many bullets we dodged, and how many breaks we got. Then Phoebe and I 'went for it' and the same thing happened. Minus the bullets and taboo part.

Chris made the momentous event into something trivial.

"I'd like to marry your mom," I said. "That would make me your stepfather and we'd all live together from now on."

"Okay," he said, not lifting his eyes from the Legos he was playing with.

"You might end up with a brother or sister to play with," I said.

"That would be cool," he said.

And that was it.

Phoebe laughed.

That night she got a sitter.

And that was the first night Phoebe's 'chant' of "Don't!" and "Stop!" became ... "Don't stop!" It was also the night I shot in Phoebe, instead of Hannah.

Phoebe was pregnant when she walked down the aisle, but the baby had been in residence for only a month, so none of the guests knew about it.

Now, when we get together, Hannah's and my son and daughter play with Phoebe's and my son and daughter. Chris lords it over them, what with him being so much older than they are, but they all get along famously.

Hannah and Phoebe are close in a way those philosophers might reflect on, in terms of two women understanding each other because they love the same man, in similar, but also different ways. Their heads are together a lot, as Austin and I play games with the children. I don't know what they talk about, though I did overhear one comment one time.

"He makes good babies," said Hannah.

"Yes, he does," Phoebe replied.

Then I got out of range of hearing, and saw them laugh about something.

I wonder if they were still talking about me.

The End

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