McKayla's Miracle Revisited

This story takes place about six years after "McKayla's Miracle". If you haven't read the previous chapters, I suggest you do so first. There is not a lot of sex in this story, so if that's what you're looking for, hit the "back" button on your browser now because this is the wrong story for you. Please leave a comment or send me an email!

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"You don't have to do this if it makes you uncomfortable," Maureen said softly.

Although I smiled, the butterflies in my stomach were working overtime. I looked over at my little girl . . . young woman, actually . . . who was sitting in the passenger's seat of McKayla's BMW. The top was down and a warm breeze blew through our hair. She was so beautiful.

I was happy to have her home from her freshman year of college. I hadn't seen her as much as I'd liked; she had a job and friends and summer trips planned. Still, it was nice to have her back under my roof again, if only to bring some life to my otherwise quiet house.

We sat there for a few moments, the engine idling. Her curly hair was pulled back. We were both dressed up; during the summer at the beach that meant a sundress for my daughter, a nice blouse and skirt for me. It was a gorgeous July morning, and the ocean breeze kept the heat from being unbearable.

This was the day I had been dreading for the past two decades. I had prayed it would never come, but a part of me always knew my daughter would ask, and I resigned myself to this course.

"Sweetheart, you deserve to know," I reached over and squeezed her hand. "Come on, let's go meet your father."

****************

Twenty years. That's how long it had been since I last saw him.

We met at a party for a mutual friend. I was 22 and single, having just moved to the beach after graduating from college and starting my job less than a month before.

Travis was 24 and almost everything a girl like me wanted: charming, polite, well-dressed. And pretty. Actually, he was gorgeous. Sandy blonde hair, blue eyes. He was built lean like a distance runner, with strong, tight muscles that could really fill out a pair of jeans.

He could also be kind of a jackass. Yeah, I know that doesn't sound very endearing, but back when I was young, that's the kind of guy I wanted. Or at least I thought that was the kind of guy I wanted.

Among his other endearing qualities, he was unfailingly gentlemanly, at least to me. Arrogant? Yes. Full of himself? Definitely.

Yet from the first moment I lay eyes on him, I was in heat. I just knew I had to have him. It was a birthday party for someone we both knew. That is to say, I was new to the area and tagging along with my friend Bretlynn.

I remember the instant his charm took hold of me. He was standing around, talking with some other guys. It was just before Memorial Day, which was—and still is—a big deal out at the beach. It meant the summer tourist season was about to start and would go on until Labor Day. That in turn signaled the beginning of traffic jams, out-of-town license plates, idiots asking for directions and all that.

It was also the reason why we had negligible property taxes; the tourists and their hotel occupancy surcharges, rental car fees and sales taxes paid all of that for us. All things being equal, the locals would trade three and a half months of inconvenience for eight and a half months of relative calm and absurdly low taxes.

Travis looked over at me. Our eyes met and he winked. My heart fluttered. I felt like I was in high school again. Bretlynn introduced us and he was in full-on charm mode. We didn't hook up that first night, but he did get my number.

For the record, I never thought of Travis as anything more than a fling. If anything, he would have been my rebound. My old college boyfriend and I broke up at the beginning of my senior year because he couldn't keep his dick out of the girl who lived in the apartment right below us. I kicked him out and tried to ignore them whenever our paths crossed. I did call the police on them a couple of times when the smell of dope came wafting out of an open doorway or window. Pigfuckers.

After graduation, my uncle made a couple of calls and got me a job through a friend of a friend at the beach. I think I was making something like twelve bucks an hour, which at the time was pretty good money. With the ink on my diploma still wet, I was the office manager for an adult beverage distributor, which meant I always had access to booze and I didn't have much by way of expenses. I worked 40 hours a week . . . well, I was there for 40 hours a week. I actually worked for only about twenty of those. My office job was crazy-easy, and if my boss had wanted to, he probably could have hired someone part time at two-thirds my rate. But after a little while, I knew where everything was and all of the reports and invoices were taken care of on time.

The rest of my time was spent shopping for shoes on the internet, stalking my friends, first on MySpace then on Facebook, and, as often as not, nursing a hangover from the night before. All things being equal, those were good times in my life. I had no responsibilities, a little bit of extra cash to go out, and enough youthful exuberance not to care about the consequences of my actions.

I'd like to say that the first time Travis and I were together was a sweet, romantic date that involved flowers, gentlemanly door-opening and fine dining, but the truth of the matter is that I saw him at one of my usual watering holes (read: dives), he gave me that look, my nipples crinkled up, he said something like "Your ass is effing awesome", and next thing you know, we were in his car making out.

We rushed back to his apartment, he stripped me down and we fucked like rabbits until dawn. Well, maybe two or three times. Neither of us were cuddlers, but he did ask me to spend the night with him. When the sun came up, he drove me to my car and gave me a glowing post-coital kiss.

Yeah, I know it's not the stuff of fairy tales, but I was 22 and horny as hell. Plus, he was good in bed. Well, that's not quite right. He was fan-fucking-tastic.

Out of bed . . . not so much. He liked to talk about himself. He was one of those guys who would tell you how much he made (which was no insubstantial amount) and how many languages he could speak (three) in the same breath. Just by looking at him, you could tell he put a lot of time and energy into his appearance. He had more watches than I had earrings. He was 24 years old, drove a Lexus, and if not for our physical connection, I probably never would have given him a second thought because he was so full of himself.

Still, there was just something about him. My body couldn't say "no" to him. His touch was electric. The looks he gave me made me want to peel my clothes off on the spot.

So we became fuck-buddies. He was always nice, but we only went on actual dates a couple of times. He was quick to pick up the tab, he never took me to any place cheap and I never got the feeling that if I said "no" when it was time to get busy, that he would do anything so crass as resorting to getting me drunk to get into my pants. But there just wasn't that rapport between us. We didn't really talk about anything that couples talk about, and aside from his magic penis, I didn't have any interest in truly getting to know him.

Usually, one of us would call the other and say something like, "Hey, feel like getting naked?" and then half an hour later, we'd end up doggie style over the arm of the couch.

Life was good and this went on for a couple of months. We didn't have a schedule and we weren't exclusive. But we were great in bed together.

That summer dragged into fall, then winter and then spring again. Our relationship, such as it was, continued until the next May, when my birthday rolled around. Travis had made a big deal out of his plans for us. I was going out with some of my girlfriends for my actual birthday, so he cooked something up for the weekend before.

"Don't eat too much," he said with a laugh as we looked over the menu. We were at one of the beach's premier upper-crust restaurants. I knew he wasn't telling me that because he wanted to go cheap on dinner; any place where the least expensive thing on the menu was a $12 appetizer meant the bill was going to be on the hefty side (and remember, this was 20 years ago). No, he was telling me because he had a marathon fuckfest planned for that night and didn't want either of us to be full.

I just smiled and felt my pussy moisten at the look in his eyes.

Dinner was wonderful, if overpriced. We split a bottle of tasteful-but-not-inexpensive wine, then ended up back at his place.

"Happy birthday," he mumbled as I pulled his face in between my breasts. His hands clutched my backside, and his teeth raked my nipples. Our clothes were strewn about his apartment. His hands cupped my rear end and I wrapped my legs around him.

Travis carried me back to his bedroom as I nibbled on his neck. He dropped me on the bed and I scooted back to watch him finish undressing. His body was perfect. Athletic. Toned.

Dayum, that boy was H. O. Fucking-T. Hot!

I threw my panties and bra into some far corner of the room as he pounced, his weight pressing down on me. I cried out as his teeth brushed my collarbone. His hands cupped my breasts and he rolled my erect nipples between his fingers.

"I'm going to fuck the shit out of you tonight, Amberle," he growled. I almost creamed right there.

His gaze was feral. His eyes were hooded over with lust.

And I was ready to get fucked.

To you guys, here's a tip: women need a lot more attention than you do. We like to be built up slowly. We like soft caresses. Lots of foreplay. Pre and post-coital cuddling. And all that crap you think is useless. I read something very truthful years ago that said in order to seduce a woman, you need to wine her, dine her, call her, hug her, hold her, surprise her, compliment her, smile at her, laugh with her, cry with her, cuddle with her, shop with her, give her jewelry, buy her flowers, hold her hand, write love letters to her, go to the end of the earth and back for her. In order to seduce a man, show up naked.

And yes, we want that.

Except when we don't. And then we want you to fuck our brains out.

I spread my legs for Travis. He got up on his knees to mount me, pausing only long enough to reach for the condoms in the drawer of his nightstand.

Between the wine and my blind lust, I probably would have let him take me bareback, but we were both smart enough to realise that safe sex was something that couldn't be practised on an occasional basis; it was all the time or never. Travis and I had never been exclusive, and we both had sex with other people in the time we had known each other, him more than me.

When I was fifteen, Dad offered to put me on the pill. I didn't then, but when I was in college, I tried it, but I found that the hormones messed with my mood, so I quit taking them. I had never had sex with any man without a condom, and to this day, that is still true.

So once his magnificent cock was wrapped up, Travis slipped easily inside my throbbing pussy. I lay back into his plush pillows and he began to pound away.

"Fuck!" I cried out. "Fuckfuckfuck!"

Through the slits of my eyes, I saw a look of smug satisfaction on his face.

"Damn, your pussy is so fucking tight!" He cupped one of my breasts in one hand, while reaching under my ass and squeezing with his other. A jolt shot through my body from head to toe.

"Your big fucking dick is stretching me out!" I wailed as he jackhammered away at my body.

I gave up trying to fuck him back. Instead, I just hung on for the ride.

My first orgasm of the night left me a quivering mass in the middle of his bed, but Travis wasn't done. At 24 years of age, my lover didn't need any little blue pill to go all night long. Even though my legs were still shivering, he flipped me over on to my stomach and his hands dug into my ass.

Placing a pillow under my belly to take some of the strain off my knees, Travis took me in my favourite position: doggy. It was his, too; Travis was always an ass man, and when I was 22, my backside was amazing. Several times, Travis asked if I'd let him do anal to me. I told him once that I'd let him in my backdoor only if I got to fuck him up the butt with a strap-on first. That stopped any further conversations about anal sex, but he was always playing with my ass. Not that I minded, of course.

His cock seemed like it was going to re-arrange my insides. Waves of pleasure rolled over me. Each time he bottomed out, a shudder ran through my body. I pushed my ass back to meet every thrust.

"That's it, baby," I moaned. "You're going so fucking deep . . . Don't stop . . . don't stop fucking me!"

Somehow, I found the strength to reach two fingers between my legs and fondle my sex. I was dripping all over his bed.

My body was covered in sweat. A couple of times, he leaned over to kiss the back of my neck, but mostly he just fucked me from behind. As he pulled out, his pushed my hips forward, only to pull me back as he rammed back into me.

What sent me over the top was when he grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked. I arched my back and my pussy exploded all over him.

I'm sure my screams woke his neighbours. Again.

Unable to move, I collapsed on to the bed. Still Travis continued to fuck me. I could hear his hips slapping against my ass. I felt the bed knocking against the wall with each thrust. The air reeked of sex.

Finally, the room started to spin and I passed out, a blissful smile on my lips. And still my lover wasn't done.

****************

"Can we talk for a minute, Mommy?" Maureen began nervously. I could tell something was up. She had only been home from school for a couple of days. She was a straight-A student in high school, valedictorian of her class. I wish I could say that I had something to do with that, but I didn't. I was an underachieving, slightly above-average student myself. The fact of the matter was that Maureen turned out the way she did because of McKayla.

I see so much of my wife in our daughter, even though they look nothing like one another. Where McKayla was tall and athletic, Maureen is built more like me: short and curvy. She's got a full head of curly sandy-blonde hair, not McKayla's glorious straight, raven-black mane. Yet to watch them walk and listen to them talk, they're almost identical. Our daughter copied many of McKayla's mannerisms and they have the same Mensa-level intelligence and curiosity about the world.

McKayla died when Maureen was in the eighth grade, but our daughter has always been wise beyond her years. I feared that she would be one of those kids who emotionally imploded when they lost a parent, but the exact opposite happened. Maureen dug in and became determined to make her Mom proud.

A month after the funeral, Maureen came into my bedroom one night and sat down. She had a pamphlet from the Duke University School of Medicine.

"I'm going to cure cancer," she said softly.

"I know you are, sweetheart," I said, not to patronise or belittle her, but because I knew right then that if there was cure for cancer to be found anywhere in this world, Maureen was going to hunt it down, and she was going to destroy the disease that had taken her Mom from her. So she and I made a deal; if she could get a free-ride scholarship (tuition, fees, room & board, and books) to any school in the country, I'd buy her a car.

I didn't mention the part about a trust fund had already been established for our daughter that had—at that time—almost half of a million dollars in it for whatever she wanted to do with her life. Did I mention that McKayla made us a very good living as a financial planner?

Four years later, after receiving an academic free ride to the pre-med program at Duke, I offered to take her to any car dealer she wanted that was within a reasonable budget to pick out her new ride. Do you know what my daughter did? She went into the garage and told me she wanted her Mom's old BMW convertible that neither of us could bear to part with.

Like McKayla, Maureen has this certainty about her. She knows exactly what to say or do. She has no moral ambiguity. When she makes up her mind, there's no changing it, unless you can prove that she's wrong, and even then, she's probably going to want to see the Boolean algebra you used.

So it was with a little bit of apprehension that I waited for whatever it was that my daughter had to say. She is not a fidgeter, but when she's nervous, she chews on her lip. Like my wife used to.

I could tell that she had played this conversation out in her head several times already, but was now coming up blank. After a false start or two, and a deep breath, she finally spoke.

"What was my dad like?"

Steadying myself against the kitchen counter, I let out a deep, sorrowful sigh. I, too, had played out this conversation in my head several times. Actually several hundred times, if not thousands.

This was the one day I had dreaded since I found out that I was pregnant.

McKayla and I raised Maureen as our daughter. Until she was about three, all she knew was that her parents loved her more than life itself. When she started going to preschool, she realised that our family was different from her friends's families. Very quickly, she put two and two together, but I guess because we tried to raise her in the most supportive and loving environment possible, she never really questioned us or our living arrangements.

When she got to middle school, she was teased and bullied a little, but like McKayla, Maureen doesn't suffer fools lightly and has no qualms about speaking her mind or verbally eviscerating someone who deserves it. Where I would have walked away or gone off on my own to brood, Maureen gave it right back, and by the time she got to high school, none of her friends thought twice about their friend and her two moms. Those who did had been taken care of already.

So what do you tell your daughter about a man who—through absolutely no fault of his own—has been entirely absent from her life from the day following her conception?

****************

Our bodies were covered with sweat. Travis and I were sprawled out on his bed. The pillows and covers were tossed aside. The comforter was nowhere to be seen. I was laying in the wet spot, but I wasn't complaining.

I counted at least four orgasms, one of which was of the mind-blowing variety. Two more were probably really just continuations of the first one.

"Happy birthday," he croaked feebly. As wonderful as Travis was in bed, I'd like to think I was pretty good myself.

It was my birthday, after all, so I took him for a ride. We did it in every conceivable position. Missionary. Me on top. Doggy. Reverse cowgirl. Shower. Sixty-nine.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

"Thank you," I managed to reply, lifting my head from the pillow and smiling. I reached over and patted him gently on the chest, which was still heaving from his exertions. My juices were running down out my pussy.

"Are you staying?" It was our custom to ask, even though there were never any expectations. He slipped the spent—and as we found out later, broken—condom off and dropped it into the trash can by the side of his bed.

"Do you want to drive me home?"

"Not really."

"Then I'm staying."

And that was the end of our conversation. He rolled over on to his side enough to blow out the candle on the nightstand, then spooned up behind me and we fell asleep.

The next day, we woke up, showered and he took me out for a nice brunch before dropping me off at my apartment. That was the last time I saw him for twenty more years.