tagInterracial LoveLike Father, Like Son

Like Father, Like Son


Nick was home from his junior semester of college for winter break— out of the balmy, short-sleeves- and-sweater weather into the goose-down, wool coat bluster of the northeast. He was reminded of what he was in for when his flight was almost canceled. His mother wouldn't be the one picking him up from the airport, not if it was as bad as everyone indicated.

He gathered his things from the motorized baggage line and waited in the lounge. The view of outside through the large picture windows said it all. Large flakes falling like disinherited angels, piling in heaps wherever the runway techs could dump them. Despite it being close to the holidays, there weren't many people in the airport lobby. With no one to talk to, not even an old lady with her sack of Christmas cookies for her grandchildren, Nick analyzed the itinerary monitor, the data, the colors of the data, the speed at which information was refreshed. Lines were crossing out flight after flight, a new one every minute or so. Nick hoped his whole holiday break wouldn't be this snowy.

Just when he was moving his attention towards sighting pictures and patterns in the flurry of snow on the other side of the window, Nick's his cell phone rang.

"Nicky?" "Yeah, Mom. I'm here in the airport." "I can't pick you up and your father is stuck at work. I'm sending someone to pick you up. Her name is Xenia." Xenia? That wasn't that the name of the infamous city in Tornado Alley? "She should be there any time now."

There was a tremor in Mrs. Hahn's voice. Nick figured she saw the red strip go across the T. V. screen as they spoke and wondered if they had enough bread and milk. He was surprised she didn't ask him to pick some up on his way home.

Just as he flipped his cell phone closed, he looked up to see a tall black woman, very dark, with long legs and a medium blue skirt next to him. He sat up in the curve-back seat.

"You must be Nicholas?" she said, looking down at him.

"Xenia?" he replied, looking up.

"Yes," the woman replied blandly. "You spoke with your mother?" she asked. She was gripping a small carryon case with wheels and a long handle. She had well-manicured nails, covered with a soft red polish. Her fingers were slim, the palms of her hand a light salmon color.

Nick hoisted the arm of the knapsack over his shoulder and stood up. This woman wasn't so tall after all. Nick was about the same height as she was. She was thin, with a long neck. The airline uniform made her shoulders appear abnormally broad, but it also accentuated the curve of her hips. As they walked along the corridors of the airport, Nick trailed behind her, watching the way her ass moved under the jacket and skirt.

"I live next door to your parents," she spoke as they walked along to destination unknown, not bothering to look over her shoulder at him. He trailed two feet behind her carryon that quivered and jumped as the wheels traversed bumps and fissures in the flooring. " I moved in about three months ago....I think it was just after you left for college." They turned a corner and Xenia suddenly stopped, pulling out her cell phone. "Funny," she said, looking him over as she dialed numbers on her phone, "They talked about you like you were twelve years old."

Nicholas felt twelve years old, from the moment the woman walked up to him. She was striking. Her hair was short, dark and shiny and her lips, painted the same red as her fingernails, were full with a slight pout, but she had an air about her that was somewhat intimidating, a bit cold. It wasn't just the uniform. Her whole manner made him afraid to speak.

"Stan...., yes, it's me," she said, the phone and her hand looking like one sleek appendage. She had an incredible amount of grace, in her movements and her voice. She looked Nick up and down, as if assessing a piece of property. Nick was a handsome young man, not overtly so, but he had good features— light brown hair that wasn't too thin (a little longish for her liking), and lazy but attentive green eyes set at a soft slope underneath perfectly curved, neatly bushy eyebrows. He was slouching as he stood waiting for her which annoyed her. "I have him here. Would you like to speak with him?"

Nick moved a little closer, but Xenia, with her the arm of her free hand down at her side, held her hand out, spreading her long fingers, to ward him off.

There was a long pause in Xenia's part of the conversation. She folded her arms and tapped her fingers on the inside of her elbow.

"We can pick you up," Nick heard her say. "Unless you want to stay there all night," she added with a bit of contempt. There was another brief pause before Xenia hung the phone up and turned to Nicholas. "I guess we're just going to head home," she said matter-of-factly, and they made their way to the parking garage.

Who was this woman, Nick wondered to himself, as he threw his knapsack in the backseat and sat down in her car. She seemed pretty familiar with his family, and he'd never heard anyone talk to his father with the tone of voice she used-- a kind of apathetic certainty that sent a chill up Nick's spine. How did she get away with it?

Nothing was said between them the whole drive home. It was rather treacherous, with the wind making the view from the windshield a complete sheet of white, splattering snow on the window at the passenger's side so that Nick could see nothing but his breath on it.

He looked over at Xenia. She was scowling, whispering expletives underneath her breath as the car moved reluctantly forward. Even with her dismay, her face didn't appear to have a wrinkle. Her high cheekbones, like teardrops turned on their sides, faded into the sides of her dark brown face. Her eyelashes were curled around tight, making them look blacker than black, accenting the line of her eyes.

When they got to Nick's house, his mother's car wasn't in the driveway. She either went out to get bread and milk—and obsession with his mother whenever there was a snow storm—or to pick up his father. He was a bit unnerved that she wouldn't brave the storm for her son, but she would for groceries.

"No one's home at your house," Xenia said dryly.

"Nope. That's okay," Nick replied. He clutched the band of his knapsack tighter, readying himself for a quick exit, but she glided into the driveway next door without stopping at his.

"No need to go into an empty house, is there?" she asked, as the garage-door opener lifted the wide metal door and she pulled the car inside. " I don't want to be alone in this weather anyway. I'm not used to this snow-thing," she added.

Nick didn't say no. It wouldn't have mattered if he did. He followed Xenia into her house. The door from the garage led immediately into the kitchen.

"I can get you some hot chocolate, or some coffee... or chai. Whatever you like," she said, taking his knapsack and coat after shedding her own coat and boots. "I believe in caffeine," she added in a voice that sounded much warmer than at the airport. She had said next to nothing in the car. Xenia walked in her across the floor in her stocking feet. Nick was glad he had worn a pair of socks without additional holes. "I do have to change first," Xenia said as she brought him into the living room. "Have a seat, here," she said, bringing him into the living room. "Here's the remote, if you want to watch T.V.," she said, then she disappeared into another room, beyond the ones he'd seen so far.

He picked up the remote from the arm of the chair where she had set it. She had a 42 inch wide screen that was self-contained in a hardwood, mod-designed console. He played around with the buttons to turn it on. First it came on too loud. Then he pressed a button that turned everything to fuzz. Nick thought he was good at technical kind of things, just like his dad—the engineer—but this thing had a mind of its own.

When he finally got it to settle on something with a real picture, it wasn't at all what he expected. The sounds hit him first—a lot of moaning and whimpering. The pictures were hard to make out at first, flashes of flesh-tone and blurred images. As the focus of the camera cleared, he figured out. It was a skin flick, a poorly made one, but an obvious one, clear from the indecipherable grunts, cries, and muttering between however many people were there.

Nick pushed another of the buttons on the remote, attempting to change the channel. He was interested, but it wouldn't look good to be watching porn when his already disgruntled neighbor was gracing him with her company and the warmth of her house. But instead of pressing the channel button, he pressed the volume button. Suddenly, the moaning and whimpering noises were blaring, in stereo and surround sound.

Before he could correct the problem, Xenia returned to the room. She was wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt, one that revealed the shape of her breasts—rather tubular and broad, with dark, half-dollar-sized aureoles. Her oversized, flower-print flannel pajama bottoms gathered together in a "V" at the top of her thighs.

"Looks like you have a problem," she said, taking the remote from him and turning the volume down. Nick felt her long fingers roll softly over his own. She had a slight smirk on her face that materialized, then softened into a smile. She sighed, walking away from him. "I feel much better, now," she said, her voice trailing behind her, along with a scent that reminded Nick of the magnolia trees near his dorm. "That uniform might turn some people on, but not me."

Nick sat nervously in his chair waiting for her to return to the living room, or at least to say something. Xenia had never bothered to change the channel and he no longer had the remote to try to—not that he would ever figure out how.

Xenia came back with a mug of hot chocolate for him, and what looked like a cappuccino for herself.

"I gave you whipped cream," she said with a wink. "I like whipped cream."

It was the first bit of lightheartedness Xenia had shown him, and Nick was glad for it. He smiled, trying to show gratitude without looking too needy. After all, he didn't know her. Even if his parents did, he wasn't obligated to be anything more than cordial.

He pushed himself up in the chair and sipped his drink. Just then, despite the volume being turned down, a loud cry came from the television, causing him to splatter a fair amount of his hot chocolate on his pants and the floor.

"Orgasm," Xenia said, bluntly, glancing at the T. V. screen nonchalantly, then over at Nick. When she saw what he'd done she began laughing. "Looks like you made a little mess!" she said.

"I- I'm so sorry," Nick replied. He felt like an idiot and probably looked like one. He couldn't move. The liquid was hot on initial contact. He could feel it dribble around his thigh as the puddle finally sunk in his crotch.

Xenia rose from the sofa, setting her cappuccino on the smoked-glass coffee table and left the room, coming back with a small towel. "Don't worry about the chair," she said, placing her hand on his arm, indicating he should stand up. "It's leather. Cleans up easily."

Nick stood up and out of her way as she kneeled down next to him, wiping the hot chocolate off the chair. His pants were quickly turning from hot to lukewarm and damp where a large spot on his leg near his crotch had stopped expanding. Xenia stopped cleaning, but didn't get up. "My! Looks like you're the one who had the orgasm," she said.

"No, no it's not that," he stuttered quickly.

"I don't know...," she said, running her finger along the zipper of his cargo pants. "...well, I guess not." She looked up at him slyly. "You haven't burst yet. Not with THAT bulge."

Nick felt his cock twitch as her finger traced it delicately. A little breath expelled from between his lips. "Don't do that," he said, but it was no more than a whisper to himself.

"Looks like you might take after your father," she said, unzipping his pants.

His father? What did she know about his father? His father's dick? He would have been more inquisitive on that line except that with her touch, it wasn't the image he wanted in his mind, his father. His father: The straight-laced engineer, toting the cliché pocket-protector in his starched plaid shirt. His father: Shaking a finger at him and telling him, "'Don't be a fool, cover your tool'" and, "Remember--no speeding, no drinking, no black women."

Mr. Hahn's image held to the back of Nick's mind, and Nick tried to utter another refusal. But her fingers unrelenting, moist and warm, and Xenia reached her soft, finely manicured hand into his pants and began handling his cock. She held it in her palm as if to weigh it. Nick stole a glance as she did.

Obviously Dad didn't take his own advice, not if this woman knew what similarity his cock had to mine, Nick thought for a moment. Before the propensity of that summation could catch up with him, Xenia had him in her mouth. Her breath and saliva steamed around the flesh of his cock, the pebbled texture of her tongue rubbing the underside in a way that comforted him. His legs grew weak. He held her head. The sound of the television-- the grunting and groaning of anonymous people fucking-- wove in and out between her quietly working his cock in and out and around the inside of her mouth and his own moaning.

He emptied himself onto her tongue before he was ready to. He feared a reprimand, in keeping with what he had come to recognize as her manner. Instead, she sucked him, tenderly, sucking until he thought he would cry out, too loud, much louder than the television had been. He pressed his fingertips in the mass of her dark, coarse hair and groaned, low and long, like an animal, as his erection subsided and-- because she wouldn't stop sucking him—until his cock was twitching, ready to rise again.

She separated her mouth from him and held her mouth slightly open. "You're not going home yet," she said in a low voice that almost purred. "You'll have to fuck me before you leave."

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