Mind Made Up Pt. 06

- Damn, she adds, I love watching you do that...

- I love watching you, Stacey... gosh.

I decide to dare it.

- If you weren't my sister, I'd climb in there and slide it in.

- Oh... I'd love that, she replies.

The curve of her rising pleasure is drawing to a peak and soon, she'll fall over the edge. I don't feel anywhere near ready to come, but it's sometimes surprising in its arrival; besides, I can't get tired of that delicious view. Her words reach me and make me tremble:

- Fuck... I'm gonna cum.

- Do it discreetly, I tell her.

I'd love to hear her cry out in climax, but that would be risking it. Mom and Heather are in the house; Heather might not mind but I know mom would freak out. That thought lingers in my head as I watch my sister achieve orgasm from the water's stimulation. Her body tightens and she whimpers against the water pressure aimed at her sex. She rides it for as long as it comes, then settles back down. I'm still jerking off when her eyes reopen, filled with a calm and quiet satisfaction. She watches me for a few seconds, then looks up at my face. Our eyes cross.

- ...Grant.

- Fuck Stacey. That WAS hot.

- I wanna...

She doesn't finish that sentence; instead, she puts the water tap down and gets on her knees, getting closer to me. Her head is a mere decimetre from my jerked cock. Her hand reaches up, replacing mine as it wraps around my shaft. I yelp, then focus on keeping my own voice down. Delight fills me as my sister's hand proceeds to take charge on my manhood. My eyes are closed and I indulge in the almost delirious feeling.

- Come for me, Grant.

- ...Stacey, I mumble.

There's no recourse for me at this point; my sex twitches hard under her care and I climax, spraying myself all over her face and chest, where she aims my erection. I clench my teeth together to hold back the moans my release draws from me, then slowly relax as everything winds down. I have to sit, so I literally fall on my ass on the bath rug.

When I open my eyes again, I see Stacey staring at me; my mess is still over her body. She's smiling, happy. I take a deep long breath, then I decide to state the obvious.

- Stacey, if this keeps up, next time...

- Doesn't necessarily make it a bad thing, she answers.

- Are you sure?

She doesn't answer; she grabs a washcloth and starts cleaning herself. I watch her for a moment. This topic is, at best, clumsy to talk about. What bothers me (or doesn't) is how natural it feels to DO.

- Listen, she says. Let's not plan ahead. Ok?

- Ok, I agree.

I rise, rinse myself off with another washcloth, then start dressing.

- Did you still want to do something this afternoon? I ask her.

- Yeah. Though we could do it as a family, if mom and Heather want to join in.

- I don't mind.

- I'll let you talk to them, then, she concludes.

Fully dressed and cleaned up, I leave the bathroom, locking the door behind me as I exit. I take a moment to gather my thoughts, asking myself what to do next. I have to take my mind off Stacey - trouble lies in that direction. My best bet is to get out of the house - maybe forego anything with my family. Yet even as I walk down the stairs, I'm intercepted by my mother. I tense up; the memory of what my sister and myself just did is fresh in my mind, and my mother's potential judgement of our actions lingers on.

- Is it done? she ask.

- Is what done?

- The shower.

- Oh. Yes. It is. Fixed.

My mom offers a wide smile as she comes in for a hug; I wrap my arms around her as well.

- You're so nice to me, Grant.

- Happy to, mom.

She doesn't let go.

- I was so... so scared of being left alone again, but you're here now. And you can stay in your old room for as long as you wish.

- I know. Thanks.

- I mean it.

She pulls her head away; her face is so close we could kiss. Fingers run through my hair. I can taste her perfume.

- I know you do, mom.

Her eyes on me are much more intense than before. Eventually, she lets me go, but not until my heart has started racing at her proximity. My mom, Jane, is still gorgeous, in her early forties. Mostly, she is made of love. Her recent revelations about how her relationship with my father ended has me rethinking our whole life. She knew about his infidelities; she was even fine with it to some extent. My mom also joined in for a while, when my father invited women over. For all I know, she also had sex with other men. Picturing the woman who gave birth to me under that light sheds an entirely new veil on her and her past. It was only the drama of the other child that caused the eventual rift that shamed my father into leaving her side.

When I think of all the pain that my mother endured, I just want to be there for her, to hold her, to care for her.

- I'm here for you, mom.

She grabs my hand and squeezes it, then lets go.

- Thank you.

A MOMENT LATER, I'm out the door, taking a deep breath of hot air. I text an apology to Stacey, telling her we'll catch up around supper. The sun is still shining; it always shines on Castillo, they say. We have relatively mild weather here. I take in the sights, letting my mind wander to an earlier reflection (when I was with Mary in the morning) that I now allow to come to fruition in my head. It's a selfish thought, to be fair. I don't want to be too selfish, but reason tells me that if this new lifestyle of mine is to go on, I need to plan accordingly and be a little bit selfish.

But it's Sunday. Castillo is a quiet town and while stores are open on Sundays, most offices aren't. But maybe there's a more direct approach I can take.

I make a brisk walk to the waterfront, near the beach but not quite there yet. When I was growing up, I didn't frequent this area much, and the reason was simple: it only boasted beachfront properties. No one I knew lived there (in fact, to my recollection, it's mostly out-of-towners who take up residence there during the summer months). But I could always see the large houses with the massive yards behind their fences. I never had incentive to go there until now.

Two options jump at me now that I'm on site: I could simply walk up to one of the houses, be let in, and seduce the owner (hopefully a woman, but I've seen how my influence can affect men). The second option, though, appeals more to me. I start looking for a home that's available for sale. There aren't many. In fact, I don't see any signs to that effect. I'm about to give up and fall back on my first option, when I realize that the world is much more connected than before, and that houses of this size might not be advertised in the same way.

I find myself right - there's an online listing of two beachfront homes in Castillo. Even better, one is for rent. In the short term, that's my best option. I locate the home on the beach; it's spacious, pretty, doesn't seem to require much work (from the distant outside, anyway). The realtor is listed as one Sally O'Malley, but there's no picture of her. I know it's Sunday, but with a house this size, chances are good she will answer if the buyer is serious.

I am serious. The phone rings.

- Hello? Sally speaking.

- Mrs. O'Malley. Good afternoon.

- Afternoon, sir.

- My name is Grant Hammond. I'm calling about the listing on beachfront avenue.

I can almost hear the sound of her brain activating on the other end as she jumps into realtor mode; we chat a little bit, and I tell that I'm moving back into town and am interested in a beachfront property - for rent, or for sale, depending. She is more than delighted to talk to me about it, and from the way she sells it, it's the perfect place for me. A large open kitchen area, a lounge for parties, living room, front patio, four bathrooms, 12 bedrooms and 1 master bedroom, as well as extensive storage, and obviously direct access to the beach. The house retail at around 2 million dollars; I can only speculate how much a month's rent might be! Still, I don't tip my hand when I tell her that I'm in front of the house and that I'd like to visit it.

We hang up after she gives me a twenty-minute deadline for her arrival. As I put my phone away, I'm suddenly hit by the enormity of the lie of omission I've just committed. I'm not a millionaire. There's no way I can afford this house. Sure, I was able to get a fifty-thousand dollar loan from Lulu Bowler, but that was a promise for a return of investment. Here, I have literally nothing to offer in exchange for the house. I can only hope that my powers of persuasion allow me to completely defy the realtor's financial logic. I think I can play it well so that she doesn't suspect a thing while we are together visiting the house, but in the long run, I'll have to front up some cash, and I don't see myself getting that amount of money from anyone, unless I rob a bank - and even then. And as much as women seem to crave my attention (and my sex) lately, it feels neither right nor reasonable to ask for the house in exchange for mere sexual favors. This doesn't feel like the arrangement for information from Mary.

Still, I sit down at the curb and wait for her, the method to my madness still unresolved.

A car turns at the street car; it's a shiny vehicle, modern and clean. I rise. The car stops in front of the home. A gorgeous girl in her thirties walks out. She's dressed for the part and I'm thinking she changed quickly - her hair is still loose. She walks to me, extending a firm hand; I shake it.

- Mr. Hammond.

- Call me Grant.

- Stacey then. Right this way.

She moves to the fence door, grabbing the keys in her purse.

- Where's your car?

- I came on foot.

- Oh.

She's surprised - it's a tally against me, I tell myself. Rich people don't walk to places - or maybe that's a prejudice. I don't know.

- What do you do for a living? she asks.

Classic question. I wonder why I didn't prepare a better response than the one I provide.

- I work in graphic design.

Why didn't I lie?

- Does that pay well?

- With the right contracts, I answer.

We move into the yard; it's slightly overgrown with bush. As she walks ahead of me, I take in her figure. She's lovely, nice curves, great smile, dark brown hair. Of course, I get excited.

- You're going to love this place, Grant. There's even a pool.

- Underground?

- Yes. I'd invite you for a swim, but maintenance isn't regular on it because no one's visited in weeks.

She giggles as she lets me through the door. It's an amazing space, fully decorated, slightly dusty because no one takes regular care of it. I'm guided through the basic tour of the first floor. My mind is still racing to my conundrum as Sally continues to overhype the house. I'm trying to be flirty but find myself awkward, unsure of what to say or do to break her in gently about my lies. Perhaps, I tell myself, this is a waste of both our times, and I can only apologize for the deception.

We climb up the stairs and start visiting bedrooms. I find that most are empty, but the master bedroom is still furnished. Sally walks into the large room; there's a door with a balcony which she opens and walks out. She leans against the railing and invites me over, but I stop at the bed and sit down. She stares at me.

- I want this house, I tell her.

- That's good. You've decided.

- I have.

She waits on me to follow-up. I decide that I've played it honest so far in my life and I don't want to compound her visit here with the biggest lie I would ever tell.

- Thing is, I begin, I can't even begin to afford to pay this house.

- Oh.

Clearly, that's not what she wanted to hear; her frown grows.

- Not alone, anyway, I add. But I want it. And you can help me, if you want to.

This draws her in; she's curious about my state of mind as much as about my hint. I have to play it cool - to play it right. I wave to her to come over. She moves closer to the bed, staring me down.

- I can get the money, Sally. I can.

I'm committed to my words because I believe them. The plan isn't all etched out in my mind, but non-specific thoughts rummaging in there hint at potential solutions that could be implemented. My face shows no signs of doubt.

- I just need time.

- Well, it's not like the house is going to be sold tomorrow, she answers. I have no other buyers at the moment. But how much time are we talking about? I mean, I think you're telling me to keep it off the market until you have the funds - but I can't really do that. If an offer comes along, a house this size, I'm gonna recommend the owners accept.

- Of course, I tell her back. That's perfectly understandable.

I offer her an accepting stance. It doesn't make any sense for her to accept such a deal.

- This house has been on the market long? I ask.

- About a year and a half. The owners have moved across the country - they just pay for basic upkeep for the place. That is, they give me a stipend and I arrange for the services.

A glimmer of hope shines through.

- Listen, Sally. What I really need... look, I don't need to buy the place. I want to use it.

- Use it?

- Live here. With people.

- For free?

Obviously, that would never take.

- No. Not for free. For taking care of the residence. That, we would do for free.

- Come again?

She leans closer, granting me a great view into her cleavage.

- I'll live here. With others. Friends. We'll handle all of the housework.

- That sounds so irregular, she tells me.

- It is. And you have no reason to trust me. Other than my friendly face.

I give her a big smile; she giggles.

- You get to keep your stipend as profit; we handle the house.

- You know what's involved, right?

- I suspect I know...

She provides me with a list of all duties that need tending, from the garden to the pool to house repairs and maintenance. I don't necessarily have this set of skills, but I can find people who do - essentially moving the responsibility from her to me. The fact that she goes into detail lets me know that my suggestion is working. Nothing in what she is describing seems unfeasible, even to a layman like me. It's hard work, but if my plan works, I won't be alone to tackle the tasks.

- I can't believe I'm even considering this, she flat out states.

- But you are. Because you feel you can trust me. Right?

- There's something about you, Grant, I must admit...

She stares at me, dumbfounded.

- I'm an open book, Sally. Ask me anything. At all.

- Anything?

She considers her questions, first quizzing me about my past. I tell her that I grew up here, walked away from uneasy circumstances only to be drawn back to the city upon my father's death. After offering sympathies, she asks about my graphic designer career. I tell her the truth, that I'm meeting with Lulu Bowler later in the week to finalize the details of a specific contract. I then get to ask questions as she ponders my answers.

- Why be a realtor?

- Because I like houses, she simply states. Big, small, whatever. Houses make me happy. I moved around a lot when I was young.

- Do you live in a house? I ask her.

She shuts up; I suspected as much.

- Are you with someone?

- I am. His name is Tommy. Thomas Fallon.

- You live at his place, then?

- I do. He's a stock broker.

- You love him.

- I do... he doesn't want a house. Too much maintenance. But we have a nice apartment.

I reach my hand up to grab hers; she takes it.

- Well, Sally, I understand you wanting a house. My mom still lives in my childhood home. She works hard to maintain it. It's a home built on love.

- That sounds nice.

- And that's what I want here.

- That's a nice sentiment, she adds.

I see her eyes getting milky; I pull her in a bit closer.

- Can you help me get this house, Sally? I ask.

She looks down to the ground; I lift up her chin.

- Please?

- Ok.

The word is quiet, almost inaudible. She continues.

- I'll let you live in the house, Grant. For free. But only until it's sold - to you, or someone else.

- Thank you, I tell her.

I purse my lips; as we keep holding hands, she is almost magnetically pulled in and our lips touch. The electricity between us makes her jolt back, realizing what she did. I let go of her hand, my eyes apologetic. There's a moment of silence as she considers what to do next; I offer a shy smile of appreciation. It doesn't take more than that to tilt the scale to my end. She presses her face to mine, lips locking again for several seconds, then pulls away.

- Gosh! she states. I've never felt so attracted to anyone before. I'm sorry.

- Don't be... I really liked it... but... what about Thomas?

- Thomas who?

- Your boyfriend? I remind her.

- Oh.

Again, I see the moment of hesitation. I want this to happen - I'm so easily aroused nowadays - but not if she's not fully committed to it. She suddenly giggles.

- With all the porn he watches, he'd probably be turned on to see me like this.

- That's not a definitive answer, I tell her.

- Well, do you want to? she asks directly.

I nod slowly as I reply:

- I want you, Sally - but only if there are no regrets or complications after.

- Fuck, I want you, Grant! she says.

- You want me?

- I want you to fuck me, yes. Yes!

The moment she admits it, she starts stripping out of her suit. I emulate her, removing my shorts and shirt in record time. We keep on kissing through our disrobing. Clothing flies across the room; her bra even flies out the balcony window into the yard below. I kiss her deliciously impressive breasts as she fondles my underwear and removes it. We tussle on the bed, wrapping our arms around one another, frolicking until I land on top of her. We freeze.

- Fuck this is wrong, she tells me.

- Should I stop... while I still can?

- No, that's not it, she says. We're gonna be fucking in the owner's bed.

- Do you want us to go fuck elsewhere? I ask.

She giggles.

- Later, maybe.

She wiggles and spreads her legs, inviting me into her pussy. I position myself delicately and proceed to penetrate her depths; she holds in her breath as I enter her.

- Sweet fuck, that's good, she says.

- You're so tight...

- Fuck me, you improbable man!

That nickname suddenly makes me laugh, but I like it. I thrust hard inside Sally, arms wrapped around her. We kiss as we press against one another in grand fashion, on top of a stranger couple's queen-sized bed. The delight I get from this intense intimacy is as real as any I've gotten in the past week. The connection is highly physical, but there's a deeper connectedness to it that I can't shake or explain. It's more than pleasure - even though it is a lot of it.

Sally's moans remind me of it.

- Oh sweet Jesus fuck, Grant... I'm gonna come so hard! she yelps.

- Come for me, sweet Sally.

I give it my all and take her up the next steps to a loud climax; it probably echoes through the open patio door. Neither of us cares at that moment. It's all about the bliss Sally is getting from our combined efforts, and it winds down beautifully. She kisses me passionately, then forces me to stop my thrusts inside her.

- Let's... take a moment, she says.

- Ok.

I want to continue badly; my hard manhood is so warm inside her; it's also aching for more sensations. I have to control my urges.

- You really are something, Grant. You know that?

- Thank you?

Her arms hold me tight as our faces are almost pressed together.

- You invite me here to sell the house, then you convince me to simply let you use it, and then, we have sex. And fuck is it good! Haven't had such good sex in months.

- Thomas is no good? I ask her.

- Used to be. Or maybe he wasn't, I don't know. But damn! You made me come in like... under a minute.

- A bit more, I correct, but thank you for the compliment.