Rochelle and Me Ch. 01

Two deaths in such a short time were a horrible blow to Rochelle: her husband Ralph, a little over two years ago, and then her only child, Delia, my wife of five years, four months later. Delia was already sick when her father died, and losing him hit her hard; I suspect the loss of her beloved dad had an effect on her immune system and helped take her down. And with Delia's death Rochelle, Delia's sweet mom, had no family left. Her parents were both gone, and although there had been no lack of trying, Delia had never conceived and borne Rochelle a grandchild.

Rochelle and I shared our pain. I had been deeply in love with Delia, and I cared for her mother as family. I saw to it that Rochelle and I stayed connected. I called and texted her regularly, and looked in on her often. I took her out to eat at least twice a month, and she invited me over for home-cooked meals even more often. And, oh man, can she cook. She had taught Delia her kitchen secrets, and it was one of many talents my wife had which I loved. Eating at Rochelle's house was at once a delightful and painful reminder of Delia's skill with a skillet, because Delia's culinary knowledge had all come from her doting mother.

Delia didn't only get her cooking skills from her mom; she also got her dusky African-American good looks there. Both of them were full-figured, well-rounded women to whom the terms voluptuous, Rubenesque, and gorgeous applied. Both had beautiful faces with sparkly greenish-brown eyes, smooth clear dark chocolate skin, and full, sensuous, inviting lips. Their hair was long, thick, billowing, and lustrous. They were delightfully shapely with large breasts, a somewhat smaller waist, and hips that cascaded out and around and down in the most heavenly curved shape, a shape that made a man like me, a lover of curves and substance, want to take a flying leap and dive right into them.

Have you heard of the Golden Ratio? (If not, look it up. I can't describe it here.) Well, the aesthetic beauty of these two asses excels that of any golden ratio and should be ranked right in there with it in the annals of geometric history. One of my favorite acts of foreplay was to have Delia face down, ass up, thrusting that magnificent bottom at me so that I could kiss all over it and bury my face in it, tonguing her honey-sweet labia from behind as those gorgeous hips enclosed my face.

Ralph, Delia's dad and Rochelle's husband, had been a good man: large and imposing, handsome, self-confident (as any large and imposing man would be), and affable. After some initial reservations, and once he was convinced that I was sincere, he accepted my courtship of his daughter with a resignation that never showed any resentment or hostility over the fact that I am a white man; and when we got married he escorted his daughter down the aisle with pride on his face that I could not mistake. That was one of the things that truly endeared him to me, because I had expected resentment at least and violence at worst; but instead he accepted me and took me for his son-in-law, and was willing to believe that I would treat his daughter with the love and respect that she deserved. I like to believe I earned that trust. I surely did love that woman.

Nobody ever admitted it outright, but I was pretty sure that Delia was an unintentional pregnancy that led to marriage. Ralph was in his late 50's when he died, but Rochelle was 41. Given that Delia was 25 then, and doing the math, Rochelle must have been 16 when Delia was born. So if she was 16 and he was, what, in his early thirties... okay, look, it's nobody's business. Let's just leave it alone, okay? None of us needs to know what went on. Besides, I had 11 years on Delia, so who am I to point a finger and cry "cradle-robber"? I can testify that from everything I saw, Ralph and Rochelle had a devoted and loving marriage.

Delia, when I met her, was vibrant and full of life. I was drawn to her immediately and loved basking in her radiant glow, her joie de vivre. She was a multi-talented artist: a painter, sculptor, potter, and street musician who had a booth at a popular local flea market. She had a small sound system through which she sang and played various woodwind and stringed instruments, which drew attention to the products she had made to sell: paintings, small sculptures, pottery, and CDs of her original music. I used to watch and listen, mesmerized, as she played and danced and sang--this large, beautiful, graceful creature so full of the enjoyment of the moment. It took me a while to build up the nerve to ask her out, and I was surprised and thrilled when she accepted my invitation to dinner and a concert. We dated steadily for a year, during which time I met her parents and began working to earn their acceptance and trust.

At the end of a year of dating, I formally asked her father for her hand in marriage. I know, I know, old-fashioned; but I wanted to do it that way to show my respect. For a long moment he looked at me with a solemn, searching stare that seemed to penetrate to the core of my being, and I began to fear that he was going to order me out of his house. But at length, he said, "Play your hand, Richie. If she'll have you, then so will her mother and I." And he chuckled and clapped me on the shoulder.

So I proposed to her. I was thrilled to the point of goosebumps and curled-up toes when she accepted and I placed an engagement ring on her finger. Lucky man; happy, happy man.

We spent a couple of years of wedded bliss before deciding to have a child. Delia had been on the pill, but she stopped then and our lovemaking was enhanced by the thought that some lucky one of the millions of sperm I was ejaculating into her cervix would wriggle its way to her ovum and join with it to make our child. She would cry, "Fuck me, fuck me, baby, fuck your woman. Make my belly swell, impregnate me, give me your child and I'll give it back to you," wrapping her long thick brown legs around me, pulling her knees up and using her heels to shove my butt toward her willing pussy as I hunched toward and into her. "Gimme that sperm, shoot every one of those wigglers way deep up in me. Knock me up, honey, fertilize my egg, I want to have your child. I want babies, lots of babies, honey. Oh god, gimme all the sperm you have inside you; I want every one of them to find an egg. I want to have sextuplets with you. This is sextuplet sex we're having," as I gasped and twitched and jerked and did exactly as she demanded, shooting all that seed out of me and into her, to swim determinedly toward that egg.

But no baby was forthcoming.

At 24 she was diagnosed with a fast-spreading form of cancer which we learned was already in several of her organs. We began a system of treatment, but the oncologists didn't hold out much hope. And as it turned out, there wasn't any need for hope.

As she grew sicker and weaker, her dad was suddenly taken by a massive heart attack. She went downhill rapidly after that. And suddenly where there had been warmth and hugs and love and laughter and family, Rochelle and I each found ourselves alone with our memories.

And each other. I wasn't going to abandon that sweet woman to steep in her loneliness just because the familial connection we'd had was severed. So we began our pattern of me taking her out and her feeding me at her home.

Time passed. Wounds, if they didn't heal, at least became accepted and less prominent. Rochelle and I drew closer together as we spent time in each other's company. I began to take her to concerts, plays and movies in addition to simple dining out. And gradually, it began to have the feel of dating, although neither of us acknowledged that fact.

One evening Rochelle had invited me over for another of her wonderful home-cooked meals, this one consisting of green salad, pork chops, Mexican corn, mashed potatoes with gravy, string beans with bacon bits, and apple pie. She and I cleared the table and washed, dried, and put up dishes together afterward, smiling comfortably at each other, and she was in the bathroom freshening up as I sorted through her collection of vinyl LPs (gotta love a woman who has a vinyl LP collection) and put on Ella Fitzgerald. Above that, ready to fall next, Frank Sinatra. Ella was just starting to play on the turntable when Rochelle came into the living room.

"Someone To Watch Over Me," she cried. "I love this song!" And she began to twirl around the room on her tiptoes, arms held out and gesturing. She turned and smiled at me, and instinctively I reached out, took her hand in my left, and placed my right around her waist as we began to dance together. The song was over quickly, but we stayed together waiting for the next one. She looked up at me, our eyes met, and we both smiled somewhat sheepishly. "These Foolish Things" began, and we moved together in a slow, comfortable rhythm. At length, she put her arm over my shoulder and pulled herself close, tucking her head up under my chin. Her breasts, full and heavy, pressed against me, reminding me of Delia's. Occasionally her thigh brushed mine, and I liked it. I moved my hand farther around her waist and then allowed it to slide down onto the outward curvature of her ass, pulling her even closer to me. I worried that she might take offense, but she gave no sign of objection. We slow-danced together, taking smaller and smaller steps until we were simply rocking in place, holding each other.

As the song ended, Rochelle moved her hand to the back of my head, pulled it down, and kissed me on my lips. It was a brief, tentative kiss. She drew back and looked me in the eyes for a long moment; then she closed her eyes, pulled me close, and kissed me again. This time it wasn't tentative. Her big full lips parted and her tongue licked my lips. I opened to her and our tongues met in a sensuous and deeply arousing duet. I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed her close up against me, feeling the swell of her soft round breasts pressing against my chest and her belly and thighs against my own. How long this kiss went on, I don't know; my mind was blown and I was somewhere between shocked disbelief and ecstasy. Oh, this kiss! Oh, that soft warm body against mine! But when it ended, Rochelle suddenly backed out of my arms, looking at me in wide-eyed alarm, put both hands to her face; cried, "Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!" and turned and ran out of the room.

I stood there in some confusion, wondering if what I thought had just happened really had. After I mentally sorted through that, I turned my attention to what she was doing now. I walked to where I could see light coming from under the bathroom door. Tapping lightly, I said, "Uh... Rochelle?"

After several long moments, she opened the door, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "Oh, Richie, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to do that. I don't know what I was thinking. Well, I wasn't thinking. Please forgive me. Oh, what you must be thinking..."

I gently put my fingers to her lips, shushing her. "Rochelle," I said. She looked at me with huge misty inquisitive eyes. A tear rolled down out of one. "What I'm thinking," I continued, "is that I enjoyed that kiss very much."

She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes again, and then looked up into mine. "Y-y-you did? Really? You're not upset? I feel like such a silly goose, Richie..."

"I enjoyed it so much that, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to have another."

"You... I... w-what?" she stammered. I took her in my arms, lowered my head to her, and pressed my lips to hers. She was stiff at first, but then she relaxed into me, put her arms around me, and kissed me back.

Once again I reveled in the pleasure of her full, sensuous lips and the sharing of our tongues, bodies pressed closely against each other. We kissed and caressed each other for several minutes: lips and tongues sharing, arms hugging, hands roaming; until finally she pulled back, placing a hand on my chest to keep distance between us, and looked me sharply in the eyes once again. "So, you... I... you... w-what, you're, um..."

"You're a gorgeous, desirable woman, Rochelle. Neither of us is married now, and if this leads to intimacy, it isn't going to be cheating or incest."

Her wide eyes stared at me for several long seconds, darting back and forth between one and the other of mine. Then she grabbed my hand and started pulling me, saying, "Come with me, Richie. We have to talk." I expected her to lead me to the living room or the kitchen table, but instead, she led me to her bed, where we both sat down on the edge of it.

She folded her hands in her lap and looked down, then at me, then down again. She reached over and took my hand, looked at me, then blushed and let it go. She put her hands back in her lap and looked down again.

I reached and took her hand, clasping it between both of mine. I pulled it to my lips, kissed it, and said, "Please talk to me, Rochelle. What is it you want to say?"

"Richie, I... I..." she stammered. Then she turned to face me and blurted, "I want to have a baby."

Stunned, I just stared at her.

"I don't have any other children, you know," she said. "Delia was my only one. And Delia didn't have any children, so I'm... I'm..."

She burst into tears again at this point, covering her face with her hands and sobbing into them. I pulled her to me and put my arms around her, stroking her soft, lovely hair and kissing the top of her head as she buried her face against my chest and tucked her arms up between us. Her crying turned into a full-blown gale with wailing and boohooing as she heaved gasping sobs, jerking and hiccuping and shedding huge tears which soaked into my shirt. I held and stroked and petted her and let the tempest run its course.

Eventually she pulled back and looked at me, eyes red and face tear-stained, and said, "I don't have anyone, Richie. I'm so lonely. Ralph is dead and Delia's dead and even if I was to get married again it will take a long time to date someone and get to know them, and I'm getting old. There just isn't time for that. I want a child, Richie." Her voice steadily rose in pitch as she talked until she finished with a high squeak: "I want one now, while I'm young enough to raise it and enjoy it." Then she lapsed into tears again. "Oh god, what you must think of me," she wailed, hiding her face against my chest again.

And finally, the light clicked on.

"So, uh... let me get this straight. You want to have a child... you want... you... you, um... w... with me?"

Keeping her head pressed firmly against my chest as if not wanting to look at me, fearful of what she might see there, she nodded her head vigorously.

"Wow," I exclaimed. And instantly I had a tremendous erection, the kind that is so hard it's painful.

Rochelle pulled back, turned away, and became absorbed in explaining what was on her mind. "I won't demand child support or that you do daddy duty. I won't hold any threat over you. We can put that in writing and get it notarized if you like." She was talking with eyes unfocused as she looked inward, trying to express her thoughts in words. I quietly, softly began to unbutton her blouse one button at a time as she continued, "I've thought this all out. I just need a good man, one I know is clean and healthy, to do his part in getting me pregnant. I'll take it from there." She automatically turned to let me slide the blouse off her shoulders and arms; she was so wrapped up in explaining herself and convincing me that she seemed not to even realize what I was doing. "I already know you, so there's no awkwardness with a background check and any of that." While she was turned I reached to unhook the bra. It was one of those five-hook monsters and took both hands and a deal of doing, but eventually, I got it loose. She was still talking distractedly as I slid the straps down off her shoulders, and the cups came away from her breasts revealing those large round globes. Her nipples were proportionately large and resembled a couple of blackberries sitting in the center of her dark brown areolas. I pinched her nipples, at which she jumped and gasped, "Oh!" coming back to the present. She looked down at the two mounds of lovely flesh and said, "Oh, Richie!" Furrowing her forehead, she asked, "When did that happen?" Then she giggled, which turned into laughter as she said, "You've been busy while I wasn't paying attention, you sly boy."

Feigning embarrassment, I said, "Oh, gosh, I'm sorry! Here, I'll put everything back," and I started to fit the bra straps up on her shoulders again. She playfully smacked my hand, saying, "Not if you know what's good for you, you won't."

Grinning, I growled, "I may not know what's good for me yet, but I sure intend to find out." I scooted next to her, nuzzled her ear, and bit her earlobe, and in a voice that was hoarse with desire, I whispered, "I want to make love to you, Rochelle, over and over again, until I have given you what you want. I want to impregnate you, put a baby in you. My baby. Our baby. OUR baby."

She sucked in sharply and whispered in a shuddering voice, "Oh, yes, please do."

I stood up and tucked my thumbs into the elastic of her skirt, sliding it down over her waist and hips as she rose to give me access; it came off her legs to reveal large pink panties covering all of that lovely round Golden-Ratio-worthy ass. Vaguely through the cotton I could see the shape of her pubic mound and a darker shadow which I knew was her pubic hair. "Please excuse my old granny panties," she murmured ruefully. "If I'd had any idea this was going to happen I'd have put on something sexier."

"I like granny panties," I said. "They're part of the foreplay. They hide everything, but at the same time, they hug it all and show the shape, as if to say, 'You can tell what's here, can't you. But you don't get to see.' And eventually, they'll come off, so having it all hidden is part of the tease."

I put my left arm behind her shoulders and my right hand on her chest and gently eased her down so that she was lying on the bed with her legs hanging off. Her heavy breasts sagged to either side of her. I lowered my head down to between her thighs and inhaled deeply. Through her panties, I could smell the musky aroma of her arousal. I murmured, "My my my, don't you smell delicious." I positioned myself between her legs, dug my nose into the cleft where her outer labia were, stroked up to where I knew her clitoris would be hiding, and then dragged my tongue in a lazy arc across the material of her panties, where there was already a slick wet spot.

"Ooh, baby," she moaned. I raised my head and pulled back, and she gave me a funny questioning look. "Done already?" she asked in a petulant tone.

I slipped my fingers into the elastic of her panties and began easing them off. "Just getting started, lover. See? I told you eventually they would come off. They've done their job of showing me the shape of things to come, and now must take up a position on the chair." And saying so, I pulled them off of her Golden-Ratio-quality butt-cheeks as she pulled her knees toward her breasts to give me room to work. As she straightened her legs I slid the panties the rest of the way off of her and tossed them at the chair by her dresser, expertly catching one leg hole on the chair back, horseshoes-style.

"Things to come, huh?" she giggled. "I look forward to that." At this point, she rose from the bed. "Hold still, I want to unwrap my present," she said, unbuttoning my shirt. She pulled the tail out of my slacks and pushed the shirt down my arms until it fell behind me. She undid my belt and unhooked and unzipped the slacks.

"Shoes," I said.

"Sit down," she ordered.

I turned around and sat on the bed. She lifted first one of my feet and then the other, untying my shoes and slipping them and my socks off. Then she grabbed the bottom of each pant leg and pulled them off of me smoothly. "Hah! Briefs!" she cried triumphantly. "I knew you weren't a jockey shorts kind of guy."