“Now, Bobby!” she moaned, and I needed no more urging, sliding between her supple thighs and taking hold of her behind her knees, holding her open for me as I slid forward. Shari took hold of me once again, aiming me as I pushed forward, sliding my engorged cock deep into her in one long, steady thrust.
“Ooooh God, yess, Bobby, yess, like that, yes, baby, like that!” she muttered as I took my weight on my knees and elbows, and as I began to slide back out of her again, she shuddered and twitched under me, her hips thrusting up to meet my thrusts, the two of us pumping at each other in perfect synchronisation. Shari pulled my head down to plant her lips on mine as her long legs folded themselves around me, locking around me and pulling me in ever deeper with every thrust. Our tongues fenced madly as we pumped against each other, the only sound that of our breathing and our bellies slapping together as we fucked so deliciously.
I could feel her excitement growing, igniting a frenzy in me, and I rammed myself into her as hard as I could, until
“Ooohhh God, Bobby, ooohh Bobby, oooh yess! Ooohh Yess! YESSS!” she shrieked, her pussy clamping down tight on me as her inner walls fluttered and rippled against me, squeezing me and setting off my own orgasm. My ears popped and my vision blurred as jet after jet of spunk poured out of me and into her, the feel of me ejaculating inside her sending her into ever more spasms as her orgasm rang and ricocheted around inside her. We peaked at that moment of complete stillness as we strained against each other, finally falling back, drained and exhausted, but utterly, completely satisfied.
As I lay next to her, gasping for breath, Shari suddenly rolled against me, draping her leg over mine, her lips meeting my neck, where she kissed me gently.
“My Bobby, and don’t you forget it!” she whispered before falling back exhausted and on the verge of sleep. I was in no better shape, so I pulled the quilt up over our nakedness, spooned her warm body against me, and that was how Yaz found us several hours later. I knew it was Yaz, because when we eventually woke in the early evening, Shari’s and my clothes had been neatly folded and stacked on one of the chairs, and a couple of extra pillows had been added to the pair Shari had snagged from upstairs.
*
The structural survey and valuation of the house we wanted to buy came back good, so we made a low-ball offer and waited to see where the owner wanted to be. Negotiations dragged on for almost a month, but eventually the absentee owner quit trying to horse-trade and settled on a price less than we’d been prepared to pay, but more than he thought he’d get, so everyone was happy, and we finally took possession of the property in mid-December.
By now, it was almost Christmas, something I’d never really paid attention to; our father had always ignored and downplayed it, but I think Barbara had secretly given Nicky presents for Christmas; at least after it had come and gone he’d have a new pair of shoes, or a pair of jeans, or a new jacket; never anything for us, though, and certainly nothing from our father. I felt a surge of hot shame inside when I remembered how our father had always bought good quality clothes and shoes for us, and almost nothing for Nicky; he always seemed to be in shabby, threadbare clothes on the verge of falling apart, faded jeans held together with darns and patches, and battered training shoes, and yet we’d even begrudged him the few nice things Barbara had given him.
When Shari learned that Christmas actually meant nothing to me she was outraged, actually disgusted that our father had denied me such a fundamental part of childhood, and so she and Yaz went on a mission: to bring Christmas to me and this house. She secretly bought a tree, and a whole bunch of lights and decorations, and then one night, while I was fast asleep, the two girls and Rick sneaked downstairs and decorated the parlour and the family room for Christmas. They put up the tree with all the lights, decorated it, then must have spent most of the night putting Christmas decorations all over the downstairs living rooms.
When I came down for breakfast I was amazed; I’d never seen a real family home decorated for Christmas, only in films and TV shows, and it felt like something I had never even realised was missing from my life had suddenly appeared, something important and essential; all that tinsel and glitter, the candy canes and snowmen, the tree, was just the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen; the house finally looked like a home; our family home. I didn’t know what to say, I was literally speechless, and Shari’s eyes were sparkling at my reaction.
“Do you like it, Bobby?” she asked shyly, and I grabbed her and Yaz and hugged them both.
“Thank you for Christmas, both of you, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!” I stammered, as the last shreds of my old life fell away from me. We were still standing around admiring the tree when the doorbell rang. Yaz went to answer it and came back with a FedEx pouch. She tore it open, and inside was a folder with all the deeds to the house we’d just bought two doors away, and a big bunch of keys.
The debate started immediately; Shari wanted to wait until after we’d had breakfast, but Rick and Yaz wanted to just go and open the place up and have a quick look around to see if there were any glaring issues, and I had to admit I was curious as well, so we wrapped up warm and trudged down the road to have a nose through our new property.
After much fumbling, Rick managed to locate the correct keys for the huge old front door, and then we had to really lean on the door to open it. When we got it open we found out why. There was an absolute mountain of ancient and not so ancient mail, circulars, pizza flyers, and old newspapers piled up just behind the door, a very effective barricade. It was almost pitch black in there. Most of the downstairs windows were heavily shuttered, making the place a musty-smelling, lightless cavern; a quick check of the lights confirmed the electricity was off, so we decided to come back another time a little better prepared, and open the place up properly so we could get a good look at what we’d bought. Yaz grinned and grabbed an armful of the letters, saying that she might as well have a sort through to see if there were any with return addresses.
Once back home, while Shari and I busied ourselves making breakfast, Rick and Yaz quickly scanned though the pile of dry, fusty envelopes, piling all those with a return address to one side, joking and reading out the postmarks and dates. It was a few moments before I realised all had gone quiet. Shari and I looked over, and Yaz was holding Rick by the shoulders while he stared at the envelope in his hand.
“Ricky, what’s wrong?” asked Shari, drying her hands and taking my hand.
“Bobby… look here… look at this…” came his strained voice. I came forward and Rick handed me the envelope; it was addressed to me, it had obviously been mis-delivered, but I recognised the handwriting.
It was from Nicky.
I stared at it, shock and guilt warring in me all over again; this was from my missing brother, sent from somewhere called Albany, way back last summer.
“Who’s it from baby?” asked Shari, and all I could do was mumble “Nicky… It’s from… Nicky…”
I looked helplessly at Shari, who gently touched my cheek.
“Open it Bobby, it’s a sign, it’s what you were looking for. He took the time to write to you, aren’t you curious what he had to say?”
I looked the envelope over; there was no return address, just that Albany postmark, and when I looked closely, I realised the stamp was a US postage stamp. This had come from America! I still didn’t know where Albany was, but at least we knew one thing; he’d somehow made it home. Did he ever find his family? We knew he’d come back at least once; Barbara’s new headstone told me that.
I wavered, not wanting to damage that flimsy envelope, my only link with him, so Yaz gently took it from me and carefully slit it along the top, pulling out a single sheet of notepaper covered in dense handwriting. She looked at me, and I shrugged and nodded; he was her brother too, this concerned all of us now, why shouldn’t she read it? She carefully flattened the paper, and began to read out loud.
“July 4th, 2012
Robert and Richard,
“I’m writing to you to request that you meet me in Carlisle at noon on November 9th this year, at Barbara’s graveside; I chose the date deliberately, it’s her birthday, and I wanted to see her on her own special day, as I have some things I need to say to her, and perhaps you might too, although I realise this might be me being more optimistic than realistic. I really don’t want any confrontations, or recriminations, or blame-games; my wife and baby daughter will be there with me and they don’t need to see that side of our family, and it’s too late for that anyway.”