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author with any questions.  

Authors note:  This story is very loosely inspired by the "Always with Me" series, 
where we get a slice of life further out in the country.  It deals with romance, 
incest, and shitty parents. However, it doesn't have underage sex. If you don't like 
the former or wanted the latter, this is probably not the story for you.  If you want 
to learn more about their stories, take a look at my page: 
www.asstr.org/~Secret_DC_Guy.

Sometimes Later Is Better Than 
Sooner
By: Secret DC Guy
(rom, inc, mf, MF, preg)

     	I first noticed Molly halfway through freshman year. Though we were 
from the same school district she had gone to elementary and middle school out 
in the countryside, while I lived in the small town. Unlike the close knit patch 
towns in the Valley on the other side of the mountain, here people tended to stay 
closer to home. It was ironic that everything was further apart but people seem to 
want to travel even less.
     
     	She was quiet and didn't seem to have many friends. But what was 
most notable was that she was a freak who just didn't fit in. She wore black jeans 
and a black T-shirt every day. While you might see that near New York or 
Philadelphia, that's just not something people did here. Moreover, you could not 
tell if they were the same outfit because all of her jeans and T-shirts were exactly 
the same. It was as if she had gone to one of those overstock stores and bought a 
box of each. And it was even unclear if she washed her clothing as in the winter 
she often smelled like burning wood.  The one thing she did have going for her 
though was beautiful blonde hair and a large chest.
     
     	I wasn't particularly nice to her, and I didn't go out of my way to try 
to be friends. As I was one of the stars of the soccer, basketball, and baseball 
teams, she really wasn't the kind of person I would've hung out with. And even 
more importantly, most of my athlete, cheerleader, and otherwise popular 
friends loved to make fun of her.
     
     	However, I couldn't seem to shake her. We were in one class 
together first semester, and second semester she seemed to choose almost every 
class that I was in. I could have brushed it off as us being in all the advanced 
classes, but in the first semester of sophomore year, it happened again. On top of 
that, she started to pester me about working on projects together.
     
     	I envied a lot of the other kids who had parents they could talk to 
about things like this. But that was me. My mother somehow rotated between 
being self-centered and overbearing. Everything I did, right or wrong, she took as 
a reflection on herself. When I got all A's on a report card, she bragged to her 
friends or the women at church or the women at the beauty shop about how 
great of a mother she was-though that seems to be the only time she had an 
interest in my academics. But if I had a bad game in any of my sports, my home 
life became hell. I was an embarrassment; I was doing it to hurt her; I was a 
terrible excuse for a son and would never go anywhere. It was always about her.
     
     	My father on the other hand, was the town drunk. Before I was born 
apparently he had been that lovable drunk everybody loved. He was a member of 
Rotary and Kiwanis, he drank at the American Legion, and supposedly people 
always greeted him with a smile. Then apparently something happened and 
things went downhill quickly. He stopped drinking in town, and instead would 
regularly go to a seedy bar out in the country. And money started to disappear 
too, more than even my mother thought he could drink away. There was 
something hidden in the background which I didn't know about, but it seemed 
every year-no every month-no every day, he seemed to get more frustrated 
and angry.
     
     	When I was young, he took his frustrations out on my mother. He 
would push her and slap her. He would call her the vilest names in the book. But 
eventually as I approached my teenage years she began to give as good she got. I 
even remember that once she sprayed cleaner in his eyes, then him writhing on 
the floor in pain, and finally her kicking him in the stomach. After that I was the 
target. He didn't come home early most days, and when he did come home he 
would ignore me. However, on days my mother was angry at me, she would call 
him at the bar. He would come home angry and it might be his belt, the back of 
his hand, or his fist. In middle school, I had told one of my teachers. But things 
were done differently where I grew up. Nobody called Child and Youth Services or 
the police. Instead, they said they would talk to him. That Friday I got the worst 
beating of my life. I learned not to say anything or answer any questions.
     
     	Making matters worse, I was an only child. While most of my friends 
had brothers or sisters, I was the only one to take the brunt of my parents' abuse. 
It wasn't that I wanted somebody to share the abuse with. Instead, I had this 
fantasy that I would have a younger brother or sister who I could protect. It would 
be somebody that I could take the abuse for-somebody that I could hold and 
protect-somebody who I could take the blows for. That would have made the 
abuse worthwhile. It would have given it a point. But most of all it would be 
somebody who I could share my deepest feelings with, who would understand, 
who would know what they were like.
     
     	But that wasn't my life. So whenever Molly annoyed me, I would turn 
it over to my friends. She wasn't the slimmest girl-big breasts but a little bit of a 
belly too. The girls hated the former, while the boys laughed at the latter. That 
coupled with the clothing and the smell made her an easy target. To share my 
pain with somebody I prodded my friends, but I never said anything myself. In my 
head I was just venting to my friends. But they knew better, and most importantly 
Molly knew better as well. 
     
     However, she was like a lost puppy who wanted to follow me home. There 
was something about me that prevented her from acting like any rational human 
being would have. Every time she got made fun of she would look at me with 
pleading eyes as if to say how could you do this to me, how could you hate me 
like this, why don't you love me. First, this was just another girl with a crush-the 
kind of girl who really isn't much, but she's everything. As sophomore year wore 
on though, it became apparent that she just wanted my friendship.
     
     	Eventually I relented. I finally agreed to work on an English project 
with her. It was something relatively simple, to act out the death scene from 
Romeo and Juliet, something that two of the top students should have mastered 
easily. Instead, it was the first thing that either of us had done in high school that 
had been an abject failure. After doing the scene, our English literature teacher 
told us that we were supposed to be lovers not relatives.
     
     	As we walked out of the class disappointed, something had changed 
between the two of us. We had both experienced it, what really was a relatively 
minor failure, but we had done it together and for some reason it felt special. My 
friends thought that it was strange that I did a 180 degree turn, and instead of 
complaining about Molly, I started to include her whenever we could. However, 
as I was trying to get to know her better, at a certain point she began to be very 
reserved. She was perfectly willing to talk about school, her dreams, her plans for 
after graduation, and even about how upset she was with how my friends treated 
her. But when it came to her family, she wouldn't say anything.
     
     	I thought I began to understand that summer. Early, on the morning 
after a particularly bad Monday night, I borrowed a friend's 10-speed bicycle and 
decided to take a long bike ride. About two hours later I was way out in the 
country and painfully tired. Though I didn't have Molly's address, out in the 
country you knew where people lived based on what their house was near. So 
when I got to the dirt road past the firehouse, I walked the bike up into the 
woods.
     
     	I didn't know what I should have expected, none of the houses out 
here were particularly nice. In fact, many of them were just trailers on a big lot. 
Molly's house was even less than that. It was somewhere between a cabin and a 
shack, and I was surprised to even see electric lines running into it. There was a 
propane tank at the side, and a big chimney coming out the roof. In reality, it 
looked like it was going to fall apart.
     
     	At first I was tempted to turn around and walk away. I didn't know if 
Molly would be embarrassed, but I would be embarrassed for her. But as I stood 
in the yard trying to figure out what to do, the front door opened and a beautiful 
woman when came out and asked me what I was doing. She was wearing Daisy 
Duke shorts and bikini top. She had large breasts like Molly, but not the same 
belly. Instead the skin hung a little bit loose with stretch marks. Apparently she 
had a baby.
     
     	I decided it was best to tell her who I was, and when I did a smile 
came to the woman's face. She walked into the yard came to me and gave me a 
big hug. She said, almost crying, that I would never know how much my friendship 
meant to Molly, and how grateful she was that I would share friendship with her. 
     
     With that she went back to the door and called for Molly. In a second my 
friend was at the front door. She looked scared but appreciative at the same time. 
I thought that the best thing to do would be to show some acceptance so I walked 
up to the house and hugged her too. At first she tensed up, apparently people 
didn't touch her very often. But after a few moments, she melted into our first 
hug. I felt that there was some kind of connection, something more than just 
friendship. I decided I loved this girl.
     
     We were both somewhat surprised when the woman told Molly and I that 
we could go back to her bedroom and talk. We were even allowed to have the 
door closed. As we walked through the living room filled with what looked like 
secondhand mostly broken furniture, I wondered how this shack could have two 
bedrooms. The only thing I noticed was a kitchen to the side. However Molly's 
bedroom was immaculate, there wasn't much but her bed was newer than mine, 
she had a nice desk, and it seemed everything she would need to be successful at 
school.
     
     With the door closed, we sat on opposite sides of Molly's bed and she 
began to tell me her story. The woman outside who looked so young was actually 
Molly's mother, and she was only 29 years old. Knowing that Molly was 16, I 
realized that she must've had Molly when she was 13. Things were beginning to 
make sense the clothing, the house, cheap wood heat in the winter instead of 
propane. How could a woman who had gotten pregnant so young do anything to 
support a daughter?
     
     I listened to Molly's story and tried to be sympathetic. Really it was 
impossible to be anything other than furious. It turned out Molly had the only 
bedroom in the house. Though her grandfather had lived with them for a number 
of years and she and her mother had shared the bedroom, when he died a few 
years before, Molly's mother moved to the living room, sleeping on the floor most 
nights. When I asked about her father, I felt I had made a mistake. Closing her 
eyes and looking as if she was about to cry, she turned and looked away from me. 
For a few minutes she said nothing. Then still looking away, she said, "I don't 
know who my father is." I didn't know what else to do, so again I hugged her.
     
     After that day things changed. Molly and I spent time together every 
chance we had. And our feelings for each other grew exponentially. Both of us 
understood the delicacy of the situation as I had been Molly's chief persecutor. So 
we gradually worked our relationship in at school. We let ourselves act more 
friendly in school, and a little bit more physical. Then one by one we began to let 
our friends know. Eventually, it became obvious we were a couple.
     
     When it became public though, disaster struck. One night my mother came 
ranting about the girl I was dating. She called her trash and the root of 
everybody's problems. She called my father at the bar, but this time he never 
came home. So the next morning I got up especially early and left the house so I 
didn't have to see my mother. Then at lunch time as I walked to meet Molly, I 
heard a commotion in the cafeteria. I rounded the corner and saw my father with 
Molly up pinned up against the wall, everyone around them in shock. He was 
calling her bitch and raving about Molly's 'whore mother'.
     
     There are times in life we act in the exact way we hope we would without 
even thinking about it. I yelled out to my father to stop. He did, but then came 
across the lunch room and met me. Reeking of alcohol and cigarettes, he thrust 
his finger into my chest and asked me if I knew what I was doing to him. In a way I 
never would have done at home, I slapped his hand away. But that infuriated him, 
and moments later his fist was hitting my face. I guess he reacted before anybody 
else could as I was on the ground and he was kicking me. But in a room full of 
students and teachers he was unable to do anything for long. A couple of my 
friends from the football team managed to tackle and pin him down. As they held 
him, Molly ran over and cradled my head in her lap. Her clothing didn't smell of 
firewood. Instead I could smell her body, the sweat that comes from nervousness 
beginning to flow. It was strangely intoxicating, and somehow familiar.
     
     This time people couldn't ignore with the things my father did. He had 
scared the shit out of a high school girl and beaten his own son in front of a 
cafeteria full of students. For some reason, he refused to accept a plea deal which 
would have kept him out of jail. Instead the case went to trial, and the jury 
deliberated for 15 minutes, not even staying around long enough to get a free 
lunch out of the deal. He was found guilty, and the judge sentenced him to 10 
years in prison. The physical pain was over, but I was left alone with my mother.
     
     If you live in the country and spend any amount of time outside, you know 
that night is coldest just before dawn. And that seemed to be the way it 
happened. My father hadn't worked in years, so he had no income. But 
apparently at some point he had worked for a local construction company and the 
owner of that company decided to help out my mother and me with some of the 
"expenses we would have". So while my mother's attitude got even worse, at 
least we had some more money to live on. At the same time apparently a long-
lost relative of Molly's had seen the story on the news. Though he wanted to stay 
anonymous, one of the local bankers approach her mother about a monthly 
stipend. I don't know how much it was, but Molly and her mother were able to 
move into an apartment close to the high school and her mother was able to start 
taking night classes at the local community college.
     
     Even more importantly, the attitude of kids at school began to change. My 
friends all became supportive of our relationship the guys would talk to Molly 
with respect. But the girls showed the most change, integrating her into the group 
of friends and tried to bring her more into the school life. Some of them took her 
under their wings, helping her to have better fashion sense and buying her 
clothing on occasion. Some of the athletes even got her to go out for the girls' 
basketball team in the winter. That was a great arrangement. Every night I would 
stay and watch her practice right after school and she would stay and watch us 
practice after they did. She took to the sport very quickly and within months was 
one of the best players on the team. People joked that we were the jock couple 
before anybody knew she was a jock.
     
     Every night after practice, or after school if it was between seasons, I would 
walk Molly home. Even if it were a miserable rainy day, just being with her and 
walking along like we belonged seemed perfect. Most nights I would stay at her 
apartment while I did my homework. We were still in mostly the same classes so 
we were always able to help each other. Since her mother was now taking classes 
and working evenings we had the place to ourselves. Molly had taken some home 
economics classes, and cooked for us every night. We both stayed on training 
diets so what she cooked was relatively simple, but we were eating it together. 
And then after dinner interspersed between subjects we had some wonderful 
make out sessions. 
     
     Occasionally, one of us would bring it up first. However, usually it would 
just happen. We would be sitting across the table talking about a subject. When 
we finished our thoughts and we put down our pens we would stand up and walk 
to the couch together. In silence, we would sit and turn our faces to each other. 
Molly's eyes were always serious as our faces came closer, but would close just 
before her lips touched. Her arms would fall to her sides, and as we kissed her 
body would melt into mine. I would hold her, one hand on the small of her back, 
the other running through her long soft blonde hair. Her mouth never tasted like 
what we had just eaten for dinner. Instead, it tasted of the strawberry lip gloss 
she wore. I didn't know what I should have been expecting but again it seemed 
familiar. Almost like the way mine tasted on mornings I woke up with dry mouth.
     
     There always seemed to be limits though. While we would end up dry 
humping on the living room floor many nights, and sometimes Molly would let me 
feel her large but still growing chest, we never went to her bedroom. In fact, any 
time I tried to put my hand down her pants she would stop me telling me she 
didn't want things to go too far-no we couldn't let things go too far. It was as if 
there was some kind of wall that was holding her back.
     
     As a whole though, I had a better high school relationship than anyone I 
knew. Though I never stayed at her house, neither of our mothers would tolerate 
the scandal, we lived almost like a married couple. And I secretly hoped that 
someday we would be. When I got my senior ring, I bought a gold chain and gave 
it to her saying it was a promise that I wanted to end up with her. At first Molly 
seemed uncomfortable, but when I pushed she admitted that she wanted to end 
up with me too. I hoped beyond hope that it would be true.
     
     Senior year wound down with mixed emotions. At first things were great. 
Molly and I had both been accepted to good colleges, though I was going to put 
college aside for a few years as I was being scouted by three major league 
baseball teams. Things took a major downturn though when word had it my 
father would be paroled from prison. It was my mother who broke the news to 
me, saying that he was sober, found God, and was a changed man. Neither Molly 
nor I believed it though and started trying to make a plan to be together and not 
have to come back to the town.
     
     The year ended on a crescendo though. Going to the prom with the woman 
I loved and then standing next to her at graduation was more than any high 
school kid ever deserved. The next week, I was drafted in the sixth round of the 
Major League Baseball Amateur Draft, and after signing a minor league contract 
was told to report to Florida for rookie ball. Molly and I were both nervous but 
truly believed somehow we could make it work.
     
     I've only ever truly been in love with one woman, but others have told me 
that when you love somebody eventually you can't resist it anymore. At some 
point love must be consummated. It's natural. The night before I left for Florida, 
Molly and I drove to the Valley. On the mountain at the other side, we parked in 
the mall parking lot looking out over the lights of the patch towns. There was a 
finality to it, as we knew that tomorrow I would be the first one out. Then at the 
end of the summer, Molly would be out too. It might take a few years, but 
somehow we would end up together.
     
     We stayed out especially late that night. We had both recently turned 18, 
and our driver's licenses were now good for 24-hours. Eventually though, we got 
tired. That night though, instead of dropping Molly at her apartment, we went 
back to my house. My mother was across the state visiting my father in prison, 
and we had decided that it would be okay to sleep together for one night holding 
each other in our arms.
     
     When we got to my house, there wasn't much to say. We went to our 
individual nighttime routines, explaining to each other as we went along why we 
like to do things a certain way. It was funny, we had practically lived as a married 
couple for the last two years, but there are always been a stop to our evenings. 
Tonight we got the full view of what the other did.
     
     We got into bed, Molly in her pajamas and me in boxers and a T-shirt. We 
kissed each other good night and cuddled. Since we had planned this we had 
sworn up and down that things would not go too far. Our first promise was that 
we wouldn't even make out in bed-best not start ourselves down the road to 
temptation. But then kissing was okay, then dry humping. Soon enough our 
clothing was off on the floor on either side of the bed.
     
     Since we had been together, I had hoped that one day Molly and I could 
share intimacy. So even though she had resisted every move I made, I kept a 
supply of condoms in my nightstand drawer. When things had gotten very hot 
between us, I asked Molly if she would reconsider. She said she wanted to, but 
said she couldn't let me get her pregnant. When I told her that I had condoms she 
said it was okay and to put one on.
     
     It was my first time, and I was nervous. Molly seemed nervous to as I knelt 
above her between her legs. As I lined myself up to enter her, she asked me to be 
gentle. It was her first time as well, and she was sure it would hurt. Thinking 
quickly, I pulled my jerk off towel from under the bed and slid it under her. I 
thought that blood on the sheets might be too much for my mother.
     
     When I started to slide myself inside of her, Molly let out a wince and 
clenched her teeth. She held me back for a second, but then told me to continue. 
I went slowly so as not to hurt her anymore. That was good because I was able to 
enjoy every movement of my first time. Slowly I worked myself in further and 
further. Eventually, I could feel her still somewhat sparse pubic hair rubbing 
against me.
     
     As I continued, I picked up speed. Molly was enjoying this as well, and 
began to thrust her hips up to meet my rhythm. As I slid in and out of her I looked 
down at her face. Her blonde hair spread across the pillow, her eyes closed, and 
the most beautiful smile I had ever seen on her. It wasn't a smile of ecstasy, but a 
smile of happy contentment-as if she were in the one place she really wanted to 
be.
     
     Though we were teenagers and it probably didn't last very long, our love 
felt like it took all night. Eventually, Molly held her breath as she began to 
contract around me. I let out a grunt and truly came for the first time in my life. 
Cumming inside of a woman, a woman who I loved, was infinitely better than 
jacking off.
     
     When we had finished, we held each other naked. From time to time we 
exchange tender kisses, and gave each other heartfelt I love-yous. It was a 
beautiful moment, that I hoped would be repeated many many times. I pictured 
myself standing in the batter's box in a major league stadium, ready to get my 
first major league hit. Molly was standing in the wives box clapping and shouting 
for me. It might be five years down the road, but that's how I wanted things to 
end up. I don't know exactly when, but eventually I fell asleep. The last thing I 
remember was Molly saying, "I love you. I will love you forever."
     
     The next morning when I awoke, Molly was in her pajamas sitting at my 
study desk. She was writing something on a thank you card pulled from the supply 
I kept in my desk. When I got up to look at it Molly gave me a sad smile and closed 
it. She told me to give her a few minutes that the letter was something I should 
read when I got to Florida. I gave her a kiss on the cheek, and went to the 
bathroom.
     
     While I was going through my morning routine, I wondered why Molly had 
seemed sad. Back in my room I asked her. Looking away from me at the floor, she 
said that she was sad to see me go. I could understand that I knew that we would 
have some trouble seeing each other. During the spring and summer when I was 
playing, she would be home from college. In the fall and winter while I was home, 
she would be at college. However, I knew we'd figure a way out. Perhaps in the 
off-season we could share an apartment wherever she was studying at the time. I 
didn't feel like I needed to say anything though, so I didn't think too much of it.
     
     A few hours later, Molly was kissing me goodbye, as I waited to get on an 
airplane from my local airport. I wasn't that high of a draft pick, but the team still 
wanted me to join the instructional league and was willing to fly me down on 
their dime. Soon enough the plane was in the air. I thought about reading the 
letter, but I had promised Molly that I wouldn't read it till I was in my apartment. I 
was not about to break her trust. 
     
     In Orlando, a representative of the team picked me up and drove me to the 
spring training facility. After I'd settled in and unpacked, I finally picked up Molly's 
letter. Before even reading it, I could sense that it wasn't something I wanted to 
hear. First, Molly told me how wonderful I was, how our time together was more 
than she could ever have imagined, and that she would love me forever. 
However, she also said that she felt like her part of our relationship was built on a 
lie. She said there was something that she should have told me, that her mother 
begged her to tell me. But if she had told me, we could never have had what we 
had had. She said it was irrelevant now because she didn't think we could ever 
speak to each other again. Things had gone too far the night before, to a place 
they never should've gone. She had always feared that the world would crash in 
around her because of our relationship. And now she knew that we shouldn't be 
together and shouldn't speak to each other again. If I really loved her, it was the 
one thing I could do for her.
     
     I sat on my bed and thought about it. I don't know what I did wrong, but I 
had a feeling that I would never get an answer. I didn't feel like I would ever love 
again-at least not in the way I had loved Molly. But when you love somebody a 
lot-when you truly love them-you will always do what's best for them. I put the 
note away and decided that I would concentrate on baseball. When I made the 
major leagues, Molly would know how to find me. Maybe someday she would 
come back.
     
     For the vast majority of professional baseball players, the major leagues 
never call. In my case I just wasn't good enough. By standards of all people who 
had played baseball, I was the elite, but only the elite of the elite from the entire 
world get to see the lights of the big city stadiums. Five years later I was still 
playing single A league baseball, on a team in southern Virginia. I wasn't unhappy 
and loved the game. But it became a chore to try to find work every off-season, 
and I didn't have other means of support. My father had indeed been a changed 
man when he got out of prison. He had gotten sober by attending Alcoholics 
Anonymous meetings every day. He had become a Christian, though not over-the-
top. Finally, he had earned a college degree, and was working as a drug and 
alcohol counselor. Unfortunately, an explanation for my mother's behavior also 
came. She suffered from bipolar disorder and her condition had deteriorated over 
the years. She was unable to work or participate in community life. Eventually, 
because of his past and her present, they had to leave my old town. They were 
living near Baltimore, Maryland, which can be an expensive area. Thus, they lived 
in a small apartment where I could not crash during the winter, and he didn't 
have any money to share.
     
     For five years I hadn't dated, I told myself that it was because I was 
concentrating on my game, that all I had to do was practice a little bit more and 
try a little bit harder and I would move further on. But one evening, sitting alone 
in my apartment, I realized it was a lie. It was all about Molly. At that point I 
realized something had to change. I loved baseball, but would never make it to 
the majors. And I had to move on in love again. While thinking about what to do, I 
remembered talking to the general manager of the major league team at 
extended spring training one year. It seemed like he was going to tell me they 
were going to trade me, but instead he had told me that I was a smart guy. When 
I was done playing he said that I should consider going into team management. 
That evening I realized it was time to make a change.
     
     The next day I walked over to one of the local colleges. I looked it at their 
brochure and saw they had a sports management degree. That would be perfect. I 
went on to the admissions office asked what I needed to do and was told that 
with my high school grades and my life experience I could probably be accepted 
for the next semester. Within a month they had my application and transcripts, 
and I had an acceptance letter.
     
     Over the next four years I dedicated myself to my studies. I was older so 
college girls didn't want to date me, and because I had no money local women 
didn't want to date me. In addition to sports management, I majored in statistics 
because I heard teams were beginning to use them for player evaluation. 
However, as they say sometimes you fall in love with the one you least expect to. 
That was how it was with my studies, and I grew to love statistics. After I 
graduated I got a doctorate in statistics and a job with the research company 
halfway between Baltimore and Washington DC.
     
     I had started to date, but nothing really worked. It's not as if 'all the good 
ones were gone'. Where I lived people generally didn't get married until their 30s. 
The problem was that nobody seemed just right. I never met anybody who I felt 
that connection with. But I kept trying, and eventually met Samantha. She was a 
second cousin-a kissing cousin-on my father's side of the family. Because of my 
father's problems, I had never met her until a family reunion when I was about 
33. We hit it off, and had a lot of fun together. Luckily, she lived close to me and 
we started a relationship-though that caused some scandal in the family. I 
enjoyed being with her and more importantly felt very comfortable. After years 
dating I asked her to marry me. She said yes. My life was on a new trajectory, and 
eventually I stopped thinking about Molly.
     
     Three years later, we still weren't married. Samantha kept pushing, but I 
always found excuses not to. Something inside of me said that even though things 
were good they weren't right. Our relationship became a little strained, though 
not terribly so. Eventually though, we settled into being a long-term engaged 
couple who would get married 'someday'.
     
     When life is bad, like it was in my childhood, it never seems like it's going to 
get better. When we become comfortable with the good life, we never anticipate 
a downturn. One night while I was sitting in bed with Samantha, me watching TV 
and she reading the book, I got a telephone call. It was my mother and she was 
hysterical. Apparently, my father's drinking and smoking from when I was a kid 
had caught up with him. It was unexpected, but one night while they were out at 
a restaurant, he fell off his chair midsentence. By the time he hit the floor he was 
dead. It was a massive stroke; there was nothing anybody could have done.
     
     Over the next few days I made the arrangements, as my mother was too 
devastated and too mentally ill to do any of it herself. I had only told a few 
people, but word spread quickly. I got calls left and right, to the point where 
Samantha got tired of fielding them. It seemed that even some of the guards from 
my father's old prison wanted to come to pay last respects. I was grateful. But I 
was also devastated. I was moody and refused to talk to Samantha. Finally, two 
nights before the funeral I came home from work and all of her stuff was gone. 
There was a note written on a thank you card from the stash I kept in my desk 
that said it was just never going to work. Samantha talked about how she wanted 
the storybook and most importantly how much she wanted kids. She realized over 
the past few days I couldn't give her either. She said a clean break would be best, 
and I decided I would respect that. In a large part, that was because I realized I 
didn't care. But I did find myself even more devastated, not because Samantha 
had left me, but because I started to remember Molly.
     
     The night before the funeral service, the viewing was a bittersweet 
experience. It was bitter because of the two parents I had left the one who grew 
to be a good person lay in a casket in front of me, while the one who was so 
broken that it hurt to be around her stood next to me. It was sweet because so 
many people came out to remember my father. He was apparently so popular 
that two life prisoners from Pennsylvania were allowed a supervised furlough to 
come down and pay their respects on behalf of his entire prison. As they passed 
through the line though, one of them who was a career criminal mentioned that I 
should be careful. He had seen some nervous looking woman out in the parking 
lot, just hanging around.
     
     I was too busy really to think about it. There were just so many people to 
meet and to share some laughs with. Meeting people who my father had helped 
change for the better made me realize that it's not always how something starts 
that matters. What matters is how things in life end.
     
     Hence, I was taken off guard when a somewhat tall nervous looking blonde 
woman slipped into the back of the viewing lounge. She looked my way and shot 
me a sad smile. I got the distinct feeling that she may not have wanted me to see 
her. I was also taken by how familiar she looked. She didn't exactly look like 
somebody from my past.  Rather, she looked a little like Samantha. Looking back 
towards the casket, I noticed that she looked a little bit like my father as well. 
Confused, I stepped out of the receiving line, excusing myself to the men's room. I 
didn't need to use the bathroom, I just needed to get out of there and think about 
what I had seen. I splashed some water on my face and ran my fingers through 
my hair. Then I noticed it-the woman looked like me.
     
     Though the rational part of my mind told me that it was probably a long-
lost relative from my father's side, something deeper in my psyche told me that it 
wasn't. I resolved that I was going to ask her when I got back into the viewing 
lounge. However, when I got there things had taken a turn for the chaotic. My 
mother had taken off her high heel shoe, and was beating the woman with her 
shoe. She was yelling about how the daughter of a whore should not have come 
to her husband's funeral. She was going off about how my father had been hers 
and had always been hers. The woman's whore of a mother shouldn't have ever 
touched him. Two of the prison guards who had come down, eventually were able 
to subdue her. However, when the police showed up though she got away and 
attacked one of the officers. She grabbed his gun, aimed at his chest, and pulled 
the trigger. Luckily, he was wearing a bulletproof vest and only suffered a few 
broken ribs. Before the police could get the gun away from her, she put it in her 
mouth and pulled the trigger.
     
     A few hours later, I was sitting in a different room. Everything had been cut 
and dry, and there were dozens of witnesses. The only question the police still 
had to resolve was why my mother had attacked the woman. I had had too much 
though; I needed to be alone and could get the answer to that question later.
     
     As I was standing looking in a mirror, seeing what a person truly alone in 
the world looked like, the woman quietly and nervously walked into the room. In 
the mirror I noticed that she had long flowing blonde hair, beautiful curves, a 
large chest, and the most beautiful sad smile I've ever seen. I didn't know what to 
say, so I didn't turn around. Instead, I acted like I didn't see her. Why bother 
reacting when you have no idea how to react?
     
     She didn't say anything at first either. Instead she came behind me and 
stood with her front to my back. She put her arms around me, holding my arms 
tight against my body. Her embrace had an unexpected effect. It was unfamiliar 
and strange, but very welcome. It didn't feel friendly or affectionate. It felt 
unconditional. It was the kind of embrace I had always pictured getting from my 
parents. 
     
     Then her cheek was on my shoulder, her face touching my neck. I could feel 
her warm slow breath against me. She nuzzled slightly, and I felt her eyelashes 
tickle me. It was inappropriate as I had no idea who she was and I was about to 
bury to parents, but I began to get aroused. Then she spoke in a voice so familiar. 
"Jeff," she said. "I have been nothing but a disaster in your life. I love you and I 
never wanted this to happen to you. I'm sorry." It was Molly.
     
     Breaking the embrace I turned around. On her neck I saw a gold chain with 
a high school ring on it. It was mine. Without saying a word I touched it. Molly 
smiled still sadly and said that she had worn every day since I had left to pursue 
my baseball dreams. When I asked how she explained to people, she said she just 
told them it belonged to her brother. That made sense-how else would you 
explain a high school boyfriends ring around your neck. When I told her so, she 
looked very serious and said, "I don't think you understand, Jeff. I came today 
because I wanted to say goodbye to my father. Jeff, you are my brother."
     
     Suddenly, everything came flashing back to me. As an adult, Molly looked 
like me. She had been a basketball star like me. I even remembered in high school 
a time I accidentally picked up her T-shirt instead of mine, and her sweat and 
body odor smelled like mine. Even more importantly though I remembered how 
desperately and persistently she had wanted to be my friend, how her mother 
had said that my friendship was more important to her than I could ever realize, 
and how when we had become friends and a couple I felt perfectly at ease with 
her. She was indeed the sister I had always wanted, but had never had.
     
     I hugged Molly with love and desperation. I had lost her once, but she had 
come back. I was not going to lose her again, it made sense that sex was too much 
for her, but even if I could never have that again I would keep her. I was now 
alone in the world except for her. I would never let her go. When I asked her if we 
could go somewhere else she smiled and said yes.
     
     A little while later we were sitting in a mostly empty 24-hour IHOP. We 
were close to a few trucking routes, but it seemed as if we had had hit at a good 
time as we were two of the few people there. I told her about not being quite 
good enough at baseball, but had found my real calling as a statistician. At her 
prompting I told her about the women I had dated, and how Samantha had left 
me just days before. Her face seemed to have a façade of sympathy, but it 
seemed like she got some pleasure in knowing that nobody measured up to her.
     
     When it came time to talk about her life, Molly started from the beginning. 
Her mother was indeed 13 when she was born. Her grandfather, who had died a 
few years before I met her, had been even worse than my father. The worst part 
was that he had prostituted her mother out since she was a very young child. My 
father, the happy town drunk, had paid one night to sleep with the 12-year-old 
girl. That was the night Molly's mother got pregnant. Because of timing he was 
the only possibility. There were some rumors around town, but nothing definitive. 
And eventually people stopped trying to figure out who the father of the little 
hooker's baby was.
     
     It occurred to me that for whatever problems I had, Molly's were at least as 
bad as mine if not worse. When I asked her when she found out that my father 
was hers as well, she said that she knew from a very young age. For all his 
problems my father had privately taken responsibility. The bar he drank at was 
just over the hill from her house. Once a month he would come by to visit her and 
give them money. Even when his alcoholism got so bad that her mother would 
not let him come around, the money would always be on their doorstep at some 
point.
     
     Molly continued that eventually she found out more about him, and he 
mentioned he was married and had a son. So when high school came around she 
decided she needed to find me. She needed to have more of the family than just 
her mother. She didn't know how she would tell me, but she always planned to 
eventually tell me, but she just wanted to be friends first. However, it happened 
so suddenly. After trying to be my friend for so long, she went from frustration to 
affection very quickly. She loved being close to me, so she put it off. Her mother 
insisted that she needed to tell me. "You can't to date your brother," she would 
say. But Molly figured if she did not let things go too far that there would always 
be a better time. Then the night before I left for Florida-the night we made love-
-she realized she had blown it. There was no going back; things would never be 
the same. So she wrote the letter and tried to leave me behind.
     
     She had continued to play basketball in college, but had still done well in 
school. After majoring in biology, she stayed on after undergraduate to get a 
Masters and then a PhD in genetics. Ironically, she lived about half an hour away 
from me, doing research with the federal government.
     
     When I asked her about dating, she said that she had. Very soon after she 
started her freshman year, one of the most popular male athletes asked her out. 
She said yes hoping it would help her forget about me. Next, she mentioned she 
also gone on the pill immediately, convinced that she would never want to have a 
family with anyone other than the person she knew she would always love-with 
anyone besides me. That relationship didn't last, and not wanting to have to face 
the pain of dating another man, she accepted an invitation to the apartment of 
one of the other women's basketball players who she knew was a lesbian. They 
had unfulfilling sex, but Molly was able to use her newfound reputation as the 
universities token bull dyke to avoid dating any other guy. After she finished her 
doctorate, she moved to DC and decided that she would give things another try. 
Again though, no man was fulfilling. Eventually she gave up.
     
     I was heartbroken for her. My luck had been only slightly better than hers, 
but that didn't matter. Whether I ever found love or not was irrelevant. This was 
my sister, the person I now realized that I cared about more than anybody else in 
the world. She was the person I wanted to be happy. She was the person I wanted 
to make happy.
     
     It seemed only natural that I would put my hand on hers. I meant it out of 
affection and sympathy, but the reaction was different. At first, touching her soft 
skin again began to excite me. I sat transfixed, looking at what somehow was a 
remarkable connection-one that had formed almost two decades before and 
now had been revived. When I looked at Molly, I saw shock in her face. I knew 
that she felt it too, and it was just as unexpected for her as it had been for me.
     
     Looking into Molly's eyes though, I realized that it wasn't just physical.  
Though the connection was originally a physical reaction it started to be more. I 
felt like Molly was the solution to my problem with my loneliness. I didn't know if 
she felt the same though. I wanted to tell her how I felt, that I wanted her to stay 
with me. But I hesitated, afraid of how she would react. But I knew how she felt 
when she asked if she could come home with me.
     
     I had convinced one of my father's friends to drive my car back to my 
townhouse, so we hopped into Molly's car and I directed her to my place. We 
rode over mostly in silence. However, from the moment we pulled onto the street 
we were holding hands. The connection that had been revived a few minutes 
earlier was not something that either of us would let break.
     
     We entered my townhouse still holding hands. Turning to each other, we 
smiled and kissed, stopping only long enough for me to bolt and chain the door. I 
was not going to let anything interrupt tonight. I didn't bother giving Molly a tour, 
she would see the place soon enough. Instead I led her upstairs to my bedroom. 
After turning on a dim lamp on my dresser, I held her in my arms in the center of 
the room. It was an embrace I wanted to feel forever.
     
     Eventually though, we started kissing again. Slowly at first, but eventually 
our mouths opened and our tongues danced in desperation and excitement, 
working off all of the frustration we had felt over the years. Then her shirt was on 
the floor and then mine-then her bra and the rest of our clothing. Still standing, 
our hands wandered each other's backs. I ran my hands through her soft hair, 
down her back, and then over her still athletic but ample curves.
     
     Slowly, and somewhat awkwardly, Molly inched us backwards to my bed 
while we continued to kiss. She ripped the covers back on the bed, and pulled me 
backwards on top of her. I got between her legs and was about to start, but she 
said, "No, Jeff. We're going to do this like adults today." With that she pushed me 
back got on her knees between my legs and took my cock into her mouth.
     
     She started slow teasing the head. Then she got faster, taking me in as far 
as she could. My hips started moving up towards her. My cock started hitting the 
back of her throat. On one of the upswings she mumbled for me to fuck her face. I 
couldn't help myself, so I put my hands behind her head, grabbed her hair, and 
started ramming her up and down. I didn't know whether she liked it or not, but 
when I pulled her down as I shot my cum deep into her throat, she gagged. When 
I finally let her go, she sat up and gave me a wry smile. She leaned over, kissed me 
on the forehead, and said, "Now, is that any way to treat your sister?"
     
     I laughed, pushed her back on the bed, and kissed her. I had never kissed a 
woman after cumming in her mouth before, but for Molly I would do it. Her 
mouth had the faintest taste of strawberry lip gloss. But it's something I could 
deal with. When I got back up I told her that it was my turn. With that I slid 
between her legs. As I looked at her pussy, I realized she was shaved. It was ironic 
that when we were kids she had hair there, but now as an adult she didn't. I love 
giving oral sex, so I had gotten quite good at it. I started by slowly running my 
tongue up and down over her pussy. She must have liked it because she arched 
her back and sighed. As she got more excited and wetter, I noticed an intoxicating 
musky smell. As much is that turned me on, her taste did so even more. I can't 
describe it, but was better than any woman I've ever tasted before. Gradually, I 
worked along the side of her lips and up to her clit. Almost the instant I touched 
it, she exploded in orgasm, squirting all over my face. I don't know which one of 
us it would be, but somebody would be sleeping in a wet spot tonight.
     
     Even though I had already come, I was still hard as a rock. When I sat back 
up Molly grabbed it and began to stroke me. With a big smile she said she hoped I 
had another one in me. At the very least I was willing to give it a try. So I got 
between her legs and slid myself right in. Both of us were experienced so there 
was no awkwardness. And because both of us were excited there was no need to 
go slow. Instead I drove myself in and out of her with a desperation I had never 
felt before. She thrust her hips up and down in rhythm with mine trying to get me 
in as deep as possible. She begged for me to do her harder and to fill her with my 
cum. A few minutes later, I obliged and sent the biggest orgasm I ever had 
shooting inside of her.
     
     I collapsed on the bed next to her, and we embraced again. Molly would 
leave in the morning, or maybe the day after that, but it wouldn't be long before 
we were together permanently. We cuddled and told each other I love you, but 
soon fell asleep.
     
     The next morning when I awoke, Molly had pulled out some paper and was 
quickly doing some kind of calculation. Curious, I sat up and asked her what she 
was doing. Nervously, she looked at me and said that she was calculating some 
probabilities. I looked at the equation. It was rather sophisticated and I had no 
idea what the variables were. When I asked her, she said that was the probability 
of genetic disorders if a half-brother and half-sister had a baby. I looked at her 
quizzically, so she told me that because she wasn't dating she had gone off the 
pill, and was just about the right time. Though I probably should have been 
nervous, my love of statistics took over and so I asked questions about the 
equation. By the time she had calculated a rather high probability of genetic 
disorders in any child we would have, we had somehow talked ourselves down. 
There was more excitement and anticipation as opposed to fear.
     
     In statistical analysis, there is the concept of an outlier. What that means 
that out of every 100 cases, five will be significantly different from the average, 
and one will be radically different. It turns out that Molly and I were like that. 
Even though we were obviously genetically related, we were different in all the 
right places to have a beautiful healthy baby boy. We named him after our father. 
With the way he turned his life around, he deserved it. 
     
     By the time the baby was born, we had already moved in together. 
However that didn't seem like it was enough. One date night, while some friends 
of ours were babysitting, I lamented to Molly that I wish we could get married. 
When she asked why we couldn't, I reminded her that we were brother and 
sister. She laughed, and reminded me that legally she didn't know who her father 
was. Her birth certificate had only her mother. I had already seen the Maryland 
marriage license application, so I said that the form asked specifically and clearly 
if we were related by blood or marriage. Molly shrugged and said, "Then we lie." 
A few months later, we were married on a North Carolina beach. A few months 
after that, we were pregnant again.
     
     A few very close friends know that Molly and I are related. But they are all 
people we trust, people who we know would not care. At first Molly's mother was 
uncomfortable with the situation, but eventually she understood and is now 
supportive of us. After becoming a nurse, she started dating again-well really for 
the first time in her life. I don't know whether it was being forced into prostitution 
by her father or just something natural, but quickly she figured out women were 
her real interest. She and her partner, a public school teacher, live about an hour 
and a half away in Virginia. They come and babysit quite often.
     
     When Molly and I went back to our hometown for our 20th high school 
reunion, everybody was glad to see that we had ended up together. When they 
heard the story, some people were upset that we had been apart for so long. I 
just told them that sometimes it's better for something to happen later rather 
than sooner. Eventually one of the girls I was friends with in high school, one who 
had very readily persecuted Molly before she and I became friends, pulled us 
aside and apologized. She confessed that one reason she was willing to be so 
mean was that her mother had said there were rumors that Molly's father was my 
father.
     
     I don't know whether she expected a response, but Molly gave her one. 
Laughing, the love of my life said, "Well, we get along so well who knows maybe 
we are related." Our friend laughed and gave us a big hug. We laughed as well, 
just for us it was because of our happy secret.
     
-End Story-

Author's Note: This story is dedicated to all of those female friends who said 
something to the effect of, "you are like a little brother to me".  

I always appreciate feedback.  If you really like, really hate, or can see some 
improvements to my stories, send feedback to secretdcguy@hotmail.com.  I 
am also looking for story ideas, so if you have one please let me know.  This is my 
favorite genre, but I do others as well.