At first I’d hated her, this too young and too perfect woman who had dared to take my mother’s place in my father’s bed. Sarah is only a few years older than me, and certainly prettier, despite having a slightly androgynous appearance with short blonde hair and a preference for trouser suits. Fitter too, being one of those people who start their day with a run around the park. Indeed, it was there that she and my father met, and she had transformed him from an irregular Saturday jogger into quite the marathon enthusiast.
She was about half his age! The only thing they had in common was running – and sex. I kept wondering what would happen if the sex stopped and they discovered there was nothing else, but they’re still going strong to this day.
Sarah arrived in my life as a successful young businesswoman exuding confidence and energy, while I was fresh out of school and struggling with a mountain of coursework. Most of my friends had gone away to university elsewhere, but I’d chosen to stay local, to stay home, just my father and me in our quiet, comfortable co-existence, sharing space and memories peacefully. But then Sarah moved in with us and I had to pretend I couldn’t hear them fucking every night, and I had to pretend I liked seeing him so happy again after so many years of loneliness.
And I had to pretend I wasn’t increasingly attracted to her myself. I’m not a lesbian. I mean, yes, I am sometimes attracted to women, but I really didn’t want to be attracted to this woman that I hated. Or wanted to hate, at least. Sometimes she’d catch me staring at her, and I would flinch away, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.
Sarah liked to walk around the house in the mornings in a black silk dressing gown, through which the shape of her perfect breasts and perfect bum could be easily discerned. No suggestion of underwear. One tug on that large pink bow and she’d be undone. The silk curtain would part and she would be entirely revealed. She’d catch me looking at her, and the amusement in her eyes suggested she knew that I was undressing her.
I would wonder if she wanted me to undress her. As if she hadn’t spent the night before begging my father to “fuck me with that big, beautiful cock” and hadn’t woken him in the morning by wrapping her perfect lips about his morning glory. The walls in my house are a little too thin.
They don’t always do it in the privacy of their room either. One evening I arrived home to find them in the kitchen, my father hastily tidying himself away, Sarah on her knees buttoning up her shirt – but not so quickly that I didn’t see the pearly splashes across her breasts. Since then, every time she wears that same shirt, I wonder if the breasts beneath are again wet with my father’s cum.
On Thursdays my father is always home late, usually after midnight. It’s a club thing, dinner and drinks, politics talk and all that. At first I would try to avoid being home or alone with Sarah on these occasions, but increasingly I allowed myself to accept her suggestions of watching a film together, sharing a bottle of wine, getting to know each other, and so on. I told myself I was just being polite, but the truth is I liked being with her.
She was my father’s new love, the first in years. They were even talking of marriage. Any fantasies I had of her being with me were just that. Absurd fantasies. But I couldn’t help myself. We would sit together watching romantic comedies until my father came home, and then in the privacy of my bedroom I would quietly work myself through a series of orgasms while listening to the less than subtle fucking across the hallway.