Copyright© 2006 by Will Bailey
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Love can appear in unlikely places and guises. It can range from a mild flirtation to an overwhelming passion. The rarest form of love is one that cannot be denied. It sweeps you away and carries you to a place you never knew existed. This is the story of two people who discover not only are they meant to be together, they were created for each other. They're soulmates. As is usually the case with my stories, this one is a romance, not a stroke story.
Greg woke up slowly and reluctantly. He'd returned from a ten-day business trip the night before, and he was bushed. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. At least he was home for a while and in his own bed. Hotels were all well and good, but there was truly no place like home. He stood and made his way to the john. When he finished his business, he walked toward his closet. He'd almost reached it when he yelled out and held his right foot. "Christ," he yelled, 'what the fuck is that?" He'd stepped on something sharp. The culprit sparkled in the sunlight. It was a blue thing that looked like something women put in their hair. Probably Amy's, Greg thought, although blue didn't seem to be one of her colours. In fact, he couldn't recall if he'd ever seen her wear anything blue. Maybe it belonged to one of her friends. As usual, his niece Amy had been house sitting for him while he was out of town. She often invited friends in. He knew because she always asked him ahead of time. And he always said yes.
He was also annoyed to recall that it was Sunday and therefore the day of Amy's birthday party. Since she was a little girl, she'd always been his favourite among his nieces and nephews. He certainly didn't want to disappoint her. And he wanted to see her reaction to the gift he'd bought for her. He'd simply have to steel himself and go to the party.
Greg knew that he spoiled Amy rotten, but he couldn't help himself. Perhaps if he and Lynn had children it would be different. God knew that they'd tried. Consulted more than one fertility expert. All the doctors had been in agreement. There seemed to be no physical reason that Greg and Lynn couldn't conceive. But no matter what strategy they tried, nothing happened.
Then, suddenly, there was no more Lynn, and Amy was all he had. That stupid, senseless accident. He'd never forget the image of Lynn lying in the snow. Massive head trauma, the doctors said. She survived in a coma for over two weeks. From the beginning, the doctors advised turning off the life support. Finally Greg had agreed. After almost five years, he still wasn't sure he'd made the right decision.
Greg had breakfast, finished unpacking his suitcases, and chose the clothes to wear to Amy's party. He bathed, shaved and dressed. Finally, he was ready to go. He looked at himself in the mirror, forcing a smile. "Show time," he said.
It was a typical gray February in Toronto. The only good thing was the relatively light Sunday traffic. Greg found a parking place with little difficulty and rang the bell. He was greeted warmly by his brother-in-law, Amy's dad, and shown into the living room. As he'd expected, it was filled with kids. There were a few sullen-looking boys with piercings and tattoos. But most of the guests were girls. He corrected himself. They were young women, not girls. Amy was twenty-two today, and he assumed that her friends were of a similar age.
Amy immediately spotted him. He found himself enveloped in one of her bear-hugs. "Uncle Greg," she screamed in his ear, "come and meet my friends." She dragged him into the fray. She introduced him to everyone in the room. Greg knew that he'd never remember any of their names. He felt quite helpless.
Then he spotted a new arrival. She certainly stood out from the crowd. She was petite with curly coal-black hair, blue almond-shaped eyes and incredibly white skin. Greg thought she looked like an ivory doll. But what really set her apart from the others was the way she was dressed. She was wearing a beaded white top and a shiny black skirt with some sort of bright silver appliqué in the shape of a bird. The other girls were in jeans, usually far too tight, and crop tops. They were showing lots of belly and butt in the area between the end of their shirts and the beginning of their jeans. This new arrival seemed oddly overdressed for the occasion. Her costume might have been more appropriate at a cocktail party or a theatre opening. Greg was intrigued.
Megan stopped in her tracks. There he was, standing near a bunch of what she thought of as "the air heads." "God, it's him," she said to herself. "Well, here goes nothing." She smoothed her skirt and walked over to Greg. She smiled and held out her hand, which he took. "Hello," she said, "You're Amy's Uncle Greg," she said. "I recognize you from your pictures. I'm Megan O'Hara. We've never met, although I've slept in your bed."
Greg was a bit nonplused. Then he slowly grinned. Of course, he'd heard about Amy's friend Megan. Not long after Amy began house-sitting for him she'd asked if Megan could stay with her. Greg had given his permission and then laughingly said that he had only three rules for house-sitting: don't burn down the house, don't wreck the car, and don't get pregnant. Yes, he'd heard of Megan. Amy had mentioned her many times. He recalled that Amy had even mentioned that Megan was half Japanese. That would account for the shape of her eyes.
"Well," he said, "the next time you're there I'll try not to miss it."
Megan blushed. She laughed and said, "Touché. Amy's probably told you that I'm a bit of a tease. It looks as though I've met my match."
Greg looked perplexed. He said, "Why would you think I was teasing you?" Megan blushed again. She was confused. Was this guy really hitting on her? Or was he teasing?.
The situation changed with Amy's arrival. "Oh great," she said, "you two have met. Megan is one of my closest and dearest friends. Both of you come with me. The bar is in the kitchen." When she was small, Greg's pet name for his niece was "Hurricane Amy." Now he and Megan followed in the wake of the hurricane.
Greg and Megan poured themselves glasses of wine. A covey of air heads descended on the bar. Megan said, "Greg, if you don't mind I'll just stand back there by the pantry. It's getting a bit crowded here."
Greg smiled at her. He said, "May I join you?"
She smiled back at him. "Of course," she said, "please do."
The two stood in the pantry doorway. "So you're him," Megan said, "the famous Greg Young."
Greg laughed. "Hardly famous," he said.
"You seem famous to me. I've heard so much about you from Amy. If you've done half the things she's told me about, you're either famous or deserve to be."
Now it was Greg's turn to blush. "Well," he said, "flattery will get you anywhere with me."
Megan grinned. "And I," she said, "am a master of feminine wiles. Flatter, promise everything, deliver almost nothing."
Greg said, "There's an aria from Mozart's Così fan tutte that sums that up."
Megan laughed. To Greg, her laughter sounded like bells. She said, "Do you mean Una donna a quindic'anni?" She sang a bit. Then she quoted. "'A girl of fifteen ought to know the world, '" she said, "and it goes on to say, 'she ought to know little tricks that charm lovers... She must pay attention to a hundred men and talk to a thousand with her eyes, give hope to all, handsome or ugly.' Is that the one?"
"That's it," Greg said. "I'm impressed that you know it. And you have a lovely voice."
"Thank you sir," Megan said, giving a little curtsy. "My dad was a great opera fan. He was determined that I was going to be a singer. So I took lessons for years. It became apparent that my voice was more the shower variety than operatic. So I still sing, but just for pleasure."
Greg said, "Your voice sounds considerably better than the 'shower variety' to me. I'd love to hear you really sing something. But does that song describe you? Are you like Mozart's Despina?"
Megan pursed her lips. "Every woman is, to some degree," she said. "But being a woman is also a tricky business. Even now, a woman has to know her place. She can't be too forward or she's 'pushy.' If she's shy, she's 'stand offish' or 'stuck up.' A woman walks a thin line. Emily Dickinson put it perfectly when she wrote, 'Why do they shut me out of heaven? Did I sing too loud?' A man can 'sing' as loudly as he wants to. He can thunder, like Gerard Manley Hopkins. But a woman can't."
Greg laughed. He said, "Yes, Hopkins certainly was Manley, and not in name only. He thundered in poems like God's Grandeur: 'The world is charged with the grandeur of God, It will flame out, like shining from shook foil, '" he quoted in a pompous voice. Megan laughed her bell-like laugh. "But poetry isn't the best example to prove your point. Art is one of the few areas in which a man can show sensitivity and vulnerability. In their personal lives, straight men aren't supposed to show weakness and must never, ever cry. Artists can find an outlet for emotion. But the rest of us keep our emotions bottled up inside until we're a mess of complexes."
The two of them continued to chat. By the time the party was ending, Greg realized that he'd spent most of the afternoon talking to Megan. He found her a fascinating and intelligent young woman, not to mention attractive.
For her part, Megan was intrigued by Greg. He was a lot older than she was. Maybe even near the age her dad would be if he were alive, but he didn't seem old or stuffy. He had an incredibly wide range of interests. She reflected that she'd like to get to know him better. He might even be as terrific as Amy thought he was.
As the party was breaking up, Greg said, "Where are you going, Megan? I'd be happy to offer you a lift."
Megan smiled. "No, I can't ask you to do that. I'll take the subway."
"But it's quite a walk to the station from here. And it's cold as hell outside."
"OK. Thanks. I'm just going to visit a friend at Pape and the Danforth."
"That's right on my way home."
Megan looked into his eyes and grinned. "I know," she said.
As they left, Amy kissed them both and gave Greg one of her patented bear hugs. "Thank you so much for my present, Uncle Greg. How did you know exactly what I wanted? It's even the right colour."
Greg had given her a video iPod. A black one. "I read minds," he said.
Greg opened his car door and held it for Megan. "Thanks," she said. "You're a gentleman. I can't remember the last time I met a real gentleman."
Greg laughed. "We're out of style," he said. Greg went around to the driver's side and got in. "The seat belt buckle is a little tricky," he said.
"I know. I've ridden in this car many times."
Again, Greg realized she was simply telling the truth. When Amy was house-sitting, she had access to his car. As well, he reflected, as to his wine cellar and liquor cabinet. Though to give her credit she always asked permission before treating her friends. Unfortunately, he always granted it.
As Greg pulled out into traffic, Megan leaned back in the seat. Her skirt rose several inches above her knees. She noticed that Greg glanced at her legs several times. She thought, "I think he likes what he sees. Let's show him a little bit more." She shifted slightly so that her skirt would rise higher. Her legs were now revealed up to mid-thigh. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Greg was glancing her way more frequently. She let her skirt rise just a little more.
"I can't believe," he said, "that you're running around barelegged in the middle of winter. You should be wearing tights or something."
Megan laughed. "I never do," she said. "This is me. Winter or summer. Skirts without stockings. I hardly ever wear pants. I'm a girlie girl. The only compromise I make in the winter is to wear boots. But they're still high heels. And not only do I hate stockings. I also can't stand underwear."
Greg was really taken aback at this revelation. He sputtered, "You mean..."
"Yup," she said. "I'm strictly commando. Shall I prove it?"
"Some other time, perhaps."
Megan laughed. She said, "Well, here we are. You can let me out anywhere."
Greg pulled to the curb, and Megan hopped out. She rapidly disappeared into the busy stream of pedestrian traffic. As Greg drove home, he thought to himself, "What an odd young woman. Odd but interesting. And beautiful. I was tempted to invite her out for a drink. But she was meeting someone." He drove on, still thinking about Megan. "She seems tough on the outside. It's probably an act. I'll bet she's been hurt. Badly. And she doesn't want to be hurt again. I think I could pierce that façade. I'd like to see her again. But hell, she's so much younger. She'd probably laugh at an old fart like me. Still..."
Megan pulled her coat tightly around her as she hustled toward her apartment. She thought, "He's handsome. And bright, too. But he's Amy's uncle, for Christ's sake." She shook her head. "I don't believe I was flirting with him. And he flirted back. Why did I tell him that I was meeting a friend? Why didn't I tell him the truth: that I was going home? Was I afraid that he might ask me out? Or maybe to come to his place? I'd have gone with him. What was I afraid of, that he'd rape me for Chist's sake? So why did I try to keep him from asking me? I'm so fucking stupid. Maybe I should call him. Oh hell no. It doesn't make any sense. He's not interested in me. No chance that he might be, is there? I just don't know."