Scenes From an Affair
Scene 1: June 1979 - A Connecticut Mansion

Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Mult, Consensual, White Male, Hispanic Female, Oral Sex, Anal Sex,

Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Scene 1: June 1979 - A Connecticut Mansion - Taken from a story in Palimpsest, the founding partner of the law firm had a long and intense and difficult love affair with his father's mistress. WARNING: Unlike most erotic fantasies, this has a tragic end.

When their eyes met for the first time, their lives wound together. A weave made of the transparent, ineluctable thread of fate Arachne had woven with a mischievous fervor netted them. Every move they made, especially away from each other, tangled them further in the visually imperceptible threads. They felt the tangle. For the length of their lives together, the pull of the web caused extremes of feeling, intense pain and pleasure at the deepest of their core as human beings, their hearts and souls.

Her large sad eyes, dark brown and gorgeous, seemed to reflect his sadness. At least he hadn't disappointed his father. At the top of the senior class, he had been chosen to speak at commencement to the sons and daughters of fellow New England Brahmin. "Class" reverberated with meaning. He represented the highest level, the highest of the class of highest class. Though more subtle than the Indian caste system in which Brahmin had been borrowed, he stood as witness to its inexorable existence, and it made him sad and bitter. And those eyes, the eyes of the newest maid in his father's old money mansion, the eyes of the second lowest caste, only a bum, an untouchable would be lower, reflected his soul like no other ever had.

"This is Marisol, our new maid," rumbled his father, his voice echoing in the mansion's vast entrance chamber. "My son, Phillip."

"Congratulations," said Marisol, a soft, velvety voice, nearly a whisper with a charming Hispanic lilt. Though subtle, Phil noticed the slight cringe his father's deep bellow seemed to create in her face and body. She curtsied.

Being a little under five and a half feet tall, the Phillips family towered over the lovely Latina. Phil's blowsy mother neared six feet and his father stood six foot three. Phil added three inches to his father's height. And father and son spread out wide, weighing around 250 pounds. Both his parents, his mother more obviously since she had been a svelte model in her youth, had fattened in their middle age. Phil kept in shape. Muscle constituted most of his mass on his large frame.

Marisol looked even more petite in the presence of these bears. Her comfortable brown dress buttoning at the front, the bodice vest like, with a tan blouse covering the upper torso topped by a Peter Pan collar, allowed a suggestion of shape beneath the casual modesty. Her body pressed out at her chest distinctly but not prodigiously, her hips broadened the skirt from her narrow waist, and her butt had enough pert presence to shape the draping fabric, a sexy, intriguing whisper of firmness and substantiality.

Phil's quick study of the new maid ended at her face. All eyes and nose and lips, its narrowness drew attention to those features. Large eyes and a large mouth, lips just full enough to have presence, amplified her thoughts and feelings. Together they seemed to present a sensuous, entrancing welcome.

Phil lifted his hand. Marisol glanced at it, surprised, but put her small, calloused hand in it. His had gotten calloused, too, playing lacrosse, the captain of a school team that came within a goal of championship. That loss had disappointed his father.

Not just the wooden stick gave them callouses. He had done chores at the stables where his first and only girlfriend lived, and had loved the cute blonde tomboy and loved her family more than his own. Youth and differences in class prevented illusions of continuing the affair, though Phil embraced the illusions more than the girl did. She had given him everything but the totality of her heart. When the time came for parting, she forced him to admit the truth. Their last time together had been melancholy yet violently loving, as if admitting the truth at last freed them to communicate their love and lust for each other completely.

In all the time he loved his high school sweetheart, eye contact and the contact of rough flesh against rough flesh as his and Marisol's hands embraced with gentle firmness created a spark and a flutter in his heart beyond anything he had experienced with his first love. Her eyes widened and her face flushed. His did as well. Their hands broke, but not their eyes. When they finally did, she glanced down and saw the shape of his lengthy penis pressing out the fabric of his slacks along his right thigh. She blushed even more.

He discovered the truth later that night. Lying in bed, he couldn't get her out of his head. Finally he decided to find her room and talk to her. His large body, a body any football scout would salivate over as a lineman though he hated the game and preferred the chaos of rugby over the martial aspects of America's version, he covered in a long burgundy robe covering his light gray silk pajamas before he ventured down to the servants' wing.

"What are you doing down here, Master Phillip?" asked Oona, the oldest and wisest of the family's servants. Her door, first of the servants' rooms along the corridor, stood wide open. Oona sat at her vanity playing with her modest silver jewelry.

"Oona! I told you never to call me that when Father's not around!"

The cook nodded. Sounds of sex, a rattling bed and deep moans echoed in the hallway. "Come in and shut the door, son," the Swedish born cook insisted.

"Oh fuck, Marisol, you're so tight," roared down the hall. The sound of his father. Trembling, Phil couldn't move.

"Get in here!" rasped Oona with quiet command.

He did, shutting the door quietly behind him, and sat on Oona's bed when his knees threatened collapse.

"I was his first," muttered Oona. "Your grandfather insisted."

"You and grandfather..."

Oona nodded. "He was my first. Like father like son I guess. It's why I never married. These are the trinkets they gave me over the years. Mistress gifts you know, only less so I guess. I suppose I should have insisted on diamonds, but I like wearing silver." She held a heavy necklace of finely crafted curving silver moons of various shapes with a radiating sun as a medallion at the bottom. "Help me," she whispered. He attached the back hook.

"You're lovely," Phil whispered, kissing her aging neck.

Oona giggled youthfully, but her old throat made it rasp. "Like father like son."

"Don't say that!" grumbled Phil, bouncing back as if Oona had become electrical.

"I'm surprised he didn't invite you down here. Maybe the ... your father got horny. Or maybe it's because of that girl at school, the stable girl."

"Alisa. How did you know?"

"Other student's fathers of course. It's a good boy network."

"Of course. What did he think?"

"He was furious until your mom calmed him and reminded him it wouldn't amount to anything. She was right, wasn't she?"

"I loved her but ... Yeah. We had separate lives and were too young."

"And she's a stable girl."


"Sshh. I know. I saw you beaming last Easter. And I know what a socialist you are."

They laughed. "I guess I'm a hypocrite," said Phil.

"We're all hypocrites in our way. Our values are much too pure to not be sullied by reality."

"You're daughter, Christa..."

"Yes, little Phil. At least your father draws the line with incest."

"I always kind of ogled her if you don't mind me saying."

"Good that you didn't do anything about it. She liked you too. She enjoyed babysitting you."

"How's she doing?"

"Okay I guess. Actually I'm not sure. I know she graduated from NYU and got married."

"You told her."

"Yes. I promised myself I would when she graduated high school. I hoped she'd forgive me, but figured she wouldn't. She didn't. At least it kept ... his hands off her."

"Yes. You know I hate him, now more than ever."

"I do too, my love."

"Then why... ?"

"I love you, Phil. And your mother needs me to cheer her up when she gets ... sullen."

Phil laughed. "She'd never live it down if anyone knew her cook keeps her sane."

Oona grinned sadly. "I suppose not. I guess graduating brings out the truth from me. I provided more than solace. While the newest maid fucked your dad, I'd join your mom in her bed. Sometimes ... I'd bring a young man along."

"Like Mike?" Phil referred to the chauffeur.

Oona chuckled. "You are a little blind my dear. Mike and James have been lovers for years."

"The chauffeur and the butler?"

"They're like an old married couple, quite cute sometimes in their domestic quarrels and making up can be quite noisy."

"More information than I need. I'm glad though. I never thought much about it, but they seemed more their roles than human beings. I'm glad they have a life together."

"Ssh," exhaled Oona. They heard heavy footfalls only his large father could create. They waited for the sound to disappear.

"I love you Oona," said Phil, rising from the bed and hugging her from behind, looking in the mirror at her aging but still pretty face and his big face, square except at the strong chin and high cheekbones, the chin resting on her shoulder.

"Me too, young man." He kissed her smooth cheek and rose to his feet. "Where are you going?"

"Where I'd been heading. To Marisol."

"I don't know if that's such a good idea."

"Maybe not. But I love her."

"You can't."

"I know. But I do."

"Be careful. Two doors down."

"Thanks my love," he said and quietly exited the room, carefully closing the door behind him.

Oona looked at her grim face and cried.

"What are you doing here?" Marisol whispered loudly. She pulled the blanket to her neck. Her legs stretched wide underneath.

"I couldn't sleep," said Phil. Even in the dark room, her beauty shone. And her sadness.

Angry at his intrusion, like his father he didn't even knock, looking up at his sad eyes and his sad smile calmed her.

"What? Do I look like a pharmacy?"

Phil chuckled. "No pharmacy looked so beautiful and enchanting."

"You're crazy. You shouldn't be here. You're father..."

"What about my father?" Phil seethed.

Marisol looked terrified. "Oh my God," he exclaimed. "I didn't mean to scare you. I may look like a monster with this bear body, but I'm really as threatening as a mouse. Can I sit?"

"It's your house."

Holding back his anger, he spoke quietly. "It's not. It's my father's and his father's. It'll never be mine."

"Why not?"

Phil sat on the bed near her head. "I never felt at home here. Well, not these last few years ... but really never. Just like they bought mothering and cooking and companionship, it's like they bought me as their son, a representative of their pride and joy."

"That's ... crazy. You're lucky. You were born to a castle, to wealth. And I..."

"You what?"

"I was born desperate and needy."

"But I'm needy too. Needy for love."


"Sorry. Sounds like sentimental crap, but it's actually true."

"Poor little rich kid."

"Brat you mean."

"I'm trying to be nice. After all, you're my boss's son."

"You never have to try to be anything with me. You can be as mean as you want."

"You'd rather I play nice."

"I'd rather you like me."

She whispered something. "What did you say?" he asked.

"I do like you."

"I know. I like you too."

"How come? You don't even know me."

"Same goes for you. I want to."

"Me too."

His hand found her hand hiding under the cover near where he sat. She let it out and took his hand. Their eyes locked. He kissed her knuckles. She wept.


"Hold me, Phil."

She pulled back the covers. He removed his robe. Lying on his back, his feet popping out at the foot of the bed, he thrilled at her draping body along his side. His hand felt her warm flesh at her lower back thinly covered by her cotton nightie. As she sniffled against his broad shoulders, he sniffed the air of the room. It smelled of sex, of semen, his father's.

She noticed him tightening. "Am I scaring you?" she said coyly, muffled by his pajamas.

"I can smell him," he grumbled.

She tightened. Her body started moving away. His big strong hands stopped her. She relaxed. "Maybe you should leave."

"Do you want me to?"



"But you must hate me."

"I hate him."

"And by association..."

Phil chuckled. Marisol's teary eyes looked up at him. "What?"

"You're educated, aren't you?"

Marisol sighed. "I'm like a crop, Phil or a prime swine. My father raised me to be a mistress like he'd raise a pig to be fat and abundant and expensive. I'm the youngest of five daughters. My father despaired of having no sons, but realized our potential. When my oldest sister reached maturity, at least enough not to be considered a child anymore, he sold her to the neighboring land owner. Being fairly intelligent and desperate, he questioned the owner, his daughter's owner, what would make her a better mistress. At first the owner had no qualms, but a year later they sat and talked. 'You and your wife made fine girls. They're beautiful and their bodies inspire great pleasure, but a relationship isn't just what happens at night in bed. Like you, your daughter's smart enough to pick up things. But if she had learning and more awareness of the world, she'd be perfect. Make your daughters smart and refined and good at talking, maybe even speaking English well because we all know the best master would be a wealthy Yankee. You could demand a king's ransom!' So he did.

"Each sister after improved on the last. We went to better schools often assisted by a potential master. At sixteen we interned with a sort of professional mistress, a Madame of much experience, who demonstrated the way to pleasure a man. Wanting us virgins for our eventual master, she demonstrated with dildos and let us watch her and other whores pleasuring clients. She had one of those one way mirrors. But a couple of her most trusted johns she had us strip naked to give them an extra thrill I guess. She let them touch us, never with fingers inside of course, but with their tongues. Neither man was much to look at, older and not too handsome. One was especially fat and kind of sweaty. But they had skills too and gave us pleasure despite it all. Men were less frightening.

"Ironically, after training us to be sophisticated, Father had an epiphany. Once my second oldest sister became the mistress of one of the richest men in Nicaragua, but still less rich than an American, he decided to teach us to be maids along with the schooling. He sent out ads to the richest men with pictures and a resume. It worked. Though the ad didn't persuade your father. One of his friends recommended me to him after enjoying my sister for a year or so."

"My father took your maidenhead?"

"Yes. Rather forcefully and with a condom."

"But he had a vasectomy."

"Yes. He doesn't trust ... Hispanics I guess."

"Or anyone else not like him. Does it still hurt?"

"I learned from the Madame to oil the way for his big prick. Still..."

"I suppose he's a big man."

"You too," smiled Marisol, cheekily touching Phil's semi-hard penis.

"I'd never hurt you," said Phil.

They kissed. It lasted several minutes and made them breathless. Phil's hand slid along her torso, discovering her shape. She guided him to her firm breasts, a handful for his large hands. She lowered the shoulder straps of the nightie and pulled it down, giving him naked access. When the kiss ended, his mouth took hold of each breast until lips grasped and suckled her small sensitive nipples. Her fingers encouraged his pleasuring by holding his head there and sliding then through his shoulder length dirty blond hair. But when his fingers reached beyond her supple, proud buttocks to the space beneath, she shifted away.

"Not there. Not tonight," she whispered breathily. She took hold of his large prick through his pajamas and rubbed. "I won't tease you though."

He gently and reluctantly removed her hand. "It will always be mutual, my love."

From a sad pout, her face became radiant. "I can't wait."

They kissed again. She straddled his big body and began riding him. At first her pussy only reached his abdomen, but lowered, bringing him to lift them into a sitting position, scooting her to the edge of the bed, his feet pressing the floor. She rode him, her naked pussy rubbing against his pubic bone and wetting his pajama bottoms. She pealed off her nightie and he his pajama top and naked flesh rubbed together. Phil leaned down to grasp her nipples between his lips. When he scratched at her nipples gently with his teeth, twisting her other nipple with his fingers, she moaned approval. He kept the abuse gentle. "So perfect," she murmured.

Becoming frantic with her motions, she commanded, "Squeeze harder, darling. Oh God!" The last she repeated until she went silent and clung to him, pressing her pubic bone against his. His pajamas became suddenly much damper. Her pleasure released his. He felt the surge build to an intense crescendo. His spend created an ever widening wet stain.

"I never came so hard and you didn't even fuck me," she whispered, her head pressed to his chest hearing his breath and heart.

"Me too, my darling," he smiled.

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