You Can't Control Who You Love

by George Foxx

Copyright© 2019 by George Foxx

Romantic Sex Story: Uncle George and a Pageant Princess find love they never expected.

Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Romantic   Heterosexual   Fiction   Interracial   White Male   Oriental Female   Cream Pie   First   Oral Sex   Petting   .

An Uncle George – Adventures in The Philippines Story

I’ve never been what you’d call “lucky” in love. I’ve made about every mistake possible in choosing a wife too. That’s why I had three exes’ when I left the U.S. to retire in The Philippines. None of my ex’s could be described as beautiful. Maybe cute in a quirky way, but never a woman who could have been a model or movie star. Part of that was due to the kinds of work I’d done where I had few opportunities to meet women. Most of it was because some kid in grade school called me “ugly” and I believed them. I wasn’t athletic. I didn’t work out or have big biceps, or a six-pack. In fact, even when I could run a mile in 4:15 and 100 yards in 0:10.0, I had the start of a dad bod, complete with a soft little belly bulge. On top of that, my penis was average size, and to me seemed on the small side of the average range at five and three-fourths inches in length and skinnier than I’d have liked. I didn’t think I deserved a beautiful girl and I had a morbid fear that I wouldn’t be able to satisfy a sexy wife, so she would make me a cuckold. That seemed to me to be the ultimate insult and an unforgivable wrong.

When I was a teenager I was very shy around girls. I think I imagined they could see my perpetual hard on and could read my mind so they knew I wanted to ravage them four or five times a day. Because of that, I married the first girl who showed an interest. I always felt I loved her more than she loved me and worked hard to make her happy while she made very little effort to please me. This pattern was repeated in my second and third marriages as well.

When I left the U.S. for the lower cost of living in The Philippines, I was determined to change the way I acted. First, I decided I would be friendly and flirty and fun. After all, no one ever died from having a girl say, “no.” Second, I planned to be careful and take my time before I got into any kind of long-term relationship. I vowed to make sure we had time to really get to know each other and to make sure we liked each other.

I was sixty-two. I tried to flirt with women in their mid-thirties to mid-forties. However, The Philippines is seriously over-populated and employers tend to only hire people in their twenties, so most of the women it was easy to meet were quite young. My shyness got in the way of flirting with barely twenty-year-old girls. I didn’t want to be a dirty old man either.

I got an infected spider bite and went to clinic in the mall. A nurse of what I thought of as “about the right age” cleaned it out and painted the site with antiseptic. I asked her out and she accepted. Ellen was heavier than my ideal woman, but she had a cute face and a bubbly personality. We dated and things were calm and pleasant until I met her daughter.

Kasey was eighteen and had just graduated from Senior High School. My heart beat fast and I thought, “PERFECT!” the first time I saw her. My dick got hard instantly, like it had every time I saw a pretty girl, back when I was in high school. I crossed my legs and hoped she didn’t see the tent pole pushing up my pants.

She was a dancer and interested in a wide range of dancing styles. She also competed in beauty pageants and had won several. She spoke excellent English, and unlike many educated Filipinos, she was not afraid to converse with native English-speaking people. She had a quick wit and a nice sense of humor. We spent a lot of pleasant time together, just chatting, while waiting for Ellen’s shift at the clinic to be over.

I noticed that Ellen had been a very strict single parent and that Kasey had been sheltered and was innocent and naive. She was tall for a Filipina, perhaps five-feet, eight-inches. She was slender, willowy, and small-breasted; with shoulders wider than her hips. I loved her dancer’s body. She looked like a stereotypical Asian pageant girl, with a beautiful face and long, flowing black hair. I tried not to stare at her sexy body, but I knew I wasn’t very successful because Kasey had a perfect figure, in my opinion. When she caught me looking, Kasey would get a tiny, amused smile on her face and her eyes would sparkle as she looked back at me.

Ellen wanted to take our relationship to the next level and invited me to go sightseeing with her. An over-night stay at a bed and breakfast was part of the itinerary. I was partially honest and told Ellen I didn’t want to be more than friends with her. What I left out was that I wanted to be a lot more than friends with her daughter. Ellen was pissed and cancelled the invitation. I tried to be respectful and not act on my feelings for Ellen’s daughter.

A week later I realized how much I missed chatting with Kasey. I sent her an email asking how she was. I didn’t hear from her for two weeks, then she friended me on FB and sent me some dance recital pics on Messenger. I clicked “LIKE” on the pics. The costumes weren’t particularly skimpy, but I got hard just looking at the dance recital pics. I ached to touch her and give her the ravishing that romance novels tell you all girls dream of.

A week later, she answered my email: “Uncle George, I don’t know what’s going on. I feel so strange. When you were dating mom, I liked chatting with you a lot. Sometimes it almost felt like you were my dad. I felt all warm and safe, and I wanted to cuddle with you all the time. I’m really confused right now, because I still want you to cuddle me, but I’m having some other kinds of feelings about you. I think you were having that same kind of feelings for me too, even more than you were having ‘dad’ feelings. Part of me says I need to hide from you and another part of me says I need to spend time with you and figure out exactly what it is that I’m feeling. I don’t know how to do that without hurting mom. If I’m about to make a fool of myself, please tell me before I do anything unforgivable. If you have any ideas, please share them with me. Thinking of you, Kasey”

That night I was tossing and turning, trying to sleep. I wasn’t sure exactly what kind of feelings Kasey meant or how to respond if they were the kinds of feelings I hoped they were.

I can be a sarcastic, grumpy old man. I imagined myself as being brutally honest and saying, “Kasey, I know the age difference is so big we have nearly a zero percent chance of having a successful long-term relationship, but I’d love to take your virginity, do you as long as you will let me, get you pregnant, then leave you on your own, with a baby and a broken heart.” I was hoping I wasn’t that much of an asshole. I realized that I was having the same difficulty processing my feelings for Kasey as she was analyzing her emotional responses to me.

Just as I finally fell asleep, a flurry of knocking on my front door jerked me back to being fully awake. I hauled myself out of bed and stumbled to my front door. I opened the door, and Kasey was standing there in the monsoon rain, soaked to the skin. She was wearing a white leotard which was soaking wet and translucent. I got hard when I saw her nipples poking out and clearly visible through the soaked fabric even more clearly than a girl in a wet tee shirt contest. I asked her to come in, and she slipped past me into my living room. I wondered if the way she lightly brushed against me so her tight little butt grazed the boner throbbing under my sleep shorts was deliberate or accidental.

I went and got one of the over-size tee shirts I use for sleep shirts and I showed her to the guest bathroom. It had shampoo, conditioner, and shower gel on a shelf inside the shower as well as a new shower puff. There was a hotel boxed toothbrush and toothpaste and my newest towels as well. I heard the shower come on. She took a shower that was just long enough for her to get clean and warmed-up. She came out of the bathroom wearing the yellow, LeBron James, Lakers-Number 23 tee shirt. It came down to her knees. She had a towel wrapped around her hair. As she walked I could tell she wasn’t wearing panties. That was confirmed when she held up her leotard and panties and said, “I washed these in the sink. May I put them in your dryer?”

“Of course, Kasey.” I said and showed her the closet with my washer and dryer inside. She threw her two garments in the dryer and started a timed dry cycle. The pervy part of me was disappointed because her panties were plain, white cotton briefs. They were what some people call “granny panties.”

As we walked back to the living room, Kasey frowned as if she was thinking really hard. She said, “I should have waited for you to reply to my email, but I started feeling very impatient, so I decided to come talk to you. The most important reason I should have waited is that today is my most fertile day this cycle, so if we get carried away, I’m almost certain to get pregnant. My mom got pregnant the first time she had sex, so if I inherited her fertility, we are going to be parents sooner rather than later. I think there are many worse things than carrying, birthing, and raising your baby, so don’t count on me to be overly cautious or act as the brakes if we do start to get carried away. Not being at all afraid of giving you my virginity and not at all worried about you getting me pregnant have me mixed up as can be. Are you as confused as I am?”

As we sat on the couch, next to each other, I laughed and said, “Yes, because what I think I want today is very different from what I wanted a few weeks ago. More importantly, if I get what I want today, it might not be what’s best for you, even if your feelings tell you that you and I want the same thing. Just like you, I can think of a lot worse things than getting you pregnant, so I not worried either. I’d say that puts us at very high risk of ending up parents before we’d planned.”

Kasey smiled that little, knowing smile at me and said, “I’m eighteen George. I’m old enough to make decisions myself. Promise me you will just tell me what it is you want. Don’t talk about what you think is best for me. Agreed?”

“Agreed Kasey. I’m totally confused about how I should talk to you. You have had people telling you that you are beautiful your whole life. Since you were in middle school you have probably had people tell you your body is sexy and desirable. If I say any of those things, perhaps your brain will just ignore everything else I say. Still, I think it is important for you to know that my eyes see your face as beautiful, your figure as perfect, and individual parts of your body as intensely desirable. But I don’t want you to see me as an old pervert who only wants your body. I love talking with you. You are smart and fun and never boring. I’ve watched you with your friends, and I know you are a kind person. You don’t make fun of others. You are as nice to the chubby girl or the nerdy guy as you are to your beautiful and stylish pageant contestant friends. I really like the person you are,” I said.

Kasey looked at me intently. Then her expression changed. She looked more relaxed, like she had made a decision. She said, “I’m a virgin. I’ve led a very, very sheltered life. I don’t know ANYTHING about sex except the biological reproduction stuff. I don’t know anything about desire or passion from personal experience. I know a lot of things in romance novels are not realistic and some are total fabrications, but I’m having the feelings of longing those books describe. When you look at my body, it feels like you are caressing me with your eyes. I need you to tell me what you are thinking when you look at me. I need to know, as honestly as you can tell me, exactly what you want when you look at me that way. Don’t worry about my judging you or calling you pervy. I’m flattered that you like what you see well enough to give me a second, third, and fourth look.”

“I was pathologically shy when I was a teenager. I never went after the girl I really wanted. I always settled for the girl I could get. Somewhere on my bucket list is making love to a girl who is truly beautiful and acknowledged by others to be beautiful. That sounds confusing because I didn’t phrase it very well in my own thinking before now. I meant a girl who had posed for a famous magazine that is known for sexy pictures of sexy women, like ‘Playboy’ used to be, or a mainstream film star everyone agrees is beautiful and sexy. I never wanted a porn star because they all seem to be about sex with no emotion. For me, that would be sex without love or meaning. While I never thought I would like a girl who competes in pageants, I do like you, and I see your pageant wins as the kind of acknowledged beauty I was thinking about to fulfill that bucket list goal.

“When I look at you, I see my ‘ideal woman.’ I do caress your body with my eyes. I want to know if your breasts would enjoy my touch as much as my fingers would enjoy touching you. I think about whether your nipples would get so hard that they throb with your pulse if I were to lick them or suck on them. I wonder if you would return my kiss passionately. I wonder if your pussy gets wet when you think about me kissing and touching you. I want to know if you would let me go down on you and whether you would reach orgasm easily from my kisses and touches. I wonder if I would be able to give you multiple orgasms. I wonder if your body would crave having me inside you, and if your body and soul would feel completely satisfied after I made love to you,” I said.

“Romance novel authors often imply that most men don’t care whether a woman feels pleasure. Those men simply want a conquest. They want to own or have power over a woman. They imply he cares about his own physical pleasure more than anything else. Why would you care about whether my orgasms are satisfying or even care if I had an orgasm at all?” Kasey asked.

“I call it ‘Enlightened Self-Interest.’ If you desire me, I want you to continue to desire me over a life-time. If you enjoy sex with me, you are more likely to want to do it more than once. If you feel I’m satisfying you completely, you are more likely to want to have sex with me a lot, and I’m confident that if we were making love, I’d want to make love to you frequently,” I said.

Kasey smiled and said, “So you consider sex an important part of any long-term love relationship?”

“Yes. It can be a powerful bond. It can strengthen the love a couple feels. I didn’t sleep with your mom because I knew I wanted you more. I knew I didn’t love her, and I wouldn’t use her or lie to her for short-term pleasure. I did see potential for us to fall in love, and I didn’t want to do something that would make you think you couldn’t trust me to be careful with your heart,” I said.

“But you do worry about making me feel like you are a perv and just after young girl pussy, don’t you?” Kasey asked.

“When you think you may be in love with someone and you are thinking about how to present yourself to them so that they will hopefully reciprocate your feelings, you are giving another person quite a bit of power, especially by inviting them to judge you and decide whether to add you to their selection pool. I don’t think an intelligent, educated young woman would see a pervy, sex obsessed, dirty old man as a desirable lover, let alone life partner,” I confided.

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