1. Impossible Moments


    Date: 6/15/2015, Categories: Lesbian Sex, Voyeur, Author: brianbigdogsmith, Rating: 100, Source: xHamster

    How glad I am that she doesn’t look like any of my three daughters. That is quite possibly a hypocritical perspective considering my current situation – especially in the last years where I have pursued all manner of stimulation both physical and mental. I almost feel as if I never had time before now or that I’m worried that my time will run out. After all, I do inhabit this frail, time-limited world of mercurial conditions and impossible moments. Still, if Laura were to remind me of one of my daughters, I’d be uncomfortable. But she doesn’t. Being Robert’s only c***d, she looks vaguely like her father did at that age. I think her resemblance to my son lies more in mannerism than in physical appearance, at least as I remember his c***dhood those many years ago. It is still hard to think of him gone. Not hard because it is a difficult practice, hard because it is painful. Parents should not outlive their c***dren. Yet another mercurial condition is my now aging body, wracked these days with the storms of pre-menopause. Being 51 is not old. Looking at Laura again, I understand that given this perspective, what can our relative ages matter? Sighing heavily, I know that it matters a world of difference. An impossible moment made real. Creaks and pops sound randomly as the afternoon sun heats different parts of the house. Some days I feel a rather keen kinship with the single dwelling in which Kevin, myself, and now Laura live. Worn and faded but still colorful, cracking at ...
    its foundation and threatening to slide down the steep lawn in front, it sits with undeniable charm in the Pennsylvania hills. Kevin says the house speaks to him of a gracious, leisurely decade when trees were more numerous than houses up on the hill; as years later, our presence must awake in Laura a nostalgia for a father lost, for a time when life was innocent and trusting. I am not, myself, interested in those lost decades of my youth, or in the years of mothering that came after. I am really only interested in this particular moment in the big shadowy bedroom with its view of the distant rolling hills, green beneath streamers of cloud. In this quiet afternoon, now and then I hear the skittering of tiny claws when the squirrels use my roof as a shortcut to another tree. It is a crisp sound that registers from somewhere far away. It enters my mind as I look at the black tuft of hair lying flat, wet with our sweat and a sweeter, thicker juice. Wisps of curl feather at random to touch her thigh in a few places, others reach up to point at the ceiling. A bower of dark hair, thin enough and sparse enough that the skin is visible underneath – damp and warm – welcoming me. I lick each curl, moving to where the hair grows more thickly on her young body and finding that the odor deepens. An odor of salty wetness that opens vast reaches in my mind, a rich odor of deep secrets, of sun-warmed skin, and transmuted to a thick honey-golden liquid in which I lie suspended. It is my ...
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