1. In The House of Forgotten Cameras


    Date: 9/16/2015, Categories: MILF, Author: Jason_NYC, Rating: , Source: LushStories

    skirts and urging me to take her in locations where privacy was far from assured. It goes without saying that I had fallen hopelessly in love with Jillian and in the arrogance of youth, it never occurred to me to wonder why a woman of her intelligence and beauty had made herself available to me at any time and every way imaginable. For that first week, I checked on the camera daily. I suppose it was just the result of a good cleaning and polishing cloth, but its wooden frame, cracked leather bellows and brass fittings seemed aglow with contentment, if such a thing were possible. I also tried to determine the exact location of the House. During that first week it was too foggy in the afternoons and too dark at night. On the one afternoon without fog, I fell asleep. Another time, I glimpsed a street sign, but then forget the name before I reached my car. Eventually, I gave up trying. All that really mattered was that whenever I dialed that number, Jillian would be waiting for me. I suppose, at some level I realized that The House of Forgotten Cameras did not want itself fixed in time and space, and that it might not be the wisest thing for me to keep trying. Midway through the second week, I slipped into my room well past midnight and found my Dad waiting. "The camera." he said as my heart sank. "It's not here. I haven't seen for over a week." "I know. I know," I said. "But it's safe. I promise." I expected him to be angry, but he merely looked at me a long time and a great ...
    sadness seemed to come over him. "You've met him, haven't you. The Collector?" "You know him?" I couldn't believe my Dad knew the Collector and had never told me. "Yes. I met him once," my Dad said. "Where is The House of Forgotten Cameras these days?" "I'm not really sure. Somewhere south of the Presidio," I told him. "And the… " he started to ask something, but his words were choked back by a sudden surge of emotion. "The woman?" "Jillian?" I asked, wondering how my Dad could possibly know about her. He didn't seem to recognize the name, but he pointed to the inside of his thigh, and we both knew what he meant. It was the exact location of Jillian's birthmark. "Yes…" I stammered. "I know her." I had never seen my father cry before. He collapsed on my desk, put his head on his arms and sobbed. Eventually, he wiped his face and regarded me with a lost, pitiful look that shook me to my core. Then he turned without another word and disappeared down the dark corridor to his bedroom. If the circumstances had been different, perhaps the consequences might have been different too. I often wonder that had it come out in course of some alcohol-fueled bragging session that my Father and I had fucked the same woman, that perhaps the revelation might have become the foundation of some secret male bond that cemented our relationship. Instead, what passed between us that night became a toxic secret that poisoned everything. I rarely saw my Father after that, and when I did, we had little to ...