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Copyright 2015 - All rights are reserved for the author 
who claims exclusive use. Permission to repost or print 
for profit is not granted. The story may not be reposted 
for any reason without express written permission of the 
author. Please contact the author with any questions. 
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Sometimes Later Is Better Than Sooner
by Secret DC Guy (secretdcguy@hotmail.com)

***

Somehow in high school the star baseball player falls in 
love the outcast girl. Things are great before she 
abruptly ends it without giving a reason. When they meet 
later in life all is revealed. (MF-teens, 1st, inc, rom, 
preg)

***

Authors note: This story is very loosely inspired by the 
"Always with Me" series, where we get a slice of life 
further out in the country. It deals with romance, 
incest, and shitty parents. However, it doesn't have 
underage sex. If you don't like the former or wanted the 
latter, this is probably not the story for you. If you 
want to learn more about their stories, take a look at 
my page: www.asstr.org/~Secret_DC_Guy.

***

I first noticed Molly halfway through freshman year. 
Though we were from the same school district she had 
gone to elementary and middle school out in the 
countryside, while I lived in the small town. Unlike the 
close knit patch towns in the Valley on the other side 
of the mountain, here people tended to stay closer to 
home. It was ironic that everything was further apart 
but people seem to want to travel even less.

She was quiet and didn't seem to have many friends. But 
what was most notable was that she was a freak who just 
didn't fit in. She wore black jeans and a black T-shirt 
every day. While you might see that near New York or 
Philadelphia, that's just not something people did here. 
Moreover, you could not tell if they were the same 
outfit because all of her jeans and T-shirts were 
exactly the same. 

It was as if she had gone to one of those overstock 
stores and bought a box of each. And it was even unclear 
if she washed her clothing as in the winter she often 
smelled like burning wood. The one thing she did have 
going for her though was beautiful blonde hair and a 
large chest.

I wasn't particularly nice to her, and I didn't go out 
of my way to try to be friends. As I was one of the 
stars of the soccer, basketball, and baseball teams, she 
really wasn't the kind of person I would've hung out 
with. And even more importantly, most of my athlete, 
cheerleader, and otherwise popular friends loved to make 
fun of her.

However, I couldn't seem to shake her. We were in one 
class together first semester, and second semester she 
seemed to choose almost every class that I was in. I 
could have brushed it off as us being in all the 
advanced classes, but in the first semester of sophomore 
year, it happened again. On top of that, she started to 
pester me about working on projects together.

I envied a lot of the other kids who had parents they 
could talk to about things like this. But that was me. 
My mother somehow rotated between being self-centered 
and overbearing. Everything I did, right or wrong, she 
took as a reflection on herself. 

When I got all A's on a report card, she bragged to her 
friends or the women at church or the women at the 
beauty shop about how great of a mother she was—though 
that seems to be the only time she had an interest in my 
academics. But if I had a bad game in any of my sports, 
my home life became hell. I was an embarrassment; I was 
doing it to hurt her; I was a terrible excuse for a son 
and would never go anywhere. It was always about her.

My father on the other hand, was the town drunk. Before 
I was born apparently he had been that lovable drunk 
everybody loved. He was a member of Rotary and Kiwanis, 
he drank at the American Legion, and supposedly people 
always greeted him with a smile. Then apparently 
something happened and things went downhill quickly. 

He stopped drinking in town, and instead would regularly 
go to a seedy bar out in the country. And money started 
to disappear too, more than even my mother thought he 
could drink away. There was something hidden in the 
background which I didn't know about, but it seemed 
every year—no every month—no every day, he seemed to get 
more frustrated and angry.

When I was young, he took his frustrations out on my 
mother. He would push her and slap her. He would call 
her the vilest names in the book. But eventually as I 
approached my teenage years she began to give as good 
she got. I even remember that once she sprayed cleaner 
in his eyes, then him writhing on the floor in pain, and 
finally her kicking him in the stomach. After that I was 
the target. He didn't come home early most days, and 
when he did come home he would ignore me. 

However, on days my mother was angry at me, she would 
call him at the bar. He would come home angry and it 
might be his belt, the back of his hand, or his fist. In 
middle school, I had told one of my teachers. But things 
were done differently where I grew up. Nobody called 
Child and Youth Services or the police. Instead, they 
said they would talk to him. That Friday I got the worst 
beating of my life. I learned not to say anything or 
answer any questions.

Making matters worse, I was an only child. While most of 
my friends had brothers or sisters, I was the only one 
to take the brunt of my parents' abuse. It wasn't that I 
wanted somebody to share the abuse with. Instead, I had 
this fantasy that I would have a younger brother or 
sister who I could protect. 

It would be somebody that I could take the abuse for—
somebody that I could hold and protect—somebody who I 
could take the blows for. That would have made the abuse 
worthwhile. It would have given it a point. But most of 
all it would be somebody who I could share my deepest 
feelings with, who would understand, who would know what 
they were like.

But that wasn't my life. So whenever Molly annoyed me, I 
would turn it over to my friends. She wasn't the 
slimmest girl—big breasts but a little bit of a belly 
too. The girls hated the former, while the boys laughed 
at the latter. That coupled with the clothing and the 
smell made her an easy target. To share my pain with 
somebody I prodded my friends, but I never said anything 
myself. In my head I was just venting to my friends. But 
they knew better, and most importantly Molly knew better 
as well. 

However, she was like a lost puppy who wanted to follow 
me home. There was something about me that prevented her 
from acting like any rational human being would have. 
Every time she got made fun of she would look at me with 
pleading eyes as if to say how could you do this to me, 
how could you hate me like this, why don't you love me. 
First, this was just another girl with a crush—the kind 
of girl who really isn't much, but she's everything. As 
sophomore year wore on though, it became apparent that 
she just wanted my friendship.

Eventually I relented. I finally agreed to work on an 
English project with her. It was something relatively 
simple, to act out the death scene from Romeo and 
Juliet, something that two of the top students should 
have mastered easily. Instead, it was the first thing 
that either of us had done in high school that had been 
an abject failure. After doing the scene, our English 
literature teacher told us that we were supposed to be 
lovers not relatives.

As we walked out of the class disappointed, something 
had changed between the two of us. We had both 
experienced it, what really was a relatively minor 
failure, but we had done it together and for some reason 
it felt special. My friends thought that it was strange 
that I did a 180 degree turn, and instead of complaining 
about Molly, I started to include her whenever we could. 

However, as I was trying to get to know her better, at a 
certain point she began to be very reserved. She was 
perfectly willing to talk about school, her dreams, her 
plans for after graduation, and even about how upset she 
was with how my friends treated her. But when it came to 
her family, she wouldn't say anything.

I thought I began to understand that summer. Early, on 
the morning after a particularly bad Monday night, I 
borrowed a friend's 10-speed bicycle and decided to take 
a long bike ride. About two hours later I was way out in 
the country and painfully tired. Though I didn't have 
Molly's address, out in the country you knew where 
people lived based on what their house was near. So when 
I got to the dirt road past the firehouse, I walked the 
bike up into the woods.

I didn't know what I should have expected, none of the 
houses out here were particularly nice. In fact, many of 
them were just trailers on a big lot. Molly's house was 
even less than that. It was somewhere between a cabin 
and a shack, and I was surprised to even see electric 
lines running into it. There was a propane tank at the 
side, and a big chimney coming out the roof. In reality, 
it looked like it was going to fall apart.

At first I was tempted to turn around and walk away. I 
didn't know if Molly would be embarrassed, but I would 
be embarrassed for her. But as I stood in the yard 
trying to figure out what to do, the front door opened 
and a beautiful woman when came out and asked me what I 
was doing. She was wearing Daisy Duke shorts and bikini 
top. She had large breasts like Molly, but not the same 
belly. Instead the skin hung a little bit loose with 
stretch marks. Apparently she had a baby.

I decided it was best to tell her who I was, and when I 
did a smile came to the woman's face. She walked into 
the yard came to me and gave me a big hug. She said, 
almost crying, that I would never know how much my 
friendship meant to Molly, and how grateful she was that 
I would share friendship with her. 

With that she went back to the door and called for 
Molly. In a second my friend was at the front door. She 
looked scared but appreciative at the same time. I 
thought that the best thing to do would be to show some 
acceptance so I walked up to the house and hugged her 
too. At first she tensed up, apparently people didn't 
touch her very often. But after a few moments, she 
melted into our first hug. I felt that there was some 
kind of connection, something more than just friendship. 
I decided I loved this girl.

We were both somewhat surprised when the woman told 
Molly and I that we could go back to her bedroom and 
talk. We were even allowed to have the door closed. As 
we walked through the living room filled with what 
looked like secondhand mostly broken furniture, I 
wondered how this shack could have two bedrooms. The 
only thing I noticed was a kitchen to the side. However 
Molly's bedroom was immaculate, there wasn't much but 
her bed was newer than mine, she had a nice desk, and it 
seemed everything she would need to be successful at 
school.

With the door closed, we sat on opposite sides of 
Molly's bed and she began to tell me her story. The 
woman outside who looked so young was actually Molly's 
mother, and she was only 29 years old. Knowing that 
Molly was 16, I realized that she must've had Molly when 
she was 13. Things were beginning to make sense the 
clothing, the house, cheap wood heat in the winter 
instead of propane. How could a woman who had gotten 
pregnant so young do anything to support a daughter?

I listened to Molly's story and tried to be sympathetic. 
Really it was impossible to be anything other than 
furious. It turned out Molly had the only bedroom in the 
house. Though her grandfather had lived with them for a 
number of years and she and her mother had shared the 
bedroom, when he died a few years before, Molly's mother 
moved to the living room, sleeping on the floor most 
nights. 

When I asked about her father, I felt I had made a 
mistake. Closing her eyes and looking as if she was 
about to cry, she turned and looked away from me. For a 
few minutes she said nothing. Then still looking away, 
she said, "I don't know who my father is." I didn't know 
what else to do, so again I hugged her.

After that day things changed. Molly and I spent time 
together every chance we had. And our feelings for each 
other grew exponentially. Both of us understood the 
delicacy of the situation as I had been Molly's chief 
persecutor. So we gradually worked our relationship in 
at school. We let ourselves act more friendly in school, 
and a little bit more physical. Then one by one we began 
to let our friends know. Eventually, it became obvious 
we were a couple.

When it became public though, disaster struck. One night 
my mother came ranting about the girl I was dating. She 
called her trash and the root of everybody's problems. 
She called my father at the bar, but this time he never 
came home. So the next morning I got up especially early 
and left the house so I didn't have to see my mother. 
Then at lunch time as I walked to meet Molly, I heard a 
commotion in the cafeteria. I rounded the corner and saw 
my father with Molly up pinned up against the wall, 
everyone around them in shock. He was calling her bitch 
and raving about Molly's 'whore mother'.

There are times in life we act in the exact way we hope 
we would without even thinking about it. I yelled out to 
my father to stop. He did, but then came across the 
lunch room and met me. Reeking of alcohol and 
cigarettes, he thrust his finger into my chest and asked 
me if I knew what I was doing to him. In a way I never 
would have done at home, I slapped his hand away. But 
that infuriated him, and moments later his fist was 
hitting my face. 

I guess he reacted before anybody else could as I was on 
the ground and he was kicking me. But in a room full of 
students and teachers he was unable to do anything for 
long. A couple of my friends from the football team 
managed to tackle and pin him down. As they held him, 
Molly ran over and cradled my head in her lap. Her 
clothing didn't smell of firewood. Instead I could smell 
her body, the sweat that comes from nervousness 
beginning to flow. It was strangely intoxicating, and 
somehow familiar.

This time people couldn't ignore with the things my 
father did. He had scared the shit out of a high school 
girl and beaten his own son in front of a cafeteria full 
of students. For some reason, he refused to accept a 
plea deal which would have kept him out of jail. Instead 
the case went to trial, and the jury deliberated for 15 
minutes, not even staying around long enough to get a 
free lunch out of the deal. He was found guilty, and the 
judge sentenced him to 10 years in prison. The physical 
pain was over, but I was left alone with my mother.

If you live in the country and spend any amount of time 
outside, you know that night is coldest just before 
dawn. And that seemed to be the way it happened. My 
father hadn't worked in years, so he had no income. But 
apparently at some point he had worked for a local 
construction company and the owner of that company 
decided to help out my mother and me with some of the 
"expenses we would have". 

So while my mother's attitude got even worse, at least 
we had some more money to live on. At the same time 
apparently a long-lost relative of Molly's had seen the 
story on the news. Though he wanted to stay anonymous, 
one of the local bankers approach her mother about a 
monthly stipend. I don't know how much it was, but Molly 
and her mother were able to move into an apartment close 
to the high school and her mother was able to start 
taking night classes at the local community college.

Even more importantly, the attitude of kids at school 
began to change. My friends all became supportive of our 
relationship the guys would talk to Molly with respect. 
But the girls showed the most change, integrating her 
into the group of friends and tried to bring her more 
into the school life. Some of them took her under their 
wings, helping her to have better fashion sense and 
buying her clothing on occasion. 

Some of the athletes even got her to go out for the 
girls' basketball team in the winter. That was a great 
arrangement. Every night I would stay and watch her 
practice right after school and she would stay and watch 
us practice after they did. She took to the sport very 
quickly and within months was one of the best players on 
the team. People joked that we were the jock couple 
before anybody knew she was a jock.

Every night after practice, or after school if it was 
between seasons, I would walk Molly home. Even if it 
were a miserable rainy day, just being with her and 
walking along like we belonged seemed perfect. Most 
nights I would stay at her apartment while I did my 
homework. We were still in mostly the same classes so we 
were always able to help each other.

Since her mother was now taking classes and working 
evenings we had the place to ourselves. Molly had taken 
some home economics classes, and cooked for us every 
night. We both stayed on training diets so what she 
cooked was relatively simple, but we were eating it 
together. And then after dinner interspersed between 
subjects we had some wonderful make out sessions. 

Occasionally, one of us would bring it up first. 
However, usually it would just happen. We would be 
sitting across the table talking about a subject. When 
we finished our thoughts and we put down our pens we 
would stand up and walk to the couch together. In 
silence, we would sit and turn our faces to each other. 

Molly's eyes were always serious as our faces came 
closer, but would close just before her lips touched. 
Her arms would fall to her sides, and as we kissed her 
body would melt into mine. I would hold her, one hand on 
the small of her back, the other running through her 
long soft blonde hair. Her mouth never tasted like what 
we had just eaten for dinner. Instead, it tasted of the 
strawberry lip gloss she wore. I didn't know what I 
should have been expecting but again it seemed familiar. 
Almost like the way mine tasted on mornings I woke up 
with dry mouth.

There always seemed to be limits though. While we would 
end up dry humping on the living room floor many nights, 
and sometimes Molly would let me feel her large but 
still growing chest, we never went to her bedroom. In 
fact, any time I tried to put my hand down her pants she 
would stop me telling me she didn't want things to go 
too far—no we couldn't let things go too far. It was as 
if there was some kind of wall that was holding her 
back.

As a whole though, I had a better high school 
relationship than anyone I knew. Though I never stayed 
at her house, neither of our mothers would tolerate the 
scandal, we lived almost like a married couple. And I 
secretly hoped that someday we would be. When I got my 
senior ring, I bought a gold chain and gave it to her 
saying it was a promise that I wanted to end up with 
her. At first Molly seemed uncomfortable, but when I 
pushed she admitted that she wanted to end up with me 
too. I hoped beyond hope that it would be true.

Senior year wound down with mixed emotions. At first 
things were great. Molly and I had both been accepted to 
good colleges, though I was going to put college aside 
for a few years as I was being scouted by three major 
league baseball teams. Things took a major downturn 
though when word had it my father would be paroled from 
prison. It was my mother who broke the news to me, 
saying that he was sober, found God, and was a changed 
man. Neither Molly nor I believed it though and started 
trying to make a plan to be together and not have to 
come back to the town.

The year ended on a crescendo though. Going to the prom 
with the woman I loved and then standing next to her at 
graduation was more than any high school kid ever 
deserved. The next week, I was drafted in the sixth 
round of the Major League Baseball Amateur Draft, and 
after signing a minor league contract was told to report 
to Florida for rookie ball. Molly and I were both 
nervous but truly believed somehow we could make it 
work.

I've only ever truly been in love with one woman, but 
others have told me that when you love somebody 
eventually you can't resist it anymore. At some point 
love must be consummated. It's natural. The night before 
I left for Florida, Molly and I drove to the Valley. On 
the mountain at the other side, we parked in the mall 
parking lot looking out over the lights of the patch 
towns. There was a finality to it, as we knew that 
tomorrow I would be the first one out. Then at the end 
of the summer, Molly would be out too. It might take a 
few years, but somehow we would end up together.

We stayed out especially late that night. We had both 
recently turned 18, and our driver's licenses were now 
good for 24-hours. Eventually though, we got tired. That 
night though, instead of dropping Molly at her 
apartment, we went back to my house. My mother was 
across the state visiting my father in prison, and we 
had decided that it would be okay to sleep together for 
one night holding each other in our arms.

When we got to my house, there wasn't much to say. We 
went to our individual nighttime routines, explaining to 
each other as we went along why we like to do things a 
certain way. It was funny, we had practically lived as a 
married couple for the last two years, but there are 
always been a stop to our evenings. Tonight we got the 
full view of what the other did.

We got into bed, Molly in her pajamas and me in boxers 
and a T-shirt. We kissed each other good night and 
cuddled. Since we had planned this we had sworn up and 
down that things would not go too far. Our first promise 
was that we wouldn't even make out in bed—best not start 
ourselves down the road to temptation. But then kissing 
was okay, then dry humping. Soon enough our clothing was 
off on the floor on either side of the bed.

Since we had been together, I had hoped that one day 
Molly and I could share intimacy. So even though she had 
resisted every move I made, I kept a supply of condoms 
in my nightstand drawer. When things had gotten very hot 
between us, I asked Molly if she would reconsider. She 
said she wanted to, but said she couldn't let me get her 
pregnant. When I told her that I had condoms she said it 
was okay and to put one on.

It was my first time, and I was nervous. Molly seemed 
nervous to as I knelt above her between her legs. As I 
lined myself up to enter her, she asked me to be gentle. 
It was her first time as well, and she was sure it would 
hurt. Thinking quickly, I pulled my jerk off towel from 
under the bed and slid it under her. I thought that 
blood on the sheets might be too much for my mother.

When I started to slide myself inside of her, Molly let 
out a wince and clenched her teeth. She held me back for 
a second, but then told me to continue. I went slowly so 
as not to hurt her anymore. That was good because I was 
able to enjoy every movement of my first time. Slowly I 
worked myself in further and further. Eventually, I 
could feel her still somewhat sparse pubic hair rubbing 
against me.

As I continued, I picked up speed. Molly was enjoying 
this as well, and began to thrust her hips up to meet my 
rhythm. As I slid in and out of her I looked down at her 
face. Her blonde hair spread across the pillow, her eyes 
closed, and the most beautiful smile I had ever seen on 
her. It wasn't a smile of ecstasy, but a smile of happy 
contentment—as if she were in the one place she really 
wanted to be.

Though we were teenagers and it probably didn't last 
very long, our love felt like it took all night. 
Eventually, Molly held her breath as she began to 
contract around me. I let out a grunt and truly came for 
the first time in my life. Cumming inside of a woman, a 
woman who I loved, was infinitely better than jacking 
off.

When we had finished, we held each other naked. From 
time to time we exchange tender kisses, and gave each 
other heartfelt I love-yous. It was a beautiful moment, 
that I hoped would be repeated many, many times. I 
pictured myself standing in the batter's box in a major 
league stadium, ready to get my first major league hit. 

Molly was standing in the wives box clapping and 
shouting for me. It might be five years down the road, 
but that's how I wanted things to end up. I don't know 
exactly when, but eventually I fell asleep. The last 
thing I remember was Molly saying, "I love you. I will 
love you forever."

The next morning when I awoke, Molly was in her pajamas 
sitting at my study desk. She was writing something on a 
thank you card pulled from the supply I kept in my desk. 
When I got up to look at it Molly gave me a sad smile 
and closed it. She told me to give her a few minutes 
that the letter was something I should read when I got 
to Florida. I gave her a kiss on the cheek, and went to 
the bathroom.

While I was going through my morning routine, I wondered 
why Molly had seemed sad. Back in my room I asked her. 
Looking away from me at the floor, she said that she was 
sad to see me go. I could understand that I knew that we 
would have some trouble seeing each other. During the 
spring and summer when I was playing, she would be home 
from college. In the fall and winter while I was home, 
she would be at college. However, I knew we'd figure a 
way out. Perhaps in the off-season we could share an 
apartment wherever she was studying at the time. I 
didn't feel like I needed to say anything though, so I 
didn't think too much of it.

A few hours later, Molly was kissing me goodbye, as I 
waited to get on an airplane from my local airport. I 
wasn't that high of a draft pick, but the team still 
wanted me to join the instructional league and was 
willing to fly me down on their dime. Soon enough the 
plane was in the air. I thought about reading the 
letter, but I had promised Molly that I wouldn't read it 
till I was in my apartment. I was not about to break her 
trust. 

In Orlando, a representative of the team picked me up 
and drove me to the spring training facility. After I'd 
settled in and unpacked, I finally picked up Molly's 
letter. Before even reading it, I could sense that it 
wasn't something I wanted to hear. First, Molly told me 
how wonderful I was, how our time together was more than 
she could ever have imagined, and that she would love me 
forever. However, she also said that she felt like her 
part of our relationship was built on a lie. 

She said there was something that she should have told 
me, that her mother begged her to tell me. But if she 
had told me, we could never have had what we had had. 
She said it was irrelevant now because she didn't think 
we could ever speak to each other again. Things had gone 
too far the night before, to a place they never 
should've gone. 

She had always feared that the world would crash in 
around her because of our relationship. And now she knew 
that we shouldn't be together and shouldn't speak to 
each other again. If I really loved her, it was the one 
thing I could do for her.

I sat on my bed and thought about it. I don't know what 
I did wrong, but I had a feeling that I would never get 
an answer. I didn't feel like I would ever love again—at 
least not in the way I had loved Molly. But when you 
love somebody a lot—when you truly love them—you will 
always do what's best for them. I put the note away and 
decided that I would concentrate on baseball. When I 
made the major leagues, Molly would know how to find me. 
Maybe someday she would come back.

For the vast majority of professional baseball players, 
the major leagues never call. In my case I just wasn't 
good enough. By standards of all people who had played 
baseball, I was the elite, but only the elite of the 
elite from the entire world get to see the lights of the 
big city stadiums. 

Five years later I was still playing single A league 
baseball, on a team in southern Virginia. I wasn't 
unhappy and loved the game. But it became a chore to try 
to find work every off-season, and I didn't have other 
means of support. My father had indeed been a changed 
man when he got out of prison. He had gotten sober by 
attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings every day. He 
had become a Christian, though not over-the-top. 
Finally, he had earned a college degree, and was working 
as a drug and alcohol counselor. 

Unfortunately, an explanation for my mother's behavior 
also came. She suffered from bipolar disorder and her 
condition had deteriorated over the years. She was 
unable to work or participate in community life. 
Eventually, because of his past and her present, they 
had to leave my old town. They were living near 
Baltimore, Maryland, which can be an expensive area. 
Thus, they lived in a small apartment where I could not 
crash during the winter, and he didn't have any money to 
share.

For five years I hadn't dated, I told myself that it was 
because I was concentrating on my game, that all I had 
to do was practice a little bit more and try a little 
bit harder and I would move further on. But one evening, 
sitting alone in my apartment, I realized it was a lie. 
It was all about Molly. At that point I realized 
something had to change. I loved baseball, but would 
never make it to the majors. And I had to move on in 
love again. 

While thinking about what to do, I remembered talking to 
the general manager of the major league team at extended 
spring training one year. It seemed like he was going to 
tell me they were going to trade me, but instead he had 
told me that I was a smart guy. When I was done playing 
he said that I should consider going into team 
management. That evening I realized it was time to make 
a change.

The next day I walked over to one of the local colleges. 
I looked it at their brochure and saw they had a sports 
management degree. That would be perfect. I went on to 
the admissions office asked what I needed to do and was 
told that with my high school grades and my life 
experience I could probably be accepted for the next 
semester. Within a month they had my application and 
transcripts, and I had an acceptance letter.

Over the next four years I dedicated myself to my 
studies. I was older so college girls didn't want to 
date me, and because I had no money local women didn't 
want to date me. In addition to sports management, I 
majored in statistics because I heard teams were 
beginning to use them for player evaluation. However, as 
they say sometimes you fall in love with the one you 
least expect to. That was how it was with my studies, 
and I grew to love statistics. After I graduated I got a 
doctorate in statistics and a job with the research 
company halfway between Baltimore and Washington DC.

I had started to date, but nothing really worked. It's 
not as if 'all the good ones were gone'. Where I lived 
people generally didn't get married until their 30s. The 
problem was that nobody seemed just right. I never met 
anybody who I felt that connection with. But I kept 
trying, and eventually met Samantha. She was a second 
cousin—a kissing cousin—on my father's side of the 
family. Because of my father's problems, I had never met 
her until a family reunion when I was about 33. We hit 
it off, and had a lot of fun together. 

Luckily, she lived close to me and we started a 
relationship—though that caused some scandal in the 
family. I enjoyed being with her and more importantly 
felt very comfortable. After years dating I asked her to 
marry me. She said yes. My life was on a new trajectory, 
and eventually I stopped thinking about Molly.

Three years later, we still weren't married. Samantha 
kept pushing, but I always found excuses not to. 
Something inside of me said that even though things were 
good they weren't right. Our relationship became a 
little strained, though not terribly so. Eventually 
though, we settled into being a long-term engaged couple 
who would get married 'someday'.

When life is bad, like it was in my childhood, it never 
seems like it's going to get better. When we become 
comfortable with the good life, we never anticipate a 
downturn. One night while I was sitting in bed with 
Samantha, me watching TV and she reading the book, I got 
a telephone call. It was my mother and she was 
hysterical. Apparently, my father's drinking and smoking 
from when I was a kid had caught up with him. It was 
unexpected, but one night while they were out at a 
restaurant, he fell off his chair midsentence. By the 
time he hit the floor he was dead. It was a massive 
stroke; there was nothing anybody could have done.

Over the next few days I made the arrangements, as my 
mother was too devastated and too mentally ill to do any 
of it herself. I had only told a few people, but word 
spread quickly. I got calls left and right, to the point 
where Samantha got tired of fielding them. It seemed 
that even some of the guards from my father's old prison 
wanted to come to pay last respects. I was grateful. But 
I was also devastated. I was moody and refused to talk 
to Samantha. 

Finally, two nights before the funeral I came home from 
work and all of her stuff was gone. There was a note 
written on a thank you card from the stash I kept in my 
desk that said it was just never going to work. Samantha 
talked about how she wanted the storybook and most 
importantly how much she wanted kids. She realized over 
the past few days I couldn't give her either. She said a 
clean break would be best, and I decided I would respect 
that. In a large part, that was because I realized I 
didn't care. But I did find myself even more devastated, 
not because Samantha had left me, but because I started 
to remember Molly.

The night before the funeral service, the viewing was a 
bittersweet experience. It was bitter because of the two 
parents I had left the one who grew to be a good person 
lay in a casket in front of me, while the one who was so 
broken that it hurt to be around her stood next to me. 
It was sweet because so many people came out to remember 
my father. 

He was apparently so popular that two life prisoners 
from Pennsylvania were allowed a supervised furlough to 
come down and pay their respects on behalf of his entire 
prison. As they passed through the line though, one of 
them who was a career criminal mentioned that I should 
be careful. He had seen some nervous looking woman out 
in the parking lot, just hanging around.

I was too busy really to think about it. There were just 
so many people to meet and to share some laughs with. 
Meeting people who my father had helped change for the 
better made me realize that it's not always how 
something starts that matters. What matters is how 
things in life end.

Hence, I was taken off guard when a somewhat tall 
nervous looking blonde woman slipped into the back of 
the viewing lounge. She looked my way and shot me a sad 
smile. I got the distinct feeling that she may not have 
wanted me to see her. I was also taken by how familiar 
she looked. She didn't exactly look like somebody from 
my past. Rather, she looked a little like Samantha. 
Looking back towards the casket, I noticed that she 
looked a little bit like my father as well. 

Confused, I stepped out of the receiving line, excusing 
myself to the men's room. I didn't need to use the 
bathroom, I just needed to get out of there and think 
about what I had seen. I splashed some water on my face 
and ran my fingers through my hair. Then I noticed it—
the woman looked like me.

Though the rational part of my mind told me that it was 
probably a long-lost relative from my father's side, 
something deeper in my psyche told me that it wasn't. I 
resolved that I was going to ask her when I got back 
into the viewing lounge. However, when I got there 
things had taken a turn for the chaotic. My mother had 
taken off her high heel shoe, and was beating the woman 
with her shoe. She was yelling about how the daughter of 
a whore should not have come to her husband's funeral. 
She was going off about how my father had been hers and 
had always been hers. 

The woman's whore of a mother shouldn't have ever 
touched him. Two of the prison guards who had come down, 
eventually were able to subdue her. However, when the 
police showed up though she got away and attacked one of 
the officers. She grabbed his gun, aimed at his chest, 
and pulled the trigger. Luckily, he was wearing a 
bulletproof vest and only suffered a few broken ribs. 
Before the police could get the gun away from her, she 
put it in her mouth and pulled the trigger.

A few hours later, I was sitting in a different room. 
Everything had been cut and dry, and there were dozens 
of witnesses. The only question the police still had to 
resolve was why my mother had attacked the woman. I had 
had too much though; I needed to be alone and could get 
the answer to that question later.

As I was standing looking in a mirror, seeing what a 
person truly alone in the world looked like, the woman 
quietly and nervously walked into the room. In the 
mirror I noticed that she had long flowing blonde hair, 
beautiful curves, a large chest, and the most beautiful 
sad smile I've ever seen. I didn't know what to say, so 
I didn't turn around. Instead, I acted like I didn't see 
her. Why bother reacting when you have no idea how to 
react?

She didn't say anything at first either. Instead she 
came behind me and stood with her front to my back. She 
put her arms around me, holding my arms tight against my 
body. Her embrace had an unexpected effect. It was 
unfamiliar and strange, but very welcome. It didn't feel 
friendly or affectionate. It felt unconditional. It was 
the kind of embrace I had always pictured getting from 
my parents. 

Then her cheek was on my shoulder, her face touching my 
neck. I could feel her warm slow breath against me. She 
nuzzled slightly, and I felt her eyelashes tickle me. It 
was inappropriate as I had no idea who she was and I was 
about to bury to parents, but I began to get aroused. 
Then she spoke in a voice so familiar. "Jeff," she said. 
"I have been nothing but a disaster in your life. I love 
you and I never wanted this to happen to you. I'm 
sorry." It was Molly.

Breaking the embrace I turned around. On her neck I saw 
a gold chain with a high school ring on it. It was mine. 
Without saying a word I touched it. Molly smiled still 
sadly and said that she had worn every day since I had 
left to pursue my baseball dreams. When I asked how she 
explained to people, she said she just told them it 
belonged to her brother. That made sense—how else would 
you explain a high school boyfriends ring around your 
neck. When I told her so, she looked very serious and 
said, "I don't think you understand, Jeff. I came today 
because I wanted to say goodbye to my father. Jeff, you 
are my brother."

Suddenly, everything came flashing back to me. As an 
adult, Molly looked like me. She had been a basketball 
star like me. I even remembered in high school a time I 
accidentally picked up her T-shirt instead of mine, and 
her sweat and body odor smelled like mine. Even more 
importantly though I remembered how desperately and 
persistently she had wanted to be my friend, how her 
mother had said that my friendship was more important to 
her than I could ever realize, and how when we had 
become friends and a couple I felt perfectly at ease 
with her. She was indeed the sister I had always wanted, 
but had never had.

I hugged Molly with love and desperation. I had lost her 
once, but she had come back. I was not going to lose her 
again, it made sense that sex was too much for her, but 
even if I could never have that again I would keep her. 
I was now alone in the world except for her. I would 
never let her go. When I asked her if we could go 
somewhere else she smiled and said yes.

A little while later we were sitting in a mostly empty 
24-hour IHOP. We were close to a few trucking routes, 
but it seemed as if we had had hit at a good time as we 
were two of the few people there. I told her about not 
being quite good enough at baseball, but had found my 
real calling as a statistician. At her prompting I told 
her about the women I had dated, and how Samantha had 
left me just days before. Her face seemed to have a 
façade of sympathy, but it seemed like she got some 
pleasure in knowing that nobody measured up to her.

When it came time to talk about her life, Molly started 
from the beginning. Her mother was indeed 13 when she 
was born. Her grandfather, who had died a few years 
before I met her, had been even worse than my father. 
The worst part was that he had prostituted her mother 
out since she was a very young child. My father, the 
happy town drunk, had paid one night to sleep with the 
12-year-old girl. That was the night Molly's mother got 
pregnant. Because of timing he was the only possibility. 
There were some rumors around town, but nothing 
definitive. And eventually people stopped trying to 
figure out who the father of the little hooker's baby 
was.

It occurred to me that for whatever problems I had, 
Molly's were at least as bad as mine if not worse. When 
I asked her when she found out that my father was hers 
as well, she said that she knew from a very young age. 
For all his problems my father had privately taken 
responsibility. The bar he drank at was just over the 
hill from her house. Once a month he would come by to 
visit her and give them money. Even when his alcoholism 
got so bad that her mother would not let him come 
around, the money would always be on their doorstep at 
some point.

Molly continued that eventually she found out more about 
him, and he mentioned he was married and had a son. So 
when high school came around she decided she needed to 
find me. She needed to have more of the family than just 
her mother. She didn't know how she would tell me, but 
she always planned to eventually tell me, but she just 
wanted to be friends first. However, it happened so 
suddenly. After trying to be my friend for so long, she 
went from frustration to affection very quickly. She 
loved being close to me, so she put it off. 

Her mother insisted that she needed to tell me. "You 
can't to date your brother," she would say. But Molly 
figured if she did not let things go too far that there 
would always be a better time. Then the night before I 
left for Florida—the night we made love--she realized 
she had blown it. There was no going back; things would 
never be the same. So she wrote the letter and tried to 
leave me behind.

She had continued to play basketball in college, but had 
still done well in school. After majoring in biology, 
she stayed on after undergraduate to get a Masters and 
then a PhD in genetics. Ironically, she lived about half 
an hour away from me, doing research with the federal 
government.

When I asked her about dating, she said that she had. 
Very soon after she started her freshman year, one of 
the most popular male athletes asked her out. She said 
yes hoping it would help her forget about me. Next, she 
mentioned she also gone on the pill immediately, 
convinced that she would never want to have a family 
with anyone other than the person she knew she would 
always love—with anyone besides me. 

That relationship didn't last, and not wanting to have 
to face the pain of dating another man, she accepted an 
invitation to the apartment of one of the other women's 
basketball players who she knew was a lesbian. They had 
unfulfilling sex, but Molly was able to use her newfound 
reputation as the universities token bull dyke to avoid 
dating any other guy. After she finished her doctorate, 
she moved to DC and decided that she would give things 
another try. Again though, no man was fulfilling. 
Eventually she gave up.

I was heartbroken for her. My luck had been only 
slightly better than hers, but that didn't matter. 
Whether I ever found love or not was irrelevant. This 
was my sister, the person I now realized that I cared 
about more than anybody else in the world. She was the 
person I wanted to be happy. She was the person I wanted 
to make happy.

It seemed only natural that I would put my hand on hers. 
I meant it out of affection and sympathy, but the 
reaction was different. At first, touching her soft skin 
again began to excite me. I sat transfixed, looking at 
what somehow was a remarkable connection—one that had 
formed almost two decades before and now had been 
revived. When I looked at Molly, I saw shock in her 
face. I knew that she felt it too, and it was just as 
unexpected for her as it had been for me.

Looking into Molly's eyes though, I realized that it 
wasn't just physical. Though the connection was 
originally a physical reaction it started to be more. I 
felt like Molly was the solution to my problem with my 
loneliness. I didn't know if she felt the same though. I 
wanted to tell her how I felt, that I wanted her to stay 
with me. But I hesitated, afraid of how she would react. 
But I knew how she felt when she asked if she could come 
home with me.

I had convinced one of my father's friends to drive my 
car back to my townhouse, so we hopped into Molly's car 
and I directed her to my place. We rode over mostly in 
silence. However, from the moment we pulled onto the 
street we were holding hands. The connection that had 
been revived a few minutes earlier was not something 
that either of us would let break.

We entered my townhouse still holding hands. Turning to 
each other, we smiled and kissed, stopping only long 
enough for me to bolt and chain the door. I was not 
going to let anything interrupt tonight. I didn't bother 
giving Molly a tour, she would see the place soon 
enough. Instead I led her upstairs to my bedroom. After 
turning on a dim lamp on my dresser, I held her in my 
arms in the center of the room. It was an embrace I 
wanted to feel forever.

Eventually though, we started kissing again. Slowly at 
first, but eventually our mouths opened and our tongues 
danced in desperation and excitement, working off all of 
the frustration we had felt over the years. Then her 
shirt was on the floor and then mine—then her bra and 
the rest of our clothing. Still standing, our hands 
wandered each other's backs. I ran my hands through her 
soft hair, down her back, and then over her still 
athletic but ample curves.

Slowly, and somewhat awkwardly, Molly inched us 
backwards to my bed while we continued to kiss. She 
ripped the covers back on the bed, and pulled me 
backwards on top of her. I got between her legs and was 
about to start, but she said, "No, Jeff. We're going to 
do this like adults today." With that she pushed me back 
got on her knees between my legs and took my cock into 
her mouth.

She started slow teasing the head. Then she got faster, 
taking me in as far as she could. My hips started moving 
up towards her. My cock started hitting the back of her 
throat. On one of the upswings she mumbled for me to 
fuck her face. I couldn't help myself, so I put my hands 
behind her head, grabbed her hair, and started ramming 
her up and down. I didn't know whether she liked it or 
not, but when I pulled her down as I shot my cum deep 
into her throat, she gagged. When I finally let her go, 
she sat up and gave me a wry smile. She leaned over, 
kissed me on the forehead, and said, "Now, is that any 
way to treat your sister?"

I laughed, pushed her back on the bed, and kissed her. I 
had never kissed a woman after cumming in her mouth 
before, but for Molly I would do it. Her mouth had the 
faintest taste of strawberry lip gloss. But it's 
something I could deal with. When I got back up I told 
her that it was my turn. With that I slid between her 
legs. As I looked at her pussy, I realized she was 
shaved. It was ironic that when we were kids she had 
hair there, but now as an adult she didn't. I love 
giving oral sex, so I had gotten quite good at it. 

I started by slowly running my tongue up and down over 
her pussy. She must have liked it because she arched her 
back and sighed. As she got more excited and wetter, I 
noticed an intoxicating musky smell. As much is that 
turned me on, her taste did so even more. I can't 
describe it, but was better than any woman I've ever 
tasted before. Gradually, I worked along the side of her 
lips and up to her clit. Almost the instant I touched 
it, she exploded in orgasm, squirting all over my face. 
I don't know which one of us it would be, but somebody 
would be sleeping in a wet spot tonight.

Even though I had already come, I was still hard as a 
rock. When I sat back up Molly grabbed it and began to 
stroke me. With a big smile she said she hoped I had 
another one in me. At the very least I was willing to 
give it a try. So I got between her legs and slid myself 
right in. Both of us were experienced so there was no 
awkwardness. And because both of us were excited there 
was no need to go slow. 

Instead I drove myself in and out of her with a 
desperation I had never felt before. She thrust her hips 
up and down in rhythm with mine trying to get me in as 
deep as possible. She begged for me to do her harder and 
to fill her with my cum. A few minutes later, I obliged 
and sent the biggest orgasm I ever had shooting inside 
of her.

I collapsed on the bed next to her, and we embraced 
again. Molly would leave in the morning, or maybe the 
day after that, but it wouldn't be long before we were 
together permanently. We cuddled and told each other I 
love you, but soon fell asleep.

The next morning when I awoke, Molly had pulled out some 
paper and was quickly doing some kind of calculation. 
Curious, I sat up and asked her what she was doing. 
Nervously, she looked at me and said that she was 
calculating some probabilities. I looked at the 
equation. It was rather sophisticated and I had no idea 
what the variables were. When I asked her, she said that 
was the probability of genetic disorders if a half-
brother and half-sister had a baby. 

I looked at her quizzically, so she told me that because 
she wasn't dating she had gone off the pill, and was 
just about the right time. Though I probably should have 
been nervous, my love of statistics took over and so I 
asked questions about the equation. By the time she had 
calculated a rather high probability of genetic 
disorders in any child we would have, we had somehow 
talked ourselves down. There was more excitement and 
anticipation as opposed to fear.

In statistical analysis, there is the concept of an 
outlier. What that means that out of every 100 cases, 
five will be significantly different from the average, 
and one will be radically different. It turns out that 
Molly and I were like that. Even though we were 
obviously genetically related, we were different in all 
the right places to have a beautiful healthy baby boy. 
We named him after our father. With the way he turned 
his life around, he deserved it. 

By the time the baby was born, we had already moved in 
together. However that didn't seem like it was enough. 
One date night, while some friends of ours were 
babysitting, I lamented to Molly that I wish we could 
get married. When she asked why we couldn't, I reminded 
her that we were brother and sister. She laughed, and 
reminded me that legally she didn't know who her father 
was. Her birth certificate had only her mother. 

I had already seen the Maryland marriage license 
application, so I said that the form asked specifically 
and clearly if we were related by blood or marriage. 
Molly shrugged and said, "Then we lie." A few months 
later, we were married on a North Carolina beach. A few 
months after that, we were pregnant again.

A few very close friends know that Molly and I are 
related. But they are all people we trust, people who we 
know would not care. At first Molly's mother was 
uncomfortable with the situation, but eventually she 
understood and is now supportive of us. After becoming a 
nurse, she started dating again—well really for the 
first time in her life. 

I don't know whether it was being forced into 
prostitution by her father or just something natural, 
but quickly she figured out women were her real 
interest. She and her partner, a public school teacher, 
live about an hour and a half away in Virginia. They 
come and babysit quite often.

When Molly and I went back to our hometown for our 20th 
high school reunion, everybody was glad to see that we 
had ended up together. When they heard the story, some 
people were upset that we had been apart for so long. I 
just told them that sometimes it's better for something 
to happen later rather than sooner. 

Eventually one of the girls I was friends with in high 
school, one who had very readily persecuted Molly before 
she and I became friends, pulled us aside and 
apologized. She confessed that one reason she was 
willing to be so mean was that her mother had said there 
were rumors that Molly's father was my father.

I don't know whether she expected a response, but Molly 
gave her one. Laughing, the love of my life said, "Well, 
we get along so well who knows maybe we are related." 
Our friend laughed and gave us a big hug. We laughed as 
well, just for us it was because of our happy secret.

END

Author's Note: This story is dedicated to all of those 
female friends who said something to the effect of, "you 
are like a little brother to me". 

I always appreciate feedback. If you really like, really 
hate, or can see some improvements to my stories, send 
feedback to secretdcguy@hotmail.com. I am also looking 
for story ideas, so if you have one please let me know. 
This is my favorite genre, but I do others as well.

--------------------------------------------------------
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life in 
any way, shape or form. Anyone tempted to act out any of 
the scenarios in this story should seriously consider 
seeking professional help.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 83