A Bit Of Consolation (MF cheat)

I was home on my own and happy to be there after the dramas 
of the last few days. I'd spent the morning pottering about 
and now, after a cool shower and the first of a few cold 
beers, I was settling down to watch the big football game 
on television. I cursed the doorbell, prepared to send the 
interloper away with alacrity. But I could hardly do that. 
Melanie. Of all people. She looked terrible.

"Melanie," I said, trying to keep the surprise out of my 
voice. "Are you okay?" She looked at me steadily. Tears 
welled in her eyes and started rolling down her cheeks. No, 
obviously not. Like you do when you're a man when women 
start to cry, I opened my arms and she scuttled in against 
my chest, sobbing quietly. Sighing inwardly, I put away the 
resentment at missing a good football game. She was my 
son's girlfriend. Was. They broke up three days ago. He was 
going to Italy to continue his studies. She was staying 
home. Their four-year relationship was over. He was looking 
forward to an exciting life and career. She was alone and 
devastated.

"What am I going to do?" she asked pitifully in a moist 
sniffling murmur. My shirt was already patched wet with her 
tears.

"You'd better come inside," I said, prising her gently away 
and taking her hand.

Andy and his mother were 200 miles away sorting out the 
details of his trip. He was leaving in a couple of days and 
wouldn't be back. It looked like they'd dumped me with a 
nursemaid job. Melanie sat on the couch, knees together and 
head bowed. She sniffed and then coughed tragically, 
straight blonde-brown hair falling forward over her face. 
The teary hangdog look didn't suit her. She was the girl-
next-door type, freshly pretty enough in that clear-eyed 
clean-lined healthy-lifestyle naturally-19-year-old sort of 
way without being anything like beautiful. If I had to pick 
one word to describe her, I couldn't do any better than 
'neat'. She looked as though she would attend church 
religiously every Sunday morning and, by God, that was 
perfectly true. She did.

She lifted her head. "I came here today to collect 
something personal," she said. "Andy left it for me in his 
room. Do you mind if I get it?"

I shook my head. Why should I mind? She stood up, took a 
deep breath and left the room. Soon she was back, carrying 
a manila folder. "Sorry for crying all over you," she said. 
She was nervous, obviously trying hard.

"No problem," I said, trying hard myself to be gracious. 
And at that moment the folder slipped in her hand and the 
contents slid out and fell to the floor. We both bent 
hastily to retrieve the scattered items. They were colour 
photographs. The one I held showed Melanie standing wholly 
and brazenly naked in a sunny outdoor setting. We were 
kneeling together on the floor, side by side. She saw that 
I saw, and I was too surprised and thus too late to pretend 
I didn't.

"Well, that's torn it," she said, mildly in the 
circumstances. Then: "Does it shock you?"

I continued to look at the photograph. "Not really," I said 
carefully. "I guess I knew you had that sort of 
relationship."

I held the photograph of Melanie naked in my hand and she 
knelt beside me, looking at it. "My breasts are too small," 
she said in matter of fact fashion. She didn't seem to be 
looking for a counter compliment. She pointed with her 
finger and touched the picture. "See? Out of proportion 
with my hips."

I handed her the photograph. She took it and slid it into 
the folder and scooped up the scattered others. "Sorry 
about that," she said. Like she'd spilled a glass of water. 
She stood up and I did too. At close range, my eyes dropped 
involuntarily to her breasts contained in a close-fitting 
pink woolly sweater-thing. She watched me intently. "Too 
small," she repeated. "Unfortunately."

I stepped back three paces and sat on the couch for all 
sorts of reasons. I shrugged vaguely. "Well," I said in a 
drawn-out manner. Nothing further. I couldn't think what to 
say. 

"Andy thought so," she said. She was wearing faded blue 
jeans and she looked leggy and tall. She had a neat and 
crisp triangle of light brown pubic hair and a flat smooth 
tummy. Not that I could see it, but I knew it from the 
photograph. Andy was right. She was not chesty, but she had 
dramatic stand-out nipples like .45 calibre bullets. I'd 
never seen such prominent nipples. They were nearly 
dangerous weapons.

"He was always going on about my lack of definition, as he 
called it," she said. And then she started to cry again. 
Jesus. I stood automatically and she came into the circle 
of my arms again. She put her head on my shoulder and I 
could feel her breasts, small though she said they were, 
pressing points into my chest. Maybe not the breasts. 
Maybe it was those freaky steel-capped nipples. I kept my 
hips turned away from her, necessarily, and it was making 
me stand awkwardly. I patted her gently on the back, right 
on her bra strap and the lumpy back clasp. Messages ran 
rapidly to my brain and I was trying hard not to hear them. 
Do nothing, I kept telling myself. Say nothing. Do nothing. 
Just look and act sympathetic until she goes home.

But she was burrowing into me, nuzzling her head against my 
neck. Her hair was tickling my ear. "You're so nice," she 
murmured. "You've always been nice to me." Well, perhaps. 
Like, nice dog, nice cat, nice pussy. Nice pussy indeed. 
The explicit photograph was still on display inside my 
head. Hot damn. I screwed my hips aside even further 
to avoid frontal contact.

I found that instead of patting her sympathetically on the 
back I was stroking her in long sweeps, my thumb hooking 
repeatedly on the bulky bra catch. So I stopped doing that 
right away. She drew back her head and looked up into my 
eyes. Not far up, because she was a tallish girl. She had a 
quizzical look in her eyes and I could read it with ease. 
She liked to be held, especially today, and she was feeling 
warm and comforted and, just now, without warning, an 
impulse had got loose in her bloodstream which was 
something to do with comfort and something else to do with 
being held in close by a man stroking her back and 
something else again. She tilted her face and put up her 
lips to be kissed.

I shouldn't have. Clinically, I should not have. But as you 
all know only too well, it's not that easy to be clinical 
in such situations. I couldn't not kiss her. She was too 
much right there in my face. The only way not to kiss her 
would have been to stop supporting her body, drop her on 
the floor, run out the back door of the house, climb on 
the roof and wait there till dark. So I kissed her. Or 
maybe I kissed her back. Whatever. In any case the deed was 
performed. I know how to do it very well. I'm a mature guy 
who's had lots of practice. I kissed her and it lingered, 
twining and wrapping and pressing. In the process full 
frontal body contact came about between both parties and 
she could not have been in any doubt about my level of 
interest in her proximity. Again she drew back slightly and 
looked into my eyes. A tiny smile twitched on her mouth and 
a clutch of emotions showed in her eyes. I saw the ripple 
of a thrill there, a trace of forbidden encounter, a hint 
of fear, a smoky wisp of lust, a slow surge of pleasure 
and, unless I was mistaken, a hard steel-grey glint of 
triumph and a flickering spark of revenge. She was liking 
it and she moved in to kiss again.

"Mr Gibson," she said huskily after a couple more minutes 
of close encounter. "You should have given your son advice 
on kissing. You're much better."

I winced. I tried to wriggle away but now she had her arms 
locked behind the small of my back. "Look, Melanie," I 
started. But she darted her mouth at me and we were kissing 
again. Now she was skidding her abdomen aggressively across 
the trapped but painfully-hard penis which was 
contradicting my concern about the proprieties of the 
situation. I was deep in trouble. 

She was making little noises in her throat and her hand 
snaked down and traced between thumb and forefinger the 
length and breadth of my erection. She withdrew her face 
from mine. "I think there's something else you have over 
your son," she whispered.

"Melanie," I said, still trying. "You teach in Sunday 
school."

"I believe in God Almighty," she replied, "but I stopped 
being a virgin over four years ago."

God be praised, we fucked three times that day. She stayed 
the night and it kept happening at regular intervals. She 
stayed the next day and it happened less but it happened 
better. And the next night too, which took us into Monday 
morning. I cooked breakfast for her before she left.

"This should go into an instruction manual for girls who 
have their hearts broken," she said, chomping 
enthusiastically through toast with her strong white teeth. 
"The remedy is simple: Go fuck the boyfriend's father."

"Sounds a bit simplistic," I said. "And maybe just a bit 
too cold-blooded."

"But it works," she said smugly. "I feel lots better."

Something struck me suddenly. "Hey," I said. "When did you 
decide you were going to sleep with me?"

"The night before I came over," she said.

"You scheming little fiend! That business with the crying. 
And with the photographs. It was all a set-up."

"The crying was real."

"What about the photographs?"

"I staged that," she said, pleased with herself. "You think 
I'd have left them here with good old careless Andy? I had 
them stuck under my jumper."

"Melanie, you deliberately seduced me."

"So? Any regrets?"

"Well, I guess not. Not now anyway. Too late for that. But 
why? Why me? I'm old enough to be..."

"My father," she finished for me. "True. But I've always 
had a bit of a soft spot for you. It was a good way of 
finishing off good old Andy and it got me over the blues 
good and proper. Don't worry. It's a one-off episode and I 
won't cause trouble. It's time for me to move on anyway."
 
"I've been used," I said.

"Only women get used," she said succinctly. "Men just 
perform on cue."

Brutal truth. When she returned that night, I told Helen of 
Melanie's tearful visit. "Poor girl," she said 
sympathetically.

"Oh, she's much better now," I said. "I fixed her up. She 
just needed a bit of consolation."