I had very little to do with her growing up as I had moved out and into my own home and started working. I had then gotten married myself (although never had kids) but saw her at family get-togethers and such. She got married at eighteen and had two kids almost straight away. Her hubby never gave me a good vibe, but he was her problem not mine.A few years later my father and stepmother retired and moved off to the south of France to live, so except for her husband and kids, I was pretty much Bella’s only family left in the UK. I saw her on and off through the years and got cards and stuff at Christmas and birthdays.Then one stormy July evening there was a knocking at my door, I opened it to find Bella standing there with her two kids (now about eight and ten years old) and each one was carrying a suitcase. I hadn’t seen her for about seven years, since my wife’s funeral, she looked cold and wet and miserable.“What’s going on?” I asked.“I’ve left the bastard, and for good this time.”I. Questions. Questions. Of course the more I pondered it, the clearer the memories became and the more they turned me on late at night. Every time I masturbated, it was to thoughts of her magnificent breasts and rock-hard nipples. To thoughts of the mound of dark, curly hair sitting just above her sex as she grabbed my hand and placed it between her legs. To thoughts of how heat radiated from her cunt and her wet desire flowed onto my hand as she grinded her clit like a bitch in heat. I shot many a load remembering the whirlwind of sucking and fucking we found ourselves caught in during that fateful afternoon and the deposit of my own sticky cum that I left in her pussy. But now? I’d bump into her at their house and our eyes would briefly meet then dart aside. We gave forced laughs at each other’s jokes. If my hand brushed hers, she’d flinch. If she leaned a little too close to me, I’d become a statue. The situation was untenable. As usual, my partner, her father and her brothers.
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