Back From The Dead 1

She might have heard the weak sputtering cries for help if she hadn't been crying out herself. Lydia was fighting for her breath. She wanted to move, to get out from underneath him, to gain the ascendance, but Pepe was just too young, virile, heavily muscled, powerful, and determined for her. Idiotically, Lydia thought about the bed of ferns that was being crushed in the small grove of trees surrounding the walking path beyond the pool patio. She worried what the gardeners would think when they came the next day to groom the grounds and found the ferns trampled and bruised and torn.

But then she had something else to think about, as Pepe thrust his hips and entered her deeply with a hard, throbbing cock that stretched her and filled her nearly to the limit. His pelvis was insinuated between her thighs as he fucked her missionary style. She was trying desperately to get out from underneath him, to turn him unto his back, but he would have none of it. He was Caribbean. He would have what he wanted his way. Just like his father had done.

Lydia thrust her hips up, trying to turn their sweaty, thrashing bodies, but Pepe had both of her hands trapped above her head, holding them together at the wrists in the firm grip of one hand. The other hand had her by the throat and he was squeezing, taking the air and the fight out of her.

And then he began to ride her with his cock, using the technique he must have acquired by heredity, as she remembered it so well from years past—when his father fucked her. Bringing the head of his cock out and sliding it across her clit, putting pressure on her there until he felt her jerk, and then the long slide back inside her to the hilt. Listening for the deep moan escaping her lips, her fighting for breath as he gripped her neck. Pumping her deeply, and then shallowly, rotating his cock inside her with a languid twist of his slim hips. And then the thick bulb of his jet-black cock rising out of her, dragging up to her navel and then descending again through her platinum blonde pubic hair and finding her clit. Loving her clit with circular motions, lubricating it with his precum. Waiting for the jerk and shudder of her, as she reached a higher level of passionate sensitivity. And then the slow, long dive inside her.

Lydia arched her back and cried out as Pepe let loose his grip on both her neck and her wrists and dove for her breasts with his teeth. Her long fingernails raked down Pepe's heavily muscled back and dug into his meaty butt cheeks, moving around to his hips and trying to force his pelvis up. She continued crying out—her throaty gasps and groans drowning out the faint sounds coming from the swimming pool as Pepe began plowing her strongly and deeply and she writhed and shudder under him.

He lifted his face from his assault on the nipples of her ponderous breasts and gave her a smile and a laugh.

"Now?" he whispered in a deep-throated voice.

"Oh, god, yes, now," Lydia cried out.

Pepe laughed again and then encased her arms between his, rose up on his knees, on either side of her hips, but only a couple of inches. Allowing the head of his dick to come out and rub across Lydia's clit again as she gathered up her strength. His lips went to hers and she opened to him.

Then, digging the heels of her feet into the moist soil of the fern bed, Lydia wrapped her hands around Pepe's young, slim waist and thrust her pelvis up into his, impaling herself and taking him deep inside and beginning to pump, fucking herself on his now rock-steady pole. Using him to reach all of the nooks and crannies inside her that impassioned her in ever more thunderous, closely timed waves of flow and electricity and going . . . over . . . the edge. Good. No, very good. Just . . . not . . . the same.

And as she felt her explosion coming on, reaching between Pepe's legs and listening to his bellows of passion as she worked his balls with probing, searching fingers to bring them to an almost simultaneous climax.

Murmuring to each other, cooling down in the moist embrace of the fern bed, as Pepe caught his breath and quickly recovered his vitality and control. His lips on her nipples and the fingers of one hand prodding between her labia for her clit as his still-half-hard cock twitched inside her.

"It's too quiet. I think we need to go back now," Lydia whispered. "He'll wonder why we've been gone so long. I just said I had something to show you in the garden."

"And so you did," Pepe said. And then he laughed again. His father's easygoing, guttural laugh. Lydia had found that so disarming. It had helped coax her to open her legs to him. She had been young and naïve. And he had been Caribbean and beautiful and full of life . . . and hung.

"You're supposed to be helping him in and out of the pool. He'll be angry he's had to get out on his own. And that no one is there to take him right inside."

"You didn't bring me here to play nursemaid to your old man," Pepe said.

"No, I didn't," Lydia admitted.

"You brought me here for this," Pepe said and he reached down and encircled the root of his reengorging cock and rotated it inside Lydia, causing her to shudder.

"Yes," she sighed. "But now we'd better . . ."

"No."

"Don't argue, Pepe," Lydia said, and she started to push him off her. If he knew, he'd obey her. But of course he didn't know. No one but Lydia knew now—well, no one who mattered.

"No," he declared again. "This is the way you want it. You're a tease. You invited me because you are ripe for fucking. Your Stan can't do you right anymore. I know what you need and want. I've got ten inches of what you want."

"No," Lydia moaned and she started to struggle, but to no avail. He was just too young and strong and virile . . . and enticing to her.

Pepe came up on his knees, straddling Lydia's hips, and he put an arm under her and turned her and brought her up on her hands and knees underneath him. Cupping a breast in one hand and wrapping the other one around her neck, once more making her fight for her breath, he arched her shoulders up into his chest, rose up on the balls of his feet, encased her hips between his knees and fucked her hard and fast, the power of his hard-muscled thighs in each thrust. As her cries of rough taking and passion rose, his hand moved from her neck to cover her mouth and nose to muffle the sounds of sex, and she was on the border of an exhausted faint when he ejaculated deep inside her and she met his spouting cum with fireworks and flow of her own.

Lydia's millionaire, older husband, Stanley, whose daily swims were therapy for fully regaining the movement of his right arm and leg following a series of small strokes, was floating face down at the shallow end of the pool when Lydia and Stanley's new physical therapist, Pepe returned from the fern bed in the forest walk beyond the pool patio. It was later determined that he'd had a massive stroke and probably would have died even if he hadn't drowned in the pool.

"Oh god, oh god, what are we going to do?" Pepe said, for once not in full control.

"Call the police and his lawyer, of course," Lydia said, fully composed, belying the many years—nearly twenty-seven now—that she and Stan had been married. More than twenty-six very long years by Lydia's reckoning. "It's not like this was unexpected," she continued. "He was a walking time bomb. I'm sure he's had a stroke."

"But I was supposed to be here with him. But, my god, I can't let them know I was here professionally. I don't have my license yet. I told you . . . but you were too hot for my dick to hear me."

"Calm down," Lydia murmured. She walked up real close to Pepe and ran her fingernails down his arm, causing him to chill. "Of course you don't need to be here. Go on, take off. No one but me now knows you were asked to come give Stanley therapy. Go on now. I'll call you when all of this blows over."

But Lydia wasn't sure she would call him again after all. She had thought he might be the substitute she was seeking. But he was just too male-dominating Caribbean. She had done everything she could to signal to him what she really wanted. But it just had not been the same.

Lydia watched Pepe stride around to the side of the mansion, where his motorcycle was parked. She enjoyed the way his tight butt cheeks grabbed as he walked while he pulled the black muscle shirt over his milk-chocolate skin. A luscious mix of his father's Jamaican darkness and good solid Norwegian stock. Lydia had no intention of revealing that Pepe had been here, and it had nothing to do with him not having a license to work as a physical therapist yet. She didn't want any nosey investigators looking into Pepe's past, as they surely would considering the fortune Stanley was leaving. It would certainly complicate matters and look at least a little suspicious, if they discovered that the son Lydia had born out of wedlock in college and given away was present at her husband's demise.

* * * *

"I don't know what we're waiting for," Lydia said, trying to feign patience but not doing a very good job of it. She was sitting in the family lawyer's office, waiting for the formal reading of Stanley's will. It was inevitable. She was aware that Stanley had a prenuptial agreement leaving her well fixed but not in total control of his fortune . . . unless he died heirless. It seemed a little ridiculous after more than twenty-five years of marriage to even have a prenup, but neither she nor Stanley had given a thought to changing it. However, she didn't see that there possibly would be a problem. All of Stanley's relatives were gone. They had had a son, Brian, but he had died while on an Everest mountain-climbing expedition two years ago, his body still in a deep crevice on the unforgiving snow-clad mountainside.

No one had mourned Brian as Lydia had. No one could even appreciate the depth of the relationship she'd had with her son. He had been so devil may care and adventuresome, though. A beautiful youth, but throwing himself into any opportunity to risk his life and limb. And in the end, it had caught up with him. Lydia lifted her handkerchief to her eyes and blotted her tears. It was fine for her—very fine indeed—if the family lawyer believed the tears were for her husband, Stanley. But she, and she alone, knew they were for her beloved son, Brian.

"Just a few more moments, Mrs. Morton," the family lawyer said. He was sweating and mopping his face with his handkerchief. Lydia had never seen him like this. He'd always been so calm and collected when she and Stan had dealt with him.

"I don't . . . ," she began.

"Just a few more moments. There apparently has been a glitch. A phone call from India last week. And . . . and . . . I'm sorry I didn't say anything about this before. But I didn't know how . . . ah, well, here he is now."

The lawyer was standing, his face flashing between expressions of concern and relief, his eyes looking beyond where Lydia was sitting in front of his desk.

Lydia stood and turned. And gasped.

"Hello, Mother." The voice was halting, the speech a bit slurred.

"No!" Lydia cried out. It wasn't really the shock at the greeting and what it might portend. It rather was that she didn't recognize this man who was moving through the door, leaning on a cane and favoring a stiff leg. And she wasn't slow of mind. She had instantly caught on to why the lawyer was holding off on the reading of the will and what the appearance of this man meant.

"I know it's a shock, Mother. That's one reason I didn't contact you before now. I was badly broken—and, for months wasn't even conscious. My climbing team had assumed I was dead, but another one found me and took me down to Katmandu, and then, when it was clear I might survive, I was sent on to New Delhi. I . . . I've been convalescing. And deciding whether I even should . . . well, you know. I've been thinking about this self-destructive streak I've had, and I . . ."

Lydia turned to the family lawyer and declared in a steady, steely voice. "I'll not make any declarations at the moment. This young man is a good ten years older than my son. . . . I just don't know. I don't want to see a court fight, and I suppose it's slightly possible that recovering from such an accident could have aged him. But I just don't know. Perhaps we should wait on a reading of the will. I just don't . . ."

"Yes, I think you are right, Mrs. Morton. Yes, I think that would be best." The relief in the lawyer's voice was palpable. He'd never had this happen to him before in thirty years of law practice. And she was taking the possibilities, the ramifications of the situation very well. He had always admired Lydia Morton. And, yes, he'd wanted to get in her panties too. She was a beautiful, ageless blonde. Much younger than Stanley, of course, and the lawyer knew that they had rushed to the alter because their son, Brian, was on the way. And Lydia Morton obviously married Stanley for his money, not his looks. But she was one sexy, smart broad. And she'd stuck with Stanley for over twenty-five years. Her reaction to this turn of events showed her to perfection as unflappable. He felt himself going hard. He wanted to fuck her more now than ever before. Perhaps after all of this unpleasant uncertainty was over . . .

"I know it's been a shock, Mrs. Morton . . . Lydia. Perhaps we should call it a day. I will see Brian . . . this young man . . . settled in a hotel, and we'll set up appointments for the two of you . . ."

"No, I think he should come home with me."

"Come home with you?" The lawyer was flabbergasted.

"Yes, I think if we have time to discuss this alone, we can come to some accommodation."

"Oh, yes, I understand," the lawyer said. And at the moment, he thought he did understand. Although he knew Lydia had stood by her marriage, he also knew that she'd had affairs here and about. In fact, a rumor was going around now that she was sleeping with a Caribbean half breed muscle man. He could see it now. Presented with a complication between her and her husband's full estate, Lydia was going to see if she could fuck her way out of the problem, ensnare this young man and convince him to sell his somewhat shaky birthright—at least until or unless he let them do DNA sampling—just to get his cock inside her. And, as the lawyer took another look at Lydia, he thought the chances were good she could carry it off.

The lawyer only had it partially right, though. Lydia Morton indeed wanted to get this Brian pretender home and alone. But it was more because she wanted to be sure herself that he wasn't her son. She knew exactly how she could do that, but she couldn't do it here in this office and she couldn't do it during arranged meetings with witnesses.

"Is that arrangement satisfactory with you?" the lawyer asked the Brian claimant.

"Yes, quite," the young man answered. "I would not have come back at all, if I wasn't prepared to face this."

That night, after having set the scene—having all of the servants cleared from the house after a gourmet dinner and after-dinner drinks before a roaring fire, letting the flames in the fireplace set the diamonds encircling her neck and descending to her carefully uplifted cleavage in an alluring gown sparkling, and showing the young man not only where his bedroom was but where hers was as well—Lydia prepared her bedroom. She slipped on a diaphanous gown that revealed all of her charms to perfection and lit the lamps on either side of the bed to their lowest setting.

She wanted the atmosphere to be alluring and her charms to have the right lighting, but she needed light. She would know if it was Brian or not if he came to her as she had implicitly invited him to—and she would know what she wanted to assure herself of if he came to her in the light.

She then posed herself on the silken sheets of her bed and dozed until the darkest hour of the night.

Lydia awoke to her mattress yielding to the weight of him, and she opened her eyes just as he was leaning over to turn off the light by the bed. He had already clicked the other one off. She only got a glimpse of him, but she could see that that his body was hard and well-muscled and that he, indeed, was a somewhat aged version of her son.

"No. The lights. Please leave them . . ."

"I don't know if I could in the light," he mumbled. "I almost didn't come back. I had so much time to think. To think about this . . . us. I don't know if I could . . . if I could see you. But I couldn't stay away."

"The light. I want the light . . ." She was flustered and thwarted. She had to see to be sure. This was all set up so that she could see—and know beyond a shadow of doubt.

The young man cut off her objection by covering her mouth with his and taking her into a deep kiss. He had her pinned to the bed, one of her arms under his body and his good leg straddling one of hers, holding her to the bed, while he slowly unbuttoned her gown and revealed her trembling flesh. Her head was cradled in his arm and the hand of that arm found one of her breasts and was pinching at a nipple and causing her to shudder and writhe and moan softly under his touch. His other hand glided down her belly and through her pubic hair, and he parted her clitoris lips with his fingers and began the process of giving her hot flashes and flowings and bringing up moans and groans from deep inside her.

He was moving on top of her and parting her moist labia with his strong fingers and inserting the bulb of his cock there. She struggled under him, still intent on seeing, on knowing. But she began to yield to him almost immediately. Yes. He was monstrously long and thick. Yes, yes. He was curved upward, the bulb dragging along the undulating muscles of her passage walls as he moved into her. Yes, yes, yes, his fingers going to her clit. Y-e-s-s. As he slowly stretched and entered and entered and entered, reaching farther up into her than any other man had ever done before.

Not pumping but relentlessly sliding up into her, reaching for her heart.

And then, her heart pounding, her passion reaching for the heavens, as he turned onto his back and brought her up straddling his lap, impaled to the quick on his cock . . . and let her take over the fuck. Yes, yes, yes, she exulted as she rose and fell and rotated at her own pace, creating her own waves of passion, using his gigantic, skyward pointing pole to fuck herself wildly and totally, bringing herself—and him—to and over the edge as their juices mingled and then beginning at the beginning and bringing them to a shared climax again and then again.

Yes, she no longer had to look for the birthmark at the root of his cock. This was what she tried to find in substitute from Pepe and could not achieve. This was how she had taught Brian to fuck her. There was not a doubt in the world. The son Stanley had given her was home and very much alive.