THIRTY
'Revisit'
"Hey, Dad."
"Sweet."
"I'm a little later, but I'm on my way."
"Sure. OK. I wasn't worried."
"Yeah, I know, but..."
"Yeah."
"Well, I stopped in at Kraters' on the way home - pick up somma that Harrar."
"Cool. That'll be good."
"Well, yeah... "
"What's up, Sweet?"
"OK, so I ran into Howard... the Howards... you know, Mom's boss."
"Yes?"
"Yeah, so we started talkin' - you know, the barbeque."
"Yes. That was a good time."
"It was. And... so, anyway... so, they're giving me a ride home."
"OK."
"Yeah. And... we got to talkin' and... well, I'm kinda turned on."
My cock jerked stiff a little.
"Always a good thing."
You laugh. "Yeah. So, I kinda invited them over."
I smile. I wonder if you can hear that over the phone.
"OK. Good. You sound nervous."
"Well. Yeah. You know she... sorta..."
I laugh. "Yes, she does. How long you think you'll be."
"Oh, quick, we're already turnin' onto Nelda."
"Yeah, OK, so - basically - you're here."
You laugh. "Just about."
"OK - I'll close this out and meet ya at the door."
"Yeah, bye."
"Enjoy your self."
I hang up and quickly save and close out the story I'm working on.
Do a quick run through the living room, picking up stray bits of clothes and such and tossing them up to the landing.
As I reach the door, I hear the car purr into the drive.
I open the door and watch you pop out the back and start up the walk.
You hurry along, nearly skipping with excitement. A huge smile.
Your braless tits bounce and sway under your loose white top, bloused into your wide black belt.
Your knee-length black skirt, does little to impair movement and your silver mesh choker sparkles over your throat.
Mr. Howard is, of course, wearing one of his richly tailored suits, sculpted to enhance his body, revealing what should be revealed, hiding what should be hidden.
He knows how to invest in his costume.
And in hers.
She comes up the walk in a dress that somehow is exactly loose enough at the knees to allow her imperious stride and, at the same time,each step kicks the skirt out - emphasizing the length and power of her long, scissoring legs.
The seamstress has laid the rich black cloth on the bias so it sits comfortably, hugging each curve and tight enough to display her powerful thighs and swaying hips, as she moves as freely as if naked.
Her long, flawless torso is equally on display, as are her perfectly sized-breasts, a shallow vale between them demands that one see their firm, upholding shape.
She glides, a well-practiced, well-oiled machine.
She is, as always, surrounded by an aura of power.
She is the model on which all trophy wives are based.
Except in this case, MISTER Howard is the arm candy.
Sure, he's the money, but still...
She is firmly in control.
I invite their entry with an arm sweep, her height is startling as she passes.
She is wearing heels, high enough that we are nearly the same height, yet somehow those are still sensible shoes.
That is rare.
She is the sort of beautiful that defines itself.
Above comparison.
Without peer.
"Come with me."
They have never been in the house before - except for cutting through the kitchen to the office last week.
And I notice that she is appraising every aspect of our home, size, lay-out, furnishings... without affectation or judgement, she just notes every detail.
I, therefore, become more conscious.
Deeper into the physical space.
Interesting effect.
As I lead them into our living room, I hear you shed your clothes and go to kitchen, putting the coffee in the pantry, running water and clinking glasses as you prepare drinks and a tidbits tray.
He stands at the couch and helps her lower herself to settle elegantly onto the seat, taking ownership simply by her presence. He sits down beside her with the grace of a large and powerful animal.
"Thank you for last week-end," Her voice has a quiet, brahman lilt. "It was most... entertaining."
"I am glad you enjoyed yourself. Yourselves."
She gives an almost imperceptible nod of inclusive recognition to the man sitting beside her.
"Yes. Most entertaining."
We sit silent for a beat.
"It has been a while since we have seen... Deidre."
"Yes, she's been gone several years."
"Indeed."
Another beat.
These are not awkward pauses. We are simply not compelled to chatter.
"She did seem to remember her place."
This would have seemed an odd turn of phrase from almost anyone else, but with her it was a simple statement of fact, no need for explanation.
"Yes. That is why she came back - she left because she had forgotten."
She looks at me, reading me. Allowing me space to explain. And to choose not to.
We both knew what the other meant - no need for details.
"It was most satisfying to renew our acquaintance."
"That is why we had the do."
Her head cocks slightly. Reading my meaning through my silence.
"Of course."
"However, she was not completely unknown to me."
"As I understand."
"Is she available? For me now."
Again, an odd tern of phrase, but absolutely appropriate between us.
"No, not at the moment. She is otherwise occupied."
I do not mention that she is huddled naked on the concrete floor of her cell in our basement.
You come in, carrying a tray with four mugs of fresh coffee, preceded by the dark and fruity aroma of the Harrar.
You are, of course, casually naked, but for the wide silver collar sparkling around your throat.
Mrs. Howard appraises your unclothed beauty as she had our home on her entry - without judgement, noting every detail.
Though I do notice the widening pupils, the slightly flared nostils.
You are as uniquely gorgeous as she is.
And she sees that.
Your hair sweeps as you move to a chair.
With a casual movement of your arm, you lift your hair and drape it behind you, cascading over the back of the chair and tumbling to the floor.
I realize that I am still standing and move to sit in the other chair.
Mrs. Howard asks about your school and you respond.
She is genuinely interested.
The two of you sit. Her, exquisitely attired; You equally exquisite in your nakedness.
You both study the other. Occasionally one or the other of you will glance in my direction.
Mr. Howard sits, a piece of furniture.
All is normal.
My erotic sensibility rises, blood heating, breath deepening.
The same is true of you three, but nothing overt or clumsy arises.
Mrs. Howard, her voice laden with solicitous acknowledgment that she might be broaching too private a subject, asks about your casual, comfortable nakedness.
"Oh, yes. It's the way we are. Dad likes to watch me." You give the hair over your ear a quick flick and smile. "And I like him to watch."
Mrs. Howard smiles, a small, dipping nod of accepting recognition.
"And I like being available all the time."
Her smile broadens.
"You are his daughter?"
"Oh, yes."
"You do so look like your mother. No cause to doubt. Still, one does not wish to presume."
You lean back in the chair and, both hands behind your neck, lift your hair and let it fall, rippling to rest again behind the chair.
This, of course, lifts your tits, obviously and deliberately offering them on display to her.
"You are quite brazen."
You laugh, "Habit, I guess."
"I suppose."
"Come, stand before me." She indicates a spot beside the coffee table.
Thin tendrils of steam rise from the mugs of coffee, still untouched on the tray.
You rise and walk across the floor.
God, girl, you are so fucking gorgeous.
Breathtaking still.
Unfaded by familiarity.
I have to readjust my pants.
You stand for inspection.
Calm.
"Turn. Slowly."
You obey as if you were fulfilling your desire to display yourself.
Which, obviously, you are.
She strokes your hair, tracing the forms of your back down to your ass through your silken honey.
When your turn is complete, her hands rest on your pudenda.
You shiver, smile, as she traces up over your abs, her fingertips floating.
"Yours is a lovely choker. Well set, snug. Does the apparent meaning hold?"
"It does... Well, it might have initially."
"No longer?"
"I am not owned. I just like the way it looks. And feels."
"A reminder."
"No, a fitting expression."
She rises effortlessly.
She stands, your head shoulder high to her.
Without warning she spanks both your tits from the outside.
Your flinch is one of accommodation, not avoidance.
She notes that.
She cups your right breast with her left hand, thumbing the simple ring you wear today.
Her right hand slams down on your tit, driving it into the cupping, now clutching hand beneath.
She gazes into your face, appraising, analyzing.
Without warning, she repeats her action, clapping your tit between her fierce hands.
She does it again.
Tears well up in your smiling eyes.
Mrs. Howard looks to me, questioning wordlessly.
I tilt my head slightly to the side and shrug.
She knows I mean that it is up to you.
She pinches the ring between her fingers and lifts, stretching your throbbing breast high.
She lets it fall back into her cupping hand.
She curls those fingers into a fist, your tit crushed in it.
Mrs. Howard turns to look at me.
She lifts her fist, watching my face as she lifts my daughter off her heels by her captured breast.
A smile curls the edges of her luscious mouth as she slowly nods her head a couple times.
She lowers you to stand on your own and releases her grip.
