I took a look at the door as I entered the bedroom. A simple cross-and-bible design, my mind registered, blasphemously. Open and silent. It would be closed soon enough.
I was dropping my father's suitcase off in the master bedroom -- my bedroom -- the bedroom I shared with my wife of eleven years, my lovely and enchanting life partner. So they could spend the weekend cuckolding me under my own roof.
For the week and a half that I had been anticipating this visit, my wife had been teasing me with the idea that this is where he would be staying, replacing me, evicting me, banishing me to the other end of the house. For those ten days, all my feverish conjured images of the two of them together, had been replaced by the image of that bedroom door, closed in my face.
It was only now that I realized that *she* hadn't made that clear fifteen seconds ago in front of both of us. My father had invited me to take his suitcase to the room I wanted him to stay in, and this is where I had taken it.
I walked back to the main living area, and followed the sound of their voices into the kitchen, where Michelle was mixing drinks. Scotch and water for Dad, a gimlet for her. And a martini for me. I had half expected to see her making me a Shirley Temple.
Michelle suggested we take our drinks out onto the patio and enjoy the twilight. My father and I agreed. Michelle led the way, and as my dad and I moved to follow, I noticed that he stopped and allowed me to go next. Women and children first, I thought. As I passed him, he placed a hand on my shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze. I gave him a weak smile, and he smiled back at me with something like sympathy. What could I say? This is what I had wanted, and now I was in the middle of it.
Fortunately, because of the four hour drive after the workday, Dad had eaten earlier in the evening, and so I didn't have to make small talk through a whole dinner. Michelle was playing the hostess, taking the lead on a conversation about quirky co-workers, making sure she asked simple questions of both of us to keep us both engaged. I could tell my dad was feeling as awkward as I was.
After a half an hour, my dad finished his drink and stood up in the now-total darkness. "Well, it's been a long day. I think I'm going to go take a shower."
My wife stood up, too. "Here, then, I'll come show you where everything is."
I sat forward in my chair, my mouth slightly agape. My Dad made eye contact with me from the patio doorway and simply said, "G'night, Ryan."
Michelle stopped as she reached the doorway, and told me, "Don't stay up too late." The grown-ups were going to go have some private time. Then she turned and followed my Dad, her pert bottom swaying seductively in her cuffed walking shorts. And that was the last I saw of them that night.
It wasn't the last I heard them, though. I stayed on the patio, finished my drink; went inside and poured myself a Scotch, feeling like I was raiding my dad's liquor cabinet. Mostly, I wanted the weight of the cylindrical glass in my hand; martinis are too easy to spill when your hands are trembling. After a bit, I crept down the hallway to where the closed door had been haunting my dreams for almost two weeks.
I stood outside it and listened. I could hear low voices, occasionally Michelle's sweet giggle, but no words I could make out. I sipped my drink. Their conversation continued. Then for a while I heard nothing discernable at all.
And then I heard a long, low gasping groan. That was my wife, I knew, being impaled. My cock tried to swell in its cage.
Then rhythmic squeaking. The box springs, protesting against the impact of my father's thick torso shoving my wife's body down into the mattress, steadily and repeatedly.
A series of feminine grunts --- unh, uhn, uhn -- in matching rhythm.
And then bumping sounds, the banging of the headboard against the wall, like the bass player joining a slow-building hard rock anthem.
And nothing from my father, as he fucked my wife in silence. I remembered something Michelle had told me a couple of weeks ago, after finally dropping the pretense that this was all a charade. *"But with your dad, well, once he's in me, he's like... serious business."*
I stepped back. The closed door mocked me. I shouldn't be standing in a dark hallway outside my father's bedroom, listening to him do grown-up things. With his woman. That was *his* prerogative, *his* privilege. He was the *pater familias.*
I walked back down the hallway, stopped to pour myself another drink, and then retreated to my empty bed in the guest quarters and laid down in the darkness. And waited. And sipped. And waited.
***
I was back at the doorway, listening, trying to hear above my own ragged breathing and pounding heart. The banging of the headboard and the shrieking of the bedsprings had stopped. Perhaps they were taking a break. More likely, I knew, it meant that their first act had reached its inevitable and primal conclusion, and my father had already inseminated my wife.
Then the door was opening; it hadn't been latched, I must have pushed against it, unwittingly, just enough for me to glimpse inside, seeing them together, as if in a tightly-framed shot in an art film.
They had ended up crosswise on the bed, so that I was viewing them in three-quarters profile, with Michelle's head somewhat closer to the foot of the bed than the rest of her. Her arms were extended above her head, and her feet were still on my father's shoulders.
He was just straightening up, just sitting back onto his haunches, his eyes still looking down at my wife's face, with a pleased grin on his face. A satisfied grin. His face was red and he was still breathing heavily. Her ankles were still on his shoulders; the backs of her thighs pressed against his belly; her bottom and lower back rolled up onto his knees. I could imagine that he had just had her folded up underneath her, where he could pound her like a pile driver.