My Fathers Woman Ch 02

It was a quiet week in Lake Wobegon, and, after Monday night, in the Donovan household as well. Just a normal, go-to-work-and-maintain-a-household week for a couple of thirty-something professionals. Evenings were casual and relaxed. Our interactions at bedtime were affectionate, if not erotic for a few days.

I didn't sense any tension on the part of my wife, my lovely and oh-so-playful Michelle. But I was aware of my own sense of uncertainty about just where we stood.

See, Michelle is a hotwife, and I have been moving, with her diabolical complicity but not unwillingly, from the "stag" to the "cuckold" paradigm. Especially this summer, when she began fucking my dad.

Michelle's always been in control, since long before we began exploring outside our marriage. She has veto power over our games, and she's the one who says, "Playtime's over." Actually, that's not quite fair. She assures me I have veto power, too. I just never use it. When she's in pursuit of pleasure, I can't deny her; and when she wants to take a break, I just want to fluff her pillow and bring her chamomile tea.

When she shocked me by cuckolding me with my father -- my sixty-year-old, robust, but seemingly benign "nice guy" father -- we had both started playing leapfrog with each other in terms of adding on to the taboo excitement in our whispered role-playing pillow talk.

I'm pretty sure she was the one who first started teasing me with the idea of my father impregnating her. For me that was a bridge too far... but a bridge that I just couldn't help accelerating into the middle of, and then setting on fire.

This week, I think, she had come to her senses. She had reminded me that there were limits to what she would do in reality, and that she had assured me of that many times, and that she wasn't going to say it again.

I took that to mean that whatever we said while acting out fantasies in bed, she would never actually get pregnant with any other man's child, and that I should stop making that the centerpiece of our play.

I think.

But she also reminded me that I had a safe word. So maybe she was saying, "Stop making me responsible for reminding you of my limits. If we're going to play this game, we're going to play it until you beg me to stop."

We went a few days without having sex. It happens. Outside of being the kinkiest people I know, we're also thirty-something professionals with evening

commitments and occasional headaches and sour stomachs.

I was wondering, though, whether, once the weekend came and we had more time and energy to ease into play mode, she would want to quietly retire that recent addition to our game -- condoms for hubby -- and step back away from our ridiculous focus on pregnancy risk.

I hadn't had my rigid, sensitive cock sheathed skin-to-skin inside her glorious silken pussy in three weeks. It drove me crazy to remind myself that my

father

had. The idea that this weekend might be my opportunity to reclaim that exquisite pleasure was... well, pretty enticing.

I knew her well enough to know that she didn't really like sex with condoms. Given the opportunity, I knew she preferred bareback. "Even with you," I could imagine her teasing me; but it would be teasing, if she ever said it. She was tolerating the latex right now because she knew it drove me crazy to

think

it was her preference, or that she was willingly denying me to amuse and please another man, to stroke another man's ego, as achingly well as she might stroke his erection.

And that right now that other man was my god damn

father

.

It wasn't the first time we had played this way; and in fact, I knew it wasn't even my dad's idea. Michelle had told me that he only made the suggestion (or mandate, as it thrilled me to contemplate) after she had told him about how another one of her men had insisted on the same thing.

That was Trevor; definitely the most "bullish" of Michelle's previous playmates; and yes, it was breathtakingly humiliating and exciting to me when

he

had instructed Michelle to require that I wear condoms, and reserve the pleasure of her bare pussy solely for him. It was a gut-punch, to be so thoroughly demoted and "put in my place;" for my wife to gleefully participate in my emasculation, even if only temporarily. But I didn't obsess over the notion that Trevor would actually get my wife pregnant. Intellectually, of course, I knew that had to be part of the erotic thrill for all of us, even if only subliminally; but it didn't consume me.

Not like I was consumed now, in spite of my wife's vague warning that she was done reminding me what her limits were.

***

Friday evening, Michelle was already home when I got there, but was back in the master bedroom. I called out a greeting and headed into the kitchen to see what was available for an early dinner, hoping that we would have a languorous and erotic evening ahead of us.

She came out a couple of minutes later, and wrapped her arms around me from behind, pressing her warm body against my back.

"Well," she said, casually, "I'm not pregnant."

I smiled, even as I felt my cock begin to swell inside my trousers, illogically. It was a common way for her to inform me that she had started her period. It really never occurred to me to wonder whether she really was pregnant, whether she had entertained another lover that month or not. Of course, I couldn't help myself this time... but to briefly muse,

this time,

if she

had

been pregnant, it would have been with my father's baby.

What those words usually really meant was that I wasn't getting laid that night. Michelle isn't shy about putting down a towel and having sex with me during her period, but not on the first day when her flow is the heaviest. That was fine.

We had another casual evening. That night I gave her an extended backrub, the kind of thing a husband learns to do for his wife who is having that time of the month at the end of a long work week. No expectations. She was appreciative, and later fell asleep on my shoulder. I lay there and enjoyed the feel and smell of her, and pictured her drifting off in the same position on my father's shoulder in his bed, and gently stroked my erection with my free hand.

***

Saturday morning I was out in the front yard, doing some minor weeding in the flower beds, when I heard a voice from behind me.

"Hi, Mister DAH-no-van."

I turned around, still in a crouch, and looked at the pair of black Chuck Taylors that were on my lawn, and then at the pale white calves and thighs that constituted my neighbor Dani's ample but shapely legs. The off-the-shoulder shirt-dress was way too short, and with her fuchsia hair pulled up in a messy bun, the dragonfly tattoo below her ear looked... well, actually, kind of spectacular. And she was sucking on a Tootsie-roll pop.

"Hi Dani," I finally replied. She was smiling coyly, fully aware of the circuitous path my eyes had taken from her shoes to her face. I didn't feel too guilty. She had planned it that way.

"So what are you up to this weekend?" I asked her, after standing up slowly.

"Not much," she replied with a shrug. "I guess no one's having a party this weekend, so..."

"That was a nice time at the Petersons' last weekend," I agreed.

"Uh huh," she said, pulling the sucker out of her mouth and twirling it in front of the tip of her tongue, then extending whole tongue out to lick it, showcasing the shiny metal stud. "I like your dad."

I'm sure he liked you, too, I thought. Surely she didn't suspect that I knew. She wasn't that brazen, was she? Oh, of course she knew I was aware of her shameless little Lolita act, flirting with all the older men at the party, but especially my own father, the sixty-year-old man that her mother had been chatting up. She may even know that I knew she had impudently, teasingly dared my dad to take her out on Sunday afternoon.

Surely, she couldn't have imagined that the old man would tell my wife about that little invitation; or that my wife, lounging naked in bed with him at the time, had practically insisted that he go. Or that later Sunday night, he had called my wife and reported back that the "date" had consisted of an innocent trip to the zoo, followed by a not-so-innocent drive up around the reservoir, during which she had taught him a new bit of slang: "road dome."

"That's good to hear," I replied instead. "He seemed to have a nice time."

She grinned, creating magnificent dimples in her plumpish cheeks, and her eyes sparkled. As if to taunt me, "If you only knew."

But sweetheart, I do know, I thought.

Her precocious sexuality had made me uncomfortable in the past; but somehow, knowing that my own father had just called her bluff, found out that she was more of a tart than a tease, had deprived her of some of her naughty mystique. I suddenly felt inappropriately...

proud

of my old man.

"You still think your mom's interested in him?" I asked her.

"Maybe," Dani said, noncommittally. As if to say, "I don't care now. I had him first."

She gave the sucker another lick, gave me another glimpse of the metallic tongue stud, the one that I knew had been twirling around the glans of my father's penis six days ago.

"Well, tell him I said 'hi,'" she concluded.

"I will do that, Dani," I promised. And watched her turn and lope back across the street. I wondered how many of the other adult men on the block had had that little bejeweled tongue tracing around under the chinstraps of their swollen purple helmets. I knew how many had thought about it.

***

It was Sunday afternoon when Michelle interrupted my ballgame, leaning over the couch from behind me to stroke my chest and offer, "Feel like a little playtime?"

Arenado was at bat with runners in scoring position. I picked up the remote control and turned off the TV. I was in scoring position, too.

I got undressed and turned back the comforter while my wife went into the bathroom for a minute. She came out wearing a sheer baby doll nightie and no panties, and carrying a towel, which she spread over the sheet.

I kneeled between her open thighs, and bit my lip, before asking. "Should I... get a condom?"

She looked at me in silence for a moment, and I waited for her to respond in exasperation. Instead, the corners of her pretty mouth slowly curled up into a smile. She still wanted to play this game, too... at least this part of it.

"That's a good idea," she replied. "You know the rules."

I leaned over to open the drawer of her bedside table where she was now keeping a supply. I had a sudden image of my wife opening a similar drawer on a similar nightstand in my father's bedroom, gathering up its contents in her hands, and making smoldering eye contact with him as she pointedly dropped them in a wastebasket. That was the point, of course. I would be wearing a condom as a reminder that he didn't have to.

All it did was make me harder, make it easier for my wife to take the condom from me, lean forward, and unroll it over my shaft, enveloping me in my Shroud of Deprivation.

Fortunately, she seemed to be as excited as I was, and the condom was lubricated; within a few short strokes, I was moving languidly in and out of her, and she was rocking rhythmically beneath me in genuine pleasure. I couldn't help but be aware of how much better it would feel without the layer of latex over all my most sensitive nerve endings.

Thinking about how much better the satin sheath of her vagina had felt to my father last weekend.

I pictured my father right now, four hours away, watching the same Cardinals game I had just turned off, suddenly thinking of her, maybe through some karmic connection; wryly considering how

if

she was allowing me, her husband, his conjugal privileges right now, at least it was only a pale imitation of the intense gratification that she had given to him.

"Builds character, son," I could hear him telling me, as if he were sending me out to mow the yard on a ninety-degree day while he cracked open a beer; a lesson in discipline he needed to teach me; the price of being no longer a child but not yet a man.

Fortunately, my wife was here with me, moving her hands over my body, undulating her hips around my thrusts; and the condom was preventing me from shamefully ejaculating like that teenage boy behind the lawnmower. I returned to the present moment and maintained a steady rhythm while Michelle positioned herself... just... so... and managed a quite obvious and genuine little orgasm.

And a moment later, regained control of the situation.

"You're such a bad man," she whispered to me. "Taking another man's woman..."

"You're a bad... girl," I replied, thinking that "bad woman" just didn't have the right ring to it. And I just couldn't call the woman I loved a slut.

"I'm a slut," she retorted. Oh, well, okay. I responded accordingly, picking up my pace, feeling her squeeze me through the condom, hearing the slapping sounds as I began to pound into her harder.

"Unless your father... decides to make... an honest woman out of me."

That drew a moan out of me, but I also found myself, without thinking, reaching down and hooking my elbows beneath my wife's knees, drawing them up to her chest, so I could thrust straight down into her, harder.

"That's it... better... enjoy this... while you can," she continued, between gasps, responding to my ardor, but still playing me like a fiddle. I had to stop thrusting to avoid cumming right then; which gave her time to hit me with a complete thought:

"No more blowjobs from college girls for him, no more Sunday romps with my roommate for me."

I must have been staring at her in astonishment; because she was looking back up at me with the most devastating, wide-eyed expression of, "Uh huh, that's what I said."

I began to thrust into her again, and she wrapped her arms around my neck and drew me down to her, so we were chest-to-chest and my head was buried in the fragrant crook of her neck. "Go ahead," she said, giving me permission, and within seconds I was cumming, hard, spurting my semen futilely into the condom, yes, but at least with my throbbing cock deep up inside my father's woman.

Afterwards, after I had rolled off of her and she had carefully got out of bed and gone into the bathroom to clean up and put on a chaste pair of panties, she returned with a washcloth and sat cross-legged on the bed beside me.

"He called earlier today," she informed me.

She didn't have to specify who "He" was.

"Uh huh?" I asked, too spent to respond with the cock-twitch that that normally would have produced.

"Uh huh," she affirmed. "Seems he's got this event in a couple of weeks... over Labor Day..."

"An event?"

"Yeah, some big company party." She lowered her chin so she could look at me "that way," up through her seductive lashes.

"And he would like me to go with him."

"Huh," I responded. I wasn't ready to get hard yet, but the flywheel of arousal that was centered just above my testicles was beginning to turn again.

"He wants to... show you off," I mused.

"Hmm," she demurred. "Stop it. You're embarrassing me."

I smirked at that, and pressed the point. The idea of the two of them together out in public, simply going to the hardware store or the mall, had always given me a little gut-wrench. Taking her to meet his friends? Wow.

"He wants all his coworkers to see who he's... dating," I said, although "banging" was the word that had occurred to me.

"I'd just be a plus-one," she protested. "Just a friend."

"A friend with benefits."

"Well, maybe... maybe I could make that... a little obvious," she said, reaching over and playing with a curl of my hair, just behind my ear. I pictured her doing that to him, at his company event; a beautiful younger woman, not scandalously younger, but strikingly so, leaning in to him, her arm wrapped around his bicep, gazing at him admiringly and playing with his silvery hair while he held court and his co-workers looked on in envy or, in the case of the women, disappointment.

I was pretty sure that none of his co-workers knew me, let alone my wife. Not that that mattered at this point.

"You should go," I said, noting how dry my mouth had suddenly become.

"Really?" she asked, as if her mind wasn't already made up. "All Labor Day weekend? Leaving you here all alone?

"In your cage?"

All right. I was starting to stiffen up.

"Well, then, I'll tell him I'm coming."

I closed my eyes and felt the shiver running through my body.

"I'll want you to buy me a new dress for... the occasion," she continued.

I inhaled deeply. I felt my stomach fluttering with nausea and desire. I liked that idea. I wanted to help her look spectacular for him. Something that would make the other men in his office regard him with jealousy and respect. Something form-fitting, to show off her sleek curves. Maybe something that might show just the suggestion that she was wearing stockings and suspenders, not panty hose.

Maybe something that, if you looked closely enough, might intimate that she was wearing a chain around her waist, from which dangled the key to her husband's chastity cage.

She might have been having similar thoughts, although she went in a slightly different direction.

"Do you think I should wear my wedding ring?"