On Monday morning of Labor Day weekend I was up earlier than I wanted to be, for the usual reason. My body's failed attempt at achieving a morning erection had awakened me, and then my twisted brain took it from there.
I reached for my phone and looked again at the two pictures my father had sent me yesterday. First, a pile of clothes on what must have been his living room floor, judging from the furniture legs in the frame. Heels, lacy bra and garter belt, and the sleek blue bodycon dress I had purchased for my wife to wear to his company party on Saturday night. As his date.
It was a dress designed to make a statement of *pure sex,* and I had selected it myself, drawn irresistibly to the idea of my wife making just such a statement to my father and his friends. And my father sending me visual confirmation that it had achieved its purpose; that apparently, it hadn't even remained on her body as far as the bedroom after the event.
And then, several hours later, another picture, this time of nothing more than a simple pair of yellow cotton panties, on the tile floor of what must have been his kitchen. No words with either picture. Just documentation that my father was getting my wife naked, at every opportunity, in every room of his place, all weekend long.
My wife had gone away for weekends with other men before, leaving me to wallow and luxuriate in my torment; she is a hotwife and I am a cuckold and that's how we play. This weekend was different. Part of it was the public nature of it, the fact that she was attending a social function to be introduced to others as his date, the woman he was seeing, and presumably sleeping with. Part of it was the extra day and the prospect that that would give them extra time to play at being boyfriend and girlfriend, and not just furtive sex partners. But always, there was the sex. Between my wife, and my father.
Neither one of us had mentioned pregnancy risk for a month, but it was still something that gnawed at my psyche. Fortunately, I had been able to subtly observe the birth control pills disappearing from the pack in the medicine cabinet, and the entire pack apparently went with her on her weekend trip to see him; otherwise, I might have been in full panic mode.
But, she had given me something else to obsess over in that regard last week, when she had launched into a little lecture about how semen contains "love hormones" -- dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin -- and planted in my mind the notion that all this weekend, my Dad was inoculating her with his own hormones, while I had been leaving mine in the reservoir tip of a used condom that she then tied off and dropped in the trash.
I wondered how many times the Old Man had got it up and pumped my wife full of his semen this long weekend. I knew, from her accounts and from my own observation last month, that he was good for two or three times a day, anyway. I hadn't had sex with my wife three times in a day in years. Not that I wasn't capable of it; I'm sure that if I hadn't been locked in this cage, I could have jacked off six or eight times a day this weekend. It's just not something that a married couple in their mid-thirties do, I thought. All the time in the world; and, frankly, the white-hot intensity of new relationship energy just wasn't there.
Still. The idea that my father had just had a long weekend to baste the walls of my wife's smooth, moist pussy six or eight or ten times with his hormone-laden semen, massaging it into and through the tender tissues of her swollen vagina, addicting her to his essence, to
his
cum, was overwhelming to me.
It was Monday morning. Eight, nine more hours before she came back to me. But before she left him, he would most certainly be doing it to her again.
****
A half an hour after Michelle left, John found his apartment was suddenly far too quiet and empty, so he put the top down on his convertible and went for an aimless drive.
What a weekend he had just had with his daughter-in-law; for three days, his lover and his woman. For the most part, it had been everything he had hoped for, and more. Having her on his arm at the company event on Saturday had been exhilarating, even if he had found her natural allure to other men a bit unsettling. The sex had been wonderful; frequent and unconstrained. And they had had plenty of time to just... talk.
For the first time, they had talked openly about how this unusual triad that they were creating with that third partner -- her husband, his son. It had been illuminating, but not altogether comfortable. Of course, at age sixty, John had never been altogether comfortable talking about "feelings" and "relationships" anyway. He had just never had the opportunity or the experience. He had never seen it modelled for him.
There was a point on Sunday afternoon, during their picnic, that she had said something that troubled him. The notion that, even as a child, Ryan had had so much self-discipline, so much self-motivation, that he as a father had never had to discipline or even push his son, had made him feel a bit judged, a bit inadequate.
It was true, he had never, even when Ryan was in elementary school, understood his son's interests, his "bookishness," his motivations. Right up through his college and career choices; he had never understood why his son went into non-profit administration instead of law or business. But she had also described his son's successes in ways that he had never considered, even things that his son had never told him. How he had been asked to teach classes at the local university. How he had been commissioned to write a book on his own innovations with non-profit investment strategies.
Of course, he had never questioned his son's choice of a life partner. He had always found Michelle to be smart, funny, and engaging, as well as beautiful. And he had always felt like his son deserved such a "catch." Even now, after finding out that Michelle engaged in sexual activities outside the marriage that he never would have believed, he sensed that she was a perfect match for Ryan.
But he still couldn't help feeling a little bit disappointed that there were things that Ryan had never even attempted to explain to him.
Yet, he had never sensed that Ryan held any resentment toward him. And she had convinced him that that wasn't the case. And then she had explained to him -- in ways that he couldn't quite recall, word-for-word, but which seemed believable -- that somehow, Ryan still did crave his father's approval and affirmation. And that in some way, having his father enjoy his wife,
take
her, was the ultimate approval.
And then, there was Sunday night's conversation. Michelle had recruited him to engage in her role-playing and teasing of Ryan in ways that were way beyond anything he could imagine himself doing. Of course, three months ago, he couldn't have imagined in his wildest dreams, that he would ever allow himself to have sex with his son's wife, let alone to do it repeatedly, to do it with his son's knowledge, to do it in his son's home, his son's bed.
He had had more fun, excitement, even
joy
in the past three months than he had had in the previous... well, ever. "Trust me," she kept saying. As far as he knew, she hadn't failed him yet.
As far as he knew
, the voice on his left shoulder reminded him.
"Nah, we're all in," said the voice on his right.
***
By the time Michelle got home, late Monday afternoon, I was so happy and ready to see her again. Her smile, her warm embrace, her gentle kiss when she came in the front door was all I needed. In spite of the fact that my penis had been aching inside its cage more often than not for the past 72 hours, I didn't need to be released so I could reclaim her immediately. Simply holding her again, making her a drink, cuddling together on the sofa was more than enough for now.
"So," she asked me, softly. "Did you have a good weekend?"
I chuckled. "Well..."
"Let me put it this way," she continued. "Was it everything you thought it would be?"
"Uh huh," I acknowledged. She knew my kinks so well. "And did you?"
"Umm... yeah," she replied. "It was great to have so much time to..."
I flinched involuntarily, and she laughed. "Yes, well, that, too. But I was going to say, we had lots of time to talk."
I inhaled deeply. For some reason, I was more intrigued by thinking about how they had spent their time between sexual encounters, than imagining the sex itself.
"So, what did you talk about?" I asked.
"A lot of things. You."
"Me? What about me?"
"Oh, everything. What you were like growing up. What you're doing professionally. He's proud of you, you know."
I lowered my eyes, and smiled weakly. "Still?"
She smiled back gently at me, and rubbed my shoulder. She understood. From the very beginning, the idea that my father learning that I was a cuckold -- first hand, as it were, by
personally
taking my wife sexually -- might obliterate any respect he had for me, had been dizzyingly terrifying, and magnetically compelling. She suspected it before I knew it, but she had only acted on it once she knew for sure.
