The God Father 1

"So," I asked, "What was that about in the theatre."

I had waited until we were in bed. Our two kids had been awake when we got back, and I had wanted them settled. I had also wanted us to be close before I asked her, physically close, our bodies touching, and now we were lying as we so often did, Sarah on her side, snuggled up to me, her soft breasts pressed against me, one leg across mine, her head nestled on my shoulder, my arm around her.

"I'm not sure," Sarah said. "Maybe just a sign of affection"

She had not raised her head, and seemed not to have moved at all, but I had sensed her body tense just enough for her answer not to be convincing. Besides, I had seen what I had seen.

"It looked like more than affection," I said.

"It was just his hand on my knee," she answered.

"It was on your thigh," I said. "He'd pushed up your skirt. His fingers were pretty close. Above your stocking top. Besides, you're his god-daughter. Even your knee would have been inappropriate. And I was right there."

"Kinky Boots".

That was the name of the show. Great show. Lively, sexy and fun. Max had invited us. Sarah's birthday treat, he had said. Her birthday had been two weeks earlier, but that did not matter.

I liked the guy, or at least I had liked him, right up until then. I had known him for something over ten years, since marrying Sarah. Sarah's father had died far too young, and Max had stepped in to give the bride away. Now he had been fondling her leg in the darkness of the theatre, presumably thinking that I would be too taken up with the show to notice anything.

It had been dark, but not pitch black. My peripheral vision is pretty good, and I had seen his hand, and Sarah had been right when she said it had been on her knee, when I first saw it but it had not stayed there. It had moved further up.

"He's nearly seventy," Sarah said. "Maybe he was just having one of those moments, not really knowing what he was doing."

"His hand knew what it was doing," I said, picturing the way he had carefully eased back the hem of Sarah's skirt, finding the bare flesh above her stocking top, and slipping his hand in between her legs to caress her inner thigh.

"It was nothing," Sarah said.

"Okay," I said, changing tack, the way interrogators do on crime series on the television. "So why did you choose tonight to wear stockings instead of tights? And what happened to your thong?"

That was another reason that I had waited until we were in bed. I had wanted to be sure. I had watched Sarah undressing, slipping off her skirt and blouse, standing in just her stockings, suspender belt and bra.

We had got ready together before the show, and I had seen her slipping on a jet black thong, but when she removed her skirt the thong was magically no longer there, her smooth as a baby, hairless pussy unmistakeably bare, the vertical shadow of her delicious slit, naked and exposed.

"I just wanted to feel sexy," Sarah said. "I mean, it was that kind of show."

"So what happened to your thong?" I asked again.

"Do we have to do this?" Sarah asked.

"I'd like to know," I said, shaking her gently by her shoulders, but holding her close, so that she knew it was affection, not anger, that I was expressing.

"I,.." she started. "I took it off,.. during the interval."

"Why?" I asked.

"Please. No," she said. "I don't want to,.. Can't we just leave it?"

She moved her hand to my cock, resting her palm on it, her fingers on my balls. It responded. There is something about Sarah that just gets to me, that meets me somewhere deep, sexually and every which way. The first time I saw her, at a party, across the room, all the clichés, but it was true, I knew that I wanted to fuck her, and that with this woman it would be so much more than just a fuck. Something about her made me know that she was going to be the one.

There was no way that I could control my cock, which slowly but steadily engorged and hardened beneath her hand, but I was not going to let her off the hook.

"Why did you take it off?" I asked again.

She wrapped her fingers around my shaft and started moving her hand up and down its length, her index finger resting on my frenum, no doubt deliberately, knowing the extra intensity which that never fails to deliver.

"Because he asked me to," she finally said.

"What the fuck!! Why would he ask you to? When? He never even had the chance. I was there with you all the time, until you excused yourself from the bar."

"It wasn't like that," she said. "It wasn't that direct."

"So what was it then?"

She stopped stroking my cock for a moment.

"He reminded me about the first time he had taken me to the theatre."

I remembered Max saying something about that, but it had been an insignificant remark, small talk over our glasses of wine.

"What about it?" I asked.

"I was twenty three," Sarah said. "It was the National Theatre. 'Much Ado about Nothing.'"

Shakespeare. I knew that. But that still did not explain anything.

"And?.." I invited her to say more, and get things clear.

Her hand left my cock and traced its way over my torso to my neck, resting there, a thing she does to symbolise her love.

"I've never told you, or anyone, before," she said. "He did the same thing then. With his hand,.. on my knee,.. and then higher,.. touching me."

She paused, taking a breath, as if readying herself to tell me something she would find uncomfortable to say. Then she continued.

"Except I was wearing panties,.. and he told me when it was the interval, I had to go and take them off."

"This was when you were twenty three?"

"It was long before we met," she said.

"And you took them off for him?" I asked, knowing the answer.

She did not answer. She did not need to. It was clear from what had happened at the show that evening, that she had done as Max had said way back then, fifteen years ago, and that she had understood his reminding her about it tonight, that he had wanted her to do the same again. That was her reason for removing her thong. Because Max had wanted her to.

Fuck!

My wife dressing in stockings and suspender belt was not because "Kinky Boots" is an out-there show. It was because it was Max's invitation, and she had taken off her thong at what was no more than an indirect hint. That was all that it had taken.

And this was Max, her god-father, the guy who had been so supportive to her mother when her father had passed away, who had kept an eye on Sarah and her brother when they were teenagers, who had helped fund them both through university, who had given Sarah away at our wedding, with a generous cheque to help us buy our apartment as her wedding present, who we had asked to be god-father to each of our own children, and who had given us cheques as christening gifts for them, and who had never ever forgotten their birthdays.

God-fathers are not supposed to ask their twenty-three year old god-daughter to remove their underwear, or at least they are not supposed to. It does not come with the role.

I replayed the mental image that was embedded in my head from two hours before, Max's hand between Sarah's legs, recreating exactly how far up her leg it had been, just how close to her bare, thongless slit his fingers would have been, and came to the uncomfortable conclusion that my worst imagining was possible. Not certain, but definitely possible.

"Okay," I said. "Absolute truth. No holding back. Did he touch you?"

Silence.

Then she answered.

"It was only a touch."

My cock jerked.

That shocked me, just as much as everything Sarah had told me so far. My cock was actually responding to what had happened! I only hoped that, now that she was no longer stroking it, Sarah would not have noticed what had happened.

Other thoughts started to form inside my head. The guy had taken her to the theatre when she was twenty three. He had asked her to take off her panties. He had fingered her. At least that was a reasonable assumption from what she had just told me. Act 2 of Shakespeare's Much Ado about Nothing, and Sarah's god-father was fingering her cunt. That seemed pretty much to me, and no way was it about nothing.

You do not do that. You do not out of the blue, ask your grown up but still young god-daughter to remove her panties, in case she thinks you are a pervert and walks out of the theatre, and tells her mother and her brother and her friends just what a pervert you are, and you become dead to all those people, for ever. That is a risk you just do not take. You might think about it, but you do not do it.

Unless you know that this is not going to happen, you know that she is not going to tell anyone, you know that she is not going to be shocked or surprised, because she is already not just your god-daughter, but is already a willing plaything for your sexual fantasies and games.

Which in all likelihood meant that there was more to it than just that incident at the theatre.

"Okay," I said again, "so, when you were twenty three, was there something more going on that you have never told me about?"

More silence.

"As in,..?" Sarah finally asked, not that she needed to. She knew exactly what I meant, but if I needed to I could be explicit.

"As in, was he fucking you?"

Yet more silence.

Then finally.

"Sometimes."

Two things happened simultaneously. My cock jerked again, and my stomach churned .

Of course, neither us had been virgins when we married. Nobody is any more, except the one in a thousand, evangelical, religious, extreme believer, and neither Sarah nor I was evangelical, religious or a believer, except possibly in some vague sense of a higher being.

I knew that Sarah had had several relationships before we met, and had had a lot more than several non-relationship one night or weekend fucks, partly because she told me that she had, and because anyone with her looks had to have had guys queueing up with their cues all too ready, and because of the ease with which she accepted things I have done with her, and because f the things she does to me, without my ever needed to ask her for. All of those reasons told me that she was far from a virgin when we married, which mattered not a fuck, because as I said, I knew that she was the one, and it seemed to be mutual, and we have neither of us even looked at anyone else since the first time I slid my cock into her wet and welcoming cunt.

But having a previous sex life is not the same as having been fucked and god knows whatever else by her god-father, the guy who walked her up the aisle when she was dressed in white, and who had stood at the font and made promises as our two children's god-father.

"Sometimes...?" I repeated, inviting just a little more clarity than that vague, one word response.

"It was before we met," she repeated. "I let him make love to me sometimes. That's all. It hasn't happened since way before I met you."

"Okay," I said. "So how long did it last?"

"Maybe,..." she started. "I guess,... it might have been four or five years."

"And you never told me this."

"I didn't want you to judge him," she said, then quietly, into my chest, adding, "or me."

I was still holding her, my arm around her shoulder, loving the feel of her, and she was still curved into me. This was the way we always lay, before and after making love, her breath on my chest. My cock was rock hard beneath our duvet, and one part of my brain wanted me to use it, and to fuck her, to pound her with it, and punish her for holding back, for what was the worst kind of dishonesty, and for allowing Max to do what he had done that evening as well, while another part of my brain wanted to push her away and yet a third part wanted us to just stay exactly as we were, lovingly and physically close and inseparable, and for all of this to go away.

This, after all, was the woman I loved, and who I thought loved me, and who had given me two beautiful kids, and who was a wonderful mother to them both.

A fourth part of my brain wanted to know more.

"So how did it start?"

Maybe she sensed the part of my brain that wanted us to stay exactly as we were, holding each other close, and realised that the only way in which all of this was going to go away was if she was open and honest and if we dealt with how we each felt about it all, because she started talking in longer, informative sentences, instead of the hesitant, words and phrases she had been using up until now.

"After my graduation," Sarah said. "Max came with my mother to the ceremony. He had taken three hotel rooms, one for each of us. He took us to a celebratory dinner. He always picked up the bills. He had paid for my uni fees, and my rooms at college. He had even given me an allowance.

"When we each went to our rooms, I was getting undressed, when I heard a knock, and it was Max. He asked if he could come in, and I didn't know how to say 'No', and I had already taken off my blouse, but he just acted like everything was normal.

"He had a bottle of champagne, which, he said, he'd kept for the two of us, and he had glasses, and he was admiring my breasts while he was opening the bottle, and I had no idea what to do."

"You mean he got you drunk?" I asked.

"No," she said. "I guess,.. I guess I realised why he had really come to my room,.. In a way I was kind of flattered that someone like him would be interested in me,.. I mean so successful, intelligent worldly wise,... and I wondered what it would be like,.."

"So,.."

"So I made it easy for him," she said. "I took off my bra while he was pouring. I asked him if he wanted to sit down, and watch me get undressed, and I took off my skirt, and then started to remove my stockings,.."

"You were wearing stockings..?" I asked, realising that listening to her, I was finding the whole thing fascinating, disgusting, yet strangely arousing.

Sarah must have sensed my feelings. She moved her hand back to my cock, and went back to gently caressing it as she continued.

"They were a graduation present," she said. "The card had said something about a sign of my maturity."

"From Max?" I asked.

"He gave them to me when they arrived at the hotel," Sarah answered.

"So this was all planned?" I said, not really asking.

"I realised that afterwards," she said.

Neither of us spoke for a moment. I do not know what Sarah was thinking right then, but I was seeing max in an entirely new light. His arrival at Sarah's door with the champagne had not been a spur of the moment thing, inspired by whatever wine they had had at dinner. It had been planned, premeditated, calculated.

"So anyway," Sarah started again " I started to remove my stockings, except he told me to keep then on, and just to take off my panties."

"You kept them on?"

"Yes," Sarah said.

"While he fucked you?"

"We had a glass of champagne first, sitting at the bay window opposite each other, and then he told me that I had never properly thanked him for everything he had done for me, and that I needed to learn some manners,..."

"He, what?" I asked, shocked at what I guessed she was about to say.

"He told me to kneel over the bed,..

"He kept me waiting while he undressed. Then he used the belt from his trousers,..."

"You let him?"

"It was,... I don't know how to explain,... I was kind of scared while he was undressing,... I thought he was going to give me a spanking,... I thought it could be fun,... exciting,... and I was getting wet,...

"Then I suddenly felt this stinging pain on my butt,... and I just was in shock,... and I didn't know what to do except that I couldn't risk crying out because my mother was in the next room,... so I just stayed as still as I could,... and I counted them, up to six, and hoped that that was it,...

"Then I felt his hands moving my legs further apart, and his cock was entering me, and I was so wet that it just slid in and it just felt so good that I didn't care any more..."

Sarah was still stroking my own cock as she described this, the images vivid in my head, a twenty one year old Sarah kneeling at a hotel bed, Max, back then in his forties, taking advantage of her, sliding his cock into her, fucking her, taking his time but eventually coming inside her, spewing his come deep inside, filling her with it.

That image of his cock inside Sarah's twenty-one year old cunt, spewing come, replayed itself over and over in my head, as I felt the twinges and spasms at the base of my own cock that warned me just how close I was to coming, and I squeezed the muscles there to hold back, not wanting to come right then, knowing that sooner or later I was going to fuck Sarah, if only because I was so turned on, and needed to feel her cunt around my cock.

"And afterwards?" I asked

"He stayed inside me for a while," she said. "My butt was still hurting, but it felt good, in a strange kind of a way. I liked feeling his cock inside me. I liked that he had wanted me. I felt kind of pleased with myself, that I had offered to undress in front of him, and that I had taken my punishment without complaining.

"It might sound weird but right then I felt that I was in control, that he wanted me, and I knew that I would let him do whatever he wanted to, to keep that hold over him.

"So that's how it started. He told me he didn't care who else I fucked, but for now I was going to be his to fuck whenever he wanted to, which was what I wanted. And after he had gone, I found a card propped up against the champagne bottle, a congratulations card on having passed, with another cheque."

Sarah was still stroking my cock, and I was still struggling not to come. I put my hand on hers, stopping it from moving.

"You mean he paid you,..?" I said.

"It was never about the money," she said. "I mean it came in useful, but it was about being wanted, and testing myself, whether I could take the different punishments he dreamed up. He gave me this safe word that I could use, if things got too much. I never used it."

"I'm sorry," she added, a few moments later. "I should have told you before."

"So how did it end?" I asked.

"He got married," Sarah said. "When I was twenty-five."

I had known Max's wife of course. She had been ten years younger than him, a striking Italian, who sadly had passed away only six months or so ago. Max had been devastated. We had been to the funeral, and we had invited him over, or met up with him, more frequently since then, out of sympathy for what I had thought was a lonely, ageing, almost relative.

I was still processing what Sarah had revealed, but rationalising that, as Sarah had said, it had been over before we had met. It was not the kind of god-father-god-daughter relationship that I had thought, but in the end, it was only sex, and in the past.

Except there was also what had happened that evening, in the theatre stalls.

"So, now that I know what went on then," I said, "what exactly was going on this evening? The whole, stockings and suspenders for the show, and Max getting you to remove your thong, and putting his hand between your legs? If it all ended years ago, what was that about?"

"I,.." Sarah said. "I'm not sure how to,... I mean, back then it was all about sex,... I even had a couple of boyfriends,... guys I thought I was in love with,... but with Max it was different,... it was daring, and exciting,... and maybe I miss that sometimes,... so when he asked me to, I,... well I thought it could be fun,..."

Again, I was trying to process what Sarah was telling me. The uncomfortable meaning was that our sex life was in some way not enough for her, and she had been wanting something more exciting, more daring, as she put it. Hearing that she had wanted something more, after ten years and two kids together, was not easy to hear.

It also made me wonder about something else that I had been thinking, about the way it had started, with Max punishing her for not being grateful enough for everything he had done for her, university fees and so on. She had said that he had made her kneel over the hotel bed, and used his belt. I was wondering if I should do the same, as a way of punishing her for what had happened in the theatre. Maybe that was exactly what she needed. Maybe it was what she wanted.