Ginny Remembers Daddy

Copyright (c) 2003 by Jay Palin.

All rights reserved.

I'm a sexual obsessive. In some circles it's called "pussy junkie." Whatever. Memories of the repressive tyranny of my domineering, puritanical mother have driven me to bed countless different women all my life. Unlike my more stable male counterparts, my advancing age has done little to temper my libido. Each day I anxiously awake to the fresh possibility of fucking a new woman. Hence my dilemma: whether to succumb to lust or err on the side of dignity and self-preservation.

My tastes in women run the gamut of all races and ethnic strains. And, without boasting, I've been very successful in my pursuits. Part of it's because of my tall, imposing, physique and deep voice: useful genetic gifts. Though most of it's been due to my very careful responses to the complex signals women send when they appraise all men, me in particular.

I didn't have to be careful with Ginny.

I met Ginny over ten years ago when she was the bouncy, blonde, 20 year old girl friend of my step-son Mike, now her husband. She'd just returned from a national tour with the Icecapades, having been a "chorus" skater. I'd just married for the fourth time, vowing as always to be faithful, when my new wife Lee brought Ginny to the house for dinner on a hot Summer afternoon to get acquainted. I walked in and Lee introduced us, with Ginny striking me as giggly and a bit shallow. When Lee left to prepare dinner her demeanor took on a more serious tone.

Ginny sat across from me in the living room, telling me about her tour. Her very fair, 5'4," 125 pound frame was coiled in a compact package with one leg tucked under her. Though not busty, her 34" B-cup breasts sat high on her chest and were suspended by well-developed muscles that coursed inward from her shoulders, temptingly accented by the sleeveless, dark-green top she was wearing. Her waspish waist, no more than 20" around, was cinched by a wide, cream-colored belt that highlighted the protrusion of her breasts. Below the belt her hips and legs were clothed in a pair of skin-tight black pants that looked as if they'd been painted on. Her shoes were cream, high-heeled sandals with ankle straps. She confessed that she'd hated being on the road and wanted to marry and have a family. Having had much experience in this regard, I cautioned her to be discriminating in her choices and not make the same mistakes I had.

It was then that Ginny fixed me with her very dark-brown eyes, highlighted by green eye makeup, tilted her head, and said, dreamily: "From what Lee says, you've led a rich, varied, life." She lifted her lovely arm, the color of fine, sculpted ivory, and slowly twisted a finger in her long, slightly curly blonde hair, as if adding a question mark to her statement. Not knowing what my wife had told her, and trying to avoid acting the rapacious cynic that I am, I attempted to steer the conversation to something other than myself.

"Seriously," Ginny said, "I hear that when the Army drafted you out of college you two were going to be married, and when you returned from Vietnam -- wild with a lust for life -- you didn't want to. That's why she married someone else."

"O.K.," I acknowledged.

"And that's why," she pressed, "just last week her ex told me that he'd lived with her in your shadow for 24 years. What did you do all that time? other than get married three times, I mean?" she probed, leveling her look at me.

"Well, it wasn't all a search for pleasure," I countered. "I had to work, went to grad school, traveled, fashioned a career. You know, the things a guy does to make a future." I felt now that she was probing me, and I began to feel uneasy, since I was frequently the aggressor.

"Uh-huh," Ginny murmured, pulling her leg from under her and placing her foot on the couch while grasping her curvy calf in front of her with both arms. Again the deep, probing, heavy-lidded brown eyes: "Were there a lot of women?"

"Hundreds," I bluntly confessed, getting up, glad to relieve the tension I was feeling and anxious to change the subject lest I be caught staring at her crotch, now beckoning from under her black pants.

"Want a glass of wine, Ginny?" I offered.

"Sure. White'll be fine," she said.

In the kitchen, I rolled my eyes at Lee, whispering, "Nice girl. Very direct."

"Careful," Lee cautioned, "she lost her father in her early teens."

Of course! I thought to myself. Another kid flirtatiously casting about for a father figure. What an easy one to pigeon-hole.

Back in the living room, Ginny was gone. Looking in the hallway, I saw her gazing at family pictures, particularly one of me: a portrait taken by my photographer father when I was about three. This was the first time I'd seen her standing. Her back was to me (what elegant posture!); her legs were crossed at the ankles -- reminiscent of a dancer's relaxed pose -- and stretched upward, past lissome calves, well-muscled thighs, a butt that gave new meaning to the word touchable, to end under that tightly-cinched belt.

I moaned. I find that I do that involuntarily when zonked by an attractive woman.

"What?" Ginny purred, turning to accept the glass of wine.

"Oh, nothing," I mumbled, "missed you in the living room."

"Who is that darling little boy?" she asked.

"Oh, me as a kid," I responded. "My Dad took that picture. He was a pro. In fact he taught me photography." I led her further down the hall to my photos, while standing behind her. "Here're some of my portraits," pointing to a few very arty shots of women of all hues, some clothed very scantily.

"I can see where your tastes run," Ginny declared, "but my favorite is the shot of you." "Your face has obviously changed, the moustache, but the glint in your eyes is the same, and…you're so much bigger!" With that she touched my chest, softly, feeling one of my pectorals, allowing her hand to linger. I breathed in her scent from six inches away, which she noticed, returned her penetrating gaze, and detected a subtle soapy odor, blended with what my imagination told me was a whiff of something profoundly musky.

At that point I fought the urge to ask her about her perfume and decided against the flirtatious impulse. Reading my mind, Ginny confessed: "It's just me," and, returning to my child portrait, "…the smell, I mean."

Gulping down my wine, I boldly drank in the succulent curves in front of me, murmuring to Ginny that if I had to do it all over again I would have become a fashion photographer. At this moment I leapt into a momentary fantasy, picturing her nude and compliant under my unrelenting camera lens.

Having lived with a ballerina several years before, and fucked an ice skater in my early twenties, I flashed on the phenomenal muscular development that dancers and skaters develop from years of practice. It was at this moment that I knew I wanted Ginny, that I had to have her. I pictured her internal muscles pleasuring me, while once again I tamed a sexy little wench decades my junior. And, suddenly, I realized that I'd become her pigeon!

But I'm ahead of myself.

Dinner went smoothly. Lee, Ginny and I told stories and laughed a good deal, with Ginny sitting across from me. When addressing me, she never wavered from lowering her voice, being quite articulate, and looking at me directly from those heavy-lidded eyes. She spoke of her father, wistfully, saying how she missed him. She and Lee also drank quite a bit.

After dinner we adjourned to the garden and Ginny did several cartwheels and vertical leg extensions on the manicured lawn, actually raising a bit of a sweat. Finally, with the last vestige of purple sunset fading, we returned inside, loaded the dishwasher, and had a cup of coffee. Lee confessed to being sleepy and asked if I'd drive Ginny home, a 20 minute trip. Naturally I agreed. Ginny visited the bathroom, thanked Lee for a great time, and we got into the car.

Driving Ginny home, I switched on a CD of

Pagliacci

, with Pavarotti singing. I'm a classical music snob, and have found that romantic opera has a way of allowing me to direct a conversation. Stretched back in the seat of the Mercedes, she closed her eyes and let the music wash over her for a while. "This is a perfect ending to a fabulous day," she sighed, reaching over to lay her hand on my forearm.

"Yeah. I've always found that opera is the best after-dinner drink. Do you like Pavarotti?" glancing at her and making my question as soft and mellifluous as possible.

"Don't know much about classical," Ginny demurred with her eyes closed. "Right now it's turning me on."

"Oooh, can I watch?" I joked. She just squeezed my arm, and slowly stroked it. Ignoring her touch, I said, "Actually, I like

Thais

by Massenet. I don't have it here. It's at my office. That'd

really

turn you on."

"You listen to music at your office?" she asked.

"Only when the guys are out," I said, referring to my architect/employees.

"Mmmm," she murmered. "I'll have to come and see you."

"The office is always open, Ginny, just like our house," I offered.

"I know," she said, "I love Lee, she should have been my mom, and you…you're really special."

Damn, that 20 minutes went fast, I thought to myself as we pulled up to Ginny's mother's house. Switching off the engine and lights with the music still playing, I lightly said, "O.K., sport, see you whenever."

At that, Ginny leaned toward me, eased her right arm around my neck, and put her moist, open mouth in the crook of my neck. For just a moment her left hand reached into her pants to her crotch, emerging wet with her juices. Breaking her hug and placing her hand under my nose, she stunned me with her sweet, hot breath as she looked into my eyes: "See! I told you that smell was just me!"

Out of the car, she ran into the house, just as Pavarotti launched into

Vesti la giubba

. Lee was asleep when I got home and crept into bed, my loins alive with the fresh memory of Ginny.

The next morning I laughed at myself for once again lusting after a young woman 30 years younger than I. Lee called the office and related a phone call she'd had with Ginny's mother, saying Ginny had kept her awake half the night singing our praises. I dismissed this, reflecting on the numerous times similar things had happened earlier in my life. Regardless of my private lusting for Ginny, I just chalked it up to the cravings of a girl who'd lost her father.

Just before lunch a call came in from Ginny. She'd driven into town to give a couple of kids lessons at the local ice rink, about 10 minutes away. "Hi! Told you I'd come see you! Is this a bad time?"

As always at the office, I was focussed on work. Feeling distracted since everyone else was out with clients for the day and I was manning the phones, I said: "Sure, might as well see the layout. The door's locked, so buzz when you get here."

A call came in on my cell phone a minute later and when I heard the buzzer I went into the lobby to let Ginny in. Seeing I was busy, she touched me lightly on my chest and followed me into my inner office after I re-locked the front door. Motioning for her to sit on the love seat across from my desk, I pointed to the small refrigerator where I keep soft drinks. She took one and eased onto the small sofa with feline grace. She was dressed in a black miniskirt with a three inch slit up the front of her right thigh. Over a white blouse that was ruffled from her throat to her waist she wore a black, toreador-like jacket that ended just above the waist line. It complemented her ivory skin beautifully, and my groin throbbed at the sight of her supple legs drawn together and slanted to one side for modesty. Her golden hair was up in a french twist, with a few strands artfully falling to either side of her high, angular cheekbones and fine, strong jaw. Her lips were colored with a pink shade that brought to mind the hue of a young, white girl's nipples. This was a different person than I'd seen the night before. Then she'd been a girl. This was a woman.

The phone call was important – concerning a housing development in Florida -- so I continued it.

But my mind wandered. I focussed on Ginny's legs. No stockings. From my vantage point across from her, her small, high-heeled feet nipped in at luscious ankles – one encircled by a dainty gold anklet chain – and flared to firmly-muscled calves, then nipped in again at two of the most gorgeous knees I'd ever seen. They seemed each to have a happy face. Above her knees, the fair flesh went on to the hem of her skirt, tantalizingly showing even more firm thigh through the skirt's slit.

I moaned. Damn! Ginny snapped out of the reverie she'd been in while looking at renderings of custom homes on my walls. She stared at me quizzically as I assured the guy on the phone that I was O.K. With just a hint of a smile, she crossed her legs (be still my heart!), reached into her purse and extracted a joint and box of matches. Lighting up, she looked around for an ashtray. Without thinking, I walked to the outer office, grabbed a tray and fumbled through the drawer of one of my smoker associates for a cigarette. Not wanting to get stoned at this time of day, I lit up a smoke, coughed since I'd given up the habit a while ago, and pulled deeply on it.

Ginny got up to look more closely at our renderings and, from the side, I viewed her perfect ass. The skirt stretched across her buns, accenting each muscular globe, then arced inward below them to caress the rear of her legs. Her skater's bottom had the high, taut, development I'd known from earlier encounters with female athletes. Her thighs were highlighted by heavy muscles in the front, countered by soft gradual curves in the back. At that moment, I desperately wanted to feel them on either side of my head.

She held out the joint to me and I waved it off. I tried ending the call. The guy was droning on about how the Florida developer wanted us to spend many thousands on marketing his homes. I had to continue, since I'd waited for this call for two weeks.

Ginny then turned around and sat back on the love seat. Her gorgeous, deep-brown eyes were glazed, seemingly wanton. Very slowly, she then peeled up her skirt (no panties!), leisurely opened her legs and -- licking two fingers -- began stroking her blonde pussy. She thrust her lips out slightly, licked them, leaned her head back on the sofa and – looking at me with eyes half-closed – indolently began to masturbate for me. Nonchalantly, she rubbed her clit for a couple of minutes. Then, she curled her fingers and thrust them inside herself. Tilting her head, she thrust harder, faster, until her mouth opened fully, slack-jawed.

I lit another cigarette, shakily, and said to the guy on the phone: "Listen, I've really gotta' go now. Can I call you tomorrow after I've thought this over?" As I hung up, Ginny orgasmed, silently, but mightily. Her feet turned inward, their soles toward one another, and her bottom thrust up repeatedly to meet her hand. Her head was thrown back on the sofa, showing her flawless neck, with blood vessels straining. Her teeth were clenched as she spasmed for what seemed like forever, her flushed face reflecting her body's joy.

A minute later I made a poor attempt at wit by saying: "You started without me."

Ginny leaned to one side, beckoned me with her wet hand and whispered: "Please come here." Knowing the blush was off the rose, I dutifully approached her with my erection straining against the front of my trousers. As I stood in front of her, reaching up, she put her slick fingers in my mouth – which I immediately suckled – and with her other hand she unzipped me. My hard cock sprang free with her groping, to which she exclaimed: "All right!"

Now, I'm no giant, but I've always had more than enough to plumb the depths of a throat or a pussy. With both hands Ginny grabbed my cock and immediately took as much as she could into her mouth. She moaned as I touched the back of her throat and pulled completely off me. Her pink tongue flicked around the purple glans, testing my sensitivity as my staff bobbed with each pulse beat. Then, slowly, she opened her mouth very wide, covering, though hardly touching the first four inches, but breathing on it heatedly. While doing this, she quickly unbuttoned her blouse to reveal her braless tits.

I almost lost it. This young goddess had perfect breasts! Albeit a modest 34 B, they were suspended high on her chest -- as I'd noticed the night before when she was clothed -- and curved down fulsomely to two perfectly pink, half-inch, nipples that looked up at my admiring gaze. My hands went to them, softly caressing, as her mouth once again closed on my cock, this time with some pressure. She sucked for a moment, moving her head slowly to and fro, and pulled off, looking up at me and gasping: "I thought you might want to come on them. I want you to come."

"Oh don't worry, baby, you'll get your wish," I groaned. Ginny then went at me with a vengeance. She took all of me that she could, throating me occasionally, varying the speed and pressure of her sucking. Now and again she'd pull off to rest her jaw and lick one side or the other of my cock and stroke me with her hand. She looked at me as she did this, measuring the extent of my pleasure with each new move. She then moved forward, so that her cunt was off the edge of the sofa, and eased her moist mound against one of my legs, just below the knee. Then, reaching around, she grasped my buns with both hands and began to throat me with long, smooth strokes, moaning all the while.

I knew I was short on time. Ginny was rubbing her clit against my leg with purpose now, and taking me deeply into her throat. Bent forward slightly, I was stroking her breasts and twisting her nipples, now blushing hot pink and hard with desire. Now and again she'd entreat me: "Fuck my hot mouth…come in my mouth…please come in my mouth." I welcomed her pelvic thrusts as again and again and again she hunched against my leg. Her moaning increased and I felt her throat tighten. I felt myself begin to glow from my toes upward, with the tingling coursing up my legs to my crotch until…

"Aaaaaahhhhhg!" I bellowed.

"Mmmmmmmm!" she mewled, swallowing the first two blasts of my come as it raced into her mouth. Then, "Oh…ohh…ohhh…OOOOOOOoooo," as she pulled off me and came against my leg, my cock popping free of her mouth and spraying my load on her face, neck, and those gorgeous tits. Hugging me closely, she tugged at my cock slowly to empty it of its remainder on her breasts. "Oohhhh, YES!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "God…I knew it'd be good…I just knew it!"

We both collapsed on the sofa, with me coyly mumbling: "That's why they call these love seats. So…this is the office," I further proferred.

"Oh, you sweet man! Don't feel embarrassed! I wanted you and you gave yourself to me," Ginny exclaimed, beginning to rain kisses on my face and neck. We then kissed deeply, with me smelling and tasting my own come…something I'm not wild about. O.K., it's a phobia. I pointed to the bathroom and volunteered some mouthwash. "Don't be silly! I want to taste you for the rest of the day!" she exulted. She leaned against my chest and said, "I could sleep right here!"

"You appear to have a thing about my pectorals," I said.

"'Cause they're so muscular, big boy!" she cooed. This was getting really corny.

"Here's some tissue. Let's clean you up a little," I offered. A minute later Ginny removed her skirt and blouse, now dotted with come spots, and stood up. I turned her around slowly, stroking her silken belly and mumbling my obvious approval of her heavenly frame, while she began undressing me.

It took about one minute, shoes, socks and all, and then she was in my arms, straddling me as she began licking my face and neck. "Mmmmm, salt, with a hint of tobacco. God, when I tasted your neck last night I was so turned on I almost went down on you in the car," she gasped. "I told Mom and, this morning, Mike, that you were so masculine, so virile!"