Ambisextrous

Nobody in this story is under 18 years old

I laid in bed, eyes closed, listening for the telltale sound of snoring, waiting, but still the silence dragged on. For the past ten or so minutes my fingers moved, teasing my mound, occasionally sneaking down to dip into my growing wetness as I waited impatiently.

Then I heart it, the faintest sound. I pulled my fingers from my panties and brought them up, slipping them between my lips, moaning softly, both at my scent and at my taste. And when there was nothing left of my essence, I pulled my fingers from my lips and brought them down to my hips, hooking my thumbs into the waistband of my panties and easing them over my hips and down my legs.

I knew I only had a couple minutes before he came searching for me. I had other plans though. Dressed only in a tee shirt, one that would just cover my panties, were I wearing any, I slipped out of bed and crept to my door, easing it open, listening. A moment later I heard it again; the unmistakable sound of a snore.

I slipped out into the hall and padded quietly to the open door at the end of the hall. I stood there for a full minute, waiting, wanting to be sure she was asleep. Satisfied, I crept in, tiptoeing, holding my breath, my heart rate spiking as I drew closer to the bed, my stomach fluttering with excitement.

As I approached, his eyes opened, startling me. I put my hand to my chest, my gaze going quickly to the slumbering form on the opposite side of the bed; my mother.

I bit my lip, giving him a troubled look. "I can't sleep," I whispered.

His gaze dropped, lingering for just a moment on my legs before coming back up. He shook his head slowly, though in the dim light, I couldn't tell whether he was perturbed or amused.

I held my breath, waiting, hoping he wouldn't send me back to my room. I released a quiet breath a moment later when he lifted the covers. I eased myself in, careful not to shake the bed as I moved. He settled the covers over me and I slid back against him.

For several long moments we lay there, the only sound my mother's occasional snore. Finally, he turned onto his side, molding himself to my back, his fingers going into my hair, pulling it behind my ear. "You're getting too old to be sneaking into bed with us, honey," he whispered.

"But I want to be near you." I said, turning to meet his gaze. "I love you, Daddy."

He blew out a quiet breath. "I love you too, pumpkin."

I wiggled back into him, trying to mold myself to him, wanting every part of him against me. And when his hand come to rest on my hip I took it in mine and pulled it up to my chest, sighing, content.

It wasn't long before I felt the hard warmth of him against my lower back. It was terribly thrilling to know that I had such an effect on him, that he couldn't be this close to me without getting excited, without wanting me. I bent my knee and drew the arch of my foot up his calf, the hair there tickling me, making my toes curl.

"Baby..." he whispered, his breath warm on my neck, in my ear.

"Yes, Daddy?" Even as I breathed the words, I drew a finger over the back of his hand, down his finger, the touch soft.

He lifted the finger as I reached the tip and I pressed my palm against it, a moment later wrapping my fingers around it, squeezing gently, the action making us both moan.

"Sweetheart..."

I bit my lip, waiting only a few moments before easing my grip, then I slid my hand up his finger, a fraction of an inch, just enough to send a message. I squeezed again, firmer this time, then again I slid back down, squeezing again, praying he wouldn't stop me.

I was under no delusions that he'd take me here, in their bed, but that didn't stop me from trying. Tonight was the second time this week that I'd slipped into their bed; I'd come in last night, claiming a stomach ache.

"What are you doing, honey?" he asked, breaking the silence.

I squeezed him then released him. "Nothing, Daddy." Again I slid my hand up his finger, stopping with nothing but the tip touching me, then I slid back down, feeling him throb against my back in response.

"Doesn't feel like nothing."

I didn't answer, instead I squeezed him, brushing my thumb over the tip of his finger.

"You need to stop that, sweetheart. We need to go to sleep."

Reluctantly, I released him, settling my hand between my legs, gripping my thigh. He sighed quietly, his body sagging, his hand squeezing my waist once.

"Night, sweetheart."

"Night, Daddy."

Within a few moments I could feel the hardness against my back begin to fade. I moved then, under the guise of getting more comfortable, higher on the bed, only an inch or two. But it had the desired effect; it placed his semi-rigid penis in the crack of my ass, the only thing between it and its destination, his thin silk boxers.

I pulled my hand up, allowing the tip of my finger to trail through my wet lips, gathering some of the moisture there and bringing it up to brush it over my clit. I shivered with the contact, my breath catching. I slipped the finger back into my folds, deeper this time, wetting it, feeling the magnetic pull, the wettest part of me demanding attention. I lifted my knee for room and teased the opening with the tip of my finger, moaning softly.

"Okay, baby?"

I nodded, pushing myself more fully into him, willing him to mold himself to me. I desperately wanted to reach behind me, to wrap my hand around him, to feel him hard in my hand, to stroke him. In my mind's eye, I pictured myself angling the meaty organ down between my thighs and rubbing it against my sex, coating him with my juices, aiming him, wiggling against him as he entered me, making me a woman. Making me his woman.

I moaned again as my finger pushed its way in, teasing my hole.

I felt his hand move off my waist, only to come to rest on my forearm, his fingers wrapping around it, pulling gently, my finger slipping out, over my lips, leaving a wet trail up my thigh and across my stomach. He held me there, my heartbeat pounding in my ears, my leg slowly closing.

For several minutes I lay there, eyes wide open, listening to him breathe as he warmed my neck, listening to my mother's quiet, even snoring, painfully aware of his shrinking penis.

#

I woke to her gentle touch on my cheek, my eyes fluttering open, immediately dropping to the loose collar of her nightie, to the heavy breasts hanging there, swaying gently. I brought my gaze back to her face trying to make out her features in the darkness. I opened my mouth to speak but she pressed a finger to my lips, a moment later taking it away to lift the covers. She backed away from the bed then and held her hand out.

I slid out from under my father's arm, still draped over my stomach, swinging my legs to the floor, pulling my shirt down as I moved, hoping she wouldn't notice.

I took her hand and followed her to my room, sliding under the covers when she lifted them. She sat on the edge of my bed, her hand coming up to my cheek. She smiled down at me, moving her fingers into my hair, sifting through it, patient, loving. I smiled then, a lazy, tired smile. "I love you, Mom."

"I love you too, honey."

She continued to move her fingers through my hair, her nails teasing my scalp. The moonlight from my window illuminated her in the most amazing way, showing me only her silhouette, her dark hair hanging loose over her arm, her warm, brown eyes black in the shadows. My gaze dropped, drawn to her chest, to the shadowed outline of her breast, clearly visible beneath the shear fabric, so soft and round and heavy, her nipple pushing against the thin material, drawing my attention.

She curled her fingers in my hair then, gathering it, pulling gently, then harder, making my eyes flutter closed.

"Like that, baby?" she asked, her tone low and soft.

I opened my eyes, nodding. She released me and moved her hand back, again closing her fingers, tightening her grip, making me moan. "Feels wonderful," I said, sounding lazy even to my own ears. Again she released me, and again she moved to a new spot, gathering my hair, closing it in her fist, squeezing. She allowed my hair to fall through her fingers then moved to push a lock of it behind my ear, drawing the tip of her finger over it. I leaned in to the touch, my gaze on hers. She moved from my ear, her finger tracing my brow, her touch unbelievably soft, making my eyelids flutter closed. She drew the finger down my nose then over my lips then down my chin, making me smile.

"Such a beautiful girl," she said, her tone light.

I opened my eyes then, smiling. She was, by nature, very nurturing, very loving. And I knew, even at my age, that I was very lucky. I knew, listening to my friends complain, that my mother wasn't like theirs. Where theirs were impatient, mine was calm, with nothing but time for me. Where their mothers were busy, my mother stopped to hug me, wanting to know what was going on in my life. My mother was warm and beautiful, and when I grew up, I wanted to be her.

"That's a pretty smile," she whispered.

She leaned forward then, pressing a kiss to my nose, then to my forehead, her lips lingering, in no hurry, allowing me time to breathe in her scent, to enjoy the closeness.

She pulled away slowly, again smiling down on me. She cupped my cheek. "Sleep tight, angel."

I nodded. Still she remained, her thumb caressing me with the softest touch. "Close your eyes, sweetheart."

When I opened them again, my bedroom was bathed in the light from the sun, leaving a wide band across the floor and onto my bed, warming me. It was the middle of summer; no school, no homework, nowhere to be, and nothing to worry about. I stretched, yawning, groaning. Then I lay there another few minutes before rolling out of bed. I needed to pee. And I was hungry.

I returned to my room for a pair of panties, my gaze landing on the pair I'd removed last night. There wasn't much contrast between the white satin and the pink cotton of my comforter and I wondered if my mother had noticed them last night. If she had, she hadn't said anything.

I entered the kitchen to find her standing at the stove, a stack of pancakes forming on a plate, another in the pan. She raised her arm, settling it over my shoulder, pulling me to her, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "How did you sleep, sweetheart?"

I squeezed her, nodding, my cheek against her breast, her scent combining with that of the pancakes. "Good. Thank you for sitting with me."

"You're welcome. Why don't you get something to drink, and grab the syrup."

"Kay."

I spent the day with my friends; at the mall, at the park near our house, talking about boys and music and girls we liked and didn't like. And all through the day my mind would drift to my father; to the feel of him hard against me, to the scent of him, to the feel of his warm breath in my ear.

And at dinnertime, I stole glances at him, admiring, as I did often, his wavy, dark hair and his bright blue eyes and his soft lips and the dimple on his chin and his big, strong hand as he lifted his glass.

I helped my mother clean the kitchen while my father went to take a shower. She asked about my day and I told her all the things we did. She said, "You know I don't like it when you talk mean about other people, honey."

My brows drew. "We weren't talking mean."

"Yes, you were. Referring to a boy as a dork is mean. Please don't do that again."

I nodded, feeling ashamed, like I'd let her down. She hugged me then. "I still love you, honey, but you're getting too old to act like that."

"I'm sorry," I mumbled.

She hugged me for several minutes, swaying us, then she kissed my head. "Your father's out of the shower. Why don't you go take yours."

"Okay."

I stood under the spray of the shower, arms hanging limp, eyes closed as I fantasized about my father coming in, slipping in behind me, pulling me to him, wrapping me up in his strong arms, his penis pushing into my back as his hands slipped over my skin, teasing my nipples, pinching them, making me moan as I leaned back into him, my head against his chest.

I finished my shower frustrated, having tried to relieve the itch between my legs, but ultimately giving up. It wasn't my fingers I wanted inside of me; I wanted him touching me, him taking me to the place I so desperately wanted to go.

I towel dried my hair and slipped into a pair of panties and a tee shirt, then, brush in hand, I made my way to the front room. My father was laying across the sofa, his head on the arm, his feet pressed to my mother's thigh. I could feel his eyes on me as I knelt on the floor at my mother's feet, holding the brush out to her.

She shook her head, amused. "Would you like me to brush your hair?"

"Yes, please."

She took the brush and used it to describe a circle in the air above me. I turned, moving between her legs, my back to the sofa, my eyes closing as she began to pull the thing through my hair.

I was so relaxed by the time she set the brush aside that I was having trouble holding my head up. She gathered my hair into a tail and tickled my neck with it, making me giggle. She released my hair then. "Come up here and lay down."

I got to my knees, turning, my gaze going to her thigh as she patted it. I glanced toward my father. He shifted his legs closer to the back of the cushions, making room for me, an unreadable expression on his face. I moved, sitting on the edge, lowering myself down onto her lap, her hand coming to rest on the side of my head, her thumb already moving. I brought my feet up, moving slowly, wondering if he was looking, knowing that if he was, he'd be able to see my panties. The thought thrilled me.

I closed my eyes, tuning out the sound of the TV, concentrating only on my mother's touch, wanting to be nowhere else.

But soon she squeezed my shoulder. "Let me up, honey."

I lifted my head then lowered it again when she stood, watching, mesmerized, as the thin film of her nightgown slid down over her panties, partially hiding them. She had, in my opinion anyway, the most beautiful skin, soft and creamy, tanned but not dark. She was an easy four inches taller than my five feet, four inches, with rounded hips and long, tapering legs. I'd seen more than one of the boys checking her out.

His hand on my foot caught my attention and I curled my toes as he pushed a thumb into my sole. He chuckled when I moaned. "How come you aren't out with your friends? It's a beautiful night."

"And miss out on a foot rub?" I shook my head. "No thank you."

He laughed softly. "You're like a kitten."

I remained silent, wanting nothing more than to rub up against him, to purr as he pushed himself into me.

I lifted my head, settling it back onto her thigh, her fingers moving immediately to my ear, tracing it, making me feel loved.

Once I was in bed, my mother came in to say goodnight. "Sweet dreams, my angel."

"You too, Mom."

I relaxed into the mattress, breathing in her scent when she leaned down to kiss me, my eyes closing.

And I lay there for many minutes, my mind on my father; on the foot rub he'd given me, his thumb pushing into my sole, pushing into the muscles near my toes, making me wet with desire for him.

I wasn't so naive that I didn't know that wanting him was wrong, quite the contrary; I was very aware of just how wrong it was, how illegal, how sinful. I knew that nobody would understand my feelings for him, not my friends, and certainly not my mother. But nonetheless, they were my feelings, and they were very real and very strong.

I pictured myself laying under him while he nibbled at my lips and my ears and my neck while his penis throbbed inside of me, pulsating to the beat of his heart, stretching me as he thrust into me, making me moan, making me wet, making me his.

I came, moaning low, shuddering, moving my legs restlessly against the sheet, wishing he'd been watching me. I brought my hand up under my nose, inhaling, my eyes closing. I slipped the fingers between my lips, tasting myself, swirling my tongue around and between them, stripping my juices off, my head swimming.

A lazy smile pulled my lips as I rolled out of bed, intent on sharing my new-found delight with my father. My plan was to again coat my fingers, then brush them over his lips, hoping he didn't wake up in the process.

But as I reached the doorway to their room, I saw that his side of the bed was empty. I turned, padding softly back down the hall to the front room, the light from the TV telling me where I'd find him.

I stopped in the hall, my gaze going to the TV. He was watching an old black and white movie, a romance, by the looks the woman was giving the man.

I slipped back down the hall to my room, slipping my panties over my hips, depositing them on my bed, then moving back down the hall.

I was halfway to the front room when I heard the floor creak behind me. I stopped, turning, meeting my mother's gaze, my mouth opening in surprise.

Her brow went up and she stopped, just at the entrance to my room. She held a hand out to me, palm up, wiggling her fingers, willing me to her.

I moved toward her, dread filling my stomach, knowing that, while she may not have noticed the white panties laying on my bed last nigh, she wouldn't be able to miss the ones laying there tonight; the black satin would all but scream at her: Look at me!

I brought my hand up as I approached, laying it in hers, allowing her to pull me toward my room, trying as we moved to come up with a viable explanation for her.

She pulled me into my room and I watched, my stomach turning, as her head aligned itself perfectly with my panties. She stopped, staring at them for several moments before turning, my hand still in hers, her brow up, her gaze moving from the panties to my face. I dropped my gaze, unable to meet hers.

"Are those the ones you were wearing tonight?" she asked, her tone more curious than anything.

I nodded.

"What made you change them?"

My brows drew. I caught my cheek in my teeth, shrugging.

"Talk to me, sweetheart," she said, her tone low, patient.

But I could only shrug.

She reached out then, slowly, catching the hem of my shirt and lifting it, just enough to confirm her suspicions then allowing it to fall, soundlessly, pulling my stomach with it.

She lifted a hand then, setting in on my shoulder, allowing it to slide down my arm and into my hand. She pulled me with her as she moved the two steps to the bed, sitting, leaving me to stand between her legs, facing her, my head down, supremely embarrassed.

"Sweetheart, look at me."

I did, but only for a moment.

She brought her other hand up, lifting my chin with her finger. "What's going on with you?"

I stared into her eyes, willing the words to come, to explain to her how I could concentrate on nothing but him, on nothing but having him inside of me. I knew, though, that I could stand here until the twelfth of never and I'd be no closer to telling her than I was now.

"Is he forcing you?" she asked, the words so quiet I almost missed them.

My gaze came up fast, my head shaking. She studied my eyes. "You can tell me, baby. I'll protect you, I promise."

"He's not, Mamma, honest."

For several long moments she stared, her eyes boring into mine, studying me. "How long has he been touching you?"

I shook my head, my gaze dropping.

"Tell me, baby. You're safe with me."

He tone was very gentle and easy, calming. I shook my head again. "He hasn't touched me at all."

She reached up then, pushing a lock of my hair behind my ear. "Not even last night?"

Again I shook my head, forcing myself to meet her gaze, wanting her to believe me.

"What made you take your underwear off?"

I couldn't help the shy smile, my gaze dropping.

A smile pulled at her lips then. She shook her head. She took and released a long breath. "Was it your idea?"