My name is Layla Jones. I'm tall and lean, with tanned skin and blonde hair that hangs down to my mid-back. I have pouty lips, sparkling blue eyes, and a cup size of 34C. I'm nineteen years old, and while I go to college, it's so close to my house that my parents didn't see a need to pay for dorm expenses. So I live at home.
I actually don't mind living at home. My parents are really cool. Jane, my mother, is a beautiful forty year old that looks almost exactly like me and is young without the aid of Botox or plastic surgery. My father Harry is forty-three, and a successful business man. He runs daily, keeping himself in shape, and he's very handsome. He has a strong jawline, slightly graying short brown hair, and laughing brown eyes.
In fact, my parents are so awesome that all my friends just love them. One of my best friends, in fact, repeatedly tells me how much she wants to bang my dad, and one of my ex-boyfriends told me once how much he'd love to suck my mom's clit.
Naturally, I brushed them off. They're my parents—how could I ever see them that way?
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This weekend my mother is out of town, going shopping in New York City with her best friend. She insisted I stay home with Dad tonight (a Saturday) to make sure he doesn't get lonely. Sigh. I'd much rather be at a party, but there's really nothing I can do about it.
I don't spend time with my father, though, as Mom ats me to do. Instead I hang out in my room, reading and talking to the few people that are online. I catch up on some homework and take a shower, but by eight o'clock I'm extremely bored.
I go downstairs and fix myself something to eat, and, seeing my father watching football in the den, decide to head back upstairs. I hate football.
It's nine o'clock by the time I get so bored I can't stand it. I go downstairs, willing to subject myself to football if it means talking to someone.
I walk in the den, though, and don't see beefy guys running around on a field. Instead, I see, with great horror, two girls having sex in a sauna, and my father's hard cock pulsing in his
hand.
I gasp and back away, tripping over a floorboard.
My father, hearing my fall, turns his head and looks at me. His eyes are glazed in that way that guys get when they're experiencing pleasure. I've learned all the tricks, so I know how they get that way.
"Layla," He says slowly, looking alarmed. I stare at him, eyes wide. My father, masturbating? Couldn't he have waited until I was asleep, at least? This is traumatizing.
