Julie Covington Mcgill Ch 03

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is Part 3 of the Julie Covington McGill story, about a recent college graduate, Michelle, who landed her first job at Julie's Accounting Firm, Smith & McGill. The story is written to stand on its own, but it's highly recommended to read the preceding chapters for background and context. This is my first entry in the Taboo category, so please be kind when providing feedback. Enjoy!

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"FUCK!" Michelle yelled, while gently banging her forehead on her steering wheel. Not only was she at work an hour and a half early, as the black Mercedes in the reserved parking spot labeld "JCM" clearly indicated, she had failed at beating Julie to the office. "And I didn't even get my fucking latte!" Michelle whined, feeling the insult being added to the injury.

"Morning," said the security guard, never bothering to look up from the Daily News Sports section, as Michelle passed through the lobby. She punched the UP button, and fidgeted with her hair, thinking of what she could possibly say to Julie, while waiting near the bank of elevators.

DING!

The loud bell announced the elevator's arrival, which brought Michelle back to reality. She stepped into the marble walled compartment, and her finger hovered near the 8 button, the main floor for Smith & McGill. "No, no, no," Michelle thought to herself, "if you go to 8 you'll have to walk right by her office on the way to your desk."

Punching 7, Michelle leaned back against the elevator wall and smiled, proud of herself for her covert plan, while the elevator doors slowly closed. Michelle realized she could swipe herself into the Smith Room, the large conference room on the 7th floor, named for the recently deceased principal partner at S&M, and then take the back stairs up to 8, without ever passing Julie's office.

With quick swipe of her ID, the lock on the large oak doors disengaged, and the motion sensor triggered lights illuminated the darkness, as Michelle stepped into the Smith Room. She paused for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the suddenly brightened room, before making her way to the staff door on the other side of the large mahogany conference table. Michelle turned the handle on the staff door, but didn't open it. Instead, she turned back into the Smith Room, and stared at the four by three foot oil painting of Old Man Smith that hung on the North wall.

If even half the stories were true, Old Man Smith was a cross between Teddy Roosevelt and Ernest Hemingway, with the accounts of his many business accomplishments only outdone by the many tales of his worldly travels. And the bi-speckled image looking down upon her definitely looked the part.

The full-bellied man, sitting confidently in the burgundy leather chair, with his majestic Irish Wolfhound, FInn, by his side, stared back at Michelle, as the wheels in her head were turning. With his big head of wavy white hair, ample jowls, and the bushy white moustache, Michelle thought he looked more like a walrus than a President, but it was Finn who caught her attention this morning.

Michelle had heard the office rumors about how Julie really got to the top, passing them off as idle gossip, but something about the way Finn was sitting, proud and proper, and looking every bit as entitled as Old Man Smith, was reconciling within her brain, with the events she witnessed the previous night.

"He was such an incredible lover, passionate, and insatiable. You never forget your first, and I miss him terribly."

The lyrical words arrived at Michelle's ears just ahead of the aroma of the fancy French perfume, and she felt her muscles tense, and the hairs on her arms stand on end. She replied without turning to face Julie, who she could sense was drawing nearer.

"You and Mr. Smith, ma'am?"

Even her laugh was elegant, as Julie chortled at the proposition, "Well, isn't that what the rumors say, dear?"

"NO! Ummm, I mean, I don't know. What rumors ma'am?" Michelle blushed beet red, and blurted out her responses, while realizing that the more she denied it, the more it confirmed that she had heard the rumors.

Turning the young woman by her shoulders, Julie's face beamed as she looked down on the shorter Michelle, "I'm just teasing you love, for disappearing last night. I was looking forward to having you for breakfast."

Michelle felt her body shudder at the innuendo, and she squeezed her thighs tightly together, while staring into Julie's steely blue eyes, which sparkled with hunger and desire.

"So what brings you to the office so early this morning?" Julie asked, still holding Michelle by the shoulders, "couldn't sleep because you had your hands full?"

"Yes ma'am," Michelle replied, "wanted to get a head start on the Weissmann Account," hoping the convenient excuse sounded believable. "I'm heading home this weekend, and I want to have the file in order by Friday."

"Well then, let's get to it," encouraged Julie, stepping toward the staff door, and then pausing, smiling, as Michelle scrambled to open it for her. Michelle followed Julie up the stairs, hoping that they were done discussing the previous evening, and happy to have lived through the awkward conversation.

The rest of the week was uneventful. Michelle poured herself into her work, and Julie was out of the office most of the time, meeting with clients. Michelle was really looking forward to going home for the weekend, not just because of the promise of her mother's home-made macaroni & cheese, but because she was mentally and physically exhausted from the events of the week, and thought she could use a big-ass dose of "normal."

The traffic on the NYS Thruway cooperated, and Michelle made it home by 7:00pm on Friday evening. When she pulled into the driveway of the modest house on Woodbury Road, Chico was the first to greet her, the black lab mix wagging his tail and licking her face, before she could even step out of the car. Her mother, Sarah, came out in her apron, and gave Michelle a huge hug, and her father followed behind her, kissing his daughter on top of the head, and carrying her suitcase up to her childhood room.

John Lynch mixed a pitcher of whiskey sours, while his daughter talked a mile a minute about her first week at work. The conversation continued over dinner, the meal, warmth and laughter, the very definition of "home." Sarah Lynch couldn't help but pry a little, asking Michelle if she had met any eligible young men, while they cleaned up after dinner.

"Give Mitchie a break, hun!, John chided his wife, while pouring the last of the pitcher into his empty glass, "she's only been there a week." Michelle's father was always quick to protect his little girl, giving his wife a playful swat on the bottom to make his point.

The long week of work, drive up from Poughkeepsie, and her father's killer whiskey sours took their toll on Michelle, and she kissed her parents good-night, before turning in for the night around 11:00pm. She slept soundly in her childhood bed, with her Poughkeepsie problems miles away, and the security of having Chico curled up at the foot of her bed, and her loving parents in the next room.

Her dreams soon shifted to the images of her boss on all fours, presenting herself to her husband, pretending to be Michelle, complete with her light blue panties around her thighs, and the way she moaned and begged for J.J. to fuck her harder. "Yes! Right there! HARDER!" Julie's words filtered through Michelle's brain, as if hearing them for the first time. "Oh my God that's so good. What's gotten into you tonight, John?"

"JOHN?"

The images and sounds seeping from subconscious to conscious, where the incongruence of her boss moaning her father's name stuck in the rational portion of Michelle's brain, pulling her from sleep. Michelle's body jerked involuntarily, and she woke, confused and sweaty, and with her hand inside her panties, two fingers buried in her moist pussy.

"What's gotten into you tonight, John?" she repeated to herself, her body still shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, and the noises from the next room bringing her back to reality.

The faint, rhythmic squeaking of the springs on the king sized bed in her parent's room, could only mean that John and Sarah Lynch were sharing their routine weekend love-making session, although it seemed especially passionate on this occasion.

Michelle had been listening to her parents' middle of the night love-making sessions ever since she was old enough to realize what was going on in the next room, and usually masturbated herself to orgasm, enjoying the sounds of love and pleasure coming through the walls. Listening to her mom through the wall, Michelle knew she took after her, as she too was very vocal in bed.

Michelle smiled at the fact that her parents were still active sexually, and very in love with each other, even as she felt a pang of jealous, since it had been quite awhile since Michelle enjoyed a good, hard fucking. The situation with Julie Covington McGill only added to her frustration, as she had been in a constant state of arousal since the night of the barbeque.

"Really, John. you're going at it like a teenager tonight," came her mother's hushed, giggling voice through the thin walls of the three-bedroom colonial.

"Shhhh, Mitchie is right in the next room," her father replied, as the rhythm of the bedsprings increased with intensity.

Michelle shivered at hearing her father use her pet name while in the midst of fucking her mother, and moved to sit in her desk chair, which was in the corner of the room by the ventillation duct, stipping off her damp panties along the way. Michelle spread her legs wide, and leaned back in the faux leather office chair, circling her clit with her thumb, and pinching her nipples with her other hand.

Sarah Lynch released a sustained moan, as she felt her husband's cock swell inside her, at the mention of their daughter's name. She actually knew why their weekend session was hotter and more passionate than usual, but never had the courage to discuss it with her husband, as she implicitly trusted that he would never act on his obvious incestuous fantasy.

"I'm sure Michelle is sound asleep," replied her mother in a broken cadence, with softer moans peppered in between each word, "especially with how strong you mixed those whiskey sours."

John Lynch felt the involuntary twitch of his hard cock deep inside his wife, when she mentioned their daughter's name, as he fucked her doggie style, feeling guilty and a bit ashamed about whom he was imagining in his mind.

Michelle closed her eyes and threw her head back, shocked, not only at hearing her parents discussing her in the middle of sex, but at how incredibly aroused it was making her feel. She slid her hips forward and lifted her feet to the seat of the chair, and pushed a third finger inside herself, lamenting the fact that she had forgotten to pack her toys for the weekend trip home.

Michelle knew if she needed a good cum, to release all the confusion, frustration, desires, and self-doubts that had been building through the entire week, but she wanted, no needed, something more than her fingers to get her there.

Looking over at her shelf, with her American Girl dolls, soccer and swimming trophies, and Yankees paraphernalia, she spied the replica bat that her dad had bought her when he took her to her first Yankees game. She was 13 at the time, and immediately fell in love with Derek Jeter, not just because of his hot body and dreamy eyes, but because he got called up from the minors, and started his professional career as a Yankee, in the same year she was born.

The bat was about a foot long, and was about four inches across at the thickest end, where the Yankee Logo had been burned into the wood. She grabbed it and ran it up and down her slick opening, circling it on her clit, until it was coated with her juices, then plunged the thick end deep inside herself.

Her thoughts alternated between the long since retired shortstop, and surprisingly, her father, who was pounding away at her mother in the next room. The wood grain of the bat was rubbing against her G-spot, and she involuntarily uttered, "Oh DADDY, YES, Right There!" a little more loudly than she would have liked.

The squeaking of the bed springs in the next room came to an abrupt halt, and Michelle immediately removed the bat from her dripping vagina, as if she had been caught. She sat frozen in her chair, listening intently to the eerie silence from the next room.

"You can't stop NOW!" demanded Sarah in the other room, the urgency in her voice a clear indication of how close she was to cumming.

"What about Michelle?" John Lynch whispered in reply, nodding his head toward the shared wall.

"FUCK MICHELLE!" Sarah emphatically replied, a little louder than seemed necessary, her words carefully chosen to encourage her husband to properly finish what he had started.

With another telltale twitch of his manhood, John Lynch slowly began to fuck his wife again, squeezing and rubbing the globes of her firm, white ass, as he picked up his pace, his cock harder than ever.

Michelle still sat froze in the chair, the wooden bat clutched to her as she hugged herself tightly, trying to keep her rapidly beating heart from popping out of her chest. As she heard the plaintiff moans of the bed springs starting again in the next room, she raised the thick end of the drying bat to her mouth, and licked and sucked it, tasting herself on the wooden memento.

"You're up again Captain," Michelle said with a laugh, using Derek Jeter's iconic nickname, and while looping her knees over the arms of the office hair, she plunged the re-lubricated bat head back into her aching cunt, with a renewed intensity.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh," the two Lynch women moaned almost simultaneously, as their orgasms echoed each other in the adjacent rooms. Michelle was pinching her left nipple and rubbing her clit on the shaft of the bat, as a powerful orgasm crashed through her small frame, somewhat embarrassed at the realization that it was her father's cock she was imagining inside her.

John Lynch reached forward to cover his wife's mouth, as her pussy clenched on his pistoning cock, her orgasm overpowering her, as his cock let loose with a huge load deep within the very cavity that produced his daughter. Sarah bit down on his hand, gently, and John swore he heard similar moans coming from the room next door.

Like an active volcano, Michelle kept erupting with wave after wave of orgasms, a stronger one hitting as soon as the previous one subsided, and finally worked up the strength to remove the cum covered bat from between her legs.

Exhausted from the toe-curling orgasms, Michelle slid to the floor and jammed both hands into her crotch, holding herself tightly, and feeling her rapid pulse beating through her well used vagina. She closed her eyes tightly, as a way of denying what lead to the most powerful sexual release she had felt in a long while, but each time the image of her father flashed through her mind's eye, she felt her pussy twitch undeniably.

On the other side of the wall, John stroked Sarah's hair, as she lovingly licked and sucked his deflating cock, looking up at him with an expression of pure satisfaction and devotion. At their age, she knew he was "one and done," but she always ended their sessions like this, because she loved him, she loved his cock, and she loved the taste of their combined juices.

As if mirror images of each other, separated only by a thin wall, Michelle slid the slick bat back into her hungry mouth, and sucked it lovingly, imagining it was her father's cock.

John closed his eyes, and allowed his imagination to engage, conjuring images of the lips and tongue on his cock being those of his 22-year old daughter. He had no way of knowing exactly what her lips and tongue were currently doing, no more than 6 feet from where he lay.

One hand still jammed between her legs, Michelle felt her heartbeat returning to normal, and then giggled to herself at the word 'normal.' "What would John and Sarah Lynch do if they knew their "good girl" daughter just came harder than ever, thinking of her own father fucking her?" she asked herself, unaware of just how positively her parents would actually react to that information. She pulled herself up off the floor, returned the bat to its rightful place on the shelf of her childhood memories, and crawled back into bed, drifting off into a deep sleep, thinking about all the special times she and her father shared throughout her young life.