Magic Fingers

Note: You might want to read part 1 which is story 42681.

This is longer than my usual and I apologise to anyone looking for a quickie. I wanted to try something with a bit more background.

Finally, thanks to "C" my wonderful online daughter for her inspiration.

* * * * *

The castle is in a tiny village near Rouen. I awoke at 7:00 to warm sunlight and a powder blue sky. The French manage to do everything so beautifully I suppose it should be no surprise that even their weather has class. Breathing in the clean air as I looked out over the village from this hilltop vantage point I could almost feel the tension of London evaporate from my body. This is what life is about surely? All that endless hustling and bustling, wheeling and dealing...for what? This is where I want to be. This is where I am truly happy.

"woohoo Daddy..le petit-dejeuner est pret"

Tears filled my eyes. I loved that girl who called up from the kitchen more than my own life. Little Amy with her coquettish looks, her sarcasm, her opinions, her unnecessarily full lips which could bring ecstasy with their caress. How could I not want her for myself? No man on earth could do her justice. Certainly none of those young wasters with their designer clothes and lack of commitment to anything remotely worthwhile. The MTV generation with their flitting attention and obscene and willing acceptance of an ever increasing diet of mass produced garbage. These boys whose idea of culture was a jarring ringtone jingling out Mozart's 40th.

Pierre had done his usual first rate job. The croissants were hot and crusty, the coffee black and sensually bitter. Amy and Sarah were sitting on stools round the wooden table, both in short diaphanous white night-dresses. I didn't deserve this. Did I? Yes I did. I do. Why not? I work hard, I don't hate people for no reason, and I give generously to animal charities. Of course I deserve it. My life could have ended right there and I would have been happy.

Sarah's hair seemed more golden than I remembered. When she laughed (which was often) it was infectious and natural. She even had a charming trait of putting her hand to her mouth when she found herself involuntarily laughing like a cackling old gin whore at a dirty joke before checking herself. This was a totally different girl from the frightened awkward young thing I had picked up outside the school gates.

Both girls were clearly naked under their night-dresses. Amy's nipples were, as always, rock hard and jutting through the flimsy fabric.

"Cafe monsieur?"

Pierre was hovering with the steaming cafetiere. A charming handsome man with unfeasibly perfect teeth, Pierre was ideal in every respect. He was efficient, discrete and a committed homosexual. Amy had always been fascinated with him, a man able to resist her charms, but she also adored him and loved trying her French out on him.

"Et mademoiselle?"

Sarah blushed. She was not used to being waited upon.

"Umm..It's OK, I'll do it....", she said to a bewildered Pierre.

"Sarah, Pierre does everything here", I explained. "He gets offended if you even offer"

"Oh". She giggled. "Um...OK...merci..."

Pierre filled her cup and gave her a wink. She went a deeper shade of crimson.

"So Sarah, you speak French?" I asked.

"Oui..."

"un PEU!", we all shouted together and collapsed into helpless giggles. We English are so crap at languages it's embarrassing.

"So what are you two going to do today? I take it you don't want me with you."

Amy gave me a quizzical look.

"Why on earth would you think that? How do you imagine we are going to go shopping without your credit card? Besides, you'll want to show off your beautiful daughters in Rouen surely. Sarah wants to see where Joan of Arc burned the steak hee hee. So let's hear no more of that 'you don't want me with you' nonsense. OK? Good. Now the only issue is - panties or not...what do you reckon Sare?"

I made a gurgling sound

"Joking father"

***

The citizens of France wear their history in their demeanour. A little like the English used to and the Scots and Irish still do. The revolution is etched into their faces even after 200 years. But this is a country that has given the world Baudelaire and Rimbaud, Monet and Moliere, Pascal and Descartes. The French understand elegance and beauty like no other nation.

The girls wore berets. I had argued and lost, and I have to admit they did look very fetching. Pierre had raised his eyes to heaven when he saw them, but even he could tell this was no idle stereotyping. These were essential fashion accessories. T-shirts, short skirts and trainers completed the eclectic ensemble.

I ordered the wine and found a table as the girls went off to the ladies. The aroma of heavy duty cigarettes is never far away in this old city but even that seemed intoxicating and full of character. They were giggling as they sat down either side of me...

"Dad....look what Sarah did"

Sarah proffered her damp index and middle fingers to my nose. I knew the scent of Amy's insatiable vagina well enough by now and it sent the usual signal straight to my groin.

"While I was peeing dad, she just fingered me...tell her"

Amy had adopted the whinging tone of spoilt brat for her little performance

"But I got her back"

She held her fingers to my nose, equally wet and carrying an unfamiliar scent. Sarah looked a little embarrassed. Amy giggled as she saw me trying to come to terms with this new development in our arrangement. 2 daughters. Ah what the hell, I'll cope.

We found ourselves in the beautiful mediaeval church of St. Maclou. The musky, still atmosphere of these places always thrills me. Sarah was lapping up all the information posted for visitors as we trundled up stairs and in and out of various portals. Suddenly we found ourselves climbing into a dimly lit area in the tower. Narrow slits in the walls allowed us a view of the balustrade outside. Sarah read aloud that the tower had been reconstructed in the 19th century. Amy and I studied a carving and read the sign. A middle aged woman was mooching around at the other end of the room.

Suddenly I felt Amy's hand feverishly unbuttoning my flies. I glanced nervously round, the lady was pre-occupied with some fastidious detail, Sarah had gone outside to view the ornate gables and there was nobody else around. Amy had released my swelling cock and was masturbating me as we both feigned interest in the carvings. She had no intention of stopping, I could tell.

"Daddy, when was the church built?" she asked, in an unnecessarily loud voice, her little hand pumping my rock hard cock.

"Um..."

"What? When, what year?"

"It was begun in 1434 and consecrated in ooooooh...in 1521

"Wow that's really old"

I felt the orgasm welling up inside me. Amy sensed it too and concentrated her efforts on the ridge of my tip, easing my foreskin expertly over the most sensitive area. She had been a keen and attentive student when, over the course of several evenings, I had taught her exactly how to manipulate my penis. Her pressure, rhythm and variations were exquisite...it was as if she too had magic fingers.

"How do they consecrate a church dad?" She dipped her thumb into the bead of precum which had formed at the tip and smeared a gossamer thin film all over the head, her index finger expertly tickling the wet frenum on the underside at the same time. All the while looking me directly in the eyes, waiting for minute signals to assist her.

"Um...I really don't aaaah, I don't know"

"Do they scatter special fluid around maybe?"

I knew I was very close to coming. There was no way I could prevent it now, but maybe if I could minimise the damage. I bucked my hips back as if to steer the cum down my trouser legs, but Amy was having none of it. Cupping my balls she caused a reflex which enabled her to get the grip she needed. She loved this angle, with my hips tilted forward like a strutting peacock so that my thick cock was at its fullest possible extension and steepest angle. She gently rotated her thumb and index finger in small circles above and below applying just the correct pressure to stimulate the ridge, each rotation causing a jerking contraction. Slowly she built up the speed and pressure until, at the precise moment where I could hold my ejaculation no longer she pulled the skin back and forward 5 times in quick succession, then paused as the physics of pressure took over sending a spurt of sperm a distance of at least 3 feet. Amy knew precisely when to recommence stroking. Eight or nine more spasms followed as she continued milking my cock, each one releasing a diminishing load of thick white spunk.

She tucked me in and I buttoned myself up, a spent husk, unable to enjoy the luxury of flopping into her arms which is all I felt like doing. I looked in horror, she in amusement, at the trail of destruction I had created. A glob of cum had even hit a statue of a nude woman and was dribbling from her like the first stage of a stalactite before I hastily mopped it up. As we left the church I dropped a 1000 franc donation in the collection box...

***

It was a custom on the first night that we dress for dinner. I arrived in the drawing room early and sampled a couple of Pierre's cocktails. The ladies were allowed to be 10 minutes late of course. Pierre had banged the gong a while ago so I wandered into the dining room to await their arrival. Amy usually made fun of me for adhering to this custom - wearing deliberately inappropriate clothing such as the time she turned up in a conical hat and veil like a princess at a mediaeval joust. I was fully prepared to find she had enlisted Sarah into her practical joke and was half expecting them to come down the stairs in gorilla suits.

Pierre appeared at the foot of the stairs and announced their arrival.

Reader, I'm not able to do justice to the sight that wafted down the stairs arm in arm a moment later. Grace Kelly and Princess Diana at the peak of their powers could not have made such entrances. As I took in the expertly coiffeured hair - Amy's tied at the back, Sarah's up to accentuate her cheekbones and slender neck, the glowing skin so young, the exquisite flowing evening dresses, Sarah in cornflower blue silk, Amy's a pearl satin, the stockings, the high-heeled shoes, and finally the expensive perfume of these women I did what any self-respecting gentleman of a certain age would do when confronted with the absolute personification of feminine beauty and elegance. I burst into tears.

Just that. There is a point of appreciation beyond which the male is not equipped to cope. The system breaks down. My daughters were quite simply the most beautiful creatures God had ever created. And they were here. With me. These tears were tears of unbridled joy, adoration and pride. I turned to Pierre who had been so busy in the Paris fashion stores while I had been desecrating churches, and shook him warmly by the hand. He beamed with almost as much pride. "Elles-ont tres belles monsieur".

The conversation flowed as freely as the wine while we feasted. Amy remarked that it was incredible how just crossing the channel could have such an effect on all our moods. Sarah particularly was a different person, but even Amy was more relaxed than I had seen her in a long time - having at last been granted the sister and best friend she had always wanted. As for me...well I could have happily frozen this moment in time and spent eternity here.

"We're like that Dickens novel Daddy...the one set in London and Paris"

"Tale of Two Cities", I prompted.

"Tale of Two Clitties", piped up Sarah.

There was a pause as we looked at Sarah, and then the three of us just pissed ourselves laughing for a full 5 minutes.

The meal went pretty much like that right up to the dessert. I've no idea what that ice-cream based concoction was but it was like spooning cold creamy wickedness directly into the bloodstream. The 3 of us seemed to be entering a chocolate induced bliss. And not the rubbishy acne-catalyst chocolate they sell in England. This was the devil in dark, high cocoa-content form.

"So Sarah...what university will you be going to?"

Me and my mouth! Suddenly a veil of sadness crept over Sarah's face. Amy gave me a sharp look, silver spoon half way to her luscious lips.

Sarah recovered slightly. "I...probably won't bother, sir".

I looked perplexed enough for her to continue...

"I have a place at Oxford, but..."

"But?"

"Oh it's...it doesn't matter"

"Sorry am I missing something here?"

"Dad", soothed Amy.

"My dad - my real dad - has kind of cut me off. I don't really think I could cope with a student loan right now".

Pierre served the Irish coffees.

"OK, let me see if I have this right. You think I am going to let an intelligent woman whom I have embraced into my family as my own daughter, you think I am going to let her pass up the opportunity to attend the best university in the world because of MONEY?"

"I -"

"No Sarah, I haven't finished. I'll say this once and once only". I took her delicate hand in mine and looked into those intelligent blue eyes.

"You have brought nothing but joy into my heart since we met. There are far far too many stupid people in the world; we need to redress the balance. Of course you are going to Oxford. What kind of Father do you think I am? Just spend what you need to spend. I mean it. The fees, books, accommodation, living costs. Whatever you need. Please. I just cannot bear to see people not fulfilling their potential. It's my special gift to my special new daughter"

"Yay daddy", Amy couldn't control herself and flung her arms around me and kissed me on the cheek.

"But, I couldn't..."

I put my finger to Sarah’s lips. "Sssh. It is done. No more".

"I - I'll pay you back. Honest".

Poor girl really didn't understand that she paid me back tenfold every time she smiled.

"Whatever you like Sarah. Now can we change the subject please. This ice cream is something isn't it?"

The veil lifted. The girls were happy once more, and as they flopped onto the couch, I into the big armchair there was something very special in the air...

Pierre put on a CD of deliciously decadent jazz before retiring to the kitchen to clear up. Those musicians can make their instruments sound like the plaintive cry of a wanton woman or the brazen screech of a lustful parakeet in the space of a second. The strains of the sax seemed to lick and caress us as they swirled round the room. Sarah was lost in her world, hopefully her new world where people love and care about her. Amy was moving her head gently in time to the rhythms. I was tapping gently on my brandy glass as I inhaled the sexually charged atmosphere. We were all enthralled by a sax solo that seemed to defy the laws of musical physics, each quarter note seeming to draping itself around my penis like a silk scarf before wafting over to the other side of the room to have its way with the girls. I know they felt it too, for the musky scent of woman, 2 women, was palpable. It wrapped itself in the meniscus of the music and was transported with it. Quite suddenly, naturally and inevitably, with no hint of playacting, the girls kissed. A passionate sensual kiss, their tongues feverishly exploring eachother's mouths, their fingers teasing eachother's tresses. Sarah was engulfed in Amy's lust. Her knees fell open as Amy caressed her stockinged thighs, each slender movement hitching her dress higher up her legs until Sarah was wide open and exposed - her stocking tops and white panties clearly displayed. Amy was ensuring I could see every move as her hand traced circles on Sarah's panties, each tiny movement eliciting a small moan of pleasure. The pianist took up the solo and I thrilled to the delicate artistry. Sarah probed Amy's mouth with small darting movements of her tongue while her hand pulled down the thin straps on Amy's exquisite dress exposing her full breasts and those oh so perky nipples. Now it was Amy's turn to groan as Sarah pinched her erect nipples with enough pressure to leave her in that excruciating limbo between pleasure and pain. I had seen, touched, sucked and come over Amy's breasts many times, but I had never seen them looking as beautiful as they did that moment. Sarah flicked the tips with mosquito wing sensitivity and I swear, if nipples could ejaculate, Amy's would have done so right then.

By the time Miles Davis oozed in with his muted trumpet solo the girls were half naked. Amy's panties were dangling from her right ankle, Sarah's were perilously close to being ripped off as Amy bathed her fingers in them. The air was thick with the glorious fragrance of countless female orgasms as the girls slid to the floor, Sarah supine - her knees raised and her legs open in front of me. Amy squatted above her face, gyrating her clitoris over her sister's eager tongue. She nodded at me towards Sarah's open thighs.

Miles took off his mute and pierced the air with an impossibly high note as I eased Sarah's panties off her legs. As I rested my hands on her knees I could see her lips pulsating as if beckoning me in with a kiss. Her juice had formed a rivulet running the length of her crease before pooling at the rosebud of her bottom. As I eased my thick hard cock into her she intensified her movements on Amy's hairless young cunt. Amy positioned herself in such a way that I could clearly see the tongue easing open her lips. My cock slid wonderfully easily inside Sarah's tight wet vagina and as I leaned forwards Amy took my face in her hands and kissed me on the mouth. She tasted like a strawberry flavoured orgasm. She looked me in the eyes and said: "You love this. Never leave us Daddy".

I felt the familiar signs of an impending orgasm. I knew this was going to be big, maybe the best ever. There was no awkwardness with Sarah, it was if she had been expertly designed to accommodate every contour of my rigid cock. Time after time I withdrew almost the whole length, making her whimper and suck me back in with her muscles, each time I felt the mix of precum and juice thicken, the sperm rising from my centre like a thermometer being repeatedly exposed to ever increasing heat. I was ready to explode. Amy's face told me she was ready to drown Sarah in her cum. Sarah was moaning with every thrust. Timing was everything. Keeping up the rhythm as I penetrated Sarah I rested a magic finger on her clitoris causing her to gasp then whine like a troubled ghost. Amy supported me as I eased a finger from my other hand between her clitoris and Sarah's tongue.

Miles was dancing with the devil by now, his rhythms were impossible, the band upped the tempo as both my daughters rocked wildly against my fingers- my magic fingers, their panting screams forming a crazy backdrop to the music. Amy's eyes shone as she felt Sarah's tongue and my finger. I knew the look. I increased my tempo once more, pumping Sarah's wonderful cunt like a man possessed, my fingers sending their charge through her very soul when suddenly the music reached its first crescendo and stopped! A false ending. The 3 of us tensed every muscle we had......the ecstasy of denial, three bodies strained beyond endurance: 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 Crash! The whole band came back in on a protracted C# 9th as the three of us simultaneously orgasmed with a scream that could have woken the unknown soldier.

***

Looking out from the white cliffs of Dover my daughters and I, we surveyed the distant France draped in a grey mist. The English Channel seemed angry that day, its fearsome waves crashing violently, incessantly, predictably, and ultimately pointlessly hundreds of feet below us. For a split second the three of us exchanged a look. I have a feeling, when we have done what we have to do, when we have lived the lives we have to live, we three- Amy, Sarah and me - we'll come back to this awesome cliff. We'll want to take one last look at France...