Note: I built this story around a single porn pic and the accompanied caption.
*
It takes him awhile, but Bud Morgan, a youthful looking forty-eight, Boy Scout leader, church-goer, successful businessman, loving father and husband, can deny it no longer: He's a PORN ADDICT. It's so painful to admit and yet too glaring to deny. Bud Morgan, God-fearing, believer in living life in moderation and supporter of charitable causes, hides in his private study in his spacious four-bedroom, three-bath, brick Georgian Revival in upscale Mantua Estates several times a week and pleasures himself in front of his seventeen-inch computer screen.
Oh, the shame of it all, the guilt, the credit card bills that run into the thousands, the ones he hides from wife Adel. All those FREE videos and he's still not sated. Like the flabby masses that make New Year's resolutions to shape-up but never do, Bud says he'll quit tomorrow. Tomorrow becomes next week, then next month, then...
No, he can't quit, he finally admits, can't tear himself away from all that flesh and flash. He's a man of eclectic tastes—the girls in their summer dresses (sorry Irwin Shaw, couldn't resist), the lezzies licking each other's twats, the adorable teens spreading for their horny male teachers, the erotic MLIFs seducing young virgin men, and even those dysfunctional families where taboo is please do. It wouldn't be so bad if not for the fact that he starts to see people as characters in those videos, people he meets in passing, and even his own family. Imagine that!
The fantasies come rushing into his brain like white-hot lava, bringing down more self-induced shame and guilt. He thinks of Stephen, his high school-age son getting it on with Marissa, his nineteen-year-old daughter, or Bud himself doing Marissa and Stephen doing Adel. Whew! Those thoughts alone are enough to drive his erection higher than the Tower of Babel.
He must be sick, he tells himself. This isn't normal behavior for a middle-age guy with so much going for him, a "respected" member of the community. However, the more he delves into it, the more he learns that porn addiction is as common as snow in Alaska. Like alcoholism and drug addiction, porn addiction doesn't discriminate. Porn addicts come from every type of racial, ethnic and socio-economic stripe, hooking all people, be they priests, rabbis, police chiefs or prosecutors. It makes him feel somewhat better, though hardly comfortable—not when porn sites charge his credit card every month, not when the only way he can get it up for Adel is to pretend she's someone else, and especially not when he sneaks peeks at Marissa when she's wearing her bikini or cheerleader outfit, clothes that reveal bodily assets that set his desire ablaze and mind wandering.
Little wonder that it's those videos of cute, sexy young women who take to their dads' beds with uninhibited glee that provide him with the greatest erotic thrill of all. My goodness, some of them even look like his beautiful Marissa, she with the smooth, translucent skin and a body so delicious that even her own brother can't help but gawk. She's a compact, well-proportioned five-foot three, with a flat tummy, small waist and full, luscious thighs and calves. Her boobs, while far from huge, hang firm and symmetrical with her body type.
He figures he's on safe ground so long as he keeps his fantasies bottled up in the electronic confines of cyber space. Fantasies are one thing, attempting to act upon them are another. Thus far, he never has. Oh, but he's starting to see cracks in his wall of self-restraint, a weakening of his resolve not to venture into the dark side of a sexual appetite that his family and "straight" friends would no doubt find kinky at best, repulsive at worst. He wouldn't dare. Or would he? Well, maybe, if he could convince himself that Marissa might harbor such salacious thoughts of her own, scant evidence of that. Or is there? More than once she's told him how young he looks. "No way do you look like a guy in your late forties," she said. And: "I just might have the handsomest middle-aged dad there is."
Pardon his conceit, but he does indeed look good for a guy his age, he freely admits. He's a lean and hard five-foot-eleven, ruddy complexion, wavy, salt-and-pepper hair, more pepper than salt with just a touch of thinning in back. He's a regular at the Fitness Palace, a gourmet gym where he keeps his body toned and sculpted using treadmills and free weights. Adel sometimes gets into the complimentary act: "You're the perfect image for a James Bond," she once said when he dressed in a tux for some long forgotten black tie affair. He doesn't consider himself a narcissist, yet his long gazes into his bedroom mirror makes him wonder. Self-loathing mixes with pride of appearance, the former rearing its ugly head whenever those incestuous scenarios play out in his dirty little mind.
No matter, he can't drop the subject of him and Marissa engaging in the unspeakable, if not the irrational, if not the unspeakably irrational. So how does one proceed? With all deliberate caution, he tells himself. He's not yet so entwined in the fantasy that he thinks Marissa is thinking what he's thinking. He winces and shakes his head over thoughts of approaching her with even a hint of such an outrageous proposition. He can't do it, won't do it.
Famous last words, fated to die when opportunity knocks like it does on this Saturday afternoon. Stephen is out with friends, Adel out shopping. Marissa is in her room and Bud is padding down the hall on his way to the club basement to indulge himself in his long-time hobby of building vintage model ships. Her door is closed; well, not exactly closed. Cracked is more like it, cracked enough for him to get an eyeful of his sexy daughter lounging on her bed and doing something he's only fantasized her doing. She's topless, she's got her jeans pulled down to her knees, and she's got one hand stuffed into her crotch, the other hand resting on the bed for support. She's looking at something, her laptop perhaps—he can't see that far into her room. What he can see is her "crotch hand," clearly in motion, and so is her ponytail, shaking slightly when she tilts her head back. He can even hear her moaning, a soft moan, one tinged with the tone of a girl who is obviously having fun.
His cock swells at the sight and burning desire knocks all thoughts of building model vintage ships clear off his radar. If he ever makes it to the basement, it will be to relieve himself, not build replicas of the Queen Mary or USS Constellation. After taking a couple steps toward the landing, impulse seizes him, freezes him in his tracks. He backs up, then raps his knuckles gently against her door.
Without flinching, she looks up and says, "Oh, daddy, can't you see I'm busy? But you can stay and watch if you'd like."
Her response stuns him, leaves him slack-jawed. Still, he can't help but push her door a few inches.
She grins and wiggles her adorable little ski slope of a nose. Nonchalant, she says, "Don't look so surprised. Girls need to masturbate too, you know."
"So I see." Gingerly, he steps into her room. Now he sees the laptop and the video she's watching, a teen and a much older man getting it on. Pointing to the screen, he says, "Is that supposed to be a dad and his daughter?"
"It's supposed to be," she says, watching the screen, her hand still moving. "It's probably just role play but looks convincing enough. Don't you think?"
"Yeah, I guess so," he says, his mouth still agape with surprise, if not mild shock. "You're not embarrassed?"
She continues to stroke herself. "Embarrassed about what? That I masturbate or that you caught me?" She giggles.
His hand drops to his crotch to feel the bulge beneath those old gray gym shorts he wears around the house. "You really want me to watch you do this?"
"It turns me on, if you want to know the truth." Her green eyes dart to his crotch. "And from what I see there, you look like you're being entertained by it as well. Or is that from the video?" More giggles follow.
He steps closer to her bed. "You're really wet, I bet."
Her eyes seem to sparkle when she smiles. "You bet right. Here, you can feel for yourself." He demurs. "Don't be shy, dad, you know you want to."
"Yes but..."
"Oh, come on."
"Well, okay." He sits on the edge of the bed. She spreads her legs wider, takes his hand and guides it into her crotch. He slips his index finger into her pussy and nods. "Wow, you're soaked."
"No kidding. You can keep going if you'd like."
