Substitute Wife

They say things happen the way they do for a reason, that certain factors lead to certain actions that play out in a certain way. That is certainly true in my case.

If I hadn't lost my wife and lost her in the manner that I did; if our daughter, our only child, had not been a virtual clone of her mother; if I hadn't gone nearly insane with grief; if, if, if… The bottom line is this, however: a little over a year after my wife died suddenly two years ago, my beautiful daughter and I fell into an intense sexual affair that shows no sign at all of abating. Here's the story.

This all started about three years ago, when my mother-in-law contracted lung cancer, the price of a two-pack-a-day cigarette habit. We were living at the time in the Houston area, where I had grown up. Margaret's mother, however, lived in the mountains of western Virginia. Since Margaret hated to fly, was actually afraid to fly, she had tried driving to see about her mother. She'd only done it once, and the trip nearly broke her, so she had resigned herself to flying on her frequent visits to take care of her mom.

So it was that on a stormy April morning, Margaret got on a plane to return home from a visit to her mother and was one of 97 people killed when lightning struck the plane, causing it to lose power and go into a tumbling spiral. The stricken plane slammed into a mountain nearly nose-first and everyone on board perished. About all they ever found of Margaret that was readily identifiable was part of her jaw.

So there I was, with the love of my life suddenly taken from me and in the most awful way possible. More to the point, we were left with nothing of her. There was no body to bury, no casket, no gravesite, no headstone, no nothing. It was like – poof! – she had vanished into thin air. We did have a memorial service, but that's not the same as being able to see your beloved's body, to have some closure, to have some place to go where you could say you were visiting her shade.

Needless to say, I was lost without Margaret, and, for awhile, so was Marcie, our daughter. I had lost my best friend and lover; Marcie had lost her closest friend and confidante. You have to understand, Margaret and I had one of the great love affairs anyone could have. I'd met her our freshman year of college, at the University of Texas, when we had a class together. I was captivated by her long, silky dark brown hair, her pixyish looks, her deep blue eyes, her intelligence, her long slender body, and, well, just everything about her. She was from a small town in Virginia and had earned a scholarship to UT to major in journalism. She'd tried to get in to Missouri, reputed to be the best J-school in the country, but they weren't forthcoming with a scholarship, while UT was, for which I was forever grateful to my alma mater. Her folks were lower middle class folks, so getting someone else to pay for her college was crucial.

Since I'd grown up in the big city, while she was a small-town girl, I should have been the sophisticated one and her the naïve one, but the first time we slept together, after we'd been dating about four months, she showed me some things I didn't think supposedly nice, small-town girls did. We'd spent the whole weekend in my dorm room fucking our brains out, and from that point on, with the notable exception of a three-month period in our junior year, we'd been a pair. Mike and Margaret; we were inseparable, except, as I said, for the three months we'd separated.

Those three months apart had cemented our love. We'd been bickering a little bit, and finally we agreed to separate for a time to see what the rest of the world had to offer. It was the most miserable period in my life, until Margaret's death. I moped, I whined, I drank (a lot), I smoked a lot of dope and just generally made a complete nuisance of myself.

Apparently, Margaret felt the same way, because when I finally decided enough was enough and called her for a date, she practically tripped all over herself saying yes. We picked up where we'd left off, and were never apart for the rest of her life. I had supposedly majored in political science with a minor in public administration, but my real interests in college had been Margaret and partying. So when we graduated in 1977, she was the one with the career opportunities while I ended up getting an industrial job. Margaret got a job right out of college at a small-town newspaper and I went to work for the local industry as an office clerk. We shacked up together for a year before getting married in '78.

We didn't even think about having kids for the first three years of our marriage, then we tried for a year before Margaret became pregnant. It was a very difficult pregnancy, and it was touch and go whether the baby would make it. Thanks to superb medical care, we made it, but Marcie still had to be taken by cesarean section five weeks early in 1983. Although I wanted at least one more child, Margaret was adamant that she was not going through another ordeal like that again, and I reluctantly agreed. So Marcie became an only child, truly beloved by both of us.

It didn't take long to realize that she was her mother's child in every way. She had the same color hair, the same build, the same good looks, the same quick wit, the same intelligence, the same everything. Many times, only children grow up spoiled, but Marcie was definitely not spoiled. She was expected to help around the house and to act respectfully around others. All parents say their children are perfect angels, but Marcie really is an angel. She's got a sweet disposition, a loving nature and a very level head, something else she inherited from her mother. Margaret and I weren't necessarily against corporal punishment, but we'd only had to spank Marcie once, when she was about 8 or 9. She'd told us she was going to one friend's house and ended up at another's without telling us. Other than that, we could discipline her just by talking crossly to her. She wanted so much to please that it crushed her when we fussed at her.

Eventually, I landed a job in Houston as a buyer for a company that supplies valves for refineries, pipelines and oil fields; Margaret landed a nice job in the features department at the Houston Post. That lasted until the early '90s, when she decided to leave newspapering to become a full-time mom and a freelance writer. Actually, she saw earlier than most the writing on the wall for the Post, which ceased publishing in the mid-'90s. Freelancing enabled Margaret to work at home to bring in some extra money and keep her skills sharp. She sold stories to newspapers around the state and magazine articles, mostly on cultural events around Houston. We had a nice, fairly new house that we'd moved into in a suburb southeast of the Houston city limits. It was a good, comfortable life that we'd had until that awful day when Margaret's plane fell from the sky.

My boss generously gave me a month off to grieve; I was back at work within a week. Pacing an empty house full of memories about drove me crazy, and work was the only thing I knew that could take my mind off my misery. So I clamped a lid tightly on my emotions and tried to resume a normal life. I knew I had to be strong for my daughter. But it wasn't nearly the same. I'd get up, drive to work, plunge myself into the job, drive home, eat a dinner that Marcie had fixed, suck down four or five beers to numb myself, then crawl off to bed.

I did this like a robot just about every weekday, day after day for a year. I couldn't even look at other women, let alone date anybody; in fact, it was six months before I could even bring myself to masturbate, then I'd feel overcome with guilt. On weekends, Marcie and I would go to ball games or concerts or little weekend trips, anything to get out of the house. Oh, and we took a long trip to Virginia – we drove it – in October when Margaret's mom passed away.

It was around Christmas that year that I could sense a subtle change in my relationship with Marcie. Margaret's life insurance had paid off handsomely, so we had the money to take a long trip to Colorado to go skiing. Neither one of us was up to celebrating the holiday at home and we had both enjoyed skiing the times we'd been before. It had actually been Marcie's idea to take the trip. I guess it's the resiliency of the young, because Marcie returned to something like normality fairly quickly. It was her senior year of high school, and she'd thrown herself into school and activities. But her social life wasn't much to speak of; I found out later that she had consistently turned down dates with the excuse that she needed to be there for me. She did go out with some girl friends every now and then, but between schoolwork, playing on the school basketball team and tending to the house (and me), she didn't have much time for a social life.

I guess I should have seen it coming, but I was oblivious to everything except my own grief and the strict life schedule that I kept like an automaton. But I did notice when we spent two weeks together in a two-bedroom condo at Vail, that my baby had grown up. Maybe it was the maturity that came with dealing with such a horrific event, but I began to notice that Marcie carried herself a little differently, especially around me. She walked with more self-assurance; she began grabbing my arm, patting me on the back, sitting close to me on the couch. We'd always been a touchy-feely family, with lots of hugs and kisses, and, even in my grieving fog, I realized that she was filling out, that her body was finally catching up with her coltish legs and slender figure. And I certainly couldn't help but notice that with her nearly waist-length, dark brown hair and her fuller figure, she looked exactly like the woman I'd fallen in love with 27 years earlier.

Because it was just the two of us, we weren't as concerned about modesty as we would have been if Margaret had still been alive. Soon, we got used to seeing each other in our underwear or in baggy nightclothes, and sometime after our return from Vail, I began to have erotic dreams about fucking Marcie. I'd wake up after one of these dreams in a cold sweat, thinking that I was the lowest scum on earth to be having these thoughts and dreams about my precious little girl. In fact, I could sense myself sinking deeper and deeper into despair and depression, with no way out. For the first time in my life, I seriously considered suicide, but I knew I could never leave Marcie like that. But I was drinking a lot of beer and generally letting myself go to pot.

So, I was a first-class basket case as the first anniversary of Margaret's death came around. They say one must have some sort of catharsis to purge oneself of bitterness and grief, but I'd been raised in a home with a tough-minded father who had a military background and three brothers, two of whom were older, and it was an unspoken rule in our house that big boys didn't cry. Period. They just didn't do it. Maybe if I had, what happened wouldn't have happened. But I didn't have much time to dwell on the awful date, because Marcie's graduation was approaching, along with the attendant events. It was a bittersweet affair. I was proud of my girl – she graduated cum laude – but I was sad that her mother wasn't there to see it.

It was three weeks after commencement that everything came to a head. Margaret's and my wedding anniversary was approaching, a date I was dreading. Marcie had been acting a little odd lately, nothing suggestive, just … odd. For one thing, she still had not decided on where she wanted to go to college. Money was no object; we'd started a college fund very early in Marcie's life, and the insurance also added to it. With her grades and her high ACT score, she could've gone anywhere she wanted, but she was torn. She had several schools that she was interested in, but she couldn't seem to make up her mind. It was as if she was waiting for something, some sign that would point her in the right direction. This was so uncharacteristic of her that I even noticed it. Like her mother, Marcie had always been sure of everything she'd wanted to do with her life. So this indecision on such an important issue, this late in the game, was baffling.

Two days before the date of our anniversary, which would fall on a Saturday, Marcie bounced into the kitchen after dinner and announced that we were going out Saturday night to celebrate my wedding anniversary. I objected at first, arguing that remembering and celebrating that wonderful event would be too painful, but she would have none of it. "Daddy, you need to get out of the house," she insisted. "You need to go on a date, and since you don't seem interested in dating other women, I guess I'll have to be your date." She said this with almost a mischievous twinkle in her eye, and I noted in passing that Marcie's tits were bouncing freely under her t-shirt.

But then she turned serious as she sat on the couch and snuggled up close to me. She put her arms around me and I put an arm around her shoulders to draw her close. "Daddy," she said in a soft voice. "It's been over a year. I know how much you loved Mom; I loved her just as much. But life goes on. You're still a fairly young, handsome man and you need to let it go. Daddy, I love you so much, and it just breaks my heart to see you waste away like this. You used to be so much fun, so full of life. I want that man back, and I'll do anything – anything – to get him back."

It didn't occur to me right about then what she might have meant by "anything," but there was no mistaking the warmth of her young body pressed close to mine, and I could feel my groin begin to tighten. I cursed myself inside for reacting like this to my own daughter, but it had been so long since I'd been with a woman.

So I agreed to take my daughter out to a fine restaurant and maybe do some dancing on Saturday night. At Marcie's insistence, I got a haircut – I'd let my hair grow pretty long – and we went shopping at the Galleria for new outfits. She helped me pick out a nice summer suit, but she wouldn't let me see what she'd bought. She said she wanted it to be a surprise. And boy was it a surprise. I'd been dressed about a half-hour, and was getting a little impatient, when Marcie descended the staircase. I couldn't believe it. The dress she'd bought was a sexy little number, a tight-fitting black mini-skirt of a satiny material with spaghetti straps. It had a plunging neckline that revealed an ample amount of cleavage and dipped low in the back, making it obvious that she wasn't wearing a bra.

I should say at this point that neither Margaret nor Marcie was what you would call well endowed in the breast department. Margaret's tits had gotten fuller as the years passed, but she still never wore larger that a 36C cup, and Marcie had, I would guess, about a 34 or 36B. That was OK with me. I always subscribed to the philosophy that more than a handful was a waste, and I was always more than happy with Margaret's tits, especially her super-sensitive nipples. And Marcie's nipples were sticking up through the material of her dress, almost like she was aroused. A pair of black stockings and high heels complemented Marcie's outfit. Her hair had been brushed to a silky sheen and her makeup was tastefully done. I have to say, she looked ravishing, and I could feel myself stirring in my groin, in spite of myself.

Remember, I hadn't had sex since Margaret's death, and I still didn't jack off much, usually because I'd had too many beers most nights. In fact, it had been almost a month since I'd done anything at all sexual. But now I could feel the familiar tingling at the sight of my lovely daughter, and not for the first time, wondered again what she'd meant by "anything." Lord, I was so confused as we drove to the restaurant. Part of me wanted to take this supremely sexy creature and fuck the absolute dog shit out of her, and the other part recoiled at the thought. I just didn't know what to do. As it turned out, I didn't have to do anything.

We ate at the finest Italian restaurant in Houston, a place we'd never been before. Marcie had made the reservations and it was immediately apparent that she had inherited her mother's taste in fine dining. Margaret's mother had been full-blooded Italian, and we'd always had an enormous taste for Mediterranean cuisine. Moreover, the place had a very romantic feel to it, with soft lighting, crisp white tablecloths, candles on the table, the works. We bought a bottle of fine white wine and I let her have a couple of glasses, even though she wasn't legal to drink, having turned 18 just a few months before.

Throughout dinner, I kept looking across the table at Marcie, and she kept her gaze on me. The way she looked at me unnerved me. There was the playful hint of seduction in her big blue eyes, and we talked about life and what she wanted to do with hers. Maybe it was the wine, but we both began to feel a little bold. On impulse, Marcie started asking questions about sex, about things Margaret and I had done in bed. Normally, I would have swiftly, maybe angrily, changed the subject. But I was too mellow and was enjoying the evening too much to chastise my girl. And soon I found myself telling Marcie about some of our married exploits, and I could see her eyes light up more and more, the more I talked. Then it was my turn to ask her a serious question.

"I hope you don't take offense at this, but I'd like to know if you've ever been intimate with any of the boys at school," I asked. "I'm not being judgmental, but as your father I think I should know, just in case." I knew she had never had a serious boyfriend, but, well, you never know about kids.

Marcie just crinkled up her nose in distaste. "All the guys at school are such boys," she replied. "All they're interested in is a wham, bam, thank you ma'am relationship. I want to give myself to a man, a real man, someone who knows how to make love to a woman and can teach me what I need to know in a leisurely, loving way." And she fixed me with a level stare that completely discombobulated me. Because it was at that moment that I knew, really knew, what was up.

I slowly shook my head as I became aware that Marcie wanted me to be her first. "We can't," I said softly. "I'm your father. It's not right."

"Daddy, I love you more than anyone in this whole world," she answered in an equally soft voice. "You need a woman and I need a man. You need someone to take Mom's place, and who better than me, the person who loves you more than life itself, the person who more closely resembles Mom than anyone else. Daddy, I couldn't have gotten through this past year without you. You've been my pillar of strength, and now you need me. I can see the pain you're in, and it saddens me. I told you, I want my old Daddy back, and I'll do anything to get him back."

And as she spoke I felt her stockinged toe run up my calf. I couldn't help myself; I got a raging hard-on like I hadn't had in months. "You're sure about this," I said. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life," she whispered. "I love you Daddy, and I want to give you the most precious gift I can give. I want you to take my virginity, to teach me how to be a woman. I know I can never replace Mom, but I can try. I want to try. Do it for me; do it for her; do it for yourself. You need me, and I need you."

Marcie took my hand in hers and suddenly it just felt right. I was in a daze as we paid the bill, and went to the car. As soon as the door closed, we were on each other. I pulled her to me and we kissed, not as father and daughter, but as new lovers, with wide-open mouths and dancing tongues. The idea that we might go dancing went out the window right then. We might dance, all right, but it would be the dance of love, played out in my bedroom. When we broke our embrace, I looked Marcie up and down. "God, you are so beautiful," I said. "I hope you understand, I might not be too gentle. It has been so long." "Don't worry, Daddy, I know you won't hurt me," she replied. "I even got myself on the pill, so you can fuck me properly and put your cum where it belongs without worrying about getting me pregnant."