All Characters In This Story Are 18+ Years Old.
*****
As soon as Francesca Taylor cleared the living room, and disappeared down the hall to the bedrooms, 19-year old Megan slipped around the square oak table in the breakfast nook and sat in her mother's vacated chair, next to her father, John. Her dad had just dealt two three-card hands, and laid four cards, face-up in a 2 x 2 square, preparatory to a new game of Scopa.
Megan put her small left hand on top of John's right wrist, stopping any further movement. "Dad," she said, in low tones, "I thought you knew I wasn't talking about card lessons when I asked if you could stay up and drill me."
John grinned, chuckling softly at his daughter's naivete. "Of course, I knew, Petunia," he replied, pushing the undealt pack aside with his left hand. "But don't you think it would be smart to have a hand dealt, in case your mom returns, unexpectedly, because she forgot something or another?" He leaned over and kissed Megan lightly on her left cheek. "Pick up your hand," he directed, "It's your play."
After a few turns it seemed unlikely Francesca would make a surprise reappearance. Megan had thought she heard doors open and down the hall, but neither her mother nor her brother had shown, and now the house was still, except for cards snapping and scraping on the table's oak surface.
Suddenly Megan tossed her cards onto the faced array, jumbling them as she scooted her chair back and stood up. "You can be so... AGGRAVATING. Daddy!" She burst, petulantly stamping a flat-soled strappy sandal on the alcove's shiny mottled rose terrazzo floor. "I thought we were going to FUCK after mom left the room," she said with a pout, quickly stepping behind John's chair. She leaned over his head, bracing his neck between her breasts, resting their heaviness on his shoulder tops. "Don't you WANT to?" She cooed into his hair, stroking soft warm hands across his cheeks, down to his chest and flattening them against his burly chest. "I thought we had a good time today," she buzzed, undoing the wooden buttons on his silk Hawaiian shirt and twining her fingers in the curly mat covering his pecs.
The speed and totality of his daughter's attack left John momentarily speechless, but his body was hardly caught unawares and responded naturally to her proximate heat. John pushed the table edge. Its legs, and those of the straight chairs, screeched briefly as they slid forward a foot on the polished floor. Finding his voice, he swiveled and stood in a single motion, pulling Megan into an inescapable bear hug. "I absolutely want... to fuck... you, Petunia," he slowly growled convincingly, low in his throat. He heard her breath whoosh as he squeezed her, crushing her breasts, bare but for the chiffon floral film of the bandage ties crisscrossing her chest. His left hand rubbed across Megan's ass. Its fingers crawled beneath her flowing flowery skirt. While he compressed his daughter's torso to his body, she raked her fingernails up and down against his back inside his open silk shirt.
"Nnnaaahh," Megan moaned, as her father's small hard pips stabbed her flattened areolae and shot overloaded electric jolts to the juice taps in her cunny. John grinned over Megan's shoulder when his probing left hand felt the triggered flow soak the crotch of her rompers. He pushed the thin sodden fabric into her excited pussy and flicked her nub with his thumbnail. "AAAHHnnnnn," Megan mewled loudly, squirming in the close embrace.
"You are a noisy little pup, aren't you," John laughed softly in Megan's ear as he diddled her button. She groaned, louder still, biting her dad's neck and thrusting her twat hard onto his fingers while she clawed his lats. "Maybe we should go to my office, huh, Petunia?" He whispered, removing his hands from her trembling body and stepping back.
Megan whimpered and nodded, holding out her left hand. John took it in his right paw and led his primed playmate through the kitchen slider, across the patio to his home office built onto the garage's back wall. He closed and locked the door behind them as they entered, flipping a wall switch lighting a pole torchiere in the back corner of the eight-by-ten foot windowless room.
As far a Megan knew, no one but her father had ever been in this room. Certainly it had always been off-limits to her and to Wally. Along the short far wall, in front of the tall lamp, was a fuzzy retro armless sofa with worn shaggy gray mohair upholstery. Two large triangular zebra striped pillows were tossed haphazardly on its seat. Beside it, on the long wall, were John's desk and office chair, a file cabinet , a wastebasket and a small refrigerator. In the corner nearest the door Megan saw her dad's golf clubs. The floor and the walls were fully carpeted with a rich deep blue thick shag carpet. The torchiere reflected its bright halogen light off the cream acoustical ceiling tiles and cast odd feathery shadows across the cork bulletin board above John's desk.
John stepped to the corner of the sofa, opposite the garage wall, and turned on a radio. It was tuned to a classical music station and Pachelbel's 'Canon in D' filled the close blue room. He turned to the teenager and said, "See the acoustical tiles and the wall carpet? They keep the music mellow." He smiled. "The office isn't exactly soundproof," he laughed, "but I'm pretty sure we can't be heard in the house, no matter how noisy we might get." He sat in the center of the couch, spread his legs and held out his arms. "Come her, Petunia, Daddy wants to to unwrap your presents."
Megan promptly stood between John's legs, facing the red, white and gray Callaway golf bag by the door. John ran his hands lightly up the outside of her legs under the flare skirting and her riprapped tummy to Megan's armpits. She shivered in anticipation. His fingers pulled the bow at the back of her neck and the white floral ties fell to Megan's waist. John cupped her tits and leaned forward, kissing her backbone just north of the chiffon border. He unraveled the bandage straps and slipped the romper shorts down to Megan's ankles. She trembled as his hands stroked slowly back up her legs to her hips.
Megan," John asked reverently, "Do you even know what a perfect ass you have?" He kissed each round cheek and spread their quivering mass with his thumbs, exposing his daughter's crinkled, tight rosebud to closer inspection.
"Um, thank you Daddy," Megan replied, temporizing, because she did not know really how to respond to her father's compliment. Her bottom knew how to respond to his tongue, however and she wriggled and pushed back automatically against John's probing lingua. "Ummmm, that tickles me and also makes my pussy tingle," she observed, flexing her glutes and pinching her father's tongue with her rectum. "Why is that?" She asked, innocently, although she remembered how hard her honey had flowed when Uncle Claude spanked her in Manitou Springs.
John backed his face away and answered, "You have a whole network of pleasure nerves, Petunia, and they react in surprising combinations, sometimes." He pulled Megan toward him, spinning her 90 degrees to the right and outside his thighs. Before she knew it, she was sprawled face down on the sofa, across her father's lap. WHACK! WHACK! John delivered two sharp firm smacks to her naked buttocks. "YAI!" Megan yipped, shocked by the sudden brutality. WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! Thrice more John delivered resounding blows to the teen's reddening bottom. Megan stopped yipping and began crying in earnest. "That HURTS!" She protested, trying unsuccessfully to right herself. John's left hand in the middle of her shoulder blades kept her pinned to the mohair sofa. "Uncle Claude's paddling was kind of fun," Megan thought to herself, sobbing into a zebra pillow and kicking her feet with every blow, "But this really smarts!"
