The Neutral Corner

Edited by: Sixty-nine

"I can't believe you're telling me this," my wife, Greta, ranted emotionally.

"I'm only telling you 'cause you asked," our daughter, Cindy, replied though certainly with much less emotion in her voice.

In a boxing match, I'd be in what is called the neutral corner. They both knew my opinion on the issue, and I didn't really agree with either of them. So while they both knew that I sympathized and would lean on me for emotional support, neither would ask me to jump to their defense.

"I can't believe you're sexually active, Cindy. You're just too young." Of course my wife realized that she would gain no ground in her argument by citing my daughter's youth. They all think they can do anything at that age. Being an intelligent woman my wife quickly added, "with all that's going around...."

"I'm eighteen, Mom," Cindy said in that flippant, sarcastic tone that drives mothers nuts and that only daughters can truly master. "I'm not going to live in a cloister. This is the twenty-first century and you must have known when you gave birth to me that one day I'd eventually want to have sex."

Cindy made good points. She was pretty and intelligent just like her mother, a deadly combination. One I'm quite proud of really. She read a lot, or, at least, she used to read a lot. She was articulate, as her mother was relearning. Too damn articulate, sometimes.

"Don't get flippant with me, young lady. You still live in this house and I won't tolerate vulgarity," Greta told her daughter, shaking her head in disapproval.

Greta and her whole family came from repressed Presbyterian stock. As far back as Wesley I think they've had a pew in the Church of the Frozen Chosen. The thing about Presbyterians and sex is that they believe in it. After all that's the only way there's ever going to be more Presbyterians. But they certainly don't believe in talking about it. They especially don't believe in talking about it with their nearly adult daughters late on Friday night.

"If you hadn't been coming in looking like a street walker at all hours of the night..." Greta continued haranguing, again with the official headshake of disapproval.

"Mother!" Cindy said in a harsh tone, her temper starting to flare in the hot, controlled burn she'd gotten from Greta's side of the family. "I've had a very difficult night. I broke up with Bobby just moments ago and right now I'm more than just a little pissed off..."

"Do you hear that, Thomas? I can't deal with this anymore. This is your daughter and you two had better straighten it out, that's all I have to say." Greta flew from the room in abdication.

"Well, that didn't go very well," I said softly, taking down a couple of wineglasses as Cindy brought out her favorite bottle of white wine from the fridge. One advantage of being married to a Presbyterian verses say… a Baptist gal … was that at least the Presbyterians let you drink in moderation. I grew up in New Orleans. It's a damned important consideration.

"No hair pulling or anything this time, you mean," Cindy said with a rye smile, being smart enough to know I could commiserate, but not console her.

"You've got to come in by your curfew, punkin'," I reminded her again, this time a bit more firmly. "You know she frets about you. Breaking curfew just jazzes her up so that when you come in late these things often can't be contained."

"There was a reason this time, Dad," she said, getting that exasperated tone I knew so well.

"And then there's the thing that really set her off," I said gently, indicating the obvious semen stains on the front of one of Cindy's newest blouses. She's caught a bit in the hair too, apparently, that she wasn't even aware of. Greta might not like to talk about sex with her daughter but she wasn't that naïve. She knew a cum stain when she saw one, and the fact that her baby had walked in from a date splattered like a common tramp had been a bit much for her to swallow. My sick, silly nature couldn't refrain from thinking it must have been a bit much for Cindy to swallow as well. "Go clean up," I told my daughter gently. "I'll put your mother down for the night if she's not already. But we still have issues to discuss before we go to bed, girl. I'll meet you in the den in five."

"Okay, but bring the wine too, Daddy. It was an even tougher night than it looks like, really," she said, rolling her eyes.

Greta was already in bed, though she was still fuming. It took about three minutes of solid venting before she was able to wind down enough for me to say anything at all. Even then, I knew enough to hold my tongue.

"You go talk to her now. You're better at this sort of thing than me. I just can't believe she'd do that, Thomas. Our own daughter, traipsing in like a common whore. I thought we'd taught her better than that." As my wife wore down, she began to yawn and slide even further into the bed. Greta was an early riser. It was already just past midnight and usually she was in bed before nine, another contributing factor to her grumpiness.

"I'll talk to her, darling. You sleep now. We'll discuss it further in the morning."

Before I turned off the light, I noted once more how alike mother and daughter were in outward appearance. Greta was Cindy in thirty years, at least on the outside. They had the same honey-blonde hair, the same slender form, the same high cheekbones and regal air. Greta's beauty was what drew me as a young, inexperienced man to court a woman ten years his senior. Even now, she was so beautiful that I'd never regretted that decision.

As I walk out of our bedroom, and shut off the light I was also honest enough with myself to know that our ages were just another reason for feeling caught in the middle between them. In my own heart, I realized now I had married too early without enjoying all that life and youth had to offer. In a sense, I felt as close to Cindy and her friends at times as I did to Greta and hers.

Grabbing the wine and my glass, I wandered quietly toward the den, not really looking forward to the upcoming conversation. How do I convince my daughter not to do the very things I now regretted not doing in my youth?

Not that I was completely inexperienced when Greta and I were married. I'd had my share of girlfriends growing up, but despite my lack of trying, I was still a shy virgin when Greta and I met. She'd taken care of that long before the wedding too, not that we'd ever tell Cindy that. Cindy wasn't a "preemie baby", like many first children back then were, but she wasn't far from it.

In fact, it was our physical relationship that had finally convinced Greta we ought to marry. She had been very reticent to marry a younger man, nearly as reticent as I had been persistent. Despite my prior lack of experience, I'd like to think it was my complete willingness to do anything it took to please her sexually that won her over. Not that Greta's a complicated woman in bed. Still, I'd learned a lot about pleasing a woman from my wife; lessons I'd never regretted or ever applied elsewhere.

But Greta was also just past fifty now. She'd gone through menopause early and come out the other side already. Though still attentive, her libido had dramatically declined.

Spying around the corner, I could see Cindy looking very girlish in her long cotton T-shirt with her favorite Disney character on the front. In many ways she was just a girl, though quite obviously she was also growing up.

And in many ways too, she was closer to the Greta I had first met as a youth. Closer than Greta was now, anyway. I was smart enough to realize and admit the attraction to myself. I'd also been smart enough not to get myself caught in too many situations completely alone with her like this. It's not that I didn't trust Cindy. It was more that I didn't completely trust myself.

"Sorry to take so long," I told her as I entered the room. I was determined to keep the conversation light and airy.

"It just seemed long to you because you were getting your ears chewed off," Cindy giggled as she poured herself more wine from the bottle I sat between us.

She was laying sprawled out on our oversized couch in the way that teenage girls do when they're in their feline-at-home mode. For myself, I chose the stiff backed chair opposite her so we could talk and so I wouldn't get that comfortable.

"That was a quick shower," I commented after noting Cindy's wet hair.

"Well, I had something sticky in my hair," she said, rolling her eyes at me like she always did. "You could have warned me. No wonder Mama freaked."

"Just when did it become my job to warn you about such things? And what would you have had me say in front of your mom?"

"Okay," she giggled, sipping more wine. "It's not your fault. It's mine. Now you both think I'm such a tramp, I'm sure."

"We're both concerned, that's all. I know you think eighteen is some magical age, but to us, it was just yesterday that you were a little girl."

"Well, I'm not quite ready to give that up either, Daddy," Cindy said, feigning innocence. "In a lot of ways, I still feel like a little girl."

She wanted to steer the conversation in that direction, I could tell. But that's not what I'd been sent in here to do. I'd always been known for my stubbornness and my determination. It's the Irish in me, I suppose.

"But you're not just a little girl anymore, Cindy. And now your mother knows you're sexually active too. There's no going completely back again after that."

"Ugh!" she groaned in frustration, knowing I was not to be denied in this. Then, in frustration, she explained. "Sexually active, like in hands and mouth, Dad. I haven't activated all my parts yet, though it's not been because I wasn't willing."

That did relieve me somewhat, and it might relieve her mother. If it really were true.

"It might ease your mother's concerns if you let me tell her that. Except I'd leave out the willing part if it's all the same to you."

"Sure, you can tell her, dad," Cindy said dismissively. "It's not like I want her thinking I'm a whore or anything."

"So tell me what happened tonight," I suggested gently. "Did Bobby do anything I need to have his legs broken for?"

"No, Daddy," Cindy said softly, though the idea of me having Bobby beat up did look like it appealed to her. Not that I'd ever had anyone beat up before. Still, there was always a first time. Cindy was my baby girl.

"Bobby's no worse than every other boy I've dated," she told me mournfully. "He's just interested in himself and his own pleasure and not the girl he's with, too."

Ah! so that was it. I remembered being eighteen once. How did they used to say it, 'Young, dumb, and full of cum!' I often thought nowadays that if I could just go back to high school with what I know now, no telling how my dating life would have turned out.

"It just takes guys a little longer to mature, dear," I told her - again. "We've had this conversation a few times, if I remember."

"Yeah, in fifth grade when they were throwing mud and stuff. You'd think that by eighteen, if they found a willing girl they'd at least try to do something for her, though!"

Again with the willing! The conversation had quickly degenerated. More than a little of it was the really strong sense of sexual frustration I perceived from my daughter. What does a father say about that, even when he commiserates with her problem? I could always offer her my own solution that I turned to these days.

"Dear, there's always masturbation," I said softly.

"Dad," Cindy said, giving me another patented eye roll. "I've been doing that since I was thirteen. Frankly I'm getting a little tired of it. You'd think I could at least find one guy in high school that would know how to get a girl off. Or that would at least listen when she tried to teach them!"

I found it hard to believe that an attractive and persuasive girl like Cindy couldn't find at least one. Wait, I didn't really want her to find one, did I? This conversation had become an emotional roller coaster for me.

"Susie said we ought to try older men," Cindy said, referring to one of her best friends. "She read in a magazine that older guys make the best lovers."

What was I supposed to say about that? All I could do was shake my head, then I realized that it was just what her mother had done before and so I forced myself to stop it.

"Do you know any nice guys your age, Dad? Someone who might be willing to teach a girl? Or maybe two?"

"Cindy!" I said, finally not able to take her goading. "That's ridiculous and you know it. You don't need anyone older. You need to stay with young men your own age."

"Why?" she asked, far too smugly. Then, almost eagerly, she let her other shoe drop. "That's one reason you married mother, isn't it? She was ten years older. More beautiful. More mature."

"Cindy, it's not the same! You're mother and I love each other very much."

"But I've heard you tease her when you thought no one was listening. About how she'd taught you everything you knew about love. That's all I'm after. Someone older to teach me. Do I have to marry them first?"

"You're an exasperating brat, Cindy," I told her, tempering the words with a bit of a wry grin. "You know I'd never agree to you dating a man that old. What are you after, my sneaky girl? It's obvious you've got some plan of attack here, though I'm at a loss as to what the game or goal is."

Cindy had grown up loving games, especially strategy games. I'd learned early on that in Risk or chess, Cindy was a formidable foe.

"Well, I was thinking of something, Daddy. I wouldn't have to look so hard for an older man if I had another opportunity for my education."

She was setting up rather much straighter than before and using much more precise language. Yes, no doubt this was some well thought through scheme of hers.

Cindy was straightening her nightgown, smoothing it flat over her pretty legs. It took me a while to notice that she was also raising it slightly, exposing more of those same two pretty legs.

"Someone loving and kind that was willing to teach me certain things," she said casually, seeming just to ramble on for a time.

But her nightgown continued to creep upward. There was nothing casual about that. Cindy had already exposed about half of her beautiful thigh and seemed willing to expose even more.

"Cindy, you don't know what you're doing..." I said meekly.

"Yes, I do Daddy," Cindy replied with certainty and boldness. "I'm frustrated and turning to the only man who's ever loved me."

She continued to lift up her nightgown gradually. I had the feeling that soon, I'd be seeing more than I'd ever dreamed of. Then quickly chided myself for the obvious lie.

"I'm turning to the only man I'd trust to show me everything I need to know. The only man who's ever protected me and been there for me."

Cindy eased the nightgown completely off her legs now, slowly spreading them, showing me the radiant flower of her youth.

As her fingers deliberately began to spread her pink labia, Cindy said softly, "I'm turning to you, Daddy, to show me how to really be a woman."

I sat stunned, watching Cindy finger herself. Never in my wildest conscious dreams would I have thought she'd do such a thing. And never thought I'd find myself in this position. Sitting here in front of my beautiful eighteen-year-old daughter watching her gently masturbate while she seduced me.

It was working, too. I found myself rationalizing everything she'd said. Agreeing with everything.

Or maybe it was my throbbing cock that was agreeing. Despite myself, I felt the beating of my own heart in the swelling in my pants. Nor did that obvious fact escape Cindy's notice. She licked her lips suggestively while shifting her gaze back and forth from my lap to my face.

I tried to be strong. I tried to do the right thing.

For about fifteen seconds I tried very hard.

Then my moral sense folded like the cheap house of cards it really was. I found myself crawling on my knees until I was before her, ready to bury my face between those beautiful daughter thighs.

Briefly, my sense and my shame returned to raise their feeble heads just once more.

Looking up the expanse of Cindy's body at her beatific face, I asked her, "Are you sure this is what you want, honey?"

"Oh yes, Daddy," she said with certainty and conviction. "This is absolutely what I want."

Assured, I grasped the outside of her hips and scooted her on the couch closer to my face. I inhaled the fragrance that was Cindy. She was still fresh from her shower. Her glistening labia, thin and pink, lay barely hidden under a well-trimmed mound of honey-colored hair. The ruffle of flesh at the top of her slit, like the pink wings of an emerging butterfly, seemed to sing to me, calling for my lingual caress.

Dipping down into that honey-colored pot, I received my first taste of my daughter's flavor. Her aroma was spicy but light, like a young girl's should be. Her inner texture was stick and warm against my tongue. And the taste of her could only be described as heavenly.

I'd always loved to orally satisfy Greta. I'd even gotten a few licks of girls I'd known before her. But nothing prepared me for the intensity of enjoying the young woman who also happened to be my daughter.

Cindy moaned gently as I spread her out with my thumbs so I could lick deeper inside. I spread her well enough to see she had no maidenhead, though by this time I didn't really care either. Maybe it had all been a tease.

Because even as I licked her, I knew with certainty I'd been conned tonight. From the time I had entered the den with the wine, my preverbal goose had been cooked. Just as certainly as my tongue licked from the base of her wet crease to the top, Cindy had orchestrated this seduction.

But I had been willingly seduced. A very real part of me wanted to be between her thighs. Wanted my tongue to even now begin teasing her clitoris. Wanted my fingers to be obligingly teasing the slick lips of her young, teenage pussy.

Cindy moaned louder now. Greta slept soundly, but this was still risky. Between Cindy's thighs, though, such concerns seemed trivial. I was already risking the wrath of the law and the wrath of God, how much more concerned should I be to risk the wrath of my loving wife and her loving mother?

It hardly seemed to matter at the moment. Not with Cindy's arousal starting to climb and certainly not as my finger slipped deeper and deeper inside her. Though not obstructed, my daughter's channel was certainly tight. She gripped my finger as my tongue lashed her budding clitoris and Cindy's urgency climbed higher and higher.

As I began to pump that finger into her slick, tight slot, I also allowed my little finger to tickle across her anus. Greta had always been sensitive there, though she only rarely preferred actual penetration. Cindy too, it seemed. As soon as my smallest finger began to graze her rose, my daughter pushed my head down tighter into her actively squeezing thighs.

In this the younger girl was very different than the mother. She tasted a bit different. Certainly her flavor was different than Greta's was now. More like the Greta I first fell in love with. But most of all, Cindy seemed more active and passionate than Greta ever had been when I was eating her.

Her fingers combed my hair about, caressing my scalp and tickling my ears. Her pelvis rocked in a way that Greta's never did when she was being eaten, almost what I would call a rhythmic thrust. Quite novel to me and highly stimulating. It kept me alert, like trying to lick a moving target. Then, to complete the novelty, there were her words.

As I serviced her with my tongue, Cindy kept her own tongue busy with a flow of sensuous murmuring. At first, it was only moans and sighs. As her excitement grew, I began to distinguish even more clearly what she was saying, much to my delight.