Why do I feel like I'm at a SAA meeting? Hi, my name is Lisa, and I'm a sex addict.
I'm twenty. Most guys think I'm good looking. I have long hair and a good body. I consider myself an expert flirter, closet exhibitionist and sex addict. I don't mean I'm a closet sex addict. I admit it.
I married a guy right out of high school that I thought was the only man in the world. Unfortunately, he didn't think of me in the same terms. We divorced a year later. Best move I ever made.
I was accepted at the same college as my father, so here I am. All alone.
When I graduate I'll probably teach in the same little school district my father has been in for twenty years. He's forty-three now. Not old. Not young.
He's the reason you're reading this. But it's not his fault. It's nobody's fault, really. Things happen.
My ‘thing' started out innocently enough when my father invited me to accompany him to a conference of band directors—that's right, he's a high school band director—in Orlando. It was during my summer break from school and he thought I needed to get away. Couldn't argue with that.
The flight down was uneventful and, to my surprise, the two of us were getting along rather well. It's not that we always fight, but we are definitely two different people with different philosophies on life. He's the mature male. I'm the twenty-year-old female. That should explain everything.
We stayed at a resort on Disney property. It was easily the fanciest place I'd ever stayed at and I enjoyed the amenities. We shared a room that had a balcony where I could sit in my tiniest bikini and tan. Of course, the only people I could attempt to flirt with were young couples with little kids. Neither of those groups ever proved very fruitful when it came to my addiction.
So I found myself oftentimes flirting with my father. I'd keep that bikini on the entire time we were in the room, except when I took a shower. Then I'd make a point of wearing either a towel or just my underwear as much as possible.
I would have felt guilty if I hadn't noticed his constant attention to me and, to my surprise, his obvious excitement. Shorts are not the best thing to hide an erection in, even a slight one. I was thrilled and confused at the same time. How was I supposed to feel about giving my own father an erection?
By the end of the second day, I was officially desperate. It had been over a week since I'd had sex. Even some of the young mothers I kept seeing looked good. So that night, as I lay in bed in just my panties, with my father in the other bed, desperation took over.
It was completely dark. So dark I stepped on one of my father's shoes as I pulled back the cover and climbed into his bed. Despite the near fall, I managed to get under the cover without waking him. I considered staying where I was, more than an arm's length away from him, but found myself rolling closer and closer to him.
His back was to me. That gave me some nerve to keep going. Eventually, I was close enough that my breasts were about to touch his back. I made every effort to keep my legs from touching his.
I took a couple deep breaths. Then I placed my arm on top of his side. The initial contact sent shivers down my spine. I expected him to jump, but got no response. So I lie there for several minutes listening to him breathe, feeling his chest rise and fall under my arm.
When he finally moved I froze in place. Luckily, he didn't roll over. I was able to keep my arm in place. In fact, I reached it a little farther over so that it completely draped over him.
That's when it seems he realized what was happening.
"Are you OK?" he asked sleepily.
"Yeah. Go back to sleep," I said softly.
He half turned his head to face me, but not completely. I hugged him a little harder. This time my breasts pressed against his back and I scooted my hips forward until I felt his ass on my thighs.
At that point he couldn't have felt anything but my bare skin touching him. He put his hand around mine.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes," I said. "I'm fine, Dad."
He let go of my hand. I stayed in that position, motionless, for a few moments. Then I gradually let my arm slide down his body until my hand was at the top of his boxers. I would know in the next few seconds how far this was going to go.
My movements were slow and deliberate. I let my fingers touch his boxers up around the waistband. Then lower. I felt the opening in the front. Then lower still.
His body shuddered when my hand first made contact with the tip of his cock. There was still the material of his boxers between us, but it was unmistakable what I touched. I guessed he expected me to pull away. I didn't.
My finger followed the path of his limp shaft. I put my palm on him.
"Lisa. No," he said.
"Shhh." I pressed down harder. Rubbed him slightly.
"I don't…," he started to say.
I was ready for him. "Dad. Don't worry."
My hand was moving up and down very methodically. There was just enough pressure now to keep in constant contact with him. I purposely moved my breasts so he could feel them against his back.
Finally. I sensed the first indication that he was responding. I felt the tiniest twinge from his cock and it grew, maybe, half an inch. Another thirty seconds and it was undeniably thicker, although not nearly erect.
"Lisa. Really…"
"Shhh."
I applied more pressure.
If it was possible, I didn't want what I was doing to seem sexual. I wanted it to be natural and non-threatening. Which made me think once again about why I was doing what I was doing. Did I need somebody, anybody, that bad that I would resort to coming on to my father? Was I just seeking his approval?
No. I decided it was because I was an adult now, capable of making my own life choices, and one of those choices was whom I wanted to have sex with. The addict in me also gained tremendous satisfaction out of giving other people pleasure. I'd get mine later.
So I rubbed my father's cock under his boxers, in the dark, in a motel room, from behind his back. My nipples were starting to grow from the contact with his skin. More importantly, his cock was starting to grow from the contact with my hand.
It was nearly to the point where I could wrap my fingers around it and stroke him. I had to make a decision about how to do this and not force him to end it. Reaching inside his boxers and abruptly clutching him was ruled out. I kept rubbing, slowly but surely allowing my hand to enter the opening in the front of his boxers. I let a finger touch him. Then two.
Soon, my hand was rubbing him directly. The moment I closed my fingers around him I felt him grow to what I thought had to be full erection. He was big. My heart pounded in the quiet night.
I slid my hand up and down his warm cock. I would have loved to push his boxers down for more freedom, but I assumed that would put an end to the whole thing. It seemed plausible that I might actually be able to get him off if I just kept going.
So I did. Methodically. Carefully. Stroking his cock like it was breakable, wondering whether he liked it like this or rough and hard.
He didn't make a sound for the longest time. Then an audible, quick breath. I increased the pressure on his cock. He made another sound deep inside his chest. I pushed my lower body against his as if fucking him from behind. He pushed back.
I was pumping him faster now, nearly certain this was going to end in an orgasm. My breathing against his shoulder became harder. His body was starting to rock back and forth almost imperceptibly. I wanted him to have sex with my hand.
I don't know what I expected it to be like when he came. I hadn't used just my hand since…what? Junior high? But this was a grown man with a large cock. I mean, I knew what happened when a man came, but what would THIS man be like.
"Lisa." Dad's voice brought me back to reality. He didn't say anything else at first. I didn't answer. But his body told me something was changing.
"God. Lisa." Then he moaned and thrust his hips forward. I stroked him as hard and fast as I could.
He cried out with sounds you only hear during sex. Then a grunt that I'd heard from every single guy I'd ever fucked, as if it wasn't possible to cum without making that sound. I wanted to urge him on, tell him it was alright. But I thought silence on my part was best.
Within the confined space of his boxers, I knew when each and every blast of cum left his cock. It covered the inside of the material, it covered my knuckles, the back of my hand and every finger. He came several times, each with its own distinct grunt.
I was amazed with the volume and explosive nature of his orgasm. I dared not consider touching my clit or I would have been right there with him.
"OK. OK, Lisa," he panted. His cock was only slightly less erect when I withdrew my hand. I thought about wiping it clean on the outside of his boxers but decided against that.
Instead, I backed away from him. He never completely rolled over. Never attempted to touch me. Didn't say a word.
I quietly rolled out of his bed and crawled into mine. I used the sheet to dry my hand. I stared at the dark ceiling, unable to fall sleep for almost an hour.
I was the first to get up the next morning for a shower. The prospect of facing my father didn't thrill me because I expected him to be mad, or something. Which was unfortunate because I found the entire thing very stimulating. And I wasn't the one who had the orgasm.
I loosely wrapped a towel around me and walked back into the room. Dad was awake and getting out of bed.
"Hi," I said.
"Thank you for last night, Lisa." He paused. "But I think that should be the last time."
He didn't sound overly convincing to me.
"You didn't like it?" I began to search for something to wear.
"That's not the point," he said. "It's not right."
