This Changes Everything

"I miss U, Dad."

I read the text from Samantha, and reply: "Miss you, 2, sweetie."

Then continue: "Momz plane late. I passin time at airport lounge."

Meghan's flight was about 90 minutes behind schedule due to storms in New Orleans.

With another hour-plus drive, we probably wouldn't get back until after 7 p.m.

My phone dings again.

It's a photo of Samantha neck-to-knees naked at the lockers after soccer practice, getting ready to shower with the other girls. There's her flat belly, small breasts and shaved pussy I am getting to know so well.

My teen daughter has a hot body and I am intending to continue sex with her as long as she wants.

"V nice, honey" I text back.

She must have gone to the shower because there is no reply.

I continue to look at the photo, studying my daughter's body.

"That's a pretty sweet piece of ass you got there," comes a voice from next to me. "I'll bet she's not your wife."

The guy on the next barstool has roving eyes, and he thinks he's funny.

The phone dings again.

"I'm here."

It's Meghan. I look around frantically, hoping that she's not walking up to me while I ogle Samantha's body in the photo.

No. She just meant she's off the plane.

"Good. I'm gittin stewed," I text back and give her the name of the lounge.

A few minutes later Meghan is in the distance walking down a corridor heading in my direction, boobs bouncing with her brisk pace.

As I get off the barstool my phone dings again: "I sext you and you're going to still call me sweetie and honey."

Oh, shit, first sign of an issue.

"Talk later, baby, Mom's coming," I respond.

Dammit, I called my daughter "baby." I am trying to not text anything that would raise eyebrows IF someone else saw the words.

Phone dings quickly: "I bet she did on trip."

I get the drift. She's right. Her loose mother did cum a lot. What happens in New Orleans stays in New Orleans, though.

"Hey good looking," Meghan says, approaching. "You talking to your girlfriend?"

I rise quickly from the barstool and take a few steps, conscious of the eyes of the dipshit next to me watching the scene.

Meghan doesn't wait for an answer but comes straight in, kissing me hard on the mouth, slipping the tip of her tongue past my lips for a split second. I wonder where that tongue has been. The thought of it makes my well-used cock stir.

After a few seconds, the lip lock ends. I run my hands down her sides and lightly over her hips. No panties. Nice.

"Just letting Samantha know you're back safe and sound," I say.

I refocus on Meghan and Samantha fades. I suddenly want to know my wife's exploits, and later to dip my wick into that well-worn cunt that's been fucked to perfection.

Meghan: "How's she doing?"

"Oh good, she's just getting done with soccer practice," I say. "Her homework has been getting done and she even studied for the SAT."

"Nice."

I pick up Meghan's travel bag and we set off down the corridor to the parking garage, making small talk as we go, hand in hand. I look back at the bar and dipshit is still watching.

Goodbye and good riddance.

As we walk, I congratulate myself on finding Samantha's nightshirt under the bed today while I was laundering the bedding. I stepped into Samantha's room and hung it on a hook on the back of her bedroom door.

She will probably remember tossing it on the floor last night and wonder how it got on the hook. It's a good thing I found it. That would have been tough to explain. The cat might have gotten out of the bag too soon.

I also made sure there were no clumps of cummy toilet paper in the master bathroom. I think I covered our tracks. I hope.

As we walk, I take a look at my wife, studying her.

She's an older version of my new girlfriend: same grace, same profile but more "filled out" shall we say. Though Meghan isn't chubby, Samantha is a teen and what 45-year-old woman can compete with a teen?

Once in the car and on the highway, Meghan wants to give me the details of the three-day sexathon and starts with the blow-by-blow, pardon the pun, from the passenger seat.

They had a legitimate late dinner party the first night with other members of their respective companies and didn't get started on sex until late, including an anal session with Ron pumping his sauce into my wife's ass.

I have fucked her ass but not often.

Meghan hikes up her skirt to reveal the bald crotch and the puffy labia. It was a good thing there was no gust of wind while she was walking through the parking lot.

I laugh and ask, "Did you join the mile-high club on the flight?"

"No but that's a good idea, sometime," Meghan laughs. "Never thought of it, I'm sorry to say.

"But, Ron and I just did it this morning. A parting session since I probably won't be back for a few months. Would you like to check me? Please, sir, check me."

My wife guides my right hand into her nest and I extend my middle finger, probing for the opening.

I find it and it's extra wet. The finger slides in easily. I marvel at how she was able to piss, at least, and shower and not lose some of Ron's cum.

I pull the finger back to my nose and sniff. Yes, there's sperm. I smell his sperm. I extend the finger to Meghan's mouth and she sucks it clean. Then I lick it, sealing the deal.

There's pain in my crotch as my raging hard-on has met the fabric of my jeans.

"I see you are duly stimulated, husband," Meghan says hoarsely.

"Let's not talk too much," I respond. "I have to reclaim you tonight."

Meghan appears to be thinking for a moment, then says: "I'm pretty fucked out, Jon, so why don't I suck on that cock of yours while you drive. You don't have to reclaim me. I'm never not yours."

I let that sink it.

I bring up something else that needs to be done: "Hey while I'm driving, would you text Samantha and ask if she made anything for us for dinner and if she's staying in tonight or going out with friends?"

It's Friday night and I was curious about Samantha's plans. Also, it's a way for them to communicate ahead of us coming home. I have no idea how Samantha will behave. We agreed to keep our mouths shut.

I have to take this one day at a time. And, for the first time, I wonder: What is going to be the end game?

Once on the interstate Meghan settles into position, head between the steering wheel and my stomach. I'm commando, too, so Meghan just pulls on the zipper and out springs Mr. Lively.

He begins to respond to the oral wash.

Meghan's become adept at giving head. With the sucking action, up and down and a gush of saliva, I would normally respond within a couple minutes, piping a few ounces of seed down her greedy throat.

On one hand I'm very happy about having such a sexually aggressive wife, then on the other hand I get a little worried that I might contract something from Meghan after one of her liaisons. We live dangerously.

I focus on the road and my wife's talents.

After 30 seconds or so, I realize it's not working.

Mr. Lively is only partially responding. Meghan picks up the pace and the intensity, adding a hand to mix, now working hard to get me hard.

After a couple minutes she releases my cock from her mouth. It comes out with a popping sound from all the suction she's got.

"Jon, my mouth is getting tired," she says. "Did you pop today, or something?"

Or something.

"Give me another minute, OK?"

Meghan goes back to work and I fantasize that it's Samantha sucking my cock. Now, that's good. It's not cheating, right?

Mr. Lively gets on the comeback trail and soon is up to a sprint.

Meghan can talk with a mouthful of cock: "That's a good boy. Your wife is coming from a shack-up. Another man's hands and cock have been on and in her body."

She can talk all she wants but our daughter's mouth is what is driving this train faster and faster as the pressure builds.

I look at the console and make sure the cruise control and lane assist are on. We're going to need it when I blow my stack.

'Oh baby, suck that cock. You're such a good slut wife. C'mon. Suck the cum out of my balls."

I grab a handful of the brunette's hair and orifice fuck her, ramming her mouth on my rod over and over, visualizing Samantha.

Soon comes the explosion, and the overworked testicles release their prize into Meghan's mouth, emptying what little seed they have been able to produce since last night.

I mumble some words as the spasms subside, then suddenly worry I might have called my wife Samantha.

That wouldn't be good. I'm already playing with fire.

The thought quickly extinguishes the fire in my shaft.

My cock rapidly softens and Meghan finishes the cleanup, holding out for the final drop of semen before sitting up and swallowing.

"Jon, you didn't cum that much," she says a few moments later. "You must have popped today. And damn, you were pulling on my hair real bad. It hurt."

I guess I didn't call her Samantha.

Meghan straightens her hair and I pull up my zipper.

We sit in silence for a few minutes and I turn on the radio.

The sign post reads 20 miles to home. I reset the cruise on the SUV to 70 mph, up from 65, for some reason eager to get to the house.

Still no conversation.

Meghan's phone dings and she studies it for a moment before turning to me. I see her messed up makeup and lipstick in the dashboard glow.

"Samantha says she's staying home tonight, and she's ordering a pizza."