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My Father's Second Wife

By: LeeGrossman



This is a work of fiction. It isn't fantasy, but it is fantastic. It is not a short read, so those seeking instant gratification might be better served elsewhere. Enjoy. 

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I pressed my face against the door. Cold waves of sweat danced across my skin. I'd had too much to drink, again—way too much. But hey, how many times do you turn 21? In my case, this was the third time I'd celebrated my coming of age with a night of partying. Or maybe this was the fourth? Whatever.

I just needed to catch my breath and let the pounding in my head subside. The wood of the front door felt cool on my cheek. My father certainly loved his wood; the double-entendre made me laugh, which immediately sent a fresh wave of pain through my skull. Shit. "Just breath," I said out loud. If I could just make it to my room, I might survive this.

I had plenty of time to sleep this one off; partying started early today. I hooked up with Derrick in the middle of the afternoon. Derrick was my current partner in crime, and occasional fuck-buddy. We were already on our fourth round of drinks when Derrick's rotating posse of glassy-eyed party animals showed up. By the time we stumbled out of the second club, I was good and truly ripped. And it was only 9:30. Early by my standards, but when you're cooked you're cooked, so I called it a night. 

I had almost found a lull in the pain and the nausea long enough to attempt the next leg of my journey when the floor fell away. Correction, the wall fell away. No, the door I was leaning against opened. I didn't have a firm grasp on the whole "vertical vs. horizontal" thing at the moment.

I instinctively tried to take a step to catch myself, but that only served to propel me further into the entryway. I came to rest on my back, limbs at odd angles. The light above me was glaring. I turned my head so my cheek was against the floor. "Is this oak or maple?" I thought to myself, examining the inlaid wood that had so recently come into view. There's so much fucking wood in this house, you'd need a botanist to identify it all.

Instead of focusing on the floor, I probably should have been focused on the five people standing over me: three distinguished gentlemen in conservatively tailored suites, accompanied by two elegantly dressed ladies. I should have recognized that my father occupied one of those suits. I should have been concerned that my already disheveled hairdo had become unraveled, that one of my favorite "fuck me" stilettos had lost a strap in the fall, and that my shamefully short pink party dress had ridden up and was now well above my waist.

What should have been at the very top of my list of concerns was my traffic-sign yellow G-string with the words "slippery when wet" across the crotch, which was now clearly visible to all present. That thong was intended for Derrick, but he got too plastered to do anything about it. 

No, I wasn't concerned about any of those things. My inebriated brain was actually worried that it would look bad for a professional party girl, such as myself, to be found sneaking into the house at the outrageously early hour of 9:30 PM. I hatched a plan. I would hop to my feet, make some witty remark, and stroll gracefully from the room.

What actually transpired was that I tried to stand with all the grace of a newborn calf. My rubber legs and disconnected shoe strap sent me right back down to the floor again, this time sunny side (ass cheeks) up.

And then it happened. The sudden fall, followed by my pathetic attempt to right myself, followed by another fall was too much movement, too soon. I could feel the freight train of nausea start at the pit of my stomach as it began its journey north. I knew there was no stopping it. I knew I was going to hurl, and I did. Jell-O shooters, some hot wings, and a lot of booze now covered several pair of expensive leather shoes, at least one exquisite pair of pumps, and the oak flooring. "Definitely oak" was the last thing I remember thinking before passing out.

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The light through the window was strong and bright. "It must be late morning," I thought, congratulating myself on my razor sharp deductive skills. I slowly took in my situation.

I was in my own bed. That was a huge relief. My shoes and dress were nowhere to be seen. A peek under the covers showed I was still wearing the G-string, but nothing else. I didn't reek of vomit and vodka, so someone must have cleaned me up. The bed was warm. My head hurt. I laid back down hoping the pounding would stop.

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I woke again an hour or so later. The pounding in my head was reduced to a low thrumming. I got up and assessed my condition in the mirror. My hair was a mess. I'd decided to go for shoulder length blond with kinky curls last year. The curls were more like clumps this morning, tangled and confused. It was nothing a shower couldn't fix. The rest looked pretty good. I was still the same height (about 5' 10"). I reached up and gave my pert B (almost C) cup tits a gentle squeeze, causing my small nipples to stick out a little in the cool air. No damage here. I think my breasts are, by far, my best feature and I worry for their safety.

It isn't bragging to say I had a knockout figure, but it wasn't from some vegan diet or days spent at the gym. I'm just young, energetic, like to dance all night, and tend to drink when I should be eating. I was naturally trim, a little pale, and sexy as hell. Hate me if you must.

I pushed the G-string down and tossed it across the room. My brunette bush—my natural hair color—was trimmed short and neat, but not sculpted or shaped like so many of the girls I knew. There was no landing strip, or heart, or "V." I didn't like it unruly (that would ruin my outfits), but I had no desire to be a porn star either. My college roommate, Kate, tried to give me the nickname of "Harriotte." It was supposedly a combination of "hairy" and "Charlotte," but thankfully that didn't stick.

My hips and ass were a little on the boyish side. I always wished I had fuller, more "womanly," hips like my mother did, so I didn't look so much like a stick with boobs. On the the other hand, it made it easy to wear jean skirts and tight dresses. And it actually made my tits look even bigger, so I couldn't complain.

Yawning, I walked naked to the bathroom. No one would be at this end of the house this morning. I took a long overdue piss and started the shower. The warm water was easing a lot of the pain. I shampooed the cigarette smoke, and other unpleasant smells, out of my hair. I rubbed soap over my neglected pussy. "Sorry," I told it "you're probably not going to see any dick again tonight."

After toweling off, I grabbed a short terry cloth robe and headed towards the main kitchen. The cotton felt good against my skin. I couldn't prance around nude in the main part of the house. I was likely to run into someone there.

There was, thankfully, no chance of running into my father. My dad was a "Captain of Industry" (que trumpet fanfare). He was up by 5:00 every morning, at the latest, and was out the door by 6:30.

I couldn't say that about dad's seemingly endless stream of "girlfriends." I don't know what else to call them, although they were more like call girls or one-night stands. Most I never saw more than once, while a few were repeat customers. There was never any wining, dining, or romance that I saw. As far as I could tell, they were just there for the sex.

On most mornings I could bump into a fashion model, or a sleeping-her-way-to-the-middle office assistant in a short skirt, bent over the sofa trying to retrieve her panties from between the cushions—assuming she came with any panties to begin with.

My dad didn't seem to have a type: tall, short, black, white, older, younger, it was all good. If they were pretty and had holes between their legs, they were fair game. I've come down to meet everything from a middle-aged businesswomen looking for her car keys to a Swedish tourist with an insufficient grasp of the English language trying, unsuccessfully, to order a cab.

I once saw a girl in a cheerleader's outfit disappearing done the front hallway. It was just a glance, but I swear it was Joanne, a former friend from school. I had just started college then. Joanne was a year behind me and, still a senior in high school, couldn't have been more than 19 years old. "Christ," I thought, "now my dad's fucking girls younger than his own daughter."

I smelled coffee as I rounded the corner. That meant that Kwan, our housekeeper, was around. This was no surprise; Kwan was always around, rarely seen, but ever present. Kwan lived in her own apartment attached to the south wing and she managed almost every aspect of the house: cleaning, maintenance, food, the wine cellar, decorating, you name it.

Kwan is a petite, exotic, woman in her (I'm guessing) mid-thirties. She's some mix of Asian and Latin, or maybe Hawaiian. She never talks about her parents, or her past, and changes the subject if you try. I've developed the impression that she's an orphan, or was maybe a foster care kid. Anyway, she's fiercely loyal to my father for some mysterious reason.

I poured a cup of coffee and sat on a barstool. The cold, hand-carved, mahogany was like a slap on my bare ass. I should have found a longer robe. I took my coffee into the day room and curled up on one of the couches. That was much more comfortable.

There didn't seem to be anyone else around this morning. I guess my dad's dinner guests decided not to stay after I retched on their shoes. I tentatively sipped the hot coffee.

My ass reminded me, again, of my mother. Mom died in a freak seaplane accident in Cuba several years ago. The incompetent pilot was landing in a bay and struck his wing on the mast of a sailboat. The plane lost control and crashed into the breakwater. They said she died instantly from the impact, but it still gives me nightmares thinking about it.

Dad did not take mother's death well. They were like two halves of a finely tuned engine. While my dad was the official head of the business, mom was just as involved, complementing everything he did. She spent most of her days preparing elaborate parties, going on trips, meeting clients at the airport, and keeping her "trophy wife" body in shape and in style.

Despite this, she always found time for me. That ended, of course, when she died. Dad was not there to pick up the slack. We'd never been very close, and drifted further apart after her death. That's when dad's girlfriends started showing up.

My senior year of high school I discovered expensive clothes, which got me into parties, which got me alcohol, which got me laid. Dad and I were hardly even speaking to one another when I left for college, so life didn't change much for either of us. The parties were a little bigger, there was even more alcohol, and now I had a sexy roommate that I could swap (or share!) some hunky college stud with. I thought life was pretty good.

I started out as a business major. I mean, what else are you going to study when your dad's been written up in Forbes? I did pretty well the first year or so. But after another night of partying, booze, and boys, it was really hard to concentrate on school the next day. So I just skipped class and slept in. Then I did it again. Then I was doing it a couple of times a week. A few months ago I stopped going to class altogether. A few weeks ago I just drove home. My dad's only comment was "back from college, I see." I've been living here since, hooked up with Derrick, and reestablished my party ways.

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I returned late from shopping. I figured I'd give the nightclubs a break, given the epic fail last night.

I was wearing skinny jeans, boots, and a silk halter-top that really shows off my tits. The silk is jet black and completely opaque. The silk drapes over my precious pillows like water. From a distance it looks quite modest. Up close you can see their shape, and every unconstrained movement, as plainly as if I were topless. And my little nipples look really cute when they got hard, which is often. It was the kind of top that most girls would only dare to wear to a dimly lit nightclub. I wore it to the mall, just to see the looks on people's faces.

I discovered that my dad was upstairs in the den. His den was another monument to dead trees, sheathed in expensive wood flooring, wall paneling, and furniture. I quietly set down my bags in the hall and crept in, hoping to first assess his mood on the 1 to pissed scale.

Seated in a leather chair, my dad was an imposing figure even when he wasn't mad. He was tall (6' 2"), had broad shoulders and a lantern jaw. He was muscular. When he was very young he worked at a steel mill and never lost that "iron worker" physique, even after decades behind a desk.

"Hello, Charlotte" he said in a quiet, controlled tone. He was sipping whisky or something out of a tumbler.

I knew instantly that I was in big trouble for two reasons. First, when my dad gets angry (which isn't often) he raises his voice. When he's really mad, he'll actually shout at you. But when he's furious he gets very, very, quiet. He was very quiet now.

The second reason is he called me "Charlotte." He always calls me "Char." Always.

I got "Look, dad, I'm really sorry about..." out before he cut me off.

"Shut up and listen. I'm going to set you up with a trust. It will pay you $70,000 a year for the rest of your life. You'll move out next month. I don't care where you live or what you do. Your tuition is already paid, so you can go back to college or blow it off. You can get a job and add to your trust, or just sponge off of it. You won't inherit the business or the estate. I'm changing my will and leaving everything else to charity."

I was stunned. I thought maybe he was going to spank me or, at the worst, send me to an all girls college in Belgium or something, but this? This, I did not see coming.

I just stood there. I was at a complete loss for words. Dad continued to sip his drink.

I really had nothing to say, but I just felt I needed to say something. My mouth seemed to open on it's own. "I really just need some ... I don't know ... time to..."

"Charlotte, there's nothing to say." he said. "I know your mother's death left a hole in your life. I know I can't fill that hole. She left a hole in my life too, and I can't fill that either. I also can't make you get your act together. I can't make you stop partying and find a purpose or a career. I'm not going to try. It's your life. You have to live it. I'll make sure you're not destitute, but that's all I can do."

Again, the silence returned. Usually I have a witty comeback, more often than not one that includes a lewd double-entendre, but not now. Not at this moment. 

The silence stretched on. I started to shake. I still couldn't think of anything to say. But the silence was worse, so I tried again.

"Maybe if we..." was all I got out.

Dad exploded out of the chair. "Thirty million dollars, Char! Thirty million (he drew out the word 'million' for emphasis) dollars in new business."

All I could do was think to myself, "at least he's yelling and calling me 'Char' again, so maybe he's getting less angry?"

He went on. "I don't have your mother to help me with these deals anymore, Char. I have to do all of the entertaining, all of the travel, attend all the dinners, carry all the conversations. After a month of convincing those four that we were the organization to handle all of their manufacturing, what do I get? I get a drunk, bare-assed, fucked-up, slut on my floor, flashing her porn-star panties and vomiting on my guests. I don't think it's too much of an exaggeration to say that they weren't impressed."

"I'm so sorry. I had no idea. I'll apologize. I'll do anything" I blurted out.

"It won't help Char. I need someone to handle this side of the business, not to fuck it up. I need a business partner, not an albatross. I need your mother. I don't need you."

The instant he said it, he turned a little pale. Even in his rage, he knew he'd gone too far. He'd thought it, but he'd never said it. And I'd never heard it. But there it was, out in the open.

He abruptly turned and left, leaving me standing there. I started to cry. The tears made the black silk even blacker.

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A couple of hours passed. I'd cried myself out. I just sat in my room staring at the wall. I thought I'd be angry or hurt, but mostly I just felt numb. Everything he said was true. I was fucking up. Mom was gone and dad would never take her place.

Eventually, I came downstairs. An empty plate on the dining table told me dad had eaten, probably something Kwan whipped up. I wasn't hungry in the least.

I eventually found dad in the entertainment room with his eyes closed. The lights were low and he was listening to some jazz. The entertainment room had state of the art big screen TVs, movie theater seating, the latest video games, and a 1,000 watt sound system—most of it wasted on my father. Dad never watched TV and the only time he saw a movie was to take me to some animated flick as a kid. But, he did like jazz.

I cleared my throat and he opened his eyes. We just stared at each other for a moment. I started to say something, but he got there first.

"Char, I'm sorry for what I said earlier. It was unfair and..." he started to say, but this time I cut him off.

"You were absolutely right, dad" I said with a little more conviction than was I was feeling. He said nothing, so I continued.

"I haven't done anything with my life. After mom died, I had no one to tell me what to do, so I did what I felt like. And that turned out to be getting drunk, and then laid, and then drunk again. You might not have been there for me, but I wasn't there for you either."

I plowed on. "Maybe you'll find someone to replace mom, but you'll still share your empire with her, not me. I get it. I'm the third wheel, and the sooner I get out of here the better. But I can't help feeling that we're missing something. You always said the hard solutions were never obvious."

"So you were listening," he interjected. We shared a laugh, the first time in a long while.

I sat down while we silently contemplated the problem. Eventually dad said, "Listen Char, I can't expect you to do what mom did."

Something went "pop" in my brain, like a little light bulb flash.

"Why not?" I asked suddenly, almost before I'd thought it. He shook his head slowly with that "you just don't understand" face. But I would not be deterred.

"I can dress the part. I can organize a party. I can converse with muckidy mucks. I've chatted up a U.S. Senator, for fuck's sake!" Hey, I was on a roll!

"Dress the part?" my dad asked, almost laughing. "Skin tight jeans and a top that looks it was painted on? Your chest could stop a bus honey, but that's not appropriate business attire, in or out of the office."

"Oh my God, these aren't the clothes I'd wear! I've seen mom dress. I know how to do elegant, demure, even exotic. I wear this," pointing to my tits, as if there could have been something else I was talking about, "because I like to see the boys drop their jaws and then their shorts." I slapped my hand over my mouth. I couldn't believe I just said that to my own dad, but he was completely unfazed by the statement.

He went on. "Alright, but your language leaves something to be desired. We don't refer to people as 'muckidy mucks' or use the phrase 'for fuck's sake' in a sentence," he paused, "or ever," arching his eyebrow at me.

I sighed. "I know that," I said in an exasperated tone. "And I didn't say 'for fuck's sake' once when talking to the senator," I said, punctuating the sentence by sticking out my tongue. "And I have been studying business; I just haven't actually used it. But that doesn't mean I can't talk business. Want to discuss the relative merits and capitol expenses related to dock sharing?"


My Father's Second Wife Ch. 02



This story follows immediately after the events in My Father's Second Wife. If you haven't read it, I would strongly encourage you to begin there. This is not a short read; those seeking instant gratification might be better served elsewhere.

Special thanks go to Palindrone for his valuable editing contributions.

Enjoy.

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I hadn't seen my father for two days, which was fine. I was still coming to grips, both physically and mentally, with the events of the week.

I spent time catching up on email. I decided to reconnect with friends from college, all of whom wanted to know when I was coming back.

I treated my body to some much needed pampering. I spent Saturday at the Boulders Spa. A deep tissue massage and a hot wrap were just what the doctor ordered.

I spent Saturday evening in, watching a rom-com and eating popcorn. I had no urge to party, which was an unfamiliar sensation for me.

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I awoke Sunday morning to an unusual sight: my father in my room. He was leaning over me. He kissed me on my cheek. 

"Good morning, honeydew," he said. "Would you like to go horseback riding today?"

I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. I was sleeping in an oversized grey T-shirt and lavender tap pants.

"Yea, sure," I said, groggily. I couldn't think of any reason not to go riding. I also couldn't think of any reason why I would want to either, save for the fact that this was the first time my dad has asked me to do anything with him in years.

"That sounds like fun," I offered, mustering a little more enthusiasm. I smiled. He smiled back.

"Good. Be dressed and downstairs by nine," he announced on his way out. 

"No problem," I said to the empty room.

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The drive to the horse ranch took about 50 minutes. There was some idle chitchat, about the weather and such, but generally a quiet trip.

Dad turned the SUV off the highway and onto a well maintained, but unpaved, road. As we got closer to the mountains, the trees got taller and denser. About a mile in, the trees were crowding the road, as if closing ranks to keep out an intruder. If they got any closer, I was sure we wouldn't be able to continue.

Abruptly, the SUV broke through the trees and emerged into a clearing. On the far side was a sprawling ranch house, a barn, stables, and several smaller structures. Between us and the house were four large grassy fields, easily two or three acres apiece, fenced off by white, tubular steel, boundaries. Clusters of horses, casually grazing, occupied two of them. The other two lay empty. 

The road straightened out and bisected the four fields, leading straight towards the house. 

As we pulled to a stop in the large circular driveway, a young woman emerged from the house. She walked towards us while we climbed out of the SUV. My dad was dressed in jeans, hiking boots, a solid grey cotton shirt, and his favorite leather bomber's jacket, which he's had for as long as I've been alive. It's been a long time since I've seen my dad in jeans. He made them look pretty good.

The woman was slightly taller than me, with straight strawberry blonde hair, pulled back into a single ponytail. She had a wholesome, Midwestern farm girl, look to her—a look strongly reinforced by her jeans and cowboy boots. She was bosomy, but it was hard to tell because her breasts were lashed down under several layers of knit camisoles, covered with a plaid work shirt.

The women recognized my father immediately and smiled—an easy, genuine, smile. She walked up to him and they embraced. It was the hug of friends that hadn't seen each other for a long time. This made me wonder when my dad had gone horseback riding.

She saw me when she disentangled herself. She sized me up quickly. I was decked out in classic equestrian style: camel riding jacket, white silk shirt, tan riding breeches, and black knee-high riding boots. I had forced my kinky blonde hair into a French braid, and it was not happy about it; tiny, rebellious, curls were erupting all over my head.

"I'm Bethany, but everyone calls me Beth," she said, reaching out her hand.

"I'm Charlotte, Char for short," I offered as I shook her hand. She had strong hands, a little rough.

"Do you have much experience riding?" She asked. What she didn't say out loud was "or did you just buy that outfit yesterday?" but I could hear the implication.

I was about to say something snippy, when my dad answered for me. "Char's been riding since she was eleven. She has quite the talent with horses." He said it like a proud father, which just sounded weird to me.

"Excellent," Beth said. She smiled again, completely defusing any tension. "That's less work for me."

She waved her hand for us to follow her, turned, and started towards the stables. "Let's see what we can find for you two."

----------

My dad and I wandered around the stables while Beth picked out the horses. She reappeared leading two bridled Tennessee Walkers. They were big horses, probably 16 or 17 hands. The mare on her left was sorrel colored, the name on her bridle read "Sweet Lilly." The stallion on her right was a good hand taller, and as black as night.

As Beth handed the reins to us, she made the introductions. "This is Lilly and Rocky. They're as calm as a mountain lake. Walk them out to the hitching post while I get their saddles and the other two."

I gave Lilly's nose a few strokes and then pulled lightly on her reins. She obediently followed. We walked out to the hitching post, where I looped Lilly's reins over the hitch, my father doing the same with Rocky a few feet away.

I know that math isn't my strong suit, but we already had two horses, and I only counted three people, so why was Beth going back for "the other two?"

The question didn't remain unanswered for long. Two more horses soon emerged from the stable, a beautiful white Appaloosa with black spots, and a chestnut Arabian that had already been saddled. The Appaloosa was the smallest of the four, maybe 14 hands, and had the most gorgeous black and white mane. While the Appaloosa was calm, the Arabian was feisty; he walked with an anxious gate, as if he was about to take off running any second.

I wasn't paying much attention to the horses. I was looking at the tall glass of water leading them towards us.

The boy was lean and lanky, close to my age. He walked with an ambling gate that was casual and self-confident. He had a long face topped with a black cowboy hat. He wore matching cowboy boots, jeans, and a solid maroon, western cut, shirt. Beth's clothes were snug, but his were tight, like plastic wrap. The body underneath was tight too. His biceps filled his sleeves, his shoulders and chest clearly defined. I couldn't really see, but I just knew he was rocking six-pack abs.

He lazily looked up at me, with just the slightest hint of a wry smile on his lips. I usually had the upper hand with boys, but I could instantly tell that this one was used to having girls melt in his hands—well, more likely they'd just pull off their panties and jump in his lap. It was abundantly clear that he had what I wanted, and he knew it.

He walked past me and tied up the other two horses. Oh yes, his backside was every bit as good as the front. I could spend a day bouncing dimes off of that ass.

I practically jumped out of my skin when Beth whispered in my ear, "His name is Jake." She had managed to sneak up behind me while I was preoccupied. She was carrying Lilly's saddle, and had a big fat "got 'cha" grin on. I felt my face flush.

Speaking to everyone again, Beth said, "Char, this is Storm," nodding towards the Appaloosa. "The other two are Skeeter and Jake. Jake, this is Charlotte and her father Donald."

Jake acknowledged my father first, walking around to shake his hand. He then walked back around Lilly. Pinching the brim of his hat, he tilted his head slightly towards me, and simply said, "Ma'am."

Beth had thrown a blanket over Lilly and was hoisting the saddle when she spoke to Jake, "Can you and Char get the other two saddles?" Jake nodded a silent agreement and starting ambling back toward the stables. I was expected to follow.

Jake's long legs made short work of the distance. I was torn between running to catch up with him, and hanging back so I could stare at his butt. I hung back. Don't judge me.

As it turns out, it was the right decision. Jake was friendly, but he was not a talker.

"Storm looks like a well tempered horse. Anything I should know about her?" I asked.

"Not really," was Jake's two-word answer.

"Have you worked here long?" I tried again.

He said, "about a year," as he effortlessly lifted Rocky's saddle off its peg—I think he could have done it with one hand, if he felt like showing off.

"English or American?" he asked.

It took me a second to realize that he was asking me a question. Of course, my outfit would make him think I'd ride an English saddle.

"American," I answered.

He nodded his approval as he handed me Storm's saddle. I staggered a little under the weight. I'd forgotten how heavy western saddles can be.

Jake said, "Ready?" and, without waiting for a reply, started back to the horses. With the saddle, there was no way I could catch up with him.

----------

Fifteen minutes later, the horses were saddled and we were on the trail. It was a perfect day for riding, complete with clear blue skies and crisp mountain air.

We rode up, towards the mountains. The trail was wide and easy to follow. Storm wasn't at all like her name. She was an affable, well trained, horse with a gentle, rolling, gate. Skeeter, on the other hand, kept Jake very busy. He was skittish, easily startled, and constantly changed gate. He broke into a run twice and Jake had to rein in him, hard.

Beth said, "Skeeter's young and bit unpredictable. We're trying to get him as much trail time as we can, hoping he'll settle down a bit."

The walkers were, by contrast, as smooth as a pair of Rolls Royces. They were sure footed, never faltered, and never changed gate. Beth and my dad might as well have been sitting on the deck chairs of an ocean liner.

An hour later, we rounded a bend into a broad field, some two hundred feet above the base of the mountain. It was grassy, with a few wild flowers here and there. We stopped and dismounted. Jake and Beth tied up the horses.

The content of Skeeter's saddle bags turned out to be a picnic lunch. Beth spread out a blanket and set up, while Jake carried the food over. We ate roasted vegetables, pâté, and Brie, on French bread. A bottle of Cab, and another of Zinfandel, rounded everything off. My dad had the red, Beth the white, and I had some of both. Jake drank bottled water.

----------

I was lazily looking up at the sky when I heard Beth tell Jake to strike camp. They efficiently repacked the saddlebag, leaving only the blanket.

Beth said, "Jake, take Skeeter up the trail and see if you can burn a little of that wild horse out of him."

Father, who was standing nearby, said to me "Char, would you like to ride back with Jake?"

I'd been thinking about Jake. I'd been picturing myself leaning back on a bail of hay, watching those strong thighs drive his dick into me, his rock-hard abs undulating with the effort. In my vision, I'd ditched my clothes and was naked, except for my boots, of course, and maybe the jacket. I was planning on a long fuck, and I wouldn't want to get cold.

The only sounds would our breathing, the slap, slap, slap, of his thighs against mine, and the occasional shuffle or whinny of a horse in the next stall. Beads of sweat would be rolling down his smooth chest, his strong arms braced against the stable walls.

Maybe I'd have a riding crop, and give him a little slap on his rump whenever he started to slow down. "Pick up the pace," I'd say to him. "This filly needs to be ridden hard and put away wet."

Even with all of that going through my head, when I opened my mouth the words "No thanks, I'm good" came out.

What the fuck?

Did I just pass up a guaranteed roll in the hay (literally) for a day kicking around the great outdoors? It was, by the way, a guaranteed screw. Jake was a looker who could afford to play it cool, but I knew the moment I brought out my girls, he'd be on me like white on rice.

Yet, I said no to that. Had sex with my father changed me? Had it broken my brain?

A week ago, Jake would have been my obsession of the moment; I'd ditch my dad, school, even the cops to get some alone time with him. But today he was just "another boy." No, that couldn't be the reason. "Boy" or not, I still wouldn't pass up a chance to get drilled by a rig like that.

No, I saw the real reason right in front of me: dad was inviting me into his world. I'd probably spent more quality time with him today than in the past sixteen years. Even while watching Jake settle his ass into the saddle—and thinking what a lucky saddle that was—I couldn't walk away from that.

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As I heard the hoof beats of the Arabian recede into the distance, I stood up to stretch my legs. I walked to over to the edge of the field and looked out over the foothills below. I turned to see my father and Beth enjoying a similar view of the hills at the other end of the meadow.

He was also enjoying another set of hills that were coming into view. Beth was taking off her top. She'd already removed her shirt, and was in the process of peeling out of her two camisoles, one white, one navy. Finally, she pulled off her sports bra, rejoined my father, and nestled into his side. Dad put his arm around her bare back, and gently stroked up and down her side.

After a few moment, she leaned in, he leaned in, and they kissed. It was a slow kiss. When it broke, they went back to standing side-by-side, surveying the countryside below, my dad in his bomber jacket, Beth topless.

Their backs were to me, so they couldn't tell I was watching. It was also a wide open field, for God's sake, so if they were trying to hide this from me, they were doing a piss poor job of it. I didn't know what I should do, so I took the best course of action I could think of; I stood there and continued to watch.

Soon, Beth got down on her knees in front of my dad, and starting unbuttoning his jeans. Dad was still angled away from me, but I knew from experience what was happening. Beth pulled his cock out, took it in her mouth, and started to give him a blowjob.

My dad stood with his hands on his hips, looking down. Beth was holding his ass with both hands, her head bobbing in and out, causing her ponytail to bounce with each oscillation.

Dad was apparently enjoying it. He tilted his head back to look up at the sky. Meanwhile, Beth had removed her hands from his butt and was deftly removing her boots while maintaining her rhythm on his cock.

After removing both boots, Beth took a short break to sit up and stroke his cock with her hand. She used the other to unbutton her own jeans. Once unfastened, she returned his member to her mouth and started long, slow, trusts with her head. I couldn't tell from this angle, but I wondered if she was deep throating him. If true, that would be an impressive feat. I've seen my dad's cock up close. Hell, I've had it in my mouth.

Beth was, simultaneously, shimmying out of her jeans—no panties, that I could see. She worked them over her hips, then alternately pulled on one leg and then the other, inching them completely off, all the while using her throat to work over my dad's, now fully erect, member.

Beth then got up and stepped back into her boots. Dad took her hand and they walked towards a nearby stand of trees. I could catch brief glimpses of my father's sizable cock bobbing between his legs as he walked away.

Beth's backside was completely exposed to me. Her skin was more creamy than white, her only tan lines were on her arms. She had strong shoulders, a surprisingly trim waist, and voluptuous hips that rocked seductively as she walked. Years of riding had left her bowlegged. Even with her legs together, there was a heart shaped opening between her legs you could pass your hand through.

I slowly walked towards them, drawn both by voyeurism and a desire to test the boundaries of this new, sexual, relationship my father and I had started.

When they got to the nearest tree, Beth stepped in front my dad and leaned forward, bracing herself on the trunk, presenting her round ass to him. Father reached for his crotch. I couldn't see exactly what he was doing, but it was obvious to anyone who's done it that he aimed his cock at her opening and slid inside. Beth repositioned her feet for a surer footing. Father did the same, took ahold of her waist, and started fucking her.

By the time I was within a hundred feet, they had been at for awhile. Beth was arching her back and breathing heavily. Dad, for his part, didn't seem to be exerting himself at all. Comfortably sawing in and out of this woman, you'd think he could do this all day.

Dad stopped, but didn't pull out. He reached around and took Beth's breasts in each hand, and lifted them, pulling Beth back into a standing position. They stood there, back to front, him holding her breasts like a makeshift bustier, his cock still buried between her legs. She turned her head to the side and they kissed.

Dad finally let go, stepped back, extracting himself at the same time. Beth stood, naked, patiently waiting while he removed his jacket. He held it open, behind her, so she could slip her hands into the sleeves and then pulled it up and over her shoulders. He turned her around and walked her backwards until her back was against the tree, the jacket protecting her from the rough bark.

With the jacket on, I couldn't see her boobs. Her pussy was bare, with round outer lips, and longer inner ones that hung down slightly between her legs.

Father reached down and grabbed her left boot at the ankle and lifted it straight up. Her left leg was now pointing almost directly overhead. Beth reached around with her left arm to hug her own leg, helping my dad keep it in that position. I mentally added "flexible" to her list of talents.

This maneuver caused her pussy to open up completely. Even from where I was standing, I could see her inner channel. My father hardly needed any aim to fill that void again; anything in the vicinity would have a hard time not falling in.

At that moment, Beth saw me. She had no reaction to speak of. Our eyes met and we each knew we'd seen the other, but there was nothing else communicated by her look. It was like when you're going at it with a vibrator and you spot your roommate's cat or pet parrot watching you diddle yourself. You acknowledge their existence, but you don't care if they watch, nor are you inviting them over either.

Father resumed fucking Beth against the tree, leaning into her so her head now rested on his shoulder. She was now pinned against the tree, standing on one leg, her other suspended in my father's iron grip, her ass thumping against the trunk with each thrust.

I walked around to the side of the couple. Father still hadn't seen me. He was pressed against Beth, his nose almost touching the tree. From this angle I could see the "action." I thought this would make a good porn scene; I resisted getting out my cell phone.

Beth was not a petite women, yet my dad's cock still looked massive sliding in and out of her pussy. I could tell by her expression that this wasn't the most comfortable position for her, nearly immobilized. My dad's efforts seemed to grow insistent. With each stroke, it was like he was trying to get even deeper insider her.

After what seemed like a long time, he slowed, pulled out, and lowered her leg. She did a little plié to get the blood back into her legs. Dad took her hand and turned, seeing me for the first time. He smiled and gave a little jerk of the head as if to say "Hey, kiddo, let's go get some ice cream." Holding her hand, he walked a bare-assed Beth back to the horses and the blanket. Small bits of bark clung to her ass cheeks.




My Father's Second Wife Ch. 02



I followed at a distance. Father laid down on the blanket, on his back, and Beth straddled his waist. She reached around behind herself and guided his cock back in as she lowered her hips. Once firmly implanted, she leaned forward to lay on his chest. He reached around to hug her, causing his jacket to raise up, exposing all of her ass. She began rocking back and forth, gently messaging his cock with her pussy, all while they kissed.

I'd stopped a few yards away and watched. I had a great view of Beth's ass and my father's cock disappearing, and then reappearing, between her loins. I thought of my cell phone again.

I don't know how long this went on. It was somewhat hypnotic. My indecision suddenly left me. There was still a boundary somewhere with my name on it, and I was going to keep pushing until I found it. As bold as brass, I strolled over to the blanket where the two were humping and sat down, Indian style, right next to my father. I was now less than an arm's length from Beth. Father had his eyes closed. Beth acknowledged me with a slight nod and a brief smile, before returning her attention to my dad. This was, possibly, the kinkiest thing I've ever done, and they barely noticed.

"What a heartwarming sight," said the sarcastic narrator in my head. "A scenic picnic in the mountains, a father and daughter are sharing a blanket. The daughter sits quietly, enjoying her father's company, while her father relaxes by sliding his prick into the naked trail guide on his lap. This is a family moment that will be cherished for years to come."

After a while, Beth sat up. She pulled off dad's jacket and tossed it onto the grass. She then began raising and lowering herself on his cock using just her legs. She was a cowgirl doing the cowgirl; it was a bit on the nose, but she was owning it. She alternated between resting her hands on her hips, arms akimbo, and folding them over her head.

Being inches from my face, I now had an almost clinical view of her boobs. Her breasts were larger than I originally imagined, at least a C cup, maybe a D. She had puffy pink nipples. They were soft and very buoyant, bouncing a lot more than her vertical movements. When she had her arms over her head, they were quit pronounced. When she lowered them, they reminded me of bags of soft cheese.

I was wrong about her being shaved bare. She had a wispy landing strip of rosy blonde hair on her mound, so fair that, from a distance, it was effectively invisible.

I was a little peeved that my presence hadn't caused more of a stir. "We'll, fuck them," I thought. I leaned back onto my left elbow and slid my right hand into my pants, underneath my thong, and slipped my middle finger into my already wet pussy.

I finger fucked myself right next to dad as Beth picked up her pace. She was breathing harder now, and I could see dad was starting to tense up. I was learning to recognize his signs. He was going to come soon.

I slipped a second finger into myself and started to pumping with my whole hand, mere inches from where my father was fucking his lover. Beth's wide hips were now slamming down into father's, burying his cock to the hilt, before lifting up again until he was almost all the way out, and then down again, stroking his entire length on each cycle. The strong knit of my riding pants and thong were making it difficult to move my hand much. I considered stopping to pull them down, but decided there was no time.

Beth leaned forward and steadied herself by placed her left hand on my thigh, just above my knee. My dad joined her, placing his right hand next to hers, even further up my thigh, so close to my crotch that he must be feeling my hand through the fabric as I worked it in and out of my snatch.

The two clasped their other arms together by grabbing each other's forearm. Beth then used my thigh and father's arm as leverage for her final attack.

Their touch on my leg was electric. It's as if I had been suddenly connected to their sexual circuit. I felt my father go rigid. He was coming. I couldn't tell if Beth had, or was about to, come. Her eyes were tightly shut, head tilted forward, as if in intense concentration. Her ponytail was whipping back and forth like someone waiving a flag, desperately hoping to be rescued.

Dad's climax began to pass. I might have come, I couldn't tell, I was so wound up. Father relaxed his grip on my thigh and sunk back into the blanket. Beth slowed down, eventually opening her eyes and smiling. There was that smile again. She eventually stopped moving, and bent forward for another, well deserved, kiss.

Beth was the first to get up, letting my father's cock plop against his shirt. She slid down, took it back into her mouth, and gave it a quick clean with her tongue. She then gave it a playful kiss, got to her feet, and strode across the field to retrieve her clothes, leaving my father to figure out how to get his monster back inside his jeans. Her ponytail bounced in time to her ass, her skin radiant with perspiration.

Father affectionately patted my leg and began the work of putting his cock away. I eventually extracted my hand from my pants, and sat back up. I could see Beth across the field pulling on her jeans. I had a big wet spot on my crotch.

We rode back to the ranch, Beth leading the way. My father had his jacket draped across the saddle. I don't know if it was because it was warmer now or his hard-on hadn't gone away.

Jake met us at the gate, took our reins, and walked us over to the hitch. I waited until he wasn't watching me, which wasn't often, to dismount on the side away from him, hoping he wouldn't see my soiled pants.

Saddles were removed, and the horses were let loose into a field to graze. Dad and Beth were talking, but they were too far away to overhear. I was just standing with my legs together, waiting anxiously until I could get back into the SUV.

Finally, Beth and dad starting walking towards our vehicle. Jake had reappeared and had taken to holding up a nearby fence post. Beth came right up to me and kissed me on my forehead.

"I hope you enjoyed yourself," she said, without any irony. "I'd love to have you come ride again soon."

Jake's eyes seconded that sentiment, although I suspect for completely selfish reasons.

Beth and dad hugged once more. We climbed into the SUV and drove away. The trip back was even quieter than the one out. I noticed he wasn't wearing his jacket, but said nothing.

----------

As we headed into the house, I sprinted towards my room, wanting to get out of these pants as soon as I could.

Dad called after me, "I've got some conference calls later, but would you like to join me for dinner?"

Again, I had to get past the initial shock of being invited to dinner with my father.

"That would be great," I yelled over my shoulder.

I was already unbuttoning my shirt.

----------

I was informed that dinner would be at eight. I dropped by the kitchen for a drink to find our chef setting up. Kwan does the regular cooking, but when there's a dinner party, or a special guests, our personal chef takes over.

I returned to my room to contemplate my wardrobe. I wanted something sexy for my dad, but presentable if there were other guests. I'd never known Chef to show up for just two people, so I was assuming there would be others.

I settled on a dark purple chiffon dress. It was a wrap around dress that tied above the right shoulder, leaving the left one bare, and tied again above the waist on the left. The asymmetric hemline dipped to my calf on the right, but exposed my left leg to mid-thigh. If I shifted just right, I could get the dress to part even more, exposing my left leg almost up to my waist.

It was perfect. It was casually modest, but could be "accidentally" racy. Now, how racy was I willing to go? Pantyhose would be down right timid. A thong would certainly kick it up a notch or two. But reflecting over the events of the last week, it was becoming obvious that my father has a dislike for undergarments. I decided to go for the full-on sex goddess and leave all of my panties in the drawer.

I took a bath and shaved my legs. I put on slightly exotic makeup, using purple eye shadow to complement the dress. I wrapped the dress around me and tied it at the waist. Without panties, the material mercilessly teased my newly bare pussy. I piled my hair up and held it in place with lacquer chopsticks. I chose a pair of silver heals to match a silver waterfall necklace and pendant earrings.

The girl in the mirror looked a lot more mature than I felt. I headed down to the dining room.

----------

There was no one in the big dining room when I arrived. Three places had been set at the table. Jazz could barely be heard in the background.

I walked across the passageway to the lounge. The lounge was a mélange of comfortable seating designed for after-dinner conversation. Bay windows looked out over the expansive front lawn and driveway.

Dad was seated in an overstuffed chair reading a tablet and sipping a glass of wine. My heels on the hardwood floor betrayed my entrance. He smiled when he saw me. Rising up, he deposited the tablet and wine glass on a table and strode over to me. He leaned down, gave me a brief kiss on the lips, and then moved in for a bear hug. It was a firm, enveloping, hug that went on long enough that I started to become concerned about the need to breath again.

When he released me, he stepped back, taking my fingertips between his and admiring me at arm's length. Dad was wearing a quilted dressing gown and house slippers.

"So, this isn't a formal dinner then?" I said.

He smiled broadly. "Honey dew, if that's what it takes to get you to dress like this, I'll throw a formal ball every damn night of the week."

He leaned in a little and spoke distinctly, separating each word with a little pause for emphasis. "You, look, gorgeous!"

"Turn around," he said excitedly, "let's see all of it."

He dropped one hand and lifted the other, twirling me around twice, like a ballroom dancer. The hem of the dress floated out to the right, causing the other side to open, almost up to my hip. He let go of my other hand and I did a small curtsy. I could tell this was putting my dad in a very good mood.

"Let's have some dinner," he said as he collected his wine glass. We walked back into the dining room.

Noticing the three place settings again, I asked, "Were we expecting company?"

Dad replied, "I was hoping, but it appears they couldn't make it." That was apparently all that was to be said on the subject.

The moment we sat down, Kwan and Chef appeared, Kwan with a bottle of wine, and Chef with the first course. Kwan left the bottle and collected the unused place setting on her way out.

The meal was sublime. I rarely partake in Chef's creations, so this was a bit of a treat. It was four courses, mostly seafood, in the Pacific Fusion style. I made several comments on it, which started a back and forth discussion on bad food at college and various places around the world.

I asked my dad about my internship at his company. He told me that Margo would be training me, and I was to meet with her at 10:00 Monday morning.

"Have you met Margo?" my dad asked idly. "Oh, of course you have," he corrected himself before I even got a chance to answer.

I wanted to answer, in my sweetest voice, "Oh yes, I met Margo earlier this week. She was kind enough to show me her neatly shaved pussy while you plowed your cock into me from behind." The comment was out of place and I, somehow, managed to hold my tongue. This diplomacy thing would take some getting used to.

The dinner went quickly. When the last plate was removed, my dad pushed his chair back and stood up. I joined him. He stood in front of me and just stared. It went on long enough that it was starting to get embarrassing.

"I can't believe how beautiful you are," he said in soft voice.

He stepped forward and kissed me, wrapping one arm behind my back and the placed his other on my left hip—copping a feel of my ass. I didn't, however, feel like I was being groped; it was more sensual.

He broke the kiss, and with the hand that was on my hip, he found the end of the tie that held the dress together. I looked down to see him holding it lightly between his thumb and forefinger. I looked back up at him. He gazed into my eyes.

"Would you mind?" was his question. It was a respectful, put pleading, question. The way a shy six year old asks to open a present early on Christmas Eve.

I answered his question by wrapping my hand around his and using his hand to pull the tie free. When the loop of the tie cleared the knot, the dress began to gently separate, chiffon flowing around me, searching for lower ground. As if in slow motion, the dress drifted apart until it was hanging from my right shoulder, like a torn sail.

My father smiled as he drank in my nakedness. "I approve," he remarked, I assume a reference to my complete lack of undergarments.

He stepped beside me. In one motion, he reached one arm behind my legs and the other behind my back. He scooped me up and carried me, naked, into the lounge. My dress fluttering behind us, still tied around one shoulder.

He sat my butt down at the end of a chaise lounge and pushed me back, so I was lying flat on my back, my feet on the floor. He stepped around between my legs and pushed them apart, kneeling between them. He moved his face right in front of my pussy and inhaled the aroma of my sex, which was already lubricated in anticipation.

He parted my folds with his tongue and began to pleasure me. His tongue was strong. Most guys, and now I could say girls, that ate me would lick and tickle. But dad used his tongue like a probe. Rather than flicking my clit, he would push into its base and shove it upwards.

It's weird to think I've had girls tongue my clit.

When he moved down to my vaginal opening, I felt his tongue going into me. I've been tongue fucked before, but this was the first time I felt penetrated.

He worked up and down, getting me all hot and bothered. I started to rock my hips, pushing back as he pushed forward. He took his mouth off, and I felt a finger insert itself. It slipped in easily.

As he started to finger fuck me, he returned his mouth to my mound, now concentrating on my clit, rolling his tongue around it in circles. One finger pulled out and two took its place. The finger fucking intensified, which only added to the relentless stimulation of my clit.

I was starting to climb towards a climax, when dad suddenly stopped, removing his mouth and yanking his fingers from my greedy pussy.

I almost cried. I lifted my head, mouthing a silent, but plaintive, "What?" As I looked down between my parted legs, I saw father open his robe. His cock appeared, center stage, like a dramatic character at the beginning of a play. Before I could finish admiring it, it lunged forward, plunging into my depths in a single stroke, all the way to the hilt. It met no resistance.

The agony of my lost orgasm was allayed as my father started fucking me. I laid my head back down and enjoyed the familiar sensation of sex.

But my moment of peace was short lived. My dad placed his thumb on my clit, pressed down, and began to rapidly vibrate it. I thought my pussy was going to explode.

Before, I had been on a slow ramp up to an orgasm. Now, I was being shoved towards it, like an insane clown, shot from a circus cannon. And I wasn't just being driving to an orgasm; I was going to crash right through it into unknown territory. I climaxed, hard.

I cried out—grunted really, a wordless, guttural emptying of my lungs. What had been intense pleasure had now crossed over into pain. My hands few, involuntarily, to my crotch. They blindly clawed and grasped at my fathers fingers, trying desperately to tear them away from my agonized clit. I wasn't strong enough to remove my father's hand, but he did stop torturing me. I clutched his fingers so hard, I was afraid I might break them—as if that were possible.

The pain quickly subsided, replaced with the afterglow of both pain and pleasure. I released my grip on his fingers, but keep my hands on his, should he try anything else.

He pulled his hand away. I could see my sex was pink and puffy. He slid one arm under my ass and the other he wrapped around my back. He pulled me upright, and then simply stood up, lifting me with him.

He walked across the room, balancing me in front of him, still impaled on his cock, like some kind of life-sized cock puppet. I imagined us doing a vaudeville act; my dad would be in a tux, me in some goofy waistcoat with my legs around his middle, stuck on his dick like a skewer. "Hi, I'm Don," he'd say. "And I'm Don's cock," I'd chime. The audience would roar with laughter.

We walked over to a sofa. Well, he walked over—I was just a passenger. He turned around and sat down, deftly keeping himself inside me the whole time. He slumped down in the seat a bit and spread his legs, causing mine to spread a bit too.

I was initially disappointed. Usually, I find a guy who likes to sit down with a girl on his dick does it because he wants her to do all the (fucking) work. It can be a hot change-up position, but too often it's some frat boy, too God-damned lazy to jack himself off.

But as I was about to find out, that wasn't the case here. After sliding down, father pulled my legs forward onto the sofa a bit and raised me up slightly. He then began to jack into me from underneath, using just his legs and pelvis. Jesus, he was in good shape. All I had to do was stay still and get fucked to within an inch of my life. I was in heaven.

Facing my dad, I could see out the front bay window. While his cock was working its magic on my next orgasm, I watched as an open bed truck drove up the driveway. It drove past the front door and stopped, just out of sight. I heard a truck door open and close. I felt my father's balls slap against my ass.

I could feel my orgasm starting to build again. My legs were tense, my breath shallow. I began to hear distant footsteps, hard heels on the hardwood floor. I leaned in and wrapped my arms around father's neck, urging him to drive deeper.

The footsteps were loud now. I could mentally track them as the owner walked up behind me and stopped. I bowed my back to get that extra bit of depth from each stroke.

My eyes flew open when a pair of hands reached around me and caressed my breasts. Someone leaned into me and planted a kiss right between my sweaty shoulder blades. It as a woman; I could feel her hair cascade across my back. The mystery woman continued to palm my tits while she leaned in further to kiss my father over my shoulder. As quickly as she appeared, she withdrew again. I resumed fucking my dad.

I felt a weight shift on the couch. I looked over to see Beth sitting down beside us. I guess turnabout was fair play; I had sat next to father and watched him fuck her this morning, I could hardly complain that she was now lounging next us, delightedly watching me get the shaft.

What I hadn't imagined was how Beth was dressed—or more specifically, not dressed. Almost exactly as she was this morning, she was wearing my father's bomber jacket, cowboy boots, and nothing else. Her hair was loose now, falling across her shoulders. She must have walked in the front door bare-assed. Hell, she probably drove here that way. She'd leaned back to rest her arms on the back of the sofa, causing the unzipped jacket to open and reveal the swell of her breasts, but not enough to expose her nipples. She crossed her legs, hiding her charms, a tuft of blonde hair the only hint of her pussy. She was a proper portrait of Venus, the cowgirl version, suitable for any museum collection.

While Beth's distraction occupied my thinking mind, my sexual one was free to run rampant. Returning my attention, I realized I was already coming. I was exploding internally, gripped in the vice of my climax. I squeezed my legs together and hugged my father's neck even tighter as the feeling swept through my body. Dad was now holding my ass slightly off his lap with his hands, so he could continue to pump into me while I rode the wave of ecstasy.




My Father's Second Wife Ch. 02



I was just starting to come down when I felt him come inside me. I just relaxed and laid on his chest. Now I was letting him use me to enjoy his own moment, and I was glad to be there for him.

Eventually he, too, slowed down and stopped. I just rested there, relishing the feeling of his warm cock in my belly. He gently nudged my butt, hinting that the ride was over and I should disembark.

I lifted off his cock and straightened up on my knees. Dad wrapped his arms around my thighs and lifted me into the air, his head pressed against my navel. He stood up, turned around, and dropped me onto the sofa. I bounced a few time and came to rest, spread eagle, next to Beth—she sitting primly in my father's jacket, and me spread lewdly, my dress (still looped over my shoulder) cascading over the back of the sofa.

Father walked out of the room without closing his dressing gown. It billowed behind him as he walked away. I was just trying to catch my breath. Beth sat quietly, waiting for me to recover.

As I stared at the ceiling, I replayed last half hour in my head. "So, dad's a world-class pussy eater," I thought to myself. That was something.

After a time I managed to sit up. Father returned with a serving tray carrying three dessert plates. He still hadn't closed his dressing gown, his semi-rigid cock bouncing in front of him as he walked.

Like a cat spotting its prey, Beth sprung off the sofa, crossed the room, and intercepted dad before he could get to a table. She dropped to the floor, her head ducking under the tray, and practically inhaled his cock. Dad was now stuck in the middle of the room. He has no place to set the tray, he couldn't see what Beth was doing because of it, and he had no desire to move away.

Beth languidly cleaned and preened his member with her mouth, sucking it dry of any residual come. She then slid back and stood up, making an elaborate display of licking her lips.

My dad smiled at her and asked, "Would you like dessert?"

Beth cocked her hips and replied coyly, "A second dessert? I might get fat!"

That brought a chuckle from my father. He set down the tray and picked up two plates, one for each of us. Beth had rejoined me on the sofa as father handed them to us.

Dessert was fruit tacos: a thin sweet cookie had been formed into a mock taco shell, the contents filled with cut up fruit. A sweet, custard like, sauce was drizzled over everything, and garnished with a sprig of mint.

I picked it up like a taco and bit into it. Oh my God, that was good. Beth picked out the pieces of fruit and ate them one at a time.

Dad was picking up his plate when he said to Beth, "We missed you at dinner."

Beth finished swallowing before replying, "Skeet threw a shoe. I'm sorry I missed dinner too. I'm really sorry I missed the after dinner show," her last sentence punctuated with a wink directed at me.

I enjoyed my dessert while watching my father's cock slowly soften; he still hadn't closed his robe.

My dessert was interrupted by Beth's finger, poking my inner thigh. I looked down to see that she was holding half a strawberry, between her thumb and forefinger, right above my crotch, using her pinky finger to insistently nudge my legs apart. I obliged by lifting my right leg and spreading wide, shamelessly exhibiting my spent pussy to all present. Little rivulets of come clung to my pussy lips and disappeared into the crack of my ass.

Beth took the strawberry and dragged it through my slit, deftly collecting residual come between my folds. She held the strawberry horizontal, so as not to lose any, and popped it between her lip.

She made a satisfied hum while chewing. She swallowed and said, "Waste not, want not."

I was a little shocked. Frankly, I was tired of being shocked, and felt a sudden urge to do something shocking of my own.

On a whim, I reached down and inserted my index finger into my vagina, and then slowly pulled it out, dragging it through the mixture of quim and come. Once it was well coated, I brought it to my mouth and sucked it clean, as if it were covered in honey, staring at Beth the whole time. Beth and father stopped eating and watched intently.

I returned again, twisting my finger inside of me to get it all wet again. I slowly extracted it, but this time I leaned over and presented my glistening finger to Beth's lips. Beth held my gaze while she slowly opened her mouth, engulfed my entire digit. I could feel her tongue rolling around my finger, consuming every drop. She finally pulled back, my finger clearing her lips with a little "pop."

"Well, aren't you full of surprises," she said with a bemused grin.

Mission accomplished, I finished my dessert and leaned back, still a little flush from the evening's festivities.

My father finished his dessert, walked over, and kissed me on the forehead. Just so it was clear this was not a chaste kiss, he squeezed my left tit while he did it, his dick dangling above my belly. He stood up and invited Beth to rise too. Beth stood up, reached into dad's jacket, pulled something out of the pocket, and deposited it on the serving tray. Dad then wrapped his arm around her waist, causing the jacket to rise up and expose a little more ass. They walked out of the room together.

"We're going to call it an evening, honey pot," he called to me over his shoulder. "I'll see you at the office tomorrow."

They disappeared through the walkway, the echo of Beth's boots taking longer to vanish. I just sat there for a time, listening to the jazz.

"Awwww, no fucking way," I yelled into the empty room, as the realization hit me. Dad was taking Beth to bed so he could fuck her again! I shook my head in disbelief.

When I eventually rose, I noticed an electronic key card on the serving tray, the kind used in the security gate and all the doors. That's what Beth had in her pocket. So that's how my dad arranged his booty call; he left his favorite jacket and a security key card at the ranch—an unambiguous invitation.

I bet he would have been real surprised if Jake had shown up!

I was still laughing at my own joke as I walked back to my room, naked except for my jewelry and heels, my dress swirling behind me, miraculously still attached at my shoulder.

I was tired. This evening had turned out to be a lot of work.

---------

My alarm went off at eight the next morning. I wanted plenty of time to prepare for my (second) meeting with Margo.

I surveyed my wardrobe, and again found it lacking. Oh, there were tons of clothes. More outfits than you could wear in a year—just none of them suitable for an office, and certainly not my dad's office. I had stacks of casual cloths, and plenty of party cloths, but nothing that screamed "professional"—unless you had the oldest profession in mind.

After fifteen minutes of scrounging through mini skirts and risqué tops, I managed to find a pair of grey slacks and a black, long sleeved, turtleneck sweater. It wasn't office chic, but I wouldn't be the cause of any neck injuries either. I found a pair of black heels that weren't obscenely high.

I wasn't sure what the underwear situation was. I hadn't gotten any formal instructions, beyond "meet Margo at 10:00." I decided to play it safe with a dainty lace thong—I really hated visible panty lines—and a T-shirt bra. I could always ditch them if I needed to.

I held my hair back with a big turtle-shell barrette and applied some simple makeup. I looked in the mirror. Not bad, although I looked a little bit like a dyke.

----------

As I walked into the kitchen, I was startled by Beth, and almost dropped my cell phone. Beth was standing at the counter, getting a bagel, wearing nothing but her boots.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said. "I didn't expect to see anyone, and I certainly didn't mean to startle you."

"That's OK," I lied. I know this girl knows how to wear clothes; why can't she keep some on?

Instead I asked her the blindly obvious question, "Are you having a bagel?"

"Yes, would you like one?" she replied, cheerfully.

"I'd love one," I said, which was no lie.

Beth started cutting a second bagel before popping both into the toaster.

She sauntered over to the coffee pot and poured two cups.

"How do you take yours?" she asked me.

"Cream and sugar," I said.

She walked to the refrigerator, her breasts gently bouncing with each step. Bending down to get some cream, she gave me another good view of her ass, and a lot more. "Why am I ogling another woman's ass?" I thought to myself.

As she poured the cream into my coffee, I couldn't contain my curiosity any longer.

"Are you going to drive home like that?" I asked.

She looked down at herself and asked, "You disapprove of the empress' new outfit?" She twisted her head around to grin at me.

"Oh, I've probably got a T-shirt in the truck," she said, only slightly more seriously. She added, "I admit, I really didn't think this one through. I thought the 'trench coat and shoes' thing would be a sexy stunt, but forgot that your father would never let me leave the house again with his favorite leather jacket. So that leaves me with just my boots."

She lifted up one leg and held it in the air, just in case I'd somehow missed seeing her boots before.

"Why don't you just take one of his shirts?" I wanted to know. What I didn't say was "ridiculously expensive, custom, shirts," that probably cost $500 a piece. Hell, there were $10,000 designer dresses in my mother's old closest. My father had been auctioning them off for charity after her death, but there were still a few in there. She could have walked out in any of those.

"I have no desire to steal from your dad," she said, incredulous that I would even ask.

This confused me. I really didn't think of it as stealing, so much as a perk of being one of his "girlfriends." I was having trouble getting a bead on Beth.

"Anyway, I really don't mind that much anymore," she continued. I assumed she was referring to her unconstrained nudity.

She was, and she explained, "Before I met your father, I was a shy girl from Montana. I was taught that girls had sex with their husbands, under the covers, in the dark, to make babies. Period. End of discussion."

"Now look at me," she said, spreading her arms to make sure I could get a good look at her, as if that weren't redundant. "I think I could walk naked through Time Square and not feel self conscious. That's what your father's done to me."

The toaster finished and the bagels reappeared. I got some small plates, while Beth found some cream cheese and started spreading it on.

We ate in silence for a few minutes, before I pressed the subject again.

"So you're not in this for the threads or the free bagels," I said, letting the sentence trail off. "So how does this work? Does he pay you extra for 'special' horseback rides, or what?"

She stopped eating and just stared at me, studying me like a doctor analyzing a psychotic patient.

She took another sip of coffee and continued to think. I was beginning to think she either didn't understand the question, was hiding something, or was just stalling.

She finally spoke, saying, "You really don't see it, do you?"

I shook my head saying, "See what, exactly?"

She took another sip, composing her reply.

"You don't see your father," she said. "More accurately, you don't see your father the way other people see your father. You've been living with him your whole life, and he is your father. I supposed that's to be expected."

I looked at her with a blank expression that said I was still not "getting it."

She took a deep breath and said, "Your father is a powerful, successful, rich, engaging, charismatic, and influential person. He also has an uninhibited sexual nature that's, frankly, intoxicating to be around."

OK, I could concede most of that. I didn't really see my father in those terms, but I could imagine that others might. That still, however, didn't explain their relationship—or any of my dad's relationships, for that matter.

Beth sensed I hadn't gotten across the finish line yet. She leaned in and spoke deliberately, "Show me ten girls that would not want to fuck your father."

Oh.

She watched me as the realization sank in. I guess I really did have a blind spot. It honestly never occurred to me that any of the women I'd seen with my father, with the notable exception of my mother, actually wanted to be with him. I always assumed he'd paid for them, or lured them in with expensive clothes and fancy dinners.

She leaned back again and took another bite of her bagel before continuing. "I'm not his whore, or a call girl, or a 'kept woman'," she made little air quotes with her fingers. "He's never paid me anything, beyond the standard fee for trail rides."

"I'm here because he's exhilarating to be around. I'm here because I've had the best sex in my life, probably the best sex I'm ever going to have. I'm here because your father has changed me. He's revealed a world I didn't know existed."

She took another sip of her coffee. I munched on my bagel. I didn't say anything. She eventually took that as an invitation to elaborate.

"I was taught that sex with other races, or the same sex, or outside your marriage, or inside your family, was all deviant and wrong. But that's not true, or at least it isn't always true. I've watched your father break every rule I ever learned about who you're supposed to have sex with, and where, and when, and how, and it was beautiful."

She glanced furtively around, as if someone else might be lurking nearby, and in a low, conspiratorial, voice, she said, "You might not believe this, but just last night, I sat and watched him fuck his own daughter, and she was totally into it." She waited for the joke to land, before grinning from ear to ear.

"Oh, that's crazy," I teased her back, poking her arm with my finger. "You're just making shit up now." I couldn't help but grin a little. I was into it.

Then she got a little dreamy and gazed into her coffee cup. She made another little sigh, and said, "Your father has shown me that the only limits to sex are love and imagination. I swear, if he wasn't already filthy rich, I'd probably be giving him money."

I was nonplussed.

She cocked her head, as if she'd had a sudden thought, and said, "So, to answer your slightly insulting question, no, your father has never paid me for sex. Having said that, would you like to hear an interesting story?"

I thought that was the interesting story, but if there was more, I was a willing audience. I nodded my head.

She said, "Last year—and this is some time after I'd starting seeing your father—the balloon payment on the ranch's mortgage came due, and we were afraid we were going to lose it. Out of the blue, an electronic transfer, for almost the exact amount we were short, appeared in our account. We had the bank trace it. It came from a Swiss bank account. When we tried to find out who owned the account, we were told that unless a crime had been committed, and we had a European court order, we were never going to find out who that account belonged to."

She finished her coffee, sat down her cup, pushed herself away from the counter, and said, "I don't believe in coincidences."

Beth gave me a big hug, saying, "Good luck with your new job. Give my love to your dad," and she walked, buck naked, out the front door.

"What a liar!" I thought to myself. There was no T-shirt in her truck.

----------

As the elevator approached the sixth floor, I thought the butterflies in my stomach were going to burst out, like some space alien horror film. They say, "knowledge is power," but I didn't feel more powerful today.

When I last rode this elevator, I was giddy, excited, and completely naive. I've learned a lot since then. Now I'm apprehensive, nervous, and more than a bit unsure about what I was even doing here. Knowledge sucks.

The tall receptionist greeted me, again. "I'm Charlotte," I informed her, "Mr. Grant's new intern."

The last time I introduced myself, as Donald Grant's daughter, she treated me like a visiting dignitary, snapping to attention and personally escorting me to father's office.

This time was different. The moment the word "intern" passed my lips, she looked at me like I was a giant insect that had walked into her building on creepy insect legs and had asked to use the toilet—to lay her giant insect eggs.

With a noticeable curl to her lips, she simply pointed and said, "Down the hall, turn left at the end," before returning to her magazine.

"OMG," I thought to myself. She doesn't recognize me from last week! Of course, then I looked like daddy's little girl. Today I looked like, I don't know, something not quite a girl.

I found my father's office easily, having been here once already. I walked into his outer office to find Margo giving animated instructions to a young man. He must have understood her, because he said, "Right away," and ducked into an unobtrusive passageway at the back of the room.

Margo was sporting a three-quarter sleeve sheath dress that flattered the curves of her figure. The dress was cream, with a black yolk, sleeves, and side panels. Its most prominent feature was an oversized black zipper that ran down the front of the dress, from collar to hem. She wore a thin, slip on, gold bracelet on her right hand and two delicate earrings that looks liked gold lace.

Margo looked up at me and, unlike the tall bitch at the elevator, immediately knew who I was. She said, "Charlotte, right?"

"Yes," I said, simply glad to be recognized by someone.

She made no reply to this. Instead, she looked me up and down, twisting her mouth sideways in contemplation, and making little "Hmmmm" noises. It was look of studied disapproval. I waited for her to finish.

She obviously reached some conclusion, because her expression suddenly brightened and she smiled.

"Let's go shopping," she said excitedly, like I was a puppy.

"Yes!" I thought to myself. You know, I might like this job after all!

Margo punched a button on the wireless phone she was carrying, waited for an answer, and said, "Tina, I need you up front."

I stood in silence, watching Margo type something into her computer and waiting, I presumed, for Tina. I was not disappointed. Tina appeared from the same passageway that the man had disappeared into.

Tina had long, mousy, brown hair, was tad shorter than me, and looked like a waif. She was rail thin, flat chested, and walked on a couple of toothpicks she used for legs. If she weighed much more than a 100 pounds soaking wet, I'd be shocked. She was dressed in a straight, cap sleeve, shift that ended mid-thigh. The dress was white with a pattern of randomly placed colored squares. It did nothing to add to her bulk.

Margo addressed her. "Tina, I need you to take over, I'll be gone for a couple of hours."

Tina looked like someone had just handed her a ticking time bomb and said, "Take care of this, please."

Margo was evidently prepared for this response, and immediately attempted to bolster her confidence. She held Tina by her shoulders and spoke calmly, saying, "The schedule today is already set, just answer the phones, and if anything comes up that you can't handle, call me." She fired a smile that screamed, "everything was going to be OK."

It apparently worked. Tina drew herself up and nodded her acceptance of the mission. Before she could change her mind, Margo turned to me and said, "Let's go," and we were out the door.

----------

Margo drove me to the fashion district on 7th Avenue. We parked and went into a dress boutique that specialized in business woman's fashion. So, naturally, I'd never stepped foot in the place.

An employee approached and Margo said to her, "May, we'll need the big dressing room."

May didn't bat an eye, replying, "Of course, Ms. Lane, it's all yours. Can I get you anything?"




My Father's Second Wife Ch. 03



The (long overdue) continuation of My Father's Second Wife.

This story follows immediately after the events in My Father's Second Wife, Ch 02. If you haven't read the first two chapters, I would strongly encourage you to begin there. This is not a short read; those seeking instant gratification might be better served elsewhere.

Special thanks go to kjplotts for her invaluable editing contributions.

Enjoy.

----------

My alarm erupted with an incessant "beep, beep, beep" that told me Tuesday had arrived. If I was going to make a habit of getting up before noon, I must get a better alarm clock. I made sure the alarm button felt my displeasure.

I took a moment to force my eyes open. I rolled my naked body out of bed and stared at the time.

7:01

It seemed like a harsh hour to be awake. Even in college, I scheduled my classes so I wouldn't have to face the day before 9:00. Yet, my father had gotten up, exercised, checked the news, had breakfast, driven to work, and was probably sitting behind his desk already. Why did I have to be the daughter of an overachiever?

A shower helped clear the cobwebs. I felt much less irritation towards 7:20 than I had towards 7:00.

I dropped the towel in the hamper and surveyed my new wardrobe. I settled on a black, tailored, button front, sleeveless top, paired with a cream tulip skirt. The soft drape of the skirt nicely offset the severe tailoring of the blouse. The tiny row of buttons on the blouse—there must have been thirty—went all the way to the collar, but I left about half undone so I had some cleavage. To call further attention to my favorite body part, I put on a silver thread necklace that dangled a tiny lightning bolt between my breasts.

The skirt was shorter than it was when I tried it on the other day, thanks to Margo's alterations. I had thought about putting on some thigh-high stockings, but it was too short for that. The loose silk of the skirt teased my bare pussy as I moved. I was still getting used to being without underwear or pubic hair—a torturous combination. The length of the skirt would also mean I'd have to be very careful about how I sit down. I slid my feet into a pair of low, white, wedge shoes.

Makeup, and a brief wrestling match with my hair, consumed another fifteen minutes. I checked my email, Twitter, and a few websites, before heading down to the kitchen.

I found some leftover pizza in the fridge. I think most "breakfast" foods are an atrocious way to start the day. Cold pizza and coffee is the breakfast of champions—and a decent hangover cure. I scarfed down a slice and checked the time.

8:23

I had plenty of time. I high-tailed it to the garage, tossing my purse into the passenger side of my candy-red Miata, and headed to work for the second day in a row. Going to work still felt weird.

----------

Margo looked up from her desk, smiled, and said, "You're early. Are you trying to impress someone?"

Margo pushed away from her desk and stood up. She was wearing a dress that I can only describe as "a little crazy." The top was vaguely Victorian, a pink and white—think candy striper—cotton shirt, with mutton sleeves that ended at her elbows. It had a high, wide, collar with tails that trailed down the front and tied into a ridiculously large bow, right in the middle of her bosom. The ears of the bow strategically hid her nipples behind the thin fabric.

The bottom half was a white double skirt. The inner one was a high-waisted pencil skirt, starting from just under her ribs and ending a few inches above her knees. It was very tight, like girdle tight, clearly defining her toned abs and thighs. Sown into it, right at her hip, was a second skirt. This one was short, flouncy, in the same fabric, with an asymmetric, ruffled, hemline. The faux skirt cleverly obscured any evidence of her panties, or lack thereof, which the skin-tight inner skirt would have made very evident.

The jumble of gaudy vintage top, body conscious skirt, and Caribbean affectation, was both stylish and flirtatious, and Margo had the attitude to pull it off.

Margo said, "We might as well get started. We have a full day today," as she marched out the door. I followed.

----------

Margo punched the first floor button as the elevator doors closed. She asked, "Have you decided where you want your RFID chip?"

I had to think a second, trying to decipher what "RFID" meant, and then I remembered. "Oh," I said, "the door lock thingy."

With a bemused look, Margo parroted, "Yes, the door lock thingy."

I hadn't given it any thought. "How about my cell?" I asked. "I carry it just about everywhere." In reality, it was the only thing I could think of.

"Good choice," Margo replied. "If you change your mind, it's easy to get another one."

The doors opened onto the first floor lobby. Instead of walking into the lobby, Margo made a sharp right turn. Past the elevators, there were two innocuous looking doors. The one furthest away had a plaque that read "102 Information Services." Margo waved her bracelet over the doorknob, waited for the barely audible click, and opened the door.

We entered a cave of technology. The large open room was packed to the brim with shelves full of equipment and cable, computers in various stages of assembly, desks overflowing with tools, keyboards, monitors, and Sci-Fi figurines. Superhero movie posters filled what little empty wall space there was. The place smelled of plastic and stale potato chips.

The five guys present—and I assumed this was an all-male enclave—nearly crawled over their desks to be the first ones to greet us. A bearded, slightly overweight man with an unnaturally pale complexion was the long shot in this race, but managed to beat the others to Margo.

"Hello Margo, how can I help you?" he asked, trying to act casual, while awkwardly twisting his doughy features into a stance that he probably meant to convey aloofness. The four runner ups, visibly disappointed, ambled back to their desks.

"Hello, Eddie," Margo replied. "Charlotte here needs an access chip attached to her cell phone." She indicated, with her head, that I was the aforementioned Charlotte.

It was clear that Eddie didn't want to stop looking at Margo, but he managed to shift his gaze towards me. His eyes started at my hand, which was now holding my phone, traveled up my torso, and settled on the silver lightning bolt pendent suspended in the valley between my breasts. His visual exploration ended there.

While Eddie ogled my cleavage, I looked over his head to the other four desks. Each occupant was trying to give the impression of being productive, while surreptitiously watching our every move.

Margo let Eddie enjoy the rare occasion of having real, live, boobies in his office for a few seconds, before interrupting his revelry.

"Do you think you could have that ready today?" she asked him.

Eddie snapped out of his trance and returned his attention to Margo. "Of course," he said, his voice a little dry. "I'll have it ready before noon," he finished eagerly, no doubt thinking that the sooner he completed the task, the sooner my breasts would reappear in his lair.

Eddie reached out and took the cell phone from my hand, cradling it like it was precious jewel. He took one more look at my breasts, turned, and trotted back to his desk. He called out, "I'll email you when it's ready."

He never once looked at my face.

Margo said, "I hope you can do without it for a few hours," as she turned to leave. I followed after her, certain that five pairs of eyes were glued to our asses. I tried to put a little extra wiggle in my hips. It was the least I could do.

----------

We returned to Margo's office in time to catch my father on his way out.

"Hello, honeysuckle," he said and gave me a quick peck on the lips. "I'm glad you're here for the meeting. Margo will fill you in on the details." The door closed behind him.

I turned to Margo, who explained, in an unusually businesslike tone, "The Middleton Group is a potential new client. They're a Midwestern interior decor company that has recently expanded into kitchenware and they're looking for a manufacturer. This would be a significant new client, and"—she dropped her voice to a low whisper—"we are very much in need of new clients."

Margo resumed speaking aloud, saying, "Your father thinks you have some natural talent in courting clients, and he'd like you to sit in on this meeting. This is just an introductory meeting, just so the two parties can feel each other out, nothing formal."

So much has happened in the past week, I had forgotten this whole thing started with my offer to help dad entertain clients. I felt butterflies in my stomach. I swallowed. I don't know why I was nervous, I was nothing but charming. Fuck, I could charm the scales off a snake. This time, however, the stakes felt much higher—and that gave me pause.

"Earth to Charlotte," Margo said, waving her hand in front of my face. I blinked and refocused on her face.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied, tugging the hem of my skirt straight.

Margo went to her desk and produced a small yellow note pad. She scribbled a few lines, tore off the page, and handed it to me.

Margo said, "We need these promotional and new customer packets, along with a standard set of non-disclosure agreements. You'll find all of that in the cabinet behind the reception desk on this floor. Get those and meet me in the Southwest conference room."

I took the note. Margo returned to her desk. I turned and headed towards the Amazon.

----------

The "Amazon," as I'd come to nickname her, was the sixth floor receptionist. I never learned her name. All I know is that she's impossibly tall, fawning to me when she thinks I'm the boss' daughter, and indifferent when she thinks I'm a lowly intern.

I was hoping I wouldn't need her help in finding the material, and I didn't. I managed to find everything and headed towards the conference room. The Amazon never looked up from her magazine.

----------

When I arrived, Margo was already setting up. I was distributing the packages around the table, when Margo came up and turned me to face her.

"As much as I love seeing these," she said, placing her hands over my breasts, gently stroking the exposed portion with her fingertips, "for this group, let's put them under wraps."

With that, she began buttoning up my blouse, gently tucking the lightning bolt inside. She buttoned about a third of them, cutting my sex appeal in half.

"Sorry," she said, "this lot leans towards the conservative." I considered that this was the motivation for the high-collar steam punk style she was sporting.

No sooner had she finished making wardrobe alterations, the parties began to arrive. The Middleton Group consisted of four gentleman—well, three gentleman and one gentleboy. The obvious head of the party was a distinguished man with silver hair, tall and gaunt. He wore a dark, almost funereal, suit, which matched his piercing black eyes. He could have been a stand-in for Vincent Price.

Number two and three were generic middle manager types with boring haircuts, wearing off-the-rack suits that had probably once fit them, before they put on another ten pounds. The last member was an eager young buck in his early twenties, clearly a freshly-minted business grad, or (more likely) somebody's son or nephew. He had short blond hair, spiked up a little, and eager blue eyes.

Introductions were made. I learned the patriarch was Richard Middleton, and the young man was Kyle something. I forgot the other two names almost immediately. My father and a matronly-looking women I'd never met entered the room and introductions started over. I missed the other two names the second time too.

As people started settling into chairs, I decided to take some initiative. No one was more surprised than I was.

"Would anyone like something to drink?" I asked the room at large. "Coffee, tea, soda, water?"

The response was an enthusiastic, and almost universal, "Coffee, please." The woman with my dad wanted "tea, with a twist of lemon, if that isn't too much trouble." There's always one of those.

I busied myself at the break station, just outside the conference room, pouring coffee cups and looking for a lemon. There wasn't one. Margo joined me, procured a tray, and we managed to ferry the coffee cups, creamers, other paraphernalia, and one tea pot into the room.

I leaned back, sipped my coffee, and watched the meeting unfold. It was like watching any first date. Each side on their best behavior, cautiously probing the other, looking for strengths, likes, dislikes, and most of all, trying to determine if they were the "kind of people" they wanted to be with. This went on for the better part of an hour.

I noticed that Richard had finished his coffee and was idly toying with his cup. I waited for a lull in the discussion and asked him, "Would you like a refill, sir?"

He smiled, and said, "Yes, that would be lovely, miss."

I stood up and reached across the table to retrieve his cup. As I pulled back, the unthinkable happened. I knocked over my own cup with my elbow, splashing half a cup of coffee straight into my skirt.

"Fucking shit!" I cursed, as the coffee splashed across the silk and dripped down one leg. I dropped Richard's cup with a clatter and fumbled with mine in a vane attempt to stem the deluge. It was futile. The coffee was now dripping over the edge of the table; my skirt was soaked and was rapidly becoming transparent.

I instinctively grabbed the hem of the skirt and pulled it away from me, all the while cursing my clumsiness. "Shit, this is ruined," I muttered. The coffee wasn't scalding, but I wanted to keep the translucent fabric from clinging to my naked pussy. Wouldn't that be a disaster?

It was at that moment I realized just how stupid I was. In my attempt to keep everyone from seeing my crotch through the wet material, I had grabbed the hem of the skirt and was holding it away from me. I WAS HOLDING IT STRAIGHT, FUCKING, AWAY FROM ME!

I held the skirt high enough that I was probably giving everyone a delightful, and unfettered, view of my privates. Inside my head, I was screamed at myself, "Hey dumb shit, why make them wonder if you're not wearing panties, just lift up your skirt and show them!"

I slowly lowered the hem a couple of inches, as if nothing had happened. "OK, calm down," I told myself. "Maybe they didn't see anything."

Wrong. My worse fears were confirmed by the stunned silence that replaced the earlier babble of surprise and concern.

When faced with overwhelmingly embarrassing circumstances, the brain can do odd things. Mine retreats to humor. In the split second that I was doing the "can-can sans culottes" for everyone, I thought how entertaining this could be. Maybe we could publish a calendar, call it "Office Girls Gone Wild." June could be me, leaning back on the conference table, pouring cold coffee between my legs.

If this nonsense had stayed in my head, the day might have turned out very differently. It didn't stay in my head; I compounded the tragedy by opening my mouth.

"Well, at least I didn't ruin a pair of panties too," I said, trying to save face with a lame joke. I thought it was funny. No one laughed. This was a tough crowd.

If a completely silent room could be stunned into silence, I had just accomplished that. Richard looked distressed. The two nothings were nonplussed. Kyle, on the other hand, really wanted to work with this new company.

I couldn't think of what to do next, or move, or speak. I had gone from charming hostess, to graceless klutz, to swearing dock worker, to pole dancer—all within five seconds.

I felt a vice clamp onto my upper arm. It was my father's hand.

"Are you all right, Charlotte?" my father asked. His voice was low and even. I managed to nod that I was.

"Why don't you get cleaned up," he said calmly, as he pulled me from the room, gripping my arm so tightly that I was sure it was cutting off my circulation. I somehow managed to walk out of the room—I would have been dragged otherwise—while keeping my skirt from revealing anything more than it already had. The scurry of activity I heard behind me was probably Margo attending to the spilled coffee.

Father marched me out of the conference room and around the corner, where he turned me to face him.

"Get yourself straightened up and then come back and apologize," he said, sternly.

My jaw moved a few times before it actually formed words. "I ... I don't know what ..." I began.

Father's eyes narrowed as he intensified his stare. I knew what that stare meant: I'd been told what to do, and he wasn't going to repeat himself. I would have to figure out what I was going to say on my own.

He released his grip and I felt the blood rush back into my arm. Father returned to the conference room. Almost the moment he disappeared around the corner, Margo appeared to take his place.

Margo stood and assessed my predicament before she broke out that quirky grin of hers and said, "And just to think, I was worried that you were showing too much cleavage."

It was both a scathing reprimand and a compassionate attempt to defuse the situation with humor—the funny kind, not the kind that had me standing in a hall about to burst into tears.

Margo was dialing her phone as she spoke to me, "You'd better take that off," she said, indicating the skirt.

Bringing the phone to her ear, she said, "Brooke, have you got a minute? We could use you outside the Southwest conference room. Thanks."

I struggled to get the wet skirt off. I was standing, naked from the waist down, in the hall when a young woman I'd never met turned the corner. She saw my coffee-soaked skirt, bare butt, and defeated demeanor. Her only comment was, "Oh, dear."

Turning to her, Margo said, "Brooke, would you mind if we borrow your dress?"

Nodding that she instantly understood the situation, Brooke reached behind her and began unzipping her dress. I also knew why Margo called Brooke. She was about my height and had a similar build.

The dress Brooke was pulling off her shoulders was a simple, fitted, turquoise number with cap sleeves. Brooke, like everyone else I'd met here, wore nothing underneath. When her breasts emerged, I could see that she was just a little more busty than I was, and the effort she was expending pulling the waist over her ass told me she had wider hips than I do. Then again, what woman doesn't have wider hips than I do?

In no time, Brooke was naked, politely holding her dress until I was ready for it. Margo had been busy unbuttoning my blouse, which was also wet, while I tried to dab coffee off myself with the part of the skirt that was still dry.

Margo took my wet clothes from me. I took the dress from Brooke. As I stepped into it, I admired Brooke's neatly-trimmed pubic hair. Unlike the bald pussies I'd seen on the other girls—well, at least on Margo and Tina—Brooke maintained a tiny wisp of a landing strip, maybe the width of a pencil. It was so narrow that it looked lighter than her black hair, almost as if someone had sketched in where her landing strip would be when she grew one.

Brooke helped me zip up the back. It wasn't a bad fit, but the dress did hang on me a little, slightly deflated, much like my ego. I faced Margo.

Margo asked, "Are you ready?" as she brushed stray hair out of my face.

My heart was racing. "I have no fucking idea," I replied, and walked back to the room.

----------

I quietly opened the door and stuck my head inside the conference room. One of Richard's lackeys and my father were in an animated discussion about supply chains. I tried to slip into the room unnoticed, but I was today's star attraction, and all conversation stopped the moment I was inside.




My Father's Second Wife Ch. 04



This story follows immediately after the events in My Father's Second Wife, Ch 03. If you haven't read the previous chapters, I would strongly encourage you to begin there. This is not a short read; those seeking instant gratification might be better served elsewhere.

Special thanks go to kjplotts for her invaluable editing contributions.

Enjoy.

----------

The rest of the morning was pretty uneventful. I spent a lot of it trying not to flash everyone in the office. As much as I loved this dress, it had a distinct tendency to ride up when I walked, or bent over, or leaned back, or sat down, or stood up. I swear it was trying creep up just standing and talking to Tina. It was a great dress for a party, but as office attire it was exhausting.

They brought lunch in, and everyone worked through the afternoon. I didn't see Diane again. Mid-afternoon, everyone gathered in the common area. Dad and Margo appeared. Dad acknowledged people for jobs well done, projects finished, and so on, most of which I had no idea what they were talking about.

The Margo then made the big announcement. The company was having a party to close the deal with the Kyrgyzstan group. It would be held on a yacht and all senior staff members were invited, but it wasn't mandatory.

"Please dress for the beach," Margo explained. "Swimwear and flip-flops are encouraged. This should be a really fun evening, and there's going to be some special entertainment. You all have Charlotte to thank for this; it was kind of her idea."

I was stunned as a soft round of applause filled the office. Dozens of eyes suddenly turned my way. Most were thankful and appreciative. A few were clearly trying to figure out which one was "Charlotte." Some were wondering what the fuck I was doing wearing a cocktail dress to the office. I smiled, blushed, and tugged on the hem.

I was thankful when the attention turned back to Margo. She continued, "There will be a launch at pier 17 ferrying people to the yacht starting around 6:30, the fun will start around 8:00. Don't be too late."

Margo gestured that the announcements were over and everyone should back to work. Almost in unison, everyone turned and began filing out, chattering about the party and speculating what the "special entertainment" was. People I've never met started grilling me on the details. I had to tell them I didn't know that details, which got a few looks of disbelief.

When I got back to my cubical, there was message from Margo.

To: C. Grant.

From: M. Milholland

Charlotte,

Your father and I will be busy with details of the "Russian" contract all

evening. You can take you father's car home; he'll make other arrangements.

I've made an appointment for you in the executive spa tomorrow at 11:00.

See you then,

Margo

----------

I eased dad's Mercedes into the garage. As I got out of the car, I could see my dress had ridden up again on the drive home. "This dress is possessed!" I yelled to no one there.

I peeled off the dress and threw it on the ground. "You and I are done!" I told it, and stomped it with my shoe so it knew I meant business.

I walked into the house in just my heels. Kwan was in the kitchen, preparing something for dinner. Kwan, naturally, said nothing about my lack of clothing. I opened the refrigerator, bent over and got a Coke, making a great display of my ass. "Fuck it," I thought to myself.

I've spent the whole day trying to keep a half-inch of fabric over my privates. Tonight I'm not going to cover anything.

I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening naked. I had dinner—some kind of spicy tomato sauce with poached eggs and Feta cheese that Kwan whipped up. I watched some TV. I lounged a little by the pool. I even video chatted with Kate, my roomy from college.

"Your ta-tas are out!" Kate squealed with excitement.

"I'm all out today!" I said, emphasis on the "all." I lifted the tablet and panned the camera down my body, showing that I wasn't just topless, but bottomless and everything in betweenless too.

Kate gave me a wolf whistle. "When did you go all nudist, and why didn't you invite me?" she scolded. "You know, my nips like to get out too!" Kate started to unzip the charcoal grey sweatshirt she was wearing.

"Kate, I know. I've seen you're tits lots of time. I've probably seen your tits more than I've seen my own," I said. This did not stop Kate from unzipping her sweatshirt and throwing it open. Of course, Kate wore nothing underneath. Her dark, creamy, A-cup breasts clung firmly to her slender frame, topped with two disproportionately long nipples, even darker than her chocolate skin.

"Kate!" I yelled into the tablet, "You're in the library!" I reminded her, since she'd clearly forgotten.

"But they're so happy to see you," Kate pleaded as she shook her boobs at me. Kate didn't have enough boobs to shake, but she did manage to get them to quiver a bit.

And with that, Kate ignored my protest and started asking questions about my life, what was I doing, what parties had I gone to, had I been traveling, and when was I coming back to college? I evaded most of her questions, which was easy because Kate barely gave me a chance to answer one before jumping to the next. I hinted that I had a job. I left out the parts about me having sex with my dad and women. Although, in retrospect, I think that would have shut her up for a few seconds.

Kate glanced over her shoulder; she and I both spotted the pair of unhappy librarians advancing her way.

With a conspiratorial grin, she said, "They're either going to kick me out or invite me to a threesome! Either way, gotta go!"

I blurted out, "You have to come visit," without even thinking.

Kate's switched to an open-mouth expression of astonishment and said, "No, duh!" She crooked her little finger and held it up to the computer's web cam. "Pinky swear!" she said.

I did the same and promised, "Pinky swear."

The irate librarians had arrived. They were disconnecting the topless girl on the computer and trying to cover up the topless girl sitting in front of it. Ignoring them, Kate yelled, "Kisses!" and blew me a kiss.

Her image winked out.

----------

I was awake. My alarm hadn't gone off, yet I was already awake. That was my first surprise of the day.

After visiting the toilet and brushing my hair, I addressed the choice of today's outfit. From the outfits Margo had delivered, I picked the forest-green skater dress.

A skater dress is a tightly-fitted top with a high-waist and a circle skirt, typically knee to mid-thigh in length. You know, the kind of dress a skater wears.

When I was a little girl, I had a "twirl test." If the dress didn't twirl, I wouldn't wear it. A skater dress is engineered to twirl. If dress twirling were an Olympic sport, the skater dress would be the one to beat. Wait, ice skating is an Olympic sport. I digress.

As expected, Margo had picked out a very special cut and worked her "magic" on it. The skirt was clearly above mid-thigh, but not baby-doll short. There was at least four inches of fabric below my tender bits, and that's four more inches than I had yesterday.

What really made this dress stand out was that the sides were open to the waist. So instead of a fitted top, it was more of a tunic with a full skirt. If I wanted to show some epic side-boob, this was the dress to make it happen.

Margo said she really liked my breasts when we went shopping, but I was just now realizing how serious she was. While I tended to go for high hemlines that emphasize my legs and ass—and occasionally what's between my legs—every one of Margo's dress choices showcased my bust, either with extra cleavage, shear fabric, dramatic décolletage, or in this case, open sides.

I twirled around in front of the mirror. It was a damn cute dress—and sexy, in an innocent sort of way. A skater would be wearing this with spankies and tights. "Along with my panties, those days are gone," I sighed to myself. But unless I did a fast pirouette, it was hard to get the skirt to lift higher than my bare butt, and thanks to my extra-perky rack, the top remained reasonably modest. At least, as long as I didn't bend over too much...

This put me in a good mood. I needed an easy day, without the complications of another wardrobe malfunction.

----------

I was now relishing my role as mole, spy, secret agent, or whatever the hell I was. People were treating me just like any other intern, asking me to get the copy machine fixed or download the quarterly results for some company. Most had no idea I was the direct descendent of the man they all revered and aspired to.

Most importantly, I was getting plugged into the office gossip vine. That, I decided, might be truly valuable to my dad.

"Covert operative?" I asked myself. No, that wasn't right either. "Undercover?" I mused. Yes, that was accurate, and I enjoyed the double entendre.

Margo wasn't anywhere to be found this morning, so I just picked up where I left off yesterday, keeping my eye on the time so I didn't miss my 11:00 appointment.

----------

I was standing in front of the executive spa entrance waiting for the time on my phone to change from 10:59 to 11:00. I waved my phone next to the door, paused for the familiar green light, and went inside.

The sole occupants were Margo and girl in a black beautician's smock with white piping. Margo was reclining on one of the many wooden lounge chairs that circle the room. She wore only a white silk robe. The robe was closed just enough at the top to hide her nipples, the rest flung wide to reveal everything else.

The girl had jet black hair. That's about all I couldn't tell, as she was on her knees with her face buried between Margo's legs, obviously doing what girls do to other girl's pussies in these situations.

I walked around the wooden deck to where Margo was lying. She had her eyes closed and was clearly enjoying the affections of the black-haired girl.

"I'm here, as ordered," I offered cheerily.

Margo kept her eyes shut, but held up the palm of her hand in a gesture that clearly said, "Stop talking. Stop talking now."

I stood in silence as the faceless girl continued to ply Margo with her tongue. I was beginning to wonder how long I was expected to stand here. Finally, Margo's breathing becoming more ragged. Soon her hips were tensing and she was gripping the sides of the lounge. In another minute it was all over.

Margo inhaled deeply, slowly exhaled, and opened her eyes.

"Thank you, Yin Li," Margo said to the girl. I now recognized her as the girl we met the other day.

Yin Li turned to me and said, "Good morning, Miss Charlotte." I wanted to say, "Hey, you've got a little girl cum on your chin there," but I resisted.

Yin Li then stood up, bowed deeply to Margo, made a slight bow to me, and then retreated to wipe her face with a towel.

Margo had closed her eyes again—but not her legs.

"So why are we here?" I asked, not that I hadn't jumped at the chance to visit the executive spa again.

"I'm here to get some overdue grooming," she said, comically pointed a finger towards her crotch to indicate what needed grooming.

"I really wanted to get a full massage, because I desperately needed to relax. But I just don't have the time today, so I had Yin Li attend to that too," she said, alluding to the lip service Yin Li just performed.

"Not that Yin Li's skills are any way second best," Margo said loudly, to make sure Yin Li heard. Yin Li smiled, bowed again, and returned to her work.

"I brought you here for much the same," Margo continued. Finally, she'd managed to get around the topic I cared about—me.

I hadn't even noticed Yin Li sneak up behind me. Without warning, she unzipped my dress. Small hands slipped it off my shoulders, and before I could say "naked as a Jay bird," I was just that. Yin Li squatted on the floor behind me, waiting for me to step out of the dress, which I did. She placed it deftly on a wooden cart and produced a silk robe just like Margo's, efficiently slipping my arms into it and pulling it over my shoulders.

I turned around to see that Yin Li had prepared the lounge chair next to Margo's with folded up spa towels, positioned for me to sit on. I dropped into the chair, and before I was even settled, Yin Li has relieved me of my shoes, which joined the dress.

I was now reclining, much like Margo, wearing nothing but the robe. "Wearing" was an exaggeration. The robe was wide open and wasn't even covering my nipples. The only thing the robe was really covering were my arms and the lounge.

Yin Li had turned her attention to her beauty supplies.

Speaking to Margo I asked, hesitantly, "Is she going to, you know, do the same thing to me?"

"Is she going to give you the best waxing your hoo-ha has ever had?" Margo said, rather pointedly and a little louder than necessary.

I nodded my head.

"Yes, she will," Margo answered herself. "Is she going dine at your Y afterwards?" Margo asked, arching an eyebrow as if I should know the answer.

My eyebrows knitted in anticipation.

"No, she won't," Margo said assuredly. "Unless, of course, you ask her nicely. It's quite the treat."

A look of bliss enveloped Margo's face, as if the mention of Yin Li's talents had reminded her of what she was doing only five minutes ago. Meanwhile, Yin Li was positioning a neatly-folded towel vertically over my pussy, making me vaguely look like a sumo wrestler.

"Today you have a different kind of treat," Margo proclaimed. "After your waxing, I booked you a full massage."

A massage sounded heavenly. That I was getting one in this secret cove of earthly pleasures was decadent. But a massage, in the middle of a workday while the rest of the company tolled over spreadsheets and meeting agendas, was downright sinful.

Yin Li stationed herself on a low stool next to my lounge chair. She removed the towel, pressed my legs apart until I was lewdly spread, and started spraying me with something from a mister and then covered that with some kind of white power. After removing all of that, she produced a wooden stick and began smearing a strip of thick wax down my imaginary panty line—because all of my panties were imaginary these days. The wax was honey-colored and smelled of flowers.

I left Yin Li to her work and spoke to Margo, saying, "About this party tonight."

Margo cut me off with her hand. "No spoilers," she warned.

Margo rose from her chair. "You need to arrive about eight and dress to impress the Russians. You should know them well enough by now to know what that means," she said, with a nod of her head that said I should know what she means. I wasn't sure I did.

Margo shrugged off the decorative robe and stepped into an off-white tulip skirt. She then pulled on a burgundy blazer, flipped out her hair, and stepped into a pair of black pumps. This was all she was wearing today.

Yin Li was gingerly prodding the wax to check its consistency.

"I'd love to stay, but there's still so much to do before tonight," Margo sighed. "The damned Russians still haven't signed. We'd planned to have everything finalized before the party," she finished with a great sigh of exasperation.

That was the moment that Yin Li pressed a strip of paper over the wax and ripped it from my tender lions. I braced myself to let loose the kind of scream you hear in slasher flick—but it didn't happen. I've had my legs and armpits waxed many times, and I know how much it hurts. And I've been told by girls who get their V waxed, that this hurts even more. But this didn't. It stung, for sure, but then it was just sort of tingly, hot and cool at the same time.

I looked down to see that the moment she ripped off the wax, Yin Li had pressed a cool towel with some sort of gel over my abused skin.

"That didn't hurt much," I observed, somewhat incredulous. That made Yin Li smile.

"That's the Yin Li magic," Margo offered. "Herb or gels or something. Don't know, don't care, I just know it works."

As Yin Li began painting the next strip, Margo headed for the door.

"See you tonight, pussy cat," she said as she opened the door to leave. She paused and added, "Remember, you're getting the full massage," stressing the word "full."

She was gone before I could ask what that meant. 

Yin Li was not a talker. The only sounds left were the babble of the fake brook and the occasional "rip, slap" of Yin Li's magic wax technique. I took a cue from Margo, closed my eyes, and just laid there.

----------

Yin Li had finished and was packing up. She'd waxed my tummy, the inside of my thighs, my pussy lips, and the crack of my ass.

I looked down at her work. My pussy lips, and the skin all around it, was puffy and a little irritated, but not terribly.

And it was magnificently smooth—pre-pubescent smooth. No, not even that did it justice. This was baby-ass smooth. I reached my hand between my legs and let my fingers dance over the curves. "I'm so pretty," I squealed to myself.

I was so lost in self-admiration that I almost didn't notice the approaching couple. A girl and boy, about the same age as Yin Li, were walking towards me from the opposite side of the circle.

I can only describe them as "perfect." Both were blond, and I mean really blonde, the kind of blond you see in Scandinavia. His hair was in a kind of loose mop, hers pulled back in a single, thick, braid.

Their bodies were magnificent. Every inch was toned and defined. You could see each muscle group—but not in the grossly exaggerated bodybuilder way. They were merely in peak physical condition.

In the movies, there's always that evil group of Nazis that have created the perfect Aryan humans through unspeakable experiments and genetics. These two could have played that part—the Adam and Eve of the new master race.

I could easily tell this because of their outfits. They both wore white deck shoes. He wore a short, tight fitting, pair of tennis shorts, she a matching white pleated tennis skirt the exact same length. That was all. He was shirtless, she was topless. This was fine by me. It would have been a criminal offense to cover up his muscular shoulders, gorgeous pecks, and washboard abs, or hide her majestic white breasts, sinewy calves, and washboard abs. God, that girl had abs.

They walked up and stood to either side of the lounge chair. The girl leaned forward, calling even more attention to her breasts, and asked, "Are you ready for your massage?"

I almost neglected to answer, being temporarily preoccupied trying to estimate the size of the boy's cock from the bulge in his tight shorts. Enquiring minds need to know these things. "More than adequate" was my professional conclusion.

I managed to answer, "Yes!"

The boy then asked, "And you wanted the full massage?" His baritone voice was velvet on my ears.

"Full me up," I replied confidently, although I had no idea what the "full" massage was. It didn't matter. If this boy was going to give it to me, I wanted it.

They each offered me a hand, which I took. They pulled me up from the lounge chair and gestured me towards the therapy rooms in the back. I gestured for them to lead the way, and followed a few paces behind.

They were completely unselfconscious. For my part, I tried to close the robe, only to find there was no belt or ties. I wondered why I was even trying, and let it billow behind me. For all practical purposes, I was completely naked; I was the one who should be self-conscious.

The girl's breasts and skirt bounced softly as she walked. The boy's mop of hair flopped lazily to one side and then the other. But there was nothing else on either of them that didn't move with purpose. I idly wondered what kind of children they'd produce. I wondered if they were brother and sister. I wondered if they were twins. I wondered if they had sex. Don't judge me, you were thinking it too.




My Father's Second Wife



I think my dad was actually impressed by that, and I was looking pretty pleased with myself.

I could tell my dad was mulling over the possibilities and I felt a seed of hope starting to grow that this could become something. But the more he thought about, the more his expression showed his doubts. After some time he turned to address me: serious, business like. He was in boss mode.

"While I applaud your enthusiasm, I see two acute impediments to this scheme," he said solemnly. "I can't simply put you in charge of entertaining our most important clients. The company's situation is already precarious. The board of directors would have my head on a platter if I waltzed in and installed my 'party hard,' college dropout, daughter as liaison." That last comment stung, and my face showed it. "Sorry, honey pot, but that's the position we're starting from."

I did notice he said "we," not "you."

He then took a very deep breath and exhaled slowly. The next topic seemed like a difficult one. He continued to stare at me, as though sizing me up, judging how I might react. The tension was starting to get to me. What's this "other impediment?"

I didn't have long to wait, as he bluntly stated "And I don't think you could handle the sex."

Sex? What sex? I was searching my mind through all of their business dinner, outings, my memories of mom, mentally cataloging all of the bimbos that have done the walk of shame out the front door. I know dad has a lot of sex, but what does that have to do with this?

"I can see you're confused," he said, taking pity on me. "Let me see if I can explain." He got up and walked over to the wet bar.

As he poured two glasses of white wine, he began. "As you know, I have a rather large sexual appetite."

"Oh, I've see the morning ass parade," I said, snickering a little.

"Much of that was for my own gratification, but some of it was interviews, of a sort" he said.

"Interviews for what?" I asked.

"For a second wife," he said in such a matter of fact way that at first I thought he might be joking. Dad handed me a wine glass, sat down next to me, and went on.

"Your mother had quite the capacity for sex. She almost managed to keep me satisfied all by herself. And now that you're older, you can appreciate what that means. Sex was a daily event. Your mother was untiring. We had regular threesomes with a few close friends, and occasionally even did a little swinging. Of course your mother knew she couldn't keep me entirely happy herself. She allowed for office trysts, and would even arrange companions for me while she, or I, was away. Oh, and she had her own undertakings. More than a few business deals were closed using your mom's 'feminine talents,' not to put too fine of a point on it."

It was the third time today that I was completely speechless. This time I didn't even try to speak. My mom was a slut? How did I not know this?

Almost as if reading my mind, dad explained, "She was very discrete. And let's face it, this is a pretty big house."

I could, at least, relate to that. I can't tell you the number of boys I screwed in various corners, nooks, and crannies without anyone hearing, or even suspecting. And I'm not the quiet type when it comes to climaxes.

He now spoke more gravely. "The situation I'm in now is intolerable. I spend a lot of my time trying to meet woman, while simultaneously trying to keep anyone from finding out. At the same time, I'm trying to drum up new business and entertain regular clients. The fact of the matter is, I'm not doing any of those things well and the business is suffering for it."

"I have sex with a lot of the office staff, and I've taken to letting a few of them come over from time to time. But that's hard to keep a lid on. The rest of the time, I'm 'interviewing' women I've met, but none of them seem to have the stamina or uninhibited zeal your mother did."

"So," I thought to myself, "that explains the 'regulars' and the 'one night stands' in the morning." I took another sip of my wine. If there was ever a time I actually needed a drink, this was it.

"So that's the real problem, honey bunch. And I'm going to be completely frank here: I need a woman to fuck, every day. One that never says 'no' to a blowjob, or eating some pussy, or letting four Japanese businessmen pull a train in their hotel room. A woman that can wear a stunning designer gown, and converse with complete composure, all while there's an anal plug nestled between the cheeks of her ass. That's the woman I need."

I stared at my dad. I didn't blink. I could tell he was trying to shock me, but I wasn't going to let him get away with it. He sat patiently, sipping his wine, waiting for this to all to sink in and for me to say something. I could tell from his expression that he didn't think anything would come of it. He'd just dropped the atomic bomb and assumed I'd wave the white flag and surrender. I was going to prove him wrong.

I swallowed hard and said "Internship," as if that explained everything. He blinked, clearly not expecting that as an answer.

"You have internships, right?" I asked. He nodded, still confused. "You don't have to pay them. They're on a trial basis. Make me an intern. You can take me for a trail run, see if I measure up, or at least have the potential to do the job, risk free."

My dad has a good poker face, but I could tell he didn't expect me to come up with a offer. It took him a moment to shift gears from expecting nothing to actually considering a proposal. He mulled it over. "That's eminently sensible," he pronounced. But the praise was short lived. "But that doesn't really address the other problem," he trailed off.

I held my ground. I gripped the glass of wine, tossed it back in a single gulp, set it down, stood up, put my hands on my hips, and tried to muster all of the courage I had in the world.

"Fuck me," I said flatly.

"What?" he blurted.

"Fuck me," I repeated. "Ya know, there's a lot of business, politics, and entertaining that I've yet to learn, but one thing I'm really good at is the beast with two backs. This is one problem I can solve for you right now."

He bellowed, "You're my daughter!" His voice filled the room.

"So what?" I said. He just stared at me, his brow furrowed.

"Let me see if can get this straight," I said, a little sarcastically. "You and mom were fucking other girls, banging fat business men for contracts, wife swapping, and giving each other whores as travel gifts. Did I miss anything? You tell me that's all cool, but you're going to draw the line at incest—seriously?"

My dad was speechless for the second time today. That had to be a record.

After a pause, I went on, in a normal tone this time. "It's not like we're a regular father and daughter. Hell, we barely know each other. I certainly didn't know any of this shit was going on. But I am your daughter, and that means I'm the product of two of the most oversexed individuals on the planet. So by my calculation, I'm genetically disposed to do this better than anyone you know. And, I have no plans on getting pregnant." I wagged my finger at him.

He stared at me for a long time. Then he started to do what all horny men do: check me out. I could see his eyes traveling up and down, mentally undressing me.

"An internship?" he mused out loud. I nodded. "A trial run just to see how things work out?"

A rhetorical question, but I felt compelled to answer it anyway. "Yes," I said.

I could tell he was ruminating on the possibilities, the problems, the risks, working out a schedule, making estimates. It's just how his mind works.

After what seemed like an eternity, he said "One month. We take this a step at a time. If at any point you're uncomfortable, or I don't think it's going to work out, the whole thing is off. Agreed?"

Butterflies were dancing in my stomach. This was very likely the craziest thing I'd ever done. But I wanted to prove to my dad—prove to myself—that I could accomplish something, and oddly this is something I think I could actually do.

"Agreed," I said.

Dad leaned back in his chair, seeming to relax a bit, and took another sip of his wine.

"Strip," he said, like he was placing a drink order.

I was taken back a little. "You mean, take my clothes off?" I asked, as if there was some ambiguity in his statement.

"Yes," he said casually. "You made it clear that you understood the sexual component of this arrangement. I want to see what I'm getting." He was calling my bluff.

I swallowed hard. This was the moment of truth. Up until now it had been all talk. Now I had to deliver.

My arms felt like lead weights as I reached behind my back to untied my halter-top. After undoing the knot, I held the ends and slowly drew them forward and up, pulling the top over my head and off. I let it fall to the floor. I was now topless in front of my dad.

For some reason, I stopped, as if showing him my tits was going to satisfy his command. It wasn't.

"I'm waiting," he said, patiently.

I bent down and unzipped one boot and then the other. I pulled my boots off and tossed them aside. Next the came the button and zipper of my jeans. The zipper kept getting stuck because my hands were shaking. "Why?" I wondered. I'd shimmied out of my jeans for countless guys and I wasn't nervous.

After pulling off the legs and adding my jeans to the growing pile next to me, I was down to my white thong. "Don't freeze up now," I thought to myself.

Facing my dad again, I hooked my thumbs under the waistband and pushed them down to my ankles. Standing back up, I lifted my left foot out of the thong and used my right foot to kick it away. It landed between two theater chairs.

So there I was: stark naked, standing three feet in front of my father, who was checking out my body in a decidedly un-father-like way.

"Your tits are truly exquisite," was his complement. I swelled a little with pride. This, appropriately, caused me to arch my back and thrust out my perky breasts a little more.

"Turn around, slowly," he said.

I started to do a slow motion turn, arms at my side, like a showroom car on a turn table. The jazz provided a soundtrack. Most of the light was coming from the hall, so I was rather artistically lit from one side. My nipples made long shadows as I began to turn. Then my hipbones and pubic mound came into profile, followed by my ass cheeks and back. Not a word was spoken.

When I was facing him again, he sat down his wine glass and got up. As he approached me, he put out his right hand and placed it on my right hipbone. He held it there while he stepped around and stood behind me. I could feel the fabric of he slacks brush against my bare ass. He brought his left hand around and gently cradled my left breast. He lifted it slightly, as if testing its weight.

Now his right hand began sliding towards my pussy. He whispered, "Spread you legs." I lifted my right leg and moved it out to allow him access to my privates.

His fingers combed through my pubic hair. His middle finger began to probe, a trained digit with years of experience, zeroing in on its target. It slipped between the lips of my labia. Oh God, I was wet! His hand worked slowly lower, his middle finger began tunneling into my vagina. First, just the fingertip, then the first knuckle, then the second knuckle, out a little, and back in again.

The unreality of the scene was starting to sink in. I was naked, and my father was slowly finger fucking me.

I almost jerked when he whispered, "Do you want to continue?" in my ear.

"Yes" was my breathy reply.

Without another word, his finger slowly began to extract itself. His hand returned to my pubic mound, where he caught a few hairs between his fingers and gave them a brief tug.

"This has to go" he said. "Shave this completely before tomorrow."

He removed both hands, stepped away and said, "Give this some thought. I'll send instructions to your room later. If you still want this, I'll see you tomorrow morning. If not, I'll understand."

He turned and left the room.

The room that seemed to crackle with tension just moments ago was suddenly the emptiest room I've ever been in. As if to escape, I ran naked back to my bedroom.

----------

I sat on my bed thinking, "This is crazy. This is just too fucking crazy!"

My heart was racing. I still had the shakes. And I was horny! I spread my legs and easily slipped two fingers into my soaking pussy. Oh my God, was I horny. I leaned back, propping myself up with my other elbow, and started pumping my fingers in and out of my snatch. I couldn't believe how excited I was. I could feel I was already on the plateau of an orgasm. This would not take long.

I don't normally supply my own stimulus. I prefer to rely on self-propelled boy meat to get me off. But sometimes I have to take matters into my own hands, or hand, such as when said boy finishes early and passes out, leaving me cranked up and unsatisfied. I swear, if boys can't finish they just shouldn't start.

I picked up the pace a little and started to raise my hips off the bed. Yes, yes, I was getting closer. I could feel it building, that tightness between my legs right before it blows.

"Awwww fuck!" I cried out as I came. Warm waves washed over my body. I bucked my hips upward, like I was trying to fuck some invisible cock suspended in mid-air. After a few moments my breathing started to return to normal. I kept sliding my fingers in and out, much slower now, trying to cling to the intense feeling for as long as I could.

I finally collapsed back onto the bed, sinking into the comforter. My entire body was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, my breasts rising and lowering as my breathing returned to normal. I idly rolled my thumb and finger together, feeling my cunt juice.

I really needed a shower now. "No," I said as I remembered my promise. "It's going to have to be a bath. It's time to say goodbye to Miss Muff here" as I patted my damp pussy hair.

At least I knew what to do. I'd never shaved my muff before, but I could thank Kate for knowing how it's done. Kate always kept her pussy perfectly smooth. Kate also wasn't shy with her charms. Back at college, I can't count the number of times I walked into the bathroom to see Kate sitting on the side of the tub, legs spread as wide as they'd go, casually shaving her perpetually public privates.

Kate was never the least bit embarrassed. In fact, she'd start conversions. "Hey, you're back. What do you think of the new pub that opened on Elm last week?" she'd say, while lathering up her crotch. "I hear they serve hot dogs with rude names! We should get some dates and compare lengths!" She'd start laughing while expertly stroking the razor across her most sensitive parts. How she kept from cutting herself, I'll never know. 

What I did learn from these little sessions was that the first step in flawless pussy shaving was warm water. Start was with a warm bath. You have to get all of those "short hairs" nice and soft.

After soaking in the tub for fifteen minutes, I'd manage to recover from my previous orgasm and was ready to move to phase two. I laid a towel on the dressing stool, grabbed a razor and some shaving cream, and started lathering up my bush.

The top part was easy. A few dozen strokes and my familiar triangle of forest was now a bare prairie. Now came the tricky part. I'd seen Kate do this a million times, so I just tried to emulate her. Legs spread as wide as she could, she'd start by stroking out from the base of her pussy lips towards her leg. She's use lots of short strokes, working from her front around to her rear.

Next came the lips. I held them taught with one hand and stroked gingerly up from the base with the razor. Not as easy as I thought it would be. Kate's lips are small and firm, like her tits. When she stood straight, her vagina didn't look like much more than a coin slot. My lips were a lot bigger and puffier. I can get some great "camel toe" going with the right pants.

It was no matter. Another ten minutes and I looked like a billiard ball. I rinsed off the remaining shaving cream and grabbed some moisturizer. It felt good. Why hadn't I tried this before? I was silky and sensitive. My pussy felt more alive to the touch. And just to think, it took my dad to tell me to do it!

I finished drying off and walked back to my room, still naked. I was starting to get used to doing that. I was surprised to find my bed had been turned down. On my pillow was a note and my pair of black, patent leather, Louboutin high heels. The style was simple, solid, and dramatic. I picked up the note. It read "Breakfast table, 6:00 AM. Wear these. D.G."

I notice it was signed "DG:" Donald Grant. The note wasn't signed "dad," it was signed "boss." I was clearly working towards becoming an employee. Maybe someday that would turn into more. I was not on a trajectory to become his daughter again.

I interrupted my own reverie by blurting out "Jesus H. Christ, I'm starved." I suddenly realized that I hadn't eaten anything since this morning. I threw on an oversized t-shirt and scampered downstairs to the kitchen. Once again the unseen hand of Kwan had been at work. The refrigerator was stocked with a selection of cold sandwiches. I grabbed one, along with a beer, and headed back to bed.

----------

The incessant "beep, beep, beep" of the alarm shattered my sleep at exactly 5:40 AM. I was about to slap the snooze button, when I caught myself. This wasn't just any morning. I had to get up, and get up now, or I wouldn't be living in this house much longer. Without any sense of irony, I said, "So this is what having a job is like."

I sat up and turned off the alarm. I'd slept naked. I don't know why, it just seemed the thing to do. I haven't slept naked in a long time. I started doing it when I was sixteen, just to shock mom. It didn't work, of course, and in retrospect I see what a naive attempt that was.

The cool morning air brought my nipples to attention. I looked down and addressed them. "Well, at least you two are up. Now, what to wear?"

The shoes, obviously, but what else? I wanted it to be something simple, yet sexy. Some tantalizing bit of lingerie would be perfect. I didn't, however, have much of what you'd consider "lingerie." I had sexy clothes and I had sexy underwear. I dressed to impress and then I got laid. Sometimes the dress came off, sometimes it didn't, but there wasn't any prancing about in frilly nothings in between.

Wait, I did have something! I sprang out of bed and attacked the bottom drawer of my dresser. I got a gift card to Victoria Secrets one year and bought a whole bunch of stuff I never wore. "Ah ha!" I yelled in triumph. I held in my hand a sheer, blue-green, teddy with matching G-string panties. It was perfect.

I slipped the teddy on and took a look in the mirror. It was very sheer. I might as well been wearing nothing at all. Everything between the lace trim of the neckline and the lace trim on the hem was clearly visible.

I stepped into the panties, also sheer, and pulled them up to my waist, bending a little to let the G-string nestle itself between my ass cheeks. I adjusted it a little. Why did it feel so weird? I wear G-strings all the time, and I don't remember any feeling like this. Then I remembered I was shaved. Things were more sensitive down there now. I began to appreciate Kate's habit of "forgetting" her panties all the time.

Ten minutes of evening makeup, some barrettes to keep my hair back, and I was clip-clopping my way to the breakfast table, the lacquer of my shoes on the hardwood floor echoing like rifle shots through the house, the hem of the teddy swirling around my thighs. Any male who wouldn't want to tap this was either dead or gay—or both.

Worried I'd be late, I'd picked up the pace as I neared the breakfast area. When I got there I was alone. But almost as soon as the ridiculously loud echoes of my shoes had died down, I heard the familiar sound of dad's leather shoes coming from the other direction. I waited nervously for his arrival.




My Father's Second Wife



"You're early," he said as he rounded the corner. "That's a promising start." He was dressed for work, suit and tie, holding his newspaper in one hand and consulting an electronic tablet in the other. He sat down at the table and finished what he was reading, before he looked up at me.

"Your ability to follow instructions, however, leaves something to be desired," the tone in his voice was mild, but disapproving.

I was crestfallen. What had I done wrong? "Don't you like them," I asked as I turned in one leg and lifted my foot to show off a shoe.

"The shoes are beautiful, honey. Now, what else did I tell you to wear?" he asked, pointedly.

My mistake hit me like a punch in the gut. "Nothing," I said meekly.

"So why are you wearing anything else?" he asked. I didn't have an answer and didn't say anything. I just shrugged my shoulders.

"So why are you still wearing them?" he said slowly, as if speaking to a foreigner.

I grabbed the hem of the teddy and pulled it over my head. Before it had even floated to the ground, I was bent forward pushing the G-string off, being careful not to lose my balance in the high heels. I had to steady myself with one hand on the table to get it off one foot and then the other.

While I was struggling with my panties, dad explained "At this stage of your employment you need to follow instructions precisely. When you're told to do something, you need to do exactly that: no embellishments, no additions, no substitutions. If you can't do exactly that, ask someone."

I tossed the panties on top of the teddy and stepped back from the table again. I'd stripped naked for my father twice in the last 24 hours. I was beginning to wonder if this was going to be a regular exercise.

"See, now I can enjoy the wonderful job you've done on your pussy" he said brightly. "I have to say that shaving has improved your looks. You were already pretty, but now you're sleek and elegant, like an Italian sports car." I couldn't help but smile. "You should keep yourself that way from now on."

I nodded in agreement.

"How are your oral skills?" he asked.

"Like, giving a speech?" I queried back.

"No, oral sex. Blowjobs," he said. "And don't start a sentence with 'like.'"

"I'm OK, I guess. I've never had any complaints, if that's what you mean," I replied.

"Then come around here and get started," he said as he pushed his chair back and angling himself away from the table.

I walked around the table to stand in front of him, but didn't know what to do next. OK, I knew what to do—take dick, put in mouth—but I wasn't sure exactly how to approach him. I'd already make one mistake today.

He saw my indecision and started giving instructions.

"Kneel down."

Getting onto your knees in really high heels isn't easy. I steadied myself with the edge of the table as I lowered myself onto my left knee, my right leg bent upwards by the extra 5 inches of the shoe. I had to tip over to the left to get my right foot off the ground, this causing my breasts to wobble sideways.

"Unzip my pants."

"Reach in and take it out."

I had my hand fished through the fly of his pants when I encountered his cock. "That answers the 'boxers or briefs' question," I thought to myself. The correct answer was "none of the above."

I could tell his cock was big. I felt down until I found the tip and pulled it through the opening in his pants. It was just starting to get stiff. Any stiffer and it would have been problematic getting it out.

Once in view I could admire my dad up close. It was big. Not "freak show, horse cock" big, but substantial in every way. It wasn't the longest cock I'd ever seen, and it wasn't the thickest. But in combination it was probably the most massive piece of man meat I'd held in my hands.

I reached my other hand in, cupped his balls, and pulled them through the opening too. His balls were shaved. I was learning new things about my dad by the minute.

His balls were normal sized, which means they were small in proportion to his penis. I think this made his dick look all that much bigger. And it was getting bigger. I could feel it growing in my hand.

I focused on the tip, his cock's most distinctive feature. On a lot of cocks, the tip is just an end cap. They're about the same width as the rest, sometimes narrower, giving the effect of just one smooth cylinder, like my vibrator. In contrast, my day's head was massive. I've heard the term "helmet" before, but this is the first dick that actually looked like it was wearing a helmet. His tip was dark, almost purple, and the head was wider than his shaft, like a little baby fist at the end of a chubby arm. He was circumcised. It looked like a mushroom.

As I leaned forward to get a closer look—my mind hadn't yet progressed to the ramifications of putting that in my mouth—I froze. I head soft footsteps behind me. For an instant I thought one of dad's bimbos was waltzing in, but no, of course not. It was Kwan. It had to be Kwan.

I didn't know what to do. Without moving my head, I looked as far right as I could, to catch a glimpse of Kwan's signature outfit: sensible flats and a crisp cotton shirt-waist dress. Kwan didn't have a uniform, but she always dressed to make it clear she was staff and not family or a guest.

My mind was reeling. The woman who cleans my room, retrieves my bikini bottoms from the hot tub, makes me midnight snacks, and stocks the video library with my favorite DVDs just walked into the room, a room where I'm kneeling in front of my dad, buck naked, holding his cock mere inches from my ruby red lips. I didn't think "Hey, what's up?" was an appropriate greeting.

Kwan walked up behind me. As I was bent forward on my knees, I knew she had a spectacular view of my ass, asshole, and my freshly shaved pussy. I heard china clink on the table. She was bringing dad coffee!

"Good morning Mr. Grant" she said in her slightly eerie accent, the origin of which I've never determined.

"Good morning, Kwan" was my father's polite reply, as though nothing was out of the ordinary. Had he somehow forgotten about the pretty naked girl holding his cock?

"Will you be wanting anything to eat before you leave?" she asked, clearing something from the table. As she leaned forward, the hem of her skirt brushed against my bare back. It was like being stabbed with needles.

"No, I'll be leaving shortly. I'll grab something when I get to the office."

I wondered "Am I invisible?"

"Will Miss Charlotte be eating anything this morning?" she asked.

So she did know I was in the room! A moment of silent passed as the two shared the joke.

"Will Miss Charlotte be eating anything else, this morning?" she corrected, emphasizing the word "else."

Ha, ha, very funny. I wanted to make some biting retort, but I just couldn't work up the nerve. This was just too bizarre, in a "Oh yea, I always chat with my staff while having sex with my daughter" kind of way. I was out of my depth. I remained motionless.

"Char can eat what she wants later" my father said, resolving the situation and dismissing Kwan at the same time.


"Very well" was her proper reply. Her soft footsteps drifted away, once again disappearing into the house.

My focus returned again to my father's cock, but I was still immobilized from the interruption. I simply stared at his dick.

"I'm leaving in twenty minutes" my father announced. "You've got that long to dazzle me."

No pressure. OK. Deep breath. Cocksucking 101: Open mouth, insert cock.

I opened my jaw as wide as a could and lowered my head. I wanted to envelop it, like a giant fish engulfing its prey. As the tip made contact with the back of my throat, I brought my lips around the shaft. I actually had most of it in my mouth. It was still soft, pliable. I knew it wouldn't stay that way long.

I started to kneed it with my mouth, opening wide to take it all in, then closing and withdrawing, stroking the entire length with my tongue and lips. It was working. With each pass his cock grew a little. The head pressed more insistently against the back of my throat. The shaft swelled. I could no longer take it all in my mouth.

Within a few minutes, I could only get my mouth halfway down the growing bulk. I wrapped my hand around the base and started to stroke. This is my best cocksucking technique: work the top with my mouth while pumping the shaft with my fist.

I picked up the pace. Now I was just bobbing my head, bringing my lips just to the base of his head, before plunging down again until the head smashed against the back of my mouth. My hand was beating his shaft, going twice as fast as my head, creating a nice rhythm: back, stroke, stroke, down, stroke, stroke, back, stroke, stroke, down, stroke, stroke.

I kept this up for some time. His cock was really big now. My mouth wasn't going more than a third of the way down now. I attempted to go lower and was rewarded with a gag reflex. I pulled off and coughed, swallowed, took a deep breath, and went back on. I put both hands on his shaft.

After another minute, I instinctively began to stand up. I was about to do what I always do next, get up and fuck the guy. But I remembered my father's words from earlier: "no embellishments, no additions, no substitutions."

My dad only said "blowjob," so that must mean that's all he wanted. This lead to another thought: I've never gotten a guy off this way. For me a blowjob is a warm up, an appetizer before the main meal. I only suck guys until they're hard. Who gets just a blowjob—unless they're gay? I honestly wasn't sure how to finish this.

Well, I was sure as hell going to try! I spit on dad's cock (saw that in a porn flick) and started pumping furiously with both hands. My tits were bouncing wildly up and down from the exertion.

I hadn't once looked up until this moment. Our eyes met. My dad's expression was detached bliss. That unfocused gaze you get when you haven't had ice cream in, like, forever and that first cold creamy taste hits your tongue.

He was getting close. I could sense it. I held his stare while pumping for all I was worth. This was a handjob now.

It began from the base of his cock. The muscles twitched, lifting his cock higher, trying to wrench itself from my hands. I held on. There was another, and then a third.

Without warning, he placed his hand on the back of my head and pulled me forward, impaling me on his member. I can't think of any other way to describe it. At the same moment, he erupted. Sperm hit the back of my throat. I felt like it had been shot from a water cannon.

I choked. I jerked my head back, mouth wide, coughing, gasping for air. Spit and semen were flying everywhere. I held onto his cock, which continued to spurt cum, each spasm a little less, until it was just dribbling on the back of my hand.

There was cum on the floor, on dad's pants, in my hair, on my tits, and on my arm. The cum on my arm was starting to drip onto my thighs. As I surveyed the wreckage, I couldn't have been prouder than if I'd just won first place at the science fair. "My first real blowjob," I thought. And it was roaring success.

I grinned up at my dad, a little droplet of cum clinging to my chin. He smiled back, a genuine, warm, I'm-proud-of-my-daughter smile. I don't think I'd ever seen that smile.

"Honey, that was nice," he said after catching his breath. "A little amateurish, but that just gives you something to work on."

"Amateurish," my fine white ass! That was the best blowjob in the history of blowjobs, as far as I was concerned. But I accepted the compliment. I wasn't going to spoil this moment.

My dad scooted his chair back and stood up, his cock only slightly deflated.

"Sorry about you choking. You will need to learn to swallow. We can't have a mess like this every time. I need to go change slacks and get going. We'll talk later." He spoke the words as he walked out of the room.

I sat back on my heels, the hard leather of the shoes pressing into my butt. The sunlight glinted off the droplets on the floor. I was exhausted. I was exhilarated. I felt different. I felt accomplished!

And I was covered in cum.

The house was quiet again. Dad probably went out the garage door and was on his way to work already. I took off the shoes and got to my feet.

I didn't know what to do about the mess. "Do I have to wipe this up?" I wondered. "What is the proper way to ask your housekeeper to clean up your father's sperm?" I laughed at the absurdity of it all.

What I did know was that I needed another shower. I turned and noticed my teddy and panties was gone. On the sideboard was a neatly folded silk robe, courtesy of Kwan. I wrapped the robe around my cum splattered body. With the shoes dangling from one hand, and using my other to keep the robe closed, I padded quietly back to my bathroom.

Fuck, this was a weird morning.

----------

I woke again around nine. I was still naked. Seriously, after this morning what was the point?

"Well, your ass wouldn't get cold, for one thing" I argued with myself. I slipped on a pair of gym shorts and a burnout T. I was hungry.

I found Kwan in dad's office, concluding a phone call. "Hello, Miss Charlotte" she said cheerfully. Not even a hint about the earlier debauchery.

"Would you like some breakfast?" she asked, obviously concerned that my father's sperm was inadequate sustenance.

"You know, Kwan, I'd love an omelet. Do we have any eggs?"

Kwan's eyes lit up. She truly loved to serve this family, and she practically glowed when someone asked her for real food. When you asked for "toast and coffee," she'd be visibly disappointed.

She rose from the chair and headed towards the kitchen. "Come along, let's get you fed" she said as she walked.

I sat and watched her work the stove. Every motion was a study in efficiency. I glanced through the passageway through to the breakfast area. No evidence of any depraved acts remained.

The omelet was perfect: fluffy, savory, and tender. I was marveling at the blend of cheeses when my cell phone rang.

I didn't remember bringing my cell down, but there it was on the sideboard. I picked it up and looked at the screen. It was dad. Kwan must have brought it down. Did Kwan know dad was going to call? She's starting to freak me out a little.

I punched the answer button. "Hey, lover" I said in a husky voice.

"Well talk about that later" was his abrupt reply.

Without giving me time to answer, he said "Kwan will lay out an outfit for you to wear. Tone down the makeup from this morning. Drive to the Il Fioré Italian restaurant on East Chester at eleven O'clock. They'll have a lunch prepared. Pick it up and bring it to my office" he said.

"OK, sure. So what are we doing?" I asked.

"You'll find out when you get here" he said jovially, and hung up.

"I guess I will," I said into my dead phone. My phone dinged. Someone texted me two addresses.

I finished the omelet, scraping the plate. "That was a great omelet," I reflected. I hadn't had a regular breakfast in a long time, mostly because I hadn't gotten up before noon in a long time.

I would have complemented Kwan directly, but she had, as usual, disappeared again. I hiked back to my room to find a black, spaghetti strap, sun dress with an intense, deep red, floral design that started just under the right arm and swept dramatically down to the hem.

The dress was laid across the bed. Below it was a pair of white strappy sandals, with one-inch heels. "Tasteful" was the word that came to mind.

It didn't see anything except the dress and the shoes. My father's words played again in my head: "no additions." There won't be any panties under that dress.

I redid my makeup, toning down the eye shadow, eyeliner, blush, and lipstick. Basically, toning down everything. I pulled off my shorts and shirt and slipped on the dress. The hem stopped a few inches above my knees.

The dress was neither loose nor tight. It was slightly shimmery, but not silken. (A rayon blend, maybe?) It was tailored to drape, not cling. It was alluring, not sexy.

On the bed, the neckline appeared square. Filled out with actual breasts, it billowed around them. The thin straps were set very wide on the shoulders, creating a broad arc of fabric across my chest. When standing, the neckline draped inward, showing almost no cleavage—quite disappointing, really. Lean forward, and it was a different story. The fabric fell away showing a lot more than a little cleavage. It was a down-blouse perv's dream. 

The fabric had a slight stiffness to it. If I swayed my hips back and forth, the air would gently caress my thighs. Without panties or pubic hair, even the slightest gust of air was palpable. "Breezy," I thought. The sandals, which I'd never laid eyes on before, were a perfect fit.

Now all I had to do was wait until 11:00.

----------

I decided to borrow dad's other Mercedes, the one he doesn't take to work. This was the sporty one. "It goes with the dress," would be my excuse.

I left the Benz with the valet while I went inside Il Fioré. A gust of wind plastered the dress to my front and crawled up my backside. This gave a table of suits a pretty clear idea of what I looked like without the dress on, and me the expression you get when someone unexpectedly pinches your bottom. The dress billowed and lifted in the wind. I instinctively reached behind my back and smoothed the fabric down over my ass, idly wondering how much of a show the valets had gotten.

Once inside, and after mentioning my dad's name, they were all smiles. A few rapid-fire exchanges in Italian, and I was being handed a square woven picnic box. I took the handle.

"Do I need to pay someone for this?" I asked.

"No, no, all taken care," came back the broken reply. More smiles and hand gestures shooing me out the door. I heard "godere," "divertire," and a bunch of other Italian words I didn't know.

I drove to the second address, my father's new office. I'd never been to his new office. That's how out of touch we'd become.

The elevator ride ended on the 6th floor. The doors opened to a bright, and open, reception area. I walked across the wood floor to a sweeping, burled wood, reception desk. I told the statuesque girl at the desk I was here to see my father. I was rewarded with a blank stare.

"Donald Grant," I clarified.

That got her attention. She immediately straightened up and practically jumped off her stool. "Yes, of course. Follow me, please."

She was wearing a solid yellow dress with cap sleeves. It was nicely tailored, conforming to her hourglass figure. She was monstrously tall, easily over six feet. In heels, she risked hitting her head on low doorways. "What is it about tall girls and high heels?" I wondered.

Every step I took reminded me I was bare-assed underneath. I've only gone "commando" in a skirt a few times, mostly when leaving a party, and for the simply reason that I couldn't find my panties.

The Amazon girl walked me to an office with an outer reception area. "Donald Grant, CEO" was stenciled in gold on the door. She stopped at the threshold and gestured to the two large doors that guarded the inner office. I got the feeling that this was sacred ground, which she wasn't allowed to tread on.

I thanked her and walked in. The outer office was empty. I approached the two doors—massive, parquet wood structures—and opened one. It opened slowly. Once there was enough space for me and the picnic basket to squeeze through, we did. The door closed itself behind me.

My father was setting at his desk. The office was spacious. Blond wood flooring dotted with white throw rugs, bamboo tile walls, and a massive cherry wood desk in front a picture window with a view of the city. Wood, wood, wood, and glass. My father was nothing, if not consistent.

He was on he phone. He smiled and gestured for me to sit down on one of the two couches. They, along with two over stuffed chairs, were arranged around a table in a loose conversation group at the far end of the room. I sat the basket down and waited.




My Father's Second Wife



I didn't wait long. He finished his conversation and strolled over to the couch, leaned over, and kissed my on the cheek; a perfectly respectable father-daughter greeting, without any nudity or cocksucking.

"Hey, I'm starved," he said, rubbing his hands together.

I started to unpack the basket. There were two plates, little bundles of silverware, two wine glasses, a tiny bottle of Chianti, a wine opener, an insulated box containing Pasta Primavera, and some freshly baked bread wrapped in tin foil.

We set up and started eating.

"Wow, two substantial meals in one day," I though. I might start to get fat.

My dad had other business on his mind.

"I don't want to advertise that you're my daughter or that we have any intimate relationship," he started. I looked hurt.

To clarify, he said "I'm not embarrassed that you're my daughter, honey bear, but things will work smoother if people don't know you are related to me—nepotism, and all that. I'll address you as 'Charlotte,' and you'll address me as 'Mr. Grant.' You are here for the intern's position. I'm not going to lie, and not I'm asking you to lie, or pretend you're someone else. Should someone recognize you as my daughter, or connect our last name, that's fine. It's no big deal. But if you don't introduce yourself as my daughter, most people will simply assume you're a colleague. So no more 'lover boy' when answering the phone."

He tilted his head forward and looked up at me to make sure I got the message. I rolled my eyes, but said "OK."

We then chatted about this and that. Which was weird, because casual quality time with my dad was something I'd never done.

After the meal, he stood up and took my hands, stood me up, and looked me over.

"That dress suites you very well, by the way," he observed.

He led me around to where he usually sat. He pushed his high back chair aside and turned me by my shoulders until I had my back to his desk, facing the window. He then moved in close, as if he was going to give me hug. Instead, grabbed me by the back of my thighs, and lifted me onto the desk. I was now perched on the edge.

He put his hands under my armpits, and leaned me back until I was resting on my elbows. At this point I was wondering what the hell was going on.

He took my knees in each hand and pushed them apart. He then picked up the hem of my dress and started to roll it up. In a few moments, my wide-open pussy was on grand display, like a rare jewel showcased in a nest of black fabric. I looked out the window, wondering if anyone from the adjacent office building could see in.

He looked right at me and said "Char, I'm going to fuck you now."

I didn't know exactly how to respond to that.

"This is going to change things. Even if you don't pursue this intern position, or job, or career, or whatever it turns into, what's about to happen will change things between us. It can't be undone. You have to be absolutely sure you want this."

I did.

I didn't need to think about. At that moment, I absolutely wanted this more than anything in the world. I nodded my head in solemn agreement.

"Say it," he said.

"I want this," I said, clearly enunciating each word. "I want you to fuck me."

My dad unzipped his pants and took out his cock. He stroked it with one hand, all the while staring into my eyes. The air conditioner blew gently across my pussy, which began to quiver in anticipation. I've had a lot of dicks part my velvety folds, but this was different. This was special. This was a first.

And just as my life was about to change, the universe had to get one more joke in at my expense. The door to my dad's office opened and someone came in.

"Mr. Grant, you have the European status meeting in 30 minutes." The voice was female, cool, and collected. And for the second time today, my dad went on with his business as though nothing was out of the ordinary.

"I'll be ready," he said. "This is Charlotte. She's applying for the intern position," my dad said, as though that would explain why I had my skirt hiked up and he was stroking his cock.

The girl giggled, recovered her composure, and said, politely, "Pleased to meet you Charlotte, I'm Margo."

My dad did not ignore the giggle. "Is there something funny, Margo?" he asked. As though the situation wasn't ridiculous enough.

"Oh, just an office joke, Sir" she replied. There was a pause. "About the intern position," she elaborated.

"Which is?" my father prompted.

"The intern 'position' is bent over a desk with a cock in her," Margo recited.

Dad laughed at that. He looked at me with a mischievous smile, and said, "Well, we shouldn't disappoint the rest of the office, should we?" I had no idea what he meant.

He then took my hands and pulled me up and off the desk. My dress fell back into place. He turned me around by the waist and pushed gently, but insistently, between my shoulder blades. I leaned forward until I was, once again, resting on my elbows; this time facing the door.

I could now observe the girl connected to the voice. She was pretty, about my height. She had straight dark brown hair, styled with a little wave on one side, dark brown eyes, and one of those really round faces. Her bosom and hips were round too. You could have drawn her using only circles.

My dad spoke again. "We have a tight knit family here, Charlotte. This business is successful because everyone does his or her part, no matter what needs to be done. For example, if I asked Margo here to drop all of her plans for the weekend and work on an important proposal, what would you say, Margo?"

"I'd start a fresh pot of coffee and get to work," Margo replied enthusiastically.

She was wearing low heels and a grey pencil skirt that came almost to her knees. No pantyhose. She had on a matching suit jacket over a shiny lime green blouse that was almost completely covered by the jacket and the folder of papers she was clutching to her breast.

"And if we were entertaining some influential clients who were craving some female companionship, could you do something about that Margo?"

Margo replied, "I'd be happy to make whatever arrangements you thought appropriate, Sir."

Great, my dad's secretary doubles as a pimp.

"And if I asked you to take off you panties, right here in the office, what would you say, Margo?" my dad asked as he began to lift the hem of my skirt over my ass.

"I'd say that I couldn't possibly do that, Sir," Margo replied, with a mock expression of seriousness.

He lowered the dress across my back. With his foot, he gently nudged my feet apart. My cheeks separated slightly. I felt the air drift between my legs and around my ass. I could tell that my entire backside was completely exposed, the folds of my pussy peeking out between my legs.

"And why not?" my dad asked, in a sort of singsong voice. I could tell they were playing some game.

I noticed Margo intently staring at something on the desk. I glanced down to see that my tits were on display too. Leaning forward on the desk, the top of the dress had fallen almost completely away.

"Company policy, Sir" was Margo's mock reply.

My dad placed his cock in the crack of my ass and started to rub it up and down.

"And what policy is that?" my father demanded.

"The company dress code," Margo said. "It states that your personal staff is not allowed to wear panties at work." Margo was having great fun at this little game of play acting.

The depravity of this establishment was starting to reveal itself.

"And would you mind showing Charlotte how you've complied with the company dress code?" my dad asked.

"Of course not," Margo replied as she tossed the file folder on the ground. She place her hands flat against the sides of her thighs and started to slide her skirt up.

At the same time, my father had now positioned the head of his cock at my entrance, and was slowing pushing his way in.

Margo continued to lift her skirt, higher and higher. When it was an inch below her crotch, she grabbed the hem and continued pulling it up.

Meanwhile, my pussy was being asked to spread wider than it ever had. My dad evidently had practice doing this. He pushed just enough to coax me wider, but not hurt me, and then eased up, but without losing ground. Slowly, he was ratcheting that monster helmet of his into my tiny canal.

Margo was now standing directly in front of me, naked from the waist down. She was completely shaved. No surprise there.

And finally, it happened. The head of dad's cock slipped into my opening, the rest of his shift plunging down towards my womb. It was like my hymen breaking all over again. He left it buried to the hilt for a moment.

He then took one, slow, tentative stroke. He pulled almost out, and then pushed all the way back in again. I'd never felt fuller.

He left it there and addressed Margo. "Is there anything else?" he asked.

Margo paused. "I was hoping to watch?" she said, forming it as a question.

My dad dismissed her, saying "Maybe some other time."

Margo walked over to the folder she'd dropped on the floor and made a point of bending over at the waist to pick it up, giving dad and me an unfettered view of her charms. She stood up and began wriggling her hips while tugging her skirt back down into place. Once redressed, she slipped quietly from the room.

My dad had already started again. He pumped steadily in and out, his strokes getting a little longer, and faster, as I became more lubricated.

His hands started to roam. Originally at my hips, he started to gently pet my back. He reached around and cupped my breasts through the fabric.

As the force increased, I threw my head back and grabbed the front edge of the desk. The head of his cock would drag me backwards when he pulled out, and then slam me forward again. I had to cling to the desk to keep from either getting pulled off of it, or have my thighs smashed into it. It was like being fucked with a plunger.

All I could hear was the rustling of fabric and my own ragged breathing. My breasts and the the bodice of the dress had become a single swirling, bouncing, undulating mass.

He suddenly pulled out, lifted me up, spun me around, hoisted me back onto the desk and pushed me back; exactly the position he had me in originally.

I grabbed the hem of my dress and pulled it up to my chest. His cock was back in me before the fabric settled. It was intense, but not hurried. We continued, not saying a word, for several minutes. I'd already had one small orgasm and was headed towards a bigger one.

Just as I was starting to build, I could feel him cum inside me, his smooth rhythm faltering for a moment. He resumed, his cum now oozing around the edges of my opening.

He began to slow down. I screamed "No, don't stop. Please don't stop!"

Like someone had stomped on the gas pedal, he immediately went into high gear, furiously pumping my box. His cum created lubricant, which reduced the friction I was hoping would send me over the top, but the added speed was doing the trick.

I emitted an unintelligible, ululating, cry as I came. My head was thrown back; the room was upside down. I locked my legs around my dad, holding him in. I couldn't let him move, the sensation was too intense.

After awhile, my thighs relaxed their vice grip around his waist and I let him extract himself. I fell back onto the desk, panting.

Dad pressed a button on his desk and then said to me "Now I need you to clean this up."

I propped myself up again and gave him a look that communicated that I was completely mystified by the request.

"Come on, hop off," he said while extending his hands to help me off the desk and onto my feet again.

"On your knees," was his next instruction. I was beginning to get the picture.

I knelt down and took his, now slightly supple, meat into my mouth. I slurped and licked up and down the shaft. I was a cat, cleaning off as much cum and pussy juice as I could.

The button was apparently connected to Margo, because she reappeared next to the desk. She sat down two small wooden trays, both holding warm finger towels. As I looked up, she handed one to my father. He took it and motioned that I was done. He finished the last bit of cleaning with the towel, and returned his dick to his pants.

"That's for you," he said, nodding towards the second towel. "Also, the panel next to the bookshelf retracts. There's a full bath in there, if you need to clean up."

He bent down and kissed my forehead. With that, he and Margo began walking towards the door. Still on my knees, I twisted around to watch them leave.

"I'll see you tonight," he said as they disappeared through the doorway.

I slowly stood up. I could feel his cum trickling down my legs. I picked up the towel, lifted my dress and started wiping up what I could.

After a minute, I was relatively clean again. I found the hidden panel and went into his private washroom. I turned and looked in the mirror to find a wet spot on the back of my dress the size of Alaska.

"Next time, let's just stick to doggy style," I told my absent father.

I took the dress off and found a blow dryer. The picture of me standing naked in my father's office, patiently blow-drying fuck juice out of a dress, like a porn version of June Cleaver, was not lost on me.

After ten minutes, it was hardly noticeable. A little more cum had leaked out, so I dabbed that up before putting the dress back on. The fabric in the back was warm against my ass.

There was no sign of my dad or Margo as I left. The Amazon at the elevator waved goodbye as the doors closed.

I drove the long way home. I opened the sunroof, relishing the late spring air. The sun felt good on my face.

----------

The rest of the afternoon drifted by. I laid down a little, took a swim, checked e-mail, sent a few tweets—the usual.

It was well past sunset when Kwan found me in the entertainment room, watching some videos, dressed in pink boy shorts and a black T-shirt that read, "You can't handle this."

"Mr. Grant would like for you to be prepared for the evening," she said.

I considered the phrase "Prepared for the evening." How did I need to be prepared? Was the evening going to attack me at some point? Should I be armed or have some Ninja moves ready?

Without explaining, she continued. "Mr. Grant is having dinner out and will be back by 8:00. Please come with me," she said and led me towards the north guest rooms. These were the fancy guest rooms on the grownup's side of the house. I followed.

We entered one. It had been transformed into a makeshift beauty salon. A beautician's chair had been placed over a square plastic floor protector. Mirrors were set up around it. A hair dresser and makeup artist stood ready, the tools of their trade arranged about them.

The makeup artist was dressed in a loose, white, crop top with sequins, above a pair of bright pink, Capri length, pants. She had a tiny bellybutton ring. The hairdresser was a little less Jersey, wearing a red bolero jacket and mini skirt over a black leotard and blank and white checked tights. Neither looked too much older than me. They looked fun. I thought, "Yea, I could hang with these two."

I sat down and the transformation began.

The hairdresser combed out my hair (not a trivial job) and worked in conditioner and mousse. She then began separating my hair into tiny squares, tying each into a bundle by wrapping string around it, just above the roots. Each bundle stuck out about two inches. It gave the impression that my hair was erupting from dozens of tiny hair volcanoes all over my head. The effect was exotic.

She then started to weave thin strips of shiny ribbon into each cascade. The ribbons glittered and danced when I moved my head.

Meanwhile, the makeup artist wiped off my face to prepare it for her magic. It started with bronze blush applied with an airbrush. My eyes were done in a silver eye shadow, with heavy, bold, eyeliner that swept out from my eyes and across my face, like some futuristic Egyptian princess.

Bright red lip liner set off silver lipstick. Well, it wasn't lipstick so much as she painstakingly painted my lips silver with a tiny brush. The finishing touch was bright streaks of color, flying up my cheeks and into my hairline, in red, yellow, orange, blue, and green. This had already taken over an hour.

Without asking, they pulled me to my feet and rescued me from the burden of my clothing. I thought to myself, "No problem. I'm naked again. It's only the fourth time today. Thanks for asking."

Standing, they worked together, first rubbing scented moisturizer all over my body. And when I say "all over" I mean it. They unceremoniously massaged it into my fingers, arms, arm pits, breasts, stomach, back, ass cheeks, between my ass cheeks, in and around my pussy, eventually working down to my toes.

The makeup artist took up the airbrush again, this time covering every surface in a coppery sheen. Yes, "every surface." I won't repeat what that means.

The two then took turns placing minute amounts of micro-fine glitter in the palm of their hand, positioning themselves about a foot away from my skin, and blowing the glitter so it stuck to the spayed on layer. After several minutes of this, every inch (YES!) of me sparkled. I was ready for my guest appearance on Twilight.

While the makeup girl was dusting me with some kind of powder, the hairdresser helped me put on a pair of shoes. They were gold high heels. They had a deep V down the front, which opened into a high collar that went around the back of the ankle. Each foot looked like the wicked queen from Snow White.

Then they started putting me into a tiny gold bra. The minimal bra was a "quarter cup," which has just enough cup to lift your boobs, make them nice and round, and push them out for all the world to admire. The makeup girl brushed something on my, now very prominent, nipples.

I really didn't see the point of the bra, until they brought out the feathers. They attached two fans of feathers to the back of the bra. They stepped back to admire their work.

I looked in the mirror. I wasn't me. I wasn't even human. I was some exotic fire creature from some far off world. Oh fucking hell, I was a goddess—a radiant, shimmering, plumed goddess!

I was still staring at myself when Kwan reappeared and took my hand. She led me back down the hall to the center of the house. Most of the lights were out, which created a slightly ominous mood. For the second time today, the only sound was the sharp report of my heels on the hardwood floor.

We walked to the back of the house and out into the patio. The "patio," as we called it, wasn't a single thing. It was a sprawling arrangement of small areas, each suited to a different purpose. There were conversation areas, one for BBQ, several with dining tables, a pond, a hot tub, and so on.

Kwan brought me to the fire pit, a large flagstone circle with a bonfire in the middle. Normally populated by lots of chairs and low tables, tonight there was only one, and it was occupied by my father and a glass of wine.

I stepped onto the flagstone circle and we stopped. Kwan let go of my hand and departed.

Standing perfectly still, I was a column of movement.

I stood between the house and the fire. It illuminated me and cast giant, grotesque, shadows of my silhouette against the walls. Some kind of chemicals had been added, because its flames were dancing with color: red, orange, now green, a flash of white. The colors reflected off my skin and accentuated every curve and surface: the shadow of my collar bone, the dimples above my ass, my hipbone, the swell of my breast.

My plumage waved in the slight breeze. My hair undulated gently, like a huge dandelion. My nipples were rock hard.

I didn't feel naked. I didn't even feel exposed, although both were literally true. I felt like I was radiant energy itself. All the creatures of the world would gather before me and marvel at my naked beauty. My dad just sat and soaked it all in.




My Father's Second Wife



In a moment—that sudden moment when you understand something—I knew why I was here. I knew what this meant.

Yesterday, I was his daughter.

This morning, I was his whore.

Today, I was his employee.

Tonight, I was his fantasy.

I was perfectly content to stand there. In fact, I wish I could have frozen this moment for all time. No matter what else happened in my life, I would have this.

Soft music began to play. 

On cue, father rose and slowly walked towards me, as if any sudden movement would startle this wild creature. He was wearing a tuxedo. It was black with charcoal grey lapels. He sported a stiff white shirt and bow tie. His shiny patent leather shoes crunched softly as he approached.

Soon he was standing within inches of me, eclipsing the light of the fire. I could almost feel an electric charge building between us.

He reached across with his left hand and gingerly lifted my left hand. He placed it on his right shoulder. He then reached out and took my right hand in his left and held it to the side. Finally, he placed his right hand on my bare left hip.

He took a small step to my right, pulling my arm and gently applying pressure to my hip. I stepped with him, then to the left, and again to the right. We were dancing—the dapper man and the golden girl.

The jazz music was soft, but easy to follow. It was a simple two-step, nothing fancy, just two bodies swaying from side to side in time to the music.

We looked into each other eyes; mine a whirl of metallic makeup, his dark and strong. We were dancing closer now. My nipples would occasionally brush against his lapel; the hem of his jacket would lightly touch my thigh.

He stepped even closer. Now my breasts were pressing against his jacket, my hips against his trousers. I could feel his cock stiffening in his pants, firm against my naked mound.

He took his hand off of my hip and wrapped his arm behind my back, pulling me in even closer. I could feel his belt buckle through his cummerbund. He'd brought my other hand in close and was now pressing his left arm tight against my right side. Our heads were resting on each other's shoulder. He was crushing me against him, as if to keep me from flying away on my wings.

We were no longer dancing, as much as just rocking together. This went on until the music finished. Another song did not start. We stopped rocking and he held me still in the silent evening air.

After a while, my father slowly loosened his clutch, withdrawing his arms and released my hand. He took a couple steps back. A girl-shaped outline of copper makeup and glitter was imprinted on his tux.

Previously unnoticed theater lights came on, flooding the fire pit in blue, green, red, and yellow light. It overwhelmed the light of the fire, which now looked dark. It overwhelmed the stars. I turned my head and shaded my eyes with my hand as I adjusted to the glare. The world beyond the circle fell into an inky darkness.

Two girls walked out of this curtain of shadows. They were identically dressed in body suits that started at their ankles and ended at their necks, leaving only their head, hands, and feet bare. The material was sheer, like smoke colored pantyhose. It slightly obscured everything, but hid nothing. I could discern every anatomical feature of their bodies. Both had dark hair in tight buns, were about the same height, and had small breasts with dark nipples. Their abdomens were toned; their arms and legs were sinewy, with well-developed muscles that could be easily seen through the sheer material. They looked like dancers.

They came from opposite directions and took up stations at either side of my father. They immediately began to undress him. They removed his jacket and tie, then knelt down and untied his shoes. One girl removed one shoe and sock, and then the other repeated the process. The first girl stood back up and began unbuttoning his shirt, while the other remained kneeling, removing the cummerbund and unbuckling his belt and pants. He shrugged off his shirt and stepped out of his trousers. The girls tossed his clothes off stage, because that what this had become.

Now the roles were reversed. He was naked and I was in costume.

My father was still a handsome man. He had strong, ropy, muscles that were sharply defined, nothing flabby or soft. His thighs and biceps, especially, were much more massive than his business suits let on. There were small amounts of hair here and there. He obviously shaved his private parts, but hair on the rest of body was naturally sparse. 

The girl kneeling on the ground moved right in front of my dad, directly between us. She placed her hands on the front of his bare thighs. She blocked my view of his groin, but her head began undulating with movements that told me she was giving him head. 

While that progressed, the other girl approached, walking strait towards me. When she was within arms length, she began to bend at the knees and lean back. But instead of sinking to the ground, she continued walking forwards, like she was doing the limbo. She inserted her knees between my legs. As she went lower, she forced me to spread my legs apart. My legs were at about a 90-degree angle when she fell back on her outstretched arms and crab-walked through my legs. As her head was about to pass through, she stopped and lifted her head slightly.

Her nose touched my pussy briefly, tentatively. Then it pushed up again, parting my outer lips, like a dog nuzzling for attention. She opened her mouth and her lips engulfed my mound. Her tongue separated my inner folds, exploring every tender surface. She continued this, traveling up further each time towards my clit. When she finally arrived it was like an electric shock. She circled it with her tongue, and then went down to my opening again, only to return and repeat the torture. I stood rigid.

I'd never had sex with a woman—not that Kate hadn't offered. (Kate said she was half bi-sexual, because she liked boys half the time and boys and girls the other half.) In any other situation, I probably would have freaked if a woman walked up to me and started eating me out. But at this moment, I was open to any sexual act. It's like when you go to a foreign country and will eat the weirdest shit just because everyone else is.

The girl was now alternating between my clit and actually inserting her strong tongue into my opening. I could feel a climax beginning. I watched as the other girl continued to service my dad. My dad watched me.

My father touched the girl on her head and she immediately pulled away, got up, and came my way. His cock was at full attention. It glistened with the girl's saliva.

The girl walked behind me, signaled to the one attached to me to stop, and pulled her the rest of the way through my legs, disappearing behind me. With my new lover's hot mouth gone, my excited pussy was suddenly exposed to the cool night air. The air burned.

Behind me, the dancers were repositioning themselves. The next thing I knew one of them (I could hardly tell them apart) was backing up through my legs, ass first. When her waist was even with my knees, she pushed up with her legs, lifting me off the ground. I was left straddling her hips, as if I was riding a pony backwards.

The other dancer held my upper arms and leaned me back. I was now inclined about 45 degrees, back to back with the "pony" dancer, my arms held behind me by the other, and my legs dangling on either side of her hips.

My father walked forward and entered me directly, without any hesitation. We were both slick and ready. The strong, persistent, rhythm of his cock renewed my climb toward an orgasm.

Father reached out and placed his hands on my up thrust tits. He held them in his grasp, using them to steady himself. I felt the warmth of the dancer beneath me, hot hands on my arms and breasts, and a fiery poker driving itself over and over towards the core of my body.

The orgasm came like a spasm in my gut. I tried to bend forward, but was held back. Instead, I rocked my pelvis upward, involuntarily, like a moth beating itself against a light.

Dad's pace never varied, but as soon as my orgasm subsided, he pulled out. The "pony" dancer immediately lowered me to the ground and disappeared through my legs, while the other one righted me again.

My father stood there while the dancers came to either side of me. Each took my hand and formed it into a fist. They then wrapped their hands around my fists. Using the other hand, they straightened my elbows, making it clear that I should keep my elbows locked. They then clamped my arms between their arms and their bodies.

In one coordinated movement, the dancers used my straightened arms to lift me off the ground. I was now suspended by my shoulders, my feet dangling in the air. The choreography continued. They reached down with their free hands, behind my legs, and pulled them up, bringing my knees almost up to my chest. Once there, they grabbed the backs of my calves and straightened my legs, sliding their hands down to hold my ankles.

I was now an inverted tripod. My stiff upper body, sandwiched firmly between the arms and bodies of the two dancers, was one third. The other two formed by my legs, now held wide and pointing to the sky. At at the bottom of the apex was a golden vagina, glistening with juice, open, and inviting. I was a flower, my sex organs crouching at the bottom of a lewd display, waiting to be violated by a passing bee.

My father stepped forward, this time reaching out, palms up, to take my proffered ass as if it were a bowl of fruit. The two dancers lifted me slightly, and he literally placed me on his cock. The three then began lifting and lowering me in unison. He, however, was not moving. I was being used to fuck him, like a life-sized doll.

My feathery wings flapped lazily with each lift, my hair undulated like a jellyfish. Our faces were close. I could see the lust on his. I was his fantasy creature, his property, his "thing" to use however it pleased him.

The eroticism of the moment was working. I could feel him getting stiffer inside me. I could hear his breath, deep and steady. I began to hear the breathing of the dancers next to me. The exertion was taking its toll.

This scene didn't last long. On the next lift up, my father hoisted me higher, up and off of his cock. The dancers released my ankles and my legs swung down underneath me again. They lowered me until I was standing on my own.

The dancer to my right placed her hand in the middle of my chest, fingertips lightly touching my breasts. She pushed backwards, urging me to take a few steps back. I did. They turned me around by my shoulders so I was facing away from my father. The dancer on my right then got on her knees directly in front of me. She lithely shimmied forward until her chin touched my sex. I spread my legs to accommodate her. Reaching between my legs, she placed her hands in the small of my back and lifted her upper body. I was now sitting on her upper chest, her hands supporting my back, like we were playing chicken, but backwards.

The other dancer was now behind me. She grasped my upper arms and began pulling me back. As I fell backwards in slow motion, she rolled to the ground and into ball, bringing her legs up underneath me. I was now horizontal, a human table, my hips supported by the shoulders of one dancer and my shoulders and back resting on the legs of the other, my beautiful feathers crushed between us. I looked up into the black sky.

The head between my legs began teasing my already excited pussy. Her tongue flicked my clit, tempting it out of its hood. Then it would flutter down my inner lips and back up again. This sensation was completely different than before. This must be the other girl.

The dancer on her back placed her hands flat on the sides of my head and tilted it back, holding it in position. My dad was upside down. His thick legs were trunks, planted in the ceiling. The trunks began moving towards me. It was like that scene in movies where the protagonist walks directly towards the camera until they fill the frame. My father's legs and scrotum filled my view as his cock pushed into my mouth.

I was an alter: prone, belly up, legs spread, head thrown back, and my mouth open. I couldn't see either of my worshipers, but I felt their need to penetrate me, fuck me, and fill me with their gifts.

The cool air rolled across my exposed stomach, sending chills down my spine. I abandoned myself to the moment. I became a passive receptacle to a cock and a tongue. I couldn't move my head. I simply held my lips tight around his cock and let it slide in and out. I was coming.

My second climax hit me like an electric shock. I convulsed, pulling my knees up, trying to dislodge the bottom girl from my clit. It didn't work. Even with my knees drawn up, she held my hips with her hands and kept her face clamped against my quivering pussy. The waves of the orgasm continued. I cried out, my scream muffled by the cock filling my mouth.

The girl then began to hum into my pussy, the vibration intensifying and prolonging the sensation.

My father had stopped moving, but had not vacated my mouth. I couldn't scream. I couldn't escape. I was trapped in a orgasm that went on and on. When it finally subsided, the relief that it was over was more blessed than any orgasm I'd had at college.

My father pulled out of my face, the humming girl lowered my hips, resting them in her lap, and the girl on her back pushing me upright again.

Humming girl held me as the other girl got off the ground, came around in front of me, took my hands and stood me up. The girl between my legs then got on her hands and knees directly in front me, perpendicular, her back flat. The standing girl helped me climb onto to her. I was now kneeling on the back of the girl, one knee on her shoulders, the other on her hip.

The standing girl now reached around my back. She gently pulled me forwards, causing me to bend at the waist. To keep my balance I had to stick my ass out.

My pussy was now a study in hospitality. It was at the perfect height for a man of my father's stature to walk over and insert his cock into. With my legs slightly spread, it was open and easily accessible. It was already hot and wet. I waited to be entered again, but did not imagine how.

My father entered me abruptly, and the mood instantly changed. He grabbed my hips and thrust in. Not delicately, but with force and conviction. The standing girl held me steady, keeping me from falling off the girl below.

Father's pace increased. The earlier sensation of his cock gilding in and out, like the bow of a violin, was gone. It was replaced with the unbroken drone of a jackhammer. The girl bent forward, dipped her head and tenderly kissed my nipples, first one and then the other. She rubbed her cheek against my bosom, softly, like kitten rubbing catnip.

Now my dad was pounding into to me, hard. My ass rippled with each impact, my breasts bouncing, the bra unable to constrain them.

He let go of my hips and grabbed the back of my bra. He twisted it, turning it into a handle. The bra cut cruelly into my sides, the straps digging deep into my shoulders. He thrust even harder. This was not pleasant. I was being raped.

My tits were bouncing so violently that the girl couldn't kiss them any more. She buried her head between them, her cheeks pressing against my flesh, still clutching my arms. I could feel her breath on my sternum. It was compassionate and supportive, as if she was trying to tell me that it would be over soon and everything would be OK.

It was soon over. My father exploded into me, his spasm driving his cock even further into my womb, bruising my organs. His hips raised up taking me with them. I was being lifted off of the kneeling girl by his impaled cock. The standing girl held me tight.

Slowly he lowered his hips again, my weight settling back onto the girl. His cock continued to spasm deep inside. His grip on my bra relaxed. His hands and legs lost their tension. I could breath again. When everything was finally still, he pulled out. I was empty.

The standing girl helped me off. My legs were weak. The two girls each took a hand, turned me around, and stood on either side of me, ready to catch me if I fell. My exquisite makeup was smudged and distorted. The feathers were broken, one side hung down, dangling over my ass. My skin was patches of smears and hand prints where I'd been grasped, streaks of skin showing where the body paint had been completely rubbed away. My pussy was still vibrating. One bra strap hung limply across my arm. A tear rolled down my cheek. "When had I cried?" I thought to myself.

My father came to me. He took my face in both hands and leaned in. He kissed me on the lips. A strong, deep, tender kiss. It was a lover's kiss. He held the kiss for a long time.

His lips left mine. His hands fell away from my face. He turned and walked naked into the darkness.

The two girls helped me lay down on the flagstone. I lay there, sweaty and sore, utterly spent. The lights went out. Everything was dark. As my eyes slowly adjusted, I could see the stars reappear, the last embers of the bond fire glowing in the night. I closed my eyes.

----------

I awoke awhile latter. I was shivering, my hands and feet felt frozen. I was naked, outside, at night. The air was chilly now; the stone circle was a sheet of ice against my back. I sat up. The girls were gone. I could see a faint light coming from the house. I got up and ran towards it, hugging myself, trying to hold in what little warmth I still had.

The light revealed itself to be a trail of squat candles. I followed them into the house. The air was warmer here. They led me down the hall and up the stairs toward my room. My broken feathers dangled behind me as I walked.

The candles didn't extend all the way to my room. They stopped at my bathroom. The door was slightly ajar, disclosing a thin sliver of the light within.

I pushed it open. The two makeup artists were there, along with the two dancers, all patiently waiting. They all stood as I entered. The two dancers were now naked, their body suits discarded. They had showered. I saw angry scraps on their knees and elbows. One looked like it could have been bleeding, but had been tended to.

The group circled me and led me to the dressing stool. The makeup girl began removing the ruin of my face, while the two dancers unhooked my bra and used sponges to wipe off the body paint. The hairdresser's nimble fingers began untying each bundle of hair, extracting the ribbons as she worked.

I watched the reverse of my previous transformation in the mirror. The ravaged goddess was fading away, replaced again by a human girl. 

In short order, the fantasy had been erased. One of the dancers started the shower, while the other one helped me stand. They stepped into the shower with me. Four hands began soaping my body. One then took to cleaning me with a shower scrub, while the other shampooed my hair.

When they were finished, I was fresh again. The glow of my skin, this time, was my own.

They led me out of the shower. The other two were gone, along with every trace that they had been here. The dancers toweled me off where I stood. Once dry, they quickly dried themselves.

Each holding one hand, the three of us walked naked out of the bathroom. The trail of candles now stretched from my bathroom to my bedroom. We followed the path. My bed was stripped down to its sheets, a soft down comforter folded up at the foot. The only light was the candles.

They tenderly helped onto the bed, laid me in the very center, face up, and placed a pillow under my head. The pillow felt good. They went to the foot, grabbed an edge of the comforter, and brought it up and over the bed, causing it billow and sail before it settled gently around me.