Daddy Crosses the Rubicon Ch. 4

"Yeah, right," she replied. Sarcasm dripped from her words.

He leaned forward, puffed up, winding up his courage to speak. His mind churned with indecision. He was inclined toward telling her about the bonds and his plans and asking her right then to run away with him. His mouth opened, and she looked at him expectantly, but his indecisiveness choked off the words in his throat. No, not now. It's too soon. She's not ready; I'm not ready. Plenty of time. Let it rest. You'll know when it's time. Deflated, he slumped back in his seat, and took a gulp of beer.

"Daddy?" she resumed after that inexplicable interlude.

"Yes?" he answered distantly.

"Did you ever fool around on mom?" The question was delivered so matter of factly that for an instant he thought he had misunderstood her.

"Whaaa?"

"Did you ever fool around on mom, you know, with other women?" she repeated, the casualness of her tone belying the intensity of her interest in his reaction to the question. She watched closely as he squirmed for a suitable response.

"Laura! I, uh, I, uh," he began, stammering in protest, as his face turned red instantly. "I, no, no, of course not, never." He mentally kicked himself for that unconvincing denial. Jeez, I failed that one, he groaned inwardly. Hook me up to a polygraph and the needle would be off the page. Talk about stress under interrogation.

She smiled at him with a knowing, “Me thinks he doth protest too much” kind of smile, and replied as though to justify the asking, "I didn't know, not for sure anyway."

"What do you mean?" he yelped at the implicit accusation.

"I thought maybe you had, is all," she said, continuing to study him carefully.

"For Christ's sake. With whom?" He kicked himself again for the artlessness of his denial.

"Sarah Miller, for one," she responded without hesitation, as if she had carried the name on her tongue for days just biding her time till the right moment to lay it on the table.

"Barb and Bonnie's mother?" he protested with a shocked gasp. "What on earth gave you that idea?"

"Oh, just the way the two of you look at each other when she comes over to the house. You know, like, the way she’s always touching you, putting her hands on you. Stuff like that."

He blushed crimson. Sarah was lonely; widowed by an insensitive lout of a husband who was more enamoured with fishing and golfing than with her. Beautiful, sexy and lonesome, a compelling combination, he had to admit. Jet black hair, flashing dark eyes and an hourglass figure with no one at home to appreciate it. He had introduced her to cunnilingus, which she quickly came to believe was a gift from the gods and she had convinced herself that the sex gods had placed him on the earth for the express purpose of presenting her with that gift, as often as she needed. His pulse quickened as he remembered the velvet softness of her inner thighs, spreading in invitation and the lovely contrast of black hair on milk-white skin with a bisecting pink exclamation mark.

"Laura!" he protested, washing the image of Sarah from his mind with a gulp of beer. "You're imagining things. Mrs. Miller's just a little more extroverted that we are; a little more touchy-feely. You're taking that all wrong."

Pretty lame, he chided himself, not convincing at all. Wonder if she'll buy it, he asked himself, but, before he could rationalize an answer, he was jolted by the recollection of the incident involving the slamming of Sarah's kitchen door. God, he remembered in vivid detail, we never did figure out who that was. They had been at Sarah's house, just the two of them; thought it was empty. They had been there before under similar circumstances and felt secure. Jim was fishing, and the girls were away somewhere. It had all been so spontaneous. He had dropped by with some clothes the girls had left at his house after a swim party. Sarah was wearing a bathrobe and nothing else. She asked him to stay for a drink, and he agreed. They talked and drank and after a while her robe came undone, exposing the full, rounded curves of her breasts to him. He kissed her and lifted her onto the counter top of the island, which separated the kitchen from the den. She laid back and spread her legs wide for him. He knelt before her and ran his tongue along the soft skin of her inner thighs, teasingly, at first, avoiding contact with her black bush. She wriggled and cried out, and then, she grabbed his hair with both hands and directed his mouth to cover her. His tongue flashed into her depths, licking and tasting her the hot, sweet wetness of her essence. He licked her trembling lips and inserted his tongue between them, and her moisture flowed like water into his mouth. She cried out with pleasure when his mouth found, then closed over her clitoris, and it was at that moment, when she screamed the words, "Oh yes, suck my clit, Don," that they heard the kitchen door slam behind them. Of course, they leapt up and tried to make themselves presentable as quickly as possible. At first, they were relieved to find no one in the kitchen, but they became alarmed when they ran to the door and found no one there. He searched outside the house, while Sarah looked inside, although they were fairly certain that, occupied though they were at the time, no one could have slipped into the house and past them unseen. No, it had to have been someone who opened the door and then slammed it shut without coming in; but whom? What had they seen? Why did they leave without coming in? They never found out, and for days after the incident they walked on eggshells in fear of the repercussions of being exposed. They relaxed somewhat, when, after some weeks, they could detect no obvious change in anybody's attitude toward them, but the experience made them skittish, and, for a while, less inclined to contrive to get together.

She watched his expression while his memories played themselves out across his face, and a smile curled at the corners of her mouth as though she was reading his mind. "Yeah, I guess you're right, Dad," she answered gently, yielding the point all too easily to give him comfort.

"Laura, I..." he began, attempting to buttress his answer with a more coherent denial.

She stopped him by placing her hand on his arm. "It's OK, Dad. I was wrong. Sorry I brought it up; just forget about it, OK? How about another beer?"

He quickly nodded his ascent, grateful that she appeared to accept his denial at face value. Odd that she’d bring up that subject, now, he thought scratching his head reflectively while the lithe figured girl disappeared over the side. Could she possibly know anything? Surely it wasn't possible that she was the person at the door that afternoon. But, after all, his house was only a few blocks from the Miller's, and it was close enough that the kids walked back and forth all the time. Oh, of course not, he reassured himself. Hadn't he rushed home immediately, tires squealing on the corners, only to find Laura in the den, stretched out on the couch and absorbed in a TV show? No way she could have covered that distance and beat him home. And, he remembered thinking at the time; she wasn't even breathing hard and acted surprised to see him. Nope, if she had seen anything in Sarah's kitchen, he would have known it. As for the question? Probably just a lucky guess, he rationalized, although he did have to admit that Sarah sure liked to put her hands on him when they were talking. Laura hit that nail on the head, he conceded, remembering even then, as the cool of the evening settled around him, the feeling of the soft pressure of Sarah's hand on his arm. Her fingers brushed the back of his hand lightly as they talked. Her hip, flank and thigh pressed invitingly against his, as they leaned against the bar in his den, sipping scotch, neat, without ice. Whew, she sure had the ability to hold a man's attention with that touch, he remembered. She could say more with a couple of fingers in a half a second than most women could in an hour of nonstop talking. Had a way of looking into a man's eyes with a direct, unwavering look that penetrated right into his soul when she touched him. It was like she was reading his mind through her eyes and fingertips, or, more often, planting ideas, suggestions, which would lay so hard on him he couldn't resist them even if he had wanted to.

And, in the instant of recalling that touch, her image came to him anew. She was kneeling beside him, holding a flashlight for him while he probed her swimming pool filter searching for a blockage. She had called him in a panic one Saturday evening, when Miriam and the kids were out. Jim was on a golf trip for the weekend and the pool pump was clogged; water was flooding the yard and beginning to run into the garage. She hated to bother him but could he come over and help her. Of course, he replied immediately, so, there he was, ten minutes later, in shorts and a tee shirt, kneeling on her cool deck with his arm up to the shoulder in pool muck trying to clear the filter. She was wearing shorts and a bikini top, which did little to conceal her breasts. She knelt beside him holding the light, their heads together so closely they were nearly touching, peering into the black depths of the filter housing. Her shoulder pressed against his; her hip and thigh rested along side his. He could feel the heat of her body. She smelled of musk and anise. He groped in the dark water for the obstruction, and she held the light steadily. His mind was not on pool filters at the moment, but he succeeded anyway.

"Hurray," he exclaimed, raising into the air a crumpled bathing cap and waving it over his head, triumphantly, like warrior brandishing a scalp.

"My hero," she said, laughing at his antics, and she brought them drinks to the pool. They settled on a lounge chair next to the pool. Only the lights from the house windows reflecting on the water lit the yard. He could see her features clearly in the soft light and was moved by her loveliness. She thanked "Her Hero" for helping her, for coming to her rescue, and he said it was nothing. She turned her face toward him; her eyes, lit from within by the despair of her loneliness, sought his, and her hand touched his bare thigh. He sat motionless, feeling the heat of her hand on his thigh. She held him by the gentle depth of her gaze while his heart beat accelerated. She spoke softly, almost tearfully, of the emptiness of her life and of her solitude. She spoke of the hardship of caring for the children and the burden of managing a house without any help. She moved closer to him and the heat of her made his head swim. Her lips, almost as black as her hair in the darkness, moved in a nearly inaudible whisper, as she spoke longingly of the fulfillment which was denied her and of her unmet needs.

As the suggestion of her words reached the pathways of his mind, her hand slipped down from the top of his leg to a more intimate contact with his inner thigh. She stroked her fingertips across his skin in a wanton affirmation of her invitation. He put his arm around her, drawing her toward him and kissed her softly on the lips. She moaned at the contact and immediately her mouth moved against his in a fury of frustrated desire. Her fingers dug urgently into the flesh of his thigh, driving him to hurry.

His hands clutched at her full breasts through the cloth of her top, feeling her nipples, already tightened, stiffen to his touch. He ripped the cloth from her body, stripping her to the waist with one violent sweep of his hand. He cupped a breast, thumbing her taut nipple for a moment before bringing it to his mouth. She gasped with pleasure when his mouth opened to receive her, and she felt the wet warmth of his tongue caress her hardened flesh. Her hand moved eagerly on his thigh, and her fingers closed on his bulging manhood. He tore off his tee shirt and flung it on the grass nearby. Turning, he took her in his arms and felt the hot tips of her breasts burning into his chest. They kissed in delirious exploration, tongues delving and dipping, twisting and entwining, and their breaths quickened. His fingers sought the clasp of her shorts and released it. They stood together, and he took her into his arms, while his hands hastily pushed her shorts over the naked bulge of her buttocks. The garment fell to her ankles, and she stepped out of it without breaking the contact of their lips. Her nudity moved against him, and he cupped the firm, full globes of her ass in his hands, luxuriating in the incredible softness of her milk white skin. She clung to him hungrily, reveling in long deferred sensations, and letting her passion soar to his touches. Then, he laid her back upon the lounge and knelt between her open legs.

His fingers parted her velvet lips to expose her moist, pink inner flesh. The tip of his index finger traced her open furrow, and she writhed under his wetted caress. He found the hard stalk of her clitoris, hooded and hidden in her moistened folds and stroked it gently with his fingertip. She quivered and begged him to put his fingers inside her. He complied, entering her with two fingers, and he marveled at the flow of her juices. She drew her legs apart lewdly and implored him to fuck her with his fingers.

He inserted a third finger, and used his free hand to separate her slippery folds to expose her clitoris. He bent to her waiting body and sucked her clit into his mouth, tonguing it and rolling it between his tongue and teeth. She shrieked and pressed his head into her crotch with both hands, panting and begging him not to stop. Her hips heaved on the cushions, battering his lips with her groin. He felt her heat, smelled the musky wetness of her arousal, and drove his tongue frantically against her throbbing clit. He withdrew his fingers and felt her wetness flooding her thighs, lubricating her legs, belly and the tight crack of her ass. Her fluid, viscous, wet, shimmering in the reflected light, pungent with the scent of her passion, poured from the thick, swollen lips of her slit and down her clenched cheeks to the cushion. His tongue replaced his fingers, plunging into her steaming depths, and he tasted the sea foam flavor of her overpowering need. Her fingers, moving under his lips, frantically sought the core of her lust. Her fingers swam through the wet mat of her pubic hair and his open mouth, to find and claw apart her throbbing lips in urgent welcome to his tongue. He licked and lapped, and drank of her essence without stopping until his breath was gone.

He drew back, and she protested. He said, "Roll over." In an instant she complied, and he positioned her on the cushion, on her knees and elbows with the milky white globes of her buttocks lifting toward the starry sky like newly risen moons. Her head rested on her hands, and she looked at him hungrily as he stripped off his shorts, flinging them after his tee shirt. She reached for him, but he backed away and told her to be patient. She groaned and complained that she had been patient long enough.

He laughed again and knelt behind her, moving her knees apart to the opposing edges of the cushion. Her mounds and the dark cleft below were presented to him like melons on a plate. His hands caressed the firm columns of her thighs, stroking through her wet, matted pubic hair, dipping briefly into the hot wetness of her pussy, before slipping caressingly over the quivering mounds of her ass. She held her breath expectantly, not knowing exactly the course his lust would take to resolution.

His thumbs dug into her cheeks where the dark furrow divided her white globes, and she thrust back invitingly. He forced her cheeks to separate, and she opened for him willingly. The tiny rose of her anus glimmered wetly, oiled by the effluent of her excitement. She moaned enticingly and instinctively pushed against the pressure of his hands on her mounds. His lips moved to engage the rise of her hips, and his tongue, slipping out in advance, touched lightly upon her wrinkled little rosebud.

"Oh Don," she gasped breathlessly, as the initial contact sent spasms of delight rushing through her loins. Her head tossed against the cushion as she writhed in sexual delirium. Her voice rose and fell as she lost, then gained, then lost again control of the passions coursing through her body.

"Oh Don," she began in a hoarse whisper only to have her voice rise in crescendo, "Oh, Yessss," as his tongue thrust through the tight ring of her anus and probed deeply between her heaving cheeks. She gripped his tongue with a ferocity borne of unbridled passion. His fingers slid up her thigh, slipping through a torrent of fluid toward her steaming lips...