I Never Thought

Nobody in this story is under 18. If you are likely to be offended by explicit sex – that sort of stuff – then don't read it. It draws on my experience, and that of people I know, plus my over-fertile imagination.

Separated at eighteen-and-a-half! No, I never thought that was a possibility. I never for a moment entertained the possibility that marriage to Joss wouldn't work out. Bloody hell, I'd ditched the chance of going to Cambridge to get married to the bastard. And for what? To listen to his bloody heavy metal, smell his poxy pot smoke, and hear his incessant moaning about not having any money – for three months. Shit! The sex had been fantastic – at first. But then, I hadn't had much else, apart from a few fumbles behind the bike sheds.

Come on, Jenny, I thought, stop feeling sorry for yourself! I sat on the bed in my newly-found studio flat, and went through my options. I'd landed a job easily enough with my hot-shot 'A' levels, working in an insurance office for half-decent money, so that I could afford the flat. I'd try for university – though it wouldn't be a posh one – next year. Meantime, there wasthe letterto consider. I held it in my hand and read it for the third or fourth time. My father wanted to see me! After all these years. My first instinct was to ignore him. But something kept bringing me back tothe letter.

My father had left my mother when I was five years old. Too young to know why, or be told properly. And I had never been told since. My mother met Raymond at a Bible Meeting, and he soon became my stepfather. We had a frosty relationship – he never ill-treated me, I have to say, but there was a lack of warmth, of humour, about him, that time never cured.

Inthe letter, my father explained that he had been remarried, living abroad, and later divorced. During his time abroad, he had been too distant geographically to get in touch, and he had also been nervous of causing problems for my mother and her new husband. He had heard about my marriage and subsequent separation, and wondered if we could meet? The tone of the letter was oddly nervous – at odds with my vague recollection of my father: I had a distinct memory of him once doing battle with my formidable grandmother in the car, culminating in her getting out at a bus stop. Nobody before or since has seen fit to argue with her. He had signed the letter 'Bob' – not 'Dad' but 'Bob' – as if he was ashamed of himself, worried about his status, or what? The letter came from Venezuela, and the envelope contained a photo. It was a photo of a bronzed, fit-looking stranger, lounging against a wooden rail of some sort. He had a faint smile on his lips and close-cropped, greying hair. He wore an open-necked beige shirt and tan chinos. Each time I read the letter, I sneaked an almost guilty look at that photo, for it carried with it a certain chemistry I didn't want to try and explain.

My colleague in the insurance office, Ben, had asked me out for a drink on that Saturday night, and, although still reeling from my separation, I needed to get Joss out of my system, so I agreed.

I took a bit of time getting ready, and had a good look at myself. Not too much damage, I thought, considering. I had kept myself in trim, despite the unpleasantness, and could still wriggle into my size 10 dresses, which pleased me. I prided myself on my long blonde hair, and kept it clean and well-trimmed, so that when I slipped into a little black velvet number and stepped into my favourite high heels, I just needed a bit of jewellery to complete the picture. 'Not bad,' I said out loud, just as the door bell sounded.

Ben took me to a nice country pub, where we had a light meal, a few drinks – Ben was good about drinking and driving, and stuck to low-alcohol stuff – then we wound up at his apartment, a state-of-the-art bachelor pad overlooking a park, where he wanted me to listen to his CD collection. (He really wanted to screw me, and knew that I knew it! - I thought I wouldn't mind if he did.)

I sat on his leather sofa, and looked at him a he cam into the room with coffee. He wasn't at all bad, I thought. Fashionably shaven-headed, and well dressed in casual tee-shirt and good jeans, he was OK. One of those moments ensued, when nobody knows quite how to make the first move, but when I went to look at his CD collection, I knew he would be right behind me, and the closeness did it. He snaked his arms around me from behind, cupping my smallish, firm breasts. I wore no bra under the velvet dress, and could tell he liked the feel of my nipples hardening under his fingers' manipulation.

He spun me around, and kissed me, lightly at first, then hard, probing insistently with his tongue, as I let my lips accept him in a mute invitation. I moulded my body to his, feeling him grow hard against me as his knee pushed my legs apart.

'Give me some air,' I gasped, pushing him gently away, and he led me to the sofa, where we sat down side-by-side.

I reached for the buckle of his belt, and had to struggle with it, until he gave me a hand, then it was undone, together with the stiff top button of his jeans. The rest followed quickly, and I delved into his boxers, fishing out his impatient erection. In my relatively limited experience, he was not huge, but neither was he small, and his shaft was as hard as iron. When I pulled it out, a drop of precum was glistening on the very tip of his crown. As I leaned down to lick it away, he whisked my hair out of the way, so that he could see me take his cock into my mouth. I teased him for a while, licking his length, and massaging his balls gently in my hands, then slowly took him into my mouth, sucking gently at first, then harder as I took his whole length deeper into my throat. He groaned with pleasure, and would surely have cum there and then, had I not gripped the base of his cock hard with a hand encircling it, cutting off the blood-supply, and withdrawing my lips.

'Wait!' I ordered.

Then I raised my arse off the sofa, so that I could ease the hem of my tight dress up and help him pull down my white silk panties. He was all thumbs as he did this, in a hurry to get at my honey-pot, but no more urgently than I was. It had been a few weeks since I had had sex, and the taste of a stiff cock in my mouth had my juices running freely. I threw one leg high over the back of the sofa, and planted the other foot on the floor, so that my wide-open pussy was displayed for Ben, and he growled like a wild beast when he saw me deliberately stretching my labia apart with two fingers, exposing the secret pinkness of my wet and waiting cunt.

'Oh,' he said, as he penetrated me, but it was then that I had the strangest sensation. For swimming before me, in that instant, I saw not Ben, but the clearest image of Bob's enigmatic smile, whilst against my cheek wasn't Ben's shaven head, but Bob's greying crew-cut. When I tensed and relaxed my vaginal muscles around Ben's shaft, it wasn't his, but one I had never seen – or held – and an orgasm welled up in me with an improbable force, so that I screamed, 'Now, give it to me, now, NOW!'

Obediently, Ben spurted, and I felt the satisfaction of his young, hot spunk filling me, but as I grasped him, I looked over his shoulder, unwilling to look into his eyes, because, I knew, it was not Ben who had fucked me, given me a raging orgasm – no it was a photograph – but that photograph was of .........MY FATHER!

I spent several days trying to analyse my feelings. Ben was keen to make another date, but I kept him at arm's length. Then, one evening, I got a text message from my father, to say he had arrived in the country, and had I considered whether I should like to meet him? My knees felt weak as I messaged back, agreeing to a meeting, and asking where and when.

He lost no time in sending another text saying he would pick me up at my home at ten on Saturday morning – then we could 'spend the day together.' I had no idea what he had in mind, and had momentary and humorous visions of separated parents taking kids to the zoo. All I knew is that I could hardly wait for Saturday to come around, but also knew that I should be nervous as a kitten when it did.

Saturdaydidcome, and I got up early, taking ridiculous care over my preparations, washing my hair, doing nails and make-up with great patience, then agonising over what to wear. It was warm weather, so I eventually chose a white, layered cotton miniskirt to wear with a dark blue silk blouse. I always wore high heels, and chose a pair of strappy sandals. Tying my hair back with a blue ribbon to match my blouse, I thought I looked nice.

I was just taking a final look at myself in the mirror, when the doorbell rang. I hadn't heard the car. I opened the door, and there he was – my Dad!

It was one of those awkward moments, when you don't know whether you should kiss, shake hands, or what. We stood and looked at each other, until he broke the silence.

'You're a very beautiful young woman,' he said, with a tremor in his voice.

'I.....I....,' I started, and he reached out and put a finger to my lips. His touch was like an electric shock.

'Don't say anything,' he said, and his accent had acquired something foreign, strange, 'I have a lot to answer for, and a lot of time to make up. I hope you'll let me?' There was a question there.

'I'll let you do anything you like, I think,' I said, and blushed to my roots. It came out all wrong – or did it?

He looked at me askance. 'You can't know how much I've thought about you over the years, Jenny,' he said.

I was lost for words, emotions running wild, and blurted out, 'Your photo, and your letter, they stirred something in me, something I can't describe.'

We were still standing in the hallway of my flat, close enough so that he must have been able to detect my rapid breathing. He put his big hand on my waist, and pulled me just a little closer, nuzzling my hair, and kissing me on the cheek.

'Got any coffee?' I heard him ask, though I was almost dizzy with whatever was going through my head.

'Er....yes, of course.'

I led him into my little lounge and sat him on the sofa, and then went off to put the coffee machine in motion.

When I came back with a tray of coffee things, he was looking at my CD collection. 'Strange how our tastes coincide,' he said, but my mind was on things that were stranger still. HowcouldI desire my ownfather? Was I abnormal, or just a nymphomaniac? I looked at him, as I stood beside him. He had worn undeniably well over the years – had a firm, strong body and open features with a strong chin. But he was my father! God, what was happening to me? I wanted him with all my soul. What was more, I had just an inkling that it was mutual.

As if reading my innermost thoughts, he put down the Bob Seeger album he had been looking at, and turned to me.

'We have an embarrassing chemistry Jenny, don't we?' he said, putting his hands on my shoulders and looking into my eyes with his slightly narrowed greyer versions of my own. I moved closer to him, touching him for the first time with my own hands, when I slipped an arm around his waist.

As our lower bodies touched, it was impossible for him to hide the fact that he was sporting a king-sized erection, and this merely encouraged me to grind my belly into him.

'Oooh, yes, I'd say we do have a chemistry,' I agreed, and he silenced me by kissing me on the lips. I knew what we were doing was wrong, but we were now on an unstoppable train, and when I opened my mouth and let his probing tongue simulate sex in my mouth, I was lost. My nipples were now painfully erect, and his fingers found them under the soft silk of my blouse, kneading and tweaking them to heights of pain and pleasure which intermingled inexorably.

I pushed him down on to the sofa, and, standing over him, let him watch as I slowly reached up under my short skirt and hooked my thumbs under the waistband of my white lace panties. I very slowly eased them down my long, slender legs, making him wait, and watch, as I stroked my thighs, and let my fingers play around my labia, under my trim little bush. He had meantime taken out his cock, and was stroking it gently – a huge, ramrod-straight weapon I ached to have within me. My cunt was soaking wet by now, and needed no lubrication when I gently lowered myself onto his lovely dick, impaling myself on a shaft which filled me so full I thought for a moment that he must tear me. He groaned with sheer joy as I gripped and released him with my cunt-muscles, and rode him, up and down, his balls slapping my arse with each stroke, while he cupped my firm tits and tortured my nipples with his fingers. Then he sought to increase my pleasure still further by moving one hand down to flick at my clit as I rode him, and I came in great searing waves, not once, but three times, while he fucked me. His control was fantastic, but he couldn't go on for ever, and when I knew he was about to cum, I rode him faster, so that I climaxed yet again, and then he stiffened, arched his back under me, and spurted, his creamy wad hitting my very cervix.

'Oh Daddy,' I said, teasingly, 'that was wonderful.'

'Absence,' he said, 'makes the heart grow fonder. But I don't know about you calling me Daddy.'