A Quickie with Kelly's Daddy

Chapter 1: Yearning

He'd always known. When I was younger I thought I was being coy, but Jonathan saw right through me. I teased at first, but John isn't playful. He's the strong, silent type - heavy on the silence.

Of course that made me want him more. Other friends' fathers would tease us back, make corny jokes, or indulge our girly pursuits. John never did. He gave his daughter what he thought she needed, and reserved his speech for when it was absolutely necessary. He said so much in his glances, and the curl of his beautiful lips. His eyes were fierce, a shade of brown that recalled wet earth after a storm. His cologne was a piercing breath, a shock of cold shot through with something unmistakably male. And there was him, too, his natural male scent that emanated in waves when he returned from a run. I remember sitting in Kelly's kitchen one afternoon when his musk rolled over me. Instantly, I moistened. I squirmed. I fought the urge to follow him like a sniffing dog.

He just did that to me.

Kelly and I were best friends in high school, and so her house became my second home. Late nights, sleepovers, secrets shared over pizza. The four of us, with Jessica and Tammy, were inseparable in those years, but Kelly and I were like sisters. Maybe it was growing up without a mother that forced Kelly to be so strong, so spunky. She was funny, clever, everything I wanted to be. I loved her like a sister...but John was never my father.

My father is a lovely man. He sports a beer gut and a grin like a scruffy sea lion, he loves my mother and NASCAR - and he swears it is in that order. The best thing about my father is that he's real. Dirt under his nails, kind of a slob, but never any confusion about where he came from or what he wants.

Kelly's father was just the opposite. He didn't seem real at all. He wore impeccable suits, his nails were trimmed and smooth. He rarely had five words for me but I heard him speak a handful of separate languages on the phone. He'd retire to his office, phone in hand, and talk to clients in Hong Kong, Tokyo, Brussels and Mumbai. He was the international man of mystery next door.

I was infatuated with him. Sometimes I yearned for him so fiercely I was sure it was love, but over the years, as my desire went unconsummated, as I became more aware of men, I realized my passion had no basis in that gentle emotion. I didn't love him. I wanted him. I wanted to possess him; I wanted him to possess me.

As I grew into myself, dated, learned about my body's talents, I began to use my body more to communicate my attraction. Gentle teases became long, lingering looks. Looks to match his own silent glances.

We began to understand each other.

I couldn't act on my feelings in high school. The urges I felt for John weren't underage, but I certainly was, and John was no fool. It wasn't until Kelly and I were nineteen and in college that looks could graduate to anything more.

One afternoon, after he returned from a run, I willed myself not to look at him. But as he rounded the kitchen on his way to his room, I made sure to slide my hand up my skirt, all the way to my underwear. Kelly was in her room getting her computer, so I didn't have to play the gesture off. I didn't look at him, but he saw. He saw my body, my smooth legs and the sheer red panties I wore for him.

After Kelly returned I pretended to take a phone call from my mother. She waved me away and set to work while I wandered down the hall.

I wandered, echoing a conversation I'd had with my mother that morning, silent phone held to my ear. I opened John's bedroom door, heard the shower, and slowly crept into his bathroom.

He was standing there, wet and magnificent, the marble walls glowing in the bright afternoon sun. He was soaping his chest when he saw me, and...

...he didn't jump.

...he didn't yell.

He fixed those dark eyes on me, as if he'd been expecting me all this time. I didn't move, didn't speak. He knew what I'd come there to see.

He filled his palm with the blue body soap and wrapped his fingers around his thick, red cock. My breath caught in my throat as I watched the thing grow, and then rise. He masturbated at me, his daughter's best friend, through the glass.

His bicep flexed as he took his time putting on the show. The water streamed down the muscles in his neck, his meaty shoulder, joining streams and coursing over his wrist. The penis bulged in his grip, an alien limb both repulsive and tantalizing. What an odd, indelicate looking creature, I thought, and how I wanted to wrap my lips around it.

Had he done this before, stroked himself to the thought of my nubile body? Which of us had lusted after the other more? I could not count the times I'd lain awake and pictured him touching me, opening me, loving me.

"Sophie," he groaned. He splayed one palm on the glass, bent his knees, and rubbed harder. It was lewd. It was inappropriate. It was exactly what I wanted.

I was the voyeur. I watched, rapt, as John groaned, the suds gliding up his veined manhood. He didn't call me to join him. He knew better than that. Even if I wanted to - and he knew damn well I wanted to - how could I explain that to Kelly? No, my part was to watch him pleasure himself until his penis swelled and his milky cum splattered the glass.

I was impressed by the distance, and the volume. He rolled his wrist, sliding his fist down, all the way down, to his base. I watched his scrotum constrict and squeeze his jism up his urethra. A gob. Another thick gob. And his placid face was contorted in majestic agony.

It was a tribute, a vulgar appreciation of my lust.

As the cum slid down the glass, I hiked up my skirt. I pulled my panties down, gently stepped out of them, and then laid them atop his towel. They glistened with my approval.

My yearning for John entered a new phase that day. Other teases followed, between he and I. He, as always, remained mute when his hand would brush my hair or his body slid against me while I sat in the kitchen or on the couch. His face was a blank mask, but in his eyes, I understood. It was time. The game had gone on too long, and we needed release.

Chapter 2: Possession

By the time it happened it was an unspoken certainty, something as natural as breathing, as natural as the way my thin sundress molded against my bare breasts. I had worn it that day for that reason. He'd seen the smooth place where my legs came together when the sun turned it into a transparent gossamer, the bright pink of my nipples, and he knew. I hadn't worn panties for a reason, hadn't worn anything under it at all.

Kelly and I were supposed to be working on a group project, but I somehow forgot all the art supplies. She was frustrated and surprised. I was usually so diligent about these things.

"My mind's been wandering," I said. "I'll go now."

Kelly sighed, and then grinned. "You did this on purpose, didn't you?"

I shrugged. Stan, her new beau, worked just next door to the art store. A trip there was an excuse to say hi, to spend 15 minutes kissing or talking. It's always fun to have an excuse.

"Okay," she sighed. She shouldered her bag. "I'll be back in twenty. Thirty, maybe?"

"I'll get started here."

Kelly rolled her eyes. "Don't lie. You're gonna lounge and take selfies for your Instagram."

"My followers demand my attention."

She eyed my dress. "Somebody does."

The neckline dipped deep. My cleavage wasn't much, my breasts were small - had always been small - but they were perky and moved with a liquid celerity underneath the thin material.

I wasn't sure how many minutes passed between her leaving and his coming. I poured a glass of water in the interim and waited in my dress. The dress that showed him everything.

He appeared in silence, slipping gradually into sight like a living shadow. I looked up at him with my not-so-innocent eyes as I drank from the glass, the kitchen quiet. My lipstick was red, bright red to match my auburn hair. He looked at me and he saw it in my eyes. My need, my heat. I was in heat. I was ready for him. Now was the time, when the house was quiet, when Kelly was gone.

When he left the kitchen I set the water glass on the table and hooked my thumbs over the shoulders of the dress. It whispered softly down my sides, my white belly. It pooled near the feet of the chair, and I waited again.

He was gone longer than I expected, maybe five minutes. He thought I'd follow him, thought I'd want to do it in the bed.

No, not the bed, John. Here in the kitchen, where I'd smelled you so many times, where I pretended to study and fantasized about you.

I think he only came back because he hadn't heard me in all that time. True, I hadn't moved, but my body was working. It had begun as a trickle when I walked into the house and slipped off my sandals. It always began as a trickle when I walked into his house, usually behind Kelly. By the time he returned to the kitchen I was pressing my legs together and wiggling my bottom against the table, hands clutching the edge, teeth dug deep into my lower lip.

I didn't say anything. I just watched him and continued to squeeze my legs together, so moist inside. Even then I didn't know if he would take me, if he would reject me, send me away, tell me to be ashamed. But I was there and naked in his kitchen, my eyes on fire, my belly and my breasts blooming red from the flush of blood scurrying through me.

He watched me, amused but not really surprised. He was in control - always in control - not afraid of what the neighbors would think or that I was so much younger than him, as young as his daughter. I let my eyes betray my desire and gazed down his solid chest to his waist, what lay below it. I wanted it, wanted him attached to it, wanted it attached to me. He knew. But he wouldn't make the first move, wouldn't take me unless I offered myself freely.

Even then, I didn't know if he'd do it.

But he was a man. He was a strong man, a hard man often without a smile, a hard working and hard living man that rarely regretted and always followed through on his promises, took what he wanted. He pulled his shirt over his chest and my breath caught in my throat. The sweat that had begun behind my ears I now felt between my breasts, dappling my nipples. The wetness between my perspiring thighs increased and I swayed my ass against the table harder, rubbing myself against it as I dug my toes into his linoleum. I watched and dared not reach out to touch him as I'd so desperately dreamed of doing. I was pinned by simultaneous urges: to fall into his arms, or to watch him disrobe completely and accept his beauty in its completeness. My knees were far too weak to try the former.

As he untied his belt, unzipped himself, and slid his shorts down his muscular legs, his eyes were fixed on me. I looked down, not wanting to miss the emergence of his turgid cock, the source of so much lonesome masturbation on my part. As it swung free of his briefs I gasped, seeing it full and red, not for the first time, but for the first time knowing that it was fully for me, fully prepared to penetrate me and I fully willing to succumb to it.

To show him how much I opened my legs. Did he step towards me? My eyes weren't focusing properly - too overwhelmed by the sight of him, too wet. I felt his hands on me, on my pale buttocks, lifting me up, grasping me, squeezing. My breathless mouth, hungry for air, opened, and he claimed it, lips locked on mine, tongue plunging deep. My eyes rolled up as I felt him place me on his kitchen table. He spread my thighs. I may have made a sound, much like a whimper, when he grasped his cock and slid my vagina open with it. Without a word! Without a request or plea. It was his, and had always been.

I clawed his back as he sank, inch by throbbing inch, into me. I raised my painted toes and gripped his bulging calves and my back arched. And he, softly, firmly, lowered me until I laid upon his kitchen table. Then he pushed the rest of it into me, and I screamed my pleasure to his ceiling.

I clawed the backs of his hands as they gripped my small, jiggling breasts to hold me in place. The first time he pushed back in, my ass slid on the table. The next time, he pulled me into him with the plunge. My moaning was such that he slid a finger over my lip and into my mouth. I bit down on it and let him spread my legs wider. More of him entered me and my breasts rose higher as my lungs sucked at air and finger. He didn't speak to me. He fucked me. Hard, and harder, wild like a man half his age and yet with inhuman stamina. He rocked me against that table, filling me, fulfilling me as no man had before, exploding wave upon wave of tight, pulsating pleasure throughout my body's systems. I sweat, I pained, I cried, I sucked, I felt as though I'd wet myself but I was only wetting his hard, pliant cock. When would Kelly come home? I didn't know and I couldn't care. Her father was in me, finally, and he was going to make me cum so hard I didn't think I could remember my name.

"Sophie," he growled. I melted in reply.

He pulled his finger from my mouth, replaced it with his tongue and I sucked at it as drool trickled out the corner of my mouth. His kiss, wet and firm, his hands in my hair, pulling, playing. He bent my knees up and made me circle my ankles over his hips. Take me, I felt his body say. Take all of me into you, this burning urge, this hungry want. Fat cock. Tight pussy. I broke the kiss to scream my first orgasm. I squirted around his heavy piston, giving him the lubrication to fuck me harder, deeper. Our combined sweat and my juices slid down into the crack of my ass, dripped onto the table, pooled on the linoleum below. Would it stain my dress? Was he standing in it?

I didn't know how long he'd fuck me, how much time I had to enjoy his long awaited penetration into my utmost, and so I fucked him harder with my body, wanting to claim him in that moment, mark him with my scent, keep him for myself and no one else. I knew it was impossible with him, impossible to keep him when he was the man he was. The vitality in him was too strong, too vigorous. And yet how utterly was he mine in that moment? I bit his lip, a surprise for him, and pressed my heels into his ass. Into me, my body told him, unload yourself into me.

In nights to come he'd take other lovers - older, possibly younger - but none of them would ever worship his manhood the way I did. None of them had watched him come home for years wondering what deep thoughts were roiling in his enigmatic mind. None of them saw him as the pinnacle of maleness, the epitome of what a man should be. He was hard and silent, strong and secure. Nowhere was he soft, and there was a tragedy in that too. I could never cuddle with him or be sweet. I could never let my guard down for risk of disappointing him. He was a force of nature, and that cannot be tamed. It can only be ridden.

"Give it to me, John" I moaned. "Fill me. I'm on the pill!"

"You want it inside you?"

"Yes, daddy. I deserve it."

He came when I met his eyes. He clutched me tight, held me close enough so that my breasts flattened against his hairy chest, and ejaculated. I grunted at the force of it, at the sudden bulge and size of him, at its entrance to my liquid womb. I came again, softer than the first time but much longer, my sensory pangs cresting with each new spurt and throb of his manhood. That powerful thing exploded inside me, and I swear I never felt as much a woman as when I took his seed.

He bit gently at my mouth and I bit back, the two of us like young animals wrestling, jaws tentatively locked. His hands trailed down my thin sides until they could both grab at my ass and pull his cock deeper into me. Cumming. Slowly I began to feel the aches in my legs from clutching at him so tightly for so long. Cumming. Slowly he retracted from me. Cumming. Slowly, once he was out, did his cum drip from my sore pussy.

I did not expect what came next. Just as I managed to lift myself up onto my elbows he lowered himself to his knees and sucked at my vagina. I jerked, the sensation too intense, painful even, but his tongue was relentless. He greedily sucked at my labia, swallowing what was in me, both what he'd left and what I'd made, his nose rubbing up and down my swollen clitoris. I screamed anew, and clamped my thighs over his ears. I felt his finger in my ass. I felt more fingers crawl up my belly. For a minute, maybe longer, he delicately drank from me and brought me perilously close to a third orgasm. All evidence of this torrid affair he lapped up like a dog.

I was convinced afterwards that had he actually pulled a final climax from me it would have knocked me unconscious. I could do little more than gaze at him drowsily when he at last relented and rose from between my knees.

He grabbed his pants and clothes and left me, with a single look back. It was a compassionate look, not cold, but it was as silent as the look before he'd fucked me, as without promise as the look while he fucked me.

I knew he did it to tell me, without words, how doomed this tryst would be. I both hated and adored him for it. I couldn't help it.

Without grace I pulled myself off the table and went for the paper towels, drying myself between my legs and wiping the wet spot we'd left (as of today that discolored spot is still there). True, I wanted to run down the hall and throw myself at him, to sleep for a week in his arms. Maybe he'd let me. I didn't dare put myself in so vulnerable a position (though how much more vulnerable I could be than nude, my legs spread and with his dick inside me I really didn't know). I was still infatuated with him and he knew it.

Whether it was right or decent that I'd made myself available to him I didn't care, not then. I'd wanted him and I'd taken him. I let him take me.

There were no illusions between us. I didn't want to marry him, but oh I wanted him. I'd wanted him for so long. And now that I'd had him, I wasn't going to let anything stand in my way from having him again. Already I was thinking of ways to get him alone as I pulled my dress up over my shoulders and listened to Kelly's key turn in the lock. I hastily leaned against the table to cover the wet spot on the wood. I brushed my hair back from my eyes and tried not to look like I'd just been ravished by my best friend's dad.

It didn't work. Kelly gave me a quizzical grin and cocked her head as she entered the kitchen. "What the hell have you been up to?"

I shrugged. "I'm feeling weird. I dunno. Maybe I'm coming down with something. Can we open a window?"

"Yeah," said Kelly, putting the paint and canvas on the table. "It smells funky in here."

"Hmm," I said, hugging my arms over my chest and trying to will my stiff nipples to go down.

They wouldn't go down for the rest of the night. I thought of her father's cock, and despite all his sensual swallowing, I still felt his semen leaking down my sweaty leg. The cum in my ass kept my skin moist and uncomfortable until I finally took a shower many hours later.

The next week, John had business in Munich. He sent me my ticket via email.

I woke up every morning with his tongue on my clit and his fingertips under my knees. He went to sleep every night with my lips on his body and my body around his cock.

We took separate cabs from the airport when we got back to America.

"Sophie," he said before we parted ways.

"John," I said, in his same serious tone.

"Let's do this again sometime."

"I'll check my schedule, see if I can fit you in."

"I know it's a very tight schedule," he said. "I'd appreciate it."

It was the first time I heard him try to be funny. The memory always makes me smile.