Chess, Every Wednesday.byquinn rogan©
The moment I entered the flat, I sensed that something was different. John is normally a tidy man, but everywhere I looked, things seemed cleaner – smarter. And John, himself, was not dressed as he usually was for our Wednesday afternoon chess challenge – a regular pursuit since we have both taken early retirement eighteen months previously.
His shirt was crisply ironed, as were his slacks, and I could even smell a whiff of aftershave. And he was not his normal relaxed, casual self – not quite. His greeting was a little forced, his welcome a mite too hearty. He had promised me a taste of a new malt whisky he had 'discovered', and even his enthusiasm for that seemed a little forced.
However, we sat down either side of the table, on which the board and the pieces were arranged, as usual, and, before we started to play, we sampled the malt. It was a Bowmore, which I had tasted before, although I didn't mention that to John, and it was very good – if just a little too peaty for my palate.
But he was restless, his eyes and his mind somehow unfocussed. I thought, to myself, that he wouldn't be much of an opponent this afternoon unless he got his act together.
And then the doorbell rang, and he sat up straight, and said "Ah!" I looked up, enquiringly, and he smiled at me, sort of conspiratorially, but didn't utter a word as he strode out to answer the ring. I heard the front door open, and muffled voices exchanging greetings, then John was back, a big smile on his face, standing back to usher his visitor inside.
I caught my breath. I may be on the point of leaving my fifties behind, but I've always appreciated an attractive woman, and this one was something really special. She was small, and dark, wearing a short yellow dress, and sandals. Her legs and arms were bare. She must have been in her late twenties, or early thirties, and, while her figure was far from voluptuous, she was beautifully curved in a slim, understated sort of way.
Her skin was a gorgeous, glowing golden-brown, her short hair black as jet, matching her large round eyes. She had quite high cheek-bones, a small, straight nose, and a wide, full-lipped mouth. Her expression was demure – the only word for it – but her slim hips swayed sensually as she walked into the room, and I automatically rose to my feet to greet her.
On catching sight of me, though, her hand flew up to her mouth, and her eyes immediately registered alarm, but John, holding her arm lightly, was already introducing her.
"You remember Vas, don't you?" he said to me. "My son's wife – you met at their wedding."
Of course I did – now. I also remembered envying John's son, in a very physical way, as I watched the vision of loveliness that she had been on her wedding day, gliding up the aisle on her proud father's arm.
I had actually felt the beginnings of an erection as she passed my wife and me, and my eyes followed her sexy bottom in the long, white, tight dress. It must have been six or seven years ago and, if possible, she was even more enticing, now. She had been, then, a beautiful girl – now she was an intensely exciting, attractive woman.
I felt tongue-tied, but I managed to say something appropriate, and reached out a hand in greeting. The hand it received was small and delicate, the pressure of her handshake almost non-existent. John made to usher us towards the easy-chairs, beside the window, but Vas, clearly distressed, stepped back.
"No," she said, her eyes darting between us, filled with apparent alarm. "I think I should go – I – I didn't know you had a visitor."
John put his hands on her slim, bare shoulders, uttering a light, almost condescending laugh. He squeezed the golden flesh of the tops of her bare arms.
"It's all right, Vas," he reassured her. "There's nothing to worry about. Please sit down – have a glass of wine."
I could see she was still very reluctant, but John's hands were propelling her towards one of the chairs and she allowed herself to be persuaded – coerced? – into sitting down. John poured her a glass of sparkling white wine, and she sipped it, sitting, nervously, right on the edge of the chair, as if poised for flight. I wondered if she was very shy – but didn't recall that she had seemed so, when I had met her before, on her wedding-day.
Her dress did not reach down as far as her knees, and was showing a long length of smooth brown thigh, unwittingly exposed by her posture. She saw me looking, and hastily pulled her dress down, to cover it.
John turned to me.
"Vas usually visits me on a Tuesday afternoon, but I asked her to change, this week, to Wednesday" he explained. "She enjoys a little foot massage and – well, we've discovered that I seem to do it rather well. Isn't that right, Vas?"
She darted a nervous glance at him, then at me.
"I – I don't think I want to today – not with someone else here – please ......"
Her tension was transmitting itself to me. Why had John asked her to come today, instead? I didn't know what this was all about, but my mouth was turning dry, and I could feel a knot forming in my stomach. Also, for no reason that I could fathom, my testicles were tightening ......
But John now seemed very relaxed, an easy smile tugging the corners of his mouth.
"It'll be fine, my dear," he said, calmly. "Just give it a try – you'll see."
The look on her lovely face was now almost showing panic.
"No – please," she said, her voice catching, and she struggled to rise from her chair, her glass still in her hand, spilling a few drops of wine.
"Oh – I'm sorry, John," she stammered. She appeared to be close to tears, now, and I wondered if I should offer to leave, but John was on his feet, taking her glass and, with his other hand, almost pushing her back into the chair.
"Now, don't be silly, Vas. You've come all this way – just relax." His voice was still calm, and light, but there was a hint of authority in it, and the girl sat down again, and took back her glass. Her hand shook as she raised it to her lips and took quite a deep swallow.
"That's better," said John, and he went into the corner of the room and picked up one of a pair of low stools. Placing it in front of the girl, he sat down, then, reaching forward, put one hand behind her left calf and the other round her ankle. Vas braced her foot against the floor, and a look of near-panic came into her eyes.
"No, please," she whispered, again, and a large tear spilled over her eyelid and coursed slowly down her cheek, but John raised her leg and gently placed it along his thigh. With practised dexterity, John unfastened the strap of her sandal and slid it away from her small foot. The discarded sandal fell to the floor.
Placing both thumbs on the top of her foot, he began to manipulate it, gently, backwards and forwards, separating her toes, and using all his fingers to massage the flesh and bones.
He smiled reassuringly up into her – still – frightened face.
"That's better, isn't it?" he said. "You know how much you enjoy it."
Vas didn't answer, but, gradually, I could see her relaxing, her posture becoming less defensive, her limbs slackening as the tension ebbed away from her. Her eyes, though, were still guarded and her hands were on the arms of the chair – still ready for flight.
The silence in the room was broken only by the sounds of John's breathing as he exerted gentle pressure on the sole of Vas' foot, his face intent and concentrated, then he spoke to me.
"We started doing this when we were on holiday in Singapore. We found we both got a lot of pleasure out of it – didn't we, Vas?"
The girl's face flamed, and she dropped her eyes, without replying. I wondered if she got some strange sexual pleasure out of having her foot manipulated by her father-in-law's firm hands and fingers. The thought stimulated me – not the thought of foot massage, which left me cold, but the thought that, under the simple yellow dress, her nipples might be erecting – her vagina beginning to lubricate – at the sensation of the fingers on her toes and soles of her feet.
But how, then had John discovered that she was turned on – and was it just the thought of her being turned on that excited him?
I wanted to ask, but couldn't think how to phrase the question.
"So," John continued, "after we came home, we continued the 'treatment', didn't we, Vas?"
Her whispered "Yes" was almost inaudible.
"Vas usually likes to talk to me while I'm relaxing her – I think she's a little shy today, because you're here, but, maybe, after a little while ......"
Again, John lapsed into silence, but Vas was looking more and more relaxed as he continued his massage, unhurriedly, calmly.
"Now," John said, eventually, not looking up. "Is that better, now, Vas?"
"Yes, thank you," she practically whispered. "Will you do the other one, now?"
"Not yet," he replied. "I think there's still a way to go, on this one."
I saw the colour rise in the girl's cheeks, but her reluctance seemed to be fading more and more – the expression on her face one of acceptance, albeit unwilling acceptance – which might change to refusal at any moment.
Then John moved slightly. Gradually, in infinitesimal stages, he began to slide the girl's foot towards the inside of his thigh. I saw her leg muscles tense and, looking up, noticed that her hands were now gripping the sides of the chair, her eyes turning into slits of – concentration? – apprehension?
John's legs were apart as he squatted on the low stool and, suddenly, I realised what he was doing, as the sole of the girl's foot came to rest on his groin. I saw his tongue slide round his lips, then he released a deep sigh of pleasure, and momentarily closed his eyes.
As her foot made contact with her father-in-law's groin, through the light material of his slacks, Vas took in a deep, shuddering breath, and I saw her foot flex of its own accord, moulding the sole to accommodate the shape of the erect penis underneath it. My mouth dried, as I imagined the sensations going through John at this moment, and my heart began to thud.
John's hands, now, were stroking the girl's calves in long gentle sweeps, to the accompaniment of little sighs from the seated girl. Her hands had moved from the chair and were now on the tops of her thighs, making little circular motions on the light material of her dress.
My own cock, now, was becoming erect, my breathing ragged and excited, and I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, to try to conceal my excitement. I could hardly take in what was going on, but I was finding it extraordinarily arousing. Even if it went no further than this, there was a definite sexual dimension to John's relationship with his beautiful daughter-in-law, and the atmosphere between them was almost crackling.
Suddenly, John looked up and caught my eye. His eyes swivelled towards the corner of the room, dragging mine with them. I saw the remaining stool, and stood up. My legs were trembling with excitement. I crossed the room and picked it up. I placed it beside John and, as I did so, Vas dragged the heel of her right sandal on the carpet and wriggled her foot out of it, kicking the sandal away.
I couldn't believe I was being invited to join in with their little game – the excitement of just watching them had been almost intolerable. The prospect of running my hands over Vas' smooth brown legs was exhilarating, and my penis was throbbing painfully.
As I sat down, opening my legs, Vas raised her right foot and I took it in my hands. I was too far away, and I shuffled the stool forward another eighteen inches or so. Her foot was pushing against the heel of my hand. I guessed she didn't want me to go through the motions of massaging it and, my breathing almost stopped, now, guided it between my legs and placed the sole of her foot firmly against the underside of my stiff penis.
I had never had a woman touch me in this way before. It was intensely erotic. Vas was moving her long toes like little fingers, pressing subtly against the sensitive areas just below the corona of my penis, her heel pressing firmly against the blood-engorged root. My mouth was bone dry, my heart thumping with an arousal I hadn't felt in years.
Following John's lead, I began to stroke the girl's soft shapely calves. I could see her own hands now squeezing the tops of her thighs, hard, and could hear, clearly, her long shaky sighs of sensuous pleasure.
"Is this good, Vas?" murmured John, quietly, beside me.
"Yes," came the trembling reply.
"Is my friend helping to relax you, now?"
Her eyes fluttered down at me, and she nodded.
"What would you like us to do now?"
"My thighs – stroke my thighs – make little circles on my thighs – you know how I like that ......"
My cock jumped again and, without hesitating, feeling the exquisite pressure of her foot, massaging me, I slid my hands up over her knee and fondled the flesh just above it. John had gone a little further, his fingertips sliding under the hem of her dress. I looked up. Vas was lying back, braced against the back of the chair. As I watched, her hands slid up her body, up her thighs, over her hipbones and waist, and cupped her small firm breasts, squeezing them lightly through her dress.
I had to slide my fingers under her dress. As I slid my right hand down to caress the soft sensitive flesh of her inner thigh, the back of my hand touched John's. I exerted a slight pressure on Vas' thigh, to open it more, and she moved them apart, of her own accord.
As my fingers probed higher, closer to the top of her inner thigh, I could feel the sheen of perspiration on her golden skin. My cock was throbbing hard and I suddenly realised that her foot was no longer on it. When had it moved away? I looked down – both of her feet were now on the ground, her knees wide apart.
John was pushing her dress up her thighs, and I followed suit. I caught my breath as her legs were fully bared. Her panties were white, brief, semi-transparent – a dark shadow clearly visible behind the thin material – the panties pulled tight into the full-lipped slit of her vagina, the shape of it clearly visible beneath the damp, stretched material.
"Oh, Vas," breathed John, in mock remonstrance. "Do you know what we can see?"
"No," came the answering whisper. "What can you see?"
"What do you think?"
"Is it – my panties?"
"Yes, Vas – we can see your panties – they're pulled up very tight."
"Ooooohhhhh," Vas replied.
"Have any of the men you work with ever seen your panties, Vas?"
"Nnnnoooo," she answered, and I sensed they had had this conversation before. I could feel her thigh muscles working as she squeezed her pussy lips together and, as I stared, transfixed, at the strip of white material stretched over her cleft, I could almost see the juices slithering out of her, making it damper and even more transparent.
"You'd like to show them your panties, though – wouldn't you, Vas?"
"Oooooohhhhhh, yyyyyeeeesssss," came the breathless reply. Again, I glanced upwards – her hands were now squeezing her breasts, hard, through the yellow dress.
"Tell my friend what you would like to do – in your office – Vas."
One of her hands slid down from tormenting her breasts, and pushed against the sodden material of her panties. Her voice was hoarse and ragged and I had to strain to hear what she was saying.
"I want to be bare naked on my office desk …… legs spread open …… rubbing my clit …… while all my male workmates watch .….. but none of them are allowed to touch me …… they just watch ……. and cum in their pants …… while they are watching me …… cumming …… again …… and again ……"
Two of her fingers had pushed the material right inside her slit as she was talking, and I could see her thumb rubbing her clitoris, then, suddenly, her thighs snapped shut over her probing hand, and she began to gasp and moan. Her entire body went into spasm, and I quickly grasped my throbbing erection as I watched her climax, violently.
It was the most exciting thing I had ever seen. John, too, was, caressing the straight pole sticking up from his slacks, his eyes fixed on his daughter-in-law as she shuddered and gasped on the chair in front of us.
I wanted to masturbate, myself, but, with a huge effort of will, I pulled my hand away from my penis as Vas slowly subsided, gasping and spent, into the easy chair, her legs, once again, parted, her hand now stroking the soaking area between her thighs, slowly and sensuously.
John reached forward and placed his hand over hers, pressing it downwards, forcing it again, onto the swollen sensitive lips. She groaned – a long, shuddering breath – and her eyes focussed on his face, a look of, almost, pleading, in them, but he continued to press her fingers against her wet vagina, and her eyes clouded over again as her desires began to reform, her passion to rise again.
"Does my son know this, Vas?" persisted John. "Does he know of your desires?"
"Oh, yes," she whispered. "He likes me to tell him – and show him what I would do."
"What does he do when you are showing him?" As he was speaking, John was sliding his fingers up his daughter-in-law's upper thighs, his hands grasping the waistband of her brief, flimsy panties.
"He – he stands and watches me, and he takes his cock out, and strokes it ......"
As she spoke, the girl was raising her hips slightly, and John began to draw her panties down.
"As I play with my clit, and my – my tits, he starts to stroke himself faster, and he tells me what the men in the office are thinking, watching me play with my tits and my pussy ......"
Her panties were now down to her knees, but her hand was still cupped round her pubic area, a few strands of glistening black hair escaping her clutching fingers. John adjusted his position, and eased the girl's panties over her calves and feet, then gently grasped her knees and parted them.
He reached back up between her thighs and lifted her unresisting hand away, revealing the whole inverted triangle of black lustrous hair at the junction of her beautiful thighs – and the swollen dark-red lips of her slippery vagina, above which a small erect nubbin of rigid flesh peeped out. At that moment, it was the most erotic sight I had ever seen.
"Oh, Vas – do you know what we can see, now?" John's voice was almost playful as, like me, he stared up between the girl's spread thighs at her pulsating, beautiful sex.
"It's not – my pussy, is it? You shouldn't be looking at my pussy."
"I know we shouldn't," said John. "Only dirty girls let men see their pussies, don't they?"
"Yes – just bad, dirty girls," her voice was shaking with excitement.
"You're not going to touch it, are you? You're not going to touch my pussy – feel it – with your fingers?"
"Only if it's wet and slippery," said John. "Is your pussy wet, Vas? Because, if it is, that will mean you are a bad dirty girl who wants to have her pussy fingered."
"Oooooohhhhhh," she breathed.
"Will I let my friend see if you're wet, Vas?" said John, his voice now husky and excited.
"Yyyyyeeeesssss," she replied, her voice trembling, almost uncontrollably.
John glanced at me, his eyes glittering with arousal. My hand shook as I reached up between her glistening thighs, her moist cunt spread apart at the apex. My middle finger slid along her lips, and inside her lubricated slit. I felt the muscles of her tight vagina grip my knuckle at the same moment I heard her gasp with pleasure.
I sensed John rising off the stool beside me, but my concentration was fully focussed on my middle finger, penetrating further into Vas' innermost recesses. As the second knuckle was embraced by her wet warmth, I extended my thumb and felt the answering pressure of her slippery, hard clitoris. I teased it, gently, and was rewarded with a shuddering sigh of arousal.