Kindred Passions

I would like to thank WiccanMuse, NoSnow, Kris and Nadia from the Literotica Editors Program, as also two real-life friends who took a look at this story. I have chosen to ignore some of my editors' advice. If you like something about this story, it's probably the parts where their advice has been taken.

Chapter One: Paul

Being sixty-five tends to make one pretty set in his ways, but I suppose I have always been a bit of a tightass.

I don't have a very long back-story to tell. I had been raised conservatively, an only child, by strict parents; attended military school followed by West Point; earned a couple of hearts in Vietnam. Married Anne, who I had only kissed exactly once before our wedding. Fathered three children and named them Mary, John and Janette. I retired from the corps a Colonel.

Sex in my life had been fairly enjoyable, reasonably frequent and respectably unadventurous as long as I was married. When my wife succumbed to a short, sudden illness a few years ago, I missed her, but didn't really miss the sex. It's not that I never got the urges for physical release but, being an ex-military man with iron self-discipline, I have found many alternative pursuits. Golf, carpentry and woodcarving, voracious reading, and running marathons seem to take my mind off such matters most of the time, but honestly, maybe once a fortnight, I take matters in my own hand, so to speak, with the centerspread of a girlie magazine open in my lap. Never could get with internet porn, honestly. I suppose I'm old-school that way.

Today, however, the situation has evolved into something I could never have imagined.

I had spent last night restlessly dreaming and woke up in my sparsely furnished bedroom feeling depressed and irritable. I set off on my daily eight-miler this morning determined to get a personal best. As I turned into the last mile, I realized that I would not be able to finish in time. Something inside me snapped. Years of loneliness so effectively repressed until now seemed to be tied to my ankles. The run turned into a personal battle between me and my waning years. I lengthened my stride, almost giving myself a heart attack as I ran. That last mile may have been a suicide attempt. I reached home sobbing freely, a burning stitch in my side, 32 seconds after the clock had run out.

Last night's dream came back to me. I had seen myself having sex with a woman. We were in a sterile white room with mist for walls. The floor was cold and hard under my knees. I was behind her, holding her waist as I fucked her.

"Anne!" I had cried as I thrust into her like a man possessed.

But then suddenly, I looked up. Anne was standing there, in the flowing white dress I had buried her in, looking at me silently. Who was I fucking? Someone else! My mind rebelled at the thought. Anne didn't look angry. I had been fiercely faithful to her throughout our life together, having firmly rejected several advances by several women, and I knew for a fact that she had been equally devoted to me. But now, in my dream she smiled, turned and started to walk away.

"No! Anne!" I screamed, pushing the other woman away. I rushed forward, reaching for my wife. But she dissolved into the mist. And I woke up.

My dead wife was giving me permission to have sex with other women through my dreams. Extra cheese.

I had to get this crap out of my system and get back to my sedate existence.

I walked over to the shed in the backyard. The secret cardboard box full of old Playboys and a bottle of lubricant that I had at the back came out. So did a couple of bottles of fifteen year old scotch. I flipped my phone off its hook, locked myself up and drew all the curtains. Downing two shots of the scotch, I sank into the rich maroon embrace of my living room couch and reached into the box. Ah... Danielle De Vabre, November 1971. Poetically, almost a spitting image of Anne. It began.

The June heat rose from the floorboards as I sat there and spanked the monkey between single malt interludes. An hour before noon, I had drunk myself into a stupor and jacked off to half a dozen naked two dimensional women. After that, I passed out.

***********

The doorbell rings at six PM, driving cold nails into my head and jolting me awake.

"Daddy! Daddy, are you in there? Open up!"

It is Mary, my eldest...also my bossiest.

I stagger to the door and she bursts in, all worry and concern.

"What's going on, Dad? Your phone isn't working...Your cell is turned off... Why aren't you..."

She stops dead in her tracks. Fuck! The magazines! They're strewn all over the carpet, centerfolds unfolded. Tissues...lube...the characteristic smell...No great feats of deductions are required to arrive at the reason for the mess. My hangover vanishes in an instant.

"Give me a second will you?" I say calmly. Grabbing her shoulders I turn her around, push her right back out the door and close it behind her. It takes me two minutes of feverish scurrying about to reconstitute the secret jack-off box and dump the tissues into the wastebasket in the kitchen. Once I'm done, I pause. Can't face her right now, I decide.

"I'm fine, Mary. Why don't you come back ... um... tomorrow...?"

There is a minute of silence. I'm starting to think she has left, when quietly, she knocks.

"Open the door, Dad."

"Look, sweetheart, I'm fine. We'll talk tomorrow, okay?"

"Dad...just open the door..."

"Mary..."

"Daddy," she says sweetly, "I swear if you don't open this door right now, I will get a sledgehammer from your shed out back and smash it in, okay?"

She would too. I had spent a week on that door, hand carving the Corps insignia into the wood. I open the door.

She walks straight past me into the kitchen. I flop down on the couch, head in hands. Mary walks in a minute later with two cups of coffee. Mine is black, very bitter. She finds half a bottle of scotch that has survived the day, and drops some into her own. Understandably, she doesn't ask me if I want some, not that I do. We sit and sip. Just when the silence starts getting heavy, Mary pipes up,

"You know Dad, Kath was asking about you the other day."

Katherine is this woman who works in Mary's office. A seriously sexy forty-two year old divorcee who had practically thrown herself at me when I had met her at Mary's house a month ago.

"Dammit, Mary not this again."

"Come on Dad! How long do you think..."

"Don't say it, Mary."

"...you need to be in mourning?"

"Mary!"

I am about to tell her to get out but it doesn't happen. Because somewhere in the back of my mind, I know she's right. I am being unreasonable. Anne has been gone five years. I will always be in mourning for her. But I also have a life to live.

"...I don't like dumb blondes." I finish weakly.

"Katherine is a very smart lady," Mary says, fixing me with a disapproving look, "She went to Yale."

"Yale is a bordello," I declare, "She's a trollop."

"Daddy!" Mary gasps in shock. Then a hint of a smile appears on her lips. I grin back at her. We burst into uncontrollable laughter.

"She is though, isn't she?" Mary says, wiping a tear from her eye. More scotch finds its way into her coffee.

"Can you believe she asked me...?" I stop just in time, mentally kicking myself.

"What? What did she say?"

"Nothing, forget it. She's really forward."

"Come on Dad! What did Kath ask you?"

"Well... I told her I worked with wood as a hobby. And she asked if she could come over and...you know..."

Mary didn't get it.

"...learn to work on my wood..."

It took a moment. Then she squealed, wide eyed, hand on mouth, "Oh. My. God!" Another minute of mirth follows, punctuated with Mary's 'Oh my Gods'. When it finally dies down, Mary's concern is back.

"Dad, please go out with Kath. Once. For me."

"Not gonna happen, Mary", I say firmly.

"Do you want me to fix you up with a brunette?" she asks slyly, "There's Justine from accounts. Very classy girl... aaaaaand... she's into older men."

"See this?" I say, pointing at my face, "This is how a marine blushes. See? See? Seriously, Mary, no fix-ups."

"I cannot trust you to do this on your own, Dad."

"What! Young lady, let me tell you, I can find women on my own."

"I know...they were all over the floor here just now."

Awkward silence.

"Ouch." I say plaintively.

"Sorry. Look, Dad... have you seen yourself? You're a real catch. I mean, you're really handsome. Fit as a fiddle. Well-to-do. Funny. Talented..."

"Old."

"Oh tosh! You don't look a day over sixty-five!"

More laughter. She empties the scotch into her coffee, so that it's not really coffee anymore.

"You'd be surprised how many women I know, single and married, keep asking about you, Dad," she continues.

"Read my lips. No fix-ups. This has got to be something spontaneous. And I won't lower my standards out of desperation."

"Really, Dad? You're hoping to meet a true-blue playmate of the month, then?"

"That's not fair, Mary..."

"You'll never find anyone as good as Ma, you know. But you cannot be alone just because you keep measuring women in your life up to her and they all fall short."

"Ha! The women in my life don't all fall short. You measure up. Janette measures up..."

There is the slightest pause. In retrospect, later, I will probably consider this as the point in time where I stepped into some sort of impossible, alternate reality, because I then hear Mary say the strangest thing...

"Yeah...too bad we can't work on your wood..."

That can't be what I heard. It's getting dark outside. The faint light of dusk filters through the tasteful cream drapes. Mary, sitting across from me, has a strange look on her face. I notice that her coffee/ scotch is gone.

"Or can't we?" She asks, eyebrow raised.

It sinks in slowly. I know it's the drink talking now, nevertheless my jaw drops to the floor. I look around desperately, trying to think of something to say, and come up empty. I cannot believe my ears. Did my daughter just actually come right out and suggest what I think she suggested?

"Huh...what?" I feign having not heard.

Mary, that impossibly strange smile still on her face, stands up. She has made a decision. In a flash of understanding, I realize what that decision is, and I don't know what the hell I am supposed to make of it. She hooks her fingers under the waist of her tight turtleneck top.

There is a machinegun in my chest. I think I am about to have my second near-heart-attack of the day.

"Mary, now..."

"Be quiet, Daddy," she commands. The bossiest one.

She slowly lifts her sweater up and throws it off. Splendid C-cup breasts nicely contained in skimpy black Victoria's Secret are duly revealed.

"Mary...what the blazes are you doing...", I say shooting out of the couch as if it had suddenly transformed into hot coals.

"I can see that you like these, Dad," she says, gently letting her fingers run over and across her chest, outlining the perfect shapes. Very perceptive. You'd have to be blind not to notice that my cock has twitched to life in my shorts. Dammit, cock! After I've spent all day trying to pacify you...

What the hell is happening? I scream inside my head.

Mary is beautiful. No father can ever think otherwise of his own daughter, I know, but now I see her from a detached third-party perspective and I am sure she is absolutely gorgeous. Five feet seven, 115 pounds of perfectly toned hotness...shoulder length dark brown hair that frame an insanely pretty face that looks a lot like her late mother's, deep brown eyes, soft features, dreamy breasts, a narrow waist that flares out into incredible, curvy hips, and the hips extending into long, shapely legs.

At thirty-nine, she has been married for twenty years to a man who was her college boyfriend and has a strapping teenage son of her own, but she hasn't let the years take away anything from her body.

"Mary, this is...this isn't right..." I splutter. There is no conviction in my words, and Mary knows it, because my eyes are still fixed on her breasts.

"It doesn't matter, Daddy," she whispers, "This is what you need...this is what I want..."

With one quick step, she is in my space. She grasps my wrists and places my hands on her chest. I feel the weight of those tits in my palm. My thumbs touch her nipples through the silky bra. My cock has turned into a phallic steel sculpture.

"No...Mary...stop this..." I say but my hands aren't ready to leave those breasts just yet. She raises one arm and locks it behind my neck. Then she's on her toes and her lips are on mine in a kiss that blows my mind right away. My own daughter!

Her other hand is between us. Her fingers move, the drawstring of my shorts comes undone. Suddenly, I can feel the softness of her bare stomach with the solidity of my cock.

I shudder. I think the room is on a turntable. I think I have a fever. She moans into my mouth. The scotch/coffee is intoxicating on her breath.

The small part of my mind that just doesn't get what's going on, the part that is thinking incest ...daughter ...wrong ..., the part that is resisting, dies.

I break our kiss, and spin Mary around and bite her neck. My hands find her tits again. The bra has a hook, front and center. I fumble at it zealously, unsuccessfully. Mary reaches up and takes care of the problem. The cups fall away, and those striking breasts swing free. I paw at them, feeling a woman's uncovered breasts for the first time in half a dozen years.

"Oh Dad..." she mewls. Under my palms, her nipples are little round stones. She unhooks her pants, and they drop around her ankles. Black panties that match the martyred bra follow them. She pushes her hips back against me, and now my cock is snuggling in her butt-cleavage.

"Daddy...down there...touch me down there..."

I let my right hand travel slowly over her midriff and cup her groin. An artistically trimmed bush of pubic curls tickle my palm. The folds of her labia are distended, moist.

"Down here?" I ask stupidly. My middle finger is burrowing into her slot. Her hips thrust forward against it.

"Rub it... Daddy, rub my clit..." she begs.

I rub it. Slowly and firmly, like Anne taught me all those years ago. I remember exactly where to rub, with how much pressure and with what kind of motion. Like riding a bike, it comes back to me in a flash.

Mary reaches up and back and grabs my neck again, hanging on. I'm surprised at how light she seems. I have her nipple between a thumb and a forefinger, squeezing and tugging it in tempo with the ministrations of my other hand down at her crotch. I curl my finger, and it enters the wet warmth of her cunt.

Mary moans loudly. Her hips jerk, her buttocks knead my cock. I move my hips in time to hers, my mouth still working her neck.

Suddenly, she is breathing in short, sharp gasps. She grabs my wrist.

"Don't...stop..."

"I won't, sweetheart..."

"I'm there, Dad... I'm there...Oh God...I'm..."

And then, with a sudden cry, she's there. Her back arches, her body jolts in the orgasm. She goes limp and drops to her knees.

Without missing a beat, she turns. My cock is wobbling in front of her face.

"Daddy...thanks...I really needed that," she sighs lovingly.

I ponder whether I should say 'You're welcome' to my own daughter who is kneeling naked in front of me, thanking me for fingering her to climax. Before I can come to a decision on that etiquette dilemma, Mary continues,

"Now, it's your turn to thank me."

She reaches up to hold my erection, like she is holding a bird. Fingers of one hand tentatively curl around my shaft, as the other cups my balls.

"Oh fuck..." I whisper hoarsely.

Her lips graze my cock. Her tongue snakes out to wet my shaft with a double coat of spit. I keep asking myself if this can really be happening. It feels like heaven, but it is nothing compared to the thrill that streaks up my spine when she opens her pert mouth and takes me in.

I thank my stars I had the forethought of masturbating repeatedly in a drunken haze that morning, because if I hadn't, I'm pretty sure I would have copiously shot off down my daughter's throat as soon as this happens.

Mary knows what she is doing. She sucks the head in, and lets it slip out again. Her tongue tickles the tip of my cock wetly, traces a line down to the underside, returns to the tip, then in it goes again, half a centimeter deeper this time. I watch, fascinated, as slowly, in successive stages, more and more of my cock starts sliding past her eager lips. The hand on my balls continues fondling them gently. Deeper and deeper goes my cock into my girl's mouth, until all seven and a half inches are sliding in and out if her throat, and my balls are touching her chin. I marvel at how expertly she does it. Her mother, bless her soul, had only ever taken a couple of inches.

A couple of minutes into this fantastic incestuous blowjob, I suddenly feel my cum starting to build up in my groin.

"Uhn..." I exclaim, ready to shoot.

Mary senses it too, and stops. Both her hands close around my shaft in a vice-like grip.

"Not yet, Daddy..." she says. The feeling recedes.

She spins around on her knees and plants her elbows on the carpet; her glorious heart shaped buttocks high, her sopping wet pussy and wrinkled asshole flashing at me from between the cheeks.

She reaches down between her legs with one hand and I see her fingers splay her wet labia, revealing the glowing pink flesh tunnel there.

"Take me, Daddy...fuck your little girl..."

I drop to my knees behind her. It takes me a short second to find her entrance with the tip of my cock. And then, in one swift motion, I am buried balls deep in my daughter's burning wet cunt. We groan in symphony as it happens.

Mary lets herself run out at the knees, my cock slipping out gently from her cunt until only the glans remained lodged in her vulva, then back again, ever so slowly, all the way in. Impatient as only a man can be, I begin plunging my cock into her in right earnest.

"Slowly, Daddy! I like it slow..." she murmurs.

Slow it is.

Her hand remains between her legs, working her clit, as I, with that iron self-discipline I mentioned earlier, slow my hips down, leisurely enjoying every millimeter of friction. Mary moans in delight. I can feel the walls of her vagina spasm and clutch my cock as, over the next five minutes, she announces one, then another and then a third orgasm with a little squeal.

She turns and looks at me over her shoulder, her eyes lidded in wanton lust.

"That's it, Daddy...fuck me..."

I grab her slim waist. This was in my dream! I realize, suddenly, as I look down to see my cock, wet from Mary's moisture, plunging into her cave. In a passionate frenzy, begin pistoning my cock into her. Years of long distance running have ensured that I don't lack the stamina for a good, long fuck. Mary lets out a long, loud wail as the intensity of my drive peaks. I am at the crest.

"Cumming..." I manage to croak.

"Inside me, Daddy..." she breathes.

I see stars as my orgasm hits me and I pour what seems like a whole pint of semen into my daughters cunt in accompaniment to several loud 'Uhs'. When I'm done, I fall forward over her back, exhausted.

We pant in unison for a long while. I withdraw, and a flood of my spunk follows my wilted cock out of her cunt, splattering down onto the carpet.

"Wow, Dad," Mary sighs joyfully, "You are really something!"

As before, I don't know what to say. Should I thank her? Should I tell her what a great fuck she has been? I realize I don't feel an ounce of guilt or regret. Whatever unholy karma in my life has led to this, I am actually grateful for it. Words still elude me, but Mary probably understands.