Magnus and His Family

Magnus and His Family (Chapter 1)

Kathryn M. Burke

Kristen knew that her father, Magnus, was not happy.

Magnus Larsen was a big bear of a man, well over six feet tall, with a barrel chest, thighs like stovepipes, a bushy blond beard now streaked with gray—he was in his mid-forties—and twinkling blue eyes that could turn hard and cold when he was angry. Of course, he almost never directed his anger toward his only daughter, and for that Kristen was immensely relieved. In fact, she thought her father a huge teddy bear, and couldn't imagine why many people seemed a bit afraid of him.

Well, to be honest, she was just the faintest bit afraid of him too, for like so many men of Scandinavian origin he was inclined toward silent brooding and glowering, as if he had stepped out of a Henrik Ibsen play or a film by Ingmar Bergman. But most of the time—especially when his glance fell upon his daughter—his eyes would brighten and his face would become transformed into the very quintessence of warmth and geniality. She was loved, and she knew it; but she also knew that there were other things that were troubling Magnus, and they all stemmed from her parents' breakup two years earlier.

Her mother, Imogen, had suddenly decided to leave the household. That very act had stunned both Magnus and Kristen, since Imogen had for more than twenty years been a devoted, even subservient wife to her husband. It was as if, in the England of Downton Abbey days, a housemaid had taken it upon herself to tell the Lord of the Manor where he could get off. Imogen had, of course, made no particular scene; that wasn't her way. She had simply concluded, for reasons that no one in the household—not Magnus, not Kristen, nor Kristen's older brother, Paul—could understand, that her cohabitation with her husband and children had simply become impossible. Paul, who was then eighteen and about to begin his freshman year at Lorimer College, one of the many institutions of higher learning in the Boston area, had gone with her—not necessarily because he had preferred living with his mother rather than with his father, but because he could not afford to live on campus in a dorm.

And now Kristen was facing the same situation. She had just turned eighteen that summer, and was looking forward to attending a college of her own—not the same one as her brother, but Manhattan College, one of the few all-girls' colleges left in the entire United States. She too felt the need to remain at home and commute to the college, not only because her father's job as an independent contractor didn't exactly allow for room and board at an expensive private school, but because she couldn't bear to leave her father all alone.

In the two years since her parents' divorce, Magnus had gone on virtually no dates with women of his age. God knows it wasn't that he was an unattractive man: his rugged bearing was matched by his intelligence and sensitivity. Here was someone who looked like a lumberjack but who could appreciate both the poetry of Sylvia Plath and the musical programs offered by the Boston Symphony. That, in Kristen's eyes, would seem to be an irresistible package to the high-powered women who were in such abundance in this great old city, and who were perhaps a little tired of the effete academics, nerdy techies, and other less-than-masculine men of the #MeToo age.

And yet, it was not that Magnus didn't have success attracting women: Kristen easily detected any number of females giving him the once-over when the two of them ran errands here and there. It was simply that Magnus himself, seemingly stunned by his wife's departure, had made no effort to find another mate.

That filled Kristen with immense sadness. A man so full of life and vigor as Magnus Larsen shouldn't be alone.

Of course, she was there to keep him company—but that didn't count. Or did it?

It wasn't that she herself had a lot of experience with men. At her eighteenth birthday—where, rather absurdly, she had persuaded her father to let her host a slumber party with half a dozen of her girl friends, all of whom were going to different colleges around the country—she had listened wide-eyed as one girl after the other had told of her various intimate involvements with boys. She couldn't tell if these accounts were true of mere fabrications to enhance each girl's sense of her own attractiveness; some of the stories seemed pretty hard to believe, involving sexual gymnastics of a sort that made Kristen think whimsically that the girls seemed to be conceiving of sex as some kind of Olympic sport. But at least she had learned something of what makes the male ego—and the male organ—tick.

Exactly when she would have any use for that information, heaven only knew.

Then came the time when she had come home early one Saturday afternoon from a shopping trip at a nearby mall, to pick up a variety of things she would need for the college term that began in less than a week.

She had entered the big house where she and Magnus now lived; and at first she thought the place was empty, even though Magnus had not mentioned he was going anywhere. Then she heard a strange, unidentifiable sound emerging from Magnus's bedroom upstairs. Was he taking a nap? Was he snoring or wheezing or grunting in his sleep? She hadn't recalled him ever doing that. Surely he wasn't ill? Magnus was such a robust specimen that he almost never got sick, even with a mild cold.

As she padded upstairs and crept toward his bedroom, she saw that the door was slightly ajar. The room was dark, although a certain amount of sunlight filtered in through the curtained windows. What she saw stunned her into a silent statue as she found herself unable to tear her gaze away.

Magnus was lying on the bed, supine. He was naked.

She had never seen her father naked—why would she? That really wasn't allowed, was it? Oh, sure, sometimes he walked around with a towel around his midsection after he had come out of the shower. On those occasions she had gazed raptly at his immense chest, covered with thick fur, and those incredible muscular legs that seemed twice as big around as her own. He would walk by her casually, then wink at her as if exchanging some secret code or signal that only the two of them understood. But in fact she didn't understand at all what he was trying to convey!

But this was different. It was not only that Magnus was naked. It was that his hand was firmly attached to his thick, hard member, pumping it up and down. His eyes were closed fast, and there seemed a kind of frown or scowl on his face. He actually seemed to be in some kind of pain.

The sight of that immense organ sent a shiver through Kristen. She had never seen a cock before, except fleetingly in certain R-rated films; and as she stared at it, her mouth suddenly went dry and she licked her lips without thinking. The grunting sound was clearly coming from deep within Magnus's throat, and it was getting louder by the second.

Then, without warning, a thick white substance shot out of his cock.

Kristen almost cried out in surprise and alarm, but fortunately clapped a hand over her mouth to silence herself. As she watched in amazement, the initial burst of fluid was followed by several other ones, some of them seeming to shoot a foot or more in the air before landing heavily and wetly on her father's belly.

Without conscious thought, Kristen realized that she had to conceal the fact of her presence. She dashed toward the front door of the house, opened it, closed it with a bang, and then cried out as exuberantly as she could, "I'm home, Daddy!" She made a pretense of shuffling loudly through her various packages, which she had dumped on the living-room couch. She even tried to whistle nonchalantly, although in her mind the dry whistle came out in a kind of nervous quaver.

In a minute or so, Magnus emerged from his bedroom and came downstairs. His ruddy complexion was even ruddier than usual, and he was wearing nothing but a thin robe. It was not unusual for him to wander around the house in a robe, but in the past (as Kristen now remembered with a blush) he would at least wear some underwear—sometimes she could see it being exposed through the folds of the robe. But now it was abundantly obvious that he had nothing on underneath that robe—and, as she shiveringly glanced at his midsection, she thought she could see a bulge making itself evident.

As she stood stock-still in the middle of the room, Magnus walked up to her and gave her a big hug. "Hello, dear," he said in his unmistakable bass voice. "Glad to see you're back."

It was not her imagination: she felt some rod-like substance of flesh or gristle rubbing up against her jeans as he enfolded her in his hairy, muscular arms. And she could have sworn that that bit of flesh gave a little quiver when he sought to give her a fatherly kiss on the cheek—but instead ended up planting a wet kiss on the side of her neck.

She managed to wiggle out of his grasp, admonishing him: "Oh, Daddy, go get dressed!" Then she all but ran upstairs to her own bedroom, right next to her father's.

She was breathing hard when she closed the door behind her, resting her back against it. Her face was covered with a sheen of sweat, which she carelessly tried to mop away with the sleeve of her blouse. She was still trying to process what she had just seen.

Kristen wasn't so naïve as not to know what Magnus had been doing. Poor man! He wants a woman so much! And she knew that men—especially those who go through a long period of celibacy—can't help themselves in these circumstances. It was one thing for teenage boys to play with themselves: they joked about it all the time, some of them claiming that they did it every day, or even several times a day. But men!—and her own father, at that!

Well, it was all understandable. For all the shame and embarrassment (not untinged with an excitement that came from witnessing what no daughter should ever see) she felt, her overriding emotion was . . . pity. Poor Daddy!

She didn't know what Magnus was doing now. It did sound as if he was getting dressed, if the various openings of dresser drawers and the closet were any indication. With a giggle, she thought to herself: Well, I'm going to do just the opposite.

Looking around the room as if there might be some elf hiding somewhere within it, she peeled off her own clothes: blouse, skirt, shoes, knee-highs, and then bra and panties. She boldly walked over to the closet and opened the door; on the inside of it was a full-length mirror, and she gazed frankly at what she saw.

She took note of her overall slender build (she was less than half the weight of her father), moderate height (five foot five), and sloping shoulders. Then she gazed more keenly at her modest breasts (B cup), which had always disappointed her a little, as she was impatiently waiting for them to grow a little larger (Mom's breasts are quite a bit bigger—even though she had never seen Imogen's bare beasts), her flat stomach, narrow hips, and, with wide eyes and a bone-shaking shiver, the thin patch of dark hair covering her delta, contrasting oddly with the cascade of straight blond hair on her head. (Why don't I have blond pubic hair?)

With one hand grasping a breast, she separated her labia with the fingers of her other hand. For some reason she was startled to find the whole area damp, even sopping; and the contact of her fingers on that delicate spot sent yet another shudder through her.

She wheeled around, as if from the corner of her eye she had caught sight of someone staring lasciviously at her. There was, of course, no one; but that didn't stop her from rushing to the bed and getting under the covers to conceal her nudity. She knew what would follow, but it was only after some moments that she turned over onto her stomach, her face buried in the pillow. Once again, one hand seized a breast while the other snaked down to her sex.

She was one of those girls who did this face down. She somehow sensed that most girls did it face up, lying on their back; but somehow that position struck her as a bit too lewd, pretty much duplicating the standard position a girl would have to take if a man . . . She put the thought out of her mind and got down to the serious business of pleasuring herself.

She knew she had to be quiet, since Magnus was either in the very next room—his bedroom—or downstairs in the living room. Even if he were in the kitchen (and there was little likelihood that he was: he was hopeless as a cook, which was another reason why Kristen felt the need to stay with him and take care of him), the walls and doors of this house were so disconcertingly thin that virtually any sounds made anywhere carried throughout the place.

She chuckled inwardly with the realization that, with her face all but smothered in her squishy pillow, many of the sounds she was bound to make during this procedure would be at least somewhat muffled. As she simultaneously stuck one or more fingers deep into herself and rubbed her swelling clitoris with her thumb, she did find herself making moaning or grunting sounds; and even with the pillow as a shield she felt that some of the sounds might be escaping out into the hallway. But she had reached the stage where she couldn't stop. The hand that had been squeezing her breasts now slipped behind her and grabbed the cheeks of her bottom, which she found particularly sensitive to erotic stimulation. She indulged in the fantasy that some man—or maybe several men—were toying with her, finding her various parts irresistible. Maybe, as they did so, their own members were getting bigger and bigger . . .

Just like Daddy's.

And it was that thought that made her come with a series of uncontrollable shudders, as strange choking sounds emerged from her throat and were mercifully absorbed by the pillow. She rubbed herself ferociously to drain the last dregs of her orgasm, after which she collapsed bonelessly, covered with sweat.

It seemed like ages before Kristen was able to rouse herself, but it could only have been a few minutes. She got up stiffly from the bed, seized a convenient towel that was draped over a chair, and quickly dried herself off, although she sensed that the smell of sweat and sex was still draped all over her. Her fingers in particular were coated with her juices, and she naughtily stuck them into her mouth and tasted herself, giggling softly. Then she hastened to get dressed, putting on a bra, T-shirt, thin sweat pants, and slippers as she boldly marched out the door and into the kitchen.

It was, after all, time for her to make dinner for herself and her father.

Magnus was lounging in the living room, drinking a cocktail. He gave her a curious look as she sauntered past him—and gave her a double-take when she impishly winked at him as she walked by. He had, thankfully, substituted the robe for his own T-shirt and jeans, and she could feel his eyes peering at her as she drifted, as if on a cloud, into the kitchen.

Chortling to herself, she thought: This is a special occasion—so I'll make something special.

It was too late in the day to make a pot roast with all the fixings—one of Magnus's favorite meals and, frankly, one of her own favorites too. Instead, she picked some frozen pork chops out of the freezer, defrosted them in the microwave, and started cooking them in a pan covered with butter, while she chopped up some fingerling potatoes for steaming. Frozen veggies would have to be zapped in the microwave, but that was usually fairly satisfactory.

Magnus said nothing when Kristen announced that dinner was served, although he quietly noted the care with which the meal had been prepared. He poured a full glass of white wine for himself and a much smaller one for her (I have to get used to drinking moderately, don't I?); but before he plunged into the meal, he reached over the table and stroked his daughter's face with his big, strong, but gentle hand, saying:

"You're a real sweetheart, my dear."

Kristen could only gaze at her father. That little addition of "my" to his customary endearment somehow seemed full of significance to her. A thought suddenly rushed through her head, but she strove valiantly to thrust it deep within her mind. No! I'm not his little wife! I'm his daughter—and that's all I am!

Magnus ate heartily, saying little. Kristen ate in a more ladylike manner, but nevertheless ended up finishing everything on her plate. For dessert, there was a store-bought cherry pie with whipped cream. It was the perfect end to the meal.

As Kristen drifted away into her own room, she struggled furiously with two thoughts: Did Daddy know that I saw him doing what he was doing this afternoon? And did Daddy know what I was doing right here in this room a little later?

*

The week that followed was freshman orientation, and Kristen found it surprisingly grueling. There was a lot to learn about how college life worked—from things as mundane as where the library was to as arcane as the proper channels to report any troubles or difficulties that a student might encounter, from unwelcome attentions from boys to fits of depression or panic attacks. This was going to be a lot more effort than high school, that was for sure!

So it wasn't surprising that, on that Thursday night, Kristen decided to retire a little earlier than her usual 11:30 p.m. For some reason she had decided to put on one of her cutest nightgowns—a frilly pink baby-doll thing that was practically see-through and that barely came down to the middle of her thighs—and was already drifting off to sleep when she heard strange sounds emanating from her father's bedroom.

Or rather, they weren't strange: they were pretty much the same sounds she had heard on that fateful Saturday afternoon.

Once again, her initial reaction was a kind of objective pity: Poor Daddy, he just can't control himself.

But it was, in fact, Kristen who couldn't control herself. This time, she rose from her bed like a zombie and, hardly aware of what she was doing, padded out on bare feet into the narrow hallway that led to Magnus's bedroom.

This time his door was firmly closed, but Kristen knew he never locked it. As the sounds became faintly louder (he must have been convinced she was asleep), she extended a hand and opened the door.

Inside it was pretty dark, but once again the curtains weren't entirely closed, and there was enough moonlight to let her know exactly what was happening.

Her father was on top of the sheet and blanket on his bed, and he was naked, lying on his back, hand gripping that hard object protruding from his belly.

Kristen floated into the room like a seductive ghost. Magnus wasn't initially aware of her presence, so focused was he on the task at hand. Only when she sidled into bed next to him did he abruptly stop what he was doing, jerking slightly away from her. His mouth was open, but something seemed to be preventing him from speaking.

Kristen filled the awkward silence with words that she was hardly aware she was saying. "I can help you, Daddy. Please let me help—I know what to do."

She didn't actually—not really. Only from watching Magnus a few days ago, and from vague accounts she had heard from her friends, did she have any real sense of what needed to be done to bring some relief to her lonely father.

Magnus had stopped pumping himself but still held fast to his cock. Kristen gazed at it with a certain awe (this was the thing that caused me to be created in my mother's womb!), but that didn't stop her from reaching out a hand and, as Magnus let go, taking the stiff object with a delicate but firm grasp.