My Father Visits Ch. 02

"Calm down," I told myself. "She's teasing you. I'm certain of it. Almost."

It's a breathtakingly realistic charade, I'll give her that, I thought. But that's why my wife owns me, body and soul and, in particular, mind. She knows how to create and sustain a fantasy, to push all my buttons.

She was probably sitting in the living room, having another glass of wine, reading Conde Nast and smiling to herself as she imagined me, tormenting myself.

Or else, she was in the guest room, riding languidly on my father's cock. Just like she told me she was going to do, after she handcuffed me to the headboard and left me desperate and twitching in my chastity cage.

I couldn't help but to squirm at the thought. Yes, my wife was a cuckoldress. It had been four years since she had figured out, and allowed me to embrace, this weakness of mine. Through two years of pillow talk and two more years of actually sharing her body with other men, she had always understood, before I had, how this game triggered every submissive fiber in my being.

But nothing she had ever teased me with, or actually done, had prepared me for this. Never, in our nine years together, or in the several hours since my father had arrived in our home today for a weekend visit, had she ever expressed a sexual attraction to the man who had raised me. And the thought had never occurred to me. Until after she had asked me to lock myself into chastity and secured my wrists in manacles, and then told me that she was going to go visit my dad.

I had plenty of fantasies, and she was great at indulging them; but the best erotic experiences were the ones where she took me places I had never imagined. And this was the wildest, most forbidden one yet.

So, it had to be a tease. Surely, she was cooling her heels in the living room, biding her time while I stewed in my cuckold angst. Surely, she hadn't slipped into my father's bedroom and closed the door behind her, meeting the surprise in his eyes with her own sultry gaze; her shoulders back; her firm, full breasts with their large areolas pushing her pronounced nipples through the fabric of her diaphanous gown, making a silent offering of herself to his primal masculinity ...

Surely, she hadn't done that, because honestly, taunting my father like that would be more cruel to him than it was to me. I just couldn't picture my dad taking my wife up on such an offer; or if he did, he would be wracked with guilt. My dad wasn't the kind of arrogant alpha guy who went around taking what he wanted, including and especially other men's wives. He was a nice guy, who had probably been a little too compliant in his life. I felt for him, really; a man of his generation, single again at 60, might not think of himself as still desirable; so I *hoped* that some sexually assertive woman would come into his life.

Just not my wife!

So, no, surely this was a magnificent tease. I concentrated on slowing down my breathing, and I felt the pressure of the bars around my penis subside. No, my wife was surely sitting in the living room right now, flipping the pages of a magazine, smirking at her practical joke. Getting bored and restless, as I now realized I was; letting enough time pass that she could gig me some more when she came back to bed.

With my mind no longer focused on my stunted erection, I realized my back itched. Damn it.

But what an amazing tease it was, opening insecurities and fetishes I didn't know I had. "I've been thinking about this for months," she had told me.

My mind suddenly snapped to a familiar image. One of the many dozens of photos in our wedding album; a candid snapshot of the two of them dancing at the reception. A 27-year-old woman and a 52-year-old man. His right hand on the small of her back, her right hand enclosed in his left hand between them, the fingers of her left hand splayed open against his shoulder blade. Their faces inches apart. An innocent dance, observed casually by everyone in attendance; just a proud father-in-law and happy daughter-in-law celebrating her wedding to his son.

Now, instead, I pictured them recreating the scene at this very moment, on the other end of this house; except, horizontally. A different kind of dance, more basic. Her arm, again clad in sheer white fabric (was that why she had chosen that nightgown tonight?) on his back; except, *both* arms, not one; and his back was broad and bare; and her fingers slightly curled, her nails gripping his flesh.

His right arm -- the only one visible to me in the image I was transposing -- still around her waist, but clutching her to him somewhat lower.

And in this image, of course, my wife's gown is bunched around her waist and her legs are open, drawn up, creating a cradle in which my father's thick thighs and compact ass are rocking. And somewhere there, hidden from my imagined view but inevitably, my father's veiny, uncircumcised cock is gliding in and out of my wife's silken vagina, claiming it, reshaping it, making it his.

Right now. Right down the hall, under my very roof. And here I was, powerless to intervene. Or even to watch.

I shuddered. I had forgotten about my back itching. My cock, however, was in danger of being diced like a tomato as it tried to push through its cage. What was wrong with me?

***

Finally, I heard the floor creak, and then she appeared in the doorway. She stopped

there, and leaned against the door jamb, a wry smile on her face, and ran one hand through her obviously tousled hair.

"Have you been a good boy?"

I snorted. Like I had a choice?

"I'll be right back," she laughed, and headed to the bathroom, her sheer white gown flowing around her curves. I could clearly see that she wasn't wearing panties. Where were they? Tucked under a sofa cushion where she had been reading during this charade? Or on the floor of my father's bedroom?

She left the bathroom door slightly ajar behind her, and I heard water running intermittently as I waited for her to return. Eventually she came back out, no longer in her seductive peignoir, but rather in a simple short cotton nightie. I watched and waited, silently, as she sat on the edge of the bed beside me and reached up and unlocked the cuffs. As I brought my arms down and rubbed my wrists, she leaned over and kissed me, softly, with open lips and just a touch of tongue. I reached for her, but she turned away, turned off the light, and settled down beside me, facing away from me.

"*Now* I'm ready for sleep," she sighed.

Arrgh. She had removed the handcuffs, but not the chastity cage. Damn it. I had been hoping that this little game had gotten her as worked up as it had me; that she would be ready now to release me and let me work out my frustrations on her voluptuous body. But, apparently not.

Still, she didn't pull away when I snuggled up behind her, hugging her to me, cupping one familiar breast through her gown, its nipple stiff in my palm. My mind flashed to the thought of my father's hand doing the same thing, for the first time. How his hands felt to her ... thicker, stronger, more urgent? I pushed my face into her hair and inhaled deeply, wondering if I could detect the hint of some 1980s men's cologne. Detect, or imagine? Wonder, or ... wish?

I had to ask. "So ... did you ... check on my dad?"

"Hmmm?" she responded, and let that hang there for a moment. "Where do you think I was?"

"Well," I admitted, uncertainly, "I hope you were in the living room, laughing at your joke."

"Hmm," she murmured, and wiggled her ass against me. "Good boy."

Not exactly a confirmation. I was struggling with how to play this. I didn't want to appear totally gullible or pathetic. I also didn't want to scoff at or belittle her elegantly-crafted ruse; to suggest that it had been anything other than a total erotic success. And, I was certainly conflicted about acknowledging to her, or myself, the not-so-tiny part of me that was actually hoping she had done it.

"So that's where you were, right?"

"Where else would I have been?" she asked, as if daring me to say the words.

"Well, what you *told* me was that you were going to go to his room, and ..."

"Shush," she whispered to me. "Don't be a perv."

I had to bark out a laugh at that. *I'm* the pervert? Who's idea had *this* little game been?

"Anyway," she continued, "Your father's sex life is none of your business."

I gasped out another half-laugh. Then ... wait, I thought. "So ... you're telling me my dad *does* have a sex life?"

It was like I could feel her smiling in the dark. She always knows when she's hit a nerve, for better or worse. She pushed back against me, her soft cheeks caressing my cage. "Well, after you went to bed, I asked him if he was dating anyone."

I could feel the pressure come down a notch. Intentionally or not, I told myself, she's acknowledging this is all a tease. The weird thing is, I wasn't sure I *wanted* her to use the relief valve. "Huh," I teased her back. "So my dad's sex life is none of my business, but it *is* yours?"

I could feel her shrugging. "It is now."

And, just like that, the pressure was back on again. Another graphic image flooded into my mind ... again, my father and my wife naked together; her hopping playfully up on the guest-room dresser, him moving between her open thighs ... to make his sex life *her* business ... I groaned out loud, partially from the genuine physical discomfort of the cage forcing my cock to bend downward at the root.

I moaned and thrust against her. She allowed it. Arched her back a bit, even. But she remained silent for some time. Then she finally whispered, "This really does turn you on, doesn't it?"

"This is fucked up," I admitted.

"Yeah," she agreed. "But I understand, baby. Aren't you a lucky boy to have a wife who gets your twisted mind?"

Lucky? I'm not sure how *lucky* I felt ... being a cuckold involves a good deal of torment and angst in the best of times. There was always an element of misery underlying the erotic excitement any time I watched my wife give her body to another man ... or sat at home knowing it was happening somewhere else. She knew how I could enjoy immersing myself in that mix of emotions. But she also enjoyed my response to interaction with the other man, and that was always much darker.

Sometimes her playmates knew about our arrangement. Some of them understood the game, and were pleasant and respectful of me outside the bedroom. Others -- who *also* understood the game -- would address me with thinly-veiled scorn. My wife didn't tolerate overt humiliation; but I could tell she got a kick out of watching me break eye contact with the arrogant stranger she was getting ready to fuck again.

Sometimes she would seduce, or pretend to be seduced by, someone who didn't know that she had my permission to play; and she relished arranging for me to be with him afterward, at an office party or a neighborhood picnic. Some of these men would be nervous and guilt-ridden in my presence. But others would push the envelope, engaging me at length with a haughty smirk on their face, enjoying their perceived victory over me. That was always the worst.

I lay in the darkness and felt my heart pounding against my wife's back. Tomorrow morning I would sit down across the table from my dad at breakfast and try to read his face. Would I see guilt? Would I see disdain? If I saw nothing, would that confirm that my wife was teasing me, or would it just mean he had a very good poker face?

As if she was reading my mind, my wife wriggled around to face me, running her hand through my hair. "Poor baby," she cooed. "I'll tell you the truth if you want."

We both let that hang in the air, in the silent darkness. She understood my reticence, and continued, "But not until Sunday night."