My Father Visits Ch. 04

I did my best to "enjoy" the weekend, as my wife had suggested ... or at least to just let it play out.

We shopped. We had a couple of drinks. Dad grilled steaks and we talked about movies and current events over dinner on the patio. Throughout it all, I tried to act normal, all the while watching my father for signs that he had a guilty conscience, or that he was secretly smirking at me or disappointed in me. In all honesty, I saw nothing that I didn't think might be my own projections.

After watching another movie, we all turned in. Then my wife put on an emerald green nightgown and a matching, short robe, and told me she was going to stay up for a while. This time, she didn't tie me to the bed.

"Trust me," she had said, again, and I had simply nodded. So I stayed put, even though I wanted to sneak down the hall and see what was going on. I still figured the most likely scenario was that she was reading in the living room, smiling to herself, knowing my imagination was running wild.

Which it did. Although my imagination spent very little time picturing her sitting on the sofa, and a whole lot of time picturing her in my father's bed, straddling him, riding slowly up and down on his cock while his thick hands cupped her breasts or grasped her hips.

Then I pictured her lying beside him afterwards, her head on his shoulder, with one hand softly playing with his ample silver chest hair and her thigh draped across his legs, right below his spent, moist penis. Somehow that image was both more erotic and more troubling.

But again, she returned to our bed, kissed me softly, and rolled over to sleep, leaving me aching in my chastity cage.

By Sunday afternoon I was adjusting to a strange normality. My dad and I watched the Cardinals game on TV, and I was only occasionally even reminded that my genitals were locked up.

Finally, late in the afternoon, he packed his bags and we followed him out to his car. He hugged me, a bit more affectionately than I was accustomed to, and said softly, "Thank you, Ryan. For everything." Innocent enough; but my father had always been pretty reserved with his physical affection toward me. "Everything."

My insecurities flared again, and as I watched my wife step up to him and rise on to her tiptoes to give him a chaste kiss on the cheek, I felt the cage again.

After he pulled away, she turned to me, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Well, *that* was fun."

I chuckled weakly. "So, you've been a very good boy," she continued. "Are you ready to get out of that thing?"

Thank God. "Yes," I croaked.

"The key is on my dresser. Go take a shower and get into bed, mister."

I hurried upstairs and followed her instructions, taking a moment to marvel at the

deep indentations in my penis, which became more pronounced as I began to rapidly stiffen. I showered quickly, soaping my body but not washing my hair again, then proceeded to get into bed and, for some reason, under the covers. I was on my back, studiously avoiding touching myself, when she appeared in the bedroom and took her turn in the shower, with just a quick, "Don't go anywhere, I'll be right with you." This was a good sign. She was apparently as horny as I was, rather than ... satiated.

Soon the bathroom door re-opened, and she stepped into the room wearing the same sheer white ankle-length robe that she had worn two nights before when she left me handcuffed to the headboard and told me she was going to my father's room. It was a robe to be worn over a nightgown, but all she had on underneath was a pair of white lace panties. Just like Friday night. When she had returned two hours later without the panties.

She closed the door behind her and stood there, regally, shoulders back, thrusting her round breasts and her semi-erect nipples forward through the fabric. "Hello, John," she said seductively.

John. She was calling me by my father's name. Oh, God, I thought. She wants to role-play. I just need to get laid...

But, as always, I'm helpless when it comes to following her lead. So I scooted my back up higher on the headboard, affected a shocked look on my face, and replied, "Michelle???"

"I just wanted to check again to see if you had everything you needed."

I nodded. My eyes were transfixed on her chiffon-covered breasts, and that wasn't play-acting. I was sure that, if my dad had been in this position this weekend, he would have been similarly mesmerized.

"I'm ... I'm fine, Michelle, I stammered.

"That's good," she said, slowly. "You're such a good guest. Thank you again for the foot rub."

"Of course," I replied, probably as uncertainly as I imagine my father would have been. "But, um ... where's Ryan?"

"Don't worry about him. I just wanted to make sure you've really got everything you need. Or want."

Fuck. She stepped slowly across the room to my side of the bed, then stopped and lifted up the hem of her gown, slipped her thumbs into her panties, and drew them down over her hips till they fell to the floor. I was, legitimately, speechless.

She reached out and drew down the sheet, revealing my nakedness, and my profound erection. "Hmm," she murmured, appreciatively. "See, I thought that might be the case."

My heart was hammering in my chest. At this moment, I really wasn't myself. I really was, I felt, inside my father's head, looking at my daughter-in-law like this for the first time.

"You told me you haven't started dating again. So I wanted to welcome you back to the world of the living."

Jesus. Well, she had told me she had been thinking about this for months, so she had had pretty of time to come up with seduction lines. I lay motionless, desperate for my wife to take me into her hands and more, to relieve my pent-up frustration. Even as I acknowledged to myself that what I really wanted was for both of us to be imagining that it was my own father receiving her attention.

She sat on the edge of the bed and placed her hand on my thigh, stroking it gently, moving closer and closer to my twitching erection. I realized that I was role-playing my father being the passive participant in his seduction, accepting the gift of sex from my daughter-in-law, unquestioningly, letting my oblivious son's adulterous wife cuckold him with me. Was that what I wanted?

Well, maybe. But as long as we were role-playing, I also just had to find out how my wife would handle -- or had handled!? -- my father's objections.

"Michelle," I whispered. "We can't do this."

"Mmmm," she considered. "Yes we can. Don't you want to?"

"Of *course* I *want* to," I rasped, amazed at how authentic I was sounding. "But ... Ryan ... your husband ... you're my son's *wife.*"

She pulled her hand off my thigh and cocked her head, as if taking that fact into consideration. Then she reached up and released the bow at her neck and let her long gown fall open, shrugging it off of her shoulders. She was completely naked now.

"It's okay," she said. "We have an arrangement."

"You're ... swingers?" I asked, summoning up what I thought might be a good 1980-vintage word.

"Not quite," she replied, returning to stroking my thigh. "I really don't want him being with other women. I get to have sex with other people, and he ... doesn't."

"Huh," I said, really trying to imagine my dad hearing these things from my wife; trying to get his head around it. "And he's ... okay with that?"

She laughed. "Well ... actually ... it kind of drives him crazy, to tell you the truth. But it's a good crazy." She started drawing circles on my thigh with one finger, moving down between my legs. "You know about cuckolds?"

I paused for a second. Would my dad know about cuckolding? I mean, ten years ago *I* didn't. But my dad wasn't a prude. I was sure he had looked up porn on the internet, so he had to be familiar with the concept. "Yes..." I replied. "So Ryan ... you and Ryan ..."

She smiled sweetly and nodded. "You know, there's more to it than what you see in the porn flicks. It's really more common than you might think. Especially, it seems, among intellectuals. And Ryan is definitely an intellectual."

I let out an involuntary chuckle, suddenly flashing back to recollections of my dad's bemusement about my "bookishness" when I was a child. "Yes, he is that."

"You did a good job raising him," my wife, tilting her head forward and directing her gaze more intently into my eyes -- or my dad's eyes. "He's smart, and supportive ... and he very much wants me to be happy. Such a good boy.

"I'll bet he was easy to toilet train."

I had to laugh at that. "I don't ... really remember." Still, even in my chaotic aroused state, I realized that she was steering this little role-playing session away from a mere seduction, into an intense focus on my troubled fascination that the other man in the scene was my dad ... my older, stronger, and soon-to-be willing and willful dad.

I groaned, feeling like I needed to make one more run at protesting, for reality's sake, and for the sake of my dad's honor. "But Michelle ... I'm his ... father ..."

"It's okay. Trust me." *Trust me.* Where had I heard that before? And yet now, hearing it through my father's ears, it worked the same magic, breaking down the final little picket fence of resistance.

"He knows," she said, her eyes twinkling. "I just told him, not five minutes ago, that I was coming to your room."

"He knows you're here right now? And he's okay with that?"

She laughed her devious laugh. "Well, maybe not *okay.* He's probably chewing his nails down to the knuckles right now with ... turmoil. Jealousy. Lust. But, you see, that's what he gets out this."

"So, you're doing this ... for him?" I asked.

"Oh, John, sweetie," she said, reaching up to cup the side of my face. "I'm doing this for *me.*" And with that, she finally reached back down and closed her hand around my cock. I almost jumped out of my skin. And she had touched me thousands of times! I imagined my dad feeling her fingers and soft moist palm for the very first time and suddenly heard myself moan.

She lowered herself onto her left elbow, still stroking me ... stroking my dad ... with

her right hand, and leaned closer so I could feel her soft breasts on my upper arms and feel her breath in my ear. "Don't sell yourself short, John," she half-whispered. "I've thought about being with you for a long time. You're smart, and kind, and funny ... like your son ...

"But ... you're also ... so masculine." She bent her head over my mostly-bare chest and brushed her lips across where the curly gray chest hair would have been -- if she was in bed with my dad. "I just love your arms, and your big, broad chest ... and all that silver hair is so sexy.

"You're a very attractive man. You're going to be very popular with the ladies when you get back out there. I feel like I'm a lucky girl, getting you first."

Then she slid herself down on the bed, murmuring, "A very lucky girl." And then her sandy blonde hair fell over her face as she took me into her mouth. And despite the incredible warm wet sensation, with my view obscured, I was overwhelmed by the image that it was my father's cock, not mine, that she was engulfing. I was perilously close to cumming, far too soon, so I reached down and gathered her hair into my hand -- gently, the only way I could imagine my unsettled father doing -- and softly urged her back off of me.

"Hmm, yes, so masculine," she stated again. "And ... you know, you're bigger than him down there, too..."

I knew that was coming, of course, but it still hit me like a sledgehammer. Then she got up on her knees, climbed across me to the empty side of the bed, and lay down on her back. "I want you on top of me, John," she said. "Make me a lucky girl."

I was lost now. I rolled over on top of her, got between her inviting open thighs, and placed the throbbing head of my cock between her moist lips, drawing it up and down a couple of times to tease out her generous lubrication.

"Take me, John," she whispered.

And so I did. I thrust forward, amazed at how her body was simultaneously resisting, but inevitably yielding. I penetrated her, and didn't stop until I was buried in her to the hilt, till I felt my pelvis pressed against her. But I wasn't me. I was my father, entering my son's wife.

"Oh, God, yesssss," she moaned. It wasn't a murmur of pleasure; it was a primal, guttural sound of a woman being taken.

I felt her hands on my hips, moving up my sides, over my chest, down the arms which I had extended so I could look down at her as I moved in and out of her. Her eyes were closed and she was biting her lower lip. I wondered whether in her mind she was using her hands to compare my slender body with my father's stoutness, in her imagination or in her memory.

I began moving in and out of her slowly, concentrating on the velvet sensation and the way her boody rocked against mine. Then I started to pound into her more vigorously, trying to simulate the effect of the extra fifty pounds my dad had on me, trying to drive her down into the mattress. I felt her moving her thighs up around my hips, opening her legs wider as if the man between them needed the extra accommodation, changing the angle, letting me get deeper. Deeper than her husband ever got.

I wasn't myself any longer. I was the man between her legs. I was my father, abandoning all reason and expectation, seizing the moment, and fucking, fucking the pretty young woman who had married my son.

I was my father, fucking a beautiful and willing woman. I didn't care who her husband was. Right now, she was mine.

And the tiny part of my brain that was still me, surrendered. I wanted my father to do it. I wanted my father to *have done* it. And with that admission, I knew that there was only one final act, one crescendo to complete this symphony. My father needed .... I needed my father ... to experience the shattering ecstasy of orgasm while buried inside my wife. To paint her insides with the same potent semen that had brought me into existence. And with that thought, I erupted.

***

"I'm sorry," I stammered, a minute later. I must have lasted a whole three minutes, and I was pretty sure she hadn't orgasmed.

She ran her fingers through my hair, and smiled at me. "It's okay. I'm not done with you yet."

Still, the post-orgasmic slump was upon me, and the part of this whole scenario that made me sick to my stomach was starting to overwhelm the fading arousal of the role-playing. I felt weak, and with my arms trembling I lowered myself into her embrace and buried my head in her shoulder. She stroked my back.

"You came even faster than he did." Another shock wave jolted through me at that. "But he hadn't had sex in, like, a year. What's your excuse?"

Fuck. She *wasn't* done with me yet. I rolled off of her, onto my back; still breathing hard; my brain processing that last comment. She turned toward me, propped her head up on one hand, and looked at me with an expression that seemed both affectionate and diabolical.

"You really do know your dad pretty well, I'll give you that," she continued.

"What do you mean?" I managed to ask, despite the growing dread in my chest.

"I mean, that was pretty realistic. You pretty much handled that the same way he did."

Oh, Jesus. She really had done it. He really had done it. I moaned out loud. Oh, God, what had I done, or allowed to be done? But she just leaned over and kissed me.

"You are so easy to manipulate," she said; but, lovingly, not scornfully. "Of course, I've been playing with you this whole time."

I felt myself release a huge lungful of air that I didn't know I had been holding; felt the anxiety washing out of me. Soaking the sheets. Leaving me limp. And a bit disappointed.

"You really got into it, though, didn't you?" she asked.

I looked back into her eyes and nodded, feeling the gratitude and amazement at her ability to rock my world, spreading through me as quickly as the dread was dissipating.

"It was so intense," I admitted.

"I know," she said. "It was for me, too."

"Was it?" I had to admit, I wanted that to be true.

"Oh, yeah. I mean, it was so exciting toying with you. But part of what was exciting for me, was, well, you know all those things I said about how I do find John to be a very attractive man? Well, that's all true."

Huh. Well, okay. I guess I wanted to that to be true, too.

"Okay," I said. "That's ... that's cool."

"Is it?" she asked, still looking devious. "That's good.

"Because next week when you're in Atlanta, I told him I could drive over for a couple of days and help him paint his new apartment."

Gulp. I felt the roller coaster leaving the station again, and I was still strapped into the front car.

"At any rate, you're not done here, mister. And look who's hard again."