My Father Visits Ch. 12

Before we begin this longer-than-usual chapter, I want to share a thank you to everyone who has rated and commented on this series. When I wrote the first installment a year and a half ago, I intended it as a one-off piece about one of my most taboo fantasies. It's not autobiographical in that this didn't really happen to me, but the characters are very much based on myself, my own father, and my wife, who absolutely can and did tease and role-play and make me wonder what was real, just the way Michelle does.

I never planned it as a series, and even today I don't really have an end-game in mind. It has been the very generous comments from readers who appreciate the psychological drama I'm trying to explore, and who have taken the time to tell me what they like about it, that has caused me to keep looking for another layer to peel back. And, to tweak the metaphor a bit, I still don't know how many licks it takes to get to the Tootsie-Roll center of a Tootsie-Pop.

I am going to take a break after this chapter and explore a couple of other universes, including taking my first shot at taking a request or two. Don't worry, Michelle and Ryan and his dad will be back in Season Two. Just like Ryan, I just can't *help* thinking about this game...

********

The coffee sat cooling on the bedside table, barely touched.

It was Saturday morning and John was balls-deep in his son's wife again, in his son's bed, while his son cooled his heels fifty feet away in the couple's kitchen.

Or, at least, he was balls-deep about once every other second, as he had settled into a steady, leisurely rhythm that his daughter-in-law was matching perfectly, her arms around his neck, her legs around his hips, her perfect silken pussy pulsing around his cock on every stroke.

John was holding his weight on his elbows, so he could enjoy the heat and the softness of her gently undulating body beneath him but not crush her, his face buried in her neck, breathing in the fragrance that was now only a faint remnant of last night's perfume, but mostly just the aroma of *her.* He figured he had been inside her at least a dozen times in the few weeks since they had begun their affair -- if that's what this was -- and he felt like this was the best, the most immersive, the sweetest sensory experience yet, on this still-early Saturday morning, in her bed, the bed from which he had evicted his son.

The reason, he was thinking, even while simply marveling at the feeling of the woman beneath him, was because he had just had the conversation with his son that he felt he had to have. It wasn't completely satisfactory, but it assuaged his remaining guilt. He still couldn't comprehend how Ryan was okay with what his wife was doing; let alone was getting some kind of kinky arousal out of it. But he had needed to say that he understood and accepted Michelle's insistence that it was all right, that it was all a consensual game. He had pushed to confirm that his son was "okay." He had offered to stop if Ryan wanted him to. And Ryan had simply repeated, "I'm okay."

And so -- he realized, as the thinking part of his head began to shut down and turn matters over to the reptilian brain that was driving his body to inseminate the woman beneath him -- he felt more relaxed and satisfied than he had felt in any of his previous liaisons with her, this pretty blonde woman who was married to his son. There was no longer a part of him holding back, feeling wrong, feeling out of place. He was able to feel at home, in this bed, in this woman. He belonged. They belonged. And then he stopped thinking, and just let himself become immersed in fucking, fucking, fucking.

***

I sat at the table through a second cup of coffee. The knowledge that my father was back in my bedroom, in bed with my wife, no doubt with his turgid penis moving in and out of her, had me transfixed. Unlike last night, I no longer felt compelled to go listen at the door. I felt strangely at peace. Like everything was in its place.

My father was in his place, in the master bedroom. My wife was in her place, underneath him. And in our brief conversation, in which he had given me the opportunity to assert myself and I had passed, he had then informed me that he was going to keep enjoying this current state of affairs indefinitely.

He had put me in my place. And I had let him.

I did realize, as I considered all this, that my cage was getting tight again.

Eventually I got a third cup of coffee and took it out on the patio, which was still fully shaded, being surrounded by house on three sides. It still got hot during the day in late August here, but the mornings and evenings were beginning to be pleasant.

Eventually the patio door opened and my wife stepped out. Her hair was still damp from a morning shower, but she was dressed, in a casual and innocent fashion... a white cotton blouse with embroidery around the collar and cap sleeves, a demure floral skirt that came past her knees, and sandals.

"Sleep well?" she asked.

"Not really," I replied.

"I figured as much," she smirked. "Oh well, maybe you can get a nap this afternoon." Then she arched her eyebrows, twice. She might have well have said, "Give your dad more time to fuck me."

But then she sat down on the arm of the Adirondack, close enough that I could feel her soft warmth; smell her -- clean and fresh and powdered, but also just, *her.* She reached down and took my hand in hers.

"Are you having fun?" she whispered.

"Fun?" I repeated. "Well... it's... intense."

She leaned over and kissed my forehead. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

I nodded. Then I asked, "Are *you* having fun?"

"Oh... you have no idea," she said, stifling a laugh. "I don't know what you boys talked about this morning, but my God... your dad came back to bed, and it's like he had another *gear.*"

I paused for a moment, wondering if she was actually asking, or just making an observation. But she wasn't proceeding with any other commentary of her own. Almost compulsively, I told her. "He... wanted to confirm... that I was really okay..."

"And you said you were."

"Essentially."

"Hmmm," she mused. "So, you verbalized your permission for him to keep fucking me."

I couldn't picture my father articulating that thought in so many words, but it sounded right. I nodded.

"No wonder he came back to... bed... and claimed me so... vigorously," she breathed into my ear, drawing it out, tormenting me beyond even my vivid imagination. She reached down and cupped my balls through my shorts.

"Well, try to remember what all's going through that wonderful head of yours," she told me. "I'll want to hear all about it tomorrow afternoon."

***

Michelle wanted to get to the zoo before it got too hot out, and before the crowds arrived. She really did have a whole weekend planned, not just 48 hours of having me sit outside a closed bedroom door. Honestly, that just made everything more erotic.

Out in public, walking among the exhibits, everything was completely innocent. Of course, we were in our home city. I didn't expect Michelle to risk a public display of affection with my father in a place where someone we knew might see us; and my expectations were met.

Still, it gave me a thrill to wander off a few steps from time to time, just to get a different view from a different side of each enclosure, and look back past the lemurs or the ocelots, and watch my wife innocently touch my father's arm as she drew his attention to something interesting.

As we started to make our way back toward the parking lot, the zoo was beginning to fill up with the mid-day rush, with families who were done with morning soccer. I watched the couples trailing their excited children, moms pushing strollers, dads with toddlers on their shoulders. I thought back to my own childhood, and tried to remember the few times my family had visited a zoo. Growing up in a rural area, it wasn't something we did regularly. All I could remember was the excitement of seeing the animals themselves. I watched the young families and wondered what memories these children would have.

We picked up Taco Bell on the way home, and then sat down around the coffee table while Melissa taught my dad how to play Settlers of Catan -- the two of them on the sofa on one side of the table, me sitting cross-legged on the floor on the other side. At least I was drinking a beer.

We had fun. It's an easy game to learn, a hard game to master. My dad displayed his age by constantly comparing and contrasting it to Risk. I was surprised to know he even knew about Risk. We didn't play board games as a family. I didn't remember "playing" with my dad much at all.

I realized that for the second time in two hours, I was thinking about children. I almost never thought about children. I hadn't rejected the idea of ever having any; but I was basically pleased with my life as it was, in all its twisted glory. And yet here I was, thinking about... what kind of dad I would be.

In spite -- or because? -- of the fact that right now, all the semen that was being pumped into my wife's womb, was my father's.

Slowly, my lack of sleep from the night before began to catch up with me. After a while, I excused myself, and retired to the guest room behind the garage to lie down. In spite of the fact that I knew I was just giving the two of them another opportunity to be intimate. Or maybe, again, because of that.

I did, in fact, drift off to sleep rather quickly. And I wasn't sure how long I had been asleep, or exactly why I woke up. Or, rather, I think I knew *why* I woke up; I'm just not sure I knew *how* I knew.

I got up and slipped over to the window, and peered out between the mostly-closed blinds. There, on the patio, my dad was reclining on the Adirondack chaise lounge. His Hawaiian shirt was unbuttoned, revealing the mass of silver curls on his chest. His bermuda shorts were down around his knees.

And Michelle was seated on his lap, facing away from him, her simple cotton blouse open and her floral skirt bunched up around her waist, obviously riding him, impaled on him. It occurred to me that, with the deep seat and the wide arms, that was the only position possible in an Adirondack. Then the reality hit me: oh my God, they're fucking, outdoors. Where I could see them.

I had told myself I didn't want to watch them. I preferred the images in my head to the reality. I couldn't imagine my father being enough of an exhibitionist to do it in front of me. I couldn't imagine Michelle tricking him by sneaking me into a closet. But this was different, somehow. They were two adults, engaging in some outdoor afternoon delight while the boy slept, and I was the guilty voyeur, the interloper. And I was mesmerized.

His big hands came up, to where her front-clasping bra had fallen open, and cupped her breasts. Her coral-colored nipples came into my view, and he pinched them between his thick thumbs and forefingers. Her eyes were closed, and she was biting her lower lip. She had never looked more sensuous.

Then he lowered his hands to her waist, and gently pushed her up. She stood, straddling the bottom of the chaise, and then stepped forward, her skirt falling back down around her legs. And then he got up, and stepped out of his loose shorts.

I gulped. There he was, my father, essentially naked except for his open shirt, thick thighs and a barrel chest and a substantial belly, all covered in silver fur. And there it was, the cock that he had been planting inside my wife. Standing out in front of him, glistening, not quite at a 90 degree angle. Not long, not any longer than my own, but considerably thicker, especially where the foreskin covered his coronal ridge.

But what really struck me, made me suddenly queasy, was the tangle of gray pubic hair that surrounded it, exploding up his crotch above it and covering the dangling scrotum below, like the unkempt hair and beard of a wild-eyed nineteenth century abolitionist, angry and feral and obscene.

Meanwhile, my wife had crossed the patio to the wicker loveseat, where she could get on her knees on the cushions, and place her forearms on the back of the little sofa, her rear end still covered in her skirt but swaying invitingly. And my father stepped brusquely up behind her, lifting the skirt, folding it up over her back, revealing her naked thighs and derriere. Then he grasped her at the waist, poking at her as he adjusted to the correct angle, and then, all too obviously, buried himself in her. Taking her from behind.

I felt my cock, already seemingly as engorged as the cage would allow it to be, surge even more. Michelle had told me that they didn't use condoms, but a part of me wondered if that wasn't an embellishment designed to titillate me. Now I knew for sure.

My knees always buckled when I found that my fantasies were not exceeding reality. I had thought about this a lot, of course. Michelle was always cautious when it came to practical matters; she never went bareback with a new lover until they had exchanged recent STI tests. Perhaps she and my dad had taken that step as well; but I could easily believe that he hadn't had sex for months, maybe years, and at any rate had not been with anyone but my mother for decades.

But I also was reasonably sure he had never had a vasectomy. There would be nothing preventing him, here, momentarily, from spewing tens of millions of his potent, wriggling sperm all over my wife's cervix. I swooned at the thought. Not as if it had never occurred to me, of course, but because this time it was real.

Through the glass of the window I could faintly hear the slap slap slapping of my dad's pelvis against my wife's naked ass. His eyes were closed. I wondered if he was getting close. Slowly, I stepped away from the window and returned to the bed. It wasn't as if I couldn't bear to watch, to watch my father go rigid with his final thrust, up as deep into my bride as he could get as he let his orgasm wash over him and felt his seed splurting into her. It was more a sense that that he deserved... *they* deserved... and I owed *him*... that final moment of exhultation, without an audience.

I closed my eyes and listened to myself breathe, listened to my heartbeat as it gradually slowed to normal. And soon, somehow, I was asleep.

***

Michelle came in to wake me up around six, and I took a shower in the guest bathroom and got dressed for the party, while I could hear her and my dad chatting and moving around in the main part of the house. So natural, so domestic.

We walked down the block to the Petersons', who were hosting the bash to celebrate Megan's fortieth birthday. There were probably forty adults mingling in the backyard when we got there, half of them other neighbors from the block. A dozen pre-teenage kids splashed in the pool.

Michelle more or less took the lead in introducing my dad to people, sometimes discreetly guiding him by the elbow. Dad was surprisingly at ease in this environment. He was a gregarious enough guy, with an easy laugh, and quick to toss off the simple rejoinders that sounded hoary to me but put strangers at ease.

The three of us moved around as a cluster for a half-hour or so, easing in and out of conversations, finishing our first beers and starting our seconds.

After a while, I separated from Michelle and Dad, and wandered over to where Mike, our host, was getting ready to put burgers on the grill. We chatted for a while, mostly about his son's youth baseball tournament this morning. I half-listened, losing track when he started addressing the misapplication of the infield fly rule, watching my wife and her escort out of the corner of my eye.

Again, of course I didn't expect her to do anything inappropriate in front of our friends. She knows I have a taste for humiliation, but she wasn't going to risk my reputation, or hers. And I didn't expect my dad to do anything but follow her lead. Although I could dream...

Other guys had come up to relieve me from Mike's lecture on baseball rules enforcement, so I stepped off and stood by myself for a moment, watching the group near the gazebo, where my dad had taken a seat in another Adirondack chair and my wife had innocently perched on the arm beside him. I sipped my beer and imagined... imagined him nonchalantly placing his hand on her hip. While she continued talking. I imagined him beginning to slowly move his thumb up and down, as if trying to determine if she was wearing panties. I imagined him simply putting his hands on her shoulders, or on her back, rubbing her in a way that was less discreet; not scandalous, but improper for someone who wasn't your partner. I imagined everyone in the circle, growing quiet, exchanging glances with each other. Turning to look at me.

None of that was happening, of course, but I was standing there, feeling my cock bulging in its cage, imagining conversations behind me.

"Jesus, check out Ryan's old man," said Tony, the pharmaceutical rep from around the corner.

"Shit," said Mike, our host. "He's feeling up Michelle right there in front of God and everybody."

"Where's Ryan?" asked Jerry, who lived on the next block over. "I can't believe his dad is doing this in public."

"God," Tony offered. "You think Ryan's getting cucked?"

"By his own dad?" Jerry added.

"God, what a loser," Mike muttered. I shuddered at the imaginary exchange.

As if on cue, a voice behind me said, "So, Ryan, who's that handsome stud chatting up your wife?"

Startled, I turned to see my across-the-street neighbor Diane, who was grinning at me deviously. I must have looked like she had just goosed me.

"Relax, I'm just teasing. I know he's your dad."

I smiled and confirmed it. I watched Diane as she sipped her drink in silence for a moment and watched Michelle and my dad from a distance. Diane was a silver vixen herself, I thought. She was probably ten years older than me, with prematurely argent hair cut stylishly short, delicate features, and dark eyes. Hearing her describe my dad as a "stud" was causing me to regard her sexually. Hell, if I was a swinger instead of a cuckold, I would jump at the chance for a frolic with her.

"So," she said, a bit impatiently, "Introduce me!"

So I led her across the yard and we joined an ongoing conversation. My dad stood up to shake Diane's hand, and then offered her his seat. Michelle came around and stood between Dad and me, giving me a bemused look that was hard to interpret.

Soon Mike called out that burgers were ready, and after we wandered through a makeshift line, Diane joined the three of us at a picnic table. We all began a casual conversation along with another couple at the six-seater. Everyone was going with the "and what do *you* do?" line of questioning. Diane professed fascination with my dad's middle-management role in a mid-sized logistics company. More than once she drew her platinum hair back behind one ear, exposing her wrist like a submissive puppy exposes its belly.

Michelle made eye contact with me and smirked. I couldn't tell if she was saying, "See, your dad IS a stud," or, "this bitch is barking up the wrong tree if she thinks she's getting a piece of my beefcake."

After finishing my meal, I excused myself to wander around the yard some more, and to observe things from a distance. I was beginning to feel a bit mellow. The cage wasn't slicing through the root of my penis.

Suddenly someone else bounced into my field of vision. It was Diane's college-age daughter, Dani. "Hey, Mr. DOHN-ovan," she greeted me. It was her private joke-- she had started calling me Ryan when she was twelve years old, and had been chastised by her mom. So now I was going to be Mister Donovan forever, heavy emphasis on the middle syllable.

"Hi Dani," I replied, wondering what was in her red solo cup.