My Father's Second Wife Ch. 02

I was just starting to come down when I felt him come inside me. I just relaxed and laid on his chest. Now I was letting him use me to enjoy his own moment, and I was glad to be there for him.

Eventually he, too, slowed down and stopped. I just rested there, relishing the feeling of his warm cock in my belly. He gently nudged my butt, hinting that the ride was over and I should disembark.

I lifted off his cock and straightened up on my knees. Dad wrapped his arms around my thighs and lifted me into the air, his head pressed against my navel. He stood up, turned around, and dropped me onto the sofa. I bounced a few time and came to rest, spread eagle, next to Beth—she sitting primly in my father's jacket, and me spread lewdly, my dress (still looped over my shoulder) cascading over the back of the sofa.

Father walked out of the room without closing his dressing gown. It billowed behind him as he walked away. I was just trying to catch my breath. Beth sat quietly, waiting for me to recover.

As I stared at the ceiling, I replayed last half hour in my head. "So, dad's a world-class pussy eater," I thought to myself. That was something.

After a time I managed to sit up. Father returned with a serving tray carrying three dessert plates. He still hadn't closed his dressing gown, his semi-rigid cock bouncing in front of him as he walked.

Like a cat spotting its prey, Beth sprung off the sofa, crossed the room, and intercepted dad before he could get to a table. She dropped to the floor, her head ducking under the tray, and practically inhaled his cock. Dad was now stuck in the middle of the room. He has no place to set the tray, he couldn't see what Beth was doing because of it, and he had no desire to move away.

Beth languidly cleaned and preened his member with her mouth, sucking it dry of any residual come. She then slid back and stood up, making an elaborate display of licking her lips.

My dad smiled at her and asked, "Would you like dessert?"

Beth cocked her hips and replied coyly, "A second dessert? I might get fat!"

That brought a chuckle from my father. He set down the tray and picked up two plates, one for each of us. Beth had rejoined me on the sofa as father handed them to us.

Dessert was fruit tacos: a thin sweet cookie had been formed into a mock taco shell, the contents filled with cut up fruit. A sweet, custard like, sauce was drizzled over everything, and garnished with a sprig of mint.

I picked it up like a taco and bit into it. Oh my God, that was good. Beth picked out the pieces of fruit and ate them one at a time.

Dad was picking up his plate when he said to Beth, "We missed you at dinner."

Beth finished swallowing before replying, "Skeet threw a shoe. I'm sorry I missed dinner too. I'm really sorry I missed the after dinner show," her last sentence punctuated with a wink directed at me.

I enjoyed my dessert while watching my father's cock slowly soften; he still hadn't closed his robe.

My dessert was interrupted by Beth's finger, poking my inner thigh. I looked down to see that she was holding half a strawberry, between her thumb and forefinger, right above my crotch, using her pinky finger to insistently nudge my legs apart. I obliged by lifting my right leg and spreading wide, shamelessly exhibiting my spent pussy to all present. Little rivulets of come clung to my pussy lips and disappeared into the crack of my ass.

Beth took the strawberry and dragged it through my slit, deftly collecting residual come between my folds. She held the strawberry horizontal, so as not to lose any, and popped it between her lip.

She made a satisfied hum while chewing. She swallowed and said, "Waste not, want not."

I was a little shocked. Frankly, I was tired of being shocked, and felt a sudden urge to do something shocking of my own.

On a whim, I reached down and inserted my index finger into my vagina, and then slowly pulled it out, dragging it through the mixture of quim and come. Once it was well coated, I brought it to my mouth and sucked it clean, as if it were covered in honey, staring at Beth the whole time. Beth and father stopped eating and watched intently.

I returned again, twisting my finger inside of me to get it all wet again. I slowly extracted it, but this time I leaned over and presented my glistening finger to Beth's lips. Beth held my gaze while she slowly opened her mouth, engulfed my entire digit. I could feel her tongue rolling around my finger, consuming every drop. She finally pulled back, my finger clearing her lips with a little "pop."

"Well, aren't you full of surprises," she said with a bemused grin.

Mission accomplished, I finished my dessert and leaned back, still a little flush from the evening's festivities.

My father finished his dessert, walked over, and kissed me on the forehead. Just so it was clear this was not a chaste kiss, he squeezed my left tit while he did it, his dick dangling above my belly. He stood up and invited Beth to rise too. Beth stood up, reached into dad's jacket, pulled something out of the pocket, and deposited it on the serving tray. Dad then wrapped his arm around her waist, causing the jacket to rise up and expose a little more ass. They walked out of the room together.

"We're going to call it an evening, honey pot," he called to me over his shoulder. "I'll see you at the office tomorrow."

They disappeared through the walkway, the echo of Beth's boots taking longer to vanish. I just sat there for a time, listening to the jazz.

"Awwww, no fucking way," I yelled into the empty room, as the realization hit me. Dad was taking Beth to bed so he could fuck her again! I shook my head in disbelief.

When I eventually rose, I noticed an electronic key card on the serving tray, the kind used in the security gate and all the doors. That's what Beth had in her pocket. So that's how my dad arranged his booty call; he left his favorite jacket and a security key card at the ranch—an unambiguous invitation.

I bet he would have been real surprised if Jake had shown up!

I was still laughing at my own joke as I walked back to my room, naked except for my jewelry and heels, my dress swirling behind me, miraculously still attached at my shoulder.

I was tired. This evening had turned out to be a lot of work.

---------

My alarm went off at eight the next morning. I wanted plenty of time to prepare for my (second) meeting with Margo.

I surveyed my wardrobe, and again found it lacking. Oh, there were tons of clothes. More outfits than you could wear in a year—just none of them suitable for an office, and certainly not my dad's office. I had stacks of casual cloths, and plenty of party cloths, but nothing that screamed "professional"—unless you had the oldest profession in mind.

After fifteen minutes of scrounging through mini skirts and risqué tops, I managed to find a pair of grey slacks and a black, long sleeved, turtleneck sweater. It wasn't office chic, but I wouldn't be the cause of any neck injuries either. I found a pair of black heels that weren't obscenely high.

I wasn't sure what the underwear situation was. I hadn't gotten any formal instructions, beyond "meet Margo at 10:00." I decided to play it safe with a dainty lace thong—I really hated visible panty lines—and a T-shirt bra. I could always ditch them if I needed to.

I held my hair back with a big turtle-shell barrette and applied some simple makeup. I looked in the mirror. Not bad, although I looked a little bit like a dyke.

----------

As I walked into the kitchen, I was startled by Beth, and almost dropped my cell phone. Beth was standing at the counter, getting a bagel, wearing nothing but her boots.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said. "I didn't expect to see anyone, and I certainly didn't mean to startle you."

"That's OK," I lied. I know this girl knows how to wear clothes; why can't she keep some on?

Instead I asked her the blindly obvious question, "Are you having a bagel?"

"Yes, would you like one?" she replied, cheerfully.

"I'd love one," I said, which was no lie.

Beth started cutting a second bagel before popping both into the toaster.

She sauntered over to the coffee pot and poured two cups.

"How do you take yours?" she asked me.

"Cream and sugar," I said.

She walked to the refrigerator, her breasts gently bouncing with each step. Bending down to get some cream, she gave me another good view of her ass, and a lot more. "Why am I ogling another woman's ass?" I thought to myself.

As she poured the cream into my coffee, I couldn't contain my curiosity any longer.

"Are you going to drive home like that?" I asked.

She looked down at herself and asked, "You disapprove of the empress' new outfit?" She twisted her head around to grin at me.

"Oh, I've probably got a T-shirt in the truck," she said, only slightly more seriously. She added, "I admit, I really didn't think this one through. I thought the 'trench coat and shoes' thing would be a sexy stunt, but forgot that your father would never let me leave the house again with his favorite leather jacket. So that leaves me with just my boots."

She lifted up one leg and held it in the air, just in case I'd somehow missed seeing her boots before.

"Why don't you just take one of his shirts?" I wanted to know. What I didn't say was "ridiculously expensive, custom, shirts," that probably cost $500 a piece. Hell, there were $10,000 designer dresses in my mother's old closest. My father had been auctioning them off for charity after her death, but there were still a few in there. She could have walked out in any of those.

"I have no desire to steal from your dad," she said, incredulous that I would even ask.

This confused me. I really didn't think of it as stealing, so much as a perk of being one of his "girlfriends." I was having trouble getting a bead on Beth.

"Anyway, I really don't mind that much anymore," she continued. I assumed she was referring to her unconstrained nudity.

She was, and she explained, "Before I met your father, I was a shy girl from Montana. I was taught that girls had sex with their husbands, under the covers, in the dark, to make babies. Period. End of discussion."

"Now look at me," she said, spreading her arms to make sure I could get a good look at her, as if that weren't redundant. "I think I could walk naked through Time Square and not feel self conscious. That's what your father's done to me."

The toaster finished and the bagels reappeared. I got some small plates, while Beth found some cream cheese and started spreading it on.

We ate in silence for a few minutes, before I pressed the subject again.

"So you're not in this for the threads or the free bagels," I said, letting the sentence trail off. "So how does this work? Does he pay you extra for 'special' horseback rides, or what?"

She stopped eating and just stared at me, studying me like a doctor analyzing a psychotic patient.

She took another sip of coffee and continued to think. I was beginning to think she either didn't understand the question, was hiding something, or was just stalling.

She finally spoke, saying, "You really don't see it, do you?"

I shook my head saying, "See what, exactly?"

She took another sip, composing her reply.

"You don't see your father," she said. "More accurately, you don't see your father the way other people see your father. You've been living with him your whole life, and he is your father. I supposed that's to be expected."

I looked at her with a blank expression that said I was still not "getting it."

She took a deep breath and said, "Your father is a powerful, successful, rich, engaging, charismatic, and influential person. He also has an uninhibited sexual nature that's, frankly, intoxicating to be around."

OK, I could concede most of that. I didn't really see my father in those terms, but I could imagine that others might. That still, however, didn't explain their relationship—or any of my dad's relationships, for that matter.

Beth sensed I hadn't gotten across the finish line yet. She leaned in and spoke deliberately, "Show me ten girls that would not want to fuck your father."

Oh.

She watched me as the realization sank in. I guess I really did have a blind spot. It honestly never occurred to me that any of the women I'd seen with my father, with the notable exception of my mother, actually wanted to be with him. I always assumed he'd paid for them, or lured them in with expensive clothes and fancy dinners.

She leaned back again and took another bite of her bagel before continuing. "I'm not his whore, or a call girl, or a 'kept woman'," she made little air quotes with her fingers. "He's never paid me anything, beyond the standard fee for trail rides."

"I'm here because he's exhilarating to be around. I'm here because I've had the best sex in my life, probably the best sex I'm ever going to have. I'm here because your father has changed me. He's revealed a world I didn't know existed."

She took another sip of her coffee. I munched on my bagel. I didn't say anything. She eventually took that as an invitation to elaborate.

"I was taught that sex with other races, or the same sex, or outside your marriage, or inside your family, was all deviant and wrong. But that's not true, or at least it isn't always true. I've watched your father break every rule I ever learned about who you're supposed to have sex with, and where, and when, and how, and it was beautiful."

She glanced furtively around, as if someone else might be lurking nearby, and in a low, conspiratorial, voice, she said, "You might not believe this, but just last night, I sat and watched him fuck his own daughter, and she was totally into it." She waited for the joke to land, before grinning from ear to ear.

"Oh, that's crazy," I teased her back, poking her arm with my finger. "You're just making shit up now." I couldn't help but grin a little. I was into it.

Then she got a little dreamy and gazed into her coffee cup. She made another little sigh, and said, "Your father has shown me that the only limits to sex are love and imagination. I swear, if he wasn't already filthy rich, I'd probably be giving him money."

I was nonplussed.

She cocked her head, as if she'd had a sudden thought, and said, "So, to answer your slightly insulting question, no, your father has never paid me for sex. Having said that, would you like to hear an interesting story?"

I thought that was the interesting story, but if there was more, I was a willing audience. I nodded my head.

She said, "Last year—and this is some time after I'd starting seeing your father—the balloon payment on the ranch's mortgage came due, and we were afraid we were going to lose it. Out of the blue, an electronic transfer, for almost the exact amount we were short, appeared in our account. We had the bank trace it. It came from a Swiss bank account. When we tried to find out who owned the account, we were told that unless a crime had been committed, and we had a European court order, we were never going to find out who that account belonged to."

She finished her coffee, sat down her cup, pushed herself away from the counter, and said, "I don't believe in coincidences."

Beth gave me a big hug, saying, "Good luck with your new job. Give my love to your dad," and she walked, buck naked, out the front door.

"What a liar!" I thought to myself. There was no T-shirt in her truck.

----------

As the elevator approached the sixth floor, I thought the butterflies in my stomach were going to burst out, like some space alien horror film. They say, "knowledge is power," but I didn't feel more powerful today.

When I last rode this elevator, I was giddy, excited, and completely naive. I've learned a lot since then. Now I'm apprehensive, nervous, and more than a bit unsure about what I was even doing here. Knowledge sucks.

The tall receptionist greeted me, again. "I'm Charlotte," I informed her, "Mr. Grant's new intern."

The last time I introduced myself, as Donald Grant's daughter, she treated me like a visiting dignitary, snapping to attention and personally escorting me to father's office.

This time was different. The moment the word "intern" passed my lips, she looked at me like I was a giant insect that had walked into her building on creepy insect legs and had asked to use the toilet—to lay her giant insect eggs.

With a noticeable curl to her lips, she simply pointed and said, "Down the hall, turn left at the end," before returning to her magazine.

"OMG," I thought to myself. She doesn't recognize me from last week! Of course, then I looked like daddy's little girl. Today I looked like, I don't know, something not quite a girl.

I found my father's office easily, having been here once already. I walked into his outer office to find Margo giving animated instructions to a young man. He must have understood her, because he said, "Right away," and ducked into an unobtrusive passageway at the back of the room.

Margo was sporting a three-quarter sleeve sheath dress that flattered the curves of her figure. The dress was cream, with a black yolk, sleeves, and side panels. Its most prominent feature was an oversized black zipper that ran down the front of the dress, from collar to hem. She wore a thin, slip on, gold bracelet on her right hand and two delicate earrings that looks liked gold lace.

Margo looked up at me and, unlike the tall bitch at the elevator, immediately knew who I was. She said, "Charlotte, right?"

"Yes," I said, simply glad to be recognized by someone.

She made no reply to this. Instead, she looked me up and down, twisting her mouth sideways in contemplation, and making little "Hmmmm" noises. It was look of studied disapproval. I waited for her to finish.

She obviously reached some conclusion, because her expression suddenly brightened and she smiled.

"Let's go shopping," she said excitedly, like I was a puppy.

"Yes!" I thought to myself. You know, I might like this job after all!

Margo punched a button on the wireless phone she was carrying, waited for an answer, and said, "Tina, I need you up front."

I stood in silence, watching Margo type something into her computer and waiting, I presumed, for Tina. I was not disappointed. Tina appeared from the same passageway that the man had disappeared into.

Tina had long, mousy, brown hair, was tad shorter than me, and looked like a waif. She was rail thin, flat chested, and walked on a couple of toothpicks she used for legs. If she weighed much more than a 100 pounds soaking wet, I'd be shocked. She was dressed in a straight, cap sleeve, shift that ended mid-thigh. The dress was white with a pattern of randomly placed colored squares. It did nothing to add to her bulk.

Margo addressed her. "Tina, I need you to take over, I'll be gone for a couple of hours."

Tina looked like someone had just handed her a ticking time bomb and said, "Take care of this, please."

Margo was evidently prepared for this response, and immediately attempted to bolster her confidence. She held Tina by her shoulders and spoke calmly, saying, "The schedule today is already set, just answer the phones, and if anything comes up that you can't handle, call me." She fired a smile that screamed, "everything was going to be OK."

It apparently worked. Tina drew herself up and nodded her acceptance of the mission. Before she could change her mind, Margo turned to me and said, "Let's go," and we were out the door.

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Margo drove me to the fashion district on 7th Avenue. We parked and went into a dress boutique that specialized in business woman's fashion. So, naturally, I'd never stepped foot in the place.

An employee approached and Margo said to her, "May, we'll need the big dressing room."

May didn't bat an eye, replying, "Of course, Ms. Lane, it's all yours. Can I get you anything?"