My Father's Woman Ch. 01

At least today my penis was moving about loose in my suit trousers, free to get hard when I took a spare moment to think about my kinky weekend. I could even pee standing up.

I beat my wife home, and started to work on slicing some vegetables and stuffing some sweet peppers to grill a light late-summer dinner. When she got home, she came up behind me in the kitchen, wrapped her arms around me, and pressed herself into my back. I stood there, just enjoying it, for several moments, without my mind ever even going to the image of her wrapping her arms around my father's thicker chest.

Oops. I did it again.

Oh well. This was my reality now. I didn't let it interfere with a relaxed evening with my wife, dining on the patio, chatting about our days at work, retiring to the love seat in the family room to watch something on cable. The love seat, I remembered, where an innocent foot-rub from my father a couple of months ago had kickstarted my wife's wicked imagination.

Stop it, I told myself.

Later, at bedtime, I moved through my night-time routine faster than Michelle did, as usual, and as usual I was in bed reading when she came out of the bedroom. She was wearing a satin night-shirt, the top of what I had last seen as a two-piece pajama set. Not the provocative lingerie with which she had lately been adorning her body to present it to my father, but more than a shapeless oversized cotton nightgown; something in between. A statement of sorts.

She got in bed beside me and turned toward me, pressed her body up against mine, kissed me gently, her lips lingering until I parted them with mine and began to explore her mouth with my tongue. She threw one leg across my stomach and I placed my hand on her thigh, drawing it upwards, under the short pajama top, confirming that she was naked underneath.

I could probably roll her over, keep that one leg hooked around me, and slide right into her, I thought. The thing is, over the past several years, even in the stretches between her occasional lovers, we never made love without whispered role-playing. She told me sometimes that she couldn't help herself. She was as addicted to our games as I was, I told myself.

"Shouldn't I get a condom?" I whispered.

She paused. "Is that what you want?"

I bit my lip. Truth or consequences? Or both? "Well," I suggested. "I know what I want. But we should probably take into consideration what my dad wants."

She smiled at me, perhaps in disbelief. Then her face took on a look that was both devious, and resolute. "You mean... my... boyfriend?"

"Boyfriend?" I asked. "Is that what he is?"

"Well," she replied, breathily, offering me a kiss that suddenly felt stolen, "Maybe something more than that. We don't do labels."

"And what are you to him?"

"He just says... I'm his WOMAN."

"Hmmm," I said, sliding my hand further up under her shirt and grabbing an illicit handful of one soft breast. "HIS woman," I repeated, with a different emphasis.

"I really shouldn't even be here with you."

This was different, I thought. It was kind of fun. It had been a couple of years since we had roleplayed this way... me as the interloper, her as the wanton harlot stepping out on Her Man... back when we were just fantasizing, before she started hotwifing for real.

"So, yes, you absolutely have to wear a condom."

I heard myself growl, in arousal and mock frustration.

"I could pull out," I suggested.

"Mmmm," she murmured, as if the offer was tempting. "No, too risky. What if I got pregnant?"

My cock surged at that. "What if *I* got you pregnant, you mean," I said, huskily.

"Are you trying to get pregnant with him?"

"No... " she replied. "Not... yet."

One of those familiar convulsions wracked my body. I almost rolled her over right then and pierced her, shoved my throbbing erection up against her cervix. Maybe that's what she wanted. I was pretty sure she wouldn't object, at any rate.

"Okay," I rasped. "Where's the condom?"

She sat up and gave me a Mona Lisa smile, and reached into the nightstand. Huh, I noted, so that's where they live now. I arched my back so she could pull my boxers down, and then she was rolling the opaque prophylactic down my straining cock. Then she straddled me and slid right down my shaft, seating herself fully on me in one smooth liquid stroke.

She locked eyes with me for a moment, then began to grind on me, rapidly, urgently. I reached up and seized her breasts, gathered them up in my fists and kneaded them, roughly. She reached between her legs and found her clitoris and began to rub herself vigorously, as if desperate to beat me to an orgasm.

Which was good thinking, if that's what she was doing. Because despite the desensitizing latex coating my penis, I was thrusting up into her with urgency of my own. YES, we were roleplaying. But I had, added to that, the intense awareness of what I was missing, the nerve endings of my shaft and glans coated as they were in latex. I wasn't feeling the delicious warm skin-on-skin wetness of my wife's pulsating vagina. That was for my dad. Her Man.

And in moments, when I erupted, it would be harmlessly into the reservoir tip of the condom, not into the depths of her being, all over her pulsing cervix, flooding her welcoming womb with teeming, life-creating semen.

That was for my dad. Her Man.

And this time, I had her voice fresh in my ears, talking about Her Man, and trying to get pregnant, even if it was "not YET."

She came before I did, but only by seconds. She collapsed onto my chest, and I crushed her to me, aware that we were both surprisingly sweaty in spite of the air conditioning and the brevity of our intense coupling.

She sat back up and ran her hand through her damp blonde hair. In retrospect, I think she recovered her post-orgasm clarity more quickly than I did.

"Ryan," she said, when she had caught her breath. "This pregnancy talk is... too crazy."

"I know," I replied, still glowing, still in character. "I know, he's the one who'll..."

Even role-playing, I couldn't say the words.

"Ryan, look at me, I'm serious.

"I've told you before what my limits are," she said, her brow furrowed and her voice intense. "I'm... not going to say it again."

I felt as if I was being scolded.

"I understand."

"Do you?" She asked, leaving the words, "I'm not sure you do," unspoken.

Suddenly I wondered if I *did* understand.

"I get it," I ventured. "I'll stop... I'll try to... I'll let it go."

"That's not what I'm saying."

Her face softened a bit. She dropped her chin onto her chest so she was looking at me through her dark lashes, her eyes in the shadow. "So, do you remember your safeword?"

I nodded, while feeling a corresponding sense of vertigo. We had come up with safewords two years ago when we had first started playing the hotwife, and then cuckold, game -- just in case one of us was venturing too far. Neither one of us had ever used one. I had thought about it, a couple of months ago, stewing in a hotel room in Atlanta while my wife had made her first solo trip to visit my father. At that point she had been teasing me with the idea of cuckolding me with him for weeks. She had arranged for me to be five hundred miles away when it happened. If it happened. If I didn't call her bluff. And I hadn't.

"Well," she was telling me, still looking serious, but not angry. "You can still use it. But until you do... just remember. You asked for this."