My Father's Woman Ch. 04

By Labor Day weekend, the days are getting noticeably shorter, and the birds don't start singing until 6:30 or so. That's probably what first alerts my sleeping body that it is time for my penis to start doing its morning stretching exercises.

And that's when the cruel hard cage that my penis lives in grabs it and laughs and says, "Time to wake up Ryan's brain, too, and tell him to suffer."

I had been up too late as it was; I could have slept longer. When I'm not in my cage, a morning erection doesn't wake me up. Unless my wife notices it and decides she wants to play.

But this weekend she's playing a different game. This game involves me being locked up, denied orgasm, denied tactile pleasure, denied even the relief of a normal, healthy erection, while she plays with another man's turgid, gloriously sensitive cock... stroking it, licking it, sucking it into her mouth and then allowing it to slide into her velvety body. This weekend, that cock belongs to my sixty-year-old father.

I sighed. They're probably not up yet. Maybe he's hard already, because he gets to have morning erections while still in his sleep, his body stretching languorously and then drifting back off to the blissful sleep of the satiated.

Last night, he took her out, took her to a company event to introduce her to his friends as his date, as the new woman in his life. Not as his daughter-in-law, certainly.

I was sure she would have made it clear to everyone in the room that his relationship with the new woman in his life had advanced to sexual intimacy. Nothing scandalous or provocative, of course; she was too good a tease for that. Just the kind of light touching, the shared glances, that would assure the curious that, yes, this guy is getting laid tonight.

They're not up yet. Later. Later this morning he'll be back in her mouth, in the soft sleeve of her luscious body.

I don't know whether she'll be thinking of me or not. I can imagine it both ways.

Maybe she thinks of me a lot, and it adds to her arousal. I picture her, on her elbows and knees between his legs in his bed, one hand holding his cock upright so she can trace sensitive circles on his frenulum, the other down between her own legs, stroking her clitoris, getting more pleasure from thinking of me squirming in torment than she's getting from merely servicing him.

Sometimes I imagine that I never cross her mind. She's lost in the experience, lost in the pleasure, lost in the other cock. As far as she is concerned, I no longer exist. And if I did, it wouldn't matter. I wouldn't matter.

I find both scenarios equally erotic.

I read kink stories. On weekends like this that's all I do. I'm going to be painfully, unrequitedly aroused all weekend anyway.

I read stories about other guys with my cuckold fetish. I'm not alone, even if I might be on the extreme end of the spectrum. I read the comments on those stories, including the ones from people -- men, I assume -- who just can't believe that guys like me exist; who insist that we're mentally ill, hopeless, that we should hang ourselves in our garages.

I wonder why they keep reading.

I read about other kinds of kink, about BDSM, even though hardcore bondage and impact play doesn't appeal to me. Most of us, when we first heard of that world, heard it in the context of a joke about "whips and chains." It's more than that, but I read about it to rationalize and better understand my own fetishes.

I don't get it. I don't get the notion of getting arousal, euphoria, satisfaction from physical pain, from being flogged or being repeatedly kicked in the testicles. But then maybe some of those guys would never understand my addiction to psychological torment.

There's a fetish within the kink world called "abandonment." It involves the submissive being left alone, or at least seemingly so, perhaps helpless, for an indeterminate amount of time, marinating in the fear that maybe, maybe this time, it is permanent. It can involve being handcuffed to the headboard, which Michelle and I have done. On the more extreme edge, it can involve being chained in a basement, or mummified in a vacuum-sealed latex bag, or even seemingly "buried alive," followed by the receding sounds of the domme's heels clicking on the floor as she walks away, and then... silence.

That one, I kind of get.

I got up and looked out the window. Across the street, my college-aged neighbor Dani was just pulling her beat-up Nissan into her mother's driveway.

I wondered if she was just getting back from an overnight date with a college-aged boyfriend, maybe the tall, bearded, slightly overweight guy in the pickup truck that I saw visiting her last week.

Or whether the bed she had just left belonged to another one of her mother's prospective, middle-aged boyfriends.

Dani got out of her car and walked to the front door. For a few seconds I could enjoy the sight of her insouciant sexpot body in her mini-dress, her magenta hair bobbing with each step of her pale plump legs, disappearing into her house.

I lust after other women, I just don't do anything about it. When Michelle and I first mutually agreed to start acting on our kinky bedroom role-playing, she had very quickly realized that she did not at all like the prospective reality of sharing me with another woman. I had very quickly realized that the arousal and angst that I got from knowing that she was with another man was more than enough extra spice in my life. And then the power exchange that came from that mutual agreement -- me giving her unrestricted sexual freedom, her denying the same to me; me being okay with that; her reveling in my acceptance -- became one more addictive aspect of our unique sexual relationship.

I'm seized with a sudden desire to see Dani today, to be further teased by her. Three weeks ago she not only teased my father; she went down on him and let him cum in her teenage mouth. She's teased me since then. There's no way she knows I know. Or does she? Would that make it better for her? What would she think, to know that I was caged, unable to respond in the normal male way to her attentions? I'm pretty sure that would make it better for her.

It would make it better, at least more intense, for me, that's for sure. Reminded in person that she was one more woman that my father got to enjoy, that I did not.

Our back patio is so secluded, surrounded as it is by house on three sides. No one ever wanders back there. So Dani wouldn't, either.

Maybe I should find an excuse to sit out on the front porch.

All over America, I thought, middle-aged men are ogling their college-aged neighbors and having lustful fantasies.

I'll bet I'm the only one fantasizing about my young neighbor clicking her aqua-colored fingernails on the hard steel bars of my cage, and laughing, and laughing, and laughing...

====

Two hours later and two hundred miles away, John's morning got off to a much better start.

He woke to the smell of coffee and the warm, gentle sensation of a woman's mouth enveloping his thickening erection.

He had had a bit of a restless night, unsettled by his reaction to his first public "date" with Michelle the night before. In retrospect, it had been everything he had hoped for. His friends were impressed, maybe even dazzled. She had actually been delightfully affectionate toward him without being the least bit inappropriate, at least as far as anyone could see.

If only she had worn a simple sundress instead of that sleek bodycon number. If only she hadn't worn her wedding ring. Maybe his friends would have looked at her with more appreciation and less lust. Maybe he would have felt a little bit less disturbingly jealous.

Maybe he wouldn't be feeling guilty about how ruthlessly he had pinned her to the wall and -- what was her term? -- grudge-fucked her afterwards. Although, she did seem to have liked it.

Well, he had begun to realize sometime around 3 AM, he knew what he was getting into, or at least he had known for the past three months. Michelle was beautiful and charming and delightful company and incredible in bed, but she was a hotwife who liked playing games. You get what you play for.

But this morning she was naked in his bed, all soft and accommodating and... ideal. She had woken him with coffee and a blowjob. She had waited while he got up and brushed his teeth and emptied his bladder before returning to settle easily between her welcoming thighs; not the feverish rush to devour each other of a furtive affair, but the natural, unceremonious Sunday morning routine of a man and a woman who had the entire day ahead of them.

And now, now, he thought, as he held himself up on his elbows above her and felt her thighs come up around his hips as he slowly sank into the silken glove of her pussy, he was where he wanted to be and she was where she belonged and all was right with the world.

God, he thought, I could get used to this. It was a thought that he had had many times, and in the light of day he had to chastise himself, remind himself that this whole affair was just a fantasy, that it was a strange twist of fortune that had put him in this position, father to a cuckold and father-in-law to a hotwife who genuinely loved his son; that of all the women in the world she was the only one he really could never actually take for his own.

But for the duration of each exquisite sexual encounter, he could luxuriate in the sensation and wish it could last forever.

He looked into her eyes and realized that she had been reading him, studying him, as if he had been somewhere else for a few moments. She pulled her arms, which had been loosely around his neck, down so they were tucked together over her breasts, so that his arms completely enveloped her. She bit her lip. She looked vulnerable and unusually submissive.

"Feeling possessive again?" she asked.

"Yes," he rasped. "Is that okay?"

"Mm hmm. I like it. I'm all yours, baby."

He knew it wasn't true, not in reality, not beyond today, but for now today was all that mattered. Tomorrow he knew she would go back to his son, and that was okay, that would make this sinful thing tolerable, but he was reminded again of how different his son's mind must work.

"I wouldn't share you," he heard himself saying.

"Hmmm. You're a greedy Gus, huh?"

"I would be. With you. If you were..." he murmured, before stopping himself.

"Hmmm? If I were what?

"If I were your wife?"

It was John's turn to bite his lip, but he didn't stop moving his pelvis, in and out, in and out of her, of the woman beneath him who was his son's wife.

"Is that what you're thinking, John?

Do you want to wife me up?"

John gasped a bit, but didn't break stride. He had never heard that term before, but he understood it instantly, and found it overpowering. So... active. Definitive. Although, the first word in the phrase was usually a verb. Like, start me up. Pick me up. Tie me up. Lather me up.

Knock me up.

Fortunately, Michelle didn't go there, or else their current round of lovemaking might have come to a sudden, premature, messy conclusion right then and there.

"You gonna put a diamond on my finger, John?" she asked, instead.

He grunted. Okay, she was weaving a fantasy, and feeding his, he told himself. He had asked for this. Before he had completely processed it, his mouth was deciding to roll with it.

"Yessss," he hissed.

Michelle's eyes lit up and she broke into a smile, even while her head was being rocked back into the pillow with each of his insistent thrusts.

"Oooh, John," she said, managing to sound like she was swooning. "Give me a rock. Rock me, baby."

"Mmmm," John intoned. "I'll rock you baby." He decided to experiment with words. "I'm gonna rock you up..."

She smiled at his turn of phrase. "I want a big one."

"Yeah."

"Bigger than the one my husband gave me."

"Unhh," John gasped, reminding himself this was play talk, powering through his resistance to talk about his son. "Yes, baby."

She brought her thighs up higher around his pistoning torso, and rotated her wrists so she could clutch at his chest hair with her fingers, but still have her arms pinned between them, as if immobilized, as if controlled, owned.

As if, John thought. Hell, she was the one who had him wrapped around her finger. This dirty talk, this roleplaying, was a whole additional layer of her eroticism that she was just now revealing to him.

"Bigger... than... my... husband," she intoned in rhythm with his thrusts.

"Always," John grunted. He knew she wasn't talking about engagement rings any more; and even though this kind of verbal jousting during sex was foreign to him, he knew that her talk about "size" was pretty basic stuff. But it was working.

When it came to this woman -- to pleasing this woman -- to fucking this woman -- he wanted to be bigger. Better. Than any other man. Even her husband. Especially her husband. Who was his son. It. Didn't. Matter.

He was picking up his pace now, moving toward the point of inevitability, pistoning into her the way the connecting rod turns the flywheel on a steam locomotive. He was the locomotive, accelerating down a dangerous incline, while she stoked his fire by shoveling more coal into the inferno in his firebox.

"Fill... me... up..." she groaned between strokes. "Make... me... yours..."

"All... mine," he heard himself responding.

"All... yours..." she confirmed.

"No... one... else..." John grunted.

"No... one... else..." Michelle agreed.

Fuck, he thought. She really had shifted her sex chatter into a gear that he didn't even know existed, and it was affecting him in ways he didn't recognize. She was goading him, provoking him, poking the bear; and he was letting his mind take him to dangerous places.

He was going to make her his all right. If ownership could be established by the power and conviction with which he shoved his body up inside hers, the volume of the semen that he splattered into her, then he would leave no question.

No question for anyone. Not even her husband. Especially not her husband.

"Not... even... my... husband..." she grunted.

Shit, John wondered... had he said what he was thinking out loud?

Oh well, too late now. The locomotive was approaching the trestle over Depravity Gulch, and the bridge was out. It didn't matter. Or it did and he didn't care. He let go of the governor that had prevented him from thinking about his son, let himself draw his son into his forbidden fantasy.

He was fucking his son's wife. He was fucking his son's wife! And she was loving it, he could tell; and he was glad, he was proud of it. He was fucking Ryan's wife, better than Ryan ever could, and there was nothing Ryan could do about it. He owned her now, she had just told him so, and that was just the way it was. And it was Ryan's nature, it was why Ryan had just watched dolefully last month as he had led Michelle off to bed, and it was his nature to be the Alpha, the One Who Fucks, and he was just doing what nature required.

And then the bolt of electricity arced through him from his brain to the nerve center behind the root of his cock, and he exploded into orgasm, inside his son's wife.

Afterwards, after they had caught their breath, and she had got out of bed, magnificent in her nakedness, and gone to replenish their coffee, and returned and slipped demurely under the top sheet, he felt like he had to say something.

"So," he said, "About all that 'owning you' talk..."

She smiled, sensing his discomfort. "It's okay. That was all just sex talk. You can't hold a woman to anything she says while she's getting railed by a big thick cock."

The relief he felt was palpable. Not only was she not freaked out; she was back to comfortably teasing him.

"Well... that's good," he admitted. "But, honestly, I was thinking more about the things I was saying."

She rolled onto her side and propped her head on a hand, and reached out with her other hand to toy with John's chest hair. "What things?"

God, he thought. It was much more uncomfortable, post-orgasm, to even think those thoughts, let alone say the words.

"Well, you know... talking about making you mine. Kind of... you know... I normally try to just... enjoy you... and not focus on how you're married... to... my son."

"I like it when you bring Ryan into the conversation."

"You do?"

"Uh huh. It's hot. And you know what? Ryan would like it, too."

John knitted his brow. "He would?"

She moved her hand up to stroke his face. "Yes, sweetie. You have no idea how deep your son's kinks run."

John shook his head, for the umpteenth time. "So, I wonder what he's doing right now."

"Well," she smiled. "We know he's not jerking off."

John looked at her quizzically, and she reached down and gathered up the little key on her ubiquitous belly chain. It was so much a part of her now that he sometimes forgot that it was a symbol of his son's denial.

"Oh, yeah," he chuckled. "That cage. That would drive me crazy."

"Would it?" Michelle arched an eyebrow. "Would you like to see what it's like?"

John shuddered. "No. I don't think so."

She made a little "hmmm" sound, and nestled down under his arm. "Are you sure? I mean, just to try one on? Not to give up the key, just to see what it feels like?"

John stared at her. He wondered, for the first time, if this was part of her kink; if she wanted to make every man a cuckold.

"No, pretty sure I can do without it."

She smiled, and said, "Okay." Just like she had done last night when she had asked if he wanted her to dance with other men, and he had said no. Then she patted his flaccid penis through the sheet, and added. "The beast that won't be tamed. I like that."

It occurred to him that it was her instinct, her go-to move, to tease. His instinct was to double down on his old-school masculinity. But she seemed to like it. Or at least, she kept letting him win. He felt himself getting thicker; not yet ready for action, again, but perhaps warming up.

"So," he said, still thinking about his son. "Are you going to check in with him today?"

"No."

Wow, he thought. That was definitive.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I texted him Friday night to let him know I got here safely. After that, I think it's hotter to maintain radio silence."

"Just leave him to wonder?" John mused, constantly amazed by his son's perversity.

"Twist in the wind." Then she added, "He might get a rush out of hearing from you, though."

John pursed his lips. "I don't know about that. I'm not as comfortable at teasing as you are."

She shrugged. "So, just send him a picture.

"If I remember correctly, my dress and my shoes and my bra and stockings are all in a pile in the living room."

"Everything but your panties," John commented.

"Yes," she smirked. "Can't imagine where those got to. Anyway, that might make an eloquent little composition to send to him. No caption required."

John made a mental note to snap a picture. Soon, but not yet. He was in no hurry to get out of bed. But Michelle had other ideas.

"C'mon," she said, getting out of bed, stunning as always in her nakedness. "Can't stay in bed all day. Let's go on a picnic."

***

"So, where's your wife this weekend?" asked Dani, my flirtatious young neighbor.

"She's away. Visiting... family," I replied. Honestly enough.

Earlier this afternoon I had taken a beer and the new issue of The Atlantic out on the front stoop. I normally prefer our private back patio for spending time outside, but today I had been hoping for some company. Someone specific.

I had been tormenting myself with the idea of young Dani teasing me, while being oblivious to the fact that I was locked in a little cage, powerless to even get hard, let alone to give myself an orgasm after she left. The idea was just so compelling, so secretly humiliating. I couldn't resist inviting it to happen.