My Father's Woman Ch. 05

On Monday morning of Labor Day weekend I was up earlier than I wanted to be, for the usual reason. My body's failed attempt at achieving a morning erection had awakened me, and then my twisted brain took it from there.

I reached for my phone and looked again at the two pictures my father had sent me yesterday. First, a pile of clothes on what must have been his living room floor, judging from the furniture legs in the frame. Heels, lacy bra and garter belt, and the sleek blue bodycon dress I had purchased for my wife to wear to his company party on Saturday night. As his date.

It was a dress designed to make a statement of *pure sex,* and I had selected it myself, drawn irresistibly to the idea of my wife making just such a statement to my father and his friends. And my father sending me visual confirmation that it had achieved its purpose; that apparently, it hadn't even remained on her body as far as the bedroom after the event.

And then, several hours later, another picture, this time of nothing more than a simple pair of yellow cotton panties, on the tile floor of what must have been his kitchen. No words with either picture. Just documentation that my father was getting my wife naked, at every opportunity, in every room of his place, all weekend long.

My wife had gone away for weekends with other men before, leaving me to wallow and luxuriate in my torment; she is a hotwife and I am a cuckold and that's how we play. This weekend was different. Part of it was the public nature of it, the fact that she was attending a social function to be introduced to others as his date, the woman he was seeing, and presumably sleeping with. Part of it was the extra day and the prospect that that would give them extra time to play at being boyfriend and girlfriend, and not just furtive sex partners. But always, there was the sex. Between my wife, and my father.

Neither one of us had mentioned pregnancy risk for a month, but it was still something that gnawed at my psyche. Fortunately, I had been able to subtly observe the birth control pills disappearing from the pack in the medicine cabinet, and the entire pack apparently went with her on her weekend trip to see him; otherwise, I might have been in full panic mode.

But, she had given me something else to obsess over in that regard last week, when she had launched into a little lecture about how semen contains "love hormones" -- dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin -- and planted in my mind the notion that all this weekend, my Dad was inoculating her with his own hormones, while I had been leaving mine in the reservoir tip of a used condom that she then tied off and dropped in the trash.

I wondered how many times the Old Man had got it up and pumped my wife full of his semen this long weekend. I knew, from her accounts and from my own observation last month, that he was good for two or three times a day, anyway. I hadn't had sex with my wife three times in a day in years. Not that I wasn't capable of it; I'm sure that if I hadn't been locked in this cage, I could have jacked off six or eight times a day this weekend. It's just not something that a married couple in their mid-thirties do, I thought. All the time in the world; and, frankly, the white-hot intensity of new relationship energy just wasn't there.

Still. The idea that my father had just had a long weekend to baste the walls of my wife's smooth, moist pussy six or eight or ten times with his hormone-laden semen, massaging it into and through the tender tissues of her swollen vagina, addicting her to his essence, to his cum, was overwhelming to me.

It was Monday morning. Eight, nine more hours before she came back to me. But before she left him, he would most certainly be doing it to her again.

****

A half an hour after Michelle left, John found his apartment was suddenly far too quiet and empty, so he put the top down on his convertible and went for an aimless drive.

What a weekend he had just had with his daughter-in-law; for three days, his lover and his woman. For the most part, it had been everything he had hoped for, and more. Having her on his arm at the company event on Saturday had been exhilarating, even if he had found her natural allure to other men a bit unsettling. The sex had been wonderful; frequent and unconstrained. And they had had plenty of time to just... talk.

For the first time, they had talked openly about how this unusual triad that they were creating with that third partner -- her husband, his son. It had been illuminating, but not altogether comfortable. Of course, at age sixty, John had never been altogether comfortable talking about "feelings" and "relationships" anyway. He had just never had the opportunity or the experience. He had never seen it modelled for him.

There was a point on Sunday afternoon, during their picnic, that she had said something that troubled him. The notion that, even as a child, Ryan had had so much self-discipline, so much self-motivation, that he as a father had never had to discipline or even push his son, had made him feel a bit judged, a bit inadequate.

It was true, he had never, even when Ryan was in elementary school, understood his son's interests, his "bookishness," his motivations. Right up through his college and career choices; he had never understood why his son went into non-profit administration instead of law or business. But she had also described his son's successes in ways that he had never considered, even things that his son had never told him. How he had been asked to teach classes at the local university. How he had been commissioned to write a book on his own innovations with non-profit investment strategies.

Of course, he had never questioned his son's choice of a life partner. He had always found Michelle to be smart, funny, and engaging, as well as beautiful. And he had always felt like his son deserved such a "catch." Even now, after finding out that Michelle engaged in sexual activities outside the marriage that he never would have believed, he sensed that she was a perfect match for Ryan.

But he still couldn't help feeling a little bit disappointed that there were things that Ryan had never even attempted to explain to him.

Yet, he had never sensed that Ryan held any resentment toward him. And she had convinced him that that wasn't the case. And then she had explained to him -- in ways that he couldn't quite recall, word-for-word, but which seemed believable -- that somehow, Ryan still did crave his father's approval and affirmation. And that in some way, having his father enjoy his wife, take her, was the ultimate approval.

And then, there was Sunday night's conversation. Michelle had recruited him to engage in her role-playing and teasing of Ryan in ways that were way beyond anything he could imagine himself doing. Of course, three months ago, he couldn't have imagined in his wildest dreams, that he would ever allow himself to have sex with his son's wife, let alone to do it repeatedly, to do it with his son's knowledge, to do it in his son's home, his son's bed.

He had had more fun, excitement, even joy in the past three months than he had had in the previous... well, ever. "Trust me," she kept saying. As far as he knew, she hadn't failed him yet.

As far as he knew, the voice on his left shoulder reminded him.

"Nah, we're all in," said the voice on his right.

***

By the time Michelle got home, late Monday afternoon, I was so happy and ready to see her again. Her smile, her warm embrace, her gentle kiss when she came in the front door was all I needed. In spite of the fact that my penis had been aching inside its cage more often than not for the past 72 hours, I didn't need to be released so I could reclaim her immediately. Simply holding her again, making her a drink, cuddling together on the sofa was more than enough for now.

"So," she asked me, softly. "Did you have a good weekend?"

I chuckled. "Well..."

"Let me put it this way," she continued. "Was it everything you thought it would be?"

"Uh huh," I acknowledged. She knew my kinks so well. "And did you?"

"Umm... yeah," she replied. "It was great to have so much time to..."

I flinched involuntarily, and she laughed. "Yes, well, that, too. But I was going to say, we had lots of time to talk."

I inhaled deeply. For some reason, I was more intrigued by thinking about how they had spent their time between sexual encounters, than imagining the sex itself.

"So, what did you talk about?" I asked.

"A lot of things. You."

"Me? What about me?"

"Oh, everything. What you were like growing up. What you're doing professionally. He's proud of you, you know."

I lowered my eyes, and smiled weakly. "Still?"

She smiled back gently at me, and rubbed my shoulder. She understood. From the very beginning, the idea that my father learning that I was a cuckold -- first hand, as it were, by personally taking my wife sexually -- might obliterate any respect he had for me, had been dizzyingly terrifying, and magnetically compelling. She suspected it before I knew it, but she had only acted on it once she knew for sure.

"Baby," she said. "I mean, yeah, he's only had a couple of months to get his head around your kinks. But he thinks you're amazing."

"Hmm," I grunted, not quite convinced.

"He, um, approves of your taste in women." She batted her eyes, making me twitch, but grin.

"You know," she said, turning sideways on the sofa and getting comfortable to launch into a lecture, "Your dad's easy to get along with. I mean, so are you, but face it, buster, you're not the easiest guy in the world to understand.

"But it always seemed like you two just 'got along,' not like you had that much in common. You've definitely gone out of your way to spend more time with him since his divorce. Kind of out of respect, obligation. Filial piety."

"Filial piety?" I repeated.

"Uh huh. Xiao. The traditional Chinese virtue of honoring your parents." She chuckled, and then coyly bit her lip and arched her eyebrows, reminding me of the carnal nature of her weekend with him. "Some people might think you're taking it to an extreme."

I grinned at that, but I was intrigued with what she had to say. I turned to face her, and listened for several minutes as she speculated on multi-generational family dynamics. It took me those several minutes to realize that my penis had relaxed and taken a nap in its cage during her discourse.

A lot of it was kind of textbook, boilerplate stuff, but a lot of it seemed uniquely relevant to my own personal experience. Mostly, it had to do with her observation that while my dad had been present and reliable as a father figure when I was young, he had never been particularly *engaged,* as a coach or a guide or an authority figure, and that maybe both of us subconsciously were missing that.

But she also seemed to have coaxed out of him things that even I had never thought to ask him, about his relationship with his own father. She commented about how each generation learns from the previous one; some simply repeat what they saw modeled, others consciously try to do something else, something better. Later, I would recall the conversation and wonder if she was foreshadowing, hinting about my potential as a parent; but if so, I missed it. At any rate, I didn't feel patronized or judged, and I didn't feel like she was treating my father that way, either.

I did a lot of nodding.

"I've got lots more to tell you about," she finally told me. "But right now, I want you to take me to bed."

And, boom!, I could feel the constriction of the cage around my genitals again.

"Make us another drink," she said, "And meet me in the bedroom."

I jumped up and headed to the kitchen, and mixed two drinks in record time. When I entered the bedroom a minute later, she was still dressed, unpacking.

She took the drinks and put them on the nightstand, and told me, "Get undressed."

I stripped quickly, and stretched out on the bed, naked except for my steel chastity cage, my glans purple and swollen between its bars. She reached down to grab the hem of her sundress, and pulled it up over her head. She was wearing matching underwear, again, as she always did when she was with him, I noticed; yellow, this time. She climbed onto the end of the bed, below my feet. I could see the fine silver chain around her waist.

She paused and rose upright on her knees, shoulders back, breasts forward, the chain following the gentle swell of her trim stomach, looping down from her hipbones, tracing across the lacy top of her panties.

There was no key on it.

My eyes must have been the size of saucers, because she mimicked me, making her eyes round and dropping her jaw open in mock surprise.

"Oh, yeah!" she said. "I forgot. I gave the key to your dad."

I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, and my cock trying to squeeze through the bars of its cage.

"I just thought," she continued, her voice sweet and sultry, "That now that he owns my pussy, he should get to decide whether you get to be unlocked or not."

I couldn't tell which part of that sentence was more devastating. "He owns your..."

She shrugged. As if to say, yeah, it's no big deal...

"He said that?" I croaked.

"Well, to be honest, I think I said it first," she said, with a faint smile. "But then he said it too. So, yeah, that kind of sealed the deal..."

I shuddered and closed my eyes, imagining the scene; imagining her whispering, gasping, moaning those words into my father's ear with her arms around his neck as he rutted into her; imagining him repeating them back to her, as vows, like taking the oath of office, making it official.

She sat down on one hip at the foot of the bed, stroking my leg below the knee, looking at me with... sympathy? But affection. And a certain wild excitement in her eyes. She was playing with me, I knew. There were no bounds to her imagination.

Fortunately, I knew, the spare key was in my top dresser drawer, in a sealed envelope. She saw me glancing that direction, and pre-empted me.

"No, I moved that already, first thing," she said. "I think if you want out of that cage, you should call your dad and get his permission."

Talk about having the wind knocked out of me. Call my dad? GET HIS PERMISSION? My wife never ceased to be able to shock me. If she had told me that my father wanted her to keep me in chastity, that would have been stunning enough. But to call him, talk to him, ask him permission to be released? The idea made me sick to my stomach, and dizzy with humiliating excitement.

My expression must have been all the cue my wife needed. She got on her hands and knees and crawled up the bed, panther-like, and stretched out beside me.

"Would it be humiliating to have to ask your father for permission to let your penis get hard?"

I whimpered and nodded.

"So, I think you should call him," she said softly. "Because... think about this... what if you ask him... and he says no?"

Oh, Jesus. In that moment, I felt like I might actually cum in my cage. She had coaxed an orgasm out of me before when I was locked up, but that time at least I was dry-humping into a pillow between her legs while she worked her magic on my mind. Right now I was just lying on my back! Quickly, I moved my knees apart to relieve the pressure.

Maybe now is the time to use my safeword, I thought. God. I had just let her lock me up for a holiday weekend and let her go spend three days as his girlfriend, as his woman, fucking him who knows how many times. Was this the bridge too far?

"I just think... it's time that we let him make more of these decisions."

I quivered and bit my lip. I knew this another one of her brilliant games. She surely had put him up to this, coached him. I was nauseous with arousal and humiliation, but I just had to see how this played out. The safeword could wait.

"Yeah, okay," I managed to rasp out. She smiled brightly, and popped up off the bed to go get my phone. Because she could tell that all of my bones had melted into puddles, and it was all I could do to push myself up so I was sitting against the headboard.

She sashayed back into the room, her eyes still shining with amusement and excitement, her nipples pushing through the sheer fabric of her yellow bra, and handed me my phone. My hands trembled as I took it and scrolled through my contacts, and hit "call."

The phone rang twice, and then I heard my father's voice. "Hello?"

"Hi Dad," I managed.

"Hi Ryan," he replied. And waited.

"So... um... Michelle got home safely."

"I know," he replied. "She called me a half an hour ago, just as she was pulling into your driveway."

Yes, of course.

"Did you have a good weekend?" he asked.

"Umm, yeah," I lied, then almost without thinking, added, "Did you?"

"Terrific," he replied.

"So..." I took a deep breath, feeling like I was asking to borrow the car for the first time. "Michelle thought..." I looked at my wife, and saw she was scowling at me. Don't put this on me, she was telling me. Own it.

"I was wondering... if I could take off the cage..."

Silence for a moment, while my heart and my stomach traded places.

"I think that would be okay," he finally said. "But, on a couple of conditions."

I found myself awash with relief and arousing anticipation. I probably should have been more concerned about the conditions. "Okay," is all I said.

"I still think you need to wear a condom." I sensed a note of uncertainty in his voice, like this wasn't coming easy to him, either. Nevertheless, I found the requirement insanely exciting. To actually be told by my father to use a condom to fuck my wife. With the implication that fucking her bareback was his prerogative.

"Okay."

"And... so I'm looking at the calendar. Three weeks from now, or from last Saturday rather, the company is having a tailgate party before the Iowa game."

I nodded. He wanted Michelle as his date again.

"I was hoping the two of you could come as my guests."

I realized immediately what that meant. He wanted me to come meet his friends, as his son, and watch him and his girlfriend together. As a third wheel. I felt like I might pass out.

I looked over at Michelle. She was beaming, and nodding.

"Yeah, okay, sure, I think we can do that," I replied. "Yes. Thanks." Then I added, "Sounds like fun." Although honestly, it sounded like torture; but, the kind of torture to which I was addicted. I was already picturing myself in a crowd of strangers, holding a beer, watching forlornly from fifteen feet away as my dad held court, with my lovely wife, dressed casually in jeans and a sweatshirt and looking just as desirable that way as she did in that blue dress, stood beside him with her arm hooked through his elbow and looked up at him admiringly. I was already picturing myself settling down for the night on his couch as she disappeared with him into his bedroom and the door shut behind them.

"Is Michelle there with you?" he was asking. I confirmed. "Put us on speaker."

I did so, and Dad's voice burst forth from the phone. "Hey, baby," he said. Baby?, I thought.

"Hi John," my wife replied, her eyes on me.

"So, I think it's okay if you use the spare key to let your husband out of his cage."

"Okay, thank you," she replied. Thank you, I noted. As if it really was his call.

"Just make sure he's wearing it on the 27th," Dad added.

"Absolutely," Michelle laughed, almost in surprise. I surmised that Dad was ad-libbing now, and she liked it.

"Okay, great, then," he wrapped up. "See you then. And... be safe."

Be safe, I thought. Yeah, she's already home. He's not talking about driving. He's talking about keeping my semen out of her pussy. His pussy.