My Father's Woman Ch. 08 - Blue

I know you can't please everyone. But let's see if I can piss everyone off! I've decided to release three parallel "next chapters" simultaneously... three alternative futures for our heroine and heroes. Hopefully they'll all pop up on Literotica at the same time. I've labeled them Blue, Orange, and Purple -- no significance other than being the opposites of Red, Yellow and Green on the color wheel. So they don't relate to safe words...

Some of you may well read all three of them. Just remember... whichever one you read first, that's what really happened! [Shocked face emoji!] The other two are just Ryan's future daydreams and nightmares of relief or regret...

So, choose wisely. Because Ryan can't.

John woke up while it was still dark. He wasn't sure until he checked the clock that it was, in fact, seven o'clock. The days were getting shorter quickly now. But his daughter-in-law was still sleeping, naked in his bed next to him, and he didn't want to wake her too soon.

Lying on his back, he reached down under the covers and wrapped his hand around his faithful morning erection. It was still a bit sticky, from where he had ejaculated inside his son's wife last night, and then stayed on top of her, savoring the moment as long as he could.

If he had been in bed alone he doubtlessly would have "taken care" of the erection, in the fashion he had been using for about 48 years; but he didn't want to wake Michelle, and of course he hoped she would take care of it.

He stayed there beside her until light began filtering through the blinds. And now she was stirring, rolling to face him, opening her eyes.

"Hey there," he whispered.

"Hey." She snuggled up to him and let him tip her chin up to kiss her good morning, but kept her lips pursed. "Let me go brush my teeth," she said.

"Yeah, of course," John replied. "I just kind of hate to get the day started."

"We're in no hurry," she said, slipping out from under the sheets.

Yeah, John thought; but the sounds of running water and a flushing toilet would no doubt wake up his son Ryan, who was sleeping on the sofa. Twenty feet away, just on the other side of a single thin door.

In a chastity cage.

"Just thinking of Ryan," John said softly.

Michelle smiled at him and arched her eyebrows. "Oh, I think he'll deal with it. Remember, this is his last day of this, too."

John just shook his head, and watched her perfect heart-shaped bottom move, the way it did, as she went into the bathroom and closed the door.

He got his son's kink now. Not that he could relate to it; but he had done enough reading over the recent weeks to start to understand how someone could eroticize the angst and torment of knowing one's wife was having sex with another man. Even how being confined in that cock cage could make the wearer constantly, unrelentingly aroused, for days on end.

And he had definitely come to embrace his role in their game, which he now understood was a more common activity than he ever would have guessed. It was exciting to make love to a married woman who was willing to offer sex, and almost nothing but sex, instead of commitment and obligation and a lifetime of weekend chores. He had even started to enjoy the idea of supplanting the husband, diminishing him. It was an intriguing paradigm. He had started to consider how he might go about finding a couple like this in Phoenix.

Ryan's version of this kink was perfect, he thought. John wasn't cheating, dealing with the fear of getting caught. Neither was he playing the role of a human dildo, a "stunt cock" performing on demand for a voyeuristic amateur porn director. His son was just quietly, acquiescing in John's preferences, especially his desire to take Michelle in private, and not discuss it. Wordlessly yielding before his... sexual primacy.

When Michelle came back out of the bathroom, John rolled out of bed to take his turn. Might as well get comfortable, even knowing that his son would hear them and be aching with frustration a few feet away. Or maybe especially knowing that.

As he brushed his teeth, he considered how these mundane moments made his time with Michelle so "real." Their relationship was a fantasy, sure; but Michelle was a real woman with morning breath and periods and, presumably, bowel movements, and she didn't try to pretend otherwise.

When he slipped back into bed, Michelle reached to him, and rolled onto her side so they could meet in an easy embrace. He felt her soft, perfectly proportioned breasts pressing into his hairy chest. He felt his cock, temporarily deflated while he had emptied his bladder, growing against her thighs.

"You know, I would love it if you would come see me in Phoenix some weekend," he ventured.

"Mmm," she responded, an encouraging sound. "Yeah, but... we agreed."

"Yeah," he said.

They had agreed on Labor Day that as much fun as they were having -- as much fun as all three of them were having, she assured him -- it couldn't go on forever. At least not the way it was. The timing was right, for him to take this upcoming gig in Arizona, and for her and her husband to re-set their marriage, by starting a family.

"I'll be back at Christmas," he sighed.

"Yes. And you're spending it with us, right?"

"Of course," he responded. Of course, the last time he had spent a weekend with them, he had evicted his son from the master bedroom, and fucked Michelle a half-dozen times while Ryan was banished to the guest suite.

So, what about next time? She had not insisted that it was over forever, and he had avoided asking the question. Maybe at Christmas he could take over the master bedroom again, and reacquaint himself with the delicious body of his by-then-pregnant daughter in law.

He decided to risk it. "Same sleeping arrangements as last time?"

"I guess we would have to talk about that."

Well, then! A better response than he had feared.

"So..." he started to say. Then paused. Then went ahead and rolled the dice. "What if you're not pregnant yet by then?"

She was silent for longer than he expected. "I guess we would have to talk about that too."

He grabbed her and rolled her onto her back, compelled with the sudden urge to cover her.

"I'll come over for Christmas," he whispered. He had thought about this a lot in the last three weeks. "And then, I'd like to take you away for a week. Maybe Mexico."

He felt her shudder beneath him. And then say, "Oh, God."

He thrust against her, feeling the underside of his cock slide up over her wetness as her legs came up around him..

"That would drive Ryan crazy," she murmured. And paused.

"Especially if I wasn't pregnant yet."

Oh, Jesus, he thought. He knew she was a magician when it came to role-playing, but ...

"You know we can't do that," she whispered.

Of course, he acknowledged, silently.

"But we can pretend," she added.

"Michelle," he gasped.

"Tell me," she whispered. "Tell me what you want."

***

I could hear them, of course. Not what they were saying; their conversation was too muted to make anything out. But I could tell they were talking, and occasionally laughing. And I could definitely tell when they started having that other kind of conversation, the kind that produced moans and grunts and the rhythmic squeaking of bedsprings.

God damn, I thought; she wasn't just teasing me. My old man really did have stamina. The sounds went on and on, just like she always told me that my father always did, plunging in and out of her while she came over and over again. For a good half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes. I was aching in my cage, full of desperation. And admiration.

I had made coffee and was sitting up looking mindlessly through old magazines when Michelle slipped out of Dad's bedroom, wearing just a white satin robe. She came over and leaned down and kissed my forehead.

"G'morning, sweetheart," she said. "Sleep okay?"

I just smiled weakly. "Well..."

"It's okay," she cut me off. "I can drive home."

She moved on into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee. In the other room, I could hear the shower running. I guess when you're a mature man having energetic sex twice a night, you need a lot of showers.

Michelle came back and settled down beside me, tucking her feet up under herself. I could feel her warmth through the thin robe. And I could smell her, a piquant mix of her faded perfume, his cologne and perspiration, and the distinctive aroma of sex. She didn't reek of it. It was subtle. But I was a sommelier when it came to detecting subtle notes in my wife's bouquet.

She reached up and put her hand on my chin, turned my face, and kissed me. Her lips soft on mine, inviting. She parted them slightly and flicked her tongue against my lips, then pulled back, but only slightly.

She took a deep breath, her breasts swelling against the shiny opaque fabric, then receding again.

"So," she said, "Your dad and I talked some this morning."

I nodded. Yeah, I figured as much.

"He invited me to come to Phoenix with him."

I jerked at that. But it wasn't like I hadn't already tortured myself with the idea.

"Oh," I replied. "Umm... when?"

"Well, later this week. That's when he's going."

I felt the familiar sense of vertigo. "Huhhhh..." I heard myself stumbling, then catching myself. "To get him moved in?"

She leaned into me, her soft breasts wrapping around my upper arm. Her hand sliding down to cup my cage through my pajama pants.

"Mmm, yeah, that, of course. But no. For the whole three months."

I jerked my head back against the back of the sofa, and she giggled. "Kinda hot, isn't it?"

Kinda hot? Oh, fuck no. Oh, fuck yes. She had just gone off the pill. I knew she was teasing me. She had to be teasing me. But, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.

"And you know," she continued, her hand still between my legs, her fingers tickling my distended testicles, drawn up tight by the bottom of the cage. "I'd really want you to stay caged the whole time."

I wondered if my dad would hear my moan in the shower.

"Aww," she cooed. "It's okay. You'll get out by Christmas."

I closed my eyes and tried not to hyperventilate. I was vaguely aware of the shower being turned off in the other room.

"Ryan, baby," she was whispering into my ear. "It's what you want, isn't it?"

Oh, Jesus. What was my safe word? Oh, yeah. But I didn't use it. I wanted to hear what she would say next.

But she didn't say anything. She just kept tickling my balls, while my cock tried to split the cage apart.

"But..." I gasped. "What about your work?"

"Oh, I can work remotely," she answered. "I checked on that last week."

Of course, she had. "What would I tell everyone?"

She shrugged. "That's up to you."

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Jesus save me, because I can't save myself.

But Jesus was silent.

"Hmmm," she said, after a very long pause. "That's what I thought."

Then my dad came out of the bedroom. Fully dressed.

"Breakfast, anyone?" was all he said.

"Sounds wonderful," Michelle said, standing up.

***

Breakfast had been awkward, but none of us discussed what would happen next. Of course, she was still teasing me. But did he have any idea what she had just been proposing to me? I didn't want to ask.

Michelle drove us home. ("Of course," she had told me with a wink, outside my dad's earshot. "I mean, I have to go pack for Arizona, don't I?") Amazingly, I fell asleep in the passenger seat. I was exhausted. But my dreams were haunted by the image of the two of them, in Phoenix, having sex every night. For the next three months.

When I wasn't asleep, I kept my eyes closed and listened to the highway humming under the tires, and let my imagination take me to dark places. And before long, I couldn't tell what was a dream, and what was my semi-conscious and willing acceptance of what my life might become.

We would get home, and Michelle would begin to pack. Not for a weekend, but for three months in Arizona. I would watch. I wouldn't argue. I wouldn't try to stop her.

I wanted her to go.

I wanted her to do this. To me. For him.

I had been struggling to keep my head above water for so long, that finally surrendering to the inevitable felt ... irresistible.

She would go to him, not for a night or a weekend, but for three months. ("At least," I heard her whisper in my ears, stereophonically, as if she had me tied to a post and she was circling behind me, a cartoon villainess, a femme fatale.)

Face it, you, too, have always wanted to just let go and let Catwoman have her way. Or Bellatrix Lestrange. Michelle, in fact, even looks a bit like Kathleen Turner in "Body Heat." You know it's not going to end well, but you just have to see it through.

She would be there. Living with him. As his woman. The woman he came home to every night. Every night! In his bed, every evening and every morning until eventually, maybe after three or four weeks, it was so comfortable that they just slept next to each other without making languorous love or furiously fucking first.

I would be here, going about my business, working during the day, rattling around the house and aching in my cage at night, wallowing in my emptiness, my misery, my loss. Making up some story for the neighbors about Michelle's absence; her working remotely while she helped out some family member with ... something.

It was a good thing my neighbor Dani was off at college for the fall. She had just the kind of perverse imagination and perception to see right through me and deduce the truth of my situation.

Although, perhaps, eventually everyone would know. And I would be the object of morbid fascination and pity.

In the meantime, I would be chaste, and on the constant edge of trembling release, but never over the line. Because Michelle might be my father's woman now, but I was still her husband, and she still owned my fidelity, and my orgasms. I wanted her to have them, to enjoy her ownership, even if she put them in a locked cabinet.

I loved the idea that she would think of me, perhaps late in the afternoon, about the time I would be returning home from work; and be amused at my predicament and aroused by her power over me. And so when my father came in the door a minute later, he would be pleased with how she greeted him, and within moments he would have her on the kitchen counter, thighs wrapped around him, slipping his sudden erection into a vaginal canal that was already well-lubricated for him by her excitement over my submission.

And each night, I would stir the pot of my misery stew by writing erotica. Night after night, a few more pages, another scenario, but always with the same characters, and always climaxing, so to speak, with my father inseminating my wife. I used to write erotica until I reached a scene or a turn of phrase that caused me to masturbate past the edge. Not anymore. I wrote until I needed to close my eyes, although sleep always came much later. And the mind-settling orgasm never did. Now I wrote until my father's character could relax into his post-orgasmic haze of satisfaction, clutching my wife's satiated body against his side. Just like my actual father was doing in real life two thousand miles away.

And finally, I would try to write from Michelle's point of view. I had never done that before. It seemed like a violation of her privacy. To be inside her head would be to know when she was teasing me and when she wasn't, and that would be like spoiling my own Christmas by digging for my presents in my parents' closet.

But I wanted to "be there" when she woke up in the middle of the night, feeling the little "ping" in her lower abdomen, and realizing that it was implantation cramps. That the ovum that one of my father's hundreds of millions of sperm cells had fertilized five or six days ago, had imbedded itself into her uterine wall. And she smiled, and jostled my father in his sleep, and when she had roused him, whispered to him, "Hey. I'm pregnant."

***

After I woke up, she didn't mention Phoenix again. By the time we got home, she was tired, and she took an afternoon nap while I made a quick grocery run, still confined to my cage.

But by dinner time -- during meal prep, in fact! -- she came to me and made a little production out of removing my cage. I even got a blow job right there in the kitchen, leaning up against the counter, my pretty wife on her knees in front of me. Not to completion. She had other plans for my orgasm. But I wasn't complaining. Although I did have wicked thoughts about how down-on-her-knees daytime blowjobs were the kind of treats boyfriends got, not hubbies. And I had to wonder how many times my father might have enjoyed the experience.

When we made love that night I was pleasantly surprised by my performance. Not that I didn't expect to be aroused; that was going to be no problem. I was relieved that I managed to last long enough for Michelle to have an orgasm. Because, while neither one of us said anything about it, what I couldn't stop thinking about was that she just might already be pregnant. Or, more precisely, she might already have a fertilized egg, compliments of my virile sixty-year-old father, making its way to her uterus.

And every time we had sex over the next week, the same thought kept me aroused and, well, vigorous. If Michelle got pregnant this cycle, I wouldn't know for sure who the father was. And I wasn't sure how or if I could find out. And that was terribly exciting.

Michelle got her period the third week of October. She was not concerned. "I never expected to get pregnant the first month off the pill anyway," she assured me. I knew, too, that statistically it wasn't likely. What I didn't want to admit out loud was that I would kind of miss the awful anxiety of wondering, once she got pregnant, who the father was; entertaining the chilling, thrilling possibility that it was my dad's bun in her oven.

In the days leading up to her next probable fertile time, she teased me about putting me back in the cage. "Making sure you store it all up for me!" she laughed. She didn't actually do it. What she did do, however, was assure my rampant tumescence by telling me about my dad's offer to take her to Mexico after Christmas.

The few days around Halloween, I got a lesson about the reality of "baby-making sex." Some of my friends who were parents had joked about this. When you're serious about having a baby, doing it twice a day whether both spouses feel like it or not can become a bit more of a chore than it sounds. It occurred to me that that's why she had introduced the Mexico trip into our playbook. If she was tired or losing lubrication, all she had to do was say the word, and quickly my semen was splashing into her like waves on a Baja beach.

But mid-November rolled around, and she wasn't pregnant. This time she seemed disappointed, but not necessarily concerned. I was getting concerned, though. Thanksgiving would be my third and last opportunity to knock her up, before my father came back at Christmas.

In the light of day she would make references to seeing a doctor, to tests that we could have done to see if one of us had any fertility challenges. But at night -- and in my private thoughts around the clock -- I couldn't help but think of a simpler, quicker, more natural way to test her ability to conceive.

And I was sure she was aware of my gathering anxiety over the issue, although she didn't confront it directly. Her teasing became more subtle, until I wasn't sure whether it was a tease. Hearing her humming James Taylor's "Oh, Mexico" while loading the dishwasher. Or in bed, after we had made love, while I lay beside her drained of my adrenalin and my ardor.

I could have insisted that we get more serious about seeing a medical specialist. Get a commitment, get it on the calendar. That would be the logical thing.