My Father's Woman Ch. 08 - Purple

I know you can't please everyone. But let's see if I can piss everyone off! I've decided 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're not 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.

We drove home on Sunday, not speaking much. We listened to the music on the MP3 player, and she laced her fingers through mine and stared off through her sunglasses, through the windshield at the interstate before us.

I wondered what was going on in her mind, but I didn't pry. It would make sense that she might be feeling a bit sad. Her time with my dad had been a crazy, intense little fling, a game that she had played for my twisted benefit. But I knew there was something more there. I was sure there was, from my father's point of view. Probably, to some degree, for her, too.

There certainly was for me.

And then, there was the exciting, maddening thought in my mind that she might already be carrying his child. That he had achieved the ultimate goal that was nature's intent for what they had been doing. My cock ached all the way home. I was still wearing the cage. We hadn't discussed that, either.

She left the key on my nightstand after unpacking. I unlocked myself and put the cage in my top dresser drawer. No unveiling ceremony, no teasing that maybe I ought to leave it on for a while longer.

That night, when she came out of the bathroom in an emerald green satin nightshirt -- one that I had never seen before -- I had no trouble becoming instantly hard. She smelled good, too, I noted as she straddled me. A new perfume. Baby-making perfume, I thought. To go with new baby-making lingerie.

Or maybe it wasn't new. Maybe it was just something she had bought for him, one more thing for him to enjoy while I was denied.

If she got pregnant tonight, or this coming week -- if she missed her next period -- I wouldn't know for sure if the baby was mine. The thought just made me harder.

She reached down to grasp me and seated herself on top of me. The pleasure was glorious. So, too was my orgasm, eventually. I felt pleased with myself that I lasted long enough for her to cum, too. Evidently, she was aroused as I was.

We made love every night for the next week and a half, and several mornings. Every time, I imagined that she was already pregnant with his child. Every time, my orgasm was intense. But I never admitted to her why.

Two weeks later she informed me that her period had started.

"It's okay," she told me. "I really didn't expect to get pregnant the first month off the pill."

You didn't? I thought. You were that sure? Sure enough to spend one last night in my father's bed, giving him the prima nocta, the first chance to have unprotected sex with her, to be the one who planted his offspring in her fertile womb if she was wrong?

But I didn't say that. I didn't say anything. I just held her and kissed the top of her head. And felt a certain sense of disappointment.

Of course, this meant that if she got pregnant now -- when she got pregnant now -- there would be no doubt that the baby was mine. Ours, of course. But not my father's. I should feel an overwhelming sense of relief. Instead, I felt like something that had become a part of me was suddenly missing.

***

When I turned off the TV and came to bed that night, she was sitting up in bed reading. We wouldn't be having sex tonight; she never feels like it at the start of her period. So my brain wasn't clouded with lust already when she brought up the subject.

"So, congratulations," she said.

"For what?" I asked.

"For holding out," she continued, setting aside her book. "For taking my best shot, without breaking."

I grinned. I figured I knew what she was talking about now, but I didn't want to interrupt her.

"Honestly," she said. "That went a lot farther than I ever imagined. I figured you would have used your safe word."

"Yeah," I admitted. "It was amazing."

Then I realized that she wasn't in a teasing mood.

"You let me sleep with another man when you knew I had gone off the pill." Then she drove home the point. "Your father."

"As I recall," I responded, gingerly, "That was your choice, too."

"Yeah, well," she said, picking up her book again. "We used condoms that night."

"Oh," I said, and immediately hoped I hadn't sounded disappointed.

"And anyway, I knew I wasn't ovulating. I was taking my temperature. There was no thermal shift. And no change in my cervical mucus."

"Cervical mucus," I thought. God, she could be so clinical. Just like when she insisted that I not make a grand gesture of flushing her birth control pills down the toilet. And it all fit right into the way she was a stickler for consent. She did some outrageous things, but she was always in control.

"Still," she said. "You thought I could get pregnant that night."

I lowered my eyes. Shit, I thought; she wasn't praising me. She was disappointed in me.

"And you spent the whole last two weeks thinking I might be pregnant with your dad's baby," she went on.

I swallowed hard. I looked down at some random spot on the sheets. I didn't want to meet her gaze.

"Did that get you off?" she pushed. "Is that what it took to get you off?" I couldn't ignore her, so I just shrugged.

"I'm sorry," I finally said.

"Don't say you're sorry. We dared each other to push this game to its limits, and we did."

I looked up at her. Her eyes had softened. I lowered my head onto her shoulder, let her wrap her arm around me.

"It's okay. We both got carried away with it, but we're okay," she said. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

I exhaled deeply, releasing my shame. Some of it, but not all of it. I nuzzled into her neck. My goddess, my bringer of sexual ecstasy and torture, my provider of grace.

"So, are you ready to get back to being my loving husband?"

I nodded against her neck.

***

Two weeks later, she came out the bathroom, exquisitely naked and beautiful. She wordlessly mounted me, and I slipped inside her effortlessly.

We made love easily, passionately, my hands moving constantly back and forth between her undulating hips and her soft, lovely breasts. Then I rolled her over and pinned her beneath me.

In my mind, though, I was still picturing her underneath my father. His thick, hairy stomach slapping against her smooth belly. Her legs spread wide around his insistent, thrusting torso. I had spent so many countless hours, over the past months, aching in my cage and imagining this image. I couldn't help but picture again, their last time together.

And their next.

I couldn't help but imagine how my father must have felt, his cock sliding in and out of this impossibly lovely woman. Claiming her, taking her in spite of her marriage to his son. Desiring her, and having her. I pictured him now, alone in a rented apartment in Phoenix, remembering her, counting the days until he could see her again at Christmas. Hoping...

Hoping what? Hoping that she was still not pregnant? That I had failed, as a husband and a man, so that he could Do the Job Right?

God. I was conjuring their reunion sex. Their lovemaking. I could sense an orgasm building; but I didn't want it to be mine. I wanted it to be my father's orgasm: more powerful, more potent than I could ever produce. Building like the towering thunderheads of an approaching summer storm; causing her to climax in sheer anticipation, in response to the lightning and the sudden drop in barometric pressure that was announcing the imminent deluge, so that she was already pulsing around him when the gale swept over her and he finally unleashed himself into her, epically, torrentially. Into her lush, pliant body that was, finally, feracious and fertile, for him. How it would feel for him! The triumph! The conquest! The satisfaction! The unbridled masculine certitude. I could never achieve a moment of such virile, muscular, primal ecstasy.

I could never deprive my father of it.

That thought was all it took to trigger me, and before my conscious mind had articulated to me what I was doing, I had pulled out and shot a rope of semen that landed on her neck and left a trail down between her breasts. Then I twitched again, and again, depositing a growing pool of my wasted seed on her soft stomach.

I looked down at her as my eyes came back into focus. She had crossed her arms across her breasts, as if concealing them from me, as if I didn't deserve to see them. She was glowering in disdain and disgust.

I pulled myself up, feeling my softening cock slip out of her. She glared at me; then, as soon as I was upright on my knees enough for her to draw her legs up and roll out from under me, she did so.

She quickly went into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her. I stayed in bed, filled with shame, listening to the water run as she washed my semen off of her, letting it swirl down the drain.

Finally I got up, guiltily, and knocked on the door.

"Go away."

"I'm sorry, baby," I said.

"Don't call me baby."

I leaned against the wall beside the door, awash in remorse. Finally, after several minutes, she opened it.

"I thought you were ready," was all she said.

I just looked at the floor.

She walked past me to her dresser and pulled out a robe. I knew she was leaving the room for tonight, and I deserved nothing more. But instead, she turned toward me, her eyes flashing with anger.

"When have I ever not given you everything you wanted?" she spat out at me.

"I've indulged all your little cuckold fantasies.

"I even took your sick little obsession with me fucking your father way, way, past anything any sane man would have tolerated."

I couldn't meet her eyes. I couldn't believe this was happening. Even though I knew I deserved it.

"You've gone off the deep end. I thought maybe ending things with your dad and starting a family together would get you back. Give me back the man I married. But you're too far gone.

"What do you want from me? You want me to fly to Phoenix and stay there until your daddy knocks me up? Is that what it takes to get your rocks off?

"Maybe give him a son he could be proud of..."

I didn't respond. I tried to meet her eyes but couldn't.

"Is that what you want???"

I didn't even have to use my safe word. All I had to say is a quiet "no." But I didn't even do that. I looked at the floor. And saw my cock twitch inside my boxers.

"Ugh," she snarled. "You're pathetic."

"Honey," I started to say, having no idea where I was going from there.

"Don't 'honey' me!" she spat out at me.

I was stunned. This was so unfair. I mean, yes, she was right; I had become obsessed with an insane fetish. But she was the one who had opened this Pandora's box. Still, I couldn't deny that I was the one who had turned it upside down and shaken all the demons out of it.

She left the room, slamming the door behind her. I didn't follow her. I was stricken with shame and grief, but I knew better than to try to argue my case. She needed time. I would give it to her, and then do my penance.

***

I never made love to Michelle again.

I don't know whether my father ever did again, or not. I don't speak with him anymore. He eventually took a permanent transfer to the Minneapolis office. By Christmas, Michelle had taken a job with a small liberal arts college on the east coast.

I never really got used to how abruptly my marriage ended. That Michelle refused to ever speak to me again about what had evidently torn us apart. That she was never willing, or able, to try to heal. The best I could come up with was that we had both been like Icarus, flying too close to the sun; and by the time we had crashed back to earth there was not enough left to save.

I stayed and sold the house, and we divided up the assets, letting attorneys do the talking between us.

I kept teaching my class at the university but didn't renew my contract for the spring. I missed all my deadlines on the book and lost my publishing deal. I maintained my job with the foundation. My board chair was sympathetic to my plight, although of course he had no idea of the whole story. I had built up enough good will that I could coast through a couple of quarters of underachieving.

It took a while before I dipped my toe back into dating and relationships.

I thought about asking out my neighbor Diane. She was ten or twelve years older than me, but I found her quite attractive, and we had known each other long enough to have some things in common. And if nothing else, from what I knew about her teenage daughter, once I presented myself as a rival for her mother's attention, I might very easily get a piece of that plump little sexpot. But I never acted on that, probably wisely. Intergenerational familial debauchery hadn't worked out very well for me the last time.

Anyway, I was a thirty-six-year-old divorced man with a decent job and, better yet, no kids. To a lot of single and divorced women in their thirties and forties, I was still a "catch."

Gwen was the next woman with whom I finally went out on date. She was attractive, long and slender, brunette and bright and charming. Our first date was a success. Drinks, dinner, lots of easy conversation punctuated by laughter followed by smiles and the occasional coy gesture of her biting her lower lip. One not-so-chaste goodnight kiss at her doorstep.

That night I went back to my bed in my austere new apartment, and stretched out on my back and closed my eyes and stroked myself. To the image of Gwen, still half-clothed in black lingerie, on her back, moving languorously with her long, stocking-clad legs wrapped around a thick, thrusting torso. As my father impregnated her.