tagLoving WivesForbidden, Unrequited

Forbidden, Unrequited


I pushed the eggs around my plate, while my mind raced. Across from me sat my wife, deep in a book, slowly scooping the food from her plate to her mouth, barely glancing away from the page she was on.

In the twenty years of our marriage, this is what we’d come to. We were high school sweethearts, so there was very little of ourselves we hadn’t shared with each other. Thus, our lives had become excruciatingly routine. We each had our interests that we ran to when necessary, but time together had gotten rather predictable. We still loved each other, of that I was certain - I couldn’t imagine myself with anyone but her - but the spark had mostly gone out.

Sexually, we got together about once a month, usually right after her period, when the hormones still flowed, but the blood didn’t. Those times were fleeting, but wonderful. She still knew what worked best on me, and I, her, so even though *I* thought we could go at it a little more often, I wouldn’t trade those times we *did* get together.

And I don’t place all the blame on her, either. My activities outside home usually had me gone for several hours two or three times a week. Therefore, even when she did get the urge, at times away from that time of month I mentioned earlier, I was often unavailable to take advantage of the fact.

So, for the most part, when she got horny during the week, she was forced to take matters into her own hands, and so for me, unfortunately. I won’t say that her vibrator got a *big* workout, or that I was wearing myself raw, but except for certain special occasions, our sex life had become pretty predictable, too.

So... there we were, victims of long familiarity, and sex drives that seemed to mesh only sporadically.

“Rhonda?” She looked up from her book, a forkful of pancake suspended halfway to her mouth. Even in that awkward pose, I still felt a flush of love toward her. “What’s on for today?”

Setting her fork back on her plate and turning the book face down beside it, she put her elbows on the table and folded her arms in front of her before speaking. “Well, as you already know, my breakfast date with Heidi was cancelled today, since she and Roger are out of town, so I thought I’d have breakfast with my handsome husband for a change..." At that, she smiled, reached out and touched my hand. “Then, in a little bit I’m meeting the girls to try and finish that quilt for the charity auction, so I probably won’t be home till around six or so. Why? What’s on your agenda?”

I sat back, my hand slipping from beneath hers, and stretched. I wasn’t used to being up this early on a Saturday morning. “Not much. I got my running done during the week, so I don’t really have anything to do that I don’t *want* to, except maybe mow the yard.” I figured I’d mention that before I got the “The lawn’s getting shaggy,” bit. You know the one, where the observation is made, *implying* that you’re supposed to do the job, rather than just coming out and saying, “Would you do the mowing?”

Realizing I’d just headed her off at the pass on the yard, nothing more was said about it. “Okay. Donna’s got practice for the game Monday, so she probably will be out the door and won’t get home till after I do. She’s got that party this evening, too, and I think she’s planning on changing at a friend’s.”

It sounded like I had the house to myself for most of the day. Suddenly options started popping up, and none of them involved mowing grass.

Rhonda then looked at the clock. “Oops, I’ve got to get going. There are a couple stops I have to make before getting to Lisa’s. Can you take care of the dishes for me?” Without waiting for a response, she got up, gave me a peck on the cheek and was out the door.

Great. A table full of dirty dishes. Not the way I was expecting my morning to end up. With a sigh, I started gathering up the plates and silverware and put them in the washer, then gulped down the last of my orange juice and put the glass in, too. I put all the syrup and condiments away, wiped down the table and stretched again.

Glancing at the clock myself, I marveled at how early it still was, and decided to crawl back in bed for an hour or so.

On the way to the bedroom, I started stripping off clothes, removing my shirt and opening my pants.

I hadn’t given a thought to my daughter. When Rhonda had mentioned she had to be somewhere, for some reason, my brain assumed Donna was already there. This could hardly have been farther from the truth.

Just as I approached the bathroom, the door opened, and my daughter and I collided.

Taking a step back to apologize, I was stopped dead in my tracks. My mind raced, and my eyes drank in the sight before me.

Many, many times over the years, I’d seen Donna emerging from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her young, developing body, and in the last few years, I’d noticed how that development had come out. That doesn’t mean I had any particular designs on my daughter, it just means I’d made the observation on how my little girl had grown.

This morning, though, there was something about the way she stood, the way her damp hair fell around her shoulders, the way the towel clung to her chest, and - I was to find out momentarily – her bottom, that struck an unusual chord for me. There was something about the way she looked that morning that caused my body to react to the sight of what my daughter had become, and what she was that morning was a beautiful young woman.

This conclusion made, I felt a twitch in a place where no father should feel for his offspring. And there I stood, naked from the waist up and my pants open. I must have looked quite the sight, too.

I stood there for what seemed hours, even though it couldn’t have been more than a heartbeat, feeling myself get harder while my face got hotter. For some reason, even though I was embarrassed witless, I couldn’t help staring at the beautiful, well-shaped young woman standing before me.

Was I really becoming this depraved, that I could get so quickly turned on by the near-naked sight of my own daughter?

While my mind spun and my face grew redder and my cock harder, Donna looked up into my face and said innocently, “Oops. Sorry, Daddy. Excuse me.” I couldn’t speak, but the look on my face caused her to ask, “Are you okay? You look kind of funny.”

I managed to croak out some sort of response, then Donna swept around me and my eyes followed her to her room, where I noticed what a perfectly formed butt she had.

‘STOP IT!’ my appalled mind screamed. ‘JUST KNOCK IT OFF!’ Shaking my head in a desperate attempt to clear it, I stumbled to my room, hoping Donna hadn’t noticed the bulge straining the front of my underwear through the parted fly of my jeans.

Once I got to my and my wife’s bedroom, sleep was impossible. All I could do was sit on the edge of the bed, wondering what had just happened. There had been no false modesty about the house, in that it wasn’t unusual to see someone emerge from a shower clad only in a towel, or trotting to the laundry room in only their underwear, but this was the first time I’d reacted in any kind of sexual manner, seeing my daughter dressed so. God, was I a pervert? Well, of course, we’re all perverts of some form or another, but was I *that* kind of pervert, that I’d get turned on by my own daughter? Would I now be *trying* to see her naked, something I hadn’t really seen since before she’d started growing breasts? I was tearing myself apart. I couldn’t be thinking of *THAT*, surely! That idea was just plain sick and wrong. I think I’d chop my dick off before I’d resort to anything so horrible.

And speaking of my dick, it hadn’t gone down since it began stiffening. Shit, I had to *do* something, but masturbating so shortly after reacting so intensely toward *my own daughter* seemed akin to admitting that I *was* the kind that would try to have sex with his little girl, who wasn’t so little anymore.

Flopping back on the bed, I plaintively asked the room, “What do I do? What’s happening to me?” I felt and sounded pathetic.


The sound of that voice sat me straight upright in surprise. Donna stood peeking around the doorway with a concerned look on her angelic face. My hard-on still hadn’t softened, and I felt extremely self-conscious sitting there all aroused with her looking on.

“Are you alright, Daddy? I heard you say something. You sounded like you were in some sort of pain.”

Still flustered by her sudden presence, I stammered, “I... uh... I’m okay, Honey. I just... thought of something and was... um... kicking myself for forgetting.”

The look in Donna’s eyes told me she didn’t entirely buy my story, which only furthered my realization she wasn’t a little girl anymore, that she no longer took everything I said as gospel, and as such, profound... but I certainly wasn’t about to tell her the truth. Her mouth twisted in dissatisfaction, but she didn’t say anything more about it, just shrugged and said, “If you say so. Well, I have to get dressed and get going.” She then came in to give me a quick kiss before she left.

God, she was only dressed in panties and bra, and although they were of the most utilitarian sort, the sight was almost too much for my heightened sensibilities. I felt my cock throb painfully, and a quiet, brief moan escaped my lips when Donna placed her hand lightly on my shoulder when she leaned in to kiss me.

I wished to god it was her mother who was doing this to me. My body had never betrayed me so severely. Now, more than earlier, I hoped Donna wouldn’t see my erection, and I hoped the burn in my cheeks wasn’t obvious.

Had my sex life gotten so sporadic and predictable that I was reacting this way? And if so, what could I do about it? I had no intention of doing anything with the woman who stood at my side that immediate moment. So… what? My conflicted emotions became even more confused.

I’ve read some incest stories on the web. Some are well written, many are not, but just like anything of that subject matter, as long as you’re in the proper frame of mind, the quality of the work doesn’t necessarily matter. IFf you’re thinking right (or wrong, however you look at it) it’ll have the desired effect. I’d taken matters into my own hands a few times while reading such things, but it didn’t mean I was ready to take part in the practices described in the stories. In the abstract, with people who couldn’t possibly exist, it could be something of a turn-on, maybe. In the concrete, with the object of so many stories standing right next to me, I was repulsed, even if my body said otherwise.

Donna straightened, gave me another strange look, then unintentionally jiggled out of the room. My cock was near-bursting, my head more so, for entirely different reasons, but having the same cause.

Sleep was completely out of the question. I wanted to relieve my tension in the worst way, but for the same reason as earlier, I just couldn’t.

Even though it’d never worked in the past, I decided to take a cold shower to try and calm my raging body down.

Still dressed as I was, I plodded to the bathroom. Once there, I sat on the edge of the tub and pulled off my socks, then stood and dropped my pants to the floor. When I finally removed my underwear, the head of my hard-on caught the waistband of my shorts, and I was so hard, it didn’t even bounce once when it slid free. No, just like it had when I was a teenager, my stiff cock broke free of my underwear, popped up and slapped against my belly, then stood out proud and harder than I’d been for years.

Now freed, my aching cock throbbed for relief. Almost like a magnet, I felt my hand pulled toward the pulsing hot shaft. Just a couple strokes and I’d be fine.

But, no, dammit, I wouldn’t be fine. I still felt a flash of guilt at the thought of the cause of my present condition, and wasn’t about to give in to the implications running through my mind.

This was horrible... The hardest I’d been in years, and my wife wasn’t around to take advantage of it, and my guilty mind unable to let me take care of matters myself. I didn’t know how long it’d been since I’d run into Donna, probably minutes, though it seemed like hours. Hopefully the shower would calm certain parts of my body down a little, in spite of previous experience to the contrary.

Stepping into the shower, I directed the head at the wall so I’d have time to prepare myself for the shock of the cold water on my overheated body.

While I turned on the water, my mind strayed, then latched onto the thought of who’d been standing in this very shower only a little while previously. Shit. A low moan escaped my lips and my head bumped the shower wall as I slumped against it in defeat. There was no way in hell even being dipped in the Arctic Ocean was going to bring me any relief now. Nevertheless, I straightened and stuck my hand in the icy stream coming from the showerhead.

While a shiver passed through me at the feel of the cold water, my brain was admonishing, 'It’s not going to help.' Desperate for any kind of potential relief aside from what I was pretty sure would work, I redirected the shower stream, and braced myself.

I let out a surprised gasp when the water hit my body. It chilled me almost immediately. My nipples became hard as rocks; seeking warmth, my balls crept up into my body, but if anything, my cock got even harder.

I felt like crying.

I stood there in the freezing water, uncomfortable as I could remember ever being, the shower – as I suspected – not doing for me what I’d hoped.

Miserable, I decided to actually take a shower then, and was too upset to even turn on any hot water to make things more tolerable. Feeling like an incredibly horrible person and a martyr at the same time, I shampooed myself and rinsed, then grabbed the soap and started on the rest of me.

I was a little shocked at how sensitive my nipples were when I scrubbed my chest, and the shudder that streaked through me when I touched my steel-hard cock told me I wasn’t trying *that* again.

Quickly as I could, I got the heck out of the shower, for fear of hypothermia, and started toweling off, being meticulous about avoiding any contact with my erection when possible.

When I was as dry as I could get myself with minimal contact with my privates, it occurred to me that I was going to have to leave the bathroom. The question was: “How?” Meaning, what to wear? I could just wrap the towel around my waist like usual, the only problem was, then there’d be no hiding my hard-on at all. If I did that, and Donna was still in the house, our paths were bound to cross, and my luck, it’d be just as I stepped out into the hall, my hard cock poking out the front of the towel.

So, I slipped my briefs and jeans on again and was about to leave the bathroom when I realized I had to pee. How the hell was I supposed to do that, as stiff as I was? I certainly wasn’t going to accomplish the task standing at the toilet. Even if I *could* get myself to where I could relieve the building pressure in my bladder, it’d end up going everywhere but where I wanted it to.

The only solution was... back in the shower. I dropped my pants and underwear again and got back in. Now the big trick... relaxing enough that I could let go. Usually it isn’t so hard to clear my mind, but this morning, it was pretty nigh on impossible.

For several minutes I stood, leaning forward against the wall, my cock pointing straight at the tile. The longer I stood, the greater the pressure became. God, did I have that disease where your hard-on just *won’t* go down? I didn’t think so, I’d never had trouble getting it up before and it usually got soft just as quickly.

It became more and more uncomfortable standing there, waiting for my body to decide what was more important, urinating or maintaining an erection. Eventually, evacuation won out. A small trickle started at the swollen tip of my cock, but it never became a steady stream. I stayed hard enough that all I could get was that little dribble. This was a painful process. I’d released the tension that held the flood back, and typically it only took a few seconds to relieve the pressure. This way though, it was about two minutes of sheer agony. My bladder strained, but the pressure would only ease at a snail’s pace.

Finally, it was over, and I was only marginally softer than when I’d started. Now, though, I needed to clean up again. Doing so, I found my mind drifting back to the occupant of the shower stall before me. Soon I was clad in my old clothes and ready to get the heck out of there.

As fate would have it, I *did* meet Donna just outside the bathroom door, so I was relieved I’d opted to put my pants back on. Once again, I hoped she didn’t notice my erection, which by now had begun to ache a little. I forgot what we said to each other that time, but she excused herself to her activities that day, leaving me with another peck on the cheek and a hard-on that refused to go away.

When I heard the front door close, I breathed a sigh of relief. I now truly had the house to myself.

In moments I had my jeans and underwear back off again, and any other time, I’d probably have had a video on or the computer running, with my hard-on in hand. However, as I’ve repeated before: this time, for reasons I’ve already mentioned, I wasn’t about to do that.

Originally, one of the things I’d planned on doing was reading the book I’d just bought. ‘Great,’ I thought, ‘that should take my mind off things.’ I quit reading when I realized I’d read the same paragraph over and over, my cock still stiff.

Putting the book down, I decided I needed to get out of the house for a while, maybe *that’d* help. I got dressed and started down the hallway, but stopped at Donna’s bedroom door.

Inside, there were remnants of the little girl she’d once been in the decoration of the room, but most of those were small things. The majority of the room had been usurped by the trappings of the young woman she’d grown into, including a small poster of the college she’d be attending the next year.

And there on the floor, her cleaning habits still what they were when she was little, were her clothes from the night before. On top of the pile was her underwear. Now when had she started wearing such skimpy stuff? This was the kind of panties and bra her mother wore only when she feeling particularly playful, the kind of underthings that I encouraged her to buy more of. The nosy parent part of me wanted to see just how many thongs and see-through bras she had, but the part that was still protesting my arousal at the whole scenario this morning was slapping me upside the head screaming, “What the hell are you thinking?” When I felt my hard-on throb yet again, I hung my head and dashed out the door.

Once I got on the road, I realized I had no idea where I was going, if I was going anywhere. As I drove, I looked out at the people on the street, and checked out other drivers. Bad idea. The only people my heightened awareness homed in on were the young women, about my daughter’s age. Before I knew what I was doing, I was walking into the local shopping mall.

My god, it was overwhelming! It seemed like the only people at the mall that day were young women, dressed in the tightest, skimpiest outfits imaginable. Surely these girls couldn’t *all* have breasts that prominent, could they? Had I been in a different mood, I’m sure I’d have silently reveled in the eye candy arrayed before me. Even though I know such displays aren’t meant for “old guys” like me, I’m sure there are plenty of us out there who regularly get a thrill, drinking in the sight of the young women in their revealing attire, while their wives rail against the clothes kids wear nowadays.

As it was, rather than enjoying the view, I was in almost real agony. My cock still hadn’t gotten soft, so I was very careful to try and hide the fact from the general public. I’m sure there were probably a few savvy folks who knew just what was going on, by my posture and the way I moved.

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