It was another typical Sunday morning, which meant I awoke to the feel of my husband Tom's hand trailing across my stomach. We always had sex on Sunday mornings, usually first thing before we heard the k**s up and about.
"Mmm, how do you want me?" I asked, my eyes still closed.
"On your stomach," was his firm command.
I obediently flipped over and turned my ass up in the air. I suppressed the urge to pee, but this was going to be quick. It never lasted more than a few minutes whenever we fucked in the morning. Here he was 42 years old, and he still had morning wood hard as steel, every single day. I always chalked it up to the fact that he was married to a gorgeous redhead like me, of course. I was slim and had a generous rack of tits on me, and knew how much he adored my body.
I felt him crawl on top of me, the warm weight of his body pinning me to the mattress, and my pussy started to tingle. His modest 7 inch dick jabbed into my ass inadvertently, until he spit into his fingers and rubbed it on the tip. Then he was aiming it right at my cunt for just a moment before he sunk into my hole.
I gasped at the intrusion, preferring a bit more warm-up but content to please him. He pounded into me, making the bed squeak just a bit, but I wasn't worried about the k**s hearing us. They were both adults now, Matt being 19 and Breanna 18. I'm sure they've heard their fair share of sounds coming from our bedroom. If I had been more conservative perhaps, I would urge my husband to be quiet, to do it softer. But I was hardly conservative in the bedroom.
Tom didn't last long, as I predicted, before he shot off inside of my cunt. Just as I was getting warmed up, in fact. But I was used to that, and most times I would relieve myself immediately after in the bathroom, usually with the showerhead. I never told him about this, since I didn't want to hurt his feelings. And sometimes I would actually climax during sex with him. It was what most housewives would consider a fulfilling sexual relationship for a middle-aged couple with c***dren. For me, I had to spice it up in my own way to make it satisfying.
Later, I was doing the laundry while Tom was out fishing with his buddies and the k**s were hiding in their rooms. I tapped on Breanna's door, and she instantly replied with a "come in" like usual. The girl apparently had nothing to hide, unlike me when I was her age. A strange memory of my father flashed through my head, but I willed it away for the moment. Memories of him had a way of intruding on what I was doing.
"Dirties?" I said as I entered.
I saw Breanna sitting on her bed, reading a book. She wasn't much of a bookworm, but she was known to lose herself in the latest teen romance now and again. She didn't even look up as she nodded and pointed to her hamper. I was a moment sifting through her clothes, doing what I assumed every mother did while rummaging through her underwear. I checked for cum stains.
I knew how girls were nowadays, and I knew how I was at her age even twenty years ago. Boys on the mind, a good few years into discovering masturbation, and probably performed a few blowjobs already. If she dated more, I might be worried that she was getting dicked regularly. But it seemed she was not letting any boys cum in her tight little pussy, and I was glad for that. Her panties had the usual slight discharge stains and nothing else. A woman was more than familiar with those.
I closed her bedroom door behind me as I left, and then tapped on Matt's door.
As usual, there was an awkward moment of silence, following by some rustling. No doubt he was jerking off to porn again, and needed a moment to compose himself.
"Uh, come in," he said finally.
I opened the door and pretended not to notice how he was covering his crotch by the way he was sitting with his arm casually across his lap. His computer was on, but of course it was just sitting at the desktop with nothing open. It wasn't the most subtle way he could hide a pornography habit, but I ignored it and went for his hamper.
I rummaged through it and quickly separated some things before throwing them into my laundry basket. I had started making a point of keeping his socks separated into a pile when I gathered them. I pretended to be sorting them, but really I was squeezing them in my hand to feel for a familiar crunch. Sure enough, a good five or six of them had that feel, and I mentally made a note that he must have masturbated that many times since I last did laundry.
It was probably a strange thing for a mother to keep track of, and I honestly didn't know why I started doing it, but I never lost track over the years. Once puberty had hit, I had taken a perhaps not-so-motherly interest in his sexual habits. Like Breanna, he didn't date much, in fact he hardly ever went out with a girl alone. I had gone through his internet history enough to confirm that he was actually interested in girls, at least. He seemed content to ejaculate into a sock rather than some cute girl's vagina. That seemed odd to me, but at least it was safer.
As I dumped some of the clothes I had gathered into the washing machine, I again checked his socks more blatantly now that I was alone. I turned them inside out to expose the cum stains, and even though it was probably strange, I made note of how much cum he had produced by the size of the stains. He was shooting a nice thick load, I could tell. I was glad, and in a somewhat motherly way I was proud of him for that. I hesitated before touching one of the stains, almost bringing it to my nose, but then tossed it and the rest into the washing machine.
Later in the day, I was relaxing in the living room while reading a magazine and sipping some iced tea when I heard a familiar voice in my head. I glanced around to see who had spoken, but quickly realized I had only imagined it. At first I ignored it and went back to my magazine.
But the voice came back, and I recognized it this time. It was my father, and he was definitely not in the room with me. He had been dead for ten years already. But it was his voice for a certainty.
"Melanie..." he said, as clearly as if he were standing right in front of me.
You would probably think this would shock me, but actually it was a common occurrence. I quite often heard him talk to me since he had died. That didn't mean I thought he was a ghost, communicating from the grave. It was more like a memory of him, speaking to me from inside my own mind. I had been very close with my father, and enjoyed that I could still talk with him in my own private way.
"Hi, Daddy," I said to him, silently in my mind.
The mental image of him stood out prominently now that he was speaking to me. I could see his familiar face with its square jaw and age lines that made him appear wise and powerful. He had a full head of grey hair, combed back away from his face. He had looked like that for as long as I could remember, except maybe without so much grey. The piercing blue eyes were what I remembered most, and what I connected with the strongest. I could feel them staring at me, even right now.
"What are you so worried about?" he asked, his voice filling my head.
I set the magazine down and stared out the large living room window across from where I sat on the sofa. I sighed, knowing Daddy could always tell when something was weighing on me.
"I'm getting those feelings again," I replied, still in my mind only. I never spoke aloud to him, since there wasn't a need to.
"The ones that you used to give me," I answered, somehow not wanting to actually say the words that would have explained how I was feeling.
"I see. Those are good feelings then."
"Yes," I responded truthfully, "but I can't satisfy them without you here."
"You always were my angel," he said. "No one could make me feel as good as you did."
My heart ached when he said that, as I fondly remembered the times I shared with him. Ever since I was a girl, we were close. Closer than a father and daughter should have been, perhaps. He had talked to me about that quite a bit. I didn't always understand why it was so forbidden, but I obeyed his strict wishes that I never tell anyone the things we did together.
It was fun, actually, to keep our secret. Even from my mother, who had no idea what was going on. I still had to share Daddy with her, but I always knew that he liked me the best. I'm sure it had something to do with the fact that he was older and I was just a youthful little thing.
"That wasn't all it was to me," he said, reading my mind. "You know that."
I sighed. "Of course I know that. But I liked being that, for you."
"Touch yourself, Melanie," he said in a soft command.
I glanced toward the back of the house to make sure no one was around, and then I complied by reaching into my shorts and snaking my hand down my panties to where my smooth pussy was. I hadn't realized it until then, but I was very wet. His presence mixed with the feelings I was having today was really getting to me.
"That's my girl," he said. "You know how much Daddy likes to see his favorite girl play with herself."
"I'm not alone here, Daddy," I said. "I can't really play around right now."
"You can get off without drawing attention to it."
"Ok, Daddy. I'll do it for you."
I started fingering my clit, and once I started I wasn't going to stop until I came. It would have looked so obvious if anyone could see me, but at the moment even that didn't seem to matter. I closed my eyes and kept at it, circling my clit and flicking it from side to side. Within minutes I felt my cunt throb and squeeze involuntarily, and suddenly I was climaxing. I bit my lip and clenched my eyes shut, riding it out in silent agony, until the feeling had washed over me. I sighed raggedly, and opened my eyes.
Nothing in the room had changed, but I could tell that Daddy wasn't there anymore. Sometimes I wondered if I was going crazy, or if he was the product of my imagination in response to some emotional need. It was true what I told him, that lately I was having feelings that I couldn't process appropriately. I was starting to crave that forbidden sexual relationship that I had enjoyed with him all those years ago. But he was gone now, and I couldn't have that anymore.
Up until he had died, starting in my teen years, I had been having sex with my father. It began so innocently, so sweetly, that I never once felt like he was taking advantage of me. I was old enough to know what abuse was, and I never once labeled our relationship that way. Whenever we were together, it was so wonderful and felt so good that I thought we were in love. That part, perhaps, was unnatural. But my infatuation turned into a different kind of love, one that was still familial but also something more. I respected the man endlessly. He was my father first and foremost, and I did whatever he told me to do. With that said, I don't remember him telling me to do sexual things to him, but I remember wanting to do them. I remember seeing his penis for the first time, and that it excited me fiercely. It was so thick and long, uncircumcised, and so impossibly hard when it was erect. I could still remember the smell of it too, intoxicating and intriguing.
The taste of it was not what I had expected back then. It was just like skin, not much different and not especially good or bad. His precum though, that was much different. It was mildly salty but also very intoxicating, more so than the smell of his cock. I loved tasting his cum, and when it would finally burst forth and either fill my mouth or cover my face, I would lick it all up and swallow it. It wasn't just the taste that I loved, but the idea that part of him was inside of me, that I was consuming his seed. It was the closest I could be to a person, swallowing the fluid he produced in reaction to the loving things I was doing to him.
I could taste his cum even now, just thinking about it on the sofa. Somehow swallowing his cum was more intimate that feeling it deep in my pussy, where it often ended up. That was delightful as well, and I never turned him down when he asked to put his cock there. I would spread my legs to invite him to fill me up, and he always reached a depth in me that my husband Tom could never reach. When Daddy would kiss me and his tongue would enter my mouth, my pussy would tingle and my wetness would never relent until we were finished.
Sometimes we wouldn't have intercourse, we would just fool around. I loved sucking his big dick, and he liked licking my little pussy. 69'ing was difficult because I was smaller than him, but I secretly loved when he would lick not just my cunt but also my butt. His tongue would roughly slide against my little pucker, and sometimes he would try to get his tongue in there. It was so naughty for him to be doing that, but I loved being naughty with him.
I found myself masturbating again thinking about some of those experiences, and realized I needed to go upstairs to do this properly. I hurried up to my bedroom and closed the door. I peeled my clothes off and rushed to my nightstand. I opened the drawer and pulled out a nice thick dildo. Tom liked to see me masturbate with toys, and I was happy to oblige him. I sprawled out on the bed and wet the end of the dildo in my mouth. Then I reached down and found my asshole with the tip. I pushed softly until it gave way, and finally the toy was buried in my ass.
I closed my eyes and savored the feeling. Daddy could never quite fit his cock in there, even though we had tried many times. In fact, I couldn't hold more than two of his fingers, and even then it was a strain. Now that I was married and had been having sex for many years now, I could take Tom's dick quite easily back there. He wasn't into anal sex as much as I was, but once in a while the mood struck him and he would take my ass. I usually touched or penetrated it while I masturbated.
I pictured the dildo as Daddy's cock inside me, and started rubbing my pussy hard. It didn't take long before I exploded and ended up soiling the comforter with my squirt. God, it felt good though. I had really needed that.
I stayed naked but crawled under the covers and drifted off to sl**p. The dildo was still in my ass as I laid on my side and just enjoyed the feeling of being so full. I thought I might dream of Daddy, but instead I dreamed of my c***dren. I remembered telling Daddy that I couldn't satisfy these i****tuous feelings that I used to have with him. It was like a physical craving that I couldn't satiate, even with intense sex with Tom. There was a unique element to having sex with Daddy, knowing it was wrong and loving it despite that. I had tried to be kinky with Tom, but it never seemed the same.
My dream took a strange turn when a casual conversation with Matt and Breanna turned into me giving Matt a deep blowjob while Breanna sat with her face directly below my pussy as I knelt over her. She was just staring up at it, not attempting to lick or touch it. Matt's cock was just like his father's in my dream, but in reality I hadn't seen it in a long time so I couldn't be sure. Still, I enjoyed sucking on it immensely, and it seemed familiar somehow. Not physically, but in some other way. It was that feeling, that i****tuous craving that I had been having. Sucking my own son's penis was fulfilling the craving that I was having! Swallowing his thick cum pulsating from his shaft made my body tingle with excitement.
I would need to satisfy that feeling again, only in real life. But how could I?
Posted by vtevte 6 months ago Views: