My Father's Woman Ch. 03

When my wife informed me that my father wanted her to come visit him so he could take her to his company event as his date, as his woman, I did not fail to realize that that trip was going to fall fourteen days after the start of her last period. If she wasn't on birth control, she would be ovulating.

I didn't mention it to her, and she said nothing to me. But Michelle is too conscientious about these things for it not to have occurred to her, too.

The next week we had great sex, and lots of it. And not the sweet, comfortable love-making between a husband and wife in the marital bed, the kind of put-down-the-book-and-ease-into-it encounters of two married people with all the time in the world. The fucking was furtive, feverish, the stolen-pleasure couplings of a woman who was sneaking around on Her Man, and a man taking what wasn't his.

Except always with a condom. She would come up behind me as I was washing dishes, reach around me and unbuckle my pants, turn me around and drop to her knees, taking my cock into her mouth for urgent, deep fellatio -- but only until I was quickly rigid, so she could encase me in latex. Then she would replace me at the counter, bend over, and let me take her from behind. Frantically, racing each other to orgasm.

I did, late in that week, satisfy my raging curiosity by looking in the medicine cabinet. I would never violate her privacy by opening her phone or reading her emails. But browsing through the shelves in the shared bathroom adjacent to our marital bed? That, I could do.

I found her birth control pills, right where she had always kept them for the last few years. The first five little blister packs had been opened; the first five yellow tablets were gone, I noted with relief and, I admit, a sliver of disappointment.

Because, God help me, it wasn't enough for my hopelessly deviant cuckold heart to know that my wife was fucking my dad. Or that this weekend he would be presenting her to his friends as His Woman. I felt like she had warned me to let go of the pregnancy-risk fantasy aspect of our perverse game; but I just couldn't. The idea that he might impregnate her with his child, supplant me not only in my marital bed but in my rightful role as the next sire of my family bloodline, was just too awful, too sick, too delicious to stop thinking about.

By the second Monday, we began the familiar ritual of her preparations for a weekend with another man. It started, of course, with her cutting me off. Partly to start building my frustration and arousal, and partly to begin feeding her own hunger, so that she would be voracious by Friday.

On Wednesday she locked me into the cage.

And then on Thursday night, after we had both turned in and were reading in bed, she nonchallantly commented, "So, I've been reading about semen."

I looked at her. She hadn't taken her eyes off her book. It was if she had just tossed out a casual, "Don't forget tomorrow is trash day."

"You don't say," I replied.

"Uh huh. It's amazing what all is in it."

Well, I was quite aware, thank of you, of the primary, or at least most important, ingredient of semen. I felt my cage tightening on me. "You mean, other than sperm?"

"Yes," she replied, still feigning semi-boredom, denying me the tease of eye contact.

"For instance, it's got all the nutrients those sperm need while on their..." she paused and the corners of her mouth betrayed her, breaking into a grin, "... mission."

"Hmm."

"And you know what that is? It's fructose."

I thought about the old story about the female student, upon hearing this fact in a biology lecture, blurts out, "Then why does it taste so salty?" and then runs out of the room in horrified shame as the class bursts into laughter at her admission.

"That's interesting," I said, knowing where she was going, wondering how she was going to get there. "And you're telling me this, why?"

"Why do you think?" she replied. She wanted me to say the words first. Tell me, dearest, how it tastes when my dad cums in your mouth.

I wondered how many men in America were in bed right now, discussing with their wives the taste of their father's ejaculate.

I knew enough about these things to know that diet was the primary thing that affected the consistency and, um, taste of a man's cum. And I doubted that my dad was eating more pineapple and papaya than me. I was sure his diet was even heavier on red meat, coffee, and alcohol than mine was.

"No, you're right," she shrugged, after I pointed that out. "Your dad's cum doesn't actually taste all that good. Fortunately, he much prefers depositing it on my cervix rather than on my tongue."

God, the cage was uncomfortable.

"But you know what else is in it?"

"Do tell."

"Anti-depressants!"

That made me laugh, and now she was finally looking at me, beaming with mirth.

"That's right. Seratonin. Dopamine. Oxy..."

"Oxycontin?" I interjected.

She gave me playful shove on the shoulder. "No, you goof. Oxytocin. Not oxycontin." Then she paused. "Or who knows? Maybe that's why your dad's cum is so addictive."

Well, so much for me seizing the initiative. I closed my eyes and waited for the current surge of stunted arousal in my crotch to peak and subside. I was certainly addicted to her teasing.

"I can't wait to get to his house and get a few more doses."

"Well, if semen makes you feel so good, you know, you could get some here at home," I suggested.

"I know, right?" she said, agreeably. "But, your dad wants you using condoms, so..."

I closed my eyes and let the humiliation wash over me. I was a sucker for these games, but being told that my father was complicit in my denial just overwhelmed me. I didn't really believe that my dad was being that insistent on this; I was fairly sure that she was taking some bit of their play-talk and amplifying it for my... well, not my benefit, for sure, but to enhance my arousal.

"I don't deny myself your cum for me," she purred. "I do it for him.*"

And that was Thursday. Now it was Friday night of Labor Day weekend. I came home from work to an empty house.

Michelle had packed the night before. That morning she had left the house when she always did, planning on a half-day of work before heading to my father's house. I had watched her dress, pulling on matching lingerie, lavendar this time, not the casually mis-matched white and beige bra and panties she typically wore to work, but the kind of presentation package she always donned these days for my dad.

She kissed me affectionately, cupped my caged genitals, and told me to have a good weekend. And I gave her the same message.

Now it was ten p.m. I had had a couple of drinks earlier to calm my nerves, but not enough to leave me inebriated or incapable of feeling every pang of torment.

At this moment, two hundred miles away, I figured that my father and my wife were starting their weekend off right.

Tomorrow she would dress to the nines for him, and let him escort her to his company party, where he would squire her in front of his friends and co-workers, showcasing to them all this stunning younger woman who he was apparently dating, and possibly fucking.

Sunday she would wake up in his bed with a whole leisurely day ahead of them, not the usual slightly-rushed, slightly-awkward morning of imminent departure to return to her husband. How would they spend such a day? Going to a movie? Shopping? Cruising in his midlife-crisis-inspired convertible? Or just remaining in bed? Certainly, that's where the day would end, their third straight night of unrestrained love-making. While I spent my third straight night tossing and turning alone in my bed, straining in my chastity cage.

But tonight, right now, they had all that ahead of them, and he was no doubt already on top of her, vigorously and passionately thrusting in and out of her.

Clutching her to his body, one arm behind her back holding her sandy blonde head on his shoulder, one arm extended down to cup and press her soft bottom up against him, while her fingernails raked his broad back and her thighs came up around his grinding hips.

Reclaiming her.

Both of them gloriously naked, except for the silver chain around her waist, pressing the key to my chastity cage into his round, hairy belly.

While she got reacquainted with the feel of his cock, thick and bare inside her, all veins and rigid masculinity under thin slippery foreskin, not the smooth slender artificially-lubricated condom-encased shaft of her husband, but the throbbing living appendage that actually belonged there, reshaping her, molding her to his dimensions, making her His Woman.

Until he tensed and held still in her, his bristly testicles drawing up tight against the root of his pulsing cock, rising and dropping against that private place where the tender flesh of her buttocks met her perineum, and he spurted his pent-up semen into the center of her body, basting the delicate membranes of her vaginal walls with his personalized blend of love hormones, bonding her to him; and, yes, splashing and pooling it over her pliant and pulsating cervix. On day fourteen of her cycle.

While I ached in my cage as I have never ached before.

***

John sat on his sofa and checked his watch. It was still early; he was just eager. He had shaved and dressed sooner than he had needed to, and now he was antsy, waiting while his daughter-in-law dressed in his bedroom.

He chuckled at himself as it occurred to him to wonder, how crazed would he be if they hadn't made love twice in the last 24 hours? Then he caught himself. "Had sex," he should have thought of it.

No. They had made love.

Their couplings had always been intense and urgent, because it was illicit, forbidden, wrong. And yet, while his son's lovely wife was just so desirable that he couldn't resist devouring her, enveloping and possessing her, pouring himself into her because that's the only way he knew how to be with a woman; he had also always felt like she was a precious gift to be treasured, rather than a rental to be used.

So even though she had presented herself so he could take her from behind a couple of times, and he loved both the view and the sense of power that gave him, they almost always started and ended up face-to-face, which he preferred. And their love-making -- yes, that's what it was now -- had increasingly involved deep kissing; he now felt that she was yielding her soul to him as well as her mouth and her sweet, ripe body.

Last night and this morning, at the points where he might have buried his face in her neck and closed his eyes to concentrate on sensation, he found himself holding himself up on his extended arms, watching her face. She was so beautiful; maybe not the impossible, almost manufactured look of a model or a movie star, but real and... well, he used to think "wholesome," he chuckled. Her skin was flawless and he loved the way her nose turned up and the perfect shape of her full lips, closed or especially when open to squeak out little gasps or moans in response to his thrusting. He loved the way she maintained eye contact as they moved together, assuring him this was real, giving him the sense that she enjoyed looking at him as much as he loved looking at her.

When the door opened and she stepped out, he felt his breath catch in his throat. She was always beautiful, but casually so. Tonight she was wearing a cobalt blue, skin-tight dress, mid-thigh length, with matching heels, and shimmering nude stockings in between. Tonight she was sultry, a presentation of raw sex for him, for him to show off to his friends.

"You like it?" she asked, posing with a hand on her hip.

"Uh huh," was all John could muster.

"Ryan bought it for me," she said. "He said he knew you would like it."

"He's right," John stated, twitching as he often did when reminded that this woman was his son's wife. "He, um, has good taste."

She smiled, and turned around for him. The ruched fabric clung to the curves of her body, accentuating her hips and ass.

"I thought it was a little much," she said, arching her back a bit, putting her weight on one hip, so that the dress rode up a bit, just enough to show a sliver of the top of one stocking. "But he assured me that it would have the desired effect, on you and everyone else at the party."

"And what effect is that?"

"Making men look at me and think about sex," she responded. "Is that what you want?"

John gulped. He had been thinking about showing off Michelle to his friends for weeks. He wanted them to be jealous. The idea of them all looking at his date and sporting woodies, and thinking about bending her over and sticking them into her, hadn't occurred to him with such obvious and inevitable clarity.

"Apparently it's what Ryan wants," Michelle added.

He stood up, and she strolled across the room and draped one hand over his shoulder. With the other, she reached down and cupped his erection. "Down boy," she teased.

That is when he noticed that she still had on her simple gold wedding band, but not her diamond engagement ring.

"Well," she responded after he had commented on it, "If I show up with a diamond on, no one's even going to notice the wedding band. They'll think I'm your fiancee."

John nodded at that. "But you're leaving on the wedding ring?"

"Of course I am," she replied. "I'm a married woman."

John swallowed hard. He hadn't thought this far ahead. But Michelle obviously had.

Now she draped both wrists over his shoulders. "I'm okay with your friends thinking I'm your hot married piece of ass," she said, making him flinch at her audacity. "If you want them to think I'm your fiancee, you're going to have to get me a diamond."

That stopped John in his tracks. For a moment. Then he saw the familiar teasing sparkle in her eyes, and laughed with her. But not before dwelling for that brief but expansive moment on the idea.

"Anyway, if anyone asks, we can say I'm separated," she suggested. "But wouldn't you prefer it if they didn't ask?"

John remained uncertain. "If you wear the wedding ring, won't they assume that we really are just friends, instead of..."

"Instead of what?" she challenged.

"Look, you said you're going to introduce me as your 'date,'" she reminded him.

"Of course, they're going to wonder, but... with no rings at all, I'm just a new romantic interest, maybe even just a friend. The wedding band is going to create a bit of mystery.

"Isn't that what you want?" She leaned into him, so he could smell her perfume, feel the heat and softness of her breasts against his chest. "For all your friends to be impressed with your... prowess?"

Prowess, he thought. Yeah, he liked that word.

"Don't you want to be the talk of the party? Good old John Donovan, who's not only bagged a younger woman, but who is banging some other man's wife and proud of it?"

John took a deep breath. He felt a brief wave of vertigo. She was leading him into some unknown territory. Well, it's not like he didn't know that the woman he had asked to this event was a hotwife.

"That's what they'll think?" he asked.

"They'll know," she assured him. "By the dress, if nothing else.

"Single women dress like this to get attention. Married women dress like this to get fucked."

=====

When they strolled into the reception hall at the country club where the event was being held, he immediately sensed all eyes on the two of them.

Every one there knew him. Every one liked him. He liked most of them. It felt good to hear everyone greeting him, to see them making eye contact from across the room, smiling at and for him.

One by one and two by two, people approached to welcome him. "Hello, John," they would say, their eyes locked on his date instead of his face.

"Hello," he would respond, greeting each friend by name, unable to conceal his pride. "I'd like you to meet my... friend, Michelle."

Michelle would smile and offer demure handshakes, repeating the names of each person she met. She stayed close to him, discreet but obviously attached, sometimes interlocking fingers, sometimes wrapping her arm inside his bicep.

Definitely not "just" a friend.

"No one can take their eyes off of you," he whispered to her at one point.

Surprisingly, she almost blushed. "It's this dress."

"It's the whole package."

She smiled at the compliment, and briefly turned around, subtly, as if looking around the room for someone, giving him a reminder of how the dress accentuated her backside. When she turned back to him, she murmured. "Would you have preferred something more... Doris Day?"

Doris Day was a bit before his time, but he remembered watching her movies with his parents. And the fact, is, that's exactly how he had pictured her -- Doris Day-like. Until about three months ago. Tonight, he mused, she reminded him more of a young Kim Basinger. In 9 1/2 Weeks.

They went to the bar, got one drink each, moved through the room, checked out the deck overlooking the river. During dinner they sat at an eight-top table with three other couples, two male and one female co-worker and their spouses. The conversation was light and cordial. John sensed the other men looking at Michelle with appreciation and envy, but no one was inappropriate.

He sensed that everyone was noticing her wedding ring. But again, no one commented. They responded to the normal, polite Q&A with vagaries which were accepted without further inquisition. Yes, they had been dating for a few weeks. No, Michelle lived out of town. Known each other for a few years. Met through mutual friends. Family connections.

Why, yes, she is young enough to be my daughter, John thought, in response to one of the pointedly unasked questions, and then grinned into his drink. Exactly young enough, because she's married to my son. But no one had actually made that observation.

After dinner, there was a DJ, and the evening proceeded with a mix of dancing, and the occasional karoake performance. John, of course, was having none of the latter. Neither did Michelle, although John found himself considering what she might do. He pictured her slinking onto the little stage in that tight dress and breaking into "Hey Big Spender."

"The minute you walked in the joint/I could see you were a man of distinction, a real big spender/Good looking, so refined...

"I don't pop my cork for every man I see," as the song went, which of course would make every man in the place pop theirs. He found the image disconcerting.

They danced a couple of times. A couple of upbeat numbers while he shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot, while she moved much more sensually in front of him; nothing too risque, but plenty arousing to him. A couple of slow dances, at which he was also no good, but it didn't matter. It felt good to have her in his arms.

No one else approached her for a dance, and for that he was glad. He considered, knowing what he knew about his son's kinks, that if Michelle was at an event like this with Ryan, she would no doubt be accepting offers from other men to go out onto the dance floor. To slow dance with men whose hands dropped inappropriately down to where that tightly-ruched fabric accented her delicious bottom. To fast dance with a bit more swivel in her hips, perhaps even turning to allow them to almost grind against her, a pantomime of rear-entry sex. While Ryan sat and watched.

Nope, he didn't get it.

At one point he found himself standing with Michelle and his boss Brian and a younger colleague named Jeremy, watching people on the dance floor. That's when Michelle excused herself to go to the ladies room. The three men watched her walk across the room, her receding derriere drawing all three sets of eyes.

"Well, John," Brian said, approvingly. "Michelle is really something. Where did you meet her?"