My Father Visits Ch. 03

4 Ağustos 2022 Kapalı Yazar: analsex

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Asian

Note: I never planned for this story to be any more than a one-off tease, but I’ve also never had reader comments asking so eagerly for more. So we’ll see what we can do with it. Part four won’t be so far behind.

**

When I woke up, the room was awash with mid-morning sunlight and I was alone in the bed again. It had taken me forever last night to finally fall asleep. I probably would have slept longer, in fact, if not for the discomfort between my legs from where the chastity cage had gripped my attempt at a morning erection and forced it into submission.

After brushing my teeth, I went to my dresser and pulled out a fresh t-shirt, and then a pair of loose-fitting nylon jogging pants — the better to hide the bulge from the cage that my wife had insisted that I wear for the rest of the weekend. Or at least until tomorrow evening, when our houseguest went home.

That’s right. My wife wanted me locked in chastity, so that the only person getting an erection in our home could be our houseguest, my recently divorced sixty-year-old father.

My wife has been cuckolding me for two years now, to my constant amazement … and torment … and delight. She had always been the most playful, deliciously diabolical tease, but I had always assumed that it was just naughty marital role-playing to keep things spiced up. Until she did it for real.

So, I’ve learned not to put anything past her. But still, last night when she slyly pulled out the handcuffs and secured me to the headboard, and then informed me that she was going to go seduce *my father,* I was — in addition to being flabbergasted and disturbingly excited — almost certain that she was just giving me the kinkiest, most taboo tease imaginable. Ninety percent certain.

Maybe eighty percent.

For months now she had been *talking* about cuckolding me with someone in our actual social circle, who I would then have to face regularly knowing that he knew my shameful secret. A neighbor. A golf buddy. Her boss. *My* boss. Or maybe some kid who reported to me. The idea was titillating and terrifying, and I loved the sound of her laughter as she taunted me with the notion.

And now this.

And now, I was descending the staircase, getting ready to sit across the table from my dad; making eye contact and wondering whether the man who had raised me had just taken advantage of the unexpected opportunity to bury his cock in a willing young woman … who happened to be his son’s wife.

And if he had, then … well, I guess he knew I was a cuckold either way. But did he know that his son was a *willing* cuckold?

And. And and and, my mind raced on. There’s no way he would do this to me, no way *he* would do this to *me,* if he thought she was cheating on me. So *if* it happened, it would have to have been because she had convinced him that this was something that we do … shit.

Or. I mean, it seemed so unlike my dad; but then again, I had no idea how it would feel to be divorced at sixty, revisiting every choice and every shredded value through the prism of a late-midlife crisis. And then suddenly a lovely younger woman is in your room, silently presenting herself as an offering to you and your newly restored availability and masculinity. Maybe in that scenario you just seize the moment, seize the woman, bahçelievler escort and pour yourself into her. Even if she is your son’s wife. Deal with the consequences tomorrow. Again, shit.

Well, it’s tomorrow.

My dad was sitting at the breakfast table, reading the paper. He was fully dressed, in a plaid cotton shirt with the cuffs rolled up his forearms, and gray suspenders that held up his jeans below his broad chest and his middle-aged belly. He wasn’t fat, by any means; just thick, a shade beyond solid. I had often looked at my father’s body and wondered whether that was my physical destiny. I had never really looked at him and conjured the image of that torso flattening out the lush flesh of a younger woman. Let alone that that woman might be my wife.

My wife was behind him, her back to us, puttering with something on the kitchen counter, wearing a demure, casual robe that came down somewhere below mid-thigh, and which revealed the hem of an equally casual nightgown. Between there and her slippers, her knees and calves were bare. Nothing suggestive … she just looked informal, non-descript, innocent. Our houseguest was just family, right?

Except, as I watched her from the doorway, I had to wonder whether she was wearing panties. I had to picture her, moments before, pouring my father’s coffee, then locking eyes with him and lifting her forefinger to her lips as she took his hand in hers and placed it between her thighs and gently drew it upwards …

All this had gone through my mind in the couple of seconds as I stood in the doorway, before announcing my presence.

“Hey, good morning,” I said, startling myself a bit with the rasp in my voice.

“Good morning, son,” my father said, looking up from his paper with a smile. I fixed my gaze on his face, trying hard not to appear too studious. Innocent smile? Knowing smile? Guilty smile? I was beginning to realize that my ability to gauge reality was unreliable.

My wife had crossed the room to kiss me on the cheek. “Hey there, sleepyhead. Restless night?” She winked at me.

“Yeah,” I acknowledged, cautiously. “Couldn’t settle down for some reason.”

“Hmm,” she pondered. “Well, I slept great.” She turned to look at my dad. “How did you sleep, John?”

“Like a baby,” he said with a smile. Yeah, I’ll bet, I thought. I could just picture him, slipping into a deep slumber, the satisfied and relaxed sleep of a man who had just been drained of his… um, tension. I glanced at my wife, and she smiled as we made eye contact.

“So what are the plans for today?” my dad asked, oblivious to or ignoring the loaded glances my wife and I were exchanging.

“Well, I want to run a couple of errands,” Michelle replied. “I want some new cushions for the patio furniture. And then the grocery store. I thought Ryan could grill salmon this evening.”

“Oh, let me cook for you two tonight,” Dad offered. “But, let’s pick up some steaks instead.”

That sounded like my dad. A meat and potatoes kind of guy. A missionary position kind of guy.

“That sounds great, John,” my wife responded. Then she winked at me. “And Ryan can make a salad.”

I rolled my eyes. Yeah, yeah, I get it. He’s New York Strip, I’m wilted lettuce. She was having too much fun with this.

“And bala escort I’ll drive,” Dad continued. “Let me show off my new car.”

“Oh, great!” my wife agreed. “I call shotgun.”

I shook my head. What a stereotype of a guy having a late-middle-age crisis, I thought. Buys a new sports car. Finds a younger woman to fuck. But I was already seeing the image of my wife getting into the front seat beside him, while I was tucked sideways into the tiny back seat, the third wheel. Something about that image was causing my cage to get tight.

“C’mon, guys,” she said, returning to the stove. “Bacon is ready.”

She served us, and we all took our places around the breakfast table. They began to chat, recapping the end of the movie that they had stayed up to watch last night after I had gone to bed. She had told me last night, before she started weaving this fantasy, that he had given her a footrub during the movie. I just listened, my eyes drawn to my father’s thick-fingered hands, picturing them caressing her pretty feet. Imagining her emitting provocative, exaggerated little hums of pleasure. Fuck.

I forced myself to participate a bit in the conversation, and took note of the way she would smile as she looked at me, as if she was reading my mind. My dad would glance at me too, but often not hold eye contact. Or was I just imagining that?

We made it through breakfast, with no one commenting on my preoccupied state, and my dad began to clear the dishes while my wife rewarded him with appreciative noises, and then noted that she and I need to go get dressed.

As soon as I closed the bedroom door behind us, my wife threw her arms around my neck, pressed her warm body up against mine, and gave me a deep, erotic kiss. I kissed her back, desperately, and ran my hands down her back to cup her round bottom. Sure enough, no panties.

“So, what do you think?” she whispered to me. “Do you think that man fucked me?”

I gasped at her directness, but then decided to play it straight. “If so, he’s one cool customer.”

“Hmm,” she said. “Well, he is kind of … restrained. Not the kind of man to brag about it.”

I snorted. This was all very perverse, but I was still getting a rush from it. And she was obviously having a great time.

“Well, regardless,” she said, cupping my steel-encased package, “Looks like he’s the only one who might be having an orgasm tonight.”

Of course that brought forth another little moan from me. I ran my hands up her sides as she pulled back a half step from me, and moved to cup her full soft breasts from below. But she stepped away completely. “Huh uh,” she said, shaking her head gently. “I should save those for your father.”

I stood there trembling, as she turned and stepped out of her slippers, hung up her robe, and then lifted her demure nightgown over her head and dropped it into the hamper. And then she was completely naked in front of me. I felt a little stab in my heart at how sensual and perfect her back was, from the sandy blonde hair resting on her shoulders to the amazing dimples in the small of her back to the delightful round ass. In the mirror I could see the half-dollar sized coral-colored areolas on the slopes of her breasts; the slight swell of her belly; just a flash of her neatly balgat escort trimmed triangle of fair pubic hair. As she bent forward slightly to gather clothes from her dresser, I was filled with longing for this woman — no longer a girl; a perfect female at her sexual peak.

Even though — even *if?* — she was just teasing me, I was now overwhelmed with the thought of her presenting this ripe body to the man downstairs, of him hungrily accepting it. I was dizzy with the wrongness of it. In general terms, and specifically — Jesus, I didn’t want my father to think of my wife as a cheating slut. And I didn’t want him to think of me as a placid, emasculated cuckold. But other than *that* — I was realizing that I was finding the image, the thought, the potential reality, of my dad taking my wife, to be an erotic obsession.

My wife pulled out a pair of powder blue high-cut panties and stepped into them, wriggling them up over her hips. Then she gathered up a plain white bra and a simple cap-sleeve t-shirt out of the drawer. Huh. No matching lingerie. Just dressed for a typical domestic Saturday. But I was in too deep. Now the juxtaposition of suburban housewife and cuckoldress was keeping me painfully aroused.

“Ryan,” she scolded me. “C’mon, you’ve got to get dressed.”

I sighed and pulled off my t-shirt, and then stepped out of my running pants and boxers, revealing my caged package in all its metallic glory. Swollen rose-colored wedges of tender flesh were bulging through the gaps between the bars. The sight caught the attention of my wife, who had just pulled on her shirt.

“So,” she mused as she approached me again and cupped my taut testicles, carefully avoiding the exposed flesh of my penis, “Seems like your dad isn’t the only one who’s … restrained.” She giggled at the double meaning. Then, “You are really into this, aren’t you?”

I finally broke down. “You’re just teasing me, right?”

She just cocked her head, as if she was considering whether to end the torment … one way or the other. But she just asked, “You don’t really want to know, yet, do you?”

I swallowed hard.

“Why don’t you just enjoy your weekend. Let your dad enjoy his. Let him drive. Let him cook dinner. Let him be the man of the house again for a couple of days.”

Huh.

“I’ll bet it must have been nice, when you were a little boy, having your dad in charge, keeping you safe, being in control of things.”

Okay. She was infantilizing me now. Not normally part of our play. But, it was working.

“So just pretend you’re there again. You’re safe. But it’s the weekend. It’s your dad’s time.” She leaned into me, her breath hot in my ear, as she whispered, “Just let your dad enjoy the new woman in his life. What goes on behind his closed door isn’t something you should be thinking about.”

I moaned. I really couldn’t tell whether this was just another layer of tease, or whether she was helping me to acquiesce in a decision she had already made.

“Trust me,” she said, as if she could read my mind.

“*Trust you,*” I thought to myself … to what? Trust you that you’re just teasing me? Or trust you to seduce my father without ruining my life?

She turned away from me and stepped into her jeans, pulling them up over the little dimples in the back of her knees, giving that adorable little hop to get them over her hips. She turned back and batted her hazel eyes at me.

“Okay?’

I sighed, and turned myself to start looking for something to wear that would mask the ache in my groin, and in my stomach. “Okay,” I agreed.

“Good boy.”

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32