The Legacy Pt. 02

Our daughter Dana is a few months older than I was when I began my affair with my father. She has a bachelor's in psychology, and gets pretty good tips as a waitress. Maybe the psychology courses weren't as completely useless as my English degree.

She has dated a few guys, but she let herself go at college, and could stand to drop a few pounds. As with all girls at that difficult age, her confidence could use a boost, too.

I sucked Paul off this morning, and left him lying naked on top of the covers while I came downstairs to make breakfast. Unless I'm mistaken, he's dozing for another half hour or so.

Our daughter is reading the morning comics at the table. She's wearing a thin, short and sexy nightgown that only barely hides her goodies. The timing is perfect.

I'm in my pajamas. "Dana," I say, slicing some fruit. "I'm a little chilly. Will you please bring me a robe from my closet?"

Obviously irritated, she replies, "Jeez, Mom." When she sees my raised brow, she says, "Okay, whatever. I guess so."

"Be very quiet," I tell her. "I think your father is still asleep. Don't wake him up, okay?"

She rolls her eyes. "Whatever."

I wait, expectantly. It is a long wait, and my hope grows. When Dana returns with my robe, she no longer seems annoyed. The poorly suppressed ecstatic grin is all I need to see. She plops back in her chair at the table, and I can imagine the thoughts whirring about in her head.

Paul comes down shortly afterward, noticeably avoiding her eyes, but there is a surreptitious exchange between them says everything. It has begun. Time for me to swing into action.

"Paul, are you ever going to cut that grass? Heavens, it's all the way up to my ankles. And that side gate squeaks so bad. Can't you do anything at all about that? I'm sure it irritates the neighbors."

"I just woke up, Allie. This afternoon I'm going to watch the game at Bob's…"

Exasperated, I exclaim, "Another football game? Heavens, this house is falling apart, and you're watching a silly football game? What about the porch? When do you plan to paint that? After basketball season?"

He glares at me, wondering where the bitchiness suddenly came from. Dana turns her head up, too, with a snarky look. They trade a conspiratorial glance as I turn back to the pancakes.

Dana doesn't eat as many pancakes as she usually does, and uses less than half the usual syrup.

"Aren't you hungry, dear?" I ask, concerned.

She sighs. "Yeah, but I've been thinking maybe I shouldn't have so many sweets, Mom."

"Of course not, dear. You're such a sweet girl already," I quip. "Don't you think so, Paul?"

I'm reading the newspaper, and they don't think that I catch the way he smiles at her. A fresh hunger is in his eyes, and it is not for the pancakes.

"Yeah. She's the sweetest girl I know." he says.

It's a subtle gesture, but Dana's back straightens and her chest juts a little more. She avoids his eyes, but then glances up seductively.

I would love to know exactly what happened up there.

"So what are you doing today?" I ask Dana. "Watching a football game?" I can't resist an extra dig.

She rolls her eyes. "No, Mom. I thought I'd go to the pool. Maybe start swimming laps again, like I used to."

"Well I certainly hope you're not planning to wear that little pink bathing suit again. It makes you look like a whorehouse floozy."

"Jeez, Mom. You sound like Gramma Ellen."

Precisely.

The weeks roll by, and the seduction continues. It is a joyous thing to watch. Dana pushes away her favorite cookie dough ice-cream when I serve it after supper. Exercising daily, her body becomes noticeably more trim, and she's wearing skimpier, more revealing clothes around the house. Makeup, too, and she paints her nails. The pink streak in her hair is gone, and that, alone, adds several years to her looks. She has found a new confidence in herself. She deserves it. In a few days, that confidence will be through the roof.

My verbal lashing of Paul reaches new heights of abuse. He's accustomed to a regular diet of my kitty, but we haven't made love since that first morning when I'm now certain they saw each other in a different light. He also started going to the pool with her after work. All that bare flesh. He's wound up tighter than a top, just waiting for somebody to pull the string.

Sparks fly between their eyes, especially when they think I'm not looking. They touch each other more: little things, like a short backrub, an arm around the shoulder, holding hands on the sofa, and playful slaps – especially on Dana's butt. The 'innocent' kisses I observe seem to linger.

I've been checking the wash regularly. After a visit with my mother at the care center, I find a red smudge on Paul's plaid collar that not-coincidentally matches Dana's lipstick. He wouldn't have noticed it – I'll bet Dana did. There are no tell-tale crusty stains on his underwear, but hers are dark around the crotch. Something made her incredibly wet while she wore them. Hmm… I wonder what that could have been? I grin inside. It's nearly time.

Dana's weight is down by fifteen pounds, and Paul is looking hot. It's hard for me to keep my hands off of him, and I'm almost afraid some middle-aged woman at the pool may make a play. Gotta' keep them focused on the prize.

It's Monday night. Our daughter is in her room. Paul is helping me with dinner.

"Dana's really been working hard on her figure," I mention. "Have you noticed how good she looks now?"

"Um, yeah. I guess so," he replies noncommittally. He would have to be a blind priest to miss her newfound sexiness.

"She must have some special boy in mind. I hope that lucky boy appreciates what she's doing to get him." I say.

Paul is lost in his lascivious thoughts. He doesn't respond.

"By the way," I mention idly. "I'm going to visit with Beth on Friday. I'll probably stay a couple of days, do some sightseeing up in the mountains."

"Really?" he says. The hushed excitement in his voice is palpable.

"Will you two be alright for the whole weekend? I mean, I don't have to go, if…"

"No, Allie. You go and enjoy yourself." He kisses me on the cheek. "We'll muddle through somehow without your expertise and guidance."

That unnecessary remark almost convinces me to stay. If I hadn't worked so hard already…

"Don't worry," I tell him. "I'll leave a list of things that will need to be done while I'm gone."

Including washing all of the sheets and pillowcases…

"I'm sure you will," he says snidely.

The asshole's asking for it. If he only knew the things I did for him. That will come soon enough, though.

The sexual tension crackles before I leave that morning. They both know what's coming. It's like an avalanche, thunderous, irresistible, unstoppable, obeying the gravity of lust. When he thinks I'm not watching, Paul gives her the look that he's given me a thousand times, the one that says, "You're mine." It makes me wet just to see it. I gape at him, feigning surprise, and Dana can barely contain herself. Five minutes after I've gone, somebody's going to have a mouthful of somebody else's sex.

When I hit the freeway, a few miles away, I call home. Paul answers before the second ring. They're still in the kitchen. His voice is tense.

"Paul, I'm on the freeway now. I just remembered that I left some chicken in the fridge for you.

"Chicken. In the fridge." He's obviously distracted by something.

"Yeah. Is that Dana I hear? Why isn't she on her way to work?" I insist.

"I'm taking her this morning. She – she had to get something. Up in her room," he says haltingly. Something – or somebody – is really giving him a hard time.

"You make sure that if she leaves that house, she's properly dressed. I don't want her running around like a…"

"…A whorehouse floozy. Right." he finishes for me, with a half-chuckle in his voice. "Okay, Allie. I'll make sure that she is dressed appropriately. For whatever she does."

I'll just bet he will.

"Good," I say. "See you on Sunday afternoon. I'll call before I hit the road."

"Okay, great. Thanks, Allie. See you on Sunday. Have a good time."

"You, too." I answer. "Both of you."

The silence on the other end lasts about enough time for a flurry of thoughts. "Um, okay, Allie. Gotta' go. Bye."

My work is complete. The rest is up to them. I trust they will follow their hearts, and other parts of their anatomies.

Then, somewhere on the road, the fog of doubt creeps in, and suddenly things aren't so clear. Maybe I had this all wrong. It worked so well for my life, was I arrogant to think that the same rules might apply to someone else? Was I only imagining the chemistry between them? Have I initiated something that will cause permanent damage to our daughter, or our marriage?

All weekend long, while my friend Beth drones on about her loves and losses, I vacillate between vivid fantasies of what might be going in in our house, and the guilt of what I may have created. I have to trust in my husband – he won't let her fall. The only thing that eases my conscience is that, no matter what happens, both of them are in better shape than they were four weeks ago, and Dana seems to be more self-assured.

When I call on Sunday afternoon, Dana answers immediately: too fast. Either she was standing in the kitchen, or she was in our bed. Somehow, I feel lighter.

"Hi, Mom." She seems perky. Maybe even ebullient. "Daddy said you'd call. What time should we expect you?"

Daddy? She never calls him 'Daddy'. But it's the right question, phrased delicately. I'm proud of her.

"I'm not sure when I'll be there, honey," I answer. "Depends on traffic. Not before 4:30, maybe a little later."

"Okay."

I hear murmuring in the background

I ask, "Is your father there next to you?"

"Um, yeah, sorta'," she says. "Do you want to talk to him?"

Oops, a slip. Sorta' next to her, she says…?

I begin to picture the scene. My naked daughter's youthful butt astride her father's loins, settled in the sheets of our marital bed. Her backside is plump, but firm, not yet super-sized and baggy with age like mine. Her boobs dangle over his face; they are considerably bigger than the ones that suckled her as a baby. Maybe her father is sucking at one of her large, brown nipples now. Maybe his cream is leaking from her tight, young kitty.

Or perhaps she is lying between his legs, licking his stiff lollipop as I talk to her.

My panties are getting soaked. It's been four damn weeks for me, too, and I'm going to need a piece of him tonight. I hope she hasn't completely worn him out.

"No, Dana." I respond. "I'd rather talk to you. Has he been keeping you entertained?"

She's thinking. "You know Daddy. So bo-ring. All he wants to do is play board games." She giggles.

Paul loves Monopoly and backgammon. I would believe her, except there's that 'Daddy' thing again.

"Has he been whipping you?"

"What? No!" my daughter objects emphatically.

That was an odd response. "So I guess you let him win a few times," I ask.

"Oh. Yeah." She giggles again. "I think we both won."

It is not what she says. It's the silkiness of her voice, the lilting emphasis that implies an entendre, convincing me that I was successful, and all is well.

Then she stammers, "I mean, both of us won. Equally. You know, we were tied? Uh, I mean…" There is a hushed conversation at the far end of the line. Her quick and sloppy back-pedaling makes me snicker. We desperately need to work on her feminine wiles. "Here. Daddy wants to talk to you."

I'll bet he does.

"Allie?" he says. I'm sure he could see her subterfuge cracking, and jumped in.

I poke at him a little. "So, your daughter says her daddy tied her down and tickled her, and made her play his mean little games all weekend?"

There is an ominous pause. "No, Allie. It – it wasn't anything like that. We spent a lot of time talking, you know, father-daughter stuff, like we've never discussed. You know me, I always let you girls do the talking."

I laugh, "Yeah. You're a good listener, though." I'm thrilled. That's the connection I'd hoped for, the one I'll use later.

He chuckles. "Thanks. Anyway, it's been a wonderful two days. Really awesome." He sounds almost apologetic when he proposes, "We even talked about going off by ourselves occasionally. Maybe spend a weekend together, you know, just once in a while, somewhere else. We could go to the beach, do some camping, just the two of us. You know…"

Perfect. "I think that's an excellent idea, Paul. A little father-daughter bonding time." Exactly what I'd hoped for.

He's quick to add, "You could come too, of course. Sometimes, if you wanted. It wouldn't have to always be just Dana and me."

"Thanks, Paul. But I think you're on the right track. Dana is a full grown adult now…"

"You're right. She's certainly not a little girl any more." Even through the telephone, I can hear the pride in his sigh as he looks up at her, his hands softly fondling her breasts. I also think I hear the quiet breath of a kiss.

I continue, "She's a big girl, but she still needs her daddy's love and attention, maybe more than ever."

He's quick to add, "Dana needs her mother, too, Allie. We both do. One of the things we both agreed on this weekend was that we wouldn't be where we are if not for you."

He doesn't know the half of it.

He tells me, "You're the glue that holds us together, Allie. I – I don't know what we would do without you. You make us a family."

Nothing he might have said could make me any happier. Everything seems blurry, and I realize it's the tears in my eyes. I'm about to spill everything, to blurt out that I know what happened between them, that it was all my doing, and I'm okay with it so long as he saves just a little bit of his love for me.

In the distance, I hear Dana's voice yell, "I love you, Mom."

"I – I have to go," I sniffle. "I'll see you soon. I love you, Paul. Tell Dana I love her, too…No! Wait! Show her! I want you to show our daughter how much I love her, however you think is best. You know, some ice cream, or whatever."

"I will, I promise. I love you, Allie. Drive carefully."

Ignoring my husband's warnings, I push the speed limit as high as I dare. I can't get back home fast enough.

When I walk through the door, Paul is at the table. Before I can drop my bags, he jumps up and grabs me, holding me in a bear hug. His kiss is powerful, passionate, bending me backwards, helpless to his advances.

I'm a little disappointed that he wears the soapy clean scent of a recent shower. I still want validation, some sort of proof. I would have loved to smell her musk on him, perhaps even taken him in my mouth and tasted of her. It is curious, however, because he rarely showers on weekends.

In a brief pause, he says breathlessly, "God, I've missed you, Allie."

"Heavens, Paul. It's only been two days," I laugh.

He lifts me back onto my feet. His face is rock hard. "It's been over four goddamn weeks, Allie."

Oh. Right.

He grasps my forearm and practically drags me through the house and up the stairs. He shoves me into our bedroom and slams the door behind us. "No more headaches. No more excuses."

With one motion his t-shirt is over his head and tossed aside. I'm startled to realize that I haven't seen him naked since he began dieting and working out. He looks good. Damn good. He's still overweight, middle-aged, and balding, but some of the flab is firmed up, and I even see a few ripples at his abs. I've always been a sucker for a sweet paunch, anyway. Plus, he's mine, and I love him. He's absolutely yummy.

Glaring at me, he whips his belt open, jerks the zipper down, and climbs out of his jeans.

I'm taken aback. He doesn't usually go commando.

Still frozen in place, I'm waiting to see what's going to happen. I've never seen him so worked up. Surprisingly – or not – he's not yet fully hard, and that low, heavy look makes me salivate. My nipples are on fire.

Angrily, my husband asks, "Am I going to have to take those clothes off of you?"

Defiant, I tell him, "If you think you can."

I like this dress, but it's worth it. He hooks his whole hand behind the opening at the neck and jerks downward, ripping all the buttons loose, not stopping until the dress is rent all the way through the hem. He pushes the dress off my shoulders, and it flutters to the floor.

"What about the rest?" he asks, offering me a chance to save my slip and underwear.

Locking my jaw, I fix my own angry, silent stare. I can replace the clothes, but I'll never replace this moment. I'm having way too much fun.

The slip takes two hands, but it's soon in tatters around my feet. The bra and panties meet a similar fate. His display of raw, brute strength turns on the faucet in my vagina, and it clenches with every flex of his powerful biceps. I'm shaking with excitement, but still frozen in place.

We glower at each other, vying for supremacy. I relish the knowledge that I will lose.

I screech when Paul suddenly bends at the knees and lifts me into his burly arms, then literally tosses me onto the bed like a sack of flour. I clamber backwards up the bed, but in seconds he's on top of me, his knees wedging my legs apart. I struggle weakly against him, pressing my palms against his chest, but he grabs my wrists, raising them high above my head and pinning them to the mattress with a single hand.

He's looking down at me. He's not just hungry; he's ravenous. His cock prods insistently between my legs. My eyes dare him. For an instant, everything stops.

That's when I know.

If I still had any question of what happened over the last two days here in this room, in this bed, I am now certain. It's the pillows. The sheets and pillowcases are still warm, freshly washed and dried of course, just as I asked. However, the clean scent does not quite mask the faint, tattle-tale fragrance, the unique perfume imbued into the down pillows themselves, the brand worn by our young daughter.

The battle is over. I have won. With a teasing smile, I whisper to my husband, "Do it."

Steely-faced, he flexes his hips, and I feel my juicy lips part, forced open by his thick head. Our eyes are locked intently. I'm all wet and squishy inside, and offer no resistance to his steady advance. His penetration is slow, agonizingly slow. Even when I beg, "Please…", he doesn't alter the torturous pace, coming to rest only when our pubes are meshed and our pelvises touch.

"I love you, Paul," I whisper. "I'm so sorry. Show me what a nasty little bitch I've been."

At last, he grins, but it is a devious grin, one that incites a momentary chill. His free hand covers my flabby, wrinkled breast. He squeezes, and my eyelids droop in a rapturous haze. His fingers close around the nipple, tighter, tighter, and the sizzling wires connecting his fingers to both my kitty and to the sexual core of my brain force my knees into the air, bending. My hips cock upward of their own volition.

That is his cue. My man begins moving in me, with a deliberate, inexorable tempo. The ridge of his crown nuzzles each nerve in my coochie, and the pleasure is so intense that I gasp for breath. His absolute control over me is insanely, deliciously wicked.

I'm puzzled by the source of my husband's machismo. I like a man who's in charge as much as any woman, and this is not the first time he's dominated me, but never quite so harshly or completely. Did she suggest…? No, she couldn't have… Could she?

The energy behind his thrusting builds like a steam engine. Soon, I am overwhelmed, and my whole world is focused on the raging powerhouse between my legs. I forget that I'm not religious, invoking His name with every breath and thanking Him in fervent, silent prayers for the lessons of my father that I passed on to my husband: those special triggers around a woman's bottom, and the angles and force needed to properly stimulate them. Paul is using everything he has, and I am fast approaching… No, I am already fucking there.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *