There are few things as useless as the hobbies of a middle-aged man who has enough money to last a few generations of blatant misuse, but somehow, in my case, it all ended out very well.
It all began one fine evening, on the eve of my fortieth candle-blowing occasion. I was the proud owner of a fine yacht, the Sundari, and it was decided that the momentous anniversary of my birth was to be a private affair, with just the three of us in attendance; I mean, it's all fun when someone else is the forty-'something', but when it is your turn, suffice to say I didn't want to be reminded of the fact that I was getting wiser.
My wife is a great cook, but my daughter, the twenty-two year old vixen who had just moved back into the city, could put her to shame. I am not exaggerating when I say that she can cook meat into last year's turkey; you get the picture.
Now if she was a tigress with the apron, she was an even more accomplished woman without it. She was only slightly shorter than I, but the sizable mounds on her chest made her seem a lot more 'oomphy,' and it's a fact that she turns more than her share of heads, male and female, wherever she goes. Only, unlike much of the cosmetic beauty that we see nowadays, this Blue-cross member is as natural as they get.
Brown hair, blue eyes, dimples, melting glances, bubbly, slim and single. Is it any wonder then that I am the proudest man for being her father?
Now, her mother. That woman ain't an outdated piece either; to me, she is just as beautiful now as she was the day at the altar, and although the years had added a couple of wrinkle and more than a couple of pounds, she is still an incredibly sensuous animal who has no problem driving me crazy in the bedroom.
While I steered out Sundari into the languid waters a mile into the ocean, the two women in my life cooked up a meal befitting a royal entourage, with everything from hors d'evoures and vegetable soup, and of course, with the piece d' grace that was my fav, a nice, big, cheesy cheeseburger with the works. You can say anything, but my stomach doesn't feel fed without at least one chunk a day of the junk food.
It was a very pleasant evening, dinner was excellent and the fact that I was having it with the two people who meant everything to me - I didn't regret for a moment that my birthday was just among the three of us.
Painting had been something of a childhood hobby of mine, but an early marriage at seventeen had ruled out all avenues for pursuing that indulgence, but now, as the eccentricity of the rich permits, I was dreaming of taking up the easel and the brushes once again.
"What are you thinking about, darling?" It was the silky voice of my wife Elena that broke into my contemplation of transferring the moon's reflection onto a canvas.
"Drawing," I replied, smiling at the woman as she snuggled beside me on the leather seat atop the pilot's cabin. Across us, my daughter, the ever-beautiful Monica, settled herself on the seat, leaning back against the railing as she watched us. Expressions of love weren't a thing of occasion. in our home, so there wasn't much embarrassment in the air when Elena and I kissed passionately, right in front of her.
"Do you remember the first time you drew me?" my wife asked, cheekily grazing my erection, a wide grin on her face.
"Yup," I replied, casting a sideways glance at my daughter who, I knew, was storing any stray piece of info for future use while blackmailing me or while the two picked on me. She was far from dependent, with her own ad-agency, but she seemed not to mind in indulging every father's need to be the resilient figure in his child's life.
"I don't," interrupted Monica, grinning back at us. "So why don't you two remember it for me?"
Ordinarily, we wouldn't. Those had been the wild years, and one careless action had led to another, and in her formative years, we hadn't wanted our daughter to think that such reckless love was always a success - indeed, our marriage and the strong love therein was more the exception rather than the rule, but you can't expect an adolescent to show the maturity of that understanding.
Over the years, though, the questions had ceased, answers found in other forms in less alarming ways, and my wife and I had silently heaved a sigh of relief.
Perhaps it was the innocuous manner in which it had been put forward. Or, perhaps, the fresh sea-winds had loosened out tongues. Or, maybe, simply, my wife had had enough of the bush-beating. We ended up telling her everything.
With a sigh that brought out a giggle from our daughter, Elena began her recollection. "We were both sixteen at the time, closer to seventeen actually, when there was this public exhibition for art at the local museum. Your father wanted to participate, and God knows how he talked me into modeling for him. Before I knew it, the man had me strip down to nothing and pose like a Greek Goddess."
"Which was perfect," I took over, "I mean, with her blond hair and - ahem - untrimmed bush," at this, my wife blushed and nudged me rather powerfully in the ribs, but I continued, "Her exotique was almost too much to capture on canvas, and it took me two hours to finish just the pencil sketch of her body -"
"He was drooling on me all the while."
"I was, and if I remember correctly, you weren't being any forbidding, either. You used to scratch your stomach and lower in a very suggestive manner -"
"You started it!"
"Cool it, you two," Monica broke in, laughing hard at how silly the two of us were being, also perhaps at how silly we had been at that age. "All I wanted was an account, not a debate!"
"And after two hours of keeping the same pose, my muscles started to get sore. You don't know how relieved I was when he allowed me to sit down for a couple of minutes. Personally, I think he wanted me naked without seeming pushy, and poor old me, being the naive girl that I was, did not understand the ways of boys and men at that age." She grinned at me.
"Your mother was so naive," I countered, "That she even made me massage her shoulders when she sat, claiming that her muscles were cramped, acting so goody-goody that I couldn't tell her that my fingers hurt just as much, if not more, and pretty soon, this old guy was massaging her shoulders.
"And she hadn't even offered to throw something on, just sat there enjoying in all her naked glory. If that ain't naivete, I don't know what is," I finished sarcastically.
"Then, one thing, like the cliche goes, led to another, and the next thing we know, we were in each other's arms, spent after making love for over an hour. We didn't know it then, but you were conceived around that time. It was only when your mother slapped me across the face a couple of months later that I learnt the truth."
"And being the gentleman that he thinks he is, your father offered to marry me. Our parents didn't have much of a say in the matter, and just a month before you were born, we got married at the local church."
"Not a bad story," remarked Monica, "Too bad I didn't take up Art in College."
"That was precisely the reason we haven't told you all this before," my wife explained, "You might have gotten the wrong idea."
"Maybe," our daughter replied, a naughty smile on her face, "Maybe not!"
My wife's mobile chose that moment to ring its presence, with the bad news that Elena was wanted at her office for an urgent contract or something, and the disappointment that rent the air was pretty well evident all the way back ashore. However, rather than go back home, my wife insisted that Monica and I spend the night on the yacht. She promised to see if she could make it aboard the following day.
We dropped anchor around two miles offshore this time. Not that it is of any significance, but it was definitely far away from the maddening crowds.
Having nothing else to do, and with Elena gone home, there wasn't a subject for me to paint, I started to read a paperback when Monica came up, holding up a necklace of her mother's. "How do I look, Daddy?" she asked brightly, modeling with the jewelry around her neck in an apparent effort to cheer me up.
"Beautiful," I replied truthfully, "Very vibrant." With the moonlight glinting off the stones and shining into her face, it was indeed a very beautiful sight to behold. Pleased, Monica sat down beside me and snuggled up against me just like her mother had an hour ago. I wrapped an arm around her lovingly before returning to the novel.
I had thought my daughter had fallen asleep when she spoke. "I noticed that you had all your drawing apparatus ready downstairs."
"Huh huh," I nodded, not wanting to let her know that I had been planning on making a nude Maja of my wife again.
"You know, Daddy, I have never actually posed for anyone. You know what I mean?"
Abruptly, she pulled herself up and away, so that she could look at me while she spoke. "How about it, Daddy? Why don't you draw a portrait - make that a full draw - of me?"
That piqued my interest. Like I said, next to my wife and kid, art was the great passion. Nothing like observing life for hours on end to reproduce it on a piece of white paper to capture its essence. Besides, I didn't want to be too morose in front of Monica.
"Sure," I said, the enthusiasm catching on at the sight of her infectious smile, "Why not? Do you have anything particular in mind?"
"Huh huhm! Now that you mention it, I do have something in mind. Have you seen the Titanic?"
"Something like that," she continued, "Would you mind?"
Not having seen the movie put me with the disadvantage of not knowing what she meant, but there didn't seem to be anything amiss, so I nodded as if I knew what she was talking about. "Let me get everything ready," I offered.
"While you do that," my daughter said, getting up and pulling me up with the quick, childlike tug that a kid gives its lazy parent, "I'll change my dress."
The Sundari had three cabins, one that doubled as the kitchen and dining room, while the other two could be used for sleeping. The bigger one, the Captain's Cabin, was where my wife and I slept, and the smaller one next to it was Monica's bedroom. After making sure that the distance warning was on, the two of us went down into the cabins, her into hers to change into whatever it was that had grabbed her fancy.
I had barely finished setting up the couch and the canvas when my daughter walked in, the necklace a prominent fixture around her neck, barefoot and wearing a silk robe. She beamed at me, planting a kiss on my lips for being 'such a good sport,' and unbraided her smooth hair, allowing it to cascade over her shoulders. There was the slightest hint of rouge - or was it blush - on her cheeks, but other than that, the beautiful face was completely devoid of makeup.
I gave a thumbs up. "All set, mademoiselle. Now how do you want this humble artist to pay justice to your beautiful self?"
She giggled, giving that expressive wave that women so often give when they modestly brush off a pleasing compliment from an admiring male. "Daddy, you just say that because I'm your daughter."
She walked over to me, an exaggerated swagger to her hips, the lips set in a firm expression of being sure, those lovely eyes twinkling with excitement. I was struck by the exquisiteness off her face, proud that I had been one half in creating her, wondering how such a thing of beauty had been sired by me. There was a half-smile on her lips as she stood within a hair's breadth of me.
"I want you to paint me in this, Daddy," she held up the talisman at the end of the necklace, "Only," giving that word the emphasis, "In this!"
"Huh - Pardon?"
"I want you to paint me with this on, Daddy." Untied, the robe began to slip off her shoulders. "With only this on."
I gulped, not knowing what to say. The silken material had pooled at her feet with the loudest swish I have ever heard - or maybe was it because there was no other sound - and there, before me, with less than an inch between us, was Monica, completely nude, something that had never happened in the last twenty-one years.
And in those twenty-one years,... my God, what a difference!!!
The necklace now hung in the V between her breasts, pink buds on either side, while the mounds rose majestically from the flat of her shoulder blades. Due to the proximity of her body, the tits prevented me from seeing the lower part of her body. Even before I had gathered at least a semblance of composure, I realized that the glimpse of her body was exciting me, arousing me.
I started to protest, but Monica placed a finger over my lips, pleading with her eyes. "Please," she mouthed, batting those eyelids at me. As much as I knew I should not give in, I nodded, acquiescing. I had never said no to my daughter; I knew I wasn't going to start now.
Her arms flew around my neck, and her lips were on mine in an instant. It was a daughterly kiss, however, but the fact that she was naked more than compensated for that anomaly. My cock twitched as I felt her press against me.
Fortunately, the split-second contact was not enough for Monica to sense my erection. She pulled away immediately, but the taste and feel of her lips still lingered on long after she moved to the couch and lay down on it, sideways, facing me with the full expanse of her front.
Self-consciously, I picked up the easel and brushes, forgetting that I would have to make a pencil sketch first. Conflicts raced across my head. Could I trust myself to be the consummate artist, removed from personal relationships with the subject, or would I insult myself and Monica by turning into an idiot? Steeling myself, I managed to meet her eyes. Unaware of the thoughts inside my head, her brownies smiled back at me.
The trust I saw in them inspired me.
Pushing away everything else from my concentration, I allowed my eyes to wander over her body. She was nothing short of spectacular, with nice, apple sized breasts and an enticing cleavage, with those curves that turned towards her stomach from the outside, right down to the small smattering of a bush that was last shaved, judging from its growth, only a couple of days ago. Her left leg was draped over her right, the toenails painted an exotic red.
I started to draw...
The delicate contour of her body was quite a challenge, and I found myself dwelling upon every inch of her skin for minutes on end, mentally tracing the outline and fine-tuning it until it was a true image, faithfully captured. The angle of the light caused a light shadow beneath her breasts, and I must have spent over ten minutes just trying to grasp the right shade for the outline.
I glanced at her face a couple of times to note her reaction, the fatherly side still hoping for some reluctance to capitalize on, but save for the spreading blush at my attention, there was no involuntary reaction. She would smile back at me, encouraging me. She was the perfect subject, even better than my wife had been; relaxed and smiling. It is amazing how even the slightest of smiles can change the life in the skin.
It took me another ten minutes to realize the correct shade of pencil-brown for her sparse pubes, and it was reassuring to know that my daughter had not caught on to my arousal yet. When she sensed that my gaze was upon the V of her crotch, she parted her legs slightly, the action sensuously opening up the pink slit by a tantalizing fraction. Where her legs had been pressed together against each other, there was the hint of moisture, and I could sense a faint scent in the air.
Downside of an hour and a half, the outline was finished, except for the face. It's always been my practice to leave the face till the end, because that is the best time. In the beginning, there is excitement, fear, hope, nervousness... As the comfort level increases, the face becomes more of its true self, revealing more and more of the inner side. Towards the end, there is total symmetry within and upon, and that is when one can really capture the motif of the subject.
Noticing that she had dipped her face slightly into her chest, I motioned for Monica to up her jaw a little bit. After a couple of attempts, reflex set in, and I moved towards her. Gently, with all the finesse I could master, I tilted her face upwards until instinct told me that it was perfect. In the course of action, I had moved my face so close to hers that I couldn't resist landing a little peck on the tip of her nose.
Apparently, my daughter had the same temptation I had, and we ended up with our mouths meeting. Rather than pull away, though, the two of us locked lips in a kiss that was as platonic as it was not; but neither of us brought our tongues out. It was as close to a wet kiss as we had ever shared in the last two decades, but there didn't seem to be any way it was going to end up more than that.
A slight sigh escaped her when I moved away.
Patience is a worthy virtue, especially in an artist's model, and my daughter held her face still for the next forty minutes or so that it took me to make a proper rendition of her face on the canvas. Finally, the task done, I set down my lead pencil and blew away the eraser dust. Satisfied with my work, I beckoned to Monica to come and take a look.
Having expected her to cover herself before she glimpsed the sketch, I was surprised when she walked over to me, nonchalance personified. Any mental note I may have made about moving away as she came closer was lost to the ethers; like a dumb puppet, I made no effort to move as Monica brushed against me, stopping right in front of me as she gazed upon the canvas.
"Daddy!" she squealed, turning around with an amazed expression on her face. "It's too good! It's just too good!"
And before I could put in a word, she was on me, arms around my neck, kissing me full on the lips with abandoned passion. My body responded faster than my mind - my mouth opened, and her tongue immediately obliged by barging its way in. Then my tongue lashed back, and she drew it into the moist confines of her oral with little more than a suggestive tickle on the tip.
To say that this kiss could be matched would be a lie; to say that I wasn't enjoying it would be just as unfaithful to the conscience. Without any real resistance within - and definitely there was only consent outside - my hands allowed themselves the pleasure of enveloping the tight globes of her ass, cupping them and kneading the skin at the crack.
There was that momentary sense of anticipation as I pulled her even closer, my daughter surrendering with all her approval. Our bodies were now so tightly pressed to each other that not only could I feel the dampness of her crotch spread on to my pants, but also was I sure that she hadn't missed a feel of the stinging erection that was tenting my pants towards her. Her nipples were like pebbles placed against my chest; it was quite a sensation to have her breasts crushed on my body.