Author's Note : Inspired by the Mardi Gras Parade(s) and the Rio Carnival, this story is purely a work of fiction. There are no factual errors because it is fantasy, and if you find differences with the actual Mardi Gras or the Carnival, please note that I haven't given enough details for you to nitpick. This is not for those who like reality in these stories... that's like asking for a politician who's honest. Dream on.
"Where's Ronnie?" My wife June asked me upon entering the house. It was close to six in the evening.
"Out," I replied, not exactly bothering with a full reply, my attention distracted by the live feed of the year's Mardi Gras just a few miles away from home. On the box, the camera had caught a few young ladies flashing themselves... my wife snorted when she saw the scene, and then gasped.
"There she is!"
"There," June stabbed the TV with her finger, pointing to a girl in the background who wasn't putting up much of a fight as she was tossed from one guy to another, each taking his own sweet time to pull her tee-shirt up and grab a handful of her tan-lined tits. I ogled the firm pair that the girl had - those tooters shot right into your eyes. The camera zoomed in on two perfect nipples, so obviously hard, their color an exotic dark shade of pink. This girl was definitely aroused...
As she was making me...
And then, as the camera panned out, the girl pushed her top back over her breasts. June, still in shock, hadn't spoken another word. I stared at the face. So familiar...
"She looks a lot like Ron, doesn't she?" Unlike my wife, I didn't really believe that our daughter was such a wanton young woman.
"Dammit, Jack, that IS Ronnie! See that mole on her jaw. And those earrings..."
Unfortunately for my daughter, the cameraman focused on her for a couple of seconds too long, enough for me to confirm what my wife had just pointed out. That mole... those earrings... those breasts...
"But she said she was going over to a friend's place," I offered defensively, lest my wife put all the blame on me for being so easily taken in.
My wife snorted. "Sure, and that's what I told MY father when I came over to see you, and had you knock me up..." She stared at me with all the fury of an angry mother, and I averted my eyes back to the TV. Thankfully, Ron was no longer anywhere to be seen. Let her come home tonight, I promised myself, there would be hell to pay.
My wife, apparently, wasn't going to be so patient. She threw her coat across the room - she was a lawyer by profession - and grabbed my arm. "Come on," she muttered, her fury threatening to explode, and I figured it would be less dangerous to follow her out to the car, even as I tried to figure out exactly what it was that she had in mind.
Before I knew it, we were on the road, speeding right over the limit, with a very pissed-off mother at the wheel. I tried to calm her a couple of times, "Don't overreact, baby, she -"
"She is a two-bit whore, that's what she is," my wife hissed, and I bristled at the remark. Sure, my daughter was enjoying some 'freedom,' but she wasn't putting out for anyone, at least as far as I could see. And the description, the thought came to my mind, was ironic in that it came from a woman who slept with her boss to get some extra perks.
"At least," I muttered loudly enough for my wife to hear, "She doesn't sleep with the partners of Hillworth and bullshit Co. to score some brownie points."
The knuckles of my wife's hand were white as she gripped the wheel fiercely. Back when I had first confronted my wife with proof of her infidelity, we had made a deal never to bring that home again, because I couldn't convince my wife that I didn't sleep with my publisher - my brother does, but that's another matter. That peacetime treaty was now broken.
Maybe she was just too stressed out, or maybe she had finally accepted the truth; June did not bring up anything about my publisher (Okay, so I slept with the sexy lady once! Just once!) and was silent for several seconds. That relief, I soon learnt, was only temporary. "Bitch! She's only eighteen, and already she looks ready to screw half the town."
I started to open my mouth to ask her to get a grip on her language but she cut me off. "And shut up, Jack. You allow her to go to a pervert's paradise and now defend her? You are just as bad as she is, maybe worse. Irresponsible son of a -"
Not wanting to hear her rant, I turned away from her and concentrated on the outside. My wife, the irritating shrew that she was, continued for some more time, making sure I heard some of her compliments, a 'motherfucker', a 'home-sitting loser' and 'an impotent bastard.' I almost rose to the bait, biting back certain comments with more control than I would be able to muster the next time.
Finally, realizing that she no longer had a willing audience, my wife shut up.
The more I thought about it, the more it struck me that Ronnie was among the sexiest of women that I had ever seen. It was not like I was suddenly woken up to find my little girl a grown woman, and in spite of having more than a gentlemanly interest in her development, I was surprised by how... wholesome... that's the only word I can think of... she was. Firm breasts, a trim tummy and just that ounce of fat to get rid of any accusation that she was a figure-conscious reed.
This was my daughter I was thinking about, I reminded myself, only to find out that it was extremely difficult to think about anything else. Or anyone else. Ron was hot. There was no argument there.
We pulled into the main approach to the place where the Gras was being held less than five minutes later, not even wanting to look at each other. Part of the wide road was already a parking lot of sorts, with a lot of emergency vehicles and police cruisers. One of the cops gestured us to stop. We obliged, a little apprehensive when a partner joined him, but the first cop smiled warmly, putting me at ease.
"If you're gonna be back and out soon," he offered, pointing to a spot between a cruiser and an ambulance, "You can park there."
"We aren't sure, actually," I told him, a little sheepishly, "You see, we're looking for our daughter..."
"We? Oh, you mean Blondie here's your wife?" The second cop gave my wife an approving look-over, maybe even mentally undressing her. He could have raped her, for all I cared.
There was something about these two - Officers Roberts and Sorenson, according to their name-plates - that was pleasant. They laughed when I gave a theatrical sigh and agreed. "Unfortunately." If looks could have killed, I assume, my wife wouldn't have had to worry about any divorce proceedings... after all, they don't have a posthumous clause, do they?
"Well, buddy, you've got some balls though," Roberts said.
"Well," Sorenson clarified for his partner, "Most of the pops who come here looking for their daughters come alone... but they don't leave alone, you know. And some of them get mighty lucky..."
Reading my confused expression, Roberts added with a naughty grin, "And their wives never even realize why it takes them so long... get it?"
"Not me," I answered, getting their meaning. "Ron would never allow it."
"Veronica your name, missus?"
"No, it's my daughter's," I cut in, pointedly ignoring my wife's continuing glare. "This one is Mrs. Jack Mathew, the First."
Roberts and Sorenson broke up over that. "Hi, Jack," the former said, shaking my extended hand, "Welcome to Mardi Gras. And what do we call the missus?"
"Anything that comes to mind," I quipped, and the three of us laughed. "Of course," I added, "She prefers June. Winter, though, would have been more appropriate. Brrr!"
Roberts was still laughing as he signaled one of his colleagues to move their truck. Wordlessly, June drove into the dead-end alley that had been hidden by the bulk of the truck. Even as she turned off the ignition, the police truck was back in place.
Roberts and Sorenson were waiting for us at the roadblock. "Before you go in there," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the din from the party, "It gets rough in there, you know. We've got some plainclothes in there, but no boys in blue, so protect yourself. Especially you, Mrs. Mathew -"
"June," she corrected him harshly.
"June, in case you've never been here before, let me tell you it gets pretty harrowing. We don't step in unless we've got to, okay, and we are blind to anything else that goes on in there. The people who walk in understand this - it's made very clear to them. To be blunt, you are putting yourself at risk by going in. You can't fight back, and you will in all probability be violated."
"Like what?" I asked, enjoying the fact that he was painting a scary picture to my wife.
"Well, in short, by the time you come out - and I have to say you are too attractive - the only thing you may have intact is your life. Some of those drunks in there get pretty wild and fuck anything that moves, anything that grabs their fancy, but some of them are just content enough to rip off your clothes and feel you up. They won't hurt you, at least not in a permanent manner, but you might have a tough time walking at the end of it all.
"I suggest you and your husband hunt in pairs - no, I wouldn't recommend that - Jack looks like he could start a fist fight protecting you," at which I smiled wryly, thinking how I would leave my wife to the wolves while I hunted for my daughter and grabbed an ass or two in the process, "The best thing for you to do would be to stay here until your husband comes back."
My wife's always had a big ego, and it seemed as if Roberts had succeeded in troubling that. She brushed aside his warning with undisguised contempt, "I can take care of myself, thank you. I don't need his - or anyone's help - getting in and out of there, and anyone who messes with me is the one going to have problems walking."
The three of us watched as my wife huffed off, her business skirt flaring enticingly behind her back, and the clatter of her heels was lost to the overwhelming mix of party beats that came from less than a hundred meters away. "How is she?" Sorenson asked, watching her ass intently.
"Bitch," I informed them. "Way too aggressive. We fought on our way here."
"Figured," Roberts commented with a smile.
Sorenson shook his head sadly. "Women like that, they never make it!"
"Yeah," his partner concurred, much to my delight, "Attractive and catty! She ain't gonna last an hour in there without getting screwed!"
"Okay, guys, gotta go!"
"All the best, pal, go get her."
"Thanks," I said as I started to follow my wife, "I owe you one."
"Don't worry," Sorenson called out, "We will take you up on that!"
I was less than five feet away from the makeshift gate when I spotted my wife. Even though she had managed to move only a couple of feet into the crowd, she looked dishelved, quite harangued. The guard at the gate, obviously placed to weed out minors, waved me on.
In spite of my height, which is over six feet, it was quite hard to spot anyone in the mass of humanity, much less maintain a line of sight. Thankfully, there was a long platform running the length of the drive on the center of the road, just a couple of feet high, tall enough for me to watch my wife even as I searched for our prodigal daughter.
Even at that time, the sight seemed quite funny. My wife, ever so 'polite' and 'soft,' bumped into a topless punk, causing him to spill his drink on her starched white shirt. While I couldn't exactly hear what was being said, I knew enough of June to understand that she wasn't apologizing, not from the way she was shaking her fist at him.
I couldn't help but break out laughing when the punk responded by dumping the rest of his drinks over my wife's head and added insult to injury by kissing her rather forcefully on the mouth. June's hands flailed helplessly, trying to beat him up, but he must have had her in such a vice grip that he could kiss her for a full minute without any interruption. When he was done, he pushed her back on the ground, pulled her skirt to her waist - June being too stunned and breathless to stop him - and waited.
When he was certain my wife was fully conscious once again, he ripped her shirt open and gave her the finger!
I stopped laughing only when I felt a hand on my erection, cupping it through my shorts, and saw that the hand belonged to a young woman, obviously drunk, who had her blouse tied around her waist. "Hmmm," she said, eyes fixed on my crotch, "What is that?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my wife start to get up. Poor girl! The moment she tried to hold her shirt closed, she slipped and fell flat on her butt, much to the amusement of everyone around her. Finally, one of the girls of the group extended her hand and helped June up, rewarding herself to a kiss that June was too surprised to deny. The girl managed to push my wife's shirt off, and by the time June could breathe again, the straps of her bra were already off her shoulders.
I watched, amused, as my haughty wife shuffled away from the spot in a hurry, trying to pull the straps back on even as she tried to regain her composure. She looked around, eyes burning, and saw me.
Just to irritate her further, I turned to the girl who had her hands over my balls. "I bet my wife your tits are much better than hers," I lied, grinning naughtily, "And she is looking at us now."
The girl smacked her lips, returning my naughty look, and without a word, undid her blouse. Her breasts spilled out, bigger than the blouse had let on, topped with pierced nipples. Without any deliberation whatsoever, the young woman threw her arms around me and kissed me, and I kissed her back. My hands slid into her shorts, meeting resistance in the form of crinkly hair that I guessed was just as fair as the rest of her hair.
We broke the kiss, and I glanced at June - she was livid! I smiled, waved at her and asked the young woman to do the same. This was fun!
That, I guess, set the tone for the rest of the evening. Darkness had fallen everywhere else, but the Mardi Gras lights were so spectacular nobody even noticed the transition from dawn to dusk. There was revelry everywhere, and as I moved further into the parade, eyes scanning for any sign of my daughter, I noticed that the crowd was starting to get a little wilder. There were a couple of female streakers running about, chased around by almost a dozen guys, and one of the women collided into my wife.
As they struggled to get up, the guys - all hunks, college level - jumped on top of them, covering the writhing females. This was too good to resist, and I bounded down from the platform to get a closer look. Quite a crowd had gathered around them by the time I reached the site, but I had no problem using my physique to get front-row seats.
The girl - the original streaker - was being pumped mercilessly by a guy who had his pants around his ankles, while another whipped his cream on her face. It was pretty racy stuff, even for an orgy, and pretty soon, some of the onlooking girls also joined in, making it a wild free-for-all. It would have been quite easy to miss one particular victim among the humping bodies, and if it hadn't been for June's screaming, I would have definitely missed her.
As it was, I think she managed to grab everyone's attention.
Her skirt was half-way down her thighs, twisted around so that the slit that would normally have been on the side of her thighs was now between them, but what really grabbed everyone's attention was her thong underwear. She must be really having a bad day, I thought, and now this; some of the girls in the crowd giggled when they saw the white material, in stark contrast to her black bra.
The crowd egged the boys, chanting, "Strip, strip, strip," and the boys tried to oblige. In spite of all her kicking, they kept on coming back, lunging at her and finding only air. She was rolling all over the ground, quite amusing to see, and even I had to admire her spirit for holding on despite the fact that the numbers game was against her. Eventually, she would be overpowered, and these guys - they didn't seem to be to forgiving about the pasting they were receiving - would make sure she would think twice before ever using her feet again.
Just as I had predicted, the tide turned. Three of the boys jumped on top of her at the same time, each with a specific target. One boy managed to grab hold of her hands and pinned them behind my wife's head; another locked her legs together. The third, his task made easier by her temporary immobilization, got on top of her and straddled her stomach, right below her breasts. With the swiftness of a striking snake, he slid atop her, his face now inches from my wife's, and his legs locking hers between them.
A loud roar went up as he kissed her, his hands replacing his buddy's as he held her arms powerfully over her head. It was as effective a maneuver as I had ever seen to quell a fighting woman, and I was certainly glad it had worked on my wife. Someone in the crowd held up a stop-watch and called off the time every five seconds. The boy continued to kiss until the end of the second minute, at which time he moved away, panting.
No sooner had that happened than was another boy on top of my wife, locking lips as the clock started to tick again. He outlasted his friend, a cheer going up as the record was broken, and stood up.
Next on was his girlfriend, the other streaker, and she did not even waste a single second. Her hands cradled my wife's head as she bent over for another kiss; pretty soon, she rolled over, taking my wife along with her, and the crowd cheered every second - apparently, everyone thought my wife was also co-operating. That she was sweating was a question beyond doubt; that she was aroused was evidenced by her wet panties.
And that she was still defiant was certain when she managed to punch the streaker in the stomach...
For a moment, everyone was too stunned to react. The gasping woman, her breath temporarily knocked out of her, staggered in my direction. Reflexively, I caught hold of her.
"Are you alright?"
"Thanks," she said after a moment of silence. There was no awkwardness in the fact that she was completely naked and I was a stranger, and I made it a point to ignore my wife who was, once again, pinned by the three guys.
"What do you want us to do?" one of the boys asked.
"Let her go," the young woman replied, looking at June contemptuously, "Kick her out of here."
"Wait," I was suddenly inspired. "If you don't mind, I think I've got a better idea."
The woman smiled at me. "Well, what's it, luv?" she asked huskily, once again the sultry seductress.
I knew I had her. "For starters," I nibbled her nose. "I am Jack."
"I am Mary," the girl said, "And these are my brothers, Bill, Bob and BB."
Her brothers nodded politely, but there was no mistaking their anger at June. "So what do you say, boss?"
"Does someone here have a candle? My wife does have some kind of liking for hot wax dripping on her body..."
"Yep, and this here's June. Oh, don't worry, I am not going to punch you or anything - June and I had a fight on our way here."
The three of them - four, counting their sister - were visibly relieved. "And you are okay with this... ?" Mary started to ask.
"I couldn't have planned it better myself," I assured her.
"Well, in that case," Mary wrapped her arms around me, "How about you and I engaging a little while my brothers here treat your wife to some hot wax?"
As much as I would have like to say yes, I told the nudist, "I can't. I am looking for my daughter."
"You have a daughter?" Mary asked, surprised. "One that's old enough to be here?"
"Yes and yes. Guilty as charged."
"What do you know! And I wouldn't have pegged you for a day over twenty-five."
"Flatterer!" Playfully, I gave her taut nipple a little squeeze. "If I were, though, I wouldn't let you out of my sight for the week."
She giggled. "What's her name? Your daughter's?"
"Ron - Veronica."
"Well," Mary started to kiss my lips even as she was speaking, "I could pretend to be Veronica, Jack. If she ain't lucky enough, you know..."
Mary and I kissed, and by the time we pulled apart, someone had already tied my wife's hands and legs with strips of cloth. June stared at me with venom in her eyes, but I returned her glare smugly. After all, I was having the time of my life, treating my wife in the same shitty manner she had come to treat me, and the way I was being fawned over ought to make any man proud.
Mary tugged at my wife's bra, and it came out after a couple of tries. Without the use of her arms and feet, June was a defeated woman. I chided myself for being a sadist as I saw her close her eyes as Mary brought a lighted candle and tipped its wax over her left nipple.
"Oooowwww!" the scream was really pathetic to hear, but thankfully, Mary had enough presence of mind to gag her with her own bra. She turned to me with a mischievious smile.
"You told us she liked this..."
I shrugged, returning her smile.
"You liar... One day, I might just punish you..."
"I'll be waiting," I promised as I walked away.
The crowd had really picked up the beat by now, and there were more topless women on the platform. Some of the really wild ones threw away their clothes and danced along the platform, picked up by the hundreds of small video cams that everyone knew were present and no one wanted to expose.
It was just gut instinct that made me turn into the mall halfway down the Mardi Gras parade. This was one of the hottest haunts even on off-days, and maybe, just maybe, my daughter was there. It was no worse than searching along the main route, I reasoned.
I turned around to find a very perplexed Veronica, obviously because her father would have been among the last of the people she would have expected to run into on this kind of an occasion. She wasn't alone though; with her was her best friend of five years, a brunette called Sasha, and thankfully, both were fully clothed.
"Hi Ronnie!" I smiled at my only child.
"What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you."
"But how did you - I mean, I told you - how?"
"Saw you on TV," I said simply.
Rather than rail at her, or, contradictorily, support her freedom of choice, I decided I would wait for her to speak. She had to deal with this entirely her way, leading it towards any direction she saw fit. It would be a valuable practice for her, for life is such that you often get to make the most difficult of decisions, not others.
In the meantime, while she was pondering her defense, I checked her out. She was just a head shorter than I, taking after her mother's dirty 'Blondie' look that reached down below her shoulder blades. Her eyebrows, though, were dark, closer to red than to yellow, and it sometimes gave her an exotic look. The gold loops that were her earrings complemented the softness of her face. Her lips... I tried to ignore them. For some reason, they had always had this quality of making me want to taste them, to find out if they did taste as sweet as the cherries whose color they so patently matched.
My daughter was dressed in a gray tee-shirt that was now pulled down over the waistband of her skirt - the last time I saw her, it struck me, the very same t-shirt had been bunched around her neck as she had bared her chest for the world to see. The thin skirt swayed about her, conservatively covering her legs when she was still but flaring out to show off her thighs the moment she moved.
"Re." Caught unawares, I shifted my focus hastily back to her face.
"I am sorry," I mumbled, "What did you say?"
"That's exactly what I said," Ronnie replied, a little edge in her voice as she attempted to melt me with her smile. "I am sorry."
"For what, young woman?"
She smacked her lips, embarrassed. "I lied to you."
"Dad, I am so sorry! I shouldn't have lied to you... I was afraid you wouldn't let me come."
"What did you think I would have done, ground you for asking? Is that how I've treated you?" I asked, allowing a little hurt to show.
"No," she looked down at the floor, voice quivering now, "But I didn't want you to think that I was being loose, Daddy - just a little fun."
Looking at her sorry form, I lost any resolve I might have encouraged to scold her. She was sorry - either that, or she deserved an Oscar. I placed my hands on her shoulders and squeezed her gently. "Baby, Daddy's angry you lied to me," I had to make that part certain, "But he's glad you stopped at that. And, Ron... ?"
She looked up at me, eyes moist, and my heart went out for her. I had been her age once; sure, I knew what she was going through. "Yes, Daddy?"
"How do you think I knew you were here?"
For a moment, her beautiful face creased into a puzzled frown. "You said you saw me... on TV." Silence. Realization. Enlightenment. "That means... you were watching the Parade, weren't you?"
I took my hands off her for just a brief second, to signal surrender, and then they were back on her shoulders. "Guilty as charged."
"Cool!" For the first time that evening, I heard Sasha speak. Ronnie grinned at her friend, and then turned to me, pretending to be shocked. "You don't say..."
Before I could reply to that, Ronnie surprised me by going up on tiptoes and kissing me on my lips.
At that instant, something changed. I cannot define it, for neither was the moment nor was the sensation quantitative, but because it fell in the space between a father-daughter kiss and a lover-lover kiss. Not this, but not exactly that. You have to experience it to understand it.
And then I felt her tongue, for just the fraction of an instant, brush my lips... and that was the end of the kiss...
"Wow!" which was accurately how eloquent I suddenly felt, "What was that?"
She smiled warmly at me. "For being such a great Dad!"
"If you two can just hold that pose," Sasha broke in, the third voice sounding a little harsh to me - and that was mainly because I realized I could never have enough of hearing my daughter talk - "I think I can snap some quickies."
That was the first time that evening that I noticed that Sasha had a digital camera with her, a compact Yashica - or Nikon, I am not sure now - and had it aimed at us. Apparently, she was just one of the few hundreds who would be recording this year's Parade for posterity, and she must have thought that a sensitive father-daughter moment was one of those worth immortalizing. True, I would never forget the smile of relief on my daughter's face...
Sasha snapped off a couple even as we turned to face the camera, and before we knew it, she was barking out poses and we, my daughter and I, were dancing to her tune. Finally, after the sixth or the seventh shot, Sasha asked us to hug each other.
Ronnie was the first to catch on, and she smiled brightly as she threw her arms around me, pressing herself to me in a flash. By the time I realized that she would feel my hard-on, she had already felt it; her face grew red as she jumped away, staring at my poking crotch. "WHAT was THAT?"
I felt myself flush with embarrassment at having been caught so much on the wrong foot, and was almost ready to apologize when it struck me that the two females were laughing their heads off. I attempted a weak smile, seeking to remove any suspicion that either of them had caused it. In my hearts, though, I knew that my daughter had, indeed, been the single-handed cause, and for that, conscience bothered me.
"I can explain," I began, not sure how much of it would sink in for Ronnie and Sasha.
"What's to explain?" Ronnie cut me off with a wry grin. "I know a winner - or should I say weenie," and Sasha broke up at that, "When I feel one, and that, daddy, requires no explanation."
"Yeah," Sasha added, still giggling wildly, "Not unless Ronnie caused it!"
My face froze. Guilt.
Ronnie noticed it. Her face hardened the next second.
"Oh my God! I did that?"
For some reason, Sasha bent over laughing when she heard that. My silence was a damning indictment, and even as Ronnie and I just stared at each other, one surprised, another sorry, my daughter's best friend managed to cry out, "That is so funny!"
"SASHA!" my daughter growled.
Still doubled over, Sasha mumbled something about being sorry before laughing again. And to this day, while I'll never know for sure whether it was intentional or not, it did have the desired effect - Ronnie started to laugh at the situation. Relieved, I joined her.
"Did Ronnie ever tell you that she masturbates about you once in a week?"
This time, it was Ronnie's turn for her smile to freeze on her face. And mine had all the glamour of a fish fresh out of water. Gaping, I managed to ask, "What?"
"Don't you dare -" my daughter began, but Sasha continued as if there was nothing wrong about revealing your best friend's secrets.
"You heard me, didn't you, Jack -" we had dropped the Mr. Mathew bit long ago - "Your daughter, your darling Veronica, has a huge crush on you. In other words, you form the backbone of her sexual fantasies... why, she even gets off when Tony pretends he is you."
"Damn, Sasha, you are gonna pay..." Her face red with fury - or embarrassment, I am not sure - Ronnie lunged at her best friend. Expecting such an attack, however, Sasha moved away in the nick of time and ran down the corridor, and it was only then that I noticed that the floor was practically deserted. There were groups here and there, but there was not a hint of the characteristic hustle and bustle of a mall. The shops were open though, a fact my wallet would come to regret a few minutes later.
The two were racing around the corridor now. I was impressed by the way Ronnie was cutting the distance shorter between her and Sasha, but things went awry when, while making a sharp turn, Ronnie slipped. Sasha and I were by her side in an instant.
Veronica smiled sweetly at me. "No bones broken," she remarked, turning to Sasha. "Which is more than I can say when I get my hands on you, you squealing pussy!"
"Oh, really?" replied the feisty girl, "You and what army?"
"Me... and Dad."
"In that case," Sasha quipped, "I don't have to worry about a thing. The minute you two get together, baby, I've got a feeling someone's got to tell you to stop all that screaming."
Even before I had gathered the sexual innuendo, my daughter rose to the bait. "You should know all about that, given that you invite me over for a night and then spend it screaming your head off when your dad reams you..."
"At least," Sasha managed a very serious expression, "I don't deny that I like it - or even the fact that we do it. Unlike some people here who let their daddies slide their hands into their skirts..."
The warm flesh of my daughter's waist, which I had been rubbing absently, stung my fingers at once, and I jerked my hand out of her skirt. True, I hadn't gone beyond a fatherly instinct to rub her pain away, but in the light of the admissions, and particularly those comments of Sasha, my relationship, I would realize later, with my daughter changed forever.
"Wait a minute," I figured offence was the best form of any defense, "Do you actually sleep with your father?"
"Every other night," Sasha claimed smugly. "When Mom's home. If she's on a trip or something, we take an entire day off just to try out new things... don't get me wrong, Jack, I'm not queer or anything, and Dad's not a perv either. It's just that the sex is so good we talked Mom into letting us be. Dad can have me whenever he wants me - I can have him even if he is about to make out with Mom.
"It's quite a nice arrangement, you know. Maybe you should try it?"
"No, thanks," Ronnie and I shouted out in unison.
Sasha grinned. "See. You two are connecting already..."
I helped my daughter back on her feet. She gave her hip a wiggle to see if anything felt broken; to me, it looked about as sublime as the sex-dances outside.
"What now?" my daughter asked. "And where's Mom? I don't think she would have let you come here all on your own."
"You know her too well," I began, then went on to tell my daughter how her mother was, probably, at the very moment, being gangbanged out on the streets by punks less than half her age. Not wanting to appear sadistic, however, I edited my role with the whole affair, juicing up my wife's insolence, and by the time I finished, it was my daughter who had a bigger smile.
"Serves that slut right."
"Watch your tongue, dear", I warned, but not really meaning it, "She is your mother."
"Okay," nodded my daughter, "How 'bout 'it serves that two-timing wife of yours right'?"
We all laughed at that, myself included. Of course, I told myself, Ronnie had been more accurate in her description the first time. "And it's quite ironic, you know, she was calling you a slut."
Sasha chuckled. "If she knew what you guys know, I wonder what she would call me."
"Probably her twin sister," my daughter joked. "But what about the keys, Dad? You told me when you left her, my dear mother didn't have a stitch of clothing on her..."
Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a set of keys. "There were a couple of cops who warned us, so I decided I would hold on to these."
We looked at each other for some time, a temporary lull in conversation as the irrepressible Sasha checked out a newly-arrived gang of half-naked girls and boys. Presently, Ronnie spoke. "Well, I guess it's time to go back home, huh Daddy?"
It was an unplanned deviation, but I figured all of us needed a really good break. At my wife's expense, of course. I reached into my pockets once again and pulled out two credit cards. "Only if you want to, Hun, but I am sure your mother would be real disappointed if we didn't break these in today..."
The two girls cheered as they snatched the cards away from my hands. "How much can we spend, Daddy?" Ronnie asked.
"Max them," I said, feeling very naughty. "After all, it's June's cards. I'm sure she wouldn't mind spending a little on the two of you."
"Me too, Jack? That's so sweet." Sasha was quite surprised at my 'generous' gesture.
"Well, I don't there are enough things here for Ron to burn up two credits all on her own... she's gonna need some serious help."
"What can we buy, Daddy?"
"Anything," I told her, meaning anything.
"Can I - uh, you know - buy some clothes, Daddy?"
"Of course, what sort of a question is that?"
"What she means, Jack, is that she is looking for something to wear under. Like as in silky bra and panties, transparent negligees, little-duckling knickers... maybe even a stocking or two, throw in a garter belt..."
"Jesus," I pretended to be shocked, "You are making her sound like a 20th century whore."
"Definitely not," Sasha explained. "You can't turn a nice girl like her into a whore -"
"My mother's one," Ronnie pointed out.
Sasha shook her head. "You ain't got the itch for it, you know, you are more a stay-at-home-and-I'll-love-my-daddy type. Which explains the sexy underwear you've been planning to buy, doesn't it?"
"You are so gross," Ronnie was clearly flustered by the way her friend kept propping me up as a centerpiece.
"So are you when you drool at him," Sasha looked at me pointedly. This was turning out to be quite embarrassing for me, so I decided to change the topic.
"Like I said, anything your heart desires, you can buy it."
"Even whips, chains and handcuffs?" Sasha asked, hopefulness in her voice. "Mom's been getting too bossy lately, and Dad and I are planning to pull her down by a couple of pegs."
"Thank you so much, Jack, you're too cool." With that, she threw her arms around me, as if in abandon, and started kissing me. With a beautiful girl in your arms, in a state of arousal, with your daughter looking on to add to the lustiness, and if the girl was kissing you fiercely, AND if you can push her away... you are not human.
So I did the only thing I could. I grabbed Sasha's ass, pressing her to me, and kissed back, instinctively knowing that the girl loved her kisses hard and furious, proceeding until I tasted a drop of her blood. She moaned loudly.
"Cut it out, you two," Ronnie, jealous (?), played the spoilsport. "That's my father, in case you've forgotten, Sasha dear." Sarcasm reigned her tone.
Pulling her face away, Sasha grinned at her friend with all the satisfaction that can be expressed without words. "Well, my dear Ronnie, you can have him once you get home. Why don't you learn to share?"
"Have him... share?" My daughter sputtered. "Haven't you the hell realized anything?"
"Cool down," Sasha was calm. "Your father deserves a kiss. A big one foe being such a great guy, and if you are not going to oblige him, I am more than happy to. Besides, it's not like I stole your boyfriend or anything." Touche.
Ronnie, too angry to realize that her friend was making her do exactly what she was trying to avoid, stared at Sasha. Then, without a word, she walked up to me, bumped the 'other woman' away, and - this is the moment that remains forever etched in my memory - smacked her lips before tilting her face and kissing me with twice the passion and intensity her friend had shown.
Or was it that, because I was kissing my Princess, I felt a higher sensitivity to those things?
I closed my eyes as I felt her lips press against mine, her crotch colliding rather solidly against my erection, and the only thing I saw with my eyes closed as I kissed her back were those luscious red lips heading towards me. Everything else paled into the background.
I could feel her nipples, pointed and hard, press against my chest.
I could feel the warmth across my pants, across her skirt, across her panties... I could feel her arousal.
I could feel her legs snaking around mine as she absently sought firmer support; I wasn't too sure I didn't need help myself.
Sasha was forgotten. Her kiss was a distant memory, something like taking a cab when you go to buy your own car.
I could feel only the softness of my daughter's lips. I could only feel the shallow breaths emanating from her nostrils teasing my moustache.
I could feel only the sum of my passion and hers, my feelings and her reciprocation. I could feel only one thought - if at all the kiss had to end, it would only be too soon...