Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Heterosexual, Fiction, Cheating, Cuckold, Incest, Mother, Son, Father, Daughter, DomSub, MaleDom, Oral Sex, Masturbation, Petting, Squirting, Pregnancy, .
Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Two estranged parents, two young children, and two very different outcomes. Co-Authored with the lovely Jenny, who doesn't have an account here but has given me the go-ahead to post on her behalf :)
My parents had grown apart quite some time ago. The slept in separate beds, and had held their loveless marriage together for the sake of my older brother and I, at least while we were younger. Now that we were adults- or thought of ourselves as such- they stayed together out of simple habit. It was a joyless household, dull and grey, the life seemingly sucked out of all who dwelt there.
It always seemed such a shame to me; they'd married young, had children young, and had still yet to pass the age of forty. I thought they should be living life, loving life, but here they were, going through the banal routines of day-to-day life without any real spark of happiness.
And despite that he had no reason to- for he found no other woman appealing, even though he still did not desire my mother- my father kept himself fit, robust. And watching him as he swam about in the backyard pool, turning length after length, I began to wonder about another kind of length. Specifically, what kind of length might lurk beneath his swimming trunks.
I blushed, turned away from the window, and tried to find out where that thought had come from. To think of my father as a sexual being? What, was I some character from a Greek tragedy? And yet ... and yet, that was the problem. I had opened a door, and now could not close it.
From that moment on, I could no longer help myself. I'd never had a real boyfriend- despite what some of the idiots at my school might have thought I was to them- and I now began to understand why. Because the boy in boyfriend was the operative word; they were fumbling youths, inexperienced and interested only in their pleasure. But a man?
Well, that would be different. And so I began to fantasise about my father. I'd watch him swim, try to pick out the size of the bulge at the front of his swimmers, marvel at his toned and tanned physique. Though a highly-placed executive, he realised his appearance was vital for first impressions, and I had no doubt that his handsome face and winsome eyes had landed his firm many a contract from otherwise wavering female liaisons.
And other males began to pale into insignificance for me. I stopped flirting with, checking out, and gossiping over the boys at school, leading quite a few of my admirers and friends labelling me frigid or lesbian. Nothing could be further from the truth, of course, but I could hardly set them straight by revealing that there was only one man who I was attracted to, and that it was my father...
For month after month, I fantasised about him, imagining he'd wait until my mother and brother were asleep before creeping into my room and ravishing me, or that I'd work up the nerve to walk downstairs and into the pool area wearing a skimpy bikini- or better yet, perhaps, noting at all! But I lacked the confidence, alas, and no matter how often I masturbated I was never quite satisfied.
Hoping I needed a little spur to get me over that hump, I made a false date with my friends, pretending I would be gone to the movies. My mother would be at work, and my brother at a friend's house, helping him to fix up an old muscle car. I hid in my closet until I heard the familiar splash of my father diving into the pool, then crept up to my window, watching him swimming length after length.
Something seemed ... off? Perhaps? In his approach today. Usually he swam with metronomic precision, smooth movements knifing through the water, but today he seemed almost haphazard. And after a few laps, he dragged himself out of the pool, water cascading from his chiselled form. If you've seen Casino Royale, you can imagine well what I'm talking about; of course, my father is more handsome than Daniel Craig, but still.
He dried off and trudged back into the house. I heard his footsteps end in the bathroom, the wet slap of his trunks hitting the tiled floor. And then, as I had hoped, he closed the door- but did not lock it!
I waited for minutes that stretched into an agonising eternity, until I heard the faucets creak and the water stream. Thus muffled, I sallied forth, fingers trembling as I opened the bathroom door just a sliver, peering through.
And such a sight! I had not even hoped for what I saw! My parents' en-suite is of an odd configuration; there is a bathtub and shower cubicle near the back wall- beside where I was standing- and opposite to it was a long bench with cupboard beneath, surmounted by two basins. Of greatest immediate interest to me, however, was the long, specially-manufactured mirror that has been chemically treated so that water simply beads up and runs off its face, preventing it from ever steaming up.
And reflected in it, I could see my father's naked body, all lean muscles. He was not hirsute, but clearly did not wax in the manner of a metrosexual, either; there was a dark patch of hair across his belly, trailing off between his pectorals. And below it ... well. He sat on the edge of the bath, face red, one hand tugging at his immense manhood. I could not guess at the size of it, but my fingers and hairbrush seemed to pale in comparison to it. And he was not long, but thick around, as well.
His hand moved up and down, up and down his shaft, and I could feel myself growing wet. As I bit my lip, I slid my own hand down into my panties, twiddled at my clitoris, parted my lips and watched and waited until at last I was ready to accept two fingers. I would have liked to use more, to stretch myself the way I imagined my father's prick would stretch me, but even as aroused as I was I feared it would hurt, and so I contained myself.
I matched my strokes to his, watching him intently. A thin sheen of sweat beaded his forehead, and his face reddened. I thought he was about to climax, and rubbed at myself furiously, trying to keep pace, but he simply kept stroking up and down, up and down with clockwork precision. Finding myself at the edge, I stuffed my free hand into my mouth and whimpered as I went over.
Hearing my soft cries, my father's head came up, eyes darting about. But of course he was alone in the house, was he not? And the slight crack in the door, well, what of it? Clearly he hadn't closed it properly. And with a shrug, he went back to his long, slow strokes, a film of pre-come lubricating his left hand.
I kept working at my slit, aware now that he must, even subconsciously, be able to scent my arousal. I wished desperately that he would abandon his masturbation and give me the swiving I so craved, but he continued to move at his preferred pace. I wondered if he could last this way inside a woman. If he could hold himself back so well during actual sex, he would be able to bring his partner off again and again; I could hardly believe that my mother willingly passed this up.
But now, his hips twitched, his breathing grew hoarse, and he sped up his pace slightly. And as he shuddered, and his eyes rolled back, I forced myself back from the edge, waiting until his penis began to surge, until thick, pearly ropes of semen flew from the flared tip of his shaft. Imagining it was washing against me, imagining I was the receptor of that massive load, I finally went over the edge, waves of pleasure washing over me as I shuddered through my orgasm.
Spent, he just sat there, watching his spunk cooling on the tiled floor. He grimaced, stood up, and as his erection ebbed he walked to the toilet, wadded up a ream of paper, and made to clean up his mess. I waited until I saw his nakedness in the flesh, rather than through a reflection, and then I fled to my room, fuel for a thousand thousand incestuous dreams running through my jumbled thoughts...