I was in the kitchen, and we had just finished breakfast. Toast for me, bacon and egg for my husband Paul. Paul kissed me and left for work. I cleared away the breakfast things into the dishwasher, went upstairs and tidied the bed. You can’t exactly call straightening the quilt ‘Making The Bed’.

I hung my robe up on the back of my door and turned the ensuite shower on. Paul and I had shagged last night, a slow, lingering love, less about frenetic action and more about touching, feeling, and interacting. We had kissed goodnight as we lay in bed, and my hand had found his dick and gently stroked it, moving his foreskin down, revealing his head end, my thumb kneading it, my fingernail teasing at its small opening.

He had massaged my breast, squeezed and tweaked my nipple, and then his hand had moved down and found my crease. I am not a great fan of breast play; it doesn’t arouse me. For the life of me, I do not understand why men are so fascinated by breasts, not when there is something much more interesting not far away. And Paul had found it; oh yes, now that was more like it.

His finger brushed my nubbin, and my waters flooded me. Oh gosh, I loved that, and he knew it. He rolled above me and as I was holding his dick still, I pushed it inside my opening, just exactly where I needed it. Paul took over, and we shagged slowly and lovingly until I felt his eruptions inside me. We kissed some more and then Paul rolled back to the side and started quietly snoring.

I hadn’t finished, but that was okay; the tenderness of the love relaxed me into my night of dreams. But that was last night; this morning I needed a shower. I stepped under the water, held the shower head and slowly unscrewed the rose. I just wanted the hose, and I carefully pushed it up to my entrance, letting the water sluice away the remnants of Paul.

Once I was clean and dry, I dressed. Bra, T-shirt top, knickers and skirt. Nothing special, just clothes to be decent. I was going to Dad’s this morning; I had promised to cut his back lawn for him. He does struggle, and it is no difficulty for me to help him out on my odd days off, and yesterday was dry, so hopefully today the grass would cut without clogging the mower.

“Hello baby,” Dad said as he opened the door for me. He is old and not so mobile, so I tell him to keep his door locked; there are all kinds of bad predatory people around.

I kissed his cheek and embraced him, a good hug, my chest pressed against his, my hands around his back. “Morning, Daddy,” I answered.

“Tea?” He asked, walking towards the kettle. It seemed rude to say no, so...

“Yes, please, Daddy.”

He made the teas, and we sat in his conservatory; it was only small, so we just sat opposite each other, a warm breeze coming in through the open door and ruffling my skirt. I didn’t really think about how I was sitting, not until I realised Dad was looking a bit too intently up my skirt. I turned slightly in my chair, causing my knees to go together; decorum resumed.

I could see that Dad had a situation in his pants. Oh dear, I guess I had caused that. To be honest, it never occurred to me that he would still do that or could still do that. Oh well, I was sure it would go away. No harm done. Sometimes I would dress in a way that would catch male attention, and most obviously that male would usually be my husband. It is odd to me as a woman that a man is more turned on by what he can’t see than what he can. He will be more aroused by a boob in a bra than a naked nipple. Men.

“Right, Dad, shall we see to your lawn?”

We went out and Dad opened the shed. His lawnmower was an electric one, and as I pulled it out Dad went back to the house to plug an extension lead in, so I had electric available.

I don’t really like an electric mower; the wire always gets in the way. We have a petrol mower at home, but it is so noisy, and our lawn is a lot bigger than Dad’s. The electric mower is a lot quieter, which I suppose is better on a housing estate like Dads.