A string of pearls and a smile. Those were the only things that I ever wore when Dad came in to the city to visit me – it saved time. Time that is better spent running his hands and lips, his talented tongue, over my naked skin.

I lived on the second floor of a three story condominium complex. Actually the garage was above ground, so you had to push three on the elevator to get to my apartment. It was a two bedroom unit, specifically purchased so that Mom and Dad could stay over when they came in to the Twin Cities for a show or something like that. The unit had separate balconies off of my bedroom and off of the combination living room slash den. The unit faced the woods and I could stand naked on either 'terrace' without any real danger of being seen, so long as I didn't lean over the railing. Dad and I sometimes did start our little get-togethers there, but only in the dark.

I'm Katarina (Kat, Kate, Katie, Rina, whatever) and I was twenty-six at the end of this story – which by the way is only hours after the beginning of this little recitation. The top of my head is five foot six above the ground. The scale says one hundred ten when I step on it. My bra reads 34B but Dad rarely sees me in one. Maybe sometimes when we dress to go out for dinner but a lot of times I don't bother with one even then. My hair is pure blonde – my head, not my pussy, which is bald, though it used to be blonde - like many famous women from Scandinavia, and one might honestly refer to me as a classic Nordic beauty. And no, I definitely do not have to say so myself.

My grandparents were all friends and immigrated together to the cold winters of Minnesota. It was natural that their children, Dad and Mom, should grow up together, surrendering their innocence and then their virginity to one another, and eventually marrying and producing the bouncing baby girl variously described in this story as 'I' or 'me'.

Dad is one seriously handsome devil. Close to six feet tall and well built, he is a retired police detective. He did the 'twenty and out' routine and is now security chief for a major real estate operator. Those twenty years, though, probably contributed to Mom's fucking around, her gambling and worse, what with Dad's dangerous job, the irregular hours, the cop bars and the whores who didn't mind giving it away in return for not being arrested. I didn't know whether or not Dad really took advantage of that abundance of cunt but Mom thought so, and I heard her accuse him more than once.

I was on the terrace outside of my bedroom, the summer evening, a Friday, being warm enough for nudity. I heard Dad's key in the door but didn't turn around. He had driven for an hour from the home I grew up in, the home he still kept for his five day job. The air blew softly against my body as he opened the door, creating a temporary draft. In a few long strides he was behind me.

His hands rested against my upper arms as his lips kissed the back of my neck, making me moan with pleasure and with lust. My full weight fell against his body, my back against his chest, my butt whorishly rubbing like a lap dancer against his crotch. I reached behind me, placing my hand on his hardness. His hands slid around me to feather my nipples, already at attention from the instant that his key entered the lock.

My toes down like a ballerina, I spun to face him and our lips joined hungrily. Eyes closed, tongues dueling, the weekend had begun...

TEN YEARS AGO I was sixteen. Dad was working a four-to-twelve and probably wouldn't be home until three in the morning. I was naked, preparing for bed. Walking down the hall to the bathroom, I passed Mom's open door and saw her examining herself, also naked, in a full length mirror. She obviously liked what she saw, and knowing the horniness of teen-aged boys and the men they would grow up to be, I knew that she was pleasing to the male eye. No big deal; we saw each other that way all the time.

"Come on in, Rina," she said. It was pure polite request, nothing like a command. Yet I hesitated, fearing where the conversation would go. When I entered her room, her eyes went to my snatch. I had the feeling that this we not merely maternal examination. My carpeting clearly matched my drapes, and my pussy dampened under her gaze.

"I think it's time for you to shave down there, young lady." She spread her legs to show off her bald pubes. I'd seen them often, and we'd had this same conversation on a number of occasions. This conversation however had a different ending.

"Does Dad like it that way?" I asked.

"He hates it," she snapped, continuing, "But I don't give a damn. Now let's go."

My hesitation, my objections were ignored. She led me into her bathroom. Two separate sinks with vanities, catty corner, a commode with a linen closet inside, a glass enclosed shower and a large Jacuzzi tub. She sat me down on her vanity top and pushed my legs open. Electric razor, soap and water, safety razor, shave cream, Dad's after shave lotion. It took a while but finally my pussy was as clean as Mom's. As she rubbed in the lotion, I reflexively tried to close my legs. Mom wasn't stupid. Most Moms are not stupid. As I tried to close my legs, she quickly slid two fingers inside me. It was as she had suspected; my hymen was gone. My face turned deep purple.

"Who?" Her tone made it clear that she wouldn't accept any reply that relied on hair brushes or horseback riding, especially since the only 'horse' I'd ever ridden had been a human being hung like a stallion.

"You don't know him. A boy from school," I added.

This was technically true. From my perspective now, at age twenty-six, he was a boy, a mere twenty-one. But back then I was only sixteen, and he was a brand new teacher, with a newly minted bachelor's degree. I wasn't much of a math student, but at that age, an apple for the teacher, or more accurately a cherry, was a hell of a lot easier to deliver than pages and pages of homework. And more enjoyable too.

"Did he use a condom?" Mom asked. Again I decided that it would be better to tell the truth. It would soon come out anyway.

"Every time," I said.

"Every time?" she repeated slowly, her face exhibiting the surprise that her voice kept hidden. But the evasion about his identity evidently aroused her suspicion.

"Was it Daddy?"

Then it was my turn to be surprised, and I showed it. I shook my head, rapidly, repeatedly, determinedly.

"I had to ask," she said. "You used to be quite the little cock tease, if you recall."

That was true. I had loved to bounce on the laps of Dad and of other grown up uncles or cousins. Then Mom had said something about it, actually using that expression, and I had heeded her advice. I explained.

"Back when I was thirteen, just before our little talk, I was bouncing on Dad's lap while you were out one night. I felt his cock get hard and tried my best to make him cum. But he picked me up and sat me next to him, then told me that I was getting too old to bounce on laps. After that, he never let me sit on his lap again."

"I know," she said. "He told me about it. But I still had to ask."

"Any anal?" she continued.

"What?"

"Did he fuck you in the ass?" Mom explained.

"I knew what you meant. I was just surprised at the question. No, there was no anal."

"Good," she said. "It hurts like a son of a bitch."

"Why don't you tell Daddy that you don't want him to do that?" I thought it was a fair enough question.

Mom looked at me kind of sideways. She opened her mouth and then closed it. Finally she opened it again.

"I wasn't talking about Daddy," she whispered.

Holy shit! Had Mom just confessed to me that she was fucking someone besides Dad? And after all the times I heard her accusing him of banging every hooker that he arrested? My head was spinning. It was true that Mr. Simpson had twice tried to get me to take it up the ass but I had refused. After all, I simply wanted to pass the course; I had no interest in graduating summa cum laude. Did you notice that I called him Mr. Simpson? That was his idea. I once called him Gary but he insisted that I use the formal name so that I wouldn't slip up in the classroom. I like an idiot went along with him. Shit, if he wanted to take the risk of fucking a student, he would have deserved it if he got caught. But then of course I would have flunked my math course.

With my eyes still wide open from Mom's last comment, she asked me another one. "Have you ever made it with another girl?"

I just shook my head in the negative. Mom seemed to be satisfied with the conversation, I guess, but the subject matter must have gotten her hot. Just as it had gotten me. She looked down and saw the juices oozing from my clean shaven pussy.

Suddenly her two fingers were back inside me. Her thumb flashed downward to flick my clit. I jumped but didn't try to back away. I've had fingers inside me quite often. My own, of course, when they were the only things handy to bring myself to orgasm. And Gary's fingers, once he had broken my cherry and was trying to do some foreplay.

Speaking about foreplay, Gary really did try. The first time with him, it was just a quickie blowjob in his car after school. But all the other times were in his apartment, where no one could catch us and I had plenty of time to get home before either of my parents. He thoroughly enjoyed eating me before sticking his cock inside me. He put so much effort into making me cum with his tongue that I would never have dimed him out, no matter how much Mom would have busted my chops. In a worst case scenario, I would have named some guy on the football team.

But Mom had those two fingers inside me and it was clear that she didn't mean to do a medical exam. My eyes widened in surprise but I really shouldn't have been too surprised. Mom shaved her pussy, she pretty clearly was having one or more affairs, and so it followed almost automatically that she had some girl-girl experience.

And if she had any, it was more than I had. Sure, I had plenty of girl friends, and like all teenage girls we talked a lot about sex, but none had ever made a move on me nor had I ever had the slightest desire for the female touch. Yes, even in my virginal days, I had desired cock, not pussy.

And yet, and yet, the idea of slipping off the vanity top and hopping into Mom's bed tempted me. I had always been a venturesome child. While I had never allowed Gary to take my asshole, it was because I just hadn't been in the mood for it, and I knew that I didn't need to let him do it just to get a good grade. Hell, I probably could have gotten an 'A' by simply jerking him off. Still, if I really cared for a guy, I would have bent over for him.

The same thing applied to carpet munching. I knew that every girl likes to have her pussy eaten. I knew it from talking to my friends, from watching the occasional porn video, and from being serviced that way by Gary. So if any of my friends had ever hinted that she wanted to give it a try, I likely would have gone along with it.

So what better friend did I have than my own Mom?

I reached down and began to squeeze Mom's tits. Firm things they were, with no sagging, no bouncing. Her nips were big, damn near strawberries, and hard. As were mine! I knew that they would be, what with the numerous times that I had pleasured myself, what with Gary's gentle lips and the not-infrequent fingers of various boys in school – not that any of those boys had ever gotten beyond bare tit. Ah well, maybe I really was a cock-teaser.

Mom's head hovered over me and I pulled her face down to my nipples. She sucked hungrily, as I must have when I was a mere baby at the teat. Alas, I had no milk for her, and still in the back of my mind I imagined that someday I might produce some for her to share with a grand-baby. My pussy flowed with the sensuality of nursing.

She tired quickly of that game, however, for her mouth was soon buried between my wide-spread legs, her nose breathing deeply of the scent of my lust. I waited breathlessly for her tongue to invade me, to lap up my juices, to fasten onto my clit. Gary had done it often for me, always making me cum. I knew from my friends at school that cunnilingus to orgasm was the mark of a true gentleman, a considerate 'lover', though I never used that word with him. In my mind, I was a mere prostitute, putting out for a good grade in math and getting orgasms as a bonus.

But Mom soon taught me that women eat pussy better than men do. The basic suck is fine, it'll make me cum, but there is so much more to it and only a woman can do it properly.

Her tongue ran up and down my slit in a (vain) attempt to lick me dry. Then her thumbs pulled my labia apart. Her tongue went slowly up one side and down the other, with a quick flick against my clit when she paused on the up-stroke. Again and again she did so, adding her own saliva to my gushing. She allowed my labia to close and kissed them gently, as one would kiss a baby. She stuck her nose inside me, allowing her tongue to lick lower, down toward my anal opening but not quite there. For an instant, I visualized her at the place she had told me never to accept visitors.

Mom gave me a break, moving down to nibble on the inside of my thighs, moaning as her lips roamed there and even to my ass cheeks. Then it was back up to my nipples as she nursed without the physical reward of warm milk. Two minutes – it felt like two hours – of that, with two of her fingers fucking me and I was ready to scream. Actually I did speak rather loudly.

"Make me cum, Mom. Please make me cum."

As I said it, her mouth fastened on my clit and she sucked hard. At the same time, her fingers drove into me rapidly, plunging deeply, a quite adequate substitute for Gary Simpson's cock. I screamed my orgasm, gushing my juices up into Mom's face.

But the relief I felt was only temporary, for she kept going, making me cum and cum and cum again until I was in tears, begging her to stop torturing my clit. Then she lifted her face.

"OK, dear, now it's your turn."

Of course I understood, pausing only to catch my breath as she rolled over and opened wide, offering herself to my face, my fingers, my anxious tongue. I bent to inhale her sweetness and then I got to work. One problem though. Except for the previous I don't know, half hour maybe, my only experience in being eaten had been with Gary. And his only aim had been to make me cum quickly so that he could courteously fuck me.

So I ate Mom that way he ate me, with none of her wonderful nuances. She orgasmed noisily but then lectured me gently.

"You're going to need some more lessons, dear," she said, her face shiny wet.

And so we practiced whenever Dad wasn't home. Life was good.

THE EXCUSE, IN MOM'S WORDS If you don't mind, I'd much rather call it an explanation rather than an excuse. But it's the little bitch's story and she can write it any way she wishes. And I admit that I probably shouldn't call her a bitch. Still, this story is about her fucking her own father, my husband, and even if it is all my fault, she shouldn't be doing it. Not that I can really blame her. After all, he is a great stud.

What the hell am I talking about, you must be asking. He was a cop, remember, and many times our paths crossed only by accident, what with the staggered shifts they use, while I worked a regular nine to five in a medical office. Look at the overall picture. On the one hand, we have a police officer, a highly tense and dangerous job, working tiring hours, doing his relaxation at weird hours with his fellow officers, typically in bars. He comes across many low-life women who well know the benefits that can come from allowing entry to one or more of their three different portals. By the time he gets home, he's dragging his ass and barely has the energy to kiss his wife, much less give her the marital attention that women need.

On the other hand, we have the wife. She has a well-paid position managing the finances of a large medical practice. She spends the day around (often) handsome men, mature, successful, self-assured and charming. And sometimes single, though that's not a critical condition. She has one daughter, old enough to come home from school to an empty house and go out alone with her friends.

And suppose she comes to work one day with bags under her eyes from lack of sleep, tossing and turning all night long wondering if her husband is getting his rocks off from some slut who might be carrying some communicable disease or other. And at the same time her only source of relief are her own two fingers and sometimes a plastic toy with a nice shape and inexpensive replaceable batteries. And then one of those late thirties or early forties doctors asks her what's the matter and she blurts it all out. So maybe the doctor, who's been gawking at her face and tits for months, gets up the nerve to invite her for a drink after work. Of course he knows better than to shit where he eats, but like most of them, his brain is in his penis.

How can she avoid the inevitable? First date, its holding hands across the table of a poorly lighted Italian restaurant and then a goodnight kiss. The second date is the same, except for one major addition; the kiss goodnight is delivered with a mouthful of his warm and creamy sperm, recently removed from his one-eyed brain. From there it moves on to a goodnight fuck in some hotel room rented in the name of John Smith and paid for in cash. After a while, the room clerk welcomes them by name and dreams his own dreams of fucking the tall and blonde Mrs. 'Smith'. Finally, finally, the he utters those magic words 'I love you' which are merely intended to convince her (successfully) to take the good doctor's cock up her ass.

Let me digress here. What you have to remember – well, you really don't have to remember, but if you're going to read this fucking story for whatever reason, you should remember – is that my husband, George is his name, was a cop at the time. And like Sergeant Friday of Dragnet, he was 'just the facts, Ma'am'. In George's case, 'just the facts' meant, on those semi-rare (post-marital) occasions when he deigned to put his cock inside me, that he would cum as fast as he could and then roll over and go to sleep. The only exception was when he would piss first. If you've ever seen Les Miserables, you probably remember laughing when the bit player bragged about how fast his prostitute could make him finish.

But fellas, listen, though if you had half a brain you'd have learned it already, the woman wants to cum as badly as you do, and if you don't give her the attention to make that happen, bad things will ultimately occur. More than that, however, and I mean no sarcasm here, the truly actual greatest thing about sex (love??) is lying in bed afterward and talking about things. Jumping off the bed to piss right after the last spurt of cum is as bad as rolling over to sleep.

The good Doctor Petrovsky – 'Pete' to everyone – not only had a gorgeous seven and a half inches of fuck tool but also the ability and willingness to hold out until the woman – I doubt that I was the only one – had cum once, twice, even three times, until she was screaming for him to finally let go inside her. Shit, a lot of times I was happy just to suck him off in order to give my vaginal walls a rest.

Of course, it was the caring way that Pete used to treat me with his cock that got me finally to roll over and give him the pleasure of my asshole. His pleasure, not mine. He did it the 'right' way, the textbook way, but it was never any fun for me, just another way for me to show that I loved him. That's why I warned Katarina when she was sixteen to hang onto her ass cherry.

Think about it, boys. Why else would I, or any woman, let a guy fuck her ass except that she loves him? Oh, I'm not talking about whores, whose only love is for the almighty dollar. I mean, what pleasure can any other woman get out of it? Can she get an orgasm out of it? Not really. Maybe if instead of starting with one finger, he'd go down there with his tongue, it might turn a girl on. But very few guys want to stick their tongues there, and I can't really blame them.

So if the first finger, even if that doesn't hurt, doesn't accomplish anything, why let him go any further? If you're lucky, he'll use some kind of lube, but that doesn't prevent the pain you get from a hard cock stretching your sphincter. And a lot of the time your skin tears and bleeds, and what fun is that? Are you convinced yet? Do you watch television? What do the cops threaten the prisoners with? Right! 'Confess and we'll go easy on you, or make us work hard and you'll wind up in State Prison as some big muscle-bound guy's girlfriend.' But I was in love, and so I let Pete have his fun. Truth be told, I did get him to lick his cum out of there when he was finished, but that's just because I was a bitch. It gave me no pleasure.

Back to my explanation. However, adultery in all parts of her body is not our wife's only exciting vice. She also likes to gamble with more than her pussy, to wit: with money. Specifically, she – that's me – was addicted to all sorts of gambling. Whenever my husband wasn't home, I would be at a race track, a dog track or one of the Indian casinos. Texas Hold 'em, craps, blackjack, roulette. I skipped the slot machines. And like the worst kind of addict, when I lost, which mathematically had to be a majority of the time, I would increase my bets to get even.

I did have enough sense to avoid the Martingale, which is the most idiotic betting style the exists in the world – except for Russian Roulette, of course – but other than that, nothing scared me. I'm not going to explain Martingale here, but it's easy to research. Let's just say that if you play Martingale, the Casino will never bother to charge you for room or food and drink. If you play often enough, they'll even fly you out there for free.

Long story short, I should have called that gambling hot line but I was so sure that my next bet would start my winning streak that I never bothered to try to control myself. I maxed out all of our credit cards but George never knew, since I was in charge of household funds. I borrowed money from my sister and my parents until they got tired of my actions and cut me off. I could still get credit from private bookies but their vigorish was killing me.

My only remaining asset was my pussy. Oh no, don't get the wrong idea, I wasn't peddling it. Not directly, anyway. What I did was to convince the good Doctor Pete, in one of his nice post-orgasmic afterglows, to let me take over his job of handling all of the medical group's finances. So twice a month, when I paid the payroll and other bills, I also paid for the new medical equipment that the practice had purchased.

All went well until year end, when the auditors questioned why, with all the new equipment, the insurance premiums had not gone up. Unfortunately, that didn't ask me, they asked Pete.

I never wore panties to work. I would get there before anyone else and Pete would bend me over an examining table, toss my skirt over my ass and fill my pussy or ass with a load of warm cum. Then he would zip off to the hospital for rounds. All of his patients there commented on his rosy glow and eternal smile.

But one morning Pete was not alone. Sitting with him were two uniformed police officers. Just like that, it was all over. Two months later, I took a plea. The bastard judge threw the book at me, just giving me one lousy year off the maximum for my admissions and cooperation.

It could have been worse. The Warden is a lesbian and the Deputy Warden likes to do my mouth and asshole. I'm getting more of everything now than I was getting before I went to prison.