This is one chapter in 27, of a full length explicit erotic novel. It is written in first person present tense. The perspective is clearly laid out with the name of the person from whom the person's name. The entire novel is around 100,000 words in length. Please let me know what you think.
* * * Chapter 7 * * *
Robert:
After lunch, we return to Sarah's dorm room, the autumn sun slanting through the half-open blinds in lazy golden stripes. I help her assemble and make up her bed, unpack the last of her boxes— framed photos of family vacations, a string of fairy lights that we drape over the headboard. It's these small rituals that ground me, even as my mind keeps drifting back to Lilith and Brad. It seems unreal, while I am grounded here with my daughter. She is the picture of innocence to me.
The overheard words by Lilith echo like a glitch in reality, her voice, breathy and urgent. Part of me aches to unburden it here, to gauge Sarah's reaction— maybe she'd spot some innocent twist I missed. But no. She's eighteen now, on the cusp of her own life, and this poison would only taint her fresh start. She yawns again, wide and unselfconscious, and I mirror it without thinking. Last night was a wasteland of tangled sheets and racing thoughts, impossible to find solid sleep. What little I did get came in fits, chased away by betrayal's sharp edges.
Not eager to barrel back home and confront that fractured tableau, I glance at the bed and venture, "Mind if I stretch out here for a quick thirty-minute nap before hitting the road? The drive from Concord's already wearing on me."
"Of course not, Daddy," she says, her voice soft with that lingering post-lunch haze. "I'm beat too. I keep yawning like a fool." She pats the mattress beside her, a casual invitation that feels oddly intimate. It's an invitation to sleep in a girl's only room, which feels mildly taboo.
I sprawl out on top of the comforter, shoes and socks kicked off by the door, not bothering with the sheets. Sarah settles next to me, her body heat a faint warmth against my side. The last sound before oblivion pulls me under is her long, contented sigh.
I wake slowly, disoriented, the world filtering in through a veil of grogginess. A soft hand trails lightly along my arm— feminine, deliberate, sending a shiver across my skin. Blinking open my eyes, I find Sarah propped on one elbow, her face inches from mine. That bright, signature smile of hers curving her lips. She leans in, presses a gentle kiss to my forehead. It's chaste, father-daughter sweet, but the brush of her full lips ignites goosebumps that race down both arms, pooling low in my belly.
"You're a good-looking man, you know that, Dad?" Her words hang light, teasing, but her eyes hold something deeper, a spark that makes my pulse stutter.
I manage a smile, a noncommittal harumph rumbling from my chest. My gaze drifts around the room, taking in our handiwork— the lights twinkling softly, photos angled just right. But it snaps back when her hand moves to my chest, fingers splaying over the fabric of my shirt, rubbing in slow circles. She gauges me, testing, her touch both innocent and electric. "You've got some real muscles under here," she says with a giggle that bubbles up like champagne, light but laced with mischief.
Is she flirting? The thought flickers, absurd and thrilling. I steal a glance at her— really look this time— and notice the gentle swell of her breasts beneath the stretchy blue tank top, small and pert, perfect teacups. They jiggle faintly with her laughter, and I can't help the stray thought: Just a nice handful, perfect for cradling. She catches my stare, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink, and slides closer. One breast now rests on my arm, warm and yielding through the thin cotton, the contact searing like a brand.
"How'd the meeting go in Concord?" she asks, her voice casual, but I sense the diversion, a way to fill the charged silence without naming it.
"Fine, princess. The usual grind— spreadsheets and handshakes." I keep it vague, my mind elsewhere, snagged on the heat of her body so near.
She props her chin on her hand, eyes dancing. "Got a pretty secretary keeping things interesting?"
I sigh, eyes tracing a crack in the ceiling. Honesty has always been the rule I set for my kids. I can’t very well break it now. “One of my coworkers— Susan. Recently divorced. She’s been… stirring up complications at the office.” My shirttail had worked loose from my pants while I was asleep, and now her hand slips beneath it, palm flat against the bare skin of my chest, then lower, tracing the ridges of my abdomen. Her touch is feather-light, exploratory, igniting trails of fire.
"Oh yeah?" Interest sharpens her tone, her fingers toying with the sparse hair there before gliding up to circle a nipple. "What kind of trouble?" Thinking of Susan brings to mind what she confessed just this morning at breakfast— how she followed Stanley home expecting a quick, uncomplicated hookup, only to walk into something depraved: he, his ex-wife, and his daughter, all tangled together.
"Flirting, mostly. The past couple weeks, it's ramped up. I figure she's leveraging her charm for a leg up at work— nothing more."
"Don't be silly, Dad." She leans in conspiratorially, her breath warm against my ear, thumb and forefinger pinching my nipple just enough to draw a sharp inhale from me. "I'll bet she wants something personal. Divorced and lonely? That's code for needy, if you catch my drift." Her giggle returns, softer now.
I press on, voice steady despite the throb building below. "She asked to ride with me to Concord— practical, sure, but with the flirting? It felt like a minefield to me. I had to turn her down."
Sarah's hand lingers, her pinch turning to a gentle roll that sends jolts straight to my groin. My erection stirs, insistent, pressing against my slacks like an accusation. The rational voice in my head pipes up— This is your daughter, pull back— but her skin feels like silk, her touch a balm to the raw edges of my hurt.
My mind snags on Susan again, on what she said about Stanley. Word is he’s been sleeping with his own daughter since she turned eighteen.
Sarah’s voice slices in. “Susan, huh? Is she pretty, at least?”
I turn to her, brow furrowing in mock indignation. "What kind of question is that? I'm married to your mother, Sarah."
Her grin widens, fearless. “I’m not saying fuck her. Just flirt back. Tease. Maybe let her give you a blowjob.”
The words hit, and suddenly I remember another of Susan’s comments— how she’d said she is no prude, and that she might be up for a threesome sometime.
I’ve never heard Sarah talk like this. At home, sex— if it ever came up— was always careful, clinical, polite.
“You’ve got to live a little, Dad,” she says. “Have some fun.”
"That's playing with fire, kiddo. Could torch my job, my marriage... even my relationship with you and Brad."
She leans closer. “I’m not saying dive in balls-deep. Just tease. Live a little.” Her voice drops. “You deserve it, Dad.”
She withdraws her hand, rolls onto her back with a languid stretch that arches her body like a bowstring. I can't tear my eyes away from her. Those playful green eyes, mirrors of my own, the lace-trimmed blue bra peeking from under her tank, cupping breasts that rise and fall with her breath. Her tank riding up to bare a strip of impossibly flat midriff, navel a perfect dimple, her hips flaring into jean shorts that hug her like a second skin. Legs endless and smooth, ending in pink-polished toes. She's a vision of ripe femininity.
She catches me staring, and instead of shying, her gaze drops to my crotch, bold and unapologetic. I freeze, willing my arousal to fade, but it only swells under her scrutiny. She gives nothing away. Bringing her arms down to her stomach, she scratches absentmindedly, then strokes the bare skin with her fingers. I cannot bring myself to look away. Then, casual as breathing, one hand slips into the waistband of her shorts— deep, knuckles vanishing. She scratches at what I imagine is the soft thatch above her mound, the motion intimate, hypnotic. The image burns into me, indelible.
"I should head home," I mutter, rolling toward the edge, senses screaming retreat.
"No, Daddy— stay." Her pout is full and pleading, eyes wide. "You don't have to go yet, do you?" As if to emphasize, she withdraws her hand— that hand— and cups my cheek. I catch the faint, musky whiff of her, earthy and feminine, and guilt crashes in. Sniffing for your daughter's scent? Get out now, before this spirals. But then Lilith's voice slices through again— Come fuck me, Brad. Come stick that fat dick into your mother's hungry pussy— and the guilt curdles into something darker, defiant. Home holds no solace, only questions and accusations. Compared to that? This is harmless curiosity.
"I suppose I can linger a bit longer," I concede, no clue where her lead might wander. Sex with her? Unthinkable. Or is it? I remember that Lilith had sex with our son. Turnabout is fair play, isn't it? And, apparently, Stanley is having sex with his eighteen year old daughter.
"Good." She beams, leaning in for a quick peck on my cheek— discreet, affectionate. "Gonna miss you like crazy once college swallows me whole."
I touch her arm, thumb brushing the soft underside. "It's not forever, honey. You're just a couple hours away— there will be weekends, holidays. You'll be sick of us soon enough."
That playful glint returns. "Yeah, but it won't feel the same. I just wanna cut loose a little, you know? Before the roommate invades, and it's all textbooks and deadlines."
I chuckle, though it comes out strained. "Hey, I'm still your dad. 'Cutting loose' isn't in my vocabulary anymore."
"Oh!" She perks up, giggling. "Bet you were wild in college, though. Any crazy stories?"
"Not much to tell. Your mom and I? We were High school sweethearts. Kept it vanilla— dates, dances, then marriage. Until you kids crashed the party."
"Aww, you're no fun." Pout number two, exaggerated for effect. "Ever play games? Like, naughty ones?"
"Games? Define 'naughty.'"
She pauses, feigning deep thought, then lights up. "Spin the bottle! Did you ever play that?"
I haven't— only vague ideas about what's involved from TV: kisses, maybe dares, in some hazy teen rite. But admitting ignorance feels exposing. "Uh, no. How's it played?"
She blushes, but pushes through, tucking a strand of hair behind an ear. "Okay, so— we sit on the floor, pillows maybe, a bottle between us. We take turns spinning it. Whoever it points to? They have to do whatever the other person asks. Could be a dare, or... remove something." She bites her lip, eyes flicking to mine for the green light. "Like clothes. That keeps it exciting— chance decides, so no one's the bad guy."
It's clear now: she's gone from an abstract chat to immediate plot. My pulse quickens— horror and hunger twisting like vines. She's my daughter; I've armored myself against these urges for years, fantasies locked securely in the vault, never allowing them to see the light of day. But Brad and Lilith... their trespass dwarfs this. When's another shot at abandon like this ever going to present itself again?
"You don't really wanna see your old man strip, do you?"
She giggles nervously. “Dad! You’re hot! Besides, I've already seen you naked before.”
“Losing my swim trunks in the pool hardly counts. Besides, that must have been eight or ten years ago. You're not supposed to remember things like that.” I say, blushing myself, now.
“It was six years ago. And how could I ever forget. As a young girl I never imagined that a man's thingy was so big! I remember wondering how you hide that, and your balls, in your jeans.”
“You know that things underwater are magnified, don’t you?” I say with a smirk.
“Oh, yeah? well, we’ll see! I have always wanted to see it again. Today's the day.”
I smirk, heat rising. "We'll see about that, then.” I wonder if she's actually bold enough to go through with this.
She doesn't hesitate— bolts to the kitchenette, returning with a half-empty wine bottle and two goblets. She pours generously, then downs the dregs straight from the neck with a grimace and grin, anxious to get started. Grabbing two pillows, she arranges them six feet apart on the hardwood floor, goblets flanking each like sentinels. She sits cross-legged on one, bottle at the ready, expectant.
"Come on, Daddy. Be a sport— you know you want to."
Reluctance wars with the pull of her enthusiasm. Now I wonder if I will be bold enough to go through with this. Slowly, I rise. "You sure, honey? Last chance to bail."
"Yesss! Get over here. You're the best." Her joy's infectious; I fold my legs, creaky knees protesting, and settle opposite. Her gaze drops to my lingering bulge. Sarah sits cross legged across from me, the leg of her shorts gaps, revealing a crescent of powder-blue panties.
"First, a recap of the rules: Spin the bottle, Whoever it points to, they have to obey a request from the other one. Easy. Me first." She flicks the bottle; it whirls like a dervish, slows, wobbles— lands on me.
I swallow hard. "Your call."
"Take that shirt off." She bounces in excitement on her pillow, eyes alight. Sarah can be so competitive.
Simple enough. I peel my golf shirt over my head, toss it to the wall— pile begun.
"Your spin." She nudges the bottle. I sip wine for fortitude— it’s tart, bold on my tongue— then twist the bottle gently. It dances, settling finally on Sarah.
She crosses her arms, gripping her hem preemptively, then pauses, waiting. "Hit me."
I have always enjoyed being a tease, doing the unexpected. I grin slyly. "Pants."
Her eyes widen— delight, not shock. “Dad goes for the gold…I like it!” She takes a gulp of wine, then shoots to her feet: button opens, the zipper rasps slow, deliberate. Her hips shimmy the denim down in a sexy, deliberate sort of dance. Her shorts puddle at her ankles; she kicks them free, toes flicking them to join my shirt.
Back down, legs splayed cross-legged— blue lace panties taut, outer lips peeking at the edges, a damp shadow at the center. It is indecent and I cannot help but stare in amazement. She becomes embarrassed with me watching and draws her legs up and wraps her arms about them, cutting off my view and bringing me back down to earth from heaven.
"I’m sorry, princess— you're stunning. I'm your dad, yeah, but still a man with... needs. Hard not to stare."
She batts her lashes, eyes averted downward, embarrassed by my compliment. "Your turn." I say, her discomfort makes me uncomfortable.
She spins— and it lands on herself. I go somber: "Shirt, please."
There is no hesitation; up and off like she has been looking forward to this step. Her bra matches the panties, lace barely veiling half-dollar areolas, nipples dark hints beneath. Breasts rise with her breath— firm, high, begging worship.
"Your turn," she whispers, dread-tinging her voice.
"Want to stop?"
"No. Spin." She says, resolute.
We both reach for our wine, and I spin the bottle— me again.
Looking to Sarah, I await my fate. "Pants," she commands, gleefully pointing a finger at my slacks.
Belt, button, zipper— rrrrpp echoing. I turn my back to Sarah, then shove my pants down. I try twisting my hips about as Sarah had done when her pants came down, but it was comical, coming from me instead of erotic. Sarah enjoys my effort and chuckles appreciatively.
Turning around to face Sarah again, I sit back down on the pillow. Noticing her gaze, she is eyeing my crotch with her eyebrows raised. Looking down in that direction to see what she sees, my black Jockey boxer briefs are bulging from the strain of my hard dick. Beneath that hangs my pendulous ball sack, the outline clearly visible in the stretchy fabric. Now it is me who feels like wrapping my arms around my knees to shield my daughter's sensitive eyes from my brute. I feel like my penis has become the center of attention, straining the stretchy fabric. It feels like it is not a part of my body, but that it is its own entity, out of my control. I feel it getting very hard and I know that anything that I try to do to hide it, will just draw more attention. So I just sit, cross-legged, and leave it for Sarah to gawk at.
"Have you ever played this game before?" I ask, my voice sounding hoarse with emotion. She startles, her eyes meeting mine.
"Couple of times. Just girls, though— nothing really wild." I can tell she does not want to talk about it. So I leave it at that.
She spins— and it lands on her again. She looks up at me, submission in her gaze.
“Lose the bra.” I say in a commanding tone, then add “please?” hoping that I don’t come across as a creep.
Arching her back, she flicks open the clasp. Looking up into my face, she watches for my reaction. Hesitating, she holds the powder blue cups against her breasts as if she might be ashamed of them. I sit, still and speechless, waiting. Her discomfort makes me feel guilty and I consider changing my request to something more modest. Before I can act, her face reddens as she slides the bra free and flings it toward our growing pile of clothes. The movement causes her firm breasts to jiggle only a little. She looks down at them to see what I am seeing…
"Wow." Is all that I can say, awe evident in my whispered voice.
"You like them?" She plucks at her nipples, jiggles them up and down, and squeezes them together. I can’t help imagining my lips on her areola, closing around a rough nipple as I pull it into my warm mouth. "They're not very big, not like mom’s. I used to think about implants, but..."
"They're perfect. Don't change a thing." Two conflicting emotions surge: compassion, wishing she could see her beauty in the same way that I do. And hunger— I crave their weight in my palms, lips on those tips, sucking until she arches. Heaven.
“Go ahead.” Sarah says, breaking my worship. At first I thought that she was inviting me to feast on her boobs.
“Huh?” I ask stupidly.
“It's your turn. Go ahead and spin the bottle, silly.” She giggles, seeming to gain confidence once again.
We don't have much left to lose. Taking hold of the bottle, I chant— "Round and around..."
I am desperately hoping it will stop on her again. We are so close, now, to being naked and all of her wonders being available to me. Does she have hair down there? Or is she shaven? I am so hungry to see her young pussy. I want to see if she looks like her mother looked, twenty some years ago, back when she was young. Back before our two children were born.
I am looking down at Sarah's crotch, her outer lips peeking out of the leg openings of her panties when she starts giggling. I look at her face, into those mischievous eyes, then follow their gaze down to the bottle which has come to a stop, pointing squarely at me.
I am trying to get my body to stand and lose my last article of clothing. Then I will be completely naked. But Sarah, instead, says in a small voice, “Kiss me.”
I look into her face, wondering if she had said what I thought she said. She repeats, louder this time. “Kiss me.”
How sweet! I cannot believe it. She wants me to kiss her. We both rise to our feet together. I am a full foot taller than she is. As we move towards each other, panic sets in. What kind of kiss is she expecting? A daddy kiss? A lover's kiss? No. It couldn't be that. And she has her naked boobs out. What if they touch me? She might think her dad is some kind of creep. Suddenly this kiss seems like the hardest thing in the world. I am expected to perform here, and I’m not sure what is expected of me.
We come together and Sarah melts into me, breasts molding to my chest— firm, nipples scraping deliciously. Salt on her lips, vanilla-musk scent enveloping us. Our mouths meet soft, then deepen— tongues tangling, hungry. My hand on her back, slides down to her ass— I squeeze a cheek and find it full, yielding. She moans into me, the sound vibrating soul-deep. Our lips part, eyes lock— In her eyes I see lust, yes, but connection, raw and real. She wants me, needs me, in ways that shatter all norms. I feel like I could spontaneously ejaculate in my underpants at any time.
She sinks to her pillow, dreamy. “Game on?” We are both changed and know where this will lead us.
Dazed, I sit and she spins the bottle— When it stops the bottle points to her, so now it’s my choice: panties next? But caution reins— Sarah asked for something other than clothing; perhaps that is what I should do as well.
A memory surfaces. Lilith and I were lounging in the basement, watching TV. Upstairs, Sarah and her friends blast music, the thump of bass vibrating through the floorboards. The tunes fade to silence, but we don't register it. Our revelry is interrupted by footsteps, thundering down the stairs. Sarah bursts into view, flanked by three of her friends, at that time fifteen or sixteen, their lithe frames buzzing with electric teenage energy. They line up before us in a row, blocking the TV's flicker. Sarah plants her hands on her hips, her crop top riding up to tease a sliver of midriff. "We want to dance for you," she declares. "Okay," Lilith and I murmur in unison, our words tumbling out like we have any say in the matter. One of the girls— a brunette with freckles— drops a Bluetooth speaker at our feet. She taps her phone, and a pulsing dance beat erupts, filling the room with sound, bass rattling the empty wine glasses on the coffee table. The four of them explode into motion, bodies twisting and undulating like flames caught in a gale. They gyrate with furious abandon, jumping high enough that their short skirts flare, flashing crisp white panties clinging to the curve of their asses. Little titties bounce beneath thin tank tops, nipples perking against the fabric in the cool basement air. Heat floods my veins, something in my pants stirring traitorously. They spin as one, asses pop and roll in perfect sync, twerking with a rhythm that shakes the cushions. Where the hell did these girls learn moves like that? The sway of their hips promising secrets I shouldn't crave. My pulse hammers, inappropriate fantasies ignite a forbidden spark I can't extinguish.
"Dance for me? … please?" I ask.
"Great choice!" Do I sense relief?
She rises— breasts swaying, ass cheeks flexing in lace— and rummages in a drawer. She emerges with a Bluetooth speaker; scrolling on her phone, a beat erupts— pulsing, primal. I smile, knowing this is going to be good.
Sarah closes her eyes and begins to move with the music. She starts slow and graceful, but the beat takes over her body and she kicks it up a notch. She moves in a way that I have never seen her move before. It is sensual and it is art. I cannot help myself and begin to move in time to the rhythm, though I am still sitting on the pillow. This is a far cry from what she had done with her teen friends, just a few years ago. She is getting turned on, too. She plays with her titties, tweaks her nipples and moans as she works her lithe, young body. She sticks out her pouty lips, mimeing a kiss. Her hands and her fingers are alive and expressive which adds to her performance. I put my hand in my shorts to adjust my erection, but keep my hand in there, rubbing my cock and stroking. Sarah looks at me occasionally and smiles in satisfaction. She is ecstatic that she can turn me on like this.
In a surprise move, Sarah slips out of her panties without missing a beat. The way that she moves her butt titillates me. From the rear I can see the tips of her pussy lips, peeking between her ass cheeks. Being completely naked seems to inspire more suggestive movement. She looks over her shoulder at me for my reaction as she writhes and gyrates. Her eyes have that ‘come hither’ expression. It seems odd for me to sit in my boxers, while she is completely naked. In solidarity with Sarah, I remove my boxers, liberating my rock hard rod. Sarah looks at me, smiles and nods in satisfaction. Then she turns around to face me, full frontal.
Now that Sarah has her panties off, I have an unobstructed view, right at eye level, of her pussy as she dances. I am shocked to say the least. I had been an involved father when the kids were little and I remember changing a few of her diapers. Then as she got older and we worked to potty train her, I helped get her on the potty chair, handed her toilet paper and watched as she wiped herself. Then I helped her wash her little hands. In my mind I knew that she had grown into a young woman, but somehow it shocked me to see that she did not look like that anymore. Her pussy is more than I could have hoped it would be. It is exquisite! She is mostly shaved, with just a landing strip of fine hair running down her mons. Her prominent clit stands out in its hood, proudly. I long to touch it, but dare not. She moves in close at times and once even pauses in front of me and spreads her pussy wide with her fingers for my benefit, teasing. I am already breathing hard and just want to slip my dick into her depths.
Music cuts; she slumps against the dresser, chest heaving, skin sheened. I clap, wolf-whistle; she bows, laughing.
Watching Sarah, completely nude and still catching her breath, her skin flushed and glistening under the dim light, another memory stirs within me. A couple of times when Lilith and I were first together, we slow-danced in our cramped little apartment, utterly bare, our bodies swaying together in perfect sync. In the hush of midnight, her curves melted into mine like warm silk. Why don't we ever do that anymore? The thought tugs at me, sharp and wistful.
I rise from the floor and pad over to Sarah's phone, scrolling through her playlist with a frown. Nothing familiar— So I fire up her streaming app and cue a slow, aching track: "Need You Now" by Lady Antebellum. Its mournful melody soon unfurls like smoke from Sarah's Bluetooth speaker. I dial the volume low, intimate, and crook a finger at Sarah, inviting her into the dance.
She drifts to me without hesitation, folding into my arms as if she belongs there. We circle the room in languid spirals, her cheek pressing to my chest, listening to the steady thrum of my heart. Both of us stripped bare as newborns, her soft breasts yield against my torso, nipples hardening into taut peaks that graze my skin with every turn. My cock, half-risen and insistent, nestles into the warm cleft of her pussy, slick and inviting, gliding teasingly with our rhythm, stirring a heat that coils low in my gut.
The song fades too quickly, its final notes dissolving into silence. Yet we keep gliding, the melody looping in our minds like a shared secret, our steps reluctant to surrender. Neither of us speaks; we simply savor the pull, the delicious ache of wanting more. Eventually, we stop, but remain locked in an embrace, every inch of our naked flesh alive with sensation— her breath feathering my collarbone, the subtle tremor of her thighs against mine, the pulse of her arousal echoing my own.
After a few breathless minutes, Sarah lifts her gaze, her voice a silken murmur against my neck. "Spend the night with me, Daddy."
The words hit me like a drug. Every cell in my body screams yes— take her, slide inside that slick, waiting heat. I want it and she wants it. We have been moving toward this moment, all afternoon. I picture it vividly: her legs wrapped around my waist, my cock buried to the hilt, her crying out as I fill the daughter I’m not supposed to want.
But the word daughter slams into my skull like a hammer. This isn’t some stranger, some fantasy— this is Sarah. My little girl. She is special to me. No matter what Lilith and Brad have done, it does not justify this. If I cross that line, if I actually fuck her, I destroy everything good I’ve ever been. There’s no confession dark enough, no forgiveness deep enough. I’d be the monster who took his own child’s innocence for a few minutes of sick pleasure.
I hate myself for even thinking it. I hate how much I still want it.
But I can’t stop. She’s shaking with need, soaked for me, begging with those eyes. I can’t leave her like this— it would be crueler than walking away.
So I bargain with the devil. One last sin. One I can maybe lie to myself about tomorrow. Instead of plunging into her slick heat as I am wont to do, another idea comes to mind. I scoop her up— feather-light— and perch her on the bed's edge, laying her back. Kneeling between her parted thighs, I massage her calves, her knees, the silk of her inner thighs. As I work, I study her pussy up close: outer lips plump, parting to reveal coral folds, her clit a pearl near the top. As I massage, I plant feather-light kisses along her thighs— just brushing her sex. I see that her legs are trembling slightly, and I wonder, is she scared? Eager? Or both?
When my lips graze her inner petals, they bloom, slick and sweet— the scent of her musk floods me, heady as wine. My tongue traces her grooves in wide circles, shunning her clit, building the ache. She whimpers, arches; I glance up— her hands knead her breasts, pinching nipples to peaks. Back to her thighs, I nip the soft flesh; then her labia— kisses turning to licks, flat and broad, savoring her tang, salty-sweet nectar coating my chin. She bucks, a plea: "Oh, daddy..."
I circle her entrance with a soaked finger— then ease inside: tight, velvet grip clenching hot. One finger suffices; two might cause pain. I curl it, stroking that ridged spot inside, imagining what it would feel like to have my cock inside her tight core. My lips return— teasing her clit hood with flicks, then sucking the nub gently, rolling it on my tongue. Her moans crescendo: "Yes— there, oh yes, more... faster, no, slow— oh, fuck..." Her hips grind against my face, thighs quaking.
I add suction to her clit and hood— pulse it with my finger's thrust— watching her unravel: belly clenching, toes curling with her pink nail polish. She crests suddenly, savage— her juices gush hot over my hand, drip from my chin. Her legs clamp my head, hands fisting my hair, pulling me in; I drown willingly, lapping through spasms. She is a noisy one, and I worry about the neighbors. Waves crash— thigh muscles knot like ropes, abs rippling in ecstasy's vise. She rides it long, body a live wire, until tremors fade to shudders.
Gently, I withdraw— my finger gleaming with her essence, a trophy. She sprawls, panting, eyes fluttered shut, a sated smile curving her lips. I slip to the bathroom, rinse the stickiness, splash cool water on my face— the mirror shows a man undone, lips swollen, eyes wild.
Returning, she's asleep. Her legs are sprawled akimbo, her pussy still flushed and dewy. I gather my clothes, and dress quietly— my slacks chafing my ignored ache, balls heavy with unspent need. I cradle her slight form, slide her under the covers; she coos, nuzzling the pillow, dream-lost bliss on her face. A fatherly kiss to her cheek— soft, lingering— then I ghost out, the door clicking shut.
I reflect back on my afternoon with Sarah on the drive home. Oddly, I have no regrets. Knowing that I will soon be home and will face Brad and Lilith, I find that my thoughts about their affair have changed. More mellow towards them, less resentful, their act feels less like a betrayal. In its place I feel more of a curiosity, wondering what circumstances drove them together, and what it was like for them. I have much to ponder on my drive home.