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All Characters In This Story Are 18+ Years Old.
John Taylor padded barefoot through the unlit hall of his home. He was naked, except for his sweat-soaked, baby blue, Izod knit shirt. He lifted its front hem and stretched it across his barrel chest, up to his face. He smiled as he smelled its saturated cum stains and pussy juice. Pulling it off while he walked slowly toward the kitchen, he detoured into the utility room and tossed the redolent rag into the laundry hamper by the washer/dryer set up. “If you don’t want Franny to find that, Johnny Boy,” he cautioned himself, “you better make sure Megan does an early load.” He burst out laughing. “Early load!” He repeated aloud, looking at his Seiko sports watch. “Hah! It’s only 3:30 and she’s done two full loads already.” He scratched his balls and thought of his 19-year old daughter, still sleeping in her bed after their double delight. His dick twinged. “That’s right, old son,” he said to his cock, “She said, ‘again and again’ and ‘Don’t stop fucking me, Daddy!’… I think we won’t have to bother begging Franny for a blowjob anymore.” He chuckled and headed back down the hall.
In the kitchen, John began policing the area. He picked up the tall iced tea glasses, dumped their contents in the steel sink and picked up the tea towel from the tile floor. Mopping the condensation from the granite countertop where the glasses sat, ice cubes melting, while he fucked his little girl and tucked her in for a cozy afternoon nap, he surveyed the scene. He noted tell-tale sweat marks on the refrigerator door. Wiping them away, he then bent over and picked up Megan’s spandex bikini bottom where she had kicked it before she jumped on his boner. He crossed the breakfast alcove and retrieved the matching neon lime bra from the patio door handle and picked up his daughter’s Ray-Bans from the nearby table. One more look and walk-around satisfied him that no traces of their impromptu screw were detectable.
John returned to the utility room and dumped the swim suit into the basket, on top of his polo shirt, before pointing himself toward the master bedroom. As he neared Megan’s room he heard her call out softly, “Daddy? Are you there?”
He ducked through her door, surprised not to find her awake. “Must have been dreaming and talking in her sleep,” he thought, crossing to her dresser and putting the sunglasses down. When he turned to leave, he noticed she was curled on her left side, faced away from the door, with her eyes closed and her right thumb in her mouth. Her blanket and top sheet were clustered loosely around her hips, her huge left breast used its weight to squash its right sister. Her left hand was parked, out of sight beneath the covers, between her tucked up legs. Megan was only 5’2″ tall but, in this fetal ball, she looked smaller. Nonetheless, her voluptuous and vulnerable posture whetted John’s appetite again. His prick, notwithstanding the back-to-back hosings it had delivered into her cunny just two and a half hours earlier, hardened as he stood.
He heard Megan whimper around her knuckle. The covers rippled slightly as her left arm bent and re-straightened at the elbow. John’s iron rod was magically, magnetically, pulled toward her lodestone lips. He stopped and stood on his left leg, by the edge of the bed, balancing himself with his bent right knee on the mattress. Reaching out, he laid his right hand lightly on his daughter’s dark brunette bob. “Yes, Petunia,” he whispered, soft as a breeze, “Your daddy is here… right here.” He exerted the least pressure on Megan’s head and she moved, in her dream, toward his stiff cock, extending her torso from its curved pose, reaching her left hand from under the covers, seeking something.
“Dad… daddy…” Megan mewled, nearly inaudibly. Her lips pursed around her pink pollux and distinctly smacked as she sucked. John climbed fully onto the bed, knelt on his haunches in front of her occupied mouth and gently tugged her thumb away with his left hand. “HHhhnnn!” she whined, sleepily protesting her deprivation. John swiftly replaced her lost lolly with his own thick candy stick and grinned when she immediately moaned, “Mmmm.” He too, in chorus with his daughter, groaned under the steady, warm, wet suction on his knob. Her groping left hand found his balls, once more loose and ripe for plucking. She pinched and released them, weakly in her slumber. Her fingertips scratched their nail edges lightly on his scrotum.
John reeled Megan’s head in to his crotch. She swallowed his average length easily, but, she was no longer asleep. He looked down. His daughter’s dark brown eyes gazed happily back up at him as she slurped. Her head slid slowly up and down his staff, leaving a slick slobber trail when she popped his mushroom out of her lips. “DADDY!” She squealed, delightedly. “I MISS you already!” She sat up in the bed, hugging John to her heaving heavy breasts, and kissed him with gently rising ardor. When she felt him responding she fell backward, pulling John on top of her, spreading her legs wide and curling bursa escort her hams up tight. Her heels waved. Her father’s cock waved back, then drove forward, splitting her open conch, and settling itself balls-deep between her wet walls.
Megan practiced her tantric exercises, twisting and squeezing her cunt muscles around John’s girth. He rolled his hips as he rocked them forward and back. Father and daughter maintained their deep sensuous kiss while their bodies ground deliciously against each other. He was a pestle in her mortar. Megan hummed, sucking on John’s tongue, as her juices flowed freely about his surging thickness. John felt his sack shrink-wrap his figs, drawing them up, urging them to discharge. He picked up his pace and pushed deeper, faster, more forcefully. At his crux, he broke his mouth free from Megan’s, tucked his head onto her left shoulder, and pulled hers to his right as he crunched his abs. “HAHHH! Yeah! YEAH! Yeah!” he perseverated giddily, feeling his jerking dick sputter his seminal slurry into the teenager’s clutching cunt.
“AyayayEEEEE! OhMyGod! da… Dad.. DADDDY!” Megan screamed at the top of her lungs. Her back wall bounced against her father’s shooting velvet cock-tip as she twerked her ass responsively with his jetting jabs. “He’s squirting right through me into my tubes!” She thought deliriously, scraping her fingernails across his shoulder blades and biting his neck in her orgasmic frenzy.
Whether that was true, or even possible, was irrelevant. Megan hung drooping to John as their passions ebbed. She looked across his back to the wall calendar by her study desk. “YES!” She cheered in her mind, once again seeing the big red exclamation point in the August 1 date square. She remembered her basal body temperature had been up .7 degrees to 99.4 that morning, which jibed perfectly with her lunar estimate that today was her optimal ovulation day. Hence, the exclamation symbol. She sighed deeply, snugging her chin against the new hickey her dad’s trapezius muscle. “Three times!” She exulted inwardly. “We fucked THREE TIMES on EGG DAY!” She idly stuck out her tongue, licking a small patch of John’s skin, savoring his salty sweat on its tip. “Thank you Daddy,” she murmured aloud, then silently mouthed, into the shadowed room, “I think we have to be pregnant!”
John unhurriedly rocked his quieting loins against his daughter, contentedly lodged deep in her tight hot pussy, as she settled down and finished gently drew out his last few drops of spunk with little, persistent, contractions. “No, Petunia,” he buzzed into her ear, “Thank YOU! I didn’t know I could come so hard or so often. You make me feel 20 years younger.” He kissed her neck. “But we have some serious planning to do… it would be horrible if we could not…”
“FUCK?” Megan interrupted, laughing.
“Yeah… fuck… whenever…” John began again.
“We WANT TO?” Megan finished his sentence again. “Totally HORRIBLE, Dad,” she concurred. “But, let’s clean up and plan to make plans later.” She slid from under his wonderfully smelly body and got out of bed. “How about this evening? You know Mom is going to get snockered. She always gets a head start after her Tuesday bridge game. Maybe, when she goes to bed, we can too!” She winked and started for her bathroom.
“Yes, maybe,” John agreed, “But there’s Wally to think about, too.”
“Hah! He’s such a geek! He’ll be tied up in his room with his computer stuff all night.” She dismissed the notion that her brother was even worth considering and closed the door solidly behind her, leaving John to balance his new horizon against known complications.
John was in the living room, halfway listening to the local TV news broadcast, while he read about Bubba Watson and the rest of the 2016 Olympic golf team in the current Golf Digest. “Jeez, that’s gonna be fantastic!” He exclaimed, as he thought about them teeing off in Rio in ten more days. “Not since 1904…That’s 112 years… ” he mused with a whistle. He heard Francesca come in from the garage, through the mud room off the kitchen. He looked up from his magazine, nodded and asked, as she passed through the arched main foyer, “Hey, Franny, good day at the club?”
“Not now, Johnny,” she replied brusquely, waving her hand, “I’m desperate for the toilet! Build me a hi-ball, will ya…?” her voice dwindled as she rapidly strode down the hall.
“Hi, Mom!” Megan called, standing in the utility room, folding her dad’s nice clean blue Izod and laying it on top of his warm-from-the-dryer navy Gary Player golf pants, beside her hot lime Lycra bikini.
“Hi, Megan,” Francesca acknowledged, breezing by the open door without a second glance at her daughter. A few minutes later, having taken care of business, and hung up her linen Chanel skirt suit, she reappeared in the living room. Franny wore a comfortable, lightweight, floor-length beige brushed velour six-button housecoat, concealing her retained lingerie, and diminishing, but not hiding her heavy full figured feminine attributes.
Megan bursa escort bayan was sitting in an armchair watching the television. She regarded Francesca; two inches shorter, but, twenty pounds heavier, than John. Looking at her mother’s 39DD-34-41 thickset hourglass figure, behind the draped robe, Megan imagined herself, in another 20 years, with her father’s grown child and, maybe, more kids and a husband, besides. “I could do a lot worse,” she thought to herself, glowing inwardly. She put her hand on her stomach. “Are you a son or a daughter?” She asked her imagined newly fertilized egg.
Francesca stepped behind John, standing at the wet bar, stirring his wife’s gin and tonic. Reaching past him, she casually brushed against his silk Hawaiian shirt. “Thanks, Johnny,” she said pleasantly, taking the glass from his hand and retreating to her favorite lounger, opposite Megan. “I suppose Wally will bring a pizza home with him,” she said to no one in particular.
John looked at his Seiko and replied, “It’s 6:45. He could be here anytime.” He turned from the bar, took a sip from his own rum and Coke then crossed back to the couch and his dropped magazine. “You’re running a little late tonight,” he noted.
“Yeah!” Francesca replied, with disgust. “Some idiot cracked up on the southbound ramp to the I-85… I was impossibly stuck for a nearly an hour…” She looked quizzically at her husband. “I called at 6. It went to voicemail, but I didn’t leave a message…”
“I was putting in the backyard,” John answered the implied question.
“Sorry, Mom, I had laundry in and my headphones on… Guess I didn’t hear the phone, either.” Megan said, standing and walking to the kitchen for a ginger ale.
Francesca frowned as her daughter swept past in her flowy chiffon floral print white romper suit. She had the bandage ties discreetly done across her full chest and wrapped around her midriff, but nothing could disguise Megan’s youthful sensuality. “Is that skimpy thing new? I don’t think I’ve seen it before,” she tested.
“I got it for the Andersons’ 4th of July garden party,” Megan said over her bare shoulder. “You probably don’t remember because you stayed home with a headache.” She returned and did a quick pirouette in front of her mom. “You like it?” She asked Francesca, noting the pleased dopey grin on John’s eclipsed face as her bound breasts and flared bottom hem swirled between him and his wife.
“Yes,” Francesca admitted, “It’s very cute. A little daring, perhaps,” she answered thoughtfully, tasting her G&T, “But, what the hell… you’ve got it, so you might as well show it off!” She chuckled and settled back in her recliner, kicking her slippers from her nylon stockinged feet. She cast a lidded sideways look at her spouse. “Johnny obviously doesn’t object,” she observed to herself.
Francesca and John did not actually fuck each other very often and had not done so since Megan came along. It was not so much that their desires had dissipated, since, over the years, both of them had episodic extra-marital affairs. Fran, simply, was not inclined to be a mother a third time and John refused to use any personal protection. She did not know how often he said, “God’s Will, and our self-discipline, is the best family planning,” but her ‘self-discipline’ was stronger by far than ‘God’s Will.’ She occasionally allowed John to beseech her to suck his dick, and more rarely, she let him fuck her anally. She still loved being married to John and did not dislike him. She just did not want to be more intimate than was absolutely necessary for domestic harmony.
For his part, John still thought Franny was sexually exciting and regretted that she seemed disinterested in “doing it,” as she typically said, with a sneer of disgust. He remembered how, after she brought Megan home from the hospital, she declared, “Well, Johnny, I have a daughter and you have a son… No point in having any more, is there?” He had not realized, at age 22, that she had meant ‘any more SEX.’ She was a good mother and excellent business partner, though, and seemed oblivious, or, at least, tolerant to his methods of personally interviewing the waitresses at their restaurant.
But, now, looking across the carpet at Megan, he saw Franny as she was in his mind’s eye, from their days in high school: vivacious, willing and built like the proverbial brick shithouse. He smiled at Francesca. “When one door closes, another opens… God’s Will be done!” He rationalized as he drained his drink.
Twenty minutes later, Wally, a 21-year old, mesomorphic chip off the old Taylor block, an inch taller, five pounds lighter, and less athletically inclined than his dad, but, nonetheless clearly his scion, walked through the front door with a huge pizza carton. “Gianni’s Li’l Sicily! Ittsa Nice Place!” He yelled, with a laugh, just like he did every Tuesday night when he delivered the family pizza after his shift. “Tonight, we gotta Giant Italian Sausage with onions, anchovies and bell peppers” he continued in a fake gondolier’s sing-song accent. escort bursa “You come-a an’ get it while ittsa HOT!” he concluded, carrying the pie into the breakfast alcove and setting it down on the big square oak table.
John, Francesca and Megan migrated to the table, sitting as Wally pushed dinner plates around. The family dug in and ate steadily, enjoying the company and the food with general conversation. By 8 p.m. the slices were all devoured and the quartet was feeling well satisfied. While Megan and Francesca cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher, John brought out new bottle of Lambrusco and a deck of traditional Sicilian playing cards. He sat down and began shuffling, expectantly, asking, “Who’s partners for Scopa, tonight? Boys against Girls? Parents versus Kids? We wanna cut?” Almost always the choice was ‘cut,’ but sometimes, such as tonight, he was surprised.
“Let’s play youngest and oldest against the middle!” Megan suggested quickly, looking around for support.
Wally shrugged. Francesca said, “OK, but I’m thinking about making it an early evening. Let’s not play past 9:30, if that’s alright.”
“Sure, Franny,” John said, starting the first deal. “In fact, let’s make it a time-limit game and tally the score with the end of the last round at or after 9:15.” He grinned broadly at his family as Megan sat across from him and Wally and Francesca sat on his left and right. Wally filled four water glasses with the red frizzante wine.
Megan looked across at her father and pushed her glass back to Wally. “I’m sticking to ginger ale tonight. I don’t want to miss any ‘Scopas’… Dad and I are going to whip the socks off you guys!” She laughed raucously.
“Good luck with THAT!” Wally retorted, taking the glass. “You can’t even add to seven and you always have to ask if the Fante is worth 8 or 9.”
Megan stuck out her tongue and snorted. Francesca looked at the up cards and played the Sword Re, sweeping the Ace of Coins, the Deuce of Swords, the Deuce of Cups and the Five of Clubs. “SCOPA!” She exclaimed, silencing the bickering kids. She pulled the trick in, left the King face up, as a taunting reminder of her opening coup, and winked at Wally while John turned four new cards up in the center of the table. “Let the GAMES BEGIN!” She crowed, gulping a long swallow of her sweet bubbly.
The last round finished at 9:20 and they added the scores. Wally and Francesca won by 4 points. John spread his palms up and out, looking with an exaggerated sad face at his daughter. “Maybe we’ll get lucky another time, Petunia,” he said. Wally stood and excused himself to his room.
Francesca got up, kissed her husband and daughter lightly and said, “Win or lose, it’s always all in good fun, right?” She pushed in her chair. “Well, I’m for bed. Maybe you two should play a little more… you know, practice makes perfect!” She snickered and hiccupped.
“Mom’s right, Dad,” Megan agreed, winking with her offside eye, out of her mother’s view. “How long can you stay up? Will you, uh,… drill me?” She asked blandly.
John felt a hot streak burn from his neck to his tailbone. “Um, well,” he hesitated, “As long as needed, I guess. Fair warning, though: my input will be hard and might come to you as a surprise.” His cock grew in his chinos with his bold coded message. “Are you prepared for prolonged and in-depth study?”
“I am, like, TOTALLY ready.” Megan answered, beaming. “You’ll be amazed by how receptive I am.”
“OK, Johnny,” Francesca said, unaware of the sexual tension crackling between her husband and daughter, “but don’t stay up TOO late. Remember, you have a new girl starting tomorrow. AND, don’t wake me when you DO come to bed.” She patted his face and walked through the living room toward the hall to the bedrooms.
In the master suite, Francesca opened her bureau and retrieved a pair of lavender silk bloomers. She crushed the panties into the deep left seam pocket of her robe, and then picked up their matching underwire soft-cup brassiere. She folded the bra’s cups onto themselves, wrapped them with the straps and tucked the package into her right pocket. Snapping off the light switch, she left her bedroom and shut the door. Listening carefully at the door to Wally’s room, she turned the knob and eased it open a crack.
Francesca smiled slyly and nodded, unsurprised, to see her adult son, sitting in front of his PC, scrolling through images of mature women in various arrays of scanty lingerie. He was seated with his headphones on. His shoulder length hair was pulled into a loose ponytail over his bare back. She snugged the door closed behind her and glided past the foot of Wally’s bed, stopping, undetected, behind his desk chair. She looked over his naked torso, noting he was wearing the baggy official Denver Nuggets Whitegold basketball shorts she gave him at Christmas. His hard-on tented them.
Francesca placed her hands lightly on Wally’s shoulders. He jumped in his seat and jerked his head around, yelping, “MOM? Jesus, MOM!” as he scrambled to minimize his screen to a default desktop displaying a swimmer in deep water. Wally pulled his headphones off and spun his chair. “What the HELL are you doing sneaking up on me?” He exclaimed, wide-eyed with anger, embarrassment and confusion.
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