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This is a follow-up to “From This I Was Made,” published in the incest/taboo section 3/17/17. Reading that story first helps gain insight into this one. Both, however, can stand nicely on their own.
*
Roland King knows the drive home will take him close to a half hour, and that’s a good thing because he needs time to cool off and gather his wits about him. He knows his wife Emily will ask him why he stopped over Carrie Ann’s after work. She’ll ask this not out of suspicion but curiosity, and he better come up with a plausible answer if he wants to keep it that way. Obviously, telling the truth is no option. Telling Emily that he and their daughter made wild love wouldn’t go over too well. The shower he took over Carrie Ann’s cleansed him on the outside, washed away her lovely scent from his body. Inside, he feels less than clean. How could he feel otherwise after fucking his own daughter? Even so, he had to admit it might be the most exciting sex he ever had. He hates feeling like a pervert, yet not enough to resist another round of taboo intimacy with the sexy Carrie Ann if she is so inclined, and he has no doubt that she is.
Pulling up to his split-level home in upper-middleclass, suburban Berwyn, he’s got a ready answer for his stopover at Carrie Ann’s. It was “business related” he tells Emily upon entering the house, finding her on the stuffed white sofa in their cozy den, reading a Jacqueline Susann novel. “We needed to go over some work that we didn’t have time for in the office,” he says. He volunteers this bogus information before she even asks. She’s attired in a plain old housedress. Like Roland, she’s in her late forties, and still attractive enough to collect her share of admiring glances by men, both older and younger. She’s tall for a woman, though not as tall as her daughter, and her still young looking skin bodes well for Carrie Ann aging gracefully into middle age. Her hair, once as brown and long as Carrie Ann’s, is shorter now, shoulder length, and streaked with blond lightener. And that body, still firm and thin and the envy of her women friends sliding into middle-age sag.
He stands on the parquet floor, suit jacket slung over his shoulder, barely able to look his wife in the eye. Fishing for a diversion, he asks her about the book. “Any good?”
“Can barely put it down,” she says, crossing her legs. She looks up, hones in on his hair. “It’s not raining, is it?”
“Raining? No, why?”
She marks her place in the book and places it on her lap. Then she says, “Because your hair looks a little wet, like you’ve been out in a drizzle.”
He runs a hand through his thick, chestnut hair. “Um, so it is.” He forces a smile.
Grinning, she says, “Did you and Carrie Ann have a water gun fight or something? I remember when you two used to do that in the backyard during the summer.”
“Right,” he says, remembering very well. “Now we just lob water balloons at each other.” He forces a chuckle.
Her grin melts. “I can believe that. She was always daddy’s girl, always having more fun with you than she did with me. I’m sure you’ve become even closer since she joined the firm.” She says this more as a statement of fact than a lament.
He swallows hard. If you were more nurturing, he thinks, she’d be close to you too. “Become closer? Professionally, I suppose we have. Outside the office it’s the same.”
She nods. “Okay, well, I guess you want to take a shower. So why don’t you do that. Meanwhile, I’ll finish this chapter.” She reopens her book and begins to read.
Upstairs, he strips and jumps in the shower, his second of the evening. He’ll go to any length to allay even a hint of suspicion of what took place between himself and Carrie Ann. Any lingering scent of sex should be totally gone now, he thinks. Thoughts of Carrie Ann’s long, beautiful legs wrapped around him arouse him once again. Closing his hand around his soapy dick, he begins to stroke. He can still hear Carrie Ann’s moans ringing in his ears, can still feel her firm breasts and smooth skin, can still see her body quiver before she passed out. It doesn’t take long for him to ejaculate into the soothing jets of warm water.
Just as he steps from the shower, the door opens and there stands Emily, fully in the buff. “That book makes me very horny, Roland,” she says, spreading her legs and rubbing her pussy. “There’s more steam on one page than there is in this bathroom. I know that Jacqueline Susann isn’t exactly your cup of tea. But if you ever read her, you’ll know what I mean. So, can you do me?” She reaches out and wraps her hand around his now limp dick. “I want this, Roland. So stiffen up, baby.”
He looks her over wearing a smile of shame. If only he had known, he would have saved that second orgasm for his wife while still fantasizing about his daughter. Alas, he didn’t and now he’s running on empty, unable to perform three times in as many hours as he once did. He knows he’s faced with two choices: make up an excuse or try denizli escort to “do” Emily another way. It’s been a few weeks since they last made love, a quickie on the living room rug right before they left the house to meet another couple for dinner. She’d be in a sour mood for days if he rejected her, creating the sort of tension that can make for some very unpleasant domestic relations.
Grabbing a towel, he says, “I’ll meet you in the bedroom, dear.”
“Don’t take too long,” she says, then shuts the door on her way out.
Well, there’s always my tongue, he thinks while drying his hair. He’s gotten her off that way before. The problem, though, is that she wants his dick—now, not later—something she just made perfectly clear.
When he enters the room, she’s on her side, clutching the sheet to her chest, a warm, seductive smile creasing her lips. He slips under the covers and pulls her toward him. Engaging her in a long smooch, he figures, will buy him some time. Making out like this came so naturally during the honeymoon phase of their marriage. Now, it’s a rare thing, supplanted by quick pecks on the lips or mouth, mechanical and routine. That quickie they had on the rug was rarer still, a spontaneous thing driven by a mutual explosion of lust, the epitome of perfect timing.
He’s still limp when he slides down between her legs. He never liked doing this with Emily. Her pussy, no matter what she did, always had a less than pleasant odor, far from the sweet-musty fragrance of her daughter’s. Still, he goes to work, buying time, hoping he can get her off this way. He rubs his dick against the mattress, trying his best for a third hurrah. Her groans and thoughts of Carrie Ann do something, though still not enough for him to perform. Ready or not, she’s crying for him to enter her, and not just with his tongue. The music has arrived and now he has little choice but to face it.
He moves up between her legs, supporting himself on his arms. He feels a sense of desperation flapping his barely hard cock against her wet pussy, hoping for a minor miracle. He sucks on her nipples, kisses her tummy, tugs on his cock. Nothing. “I’m trying, Emily, I’m sincerely trying,” he says.
She grunts in frustration. “Well, try harder, Roland, because I need that dick of yours. Ram it home like you did on the rug that time.”
Roland knows this will never work. In addition to being out of gas, he’s now saddled with performance anxiety. He’s had it before, knows the futility of “trying” to get an erection. Trying harder only makes things worse. He leans over and kisses her on the mouth. “I’m sorry, Emily. Guess it just isn’t my night.”
She slaps her hand over her forehead, shakes her head and breaths out a hot breath of frustration. “It figures, tonight of all nights. What did you do, jerk off multiple times today? It’s either that or you fucked someone else or you’ve suddenly developed a case of erectile dysfunction.” She sits up and shakes her head in disgust.
He sits on the edge of the bed, arms crossed against his chest. “You know better than that. I was in court in the morning, office in the afternoon and then over Carrie Ann’s, not counting the time we shared a beer at Brannon’s. And yes, okay, I jerked off in the shower. Had I known you were in the mood, I’d have jumped your bones right on the sofa.” Pause. “Give me another twenty-four hours to recharge. Then I’ll screw you silly.”
She nods. “Twenty-four hours…Roland, that sounds like an eternity to me right now. But okay, twenty-four hours it is. Assuming, of course, that I’LL be in the mood. Meanwhile, I’ll use my trusty machine. She’s always in the mood.”
He watches as she heads for the bathroom. He hears her close the door and then the whining sound of her vibrator, pleasing her in a way that tonight he can’t.
*****
Carrie Ann isn’t totally free of the moral ambiguity that Roland finds himself in. Still, it isn’t enough to quell her desire for an encore, then to dream up scenarios, hot, incredibly erotic and more incredibly naughty. Of course, the taboo factor ramps up her desire even more. Just thinking of engaging in office sex is enough to make her wet. She laughs to herself picturing how Lester Sullivan and Stephen Cromwell, two of the firm’s partners, might react if she tried to seduce them. Like Roland, they’re both middle-age and married. And, like Roland, they shoot her lustful glances, looking almost comical in their awkward efforts to be discreet.
Putting that idea slide, she focuses on getting Roland to share her fantasy. “Dad, maybe we could do something in the office,” she tells him less than a week later while walking the few blocks from their downtown office to the Circuit Court carrying brief cases and dressed in their professional attire. “You know, screw on the desk or something.”
Roland glances around, conscious of would-be eavesdroppers on the crowded sidewalk. “You don’t feel guilty diyarbakır escort about last week?”
“Not really.” Pause. “Well, maybe a little. But, as I told you, we’re still decent people who have this mutual overwhelming sexual attraction, not to mention mutual love.”
“Who just happen to be father and daughter, with the former still married to the latter’s mom.”
“Point well taken, Mr. Chairman.” She looks around when they stop at a crosswalk. Then she says, “Dad, look, we can cease and desist if you’d like. But my gut tells me that our temptation levels are nearly parallel, that you want me as much as I want you.”
“Okay, you got me,” he says as the light changes and they begin to cross the street. “Your gut is right. I can’t deny how exciting the prospect of doing office sex sounds. Only we’ll need to do it when your mom isn’t so horny.” He fills her in on his failure to perform.
She laughs. “Maybe you can hide that Jacqueline Susanne novel the day we decide to indulge. Then she won’t be so horny.”
*****
That day comes the following week after Sullivan and Cromwell head home, leaving Roland and Carrie Ann by themselves. They hadn’t talked about it further since the week before, and Carrie Ann senses that it won’t happen unless she initiates it. Roland is putting on his dark blue suit jacket to leave when she says, “So, did you hide that book yet?”
Roland looks at her curiously. “Book?”
“The Jacqueline Susanne novel.”
He chuckles. “Actually, I think she finished it.”
“Great. Then maybe we could, you know, do what we talked about.” She sits on the edge of her big walnut desk and hikes her skirt halfway up her thighs, long and smooth and now slightly tanned from being outdoors in the early June sun.
He stands by his own desk and stares. “Your mom expects me home for dinner. On time.”
She bends her knee, resting her heel on the desktop. “It’s a cliché, I know, but call, tell her you’re working late in the office. Won’t be a complete lie, you know.” She winks.
He keeps his eyes glued to her red panties, clearly visible through her pantyhose. He hesitates, then dials his home number on the office landline, leaving a message when it goes into voicemail. After slipping off his suit jacket, he approaches her. “This is really bad behavior. You know that, right?”
“Ah, but so irresistible.” She puts her leg down, slides off the desk and embraces him. “Ohmygod, dad, you haven’t even touched me yet and already I’m soaked.”
He slides his hand up her skirt and then shoves it inside her panties. “Whew! You are that.”
She reaches back, unclips her hair and then shakes it until it falls below her shoulders. Then she kicks off her heels and hikes up her skirt to her waist. “I’ll let you do the honors,” she tells him.
“Honors?”
“Peeling off my pantyhose and then my knickers, as the Brits call them. Let’s just hope I don’t drip all over the office carpet.”
He pushes his thumbs inside her panties and pulls them down in one fluid motion. Not waiting for her to do the “honors” on him, he steps out of his black wingtips. Then he loosens his belt, kicks off his dress pants and throws off his Hanes boxer shorts.
Wrapping her hand around his fully erect cock, she says, “Geeze, dad, looks like you’ve done the work for me.” Even so, she stoops down and takes his sex in her mouth. A few strokes into it, she opens her blouse, unsnaps her bra and tosses it aside.
The sight of her doing this, with her skirt hiked up around her waist and her boobs hanging out her open blouse, sends him into erotic overdrive. “Keep this up and you’ll make me shoot my wad before I even enter you,” he says. Placing his hands under her armpits, he pulls her up and onto the desk. Spreading her legs, he leans over to return the favor, reveling in the now familiar sweet-musky fragrance as he lances his tongue through the wetness of her hot pussy and swollen clit.
“Ohmygod, oh my,” she cries, flat on her back across the desk, eyes closed, lost in the moment. “You’ve become quite adept at this.”
So adept that it takes but a couple minutes before her heavy breathing morphs into cries of uninhibited joy under the dizzying, pulsating sensations of her climax. The room, with its classy wood-paneled walls and fancy office furniture, seems to spin when he pulls her off the desk and into his arms. “You came, I take it,” he says glibly.
She shakes her head to clear it and steps back. “Is the pope Catholic? Hell yeah I came! And I plan to come again once you put your wonderful appendage in me.” Taking his hand, she leads him over to a black leather sofa. She throws her blouse off but keeps her skirt on, hiked up and bunched around her waist. After hopping on the sofa on all fours, she says, “So do it! Fill my hot, hungry pussy. Make me come again.”
Standing to his full height of six-three, he slips his “wonderful appendage” antalya escort into her and then begins to move in a discernible rhythm, a slow start with fits of acceleration, filling the room with little sound but her loud moans and the whiplash crackle of flesh slapping against flesh. Standing behind her affords him a different view from the one he had doing missionary—the lovely contour of her firm butt and the gentle curved sweep of her back, with strands of her silky brown locks covering much of it. Even from this angle, he can smell the sweet fragrance of her skin, soft and blemish-free save for a few tiny moles.
“Give it to me, dad, give it to me,” she orders in tone and cadence that might make a drill sergeant proud. “Ohmygod, oh lord. You’re cock is driving me insane, absolutely, fucking insane!
As if he isn’t high enough, her “dialogue” takes his libido to stratospheric heights. So far, he’s resisted the urge to climax, savoring every morsel of this special time. He knows climax is a bit of a misnomer anyway, for the orgasm is really a kind of anti-climax, the thing that drops precipitously within seconds as opposed to the relatively long wave of the buildup. Pleasure delayed is pleasure multiplied exponentially as he learns in spasms of gratification, explosive and superb.
“Not yet, don’t pull out yet,” she pleads, on the edge of O number two. “I’m almost there.”
He stretches his focus, somehow finds the will to stay in long enough through the tingling, semi-painful aftershocks for her to get “there.”
They both collapse on the sofa in each other’s arms, hugging and smooching, their bodies hot and sweaty, adding sweet sweat to the olfactory mix—the distinctive, pungent smell of sex on fresh leather. “If only Lester and Stephen could see us now,” she says. “Guess we’ll need to wipe this down before we leave.”
“Lester and Stephen might want you for themselves,” he says, reaching for the disinfectant wipes. “Your mom, on the other hand, would shoot us both if she ever found out.”
She nods, attuned as she is with his concerns of facing Emily. “She won’t find out. What happened on this sofa stays on this sofa. Metaphorically, of course.”
*****
Carrie Ann knows that Emily King, her mom, loves her. Years ago, when she was growing up, she had her doubts. Now, with the insight that comes with maturity, Carrie Ann realizes that people love in different ways. She can no longer fault her mom for lacking the nurturing instincts of her dad. For whatever reason, Emily simply doesn’t have the capacity to nurture her in ways that children crave but don’t always get. When Carrie Ann was growing up, it wasn’t a lack of responsibility on Emily’s part, for she made her daughter’s lunches, helped her with homework, took her to the doctor’s, etc. Missing were warm hugs and goodnight kisses and soulful talks, the stuff Roland did, the stuff that comes so easy to him but not so easy to Emily.
Carrie Ann is reconciled to never being as close to her mom as she’d like. In fact, both of them sometimes talk about it openly, as they do on this night during Emily’s visit to her daughter’s townhouse for a mother-daughter dinner. The meal is over, the dishes washed and put away.
“You are indeed daddy’s girl,” Emily admits. “However, I’ve always loved you. I just can’t express it the way your dad can.”
Carrie Ann stifles a laugh. If only you knew how right you are, she thinks. Reaching across the space between them on the sofa, she takes her mom’s hand. “Look, I know you love me, mom, and I love you too. We’ve had our battles in the past. But I hold nothing against you now.” Briefly, they kiss. Then Carrie Ann’s cell goes off. “It’s one of our clients,” she says. “Ordinarily, I’d ignore it but we’ve been playing phone tag for a couple days. Hopefully, it won’t take too long.”
After Carrie Ann goes off to take the call in her bedroom, Emily leafs through a pile of books on the coffee table to kill time. As is typical, the books are large, one on modern art, another on interior design, another on the history of cinema. Under the movie book is something that looks like an address book, about five inches wide, eight inches long, red, hard-covered and untitled. Upon opening it, she knows right away what it is, a diary. Quickly, she puts it down, stares at it for a few seconds, and then picks it up once again. Carrie Ann must have left it here by mistake, she thinks. She flips through the pages, her curiosity usurping her respect for her daughter’s right to privacy. She catches just a glimpse of the contents until she sees something scrawled across the top of one of the pages in big, bold letters: “His Organ, His Seed.” She blinks, then reads what appears to be a three-line poem under it:
The man whom for years I longed for Took the organ that helped create me And passed his seed from which I was made into me
She reads it repeatedly, not sure what to make of it, yet all too aware of what it looks like. She’s so engrossed that she doesn’t hear Carrie Ann coming down the hall until she’s just steps from the living room. By then it’s too late, for Carrie Ann catches her tossing the diary on the table like a naughty kid caught by the teacher.
Carrie Ann, arms folded against her chest, says, “Find anything interesting in there, mom?”
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