My Father Visits Ch. 10

Most of us think a lot more clearly a few minutes after an orgasm, than we do a few seconds before one.
I know that's true of me. It was particularly true today. A few minutes ago, I had not been thinking clearly when my wife had breathily asked me if the thought of her getting pregnant made me excited. And I had said, "Yes."
Then she had told me she could go off the pill tomorrow. And asked me if that's what I wanted. Fortunately, I had started to cum before I blurted out an answer.
I'm sure we weren't the first couple to have that conversation in the heat of a sexual encounter. What was unique about our situation is, the man who is inseminating my wife these days is my father.
I was still catching my breath, having rolled off of her and stretched out on my back. For the first time in my life, I had just orgasmed in a chastity cage, dry-humping into a pillow as my wife gave me a world-class teasing; and for the first time in over an hour, the cage wasn't digging into my body. This orgasm wasn't quite as satisfying as a normal one, but unlike the ruined orgasm she had last treated me to, at least my body was achieving some kind of post-crisis relaxation, instead of hovering on the edge of a sneeze that just wouldn't come.
I turned my head to look at my wife, who had rolled toward me and propped her head up on one crooked elbow, her sandy blonde hair falling over one eye. She was grinning at me.
"That was insanely hot," she chuckled.
"That was... just plain insane," I replied.
"Uh huh," she said, reaching out with her free hand to trace a finger down my cheek and jawline. "What was insane about it?"
I huffed. Obviously,*she* hadn't just had a mind-clearing orgasm.
"You, um, had quite a reaction to the idea of me going off the pill."
Well, to say the least, I thought; momentarily alarmed that she was still talking about it when we *weren't* having sex. But all I did was meekly admit, "Uh huh."
"Well, dream on, buster," she said. "There are limits to what I'll do for your crazy fantasies."
I laughed out loud, partly out of relief. But also... as if her seduction of my father was *my* idea! That had definitely been all her idea. I just became so obsessed with it, while it was just a fantasy, that eventually we both couldn't resist acting it out.
And of course, I knew that Michelle was a stickler about informed consent. She would never bring a child into the world to fulfill a kink. On the other hand, no one who plays this cuckolding game does it, or should do it, without having confronted the possibility of an unintended pregnancy.
We were both 35, but we had never outright declared our intention to not have kids. We had just always enjoyed our freedom, and our unfettered ability to advance in our careers, even before we had added hotwifing to our list of hobbies.
"But meanwhile," she was continuing, still on her side, now tracing her fingers around my nipples, "You are just so much fun to play with."
And then -- again, as always, as if she could read my mind -- she offered, "And you know, if we ever did decide to try starting a family, well..."
"Well, what?" I demanded.
"Well, you know, it would work out pretty well to... um... have your dad in the mix."
I looked at her in disbelief, simultaneously reminding myself that she had just assured me she was teasing, but also overwhelmed by the suggestion. And, particularly, by her choice of words: "in the mix." My mind was already conjuring images of swirling, commingling semen. Mine, inevitably, being added second to that of my father -- his being thicker, more copious, and with a significant head start.
God damn it, I was getting hard again already. Or as hard as was possible inside the chastity device.
My wife noticed. "Hmm," she said, moving her hand from my chest to my groin, where my glans was bulging through the bars of its cage. "This idea really does excite you, doesn't it? I wonder why.
"But seriously. If your dad was the one who... knocked me up... well, the baby would probably look like you. No one would suspect... Oh! Look at how that made you twitch!"
I didn't have to look; I had felt it. Plus, I couldn't take my eyes off her beautiful, diabolical face.
"I mean, it's so perfect! What would be more natural than your divorced dad moving in with us to help us take care of the new baby? All our friends and neighbors would just say, 'what a great guy."
Jesus, I thought. Well, she's obviously had some time to dream up and rehearse these lines. Meanwhile, she had moved her free hand back up to stroke my face again.
"No one would suspect that he was the man of the house now, taking me to bed every night, while you slept down istanbul travesti the hall with your baby brother..."
At that point she burst out laughing, and so did I. She had taken the absurd fantasy past the eroticism of impregnation and was moving toward the mundane realm of changing diapers. Still, there was a disconcerting stew of humiliation and submission bubbling in my mind and my stomach, and my penis, still sticky from its recent caged orgasm, was raging against its prison again already.
I marveled at her ability, and her desire, to drive me crazy. I wanted to roll her onto her back and pin her ankles behind her ears and pound into her like... like she tells me my father does. But the cage she had locked me in precluded that. All right then, I would roll her on her back and get my tongue as deep into her as was physically possible.
But as soon as I moved in that direction, she stopped me. "Uh uh," she cautioned me. "Thank you, but... I'm saving all my orgasms... for your dad's visit next week."
***
So I had plenty of time to think over the next nine days.
Next weekend my dad was coming to visit for the weekend, for the first time since he had started fucking my wife. It was during his last visit that she had first tantalized me with the fantasy, which she had later made real. So, I had never before dealt with this kind of anticipation, and dread.
Humiliation comes in all shapes and sizes, and in flavors that are a matter of individual taste. The same is true of submissiveness, and dominance too, I presume.
My wife understood this better than I did; before I did.
I knew the word "cuckold" before we started this game, but I had no idea what a wide range of situations the word covered, until I began reading online about it. Now I knew it wasn't just a spectrum; it was more like three-dimensional space. And, you know, in space no one can hear you whimper...
There were all kinds of tropes in this "lifestyle," and especially in the porn based on it. Michelle wasn't actually that interested in pushing some of the more humiliating scenarios. She loved exploring her own sexuality, and the "new relationship energy" with another man; she loved teasing and denying me. But along the way, she had whetted my appetite for more humiliation than she wanted to give me.
She had guided my head down onto the first cock I had ever sucked. That had been erotic because it was her doing it. But the other guy, I could tell, was simply going along with the role-play. I was vaguely disappointed that he hadn't smirked at me more genuinely. Actually, I was *vaguely* disappointed that he hadn't cum in my mouth. I was *extremely* disappointed that he hadn't sneered at me while he took my mouth's virginity.
I had no interest in performing fellatio on my father.
I didn't want to eat my father's creampie. I had cleaned my wife up after encounters with other men, with and without them still present. Hoping to hear their smirking laughter was more humiliating than the act itself. Eventually I had realized that if *they* weren't getting off on my subjugation, I could take or leave having my face in the residue of their orgasms.
I did love watching other men take Michelle. Make love to her. Fuck her. I loved to watch her enjoy herself as they seduced her, nuzzled her, stroked her breasts and hips; gently drew her hair back off of her brow as they moved on top of her and looked down into her eager eyes as they situated themselves between her welcoming thighs. But mostly, I loved to watch the moment of penetration, and the moment of their climax. The pivotal, irreversible moments when, I knew, *they* felt they were claiming her. From me.
But when I thought of my father with Michelle, I came to realize, I didn't even want to watch.
I had thought about this a lot. For two months I had pictured it in my head, over and over again; but now, in a few days, he was going to be in my house, under my roof. In my bed. For the first time it would actually be possible, theoretically, to see with my own eyes the scenes that had dominated my imagination for so long.
I contemplated how that might go down. Would the two of them simply start making out on the sofa in front of me while we watched a movie, and end up half-naked, with my dad's pants still around his ankles, as she laid back against the cushions and wrapped her legs around him in the glow of the TV screen? Would they invite me into the master bedroom and direct me to sit in the side chair with my hands in my lap? Would Michelle arrange for me to watch from a closet?
I just didn't see any of those things happening. Michelle was too committed to the idea of "consent" to sneak me into a closet without travesti istanbul Dad's knowledge. And she was right, my father wasn't an exhibitionist... he was just too "old school" to have sex in front of any other man, let alone me.
What it really came down to, I realized, was that I didn't want to see the reality of their naked bodies coupling in front of me. For one thing, at this point the real thing could never match the insanely hot idealized images in my mind. Michelle had given me -- *gifted* me, really, it dawned on me -- with this image of my father as robust and powerful and willful, in a way I hadn't seen him since I was very young. I didn't want to see that he had a droopy ass and saggy manboobs. I didn't want to find out that she had been teasing me about his cock. I wanted him to be moulding my wife's insides around the contours of something thicker, heavier, more masculine.
And I wanted to marinate in the anguish of the bedroom door closed in my face. Or, the sense of inadequacy. Impotence. Irrelevance.
I remembered what the closed bedroom door meant when I was young. "Private time." Dad was doing grown-up things behind that door with Mom (although, for all the self-psychoanalysis I was doing throughout this journey, I resolutely refused to sexualize my mother. I noted that Michelle had understood that, as well).
Michelle was managing to have an ongoing carnal relationship with my dad, to make me think of him in sexual terms, without causing or allowing me to project my mother on to her. We weren't acting out an Oedipal fantasy. No, Michelle was definitely *my* wife, *my* woman, who my father was claiming, exercising not his marital rights, but his *primal* rights as the alpha figure that I hadn't had in almost thirty years.
I was thinking about this a lot. A whole lot. Too much. It was all I could think about. I thought about how, my whole life, my dad had never pushed me. He hadn't taught me to play sports. He had applauded my good grades, but never urged me to excel or punished me for failing to get an A. If anything, he probably agreed with my aunts and uncles who made jokes about me being a "bookworm."
And now here I was, approaching middle age, and self-evidently successful. I had obviously married a beautiful and intelligent (and shockingly adventurous) woman. I was doing quite well in my career, even if it wasn't as lucrative as some. The only thing missing from my portfolio was children of my own. And it wasn't that Michelle and I had decided against having them. I just... was choosing my own path, in the absence of an outside authority figure imposing one upon me.
Until now.
Maybe my father *wished* I had been a star athlete. He never told me that, nor coached me into that expectation. I knew he had *wanted* me to become a lawyer, although by the time I was making that career decision, he had no leverage. So maybe at some level he wanted me to be a parent, to raise children. And he had finally stumbled upon a way to make that happen. By flooding my wife's fertile body with his own virile seed, and planting a child in her womb for me to raise.
That was all nonsense, of course. My dad wouldn't do that. Michelle wouldn't do that. But I found the thought insanely arousing. It would have given me an instant and profound erection, if I wasn't aching inside my cage. I realized it was all in my head, and really *only* my head -- the idea, and the desire. I *wanted* my father to *want* to impregnate my wife.
Meanwhile, each day moved more and more slowly as the weekend loomed when my father would arrive, and that bedroom door would close...
***
John pulled into the driveway of his son's house, and exhaled deeply before turning the engine off. It was late enough in the summer now that dusk had fallen during his drive over, but still plenty warm enough to drive with the top down, and to have left the back of his shirt sticking to the car seat. And for people to have backyard barbeques, one of which he understood he would be attending tomorrow. That would be interesting, possibly awkward. But probably not as awkward as the time spent in his son's home.
He was still nervous about facing his son for the first time since he had started fucking his daughter-in-law. In spite of the fact that he had talked or texted with Michelle almost every day, anticipating possible reactions. In spite of the fact that she kept assuring him that Ryan was the one who would be squirming; that he, John, would be operating from a position of "power" (her word); that if he chose to simply not discuss their strange new relationship, that would be fine, into would just play into his role in this dynamic.
It wasn't a matter of not blinking first, she had istanbul travestileri said. He could simply decline to acknowledge eye contact.
Well, Michelle certainly understood "power dynamics" better than he did. "Trust me," she kept saying. She assured him that not only was being cuckolded his son's favorite kink, but that the idea that it was his father cuckolding him was in fact the most exquisite experience he could have.
Okay, he thought. Well, here we go.
John got out of the car, pulled his small suitcase out of the back seat, and walked toward the front door.
Their house was built as an L-shaped ranch, with the master suite and two smaller bedrooms which they used as offices extending off the back of the west end of the main living spaces. On the east end, they had built a private en suite guest quarters behind the garage, which is where John was used to staying. The addition created a u-shaped courtyard in the backyard, affording quite a bit of privacy. John smiled as he revisited a frequent thought from the last week: he had never had sex outdoors. But that patio, and his lascivious daughter-in-law, would be the perfect remedy for that.
He realized as he rang the doorbell that his dick was getting thicker and longer in his boxers.
Michelle answered the door, wearing a mischievous smile, and got on her tiptoes to give him a discreet hug -- nothing that a passing neighbor would have found remarkable. He stepped into the living room, and noted that Ryan was standing in the entrance to the kitchen, holding a dishtowel. Doing the dishes, he realized. Almost too perfect.
"Hi Dad," Ryan said, in a normal enough voice, although John thought his son's eyes might seem to be open a little too wide; then Ryan was stepping across the living room to greet him. John's painstakingly-developed instincts for workplace power dynamics kicked in, and he strode powerfully toward his son to meet him more than halfway, extended his hand for a handshake. They never had been huggers, but he sensed that the moment called for a bit of formality.
Like Grant accepting Lee's surrender.
"Hello, son."
"Did you have a good drive over?" Michelle asked.
"Yeah, it was fine," he replied, glad to turn back to face his daughter in law. "Traffic wasn't too bad. And the sun was behind me."
"I noticed you had the top down," she said, nodding toward his convertible.
"Yeah, I should probably put that up."
"Oh, relax for a minute," she chided, taking him by the elbow. "Ryan can take care of that. Drink?"
"Yeah, sure." John could tell Michelle was putting on a little show, and half expected her to order Ryan to go fetch him a Scotch. But instead, she headed to the kitchen herself, moving past her husband, her backside swaying seductively. His full-service hostess.
She looked back over her shoulder and said with a wink, "I'll take care of you." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his son flinch. In a moment, John realized, he and his son would be alone together.
But instead, Michelle stopped in the kitchen doorway and addressed her husband.
"Ryan, why don't you take your dad's luggage to his room for him?"
Ryan paused, and looked from his wife to his father and back. Suddenly, John had an inspiration, something to say to participate in the subtle innuendo. "Yes, Ryan," he found himself saying, slowly. "Why don't you take my suitcase to the room..."
He almost said, "where I'll be staying," then impulsively changed it to, "where you want me to stay."
Ryan gulped. Yes, his eyes were definitely wider than usual. But a moment later, he stepped past John, picked up the suitcase...
... and silently headed down the hallway toward the west wing and the master suite.
John watched his son disappear down the hallway, then turned toward his daughter-in-law. Her eyes were sparkling with amusement, but also approval. She stepped toward him, and said, "Well done."
She put her wrists on his shoulders, and he placed his hands on her waist. Then he drew her into him, and slipped one hand down to gather up a fistful of one luscious cheek. When he bent down to kiss her, her lips quickly opened for him, and he penetrated her wet mouth with his tongue, firm and urgent. He felt her making her own tongue soft for him, welcoming him, dancing for him, serving for his pleasure. The way she had made that tongue dance around the head of his cock. The way she would be doing again, he now knew, before the evening was over.
So Ryan and Michelle, in their kinky game-playing, had already decided that he would be spending the weekend in the marital bed. Either that, or... huh. It occurred to him that Michelle had left that issue undetermined. That it was *his* instruction to his son, "put me in the room where you want me," and his son's nonverbal choice to yield before him, that had sealed the deal.
He pulled Michelle closer, and felt his erection, thick and satisfying, grinding into her soft round belly.