I took a look at the door as I entered the bedroom. A simple cross-and-bible design, my mind registered, blasphemously. Open and silent. It would be closed soon enough.
I was dropping my father’s suitcase off in the master bedroom — my bedroom — the bedroom I shared with my wife of eleven years, my lovely and enchanting life partner. So they could spend the weekend cuckolding me under my own roof.
For the week and a half that I had been anticipating this visit, my wife had been teasing me with the idea that this is where he would be staying, replacing me, evicting me, banishing me to the other end of the house. For those ten days, all my feverish conjured images of the two of them together, had been replaced by the image of that bedroom door, closed in my face.
It was only now that I realized that *she* hadn’t made that clear fifteen seconds ago in front of both of us. My father had invited me to take his suitcase to the room I wanted him to stay in, and this is where I had taken it.
I walked back to the main living area, and followed the sound of their voices into the kitchen, where Michelle was mixing drinks. Scotch and water for Dad, a gimlet for her. And a martini for me. I had half expected to see her making me a Shirley Temple.
Michelle suggested we take our drinks out onto the patio and enjoy the twilight. My father and I agreed. Michelle led the way, and as my dad and I moved to follow, I noticed that he stopped and allowed me to go next. Women and children first, I thought. As I passed him, he placed a hand on my shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze. I gave him a weak smile, and he smiled back at me with something like sympathy. What could I say? This is what I had wanted, and now I was in the middle of it.
Fortunately, because of the four hour drive after the workday, Dad had eaten earlier in the evening, and so I didn’t have to make small talk through a whole dinner. Michelle was playing the hostess, taking the lead on a conversation about quirky co-workers, making sure she asked simple questions of both of us to keep us both engaged. I could tell my dad was feeling as awkward as I was.
After a half an hour, my dad finished his drink and stood up in the now-total darkness. “Well, it’s been a long day. I think I’m going to go take a shower.”
My wife stood up, too. “Here, then, I’ll come show you where everything is.”
I sat forward in my chair, my mouth slightly agape. My Dad made eye contact with me from the patio doorway and simply said, “G’night, Ryan.”
Michelle stopped as she reached the doorway, and told me, “Don’t stay up too late.” The grown-ups were going to go have some private time. Then she turned and followed my Dad, her pert bottom swaying seductively in her cuffed walking shorts. And that was the last I saw of them that night.
It wasn’t the last I heard them, though. I stayed on the patio, finished my drink; went inside and poured myself a Scotch, feeling like I was raiding my dad’s liquor cabinet. Mostly, I wanted the weight of the cylindrical glass in my hand; martinis are too easy to spill when your hands are trembling. After a bit, I crept down the hallway to where the closed door had been haunting my dreams for almost two weeks.
I stood outside it and listened. I could hear low voices, occasionally Michelle’s sweet giggle, but no words I could make out. I sipped my drink. Their conversation continued. Then for a while I heard nothing discernable at all.
And then I heard a long, low gasping groan. That was my wife, I knew, being impaled. My cock tried anne seks hikayeleri to swell in its cage.
Then rhythmic squeaking. The box springs, protesting against the impact of my father’s thick torso shoving my wife’s body down into the mattress, steadily and repeatedly.
A series of feminine grunts — unh, uhn, uhn — in matching rhythm.
And then bumping sounds, the banging of the headboard against the wall, like the bass player joining a slow-building hard rock anthem.
And nothing from my father, as he fucked my wife in silence. I remembered something Michelle had told me a couple of weeks ago, after finally dropping the pretense that this was all a charade. *”But with your dad, well, once he’s in me, he’s like… serious business.”*
I stepped back. The closed door mocked me. I shouldn’t be standing in a dark hallway outside my father’s bedroom, listening to him do grown-up things. With his woman. That was *his* prerogative, *his* privilege. He was the *pater familias.*
I walked back down the hallway, stopped to pour myself another drink, and then retreated to my empty bed in the guest quarters and laid down in the darkness. And waited. And sipped. And waited.
***
I was back at the doorway, listening, trying to hear above my own ragged breathing and pounding heart. The banging of the headboard and the shrieking of the bedsprings had stopped. Perhaps they were taking a break. More likely, I knew, it meant that their first act had reached its inevitable and primal conclusion, and my father had already inseminated my wife.
Then the door was opening; it hadn’t been latched, I must have pushed against it, unwittingly, just enough for me to glimpse inside, seeing them together, as if in a tightly-framed shot in an art film.
They had ended up crosswise on the bed, so that I was viewing them in three-quarters profile, with Michelle’s head somewhat closer to the foot of the bed than the rest of her. Her arms were extended above her head, and her feet were still on my father’s shoulders.
He was just straightening up, just sitting back onto his haunches, his eyes still looking down at my wife’s face, with a pleased grin on his face. A satisfied grin. His face was red and he was still breathing heavily. Her ankles were still on his shoulders; the backs of her thighs pressed against his belly; her bottom and lower back rolled up onto his knees. I could imagine that he had just had her folded up underneath her, where he could pound her like a pile driver.
I watched in silence as he scooted his knees apart, and her lower torso sank to the mattress between them, her legs still extending up over his chest, but revealing more of his broad upper body, which was covered in tight curls of damp silver hair.
My wife’s feet had slipped from his shoulders to his chest when he reached up and took her tapered ankles in his hands. He pulled them together and managed to encircle them both in one paw, allowing the other to caress its way along her calf and thigh. Then he extended his arm, pushing her knees back up against her breasts, rolling her ass up off the bed again. As her body moved, his phallus came into my view, resting now upon his thighs, moist and thick, no longer erect but still potent even in repose.
I knew what he was doing. I couldn’t see her face clearly, but I knew she knew what he was doing, and she was acquiescing in it. He was keeping her vagina vertical, keeping his semen pooled at her cervix, where it could seep into her womb.
And then I realized he was looking at me, his eyes boring into me, the look on his face changing ever so slightly from satisfaction, to triumph.
I jerked my eyes open. I was still lying on my back, alone in the bed in the guest room, my groin aching in its cage.
Fuck.
Tomorrow promised to be a long day, even without the erotic tension that was tearing me apart. I knew Michelle wanted us all to go on an outing to see a new exhibit at the zoo. And she had gleefully scheduled this visit to coincide with a neighborhood barbeque tomorrow evening, which I knew would be innocent enough, although it was disconcerting to consider mingling with friends while my wife introduced people to the man she was fucking these days. How was I going to get any sleep tonight?
Meanwhile, I was sure, my wife and my dad were falling to a blissful post-orgasmic slumber, arms and legs entangled, my dad snoring, my wife playing with his chest hair as she drifted off. Damn it.
***
Despite the fitful sleep, I was up early the next morning, knowing that getting back to sleep once the sun was up would be futile.
I put on a t-shirt and walking shorts, and went to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.
While I was measuring out ten teaspoons, my dad entered the room and cleared his throat. “Good morning, son.”
Shit. I would have to start counting all over again. I turned around to face him, standing in the doorway, wearing a plush white terrycloth bathrobe. “Good morning, Dad.”
“Sleep well?” he asked, as he stepped into the room and pulled out a chair at the little breakfast table.
“So so,” I answered, honestly, nervously maintaining eye contact, looking for a clue as to his approach. Smug superiority? Disdain?
“I know,” he nodded. “Different surroundings…”
It was like he had thumped me in the sternum with a flick of his middle finger. Not a body blow, not a sledgehammer. Just a little gig, making a hollow sound.
“Coffee will be ready in a couple minutes,” I stated, and leaned back against the counter.
“That’s quite a woman you married,” he stated, stunning me with his directness. Says the man who’s spent the last nine hours in my bed fucking her brains out, I thought.
“Umm… yeah,” was all I said, suddenly remembering his rare piece of advice from a dozen years ago: “I wouldn’t let that one get away.”
“She tells me that you’re okay with all this,” Dad said. “Is that true?”
I swallowed hard, and wished I had a coffee cup to hide behind. “All this?” I asked, both deflecting the question, and handing him back the chance to twist the knife.
He just gestured with one hand, making a sweeping motion from the space between us, back toward the room behind him where my wife lie slumbering, satiated, still marinating in his semen.
“She keeps telling me this is three consenting adults playing a kinky game.”
I nodded. “Uh huh.”
“Well, okay. I’m certainly enjoying it.” God, I thought, he’s pushing on this. I had started to think we were going to spend the weekend just never even talking about the… elephant in the room. The bull elephant, in the master bedroom, to be more specific. Just pretending to eat meals and watch movies and go to the zoo and go to a neighborhood party, just a normal visit, except for when it was time for bed.
“I just… well, I guess I don’t understand what you get out of it,” he continued.
“Most guys don’t,” I replied. That was true, too. And if I was in a more talkative mood, with a different audience, I might have gone on to say that I preferred it that way. I liked it better when the other guy just couldn’t imagine trading places with me. Some of Michelle’s play partners did, in fact, understand it; for them, this was just a variation on a threesome. I actually liked the humiliation aspect, when the other guy looked at me in disbelief; and suddenly I was getting an overwhelming dose of it.
My dad was nodding, thoughtfully. I realized that his eyes had briefly gone to the front of my walking shorts. Jesus, he wasn’t only wondering about my being a cuckold, he was wondering about the chastity device gripping my genitals. He knew about that, I knew; or at least, Michelle had told me he did. She had told me that she had taken Dad to the mall to buy a belly chain from which to proudly display my key while she undulated on his cock.
I also suddenly realized that my penis was lying, inert, inside my cage. It was the first time in days that I had thought about my predicament without being, or quickly becoming, engorged. Alone in a room with my father, the only one of us entitled to have or to use a proud erect cock, mine wasn’t even trying.
When was that coffee going to be ready?
“So, you’ve been doing this for a couple of years?” he prodded. I nodded an affirmation.
“Her idea, or yours?”
“Kind of a mutual decision,” I responded, suddenly grateful to share with him that this wasn’t something that had been thrust upon me against my will.
“And… me, specifically?”
“Ummm… yeah, that was pretty much her idea.”
He nodded at that, and seemed to smile a bit. It was true, and I was glad to be able to tell him that. I’m sure it was good for his ego to think that an attractive woman in her prime had decided that he would be an attractive partner for sexual games, and it was definitely better than thinking that his daughter in law was just reluctantly indulging his deviant son’s perverse fantasy.
There was finally enough coffee in the carafe that I could pour a couple of mugs full.
I brought them to the table and sat down across from him. Coffee, black. That’s the way I had learned to drink it. From him. Like a man.
“She assures me that she loves you, and that she’ll never leave you.” My dad was continuing to take the lead in the conversation, meeting his own need to confront and clarify things. Like a man. Drinking black coffee. Doing the fucking in the house.
“I believe that.”
“Well, look, i just… I just want to say… I mean, if you don’t want to be doing this, I’ll stop.”
“I’m… I’m okay,” I said, softly. You don’t have to stop fucking my wife, Dad, I thought. Not yet.
My dad sipped his coffee. “She says we’re just playing this game while we can. She actually keeps telling me I need to start dating.”
I smiled weakly. “Yeah, that’s what she says.”
“And then I’ll eventually get serious, and you two will go back to… well, whatever it is you’ve been doing.”
“Uh huh.” Actually, I was relieved to confirm we were all on the same page about that.
“Well,” he said, and took another sip, “I have to tell you… I’m not in any hurry.” And then he actually grinned at me.
I… well, I couldn’t blame him, I thought.
Then he stood up, and I instinctively averted my eyes as the terry cloth robe almost fell open, almost gave me a glimpse of the tool he had been putting into my bride, the *penis patris familia.* I don’t think he even noticed. He went to the counter, got down an empty cup, and poured coffee into it. To take to Michelle, I realized. Back in… *their* bedroom.
“Well, I’m going to go…” he paused for a moment, then continued. “I’m going to go get your wife up.”
He was gone for an hour.