My Father's Second Wife Ch. 03

"Whatever," I said to myself.

The woman was staring daggers at me, like I was going to "steal her man"—as if. I ventured on, noticing more people were staring at me. The men had lascivious looks, while the women's ran the spectrum from hatred to pity. I was rapidly becoming the most interesting object in the establishment, and I wasn't flattered.

A few men started to rise from their seats. Were they stalking me? Wolves forming a kill circle? I tried to find an opening and move casually away from them. I felt a hand touch my ass. I jumped away. It took everything I had to keep from screaming. From behind me a rasping voice said, "Are you lost, little lady?" I honestly couldn't tell if it was male or female. I now seriously regretted not bringing mace.

"Don't engage," I told myself. I was starting to panic, and I knew I wasn't far from full-on terrified. That's when I saw one of the curtains pull aside and my father appear. "Oh, thank God," I thought. I started to walk towards him as fast as I could, hampered by my choice of footwear. Sensing my distress, he strode out to meet me. The other dogs, seeing an alpha male approaching, slunk back into their dens.

I wanted to run up to him, throw my arms around his neck, and beg him to take me home. "Don't let them see fear," I counseled myself. Instead, I strolled casually to rendezvous him. Without a word, he offered me his arm, I slipped mine inside his, and he escorted me into the private room.

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The four Russians were not what I imagined.

The room consisted of some low couches and easy chairs, flocked wallpaper, and a gaudy chandelier. The Russians were seated around one of the two coffee tables, theirs littered with shot glasses, empty and half empty whisky bottles, ash trays, cigar butts, napkins, and a pair of men's shoes.

Sitting in the biggest chair was, I assumed, their glorious leader. He was fat, with a pockmarked, weathered complexion. His most prominent feature was a bulbous, misshapen, nose set beneath a low brow. Fine red veins laced his face. His hair was black and thin, having been slicked down and combed straight back, like some Mafia Don. He wore an expensive three piece suit, in herringbone, punctuated with a gleaming gold chain that hung from his vest pocket. He idly puffed on a short, pudgy, cigar held between two short, pudgy, fingers.

A bare-breasted waitress stood patiently next to his chair, notepad in hand, trying to complete a drink order. She was older than I was. Her breasts were large, but not huge. They had big silver-dollar areoles and hung comfortably from her solid frame. Big Nose's other hand was firmly planted on her ass cheek. As she waited, he entertained himself by kneading her butt through her pants and blowing smoke across her tits. I would have broken his arm; she didn't even look down. It was either part of the service or she was beyond caring.

The two Russians on the couch were nascent versions of Big Nose. One assumes, in ten or fifteen years, they'd take his place. They were slightly younger, not as fat, less weathered, and wore poorer suits. The one closest to Big Nose had huge, bushy grey, eyebrows that dominated his face. I nicknamed him Einstein. The other one's only distinguishable feature was his thick neck and balding pate. I dubbed him Combover.

Einstein and Combover each had a floozy—there's no kinder way of describing them. Both were cheap bottle blondes. The one with Combover wore a floor length black halter dress. Her neckline plunged all the way to her pubic bone, leaving little to the imagination. The top was barely wide enough to cover half the width of her breasts. Lounging on the couch, her small, floppy tits were constantly falling out of the top. She would occasionally make a token effort to cover herself, but with the next shot of whiskey, or giggle fit, and they were out again.

Einstein's blonde went down a completely different fashion route. She was wearing a bright pink, fur-lined bikini top that was strapped over the largest breasts I'd ever seen. They were so artificially huge, round, and taught that two basketballs duck taped to the woman would have looked more natural. Over this she layered a black, open mesh shirt. This was paired with a super-short, ruffled, petticoat skirt that had LEDs sewn into it so it lit up. Her meaty legs were covered in lime green, lattice weave, stockings. I don't know what hurt my eyes more, the cigarette smoke in the air or looking at this women's outfit.

The last Russian was the odd duck. He was tall and wiry, with short brown hair and horn rim glasses. We wore a tan sports jacket with elbow patches, which gave him a vaguely professorial look. He was sitting slightly away from the group, and wasn't really participating in the festivities, being the only one without a drink, smoke, or some female body part in hand. Listening to the drink order unfold, it became obvious he was their translator.

With another round of whiskey ordered, the waitress turned to leave, spotting us for the first time. She seemed surprised, but pleasantly so, and her mood instantly brightened.

"Can I get you two something?" she asked.

My father said, "I'll stick with my rye," indicating his drink on the table. "Would you like anything, Charlotte?"

"Are your Cosmopolitans good?" I asked her.

The girl made a derisive expression and said, "Sweetie, nothing here is good. The Vodka martini is drinkable."

"Vodka martini, please," I said.

She winked at me and replied, "Excellent choice." She tapped the pad with her pencil and said, "I'll have those right up." She started to leave, paused, and said, "I'm Hannah." It occurred to me that she couldn't wear a name tag.

Once Hannah's breasts were gone, Big Nose has to find something else to leer at, and he settled on me. He just stared, puffing his cigar. Father motioned for me to sit down in the other big couch. I kept my legs glued together. He settled in beside me.

I dressed up to show off and be seen. Now I just wanted to crawl inside a cave and hide.

After an extremely uncomfortable period of silence, Big Nose turned and spoke a few words of Russian to the translator, who then spoke to my father, saying, "Who is this lovely creature for?"

"This lovely creature," my father said, taking no insult, "is for me. She's my daughter."

Big Nose chuckled at the translation. Maybe he thought "daughter" was a euphemism for "live-in whore" or something. Dad had his poker face on.

Big Nose then wanted to know if I could be his "daughter." There was obviously some double-entrées being exchanged.

Father calmly countered by saying that I might be his "daughter" if Big Nose would reconsider placing open bids for steel suppliers. Big Nose stared at me while twisting his cigar, like he was contemplating the price of a dessert.

This went back and forth many more times. The exchanges were excruciatingly slow, as almost everything had to go through the translator, and then Big Nose would trance out and stare at something, often me.

Hannah eventually returned with my drink (warm) and two more bottles of whiskey. She cleared a few of the empties and endured Einstein "accidentally" touching her breasts while she was leaning over their table.

"Haven't they had enough to drink already?" I whispered to Dad.

Father said, "They're big fans of American whiskey. I think they plan to try every brand, possible all of them tonight."

After Hannah left, Big Nose returned to staring at me. Father then shocked me by wrapping his arm behind my back and slipping his hand inside my dress, his palm resting on my stomach, his thumb grazing the bottom of my breast. The gesture was provocative and possessive. I think Dad was telling Big Nose that I was his—in every way.

Big Nose nodded his head, as if agreeing to some unspoken statement, stubbed out his cigar, and lighting up another. Meanwhile, the skank in the halter dress started to go down on Combover.

"Oh dear God," I thought to myself, "this might be the longest night of my life."

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A few hours later, Father walked me out to my car, trying to shield me from the biting wind. He waved goodbye as I drove away, and headed back into the club.

On the drive home, I reviewed what I'd learned. I learned the translator's name was Anton, and Big Nose's name was really Viktor. I learned Hannah's phone number, when she wrote it on a napkin and left it for my dad. I learned a few Russian words, but I'm not sure they'd be useful outside a brothel.

What I didn't learn was why I was there. Was I supposed to be learning the fine art of back room negotiations, or was I being negotiated for? What was that crack about me becoming Viktor's "daughter." Was my dad trading me for better contract terms?

I didn't know what to think, and I didn't want to think about it. My head hurt from the cheap cocktails, I stank, and I was nauseous from all the smoke.

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I pulled off the dress the moment I walked in the door. I took a whiff of it and wondered if I would ever be able to wear it again. I spent an hour in the shower trying to scrub off the smoke, grime, and creepiness of the evening.

Drying my hair, I felt a lot better. I was also really conflicted. Dad obviously had a plan, and I was part of it, even if I didn't know what part. Being sold like cattle to some fat creep wasn't my ideal date, but taking one for the team almost made it feel noble. There was a lot about my dad I didn't know, but selling his own daughter? That didn't seem like him. But if not, then what just happened?

I jumped into bed. I wasn't going to tie myself into knots worrying about it tonight. What I needed to do was concentrate on what I could accomplish and what I wanted. What I wanted was to get laid. I hadn't had a proper fuck in days. Worse, I'd sat and watched Margo and Tina get screwed blind. The whole situation was making me cranky!

I set my alarm and drifted off to sleep, thinking, "I need a plan."

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By the time the alarm went off at six o'clock, I had a plan. Several plans, actually, and the first one started now. OK, it's more of a stunt than a plan, but it should get me laid, which was the plan.

Sleeping in the buff is convenient when you don't plan to put anything on. Well, that's not entirely true; I put on some makeup, moisturizer, and a pair of low heels.

I picked out a simple, fitted, dress with a square neckline in bold, grey and purple stripes. I folded it up and tucked it under one arm. I slipped my purse strap over my other shoulder, went down the hall, and snuck outside to the patio.

I strolled, naked, across the back lawn. The darkness was reluctantly giving way to a new day. I wondered when the gardeners usually showed up, and what they'd think about the boss' daughter walking around nude at six in the morning. That had to be good for a story.

I went around the back of the house and entered the garage through the side door, avoiding the house entrance. I groped through the darkness and found my father's sedan, the one he always takes to work.

I placed my purse and dress on the hood and carefully climbed up to join them. I turned around and laid down on my back with my head at the grill. The metal was cold against my back. I flipped my hair up so it cascaded down the front of the car. My knees were bent, the soles of my shoes resting on the windshield. For someone sitting in the driver's seat, I'd be spread like a centerfold.

I waited.

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I didn't have to wait long. If my father is anything, he's punctual.

With a wrench of motors and gears, the lights came on and the garage door started rising. I heard hard-soled shoes on concrete. A wave of cool morning air washed over me, my nipples snapping to attention. Goosebumps erupted on my arms and legs. I closed my eyes.

The footsteps came closer, paused, and then resumed. My heart was racing. The footfalls stopped. I heard father set his briefcase down. Fingertips brushed my stomach, making it quiver. They floated over me, tickling, down to my crotch, up one side, across my breasts, down the other side, back up my stomach, sternum, and neck. My skin tingled. They broke contact, and then the next thing I felt was a tap on the tip on my nose.

"Good morning, honey bear," my father said.

I opened my eyes and looked up at my father's downturned face. He was wearing a big smile, admiring my naked form. My day was already a success.

I languidly stretched, as if just awakening, twisting my hips and reaching above my head. I placed my hands on the side of his hips and grabbed onto his pants. I had him just where I wanted him.

"Good morning, Daddy," I said.

"To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?" he asked, and then quickly added, "not that there needs to be a reason." He placed his hands on the outside of my upturned breasts, gently stroking them.

"I wanted to apologize for yesterday and thank you for protecting me last night," I said. I left out the part about how I wouldn't have needed protection if he hadn't invited me to that awful place.

Fathers sighed and said, gently, "Char, you don't have apologize for yesterday. As for last night, I will always protect you, especially when it's my fault you needed protecting in the first place." He was now making little circles over my breasts. His hands were warm.

I closed my eyes again and made a humming noise, enjoying my father's touch. I think I could go back to sleep, right here on the hood.

"I have a meeting this morning, Char," father said, interrupting my revelry while giving my tits a firm squeeze. "Was there something else you wanted?"

I opened my eyes and said, "You got me. The real reason I'm here," and I let the sentence trail off. I took one hand off his hip and placed it on his crotch and started rubbing up and down his cock through his pants. "The real reason I'm here is because I miss having a cock inside of me, and there's one cock in particular I miss, and I thought to myself, 'Self, if you had that particular cock in your pussy right now, you'd feel a lot better and I'm sure you'd be more relaxed and productive at work.'"

Father laughed and said, in the same sing-song tone, "Well, heaven forbid I would allow my employees to be tense and unproductive."

I took my other hand off his hip and tried to find the zipper to his fly. Lying on my back, looking at his pants upside down, the task was more difficult than I thought it would be.

Father saved me. He reached down, unzipped his pants, and pulled out his cock, which was already getting hard. I brought my arms back and used them to scoot a little farther down, so my head hung down off the front of the hood.

Once my head was thrown back, I grabbed the base of his dick, opened my mouth wide, and guided it in. Looking upside down between his legs, I saw the faint halo of morning above the trees.

Father shuffled a little forward and placed his hands on the hood. Once his cock was in my mouth, I placed my hands back on his hips again, urging him forward, or pushed him back when I was about to choke. He quickly learned the range I could take and settled into a steady rhythm.

I know I started it, but I was displeased with this arrangement. I shoved father's hip back so his cock fell out of my mouth, slapping my nose and forehead in the process.

As fast as I could, and without falling off the hood or damaging the car, I flipped over and laid back down on my stomach, lifted my head back, grabbed my dad's hips, and pulled his cock back into my mouth.

This, I liked. I could slide my tongue over the sensitive bottom of dad's cock, my throat was stretched and long, letting in as much length as I could take. His cock was now making little "gurg, gurg, gurg" noises as it went to the back of my throat. The metal of the hood had warmed to my body and felt smooth.

I would have done this all day, except that my neck was already getting tired. I couldn't hold it at this angle much longer. As if reading my mind, dad playfully slapped my upturned ass and said, "Get up, honey buns."

I pushed myself up to a sitting position. Father motioned that I should come to him. Scooting on my butt, I worked my way forward until my legs were over the front of the car.

Dad hooked one arm under each knee. I leaned back and supported myself with my arms. Father lifted and spread my legs, positioned the tip of his cock at my entrance ("look ma, no hands!") and pushed in.

I was wet, but not enough. Father's cock dragged my pussy lips into my opening, pulling the surrounding skin, and driving my tailbone into the Mercedes Benz logo. He backed off and pushed in again, this time a little further.

My pussy must have kicked into overdrive, because everything—cock, labia, my inner thighs—was rapidly being covered in my juices. In no time, father's cock was slipping and sliding his way around.

I watched in fascination as his manhood disappeared completely inside me, wondering where it must go. I felt Dad's face lean into mine. I looked up just in time for him to press his lips to my lips, an open-mouthed, passionate kiss—a lover's kiss. Our tongues swirled around each other. He was breathing through his nose; I felt his hot breath on my cheek.

This is what I wanted. This is what I needed. This was the first time I'd gone to my father for sex, the first time I'd asked him for sex. I did it because I wanted to. No, I did it because I had to. I'd become an addict. I was addicted to my own Dad.

As if slapped awake from a dream, I realized father wasn't inside me. I opened my eyes in bewilderment. He was retrieving my purse and dress from the hood. He bent down, grabbed his briefcase and walked around to the other Benz, his dick sticking straight out in front of him. I craned my head to watch him toss the lot into the back of the open convertible. I reached down to rub my pussy, apologizing to it for the vacuum created by his absence.

He returned to me. I was hoping he'd start fucking me again, but instead he took my hand and helped me off the hood. He lead me to the passage side of the convertible, gallantly opened the door for me—or at least as gallantly as a man can, who's stiff cock is bobbing in the air. He directed me into the passenger seat, closed the door, and got in the other side, making no attempt to put away his dick, which now stuck out of his lap.

"So that's it? You're just going to work?" I asked, confused, hurt, and frustrated.

Father looked at me with a wicked smile, put the key into the ignition, and said, "If you want something, I won't stop you." He turned the key and engine roared to life.

I marveled at how perverted my father was. As the Benz pulled smoothly out of the garage, I reached over and grabbed his cock with my left hand and started to stroke it.

Dad reached over and patted my bare thigh as he smiled and said, "That's my girl." He left his hand there.

As we eased down the driveway, I slid down and spread my legs as far as the bucket seat would allow. Father got the message. He moved his hand over my smooth mound and dipped a finger into my wet slit as I continued to jerk him off. I looked up into the sky, watching the trees drift past.

I felt a bump of a curb as we pulled out onto our street. The "Street Where You Live" story flashed across my mind. "If only our neighbors knew," I thought to myself. "Well, maybe they would, if they'd had the forethought to get up before dawn and watch the road with a pair of binoculars."

The car gained speed. My hair floated gently in the air currants. As fun as this was, I wasn't going to get what I needed from a finger or two, and I suspect my hand wasn't enough for dad either.

I sat up in time to see our car approaching the highway access road. The light of dawn was just starting to turn the sky a warmer hue. I let go of Dad, grabbed a handle, and pulled my legs underneath me. I was now kneeling on my seat. I turned to face him and bowed forward, placing my lips around his cock. I steadied myself by grabbing the back of his seat, and began bobbing up and down.