My Father's Second Wife Ch. 03

I felt the car accelerate, the sound of the wind became a howl. We must be pulling onto the freeway. I tried to match the speed of the car with my mouth. I couldn't see anything except my father's pants.

For a long time I didn't hear anything but the sound of the road. Crisp morning air whipped around my upturned ass and between my legs. There weren't many people on the highway at this hour. Gradually, the roar of big tires on pavement gave way to the rumble of a diesel engine. We must be passing a truck.

My suspicions were confirmed by two air horn blasts, one short and one long, a trucker's salute. We were quite a sight, my bare ass sticking up, mooning everyone passing, a bowl of curly blond hair, undulating wildly in the wind, bobbing up and down in my dad's lap. There was no question as what was happening here, and the trucker declared his approval, and envy, to anyone within earshot.

The Benz easily outpaced the truck and we resumed our solitary journey. I sat up and kissed my dad on the cheek, spit and pre-cum covering on my lips. Father reached up and stroked my breast with his free hand.

I dove back into his lap. Father's hand slid down my back. He threaded a finger between my ass cheeks, pushed down through my gash, and found my clit. My thighs tensed up as if he'd applied an electric charge.

The car decelerated. I had to hold onto his seat back to keep from falling forward. My father, ever the gentleman, gripped my ass with his hand—somehow managing to slip two fingers inside me at the same time—and prevented my hips from falling off. We came to a stop and started again. I let his cock slip from my lips and started to jerk his cock with my right hand, while his fingers glided in and out me.

Father cautiously navigated the back streets to the office. It was still well before sunrise, but there was certainly enough light that anyone looking would have seen a naked girl, her hair flying, her firm breasts proudly sporting rock hard nipples, obsessed with something in the driver's lap. Oh, what could it possibly be? Surely, a dozen people had to ponder that riddle this morning.

I knew I should have been freezing to death, but I was so worked up I felt hot. It was like skiing; you think it's going to be so cold, but after a few runs you're peeling everything off. (Note to self: try skiing naked on our next trip.)

My dad was getting a good handjob, but what I really wanted was a fuck. I sat up, grabbed the top of the windshield, my face blasted by the air, and tried to get a leg over my dad's lap, thinking that I could straddle him while he drove.

Dad blocked my maneuver with his arm. "Whoa there, honey snap, I know you're eager, but that's a little too dangerous" he said. "Sit back down for just a minute."

Uttering an explicative, that was fortunately lost in the wind, I slammed my butt into my seat in frustration. I lifted my hips and finger fucked myself as we approached the automatic garage gate. A wave of my dad's watch opened it. (So that's where his access chip is!) We drove into the nearly empty parking structure, past a second security gate, and into the executive area.

Dad parked and turned off the engine. He opened the door, looked at me, and simply said, "Come on."

I withdrew my fingers, scrambled out of my seat, and ran around to his side. Dad embraced my naked body in a hug that would make a bear jealous. I felt his cock, between my legs, pressing into my sensitive pussy.

He broke the embrace, turned me to my left, and leaned me over the driver side windshield. He then lifted my left leg and draped it across the hood, cocking my hips up and spreading me wide open.

My leg felt the heat from the engine, but it was nothing compared to the heat that came from behind and drove straight into my belly, my right hip bumping the rearview mirror.

I was already on the edge. Streaking naked across the yard, icy metal on my back, father's surprise, his cock pushing at the back of my throat, leather on my bare ass, my hair whipping around my face, his cock in my hand, truckers cheering me on, my nipples aching from the cold air, and—most importantly—the big head of dad's cock plowing deep inside me, all came together in a shattering orgasm.

My legs shook and my ass spasmed. I could feel my vagina squeezing his meat, trying to keep him inside. I pressed my palms and face against the glass, hugging the car, trying to keep from sliding onto the ground.

These events apparently had a similar affect on Dad; he exploded inside me. He leaned forward, one hand on the hood, driving himself even deeper into me.

Dad was slowing down now, but was not stopping. He would pull back, pause, and then shove in again, pinning my hips against the car, taunting my climax to hang on a little longer. I could feel fluid trickling down my right thigh.

After we both caught our breath, he finally pulled out. I gingerly lifted my leg off the fender and was surprised to find I could stand.

I still had my back to him, when he said, "Would you mind? There are wipes in the glove compartment."

Understanding, I walked bowlegged around to the passenger side, opened the glove compartment, and returned with a package of travel wipes. Father leaned against the side of the car. I squatted down in front of him, not wanting to kneel on the concrete, and took his cock in my mouth.

I licked and sucked his cock as clean as I could. I marveled at this odd little ritual. It didn't seem to matter where, or who, or how my father fucked, the act always ended with a girl sucking his cock clean and putting it away for next time. I was happy to be that girl.

As I finished licking my own juices from his balls, I tore open a packet and finished the job with modern chemicals. I gently blew on his cock, tenderly tucked it back into his pants, zipped up his fly, and patted my softened friend through the fabric as if to say, "Good job."

I looked up into dad's eyes. I was too exhausted to stand. He smiled down and said, "Honey, you can carpool with me any morning you want."

Father reached around, grabbed his briefcase, leaned over, gave me a peck on the cheek, and headed towards the garage exit. I rested on my heels for a minute, admiring the abstract artwork that my sweat, cum, and body parts had created on his car: big smears here, a drip of something there, streaks down the middle—an abstract portrait of passion and lust.

I stood up and used a couple of the wipes to clean myself as best as I could. I retrieved my dress and managed to get it over my hips just as another car entered the garage. I zipped the dress up, tugged it straight, found my purse under the seat, and followed my father to work.

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When I stepped into Margo's office, she looked at me with shock and dismay, asking, "What on earth happened to you?"

I hadn't looked in a mirror, but I imagined my hair looked like something out of a horror movie. I sheepishly said, "My dad will need his car washed."

Margo rolled her eyes.

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I stared at the take-out menu. I was supposed to be calling an order into the Soup & Sandwich place across the street. Father decided to eat in, which would give us an opportunity to discuss the Russians. Dad wanted the grilled vegetable panini, Margo the chef salad, and I could pick whatever I wanted.

I couldn't, however, concentrate on the menu, as I was distracted by an unfolding office drama. Brooke had just waltzed into the executive offices, snuck up behind Brian, grabbed him by the shoulders, and said, in an unnecessarily loud and excessively friendly voice, "Hey there, Brian."

Brian, startled, turned around to see who it was. He cracked a smile, clearly trying to look casual, but couldn't hide his awkwardness. "Oh, hello Brooke. We missed you last night. I hope you had a good time."

"You missed me? You missed me?" Brooke asked, leaning over Brian's shoulder, with a touch of malice in her voice. "How did you miss me Brian?" she said, reaching into his open briefcase and grabbing a set of car keys.

Brian tried to stop her, but Brooke was too fast. Brook ran to the West wall, which was floor to ceiling windows, and hopped up onto a low table, with Brian in hot pursuit.

Brooke held the keys above her head, well out of reach, tinkling them like a little bell, taunting Brian. Brian tried to regain his composure. Putting his hands behind his back, he steadily asked, "Brooke, may I please have my keys back?"

The sky behind Brooke was grey and getting darker. There was a storm on its way. Brooke's bright yellow sundress looked even brighter, framed by this field of gloom.

"How did you miss me?" Brooke asked again, ignoring his request. "Did you miss as in, 'We looked everywhere for you but just kept missing you,' missed me, or was it more like 'Gee, I sure miss Brooke, this would be so much more fun with her here,' miss me?"

Brian, resigning himself to the interrogation, said, "We thought you'd hooked up with someone."

Brooke's jaw dropped so far I could see her tonsils. A small crowd of gawkers had formed around the two.

Brooke recovered from here shock and said, sarcastically, "So, I'm gone for twenty minutes and you just assumed I hooked up with the drummer and we flew to Canada?" She lowered her arm, hiding the keys behind her back.

Brian shrugged his shoulders in agreement, like he was thinking, "Sure, that's a plausible explanation."

The expression on Brooke's face was pure rage. The clouds behind her mirrored her mood, or maybe she was summoning them.

Somehow Brooke managed to keep her voice steady, and said, "Here's how I remember it, Brian. I told you and my sister that I was going to go listen to the band. I listened to a few songs, and then came back to the table. But you weren't there, Brian. You'd left with my sister. You left with my sister and then drove back to my apartment." She stabbed a finger at herself to emphasize "my apartment," her voice rising in intensity with each sentence.

"You went into my apartment, got onto my bed, and fucked my sister," she said, now yelling.

A murmur of hushed comments and snickers rolled through the crowd.

Brian tried to save face, saying, "If you needed a ride, we figured you'd call."

"My sister had my cell phone!" Brooke spat.

Brian managed to look dismayed at this fact. Brooke jumped off of the table and was now standing right in front of Brian, his keys still behind her back. They stared at each other for a minute.

"So, is there anything you'd like to apologize for?" Brooke asked, pointedly.

Brian, clearly missing the point, said, "I'm so sorry we took your cell phone. I had no idea you didn't have it, or we really would have tried harder to find you."

Brooke waited. Brian tried to look contrite, but offered no additional apologies. In my head I was coaching Brian, thinking, "Apologize for banging her sis, you moron!" Brian couldn't hear my mental advice, and remained silent.

Suddenly changing modes, like someone had flipped a switch, Brooke transformed into her sweet, tender, self again. She held Brian's keys in front of her, lightly holding them between two fingers, and said, "No hard feelings?"

The idiot, Brian, must have believed this was a win. He held out his hand and Brooke dropped the keys into it. Brian smiled and said, "No hard feelings," as if he was the injured party, having had his keys stolen and all.

Brooke turned and strolled away with an oddly satisfied smile. Brian turned and added, "Hey, some of us are getting together at Ambrosia tonight, want to come? I'll drive."

"Sure, that sounds like fun. I'll see if my sister can make it," she shot over her shoulder, in a happy voice.

The crowd began to disperse, and I went to back to placing the lunch order, convinced that something really strange just happened.

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As I signed for the lunch delivery, I attempted to out "bored now" the emo delivery girl who brought up our lunch order. I lost. I should have known I'd lose; I couldn't compete with the black goth-rocker T-shirt, black leather pants, black high-tops, black hair, and heavy black eye shadow. She took the signed delivery order and handed me the bag of food with all the enthusiasm of a deceased sloth.

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Dad and Margo were deep in thought as I maneuvered the oversized delivery bag through the massive parquet doors of my father's office. I unpacked everyone's lunch and arranged them on a table in the sitting area. Still pensive, they drifted over, sat down, and we all began eating.

"So, what's up," I said, trying to break the silence.

Father finished a bite of his sandwich and said, "We're trying to decide on a venue for the final meeting with the Russians on Friday. Unlike last night, this time we get to pick the location, so it needs to be—how shall I put this—'conducive to our purposes.'"

He took another bite before he went on, "You've seen what stimulus the Russians respond to." Dad put air-quotes around the word "stimulus." He continued, saying, "We want to create an environment that's sufficiently lascivious that they get excited about signing their contract. The problem is that the obvious choices, like a strip club or hotel suite, either don't give us enough control over the situation or are just too seedy to be productive. We want something that's sexy, classy, and very much on our turf."

I swallowed and said, casually, "Oh, that's easy."

Margo and Dad looked at me with surprise and questioning expression that said, "And that would be?"

"Beach party," I said brightly. "If you want a legitimate excuse to get nearly naked around boys, you throw a beach party. Everyone is wearing bikinis, speedos, or less. It's outdoors. There's music, beer, food, and plenty of opportunities to slip away and go skinny dipping."

Margo and father exchanged looks that told me they were impressed. Margo said, "We should keep this one," with one of her wry grins.

Father concurred, saying, "Yep, she's a keeper."

I looked back and forth between them. They were exchanging looks like they knew what the other was thinking, and were silently agreeing.

After a few seconds, I asked, "So you're going to throw a beach party?"

"Not exactly," father said, coyly, trailing off. "But we like the general idea."

Margo filled the silence, saying, "We need something better than a beach."

Not getting any further, I turned back to father and demanded, "So, are you going to tell me what you're planning?"

Father thought about it for a second and then said, "I don't want to spoil the surprise. You made a great suggestion, Char, and I'd like you to see how it turns out on Friday. In the mean time, Margo and I have a lot of work to do." Addressing Margo, he said, "Margo, can you get started on this?"

Margo said, "I'll see what's available after lunch."

Pleased, father turned back to me and said, "I would like you to see the Middleton group again. We're having an early dinner with them, and I want you to be there for the cocktail hour. It's probably going to be around 4:30."

Nodding enthusiastically, I said, "Absolutely. I can be there, and I swear I'll be discreet."

Father said nothing, but got a really bemused look on his face.

"What?" I demanded. "I'm discreet!"

Father shook his head and said, "I'm sure you can be. My hope is that you will be."

Father leaned back with a twinkle in his eye and said, "I also hope no one has any reason to review the security cams in the parking garage from this morning, because they'd see a substantially underdressed young lady, with her hand between her legs." He paused for dramatic effect and asked, rhetorically, "What's the phrase? Washing her fingers?"

I thought, "Fuck, I didn't think about cameras," but said nothing.

Now it was Margo's turn to stare at me in disbelief. My face must have been beet red, but she had the grace not to comment on it.

Instead, she returned her empty salad box to the bag and excused herself.

Father and I finished our sandwiches in silence. As I was cleaning up, I hesitantly said, "Dad, can I ask you a favor?"

Father said, "You can ask me anything, Char."

"Well, a few of the staff are getting together later for drinks, and I wanted to know if I could have permission to go?" I said in one breath.

Instead of answering me, father walked straight over and hugged me.

Then he said, "You can meet whatever friends you want, whenever you want, Char. When did you think you needed my permission?"

"I don't know," I said, honestly. "I just didn't want to cheat on you, or go out partying behind your back. I don't know what this 'thing' is that we have. I mean, am I your girlfriend, 'cause this is the longest monogamous relationship I've ever had!"

Father kissed me on the top of my head, and sad, "Char, don't bother labeling it. I love you, and I hope you love me. Beyond that, you're an attractive, probably oversexed, young woman who should be out living life. I don't want you to give up having fun just because you've got a job, or a serious relationship, or whatever this is."

Father picked up the remains of our lunch and dropped them into a trashcan hidden behind his desk.

He said, "When we started this, I entertained a brief fantasy of you replacing your mother, but I soon realized that that was selfish. You're not my wife, or fiancée, or concubine. I don't own you. While I wouldn't trade our time together for anything, you have your whole life ahead of you. I expect you to meet people, go to parties, and travel. Maybe you'll meet a handsome young man; you might get married, you might not. One day you could have a daughter as cute and precocious as you are, God help you."

I couldn't stop myself from running to my father and throwing myself in his arms. I held onto him, burying my face in his shoulder, and started to cry. Through the sobs I managed to squeak out, "I love you." I did love him. I don't think I've ever loved anyone as much as I loved my father at this moment.

My father said, "I love you too." He held me until I stopped crying.

When he finally let me go, I stepped back, wiped the tears from my eyes and asked, "So, can I borrow your car?"

Father roared with laughter.

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I was determined to make a good impression with the Middleton group. Phase one of my plan was a new dress. I wandered the mall, going through every store I imagined "good girls" would shop at.

It was a pale pink corset dress—basically, a skirt sewn to a corset. It had a sheer yolk, with a high neckline and pouf sleeves. The skirt was less sheer, but still translucent, ending just above my knees. It was probably best worn with pantyhose or tights, but I had a different plan.

The corset style was traditional, lacing up the back. I paid for the dress and talked a chatty sales girl into helping me into to it. We went into a dressing room. I pulled off my work clothes and shimmied into the corset. The girl, who'd been talking a mile a minute until this point, abruptly stopped talking when she saw I wasn't wearing anything underneath.

As the girl was threading the corset strings, she finally asked, "You don't like panties?"

As the corset constricted, I was mostly worried about my ability to breath. I managed to say, "I don't mind them, but my father doesn't approve."

That shut her up, permanently. It was cruel, I know, but I just wanted to see if I could make her head explode.

The girl finished tying the laces and then stood there, still mute, while I collected my dress and left the store. I would have laughed, but air was now a precious commodity. "Holy shit," I thought to myself, "how did women wear these things every day?"

I went into the nearest department store. I found a pair of pink pumps that matched the dress, some super boring beige lipstick, and the simplest, whitest, pair of "granny panties" I could find in my size.