My Father's Second Wife

I think my dad was actually impressed by that, and I was looking pretty pleased with myself.

I could tell my dad was mulling over the possibilities and I felt a seed of hope starting to grow that this could become something. But the more he thought about, the more his expression showed his doubts. After some time he turned to address me: serious, business like. He was in boss mode.

"While I applaud your enthusiasm, I see two acute impediments to this scheme," he said solemnly. "I can't simply put you in charge of entertaining our most important clients. The company's situation is already precarious. The board of directors would have my head on a platter if I waltzed in and installed my 'party hard,' college dropout, daughter as liaison." That last comment stung, and my face showed it. "Sorry, honey pot, but that's the position we're starting from."

I did notice he said "we," not "you."

He then took a very deep breath and exhaled slowly. The next topic seemed like a difficult one. He continued to stare at me, as though sizing me up, judging how I might react. The tension was starting to get to me. What's this "other impediment?"

I didn't have long to wait, as he bluntly stated "And I don't think you could handle the sex."

Sex? What sex? I was searching my mind through all of their business dinner, outings, my memories of mom, mentally cataloging all of the bimbos that have done the walk of shame out the front door. I know dad has a lot of sex, but what does that have to do with this?

"I can see you're confused," he said, taking pity on me. "Let me see if I can explain." He got up and walked over to the wet bar.

As he poured two glasses of white wine, he began. "As you know, I have a rather large sexual appetite."

"Oh, I've see the morning ass parade," I said, snickering a little.

"Much of that was for my own gratification, but some of it was interviews, of a sort" he said.

"Interviews for what?" I asked.

"For a second wife," he said in such a matter of fact way that at first I thought he might be joking. Dad handed me a wine glass, sat down next to me, and went on.

"Your mother had quite the capacity for sex. She almost managed to keep me satisfied all by herself. And now that you're older, you can appreciate what that means. Sex was a daily event. Your mother was untiring. We had regular threesomes with a few close friends, and occasionally even did a little swinging. Of course your mother knew she couldn't keep me entirely happy herself. She allowed for office trysts, and would even arrange companions for me while she, or I, was away. Oh, and she had her own undertakings. More than a few business deals were closed using your mom's 'feminine talents,' not to put too fine of a point on it."

It was the third time today that I was completely speechless. This time I didn't even try to speak. My mom was a slut? How did I not know this?

Almost as if reading my mind, dad explained, "She was very discrete. And let's face it, this is a pretty big house."

I could, at least, relate to that. I can't tell you the number of boys I screwed in various corners, nooks, and crannies without anyone hearing, or even suspecting. And I'm not the quiet type when it comes to climaxes.

He now spoke more gravely. "The situation I'm in now is intolerable. I spend a lot of my time trying to meet woman, while simultaneously trying to keep anyone from finding out. At the same time, I'm trying to drum up new business and entertain regular clients. The fact of the matter is, I'm not doing any of those things well and the business is suffering for it."

"I have sex with a lot of the office staff, and I've taken to letting a few of them come over from time to time. But that's hard to keep a lid on. The rest of the time, I'm 'interviewing' women I've met, but none of them seem to have the stamina or uninhibited zeal your mother did."

"So," I thought to myself, "that explains the 'regulars' and the 'one night stands' in the morning." I took another sip of my wine. If there was ever a time I actually needed a drink, this was it.

"So that's the real problem, honey bunch. And I'm going to be completely frank here: I need a woman to fuck, every day. One that never says 'no' to a blowjob, or eating some pussy, or letting four Japanese businessmen pull a train in their hotel room. A woman that can wear a stunning designer gown, and converse with complete composure, all while there's an anal plug nestled between the cheeks of her ass. That's the woman I need."

I stared at my dad. I didn't blink. I could tell he was trying to shock me, but I wasn't going to let him get away with it. He sat patiently, sipping his wine, waiting for this to all to sink in and for me to say something. I could tell from his expression that he didn't think anything would come of it. He'd just dropped the atomic bomb and assumed I'd wave the white flag and surrender. I was going to prove him wrong.

I swallowed hard and said "Internship," as if that explained everything. He blinked, clearly not expecting that as an answer.

"You have internships, right?" I asked. He nodded, still confused. "You don't have to pay them. They're on a trial basis. Make me an intern. You can take me for a trail run, see if I measure up, or at least have the potential to do the job, risk free."

My dad has a good poker face, but I could tell he didn't expect me to come up with a offer. It took him a moment to shift gears from expecting nothing to actually considering a proposal. He mulled it over. "That's eminently sensible," he pronounced. But the praise was short lived. "But that doesn't really address the other problem," he trailed off.

I held my ground. I gripped the glass of wine, tossed it back in a single gulp, set it down, stood up, put my hands on my hips, and tried to muster all of the courage I had in the world.

"Fuck me," I said flatly.

"What?" he blurted.

"Fuck me," I repeated. "Ya know, there's a lot of business, politics, and entertaining that I've yet to learn, but one thing I'm really good at is the beast with two backs. This is one problem I can solve for you right now."

He bellowed, "You're my daughter!" His voice filled the room.

"So what?" I said. He just stared at me, his brow furrowed.

"Let me see if can get this straight," I said, a little sarcastically. "You and mom were fucking other girls, banging fat business men for contracts, wife swapping, and giving each other whores as travel gifts. Did I miss anything? You tell me that's all cool, but you're going to draw the line at incest—seriously?"

My dad was speechless for the second time today. That had to be a record.

After a pause, I went on, in a normal tone this time. "It's not like we're a regular father and daughter. Hell, we barely know each other. I certainly didn't know any of this shit was going on. But I am your daughter, and that means I'm the product of two of the most oversexed individuals on the planet. So by my calculation, I'm genetically disposed to do this better than anyone you know. And, I have no plans on getting pregnant." I wagged my finger at him.

He stared at me for a long time. Then he started to do what all horny men do: check me out. I could see his eyes traveling up and down, mentally undressing me.

"An internship?" he mused out loud. I nodded. "A trial run just to see how things work out?"

A rhetorical question, but I felt compelled to answer it anyway. "Yes," I said.

I could tell he was ruminating on the possibilities, the problems, the risks, working out a schedule, making estimates. It's just how his mind works.

After what seemed like an eternity, he said "One month. We take this a step at a time. If at any point you're uncomfortable, or I don't think it's going to work out, the whole thing is off. Agreed?"

Butterflies were dancing in my stomach. This was very likely the craziest thing I'd ever done. But I wanted to prove to my dad—prove to myself—that I could accomplish something, and oddly this is something I think I could actually do.

"Agreed," I said.

Dad leaned back in his chair, seeming to relax a bit, and took another sip of his wine.

"Strip," he said, like he was placing a drink order.

I was taken back a little. "You mean, take my clothes off?" I asked, as if there was some ambiguity in his statement.

"Yes," he said casually. "You made it clear that you understood the sexual component of this arrangement. I want to see what I'm getting." He was calling my bluff.

I swallowed hard. This was the moment of truth. Up until now it had been all talk. Now I had to deliver.

My arms felt like lead weights as I reached behind my back to untied my halter-top. After undoing the knot, I held the ends and slowly drew them forward and up, pulling the top over my head and off. I let it fall to the floor. I was now topless in front of my dad.

For some reason, I stopped, as if showing him my tits was going to satisfy his command. It wasn't.

"I'm waiting," he said, patiently.

I bent down and unzipped one boot and then the other. I pulled my boots off and tossed them aside. Next the came the button and zipper of my jeans. The zipper kept getting stuck because my hands were shaking. "Why?" I wondered. I'd shimmied out of my jeans for countless guys and I wasn't nervous.

After pulling off the legs and adding my jeans to the growing pile next to me, I was down to my white thong. "Don't freeze up now," I thought to myself.

Facing my dad again, I hooked my thumbs under the waistband and pushed them down to my ankles. Standing back up, I lifted my left foot out of the thong and used my right foot to kick it away. It landed between two theater chairs.

So there I was: stark naked, standing three feet in front of my father, who was checking out my body in a decidedly un-father-like way.

"Your tits are truly exquisite," was his complement. I swelled a little with pride. This, appropriately, caused me to arch my back and thrust out my perky breasts a little more.

"Turn around, slowly," he said.

I started to do a slow motion turn, arms at my side, like a showroom car on a turn table. The jazz provided a soundtrack. Most of the light was coming from the hall, so I was rather artistically lit from one side. My nipples made long shadows as I began to turn. Then my hipbones and pubic mound came into profile, followed by my ass cheeks and back. Not a word was spoken.

When I was facing him again, he sat down his wine glass and got up. As he approached me, he put out his right hand and placed it on my right hipbone. He held it there while he stepped around and stood behind me. I could feel the fabric of he slacks brush against my bare ass. He brought his left hand around and gently cradled my left breast. He lifted it slightly, as if testing its weight.

Now his right hand began sliding towards my pussy. He whispered, "Spread you legs." I lifted my right leg and moved it out to allow him access to my privates.

His fingers combed through my pubic hair. His middle finger began to probe, a trained digit with years of experience, zeroing in on its target. It slipped between the lips of my labia. Oh God, I was wet! His hand worked slowly lower, his middle finger began tunneling into my vagina. First, just the fingertip, then the first knuckle, then the second knuckle, out a little, and back in again.

The unreality of the scene was starting to sink in. I was naked, and my father was slowly finger fucking me.

I almost jerked when he whispered, "Do you want to continue?" in my ear.

"Yes" was my breathy reply.

Without another word, his finger slowly began to extract itself. His hand returned to my pubic mound, where he caught a few hairs between his fingers and gave them a brief tug.

"This has to go" he said. "Shave this completely before tomorrow."

He removed both hands, stepped away and said, "Give this some thought. I'll send instructions to your room later. If you still want this, I'll see you tomorrow morning. If not, I'll understand."

He turned and left the room.

The room that seemed to crackle with tension just moments ago was suddenly the emptiest room I've ever been in. As if to escape, I ran naked back to my bedroom.

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I sat on my bed thinking, "This is crazy. This is just too fucking crazy!"

My heart was racing. I still had the shakes. And I was horny! I spread my legs and easily slipped two fingers into my soaking pussy. Oh my God, was I horny. I leaned back, propping myself up with my other elbow, and started pumping my fingers in and out of my snatch. I couldn't believe how excited I was. I could feel I was already on the plateau of an orgasm. This would not take long.

I don't normally supply my own stimulus. I prefer to rely on self-propelled boy meat to get me off. But sometimes I have to take matters into my own hands, or hand, such as when said boy finishes early and passes out, leaving me cranked up and unsatisfied. I swear, if boys can't finish they just shouldn't start.

I picked up the pace a little and started to raise my hips off the bed. Yes, yes, I was getting closer. I could feel it building, that tightness between my legs right before it blows.

"Awwww fuck!" I cried out as I came. Warm waves washed over my body. I bucked my hips upward, like I was trying to fuck some invisible cock suspended in mid-air. After a few moments my breathing started to return to normal. I kept sliding my fingers in and out, much slower now, trying to cling to the intense feeling for as long as I could.

I finally collapsed back onto the bed, sinking into the comforter. My entire body was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, my breasts rising and lowering as my breathing returned to normal. I idly rolled my thumb and finger together, feeling my cunt juice.

I really needed a shower now. "No," I said as I remembered my promise. "It's going to have to be a bath. It's time to say goodbye to Miss Muff here" as I patted my damp pussy hair.

At least I knew what to do. I'd never shaved my muff before, but I could thank Kate for knowing how it's done. Kate always kept her pussy perfectly smooth. Kate also wasn't shy with her charms. Back at college, I can't count the number of times I walked into the bathroom to see Kate sitting on the side of the tub, legs spread as wide as they'd go, casually shaving her perpetually public privates.

Kate was never the least bit embarrassed. In fact, she'd start conversions. "Hey, you're back. What do you think of the new pub that opened on Elm last week?" she'd say, while lathering up her crotch. "I hear they serve hot dogs with rude names! We should get some dates and compare lengths!" She'd start laughing while expertly stroking the razor across her most sensitive parts. How she kept from cutting herself, I'll never know.

What I did learn from these little sessions was that the first step in flawless pussy shaving was warm water. Start was with a warm bath. You have to get all of those "short hairs" nice and soft.

After soaking in the tub for fifteen minutes, I'd manage to recover from my previous orgasm and was ready to move to phase two. I laid a towel on the dressing stool, grabbed a razor and some shaving cream, and started lathering up my bush.

The top part was easy. A few dozen strokes and my familiar triangle of forest was now a bare prairie. Now came the tricky part. I'd seen Kate do this a million times, so I just tried to emulate her. Legs spread as wide as she could, she'd start by stroking out from the base of her pussy lips towards her leg. She's use lots of short strokes, working from her front around to her rear.

Next came the lips. I held them taught with one hand and stroked gingerly up from the base with the razor. Not as easy as I thought it would be. Kate's lips are small and firm, like her tits. When she stood straight, her vagina didn't look like much more than a coin slot. My lips were a lot bigger and puffier. I can get some great "camel toe" going with the right pants.

It was no matter. Another ten minutes and I looked like a billiard ball. I rinsed off the remaining shaving cream and grabbed some moisturizer. It felt good. Why hadn't I tried this before? I was silky and sensitive. My pussy felt more alive to the touch. And just to think, it took my dad to tell me to do it!

I finished drying off and walked back to my room, still naked. I was starting to get used to doing that. I was surprised to find my bed had been turned down. On my pillow was a note and my pair of black, patent leather, Louboutin high heels. The style was simple, solid, and dramatic. I picked up the note. It read "Breakfast table, 6:00 AM. Wear these. D.G."

I notice it was signed "DG:" Donald Grant. The note wasn't signed "dad," it was signed "boss." I was clearly working towards becoming an employee. Maybe someday that would turn into more. I was not on a trajectory to become his daughter again.

I interrupted my own reverie by blurting out "Jesus H. Christ, I'm starved." I suddenly realized that I hadn't eaten anything since this morning. I threw on an oversized t-shirt and scampered downstairs to the kitchen. Once again the unseen hand of Kwan had been at work. The refrigerator was stocked with a selection of cold sandwiches. I grabbed one, along with a beer, and headed back to bed.

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The incessant "beep, beep, beep" of the alarm shattered my sleep at exactly 5:40 AM. I was about to slap the snooze button, when I caught myself. This wasn't just any morning. I had to get up, and get up now, or I wouldn't be living in this house much longer. Without any sense of irony, I said, "So this is what having a job is like."

I sat up and turned off the alarm. I'd slept naked. I don't know why, it just seemed the thing to do. I haven't slept naked in a long time. I started doing it when I was sixteen, just to shock mom. It didn't work, of course, and in retrospect I see what a naive attempt that was.

The cool morning air brought my nipples to attention. I looked down and addressed them. "Well, at least you two are up. Now, what to wear?"

The shoes, obviously, but what else? I wanted it to be something simple, yet sexy. Some tantalizing bit of lingerie would be perfect. I didn't, however, have much of what you'd consider "lingerie." I had sexy clothes and I had sexy underwear. I dressed to impress and then I got laid. Sometimes the dress came off, sometimes it didn't, but there wasn't any prancing about in frilly nothings in between.

Wait, I did have something! I sprang out of bed and attacked the bottom drawer of my dresser. I got a gift card to Victoria Secrets one year and bought a whole bunch of stuff I never wore. "Ah ha!" I yelled in triumph. I held in my hand a sheer, blue-green, teddy with matching G-string panties. It was perfect.

I slipped the teddy on and took a look in the mirror. It was very sheer. I might as well been wearing nothing at all. Everything between the lace trim of the neckline and the lace trim on the hem was clearly visible.

I stepped into the panties, also sheer, and pulled them up to my waist, bending a little to let the G-string nestle itself between my ass cheeks. I adjusted it a little. Why did it feel so weird? I wear G-strings all the time, and I don't remember any feeling like this. Then I remembered I was shaved. Things were more sensitive down there now. I began to appreciate Kate's habit of "forgetting" her panties all the time.

Ten minutes of evening makeup, some barrettes to keep my hair back, and I was clip-clopping my way to the breakfast table, the lacquer of my shoes on the hardwood floor echoing like rifle shots through the house, the hem of the teddy swirling around my thighs. Any male who wouldn't want to tap this was either dead or gay—or both.

Worried I'd be late, I'd picked up the pace as I neared the breakfast area. When I got there I was alone. But almost as soon as the ridiculously loud echoes of my shoes had died down, I heard the familiar sound of dad's leather shoes coming from the other direction. I waited nervously for his arrival.