My Father's Second Wife

I didn't wait long. He finished his conversation and strolled over to the couch, leaned over, and kissed my on the cheek; a perfectly respectable father-daughter greeting, without any nudity or cocksucking.

"Hey, I'm starved," he said, rubbing his hands together.

I started to unpack the basket. There were two plates, little bundles of silverware, two wine glasses, a tiny bottle of Chianti, a wine opener, an insulated box containing Pasta Primavera, and some freshly baked bread wrapped in tin foil.

We set up and started eating.

"Wow, two substantial meals in one day," I though. I might start to get fat.

My dad had other business on his mind.

"I don't want to advertise that you're my daughter or that we have any intimate relationship," he started. I looked hurt.

To clarify, he said "I'm not embarrassed that you're my daughter, honey bear, but things will work smoother if people don't know you are related to me—nepotism, and all that. I'll address you as 'Charlotte,' and you'll address me as 'Mr. Grant.' You are here for the intern's position. I'm not going to lie, and not I'm asking you to lie, or pretend you're someone else. Should someone recognize you as my daughter, or connect our last name, that's fine. It's no big deal. But if you don't introduce yourself as my daughter, most people will simply assume you're a colleague. So no more 'lover boy' when answering the phone."

He tilted his head forward and looked up at me to make sure I got the message. I rolled my eyes, but said "OK."

We then chatted about this and that. Which was weird, because casual quality time with my dad was something I'd never done.

After the meal, he stood up and took my hands, stood me up, and looked me over.

"That dress suites you very well, by the way," he observed.

He led me around to where he usually sat. He pushed his high back chair aside and turned me by my shoulders until I had my back to his desk, facing the window. He then moved in close, as if he was going to give me hug. Instead, grabbed me by the back of my thighs, and lifted me onto the desk. I was now perched on the edge.

He put his hands under my armpits, and leaned me back until I was resting on my elbows. At this point I was wondering what the hell was going on.

He took my knees in each hand and pushed them apart. He then picked up the hem of my dress and started to roll it up. In a few moments, my wide-open pussy was on grand display, like a rare jewel showcased in a nest of black fabric. I looked out the window, wondering if anyone from the adjacent office building could see in.

He looked right at me and said "Char, I'm going to fuck you now."

I didn't know exactly how to respond to that.

"This is going to change things. Even if you don't pursue this intern position, or job, or career, or whatever it turns into, what's about to happen will change things between us. It can't be undone. You have to be absolutely sure you want this."

I did.

I didn't need to think about. At that moment, I absolutely wanted this more than anything in the world. I nodded my head in solemn agreement.

"Say it," he said.

"I want this," I said, clearly enunciating each word. "I want you to fuck me."

My dad unzipped his pants and took out his cock. He stroked it with one hand, all the while staring into my eyes. The air conditioner blew gently across my pussy, which began to quiver in anticipation. I've had a lot of dicks part my velvety folds, but this was different. This was special. This was a first.

And just as my life was about to change, the universe had to get one more joke in at my expense. The door to my dad's office opened and someone came in.

"Mr. Grant, you have the European status meeting in 30 minutes." The voice was female, cool, and collected. And for the second time today, my dad went on with his business as though nothing was out of the ordinary.

"I'll be ready," he said. "This is Charlotte. She's applying for the intern position," my dad said, as though that would explain why I had my skirt hiked up and he was stroking his cock.

The girl giggled, recovered her composure, and said, politely, "Pleased to meet you Charlotte, I'm Margo."

My dad did not ignore the giggle. "Is there something funny, Margo?" he asked. As though the situation wasn't ridiculous enough.

"Oh, just an office joke, Sir" she replied. There was a pause. "About the intern position," she elaborated.

"Which is?" my father prompted.

"The intern 'position' is bent over a desk with a cock in her," Margo recited.

Dad laughed at that. He looked at me with a mischievous smile, and said, "Well, we shouldn't disappoint the rest of the office, should we?" I had no idea what he meant.

He then took my hands and pulled me up and off the desk. My dress fell back into place. He turned me around by the waist and pushed gently, but insistently, between my shoulder blades. I leaned forward until I was, once again, resting on my elbows; this time facing the door.

I could now observe the girl connected to the voice. She was pretty, about my height. She had straight dark brown hair, styled with a little wave on one side, dark brown eyes, and one of those really round faces. Her bosom and hips were round too. You could have drawn her using only circles.

My dad spoke again. "We have a tight knit family here, Charlotte. This business is successful because everyone does his or her part, no matter what needs to be done. For example, if I asked Margo here to drop all of her plans for the weekend and work on an important proposal, what would you say, Margo?"

"I'd start a fresh pot of coffee and get to work," Margo replied enthusiastically.

She was wearing low heels and a grey pencil skirt that came almost to her knees. No pantyhose. She had on a matching suit jacket over a shiny lime green blouse that was almost completely covered by the jacket and the folder of papers she was clutching to her breast.

"And if we were entertaining some influential clients who were craving some female companionship, could you do something about that Margo?"

Margo replied, "I'd be happy to make whatever arrangements you thought appropriate, Sir."

Great, my dad's secretary doubles as a pimp.

"And if I asked you to take off you panties, right here in the office, what would you say, Margo?" my dad asked as he began to lift the hem of my skirt over my ass.

"I'd say that I couldn't possibly do that, Sir," Margo replied, with a mock expression of seriousness.

He lowered the dress across my back. With his foot, he gently nudged my feet apart. My cheeks separated slightly. I felt the air drift between my legs and around my ass. I could tell that my entire backside was completely exposed, the folds of my pussy peeking out between my legs.

"And why not?" my dad asked, in a sort of singsong voice. I could tell they were playing some game.

I noticed Margo intently staring at something on the desk. I glanced down to see that my tits were on display too. Leaning forward on the desk, the top of the dress had fallen almost completely away.

"Company policy, Sir" was Margo's mock reply.

My dad placed his cock in the crack of my ass and started to rub it up and down.

"And what policy is that?" my father demanded.

"The company dress code," Margo said. "It states that your personal staff is not allowed to wear panties at work." Margo was having great fun at this little game of play acting.

The depravity of this establishment was starting to reveal itself.

"And would you mind showing Charlotte how you've complied with the company dress code?" my dad asked.

"Of course not," Margo replied as she tossed the file folder on the ground. She place her hands flat against the sides of her thighs and started to slide her skirt up.

At the same time, my father had now positioned the head of his cock at my entrance, and was slowing pushing his way in.

Margo continued to lift her skirt, higher and higher. When it was an inch below her crotch, she grabbed the hem and continued pulling it up.

Meanwhile, my pussy was being asked to spread wider than it ever had. My dad evidently had practice doing this. He pushed just enough to coax me wider, but not hurt me, and then eased up, but without losing ground. Slowly, he was ratcheting that monster helmet of his into my tiny canal.

Margo was now standing directly in front of me, naked from the waist down. She was completely shaved. No surprise there.

And finally, it happened. The head of dad's cock slipped into my opening, the rest of his shift plunging down towards my womb. It was like my hymen breaking all over again. He left it buried to the hilt for a moment.

He then took one, slow, tentative stroke. He pulled almost out, and then pushed all the way back in again. I'd never felt fuller.

He left it there and addressed Margo. "Is there anything else?" he asked.

Margo paused. "I was hoping to watch?" she said, forming it as a question.

My dad dismissed her, saying "Maybe some other time."

Margo walked over to the folder she'd dropped on the floor and made a point of bending over at the waist to pick it up, giving dad and me an unfettered view of her charms. She stood up and began wriggling her hips while tugging her skirt back down into place. Once redressed, she slipped quietly from the room.

My dad had already started again. He pumped steadily in and out, his strokes getting a little longer, and faster, as I became more lubricated.

His hands started to roam. Originally at my hips, he started to gently pet my back. He reached around and cupped my breasts through the fabric.

As the force increased, I threw my head back and grabbed the front edge of the desk. The head of his cock would drag me backwards when he pulled out, and then slam me forward again. I had to cling to the desk to keep from either getting pulled off of it, or have my thighs smashed into it. It was like being fucked with a plunger.

All I could hear was the rustling of fabric and my own ragged breathing. My breasts and the the bodice of the dress had become a single swirling, bouncing, undulating mass.

He suddenly pulled out, lifted me up, spun me around, hoisted me back onto the desk and pushed me back; exactly the position he had me in originally.

I grabbed the hem of my dress and pulled it up to my chest. His cock was back in me before the fabric settled. It was intense, but not hurried. We continued, not saying a word, for several minutes. I'd already had one small orgasm and was headed towards a bigger one.

Just as I was starting to build, I could feel him cum inside me, his smooth rhythm faltering for a moment. He resumed, his cum now oozing around the edges of my opening.

He began to slow down. I screamed "No, don't stop. Please don't stop!"

Like someone had stomped on the gas pedal, he immediately went into high gear, furiously pumping my box. His cum created lubricant, which reduced the friction I was hoping would send me over the top, but the added speed was doing the trick.

I emitted an unintelligible, ululating, cry as I came. My head was thrown back; the room was upside down. I locked my legs around my dad, holding him in. I couldn't let him move, the sensation was too intense.

After awhile, my thighs relaxed their vice grip around his waist and I let him extract himself. I fell back onto the desk, panting.

Dad pressed a button on his desk and then said to me "Now I need you to clean this up."

I propped myself up again and gave him a look that communicated that I was completely mystified by the request.

"Come on, hop off," he said while extending his hands to help me off the desk and onto my feet again.

"On your knees," was his next instruction. I was beginning to get the picture.

I knelt down and took his, now slightly supple, meat into my mouth. I slurped and licked up and down the shaft. I was a cat, cleaning off as much cum and pussy juice as I could.

The button was apparently connected to Margo, because she reappeared next to the desk. She sat down two small wooden trays, both holding warm finger towels. As I looked up, she handed one to my father. He took it and motioned that I was done. He finished the last bit of cleaning with the towel, and returned his dick to his pants.

"That's for you," he said, nodding towards the second towel. "Also, the panel next to the bookshelf retracts. There's a full bath in there, if you need to clean up."

He bent down and kissed my forehead. With that, he and Margo began walking towards the door. Still on my knees, I twisted around to watch them leave.

"I'll see you tonight," he said as they disappeared through the doorway.

I slowly stood up. I could feel his cum trickling down my legs. I picked up the towel, lifted my dress and started wiping up what I could.

After a minute, I was relatively clean again. I found the hidden panel and went into his private washroom. I turned and looked in the mirror to find a wet spot on the back of my dress the size of Alaska.

"Next time, let's just stick to doggy style," I told my absent father.

I took the dress off and found a blow dryer. The picture of me standing naked in my father's office, patiently blow-drying fuck juice out of a dress, like a porn version of June Cleaver, was not lost on me.

After ten minutes, it was hardly noticeable. A little more cum had leaked out, so I dabbed that up before putting the dress back on. The fabric in the back was warm against my ass.

There was no sign of my dad or Margo as I left. The Amazon at the elevator waved goodbye as the doors closed.

I drove the long way home. I opened the sunroof, relishing the late spring air. The sun felt good on my face.

----------

The rest of the afternoon drifted by. I laid down a little, took a swim, checked e-mail, sent a few tweets—the usual.

It was well past sunset when Kwan found me in the entertainment room, watching some videos, dressed in pink boy shorts and a black T-shirt that read, "You can't handle this."

"Mr. Grant would like for you to be prepared for the evening," she said.

I considered the phrase "Prepared for the evening." How did I need to be prepared? Was the evening going to attack me at some point? Should I be armed or have some Ninja moves ready?

Without explaining, she continued. "Mr. Grant is having dinner out and will be back by 8:00. Please come with me," she said and led me towards the north guest rooms. These were the fancy guest rooms on the grownup's side of the house. I followed.

We entered one. It had been transformed into a makeshift beauty salon. A beautician's chair had been placed over a square plastic floor protector. Mirrors were set up around it. A hair dresser and makeup artist stood ready, the tools of their trade arranged about them.

The makeup artist was dressed in a loose, white, crop top with sequins, above a pair of bright pink, Capri length, pants. She had a tiny bellybutton ring. The hairdresser was a little less Jersey, wearing a red bolero jacket and mini skirt over a black leotard and blank and white checked tights. Neither looked too much older than me. They looked fun. I thought, "Yea, I could hang with these two."

I sat down and the transformation began.

The hairdresser combed out my hair (not a trivial job) and worked in conditioner and mousse. She then began separating my hair into tiny squares, tying each into a bundle by wrapping string around it, just above the roots. Each bundle stuck out about two inches. It gave the impression that my hair was erupting from dozens of tiny hair volcanoes all over my head. The effect was exotic.

She then started to weave thin strips of shiny ribbon into each cascade. The ribbons glittered and danced when I moved my head.

Meanwhile, the makeup artist wiped off my face to prepare it for her magic. It started with bronze blush applied with an airbrush. My eyes were done in a silver eye shadow, with heavy, bold, eyeliner that swept out from my eyes and across my face, like some futuristic Egyptian princess.

Bright red lip liner set off silver lipstick. Well, it wasn't lipstick so much as she painstakingly painted my lips silver with a tiny brush. The finishing touch was bright streaks of color, flying up my cheeks and into my hairline, in red, yellow, orange, blue, and green. This had already taken over an hour.

Without asking, they pulled me to my feet and rescued me from the burden of my clothing. I thought to myself, "No problem. I'm naked again. It's only the fourth time today. Thanks for asking."

Standing, they worked together, first rubbing scented moisturizer all over my body. And when I say "all over" I mean it. They unceremoniously massaged it into my fingers, arms, arm pits, breasts, stomach, back, ass cheeks, between my ass cheeks, in and around my pussy, eventually working down to my toes.

The makeup artist took up the airbrush again, this time covering every surface in a coppery sheen. Yes, "every surface." I won't repeat what that means.

The two then took turns placing minute amounts of micro-fine glitter in the palm of their hand, positioning themselves about a foot away from my skin, and blowing the glitter so it stuck to the spayed on layer. After several minutes of this, every inch (YES!) of me sparkled. I was ready for my guest appearance on Twilight.

While the makeup girl was dusting me with some kind of powder, the hairdresser helped me put on a pair of shoes. They were gold high heels. They had a deep V down the front, which opened into a high collar that went around the back of the ankle. Each foot looked like the wicked queen from Snow White.

Then they started putting me into a tiny gold bra. The minimal bra was a "quarter cup," which has just enough cup to lift your boobs, make them nice and round, and push them out for all the world to admire. The makeup girl brushed something on my, now very prominent, nipples.

I really didn't see the point of the bra, until they brought out the feathers. They attached two fans of feathers to the back of the bra. They stepped back to admire their work.

I looked in the mirror. I wasn't me. I wasn't even human. I was some exotic fire creature from some far off world. Oh fucking hell, I was a goddess—a radiant, shimmering, plumed goddess!

I was still staring at myself when Kwan reappeared and took my hand. She led me back down the hall to the center of the house. Most of the lights were out, which created a slightly ominous mood. For the second time today, the only sound was the sharp report of my heels on the hardwood floor.

We walked to the back of the house and out into the patio. The "patio," as we called it, wasn't a single thing. It was a sprawling arrangement of small areas, each suited to a different purpose. There were conversation areas, one for BBQ, several with dining tables, a pond, a hot tub, and so on.

Kwan brought me to the fire pit, a large flagstone circle with a bonfire in the middle. Normally populated by lots of chairs and low tables, tonight there was only one, and it was occupied by my father and a glass of wine.

I stepped onto the flagstone circle and we stopped. Kwan let go of my hand and departed.

Standing perfectly still, I was a column of movement.

I stood between the house and the fire. It illuminated me and cast giant, grotesque, shadows of my silhouette against the walls. Some kind of chemicals had been added, because its flames were dancing with color: red, orange, now green, a flash of white. The colors reflected off my skin and accentuated every curve and surface: the shadow of my collar bone, the dimples above my ass, my hipbone, the swell of my breast.

My plumage waved in the slight breeze. My hair undulated gently, like a huge dandelion. My nipples were rock hard.

I didn't feel naked. I didn't even feel exposed, although both were literally true. I felt like I was radiant energy itself. All the creatures of the world would gather before me and marvel at my naked beauty. My dad just sat and soaked it all in.