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This is a follow-up to “Their Last Hurrah?” published 9/29/18 in Incest/Taboo. It helps reading that one first, though not crucial.
Damien is freaking out. He just stormed out of his apartment after almost catching his wife and father-in-law in bed together. Almost is the key word. Westin and Rhonda threw on their clothes after Rhonda saw Damien drive up hours earlier than she expected. Still, he had his suspicions, and after lame denials, Rhonda admitted the incestuous affair she had going with her dad.
So now he’s freaking out, driving aimlessly around in his blue Dodge Charger, destination unknown. He and Rhonda had lived together for over a year before they tied the knot just weeks ago. Little did he know prior to today that Rhonda and her dad Westin had been lovers for awhile, ever since Rhonda’s mom died. Damien hadn’t suspected a thing until Rhonda, in an intoxicated state, said some weird things at the wedding about missing her dad’s ‘hunky charms.’ Suddenly he recalls something else she said at the wedding when they were dancing together, something that had slipped his mind during the just concluded confrontation at the apartment: ‘I won’t be deprived of another climax today.’ He had let it go. But now he’s wondering if that cryptic remark meant that she and her dad had had sex that day, their wedding day! In fact, they had only minutes before, though Damien can still only speculate. “I bet they did,” he says to himself. “I bet those perverts fucking did.” He bangs his palm against the steering wheel.
He needs to tell someone, his parents, friends, anyone who will listen and care. On the other hand, he knows the scandal it would cause in the family, the tsunami of acrimony and outrageous disbelief, the cruel jokes and name calling. It would tear people apart. Yet there’s no way he can keep this to himself. And where is he supposed to sleep tonight—tonight, the next night and the night after that?
He’s at a red light when his cell goes off. He checks the number, sees it’s a text from Rhonda. He pulls over, then reads it: ‘Dad’s left. Please come home. We need to talk.’ He can barely look at Rhonda, much less speak with her. Talk? Yeah, he’d like to tell her a few choice things. That is, if he could look at her long enough to say them, and right now that’s hardly possible. Fucking her dad right under his nose…he still can’t fathom it. Better if she had kept some guy on the side than this. He drives off, still unsure where he’s headed, if anywhere. He could use a beer. Hell, he could use ten beers or anything else that might dull his pain. Fucking her dad…why? Her explanation, such as it is about them getting closer after Rhonda’s mom died, still doesn’t compute, at least in the way they got close. Emotional support is one thing; Damien gets that. But the sex thing? He shakes his head.
Miles down the road, he gets another text from Rhonda. It’s the same message: ‘please come home.’ Okay, he will, if for no other reason than to pack some clothes. Minutes later, he pulls up to the apartment and finds her waiting in the living room for him, changed from her sexy pleated skirt outfit to house slacks and a gray sweatshirt with Ocean City scribbled across the front. Not saying a word, he brushes past her and heads for their bedroom. She follows close behind. “Damien, we need to talk,” she pleads. “Please listen to me.”
He starts to throw clothes on the bed while she stands in the doorway. “There’s not much to talk about, Rhonda. What you and your dad did makes me want to puke, if you want to know the truth. And nothing you say is going to justify it.” He continues to unload clothes from the dresser.
Rhonda brushes away tears. “Where are you going?”
Straightening his slim, six-foot one-inch frame to full height, he says, “I’m not sure. But I can’t stay here with you. Our sham of a marriage is history.”
“I understand how you feel. Most people would react the same way.”
“Ya think? What are you going to tell our friends and your relatives, your aunt Millie who you’re so close to and your sister Jasmine? I bet they’ll be thrilled.”
“They don’t have to poker oyna know. We can make up some other reason of why we broke up.” Her look of grief morphs into one of alarm. “Do you plan to tell them?”
“Rhonda, at this point I’m not sure what I’m going to do.” He resumes removing his clothes, then grabs a suitcase from the closet and starts to fill it. After slamming it shut, he says, “Look, I’ll call you after I get settled. It could be over my parents or with a friend.”
She nods as she wipes the tears that fall from her pretty brown eyes and down her reddened cheeks. Stepping into the room, she reaches out to him but hugs nothing but the polluted air between them as he steps around her, marches into the living room, then out the front door and, presumably, out of her life.
For all her grieving, Rhonda Bennett knows that she has no business feeling sorry for herself. She brought this on, messed around where she had no ethical or moral business, and got burned. If she and Westin hadn’t been so outrageously naughty at her wedding, had not indulged in what was supposed to be their last hurrah, she’d still be with Damien. She brought this on herself and she knows it. “Let them call me a despicable human being,” she says, “but they can’t say that I don’t take responsibility for my actions.” What’s done is done rings true and so is her dad’s comment about her needing an attorney. On the plus side, there’s no serious community property between she and her estranged—no house, no kids and they both work. They could get an annulment, let bygones be bygones. Of course, there’s the potential humiliation from people finding out the reason for the quick, sudden collapse of her marriage. She grits her teeth just thinking of their probable reaction, one loaded with disbelief and outrage. She and Westin would become pariahs, outcasts shunned by family and friends alike. She grabs her phone and calls him, tells him what just transpired and her fear that Damien will tell all. “Then what, dad? Then what do we do?”
“Nothing yet. We play it by ear. Damien might not say a thing. But one of us needs to tell Jasmine (her sister who’s away at college) that you’re separated, leaving out, of course, the real reason.”
“I’ll call her, dad.”
“Good. By the way, do you plan to move?”
“We’ve got a few months left on the lease. Financially, I can swing it alone.”
“Okay, but if you need help, just ask.”
“Anyway, I’m so sorry about all this. I should have put the kibosh on these so-called last hurrahs.”
“My fault as much as yours, dad. But look at this way. We’re free to indulge once again.”
“Look, my marriage is toast. Damien isn’t coming back except to get more clothes. That much I’m certain. So I feel I have nothing to lose. Besides, more than ever, I need you, need our special kind of bond.” She can hear him sigh.
“Rhonda, you know I adore you that way also. But how in the hell are you going to find anyone else, settle down and have the kids you say you want some day while carrying on with me?”
“Kids may or may not be in my future, a future far down the road. Right now, in my immediate future, it’s you I need and want.”
Come Friday night, Rhonda proves it by driving over to Pot Springs, a 1950s suburban development where she and Jasmine spent much of their childhood. The sprawling brick rancher sits on an acre of ground, once the scene of various games, from touch football to badminton. The patio out back is where their affair began, that day when Westin came home and saw Rhonda masturbating on a chaise lounge and then, at her prompting, brought her to climax with his tongue. She packed her overnight bag with a nightie, sheer, short and baby-blue, a garment which Westin has yet to see her wear but one which she has little doubt will erase any reservation that he might still harbor about resuming where they left off.
“This is nice, dad, really nice,” she says about the special dinner Westin prepared, lasagna and Caesar salad, washed down with iced tea and Riesling (of course). They eat by candlelight in the dining room, and Rhonda can’t canlı poker oyna help but think back to those family dinners when her mom was alive, when laughter and voluble discussion filled the room. “Dad, when Jasmine is away at college do you ever get lonely around here?”
“I miss your mom very much,” he says. “So yes, I do, which is why I try to keep busy. Work helps. Then, as you know, I’ve taken up golf, and now a gun nut friend of mine suggests I take up pistol shooting during the cold months.” He chuckles. “Well, who knows, I just might. Another says I should get into coin collecting. Now that I can’t see doing.” He pauses to sip some wine. Then: “Of course, we both know that our special bond has a lot to do with your mom’s passing and all the emotion attached to it.”
She nods, thinking she’s got the hottest looking forty-something daddy around, from his full head of silver-gray hair to his ruddy complexion and eyes, greenish-brown and sparkling with love and affection. “You know I know. Our emotional and sexual needs are in sync. Speaking of which, I can’t wait to get intimate with you. I’ve got a surprise.”
He grins. “Something kinky?”
“Nah. You know me, I’m pretty conventional in bed. No, just something I brought that I think you’ll appreciate, something sexy to wear.”
An hour later, she’s in the bathroom slipping into her “surprise,” the sexy nightie she packed sans panties. “Ready?”
“I’ve been ready,” he cries from the master bedroom, the one with a queen-sized bed and two dressers, one of which still contains some of his deceased wife’s clothing. He sits on the edge of the bed wearing nothing but white briefs, waiting for his princess to make her entrance. The anticipation alone is enough to move his cock from sedate to stiff and then to ultra stiff when she waltzes in, barefoot and exposed. “Woo!” He eyes her full, milky-white thighs and her breasts, those ‘deliciously firm cantaloupes’ he calls them, jutting against the sheer material of her garment. Aiming lower, he licks his lips at the sight of her pussy, shaved and as inviting in its own way as a honey-moist hunk of Baklava, his favorite dessert. She looks so much like her deceased mom, he thinks, decidedly Rubenesque, voluptuous but firm and tall. A tad over five-nine, her body flows with the sort of soft, luscious curves adored by men who crave the touch and feel of women so made.
She straddles one of his thighs and wraps her arms around him. “Hope you don’t mind a little pussy juice on your leg,” she says. She tosses her head in the erotic way women do, loosening strands of her hair that fall over one of her eyes, peekaboo style. Then she slides back and forth, dampening his big hairy thigh and producing a most lovely kind of friction. “Geez, dad, my pussy’s so hot, I could come just doing this.”
Keeping that position, they begin to kiss in the semi-darkness of his bedroom. Once he shared it with Suzanne, his deceased wife. Now it’s with the oldest offspring of that union, the one that bears an uncanny likeness to the woman who helped create her. She lifts her nightie over her breasts so he can swish his tongue across her nipples while his hands dance over her smooth skin, from her firm tummy to her curvy thighs. She continues to skate her inflamed loins across his thick quadriceps, her breathing heavy, her moans getting louder. Reaching down, she feels his erection, hops off and helps him peel off his briefs. She’s amused when he blinks at the sight of her juice on his leg. “Yes, I’m soaked,” she chuckles.
“You’re not kidding,” he says, and then proceeds to lick her tummy and finger-fuck her while she stands before him with her head back and her legs buckled and beating out a slow rhythm of quarter squats.
Moments later, the room is awash with the familiar sounds of intimacy. Her sheiks and his grunts mix with the humping and the grinding and the slapping of skin on skin, her fair skin in contrast to his darker shade of pale. She’s on her back with her legs spread wide, savoring the blissful feel of him inside her. For the first time since her separation, Damien is far from her mind—Damien and also her angst internet casino over what others will say or do should he tell. Her radar is a blank screen, save for what she sees now, her dad’s handsome face, looking down on her, kissing her while his cock plunges and his body rocks and his passion gushes forth like a geyser. He beats out a furious rhythm that’s music to her ears, that’s driving her to the edge of joyful madness. She’ll never grow weary of hearing what he’s said so often and what he says now—telling her how great she smells, what a lovely body she has, how he can’t get enough of her and how much he loves her. She returns like words of endearment until she can no longer speak, when her words morph into the primeval sounds of a woman in the throes of climax. Moments later, he joins her crescendo with one of his own to form an orgasmic duet of papa and offspring that would not play well in the Peorias of the land, but that plays quite well in the dark, cozy confines of this nondescript bedroom in this nondescript rancher in this nondescript suburb, where things like this don’t go on. Except when they do.
It doesn’t play well with newlywed husbands either, husbands who catch their wives in incestuous relationships with their dads. Damien Bennett is one of those husbands. A week ago he was living with his new bride, making plans for the future. Now he’s living with his parents, consulting with an attorney and fending off questions from mom and dad and friends as to what the hell went wrong. He can’t believe he’s kept it to himself for this long. He’s grateful to Rhonda for at least one thing: she does her own dodge and weave when Damien’s parents call and when friends ask, confused and exasperated.
But secrets of outrageous things can’t stand for long, and this one is no exception. It collapses like the proverbial house of cards when Damien can no longer hold it in, when his only other option is to go mad by keeping it bottled up. The truth shall set you free, as this truth does for Damien, but at the cost of watching his parents scream with outrage, and then call Rhonda, then Westin, giving them all the what for they can muster, calling them “dirtballs” and “degenerates” among other choice things, and vowing to spread the news to people like Rhonda’s beloved aunt Millie who “you can be sure will find it as perverted as we do,” Damien’s dad yells into the phone.
Damien manages to persuade them not to do that, to keep it to themselves, little knowing that Rhonda and Westin decide on a parallel course. Not waiting for Damien’s parents to blow their cover, they hang out their dirty laundry, exposing it to family and friends, throwing themselves upon their mercy, letting the chips fall where they may, and receiving in return an eclectic mix of reactions. Jasmine stuns Rhonda with her flippant response, telling her ‘whatever floats your boat’ and that ‘father indeed knows best’ and that she had her suspicions that ‘something like this had been going on.’ One of Rhonda’s close girlfriends suggests they go on Jerry Springer, while another with daddy fantasies of her own begs for ‘all the sticky details.’ Aunt Millie (Suzanne’s sister), on the other hand, screams, then slams down the phone on Westin, never giving him a chance to explain. Westin’s cousin tells him he’s ‘one sick guy’ and should ‘seek therapy immediately.’ His coin collector friend empathizes after confessing that he harbors fantasies involving his own hot daughter. And so it goes.
As for Rhonda and Damien, they both agree to an annulment, thus avoiding all the potential mess inherent in the process. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, dad and daughter carry on, upping the excitement by doing their thing in semi-public places such as rest rooms (“toilet sex,” they call it), in the car and at night on blankets spread out on the grass in municipal parks. One day, Rhonda shows up at Westin’s trailer on a construction site. He’s the only one in there, though a crew of workmen stand in close proximity. It’s a wonder they don’t get caught when Rhonda lifts her dress, peels off her black lace panties and leans against one of the plywood walls. “See if you can fuck me standing up,” she says, a position they’ve never tried. Westin hesitates, but only briefly, then drops his pants and gets with her program, joyfully humping his wanton princess into an orgasmic fury.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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