Mad Monday
by Pan
Chapter 8
It was definitely easier the second time.
“Ellen”, I moaned in my head. She was a blonde, I decided. I’d never been with a blonde. She was a blonde who yes, had some similarities to my daughter, but that made sense. My wife had similarities to my daughter, and that had never been off-putting before.
Although now, maybe it would be…
No. Focus, Andy. Focus on Ellen.
She was a small blonde who liked skiing, and practiced yoga. That would explain why she was so flexible. In her spare time, she brewed her own beer and…—
My eyes shot open.
“Mary!” I gasped. While we’d been making out, my mind heavily and deliberately on ‘Ellen’, my daughter’s hand had made its way down to my crotch. Through my pants, she was now patting and grabbing at my erection.
“Please,” she panted. “I need it…oh god, I need it.”
“No…” I objected…but for a few moments, my hands remained where they were, resting lightly my daughter’s back.
When my wife wasn’t swapping bodies with my daughter, we typically made love three or four times a week. It had been four days; not a particularly long dry spell, but long enough that…well, tension had begun to build up.
And my wife is very, very good with her hands.
No. Not her hands. My daughter’s hands.
“Honey,” I whispered, firmly grabbing her hand and moving it to my chest. “We can’t.”
“Sorry,” she whispered, and soon her mouth was back on mine, my eyes were closed, and Mary’s inexplicably-Portuguese sister was back on my mind, her tiny hands grabbing and kneading at my chest, her hips thrusting forward as she climbed on top of me.
My daughter’s school had a uniform; again, something that I’d never thought twice about before. It was a fairly standard outfit—white, button-up shirts, pleated skirts, white socks, black shoes. She’d been wearing it for years, and until her misbehavior of late, it had never held any significance.
Part of her rebellion had been to hike up the skirt, and to choose bras which gave the blouse a much chestier tone.
We’d told her off for it, of course, but as our battles had grown more frequent, we’d had to pick and choose what we focused our energies on. Over time, the uniform had been a lower priority, and so now I barely even noticed how much leg she showed, or how much cleavage she managed to give an otherwise-sedate top.
As my wife used Belle’s body to gyrate, however, I suddenly became aware that the shorter skirt gave easy access.
I didn’t say anything as my wife continued to moan into my lips, rubbing our daughter’s body against me, her panties grinding against my erection. Had she noticed what she was doing? I didn’t want to embarrass her by drawing attention to it, but nor did I want our daughter’s privates in such proximity to mind.
At least her hands were now behaving themselves.
For a quarter of the hour, I indulged my wife’s needs, allowing her to grind on me, use my mouth as a release valve for the lust she’d been building up all day. I even used my hands to roam around our daughter’s body…sticking to safe areas, of course. Her back, her stomach. Her legs, once, but that had felt too weird, and I’d had to stop.
And then, just as I was about to push her away, it happened.
My daughter’s tongue pushed into my mouth, her hands tightened their grip, and her entire body began to shake. My mental image of the sensational, fictional ‘Ellen’ disappeared, and I opened my eyes in alarm.
A low, guttural moan emerged from my daughter’s mouth, and she began to twitch. Once, twice, three times, so strongly that I was worried she would buck herself off the chair.
“Yesssss” she groaned, her head flying back and her crotch grinding into mine. “Yes yes yes yes yesssssss…”
It was an embarrassingly long time before I realized what I was witnessing: my daughter’s orgasm.
“Oh god…” I muttered, feeling like I was going to throw up. My daughter had just cum, rubbing her body against mine.
No. No, not my daughter.
My wife. I tried desperately to remember that this was my wife, but it was hard.
I’d only been with a few women besides Mary, and—loathe to admit this as I am—I never witnessed any of them achieving orgasm. I suppose a part of me had just always assumed that Mary’s orgasms were…standard. After all, porn and locker-room talk had told me that all men’s orgasms look very similar; it made sense that it was the same for women.
The mixture of disgust and fascination was overwhelming, and for the next few minutes, I just felt numb. Mary lifted our daughter’s body off mine, kissed me gently on the lips, and thanked me.
As she left for her room, I shuddered. Was she going off to relive what we’d just done, what I’d just done?
God.
I needed a shower.
After I’d cooled down, Mary (in my daughter’s body) entered our bedroom. Her red eyes told me that she’d either been crying or…
I chose to believe she’d been crying.
Maybe the reality of what we were doing had finally struck her. Maybe she’d come down from her orgasms, and realized that we couldn’t go on this way, that she would just have to find the willpower…
The first words out of her mouth dashed my hopes.
“That was amazing,” she said, her blue eyes smiling up at me. “It helped. It helped more than you can imagine. Thank you. Thank you so, so much.”
“That’s okay,” I stammered. I mean, what else was I to say?
She threw her arms around me. I momentarily tensed up, but it seemed that she was genuinely just seeking a hug.
“That’s okay,” I repeated, relaxing my body and returning the cuddle.
As she left, she looked back at me, and with three simple words, filled my heart with dread:
“Same time tomorrow?”