The next day, I didn’t fight it.
Even that made me feel bad—almost as though I was encouraging my wife’s deviant behavior.
But yesterday had made one thing clear: even when she was in my daughter’s body, I was no match for my wife.
If she wanted make-outs, make-outs she would get.
No sooner was she home, a coy smile on her face, than she leapt into my lap and pressed her face against mine. Like yesterday, she gyrated against my crotch, her short skirt allowing easy access.
Unlike yesterday, it was clear that her actions were deliberate.
I desperately tried to force my mind to ‘Ellen’, but it was hard. I’d seen my own daughter’s o-face; there was no coming back from that.
On top of that, I still hadn’t cum since the transformation—almost a week. Last night it had taken a few hours of tossing and turning before I’d finally managed to drift off to sleep.
Add ‘suspicious sleep patterns’ to the reason I was glad not to be sharing a room with my wife’s body.
But I couldn’t cum. I couldn’t. How could I?
What if my mind slipped?
I don’t own any porn, and going to my computer to download some would have taken me through the den, where my ‘wife’ was sleeping. If I’d jerked off, I would have had to rely on my own imagination, and what if…
God, what if my brain turned to my most recent sexual experience?
What if I thought about my daughter?
I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it.
I didn’t want to do it, but I’d just seen her cum, I’d made out with her two days in a row.
Jesus…I’d made out with my daughter, two days in a row. Just the thought of it made me sick.
And so without any porn, and not trusting my brain not to slip to the wrong image, I’d gone another night without orgasm.
The next day, I’d been hit with an unexpected deadline—taking fifteen minutes off to rub one out was technically possible, but not at the risk of Q1’s entire tax break. And so I’d submitted the last file when Mary entered, twisting my darling daughter’s mouth into an erotic smile that I’d never wanted to experience.
“God I want you,” she whispered in my ear, and I shuddered.
Ellen, I reminded myself. Ellen, Ellen, Ellen. Ellen wants me. Not my daughter.
Not my beautiful Belle.
I made myself a promise: as soon as we were done, as soon as my wife skipped our daughter’s body out of the room, I swore that I was going to go online, find some porn, and get off to a MILF. Or a chubby goth. Or a grandma covered in tattoos.
Anyone. As long as they had as little resemblance to Belle as possible.
Belle’s tongue explored my mouth as her mother steered her hands around my body.
For the first time in our marriage, I wished my wife didn’t know me as well as she did—she knew exactly what I liked. The way she pinched my earlobe, the way she dragged her nails across my back. She tried to move one hand below my belt, but I slapped her away.
“No,” I said firmly, expecting resistance.
To my surprise, she moaned in response, and immediately moved her hand. Up to my chest—safer than where it had been, yes, but…well, my wife knows that I have sensitive nipples.
As she played with them, I couldn’t help it—a small groan left my mouth. It just felt so good, and it had been days…
It was as if the sound lit a small fire in my daughter’s body. My wife immediately redoubled her efforts, stroking and pinching, and grinding against me. To my horror, I realized that I could recognize the signs of her impending orgasm—something that no father should be able to recognize in his daughter.
“No,” I murmured involuntarily, and (surprising me again), Mary backed off. She pulled Belle’s hands out from under my shirt, and she slowed down.
I breathed a sigh of relief, but immediately realized how counterproductive it had been. The longer it took her to cum, the longer we’d have to do this.
Should I do something to…speed things along?
As soon as the thought entered my head, I realized that I couldn’t. I also realized that…I had to.
It doesn’t take me long to cum at the best of times…and even if she was my daughter, a half-naked teenager grinding against my erection was more stimulation than I needed. A half-naked teenager with my wife’s me-specific expertise?
We needed to end this, or within the next few minutes, I’d cross a line that we couldn’t cross.
I hadn’t had to wash cum-stains out of my pants since I was a teenager. It wasn’t something I’d missed.
Gritting my teeth, trying to think about the Queen, about cricket, about anything-in-the-world-that-wasn’t-sex, I did the unthinkable. I said the unspeakable.
“Cum for me,” I whispered in my daughter’s ear.
“Oh GOD,” she shrieked. “Yesssss…”
“Cum for me,” I repeated. My wife, for all her bossiness, loves being told what to do in the bedroom, and I hoped this predilection had followed her into our daughter’s body. “Cum for me.”
“Yes,” she shouted. “Yes, yes, yes!”
“Cum for me!” I ordered, focusing as hard as I could on the pain in my ears from Belle’s shouting.
“Hit me!” she replied, and my eyes shot open.
“Hit me!” she said again, and—almost instinctively—I did.
As soon as my open palm collided with my daughter’s panty-clad ass, I felt a sense of horrible guilt. We’d spanked Belle once or twice as a child, and even then I’d hated doing it.
Just like when Belle was spanked as a babe, she opened her mouth and wailed. This time, however, it wasn’t in anguish or despair.
It was in a guttural moan, and it deepened as she practically twitched herself onto the floor.