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You are your father's son

She helps him realize he has his father's dominance in him
This story was motivated by the sight of a very pretty Indian college girl in an atrocious bikini at the pool this summer. Once it started though, it became an exploration of power exchange.

All characters in this story are completely fictional.

I welcome all suggestions and comments on the story. It’s not what might be considered ‘hot’ just yet. It’s because the explosive scene I have in mind will now appear in the 2nd chapter. It’s not written yet, but I will certainly work on it if there is interest from you, the readers.

If you like slow buildups, you'll like this. If you're looking for a quick fix, sorry, this piece is not for you.

Enjoy and please let me know what you think or where this could go. Feedback will help me write better stories.

***

I saw her for the first time at the pool. Beautiful girls abound here, since it is a faculty pool, and many of the alum have high school and college age daughters. There were plenty of MILFs available as well. Some were health conscious women who took pleasure in their bodies; others were trophy wives, using their summer to tan poolside and feed their kids food the nanny had prepared from large designer sandwich baskets.

She caught my eye in the middle of this hubbub because she was Indian. She was trailing a 3 year old child. Au pair. Had to be. This was the first time I had seen an Indian girl with this firm a body in a bikini, albeit an atrocious one. The top was white, with frills on the arms. The cloth didn't even look waterproof. She wore beige bottoms that didn't quite cup her ass cheeks. It looked like she was out there in her underwear. It made me wonder if she was a first generation Desi, who was brought up here in the States. But somehow she was stuck in between. She had the attitudes and comfort of a westerner, but the dress sense (at least for bikinis) of a Madras native.

But good God she was gorgeous.

She moved like an Indian. She had those small stutter steps she took, that made her look like she was skipping as she moved into the water. She was not self conscious at all, focused entirely on the kid she was babysitting, not the men ogling her all around the pool. It was a pleasure to observe. She had long black hair that she periodically tossed out of the way. A classic move in the Bollywood movies. Her body was taut and her skin a light chocolate brown color. I noted with interest that her features were South Indian. I had a chance to take a closer look as I walked over to get a soda from the snack shack. It was clear she had conscientiously removed hair from all visible skin. Her globular, well toned ass was now submerged in the pool, but her very small, pert breasts were above water, enclosed in that frilly white thing she considered a bikini top.

You might wonder, quite rightly how I know this much about Indians. It's because I have what they call Asia burn. My passion for South Asia began with my percussion love for their drumming tradition. In following that and learning what I could about Indian drums, I started to get into Bollywood movies, and then Indian culture. Perhaps it's in the genes. Having both parents be academics makes it possible to engage in such pursuits.

I admired her while I was at the pool, but did not approach her. As is my regular modus operandi, I watched from afar.

This is why it was a complete surprise to see her sitting out on the deck that weekend when I drove down to Ocracoke Island to meet my father for a week at the beach. It was something that we used to do as a family, but after Dad divorced Mom, it morphed into our singular father/son bonding event. Dad's a big gun professor at Carolina. He started a department that did work on Human Computer Interaction. He had very intense interactions with his students, and frequently had more than a collegial interest in them. To his credit, he never dated them while they were his students.

One other thing he had never done was bring his young filly of the season to the beach. Not till now, anyway.

She was clearly intelligent and self confident. It didn't bother her at all that we were about the same age and that my father was, well, probably her father's age. She had an embroidered see through white cotton skirt on and a cloth dye based cotton shirt. Her bikini bottom showed through the skirt and was somehow more arousing than yesterday when I had a clear view of her near naked body. She didn't try to hide the fact that she was his toy. He told her what to wear to go to the beach that first day, and was very clear about what she should bring with her to the beach.

She called him Dr. Clements. He was in charge. That much was clear. From what I could tell, that was part of the draw for her.

I didn't speak to her much the first day. She kept to herself, content to tan herself some, while reading some academic treatise on Positioning Display Items for maximum effect for audiences who read Right to Left languages. Perhaps she reads Arabic I thought to myself. I read, ran on the beach, and spent some time in the ocean. I tried not to be uncomfortable that she was there, but didn't want her to notice the effect she was having on my cock.

Dad was his usual nonchalant self. Mostly in his own head, he would suddenly start up conversations as it suited him. He loved women. He didn't talk much about why he and Mom were divorced, but I know now that he was sampling the fish in the ocean long before it happened. He never brought any of his trophies to family occasions. They never persisted long enough.

"So what's the deal with this one?" I asked him, when she walked down to the water’s edge to dip her toes.

"Does it bother you Mark? I'm sorry. I should probably have said something to you instead of just landing up here with her.'

I shrugged my shoulders. "Not a big deal."

Ever since I was a little kid, I didn't say much to my dad. He was a character that was larger than life. He was constantly pushing me and everybody around him to do more. He was a debate champion, and a Rhodes scholar. Broaching the subject of why she was here was a big stop for me. Challenging him was a futile endeavor.

He didn't pay a lot of attention to her at the beach. Once in a while he would watch her, then go back to his work. His relationship with his work was monogamous and the most consistent thing in my memory of him.

He took her that night back at the beach house that we had rented. The sounds emanated from the room across me in waves. She made sounds occasionally, and for a period of time, followed by muffled moving sounds. Once the fucking began however, there was no ignoring it . Amazing how we pay $2200 for a beach front house and then sleep on beds with springs that bray like Eeyor.

She called out to him many times.

"Yes, Professor Clements. I do. I like it."

"I've never done that but I want you to teach me."

At one point it sounded like he was spanking her but I couldn't’t be sure. There were sharp slaps followed by gasps that seemed quickly hushed. Perhaps in that moment of vulnerability she was aware she would be heard?

We had air conditioners on in both rooms but the sound wafted through regardless. I turned up the fan on the AC so that the white noise increased. I hated these goddamn cheap beds. The beach was my one week with Dad. Not anymore.

I was instantly attracted to her at the pool and the beach. Yes, I coveted her. I also knew she was not anywhere in my league. Besides, what would I say to impress her? Now he was banging her next door. Unapologetically at that.

The week felt cheapened. I couldn't even get satisfaction jerking off to the sound of her getting dicked. Such an irony that I would feel confident thinking about her being reduced to her sexually animalistic self. I couldn't even enjoy vicariously the way she was submitting her will to him. I covered my ears with the cheap pillow and tried to will myself to sleep. At least some respite for my eyes. My cock, alas, went untended.

I woke up aroused and frustrated. I was turned on by her, and angry with her at the same time. Well, if I was to stop and be honest with myself, the reality is that I was transferring anger towards my dad at her. I have probably been angry with my dad for as many years as he has divorced my mom, but never said it in any kind of way. I heard so much that I looked like my dad. I suppose I did. We both have the broad shoulders from the swimming we both did in high school and college. Dad swam. So of course, I swam. Luckily, I was good at it. His square jaw is more imposing than mine, because of the steely look in his eyes. He is constantly looking to win, and he loves to enjoy the spoils of victory. Tonight, it was her.

I stroked my rock hard erection as the sounds slowly died down. Precum made a stain on my boxers, and I drifted off into a frustrated and fitful sleep.

I got up at 7am and went out for a long run. I walked back with my arousal temporarily waived and poured myself a cup of freshly brewed coffee. She was up, with multiple windows open on her MacBook, checking out the Huffington Post and chatting on FaceBook simultaneously. I tried to think of something clever to say. Instead, all I could think of was who I knew that she might fuck. I wanted to be on that list, but she was my dad’s fuck doll. I just didn't have a read on this girl, and was pissed that she was sitting in that living room right then.

It felt awkward to be in the space together and be silent, so I went with something safe.

“Thanks for making coffee.”

I found out very quickly that she was direct.

"Were we loud last night? I'm sorry. He likes it that way. But then again, you're his son, so you probably know."

She had on a thin dressing gown. It was silk, I think; I don't know about such things. I just know it draped her well, and that the hints of skin I saw today, and the one long leg that stuck out on the barstool she was sitting on, was more alluring than the full vision I had of her in her ridiculous bikini earlier in the week.

I sipped my coffee. More time to think. Finally I shrugged. "Yea. I heard you, and no I don't know. This is the first time this has happened."

She stopped typing and tilted her head. "Oh. I'm ... sorry then."

She paused for a second and then continued unprompted.

"He has this way about him, and has a reputation that precedes him. But I shouldn't have assumed to say that."

She stuck out her hand. "I'm Pratima"

"Mark" I said as I shook her hand. That was the first time I was aware she was looking me over. I had shorts on, and wasn't sure if I was tenting. I hadn’t expected her to be up, so had pulled my wet t-shirt off when I walked in.

She smiled at me. "You shave your chest do you? Swimmer? You must be pretty good."

She was not pretentious. I found it hard to stay irritated at her. "How do you figure that?"

"Well, only the serious ones shave. We girls, we do our legs our underarms, and our bikini lines. So we know."

I smiled deprecatingly. "Can't argue with logic. I swim on the college squad, yea."

"So.... Is this weird. I mean, does this bother you?"

How was she able to be so damn direct? She was either supremely confident or over sharing because she was nervous.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"If you were to become my mother it would bother me some, yes."

She let out a delighted laugh. "Oh my God. You are such a cute one."

I sipped my coffee.

She sobered up some. "I don't know why I'm so attracted to him. It's instinctual and magnetic. I told myself I'm just his next six month trophy, if that. But here I am." There was a hint of sadness now. The first chink in the armor I had seen.

"Where's Dad?"

Her head was back in her Mac Book again. Classic Gen Y chick. Easy enough for me to say, I fit the same demographic.

"Oh, he's gone for the day. He's got some conference call he had to take and is going to some business center to take it."

I remembered slowly that my week with Dad in all these years really wasn't a week with Dad. It was us physically having a week together in the same house with him absent most of it. Perhaps I wanted that memory to be different; no doubt I was willing my imagined reality to match life.

He brought her here. He was probably going to fuck her every night, and then leave me to deal with her during the day.

She looked up from her laptop again.

"I don't want to get in your way. So if you want to be alone I can go to the beach. If you want to be at the beach alone, I can stay here."

"No. You're fine" I mumbled.

"Or ... we can hang out. I have to work on a paper, but I also told myself that I was going to have some fun. Its not everyday I get a week at Ocracoke."

I looked up from my coffee. My eyes probably gave away my anticipation.

"Maybe you can teach me how to swim." She smiled. "That's one thing I have wanted to do but never done."

I grinned at her. "Not in that bikini of yours. It will slip right off."

She made a face and groaned.

"Oh God. It's horrible isn't it? It's a hand me down from my sister. She's seven years older than me. I need to get a decent swimsuit. It's just I never use it. No pool, no beach time."

She got up and moved over to the middle of the room. Shedding her dressing gown she dropped to the floor and began doing sit-ups.

"A little help?" She was looking at me from the floor.

I put the coffee cup and sat down, putting my hands down on her feet.

"It's just as effective to do it with your legs up" I said this to be helpful, and so that she could do it unassisted. I then realized that it could be misinterpreted as me wanting to get a peep show.

"Oh just hold them please. I'm old fashioned and don't have time to keep up with the latest things. I just want a flat stomach."

She stopped after the fourth or fifth one.

"Tell me how many I should do."

I looked at her.

"How many can you do?"

"Left to myself, about 25. If I'm ordered to, probably 40 to 50."

The words that sprang to my mind I choked down in my throat. I wanted to say it. I sensed it, but I just was not confident enough. My father's aura was in the room even though he had physically left.

"That's just with Dr. Clement though." I said dryly, lifting an eyebrow.

She looked at me. "You're just like your father. Now don't psychoanalyze me. Just tell me how many."

"Ok. Fine. 60"

She looked up wide eyed. I noticed then that her eyes were an almond brown. I also saw that she had delicate but sharp features. A high chin, a dainty nose and soft lips. Her belly was tense, her shoulders were set,and she had her hands behind her neck. I made sure My torso was away from her feet because I could feel my erection growing.

She looked at me for a few seconds. I watched her. Then she nodded slowly and exhaled. It felt as though she had a new comfort now that she knew what she had to do. She began, and easily made her way through the first 24. She exhaled louder on 25 - 30 and then the grind began.

"Talk me through it."

"You're doing fine. Just keep doing what you're doing."

She began to grimace. As her core muscles started to fatigue, she began to use her hands and her legs to pull up. Slowly, those knees that were pressed together started to open. Her black cotton panties were right in front of me.

"Keep your elbows in and use this" I reached forward and sharply tapped her abs with three fingers. Lord knows how many times my trainers and coach had screamed me through my core workouts.

45. She was working hard now, but not quitting. Then all of a sudden at 47, she hit a wall. A frantic look appeared in her eyes.

"I ... can't."

"15 more. You can do this."

"No. I can't."

I looked directly into her eyes as she came up for her 48th.

"Don't you dare stop. Do you understand me. You finish this for me."

She closed her eyes, and dropped her head in assent, then did two more. She was tensing up again, thinking about how much she had left.

‘Who is in charge here?’ I asked her. If I am to be honest, I didn’t know the answer to that question. I was just instinctively doing what my coaches and trainers have done with me. The way they took charge, and gave me a clear path to success.

She closed her eyes as she grimaced, grunting the words through gritted teeth ‘you are.’

‘That’s 53.’ I told her. ‘My job is to get you to 60. Your job is to do what you’re told. I plan to do my job. Are you going to do yours?’

She nodded as she labored through her sit ups.

‘Tell Me. I want to hear it.’

‘I’m going to do my job.’

‘What’s your job?’

‘To do what I’m told.’

56, 57. She wasn’t really paying attention. Just moving through them.

"I'm right here."

It felt good to be able to say that. I wanted to say that at so many levels.

I do not know if I imagined it, but it looked like she shut her eyes tighter as she heard it.

59, 60.

She grabbed her knees and huffed, hair disheveled and tumbling over her face. She pushed it away delicately, then leaned back on her hands, almost opening herself out for inspection. I could see small definition lines on her calf muscles and the inside of her shapely thighs. Her stomach was tight and moving with her panting. Her small breasts were tightly held down in her black sports bra, and a 22 carat gold chain glistened around her neck. That was the first time I noticed she had a minute nose ring, which glinted when the sun hit it.

She looked at me cautiously. Somehow something had happened that made her not as bubbly and energetic.

"You are your father's son."

I sat back and slowly shrugged my shoulders.

"Maybe. I don't see it yet."

She bounced up and pulled her dressing gown back on. "Lets get some real breakfast and go to the beach."

Just like that, the spell was broken.

We went to a breakfast place on the main strip. She ordered toast, eggs and coffee, and was very chirpy. I went along with the things that she was talking about, but was aroused and frustrated. She noticed after a while, and stopped talking. I sat and watched her. She tilted her head and looked at me, then raised one eyebrow quizzically.

"What is it?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Nothing."

She sat and watched me.

I returned her gaze, watching her. The eyes were definitely almond, not brown.

"I can think of two things"

I kept looking at her, but not intensely. "So now it is my turn to get psychoanalyzed. Go ahead."

"Nothing profound. Either it bothers you that he is fucking me, or ..."

I watched her. Part of me was aroused that she would say 'fuck' so casually. Another part of me wanted her to at least pretend to be a lady. I was conflicted inside between seeing her as a person, and objectifying her, and wanting to fuck her while she begged me for more the way she was begging my father last night.

As I kept watching, her gaze faltered. I felt a surge that I couldn't comprehend. Energy that moved from the base of my spine through to the crown of my head as I inhaled.

"Or?"

She shook her head. The chirpy, confidence and countenance was slightly less luminescent.

I held the tension for a few more seconds and then spoke.

"Well, if I am upset that you are 'fucking him' as you characterize it, then it has more to do with him and less with you."

I looked at her some more.

"And as for your second reason," I continued

I heard her suck in her breath, expectantly.

"Whatever it is, it's probably off as well. So I suggest you stay with comp lit and away from psychology." I let myself smile just a little bit at the end of it.

"Oh honestly!" She swatted my arm playfully, but this time it wasn't as confident.

I paid the bill. She let me.

We gathered our things and walked the two blocks over to the beach front. She hooked her arm in mine. I held my arm up. It felt good.

During the walk her confidence returned. She made me hold the blanket and spread it out on the sand, then pulled out some cold water from the cooler we dragged down. I sat down on the blanket and watched as she pulled her t-shirt off. She had on a different bikini today. It was white, with pink and green polka dots. The white was a stark contrast to her smooth chocolate brown skin. I sat and enjoyed the vision in front of me. I saw a tan line on her shoulders. Yesterday's bikini was a halter top that went around her neck. Today's was thin straps that went over her slender shoulders.

“Dad’s been taking you shopping has he?”

She smiled back. It was a genuine, disarming smile, and went back to disrobing.

I'm sure she sensed that I was watching, because she did it slowly. Not sensually, or exaggerated, but enough to acknowledge she was being observed. Again I felt that shift in energy. I inhaled and drank it in. She turned away from me, and hooked her fingers into her white cotton skirt. I kept watching and felt the stirring in my groin. For some reason, this act of women shedding their clothes is more arousing and enticing to me than when they are walking around in a bikini with very little left to the imagination. Watching Pratima right here and now, was particularly potent. There was something magical about the hip movement and the slight swaying as the skirt slipped over her thighs. Perhaps I imagined it, but it seemed like she stood in that position for a little longer than she needed to - bent over, bikini bottoms in view with the skirt halfway down her thighs.

Gravity claimed the skirt as she let go, and she moved out of it in a fluid, languid movement. This was a girl that definitely knew her body. She spoke facing away from me.

"You are your father's son."

I sat and listened, not responding.

"He also likes to watch me."

She turned around to face me, her confidence back.

"Which brings me to reason number two."

My steady gaze now faltered. It seemed as though the person who was prepared to be most direct was going to steer the conversation as they wished.

I shrugged my shoulders, and as I did, I felt the familiar drop in my self-esteem. I looked at her with longing, lust and resentment. I had never had a woman take me through this cycle of emotions.

She had her arms on her bare waist. Two slim white swaths of fabric with green and pink polka dots covered her breasts and pubic mound, giving her a modicum of demureness. In her near nakedness she was almost defiant. She clearly drew confidence from being watched. It was strange, this dynamic. There was a power exchange going on, but I didn't feel belittled or manipulated. She was physically beautiful, but I had this sense that she was a good person. Conflicted enough to want to be a Daddy's girl but kind enough to not make me feel insignificant for being there while she fulfilled her need.

I normally do not say the things that come to me. I hold onto them and then release them later. Sometimes by swimming 3500 - 4000 meters, sometimes by masturbating and recreating the scene to fit my notion of how the world should be. So it surprised me to hear myself speak to her just then.

"It looks like you enjoy being watched as well."

She continued to stand there, in a stance of confidence and semi-defiance, but definitely on show.

"Did you like the thought of me in the other room, listening? Did that make you fuck him harder?"

"Bastard"

With the one word curse she was gone, flying towards the water till it consumed her up to her thighs. When she could no longer hold her balance she surrendered to the waves, then came up shaking out her hair and sputtering.

I stood up and pulled off my shirt. As I ran into the water, I could see her waiting and smiling. I ploughed my way into the water and crashed into her. She squealed with delight and swatted my arm as she fell backwards.

It seemed like we were ok again.

The rest of the day went by well. When she got back out of the water, she started reading. Again there was a transformation. She became focused and intent. When I asked her if she wanted something to drink she just shook her head no. I left her alone.

Lunch was a quiet affair. A sandwich grabbed at a cafe on the main strip. Ocracoke's stunningly quiet beaches are a wonderful asset. The side effect is that the business district consists of about one half mile of vendors. We went back home and she got back on line. I left her and went to my room. I was aroused, but didn't want to try getting relief with her in the living room. I went out and ran 2 1/2 miles. I didn't use my heart rate monitor as this was more to relieve my cock than to cross train for swimming.

When I got back Dad had returned. His presence filled the room, and she was content to sit quietly and just answer questions from behind her laptop. He of course had many of them, both for her and me. After his cross examination about our day, he told us about the six things he had gotten done.

He took us out to dinner. He told her what to wear. She complied, or should I say, she obeyed. He ordered food for all three of us. As was the case with Dad, everything was fine as long as he directed traffic. I do not know if it was the mojito she drank, or that she was now more comfortable with the situation, but she started to call him Sir at the table.

"Yes please Sir. Some more shrimp would be great."

"No thank you Sir. I'm fine with one mojito."

On the one hand, it was common for Indians to be deferential to their elders, and teachers. But this one was fucking her, so the rest of the profile didn't fit. It felt a little strange to think of my father as this person that she was fucking. I came to the realization that in the less than 48 hours that I had truly known her, I had a better sense of her than this man who was one of my parents.

We all walked home in a liquor induced state. I was floating somewhat, and stared at her more than I normally would have. She in, turn, was more physical with me. I pondered this, and realized that it was because my father had no interest in playing boyfriend or lover on the walk home. He walked ahead part of the time and then got on his blackberry. He was on it for the rest of the trip home.

I didn't feel like sloppy seconds when she slipped her arm through mine. During my two summers in Bangalore, I was very surprised to see how many college kids walked around arm in arm. The guys did it too, sometimes hooking pinkies while walking. I wondered if this was an allowance of gender bending, but came to the conclusion that it was not. So let her link forearms. My brain told me that it was platonic. Anything else was alcohol induced friendliness. My body, however, responded to the touch. Occasionally, her hip brushed my thigh. At 6' 1", I was a few inches taller than her. She was 5' 8". I hadn't really thought about the fact that she was tall for an Indian and tall generally. Up until now, I hadn't really thought about height. On this silent trek back home, I had time to notice that I looked down at her hair. I imagined that once in a while she leaned over so that she was leaning on my shoulder.

We got to the beach house and Dad turned off his cell phone.

To her he said

"I'm going to check for my package at the Realty office. Go in and get ready."

To me he said

"Good night Mark"

Just like that, the spell was broken again. I walked in with her, dismissed as I had been so many times as a child.

She was quiet again and distant. She went into their room and I went into mine. I closed the door and logged into Yahoo IM. I considered surfing for porn, but for some reason even that felt cheapened.

Just then I got a pop up for a new contact invitation.

'pratima88 wants to be your friend' it said

The accompanying message said 'it is me.'

I accepted.

She showed up on my friend list.

pratima88: you ok?

swimmermark: yeah.

And then, she invited me to view her web cam.

A jolt of electricity ran through me.

I accepted.

And there she was on my screen. She was sitting two doors away, and here she was. I now had the new version of the x-ray glasses Marvel advertised in their magazines. I was 8 years old again, in a world of superheroes and super powers.

She blew me a kiss and then adjusted her Mac Book so that it showed the bed and adjacent window.

I reached into my pants and pulled out my cock. It was semi-erect from the walk home. I stroked it to a rigid hardness, the elastic of my boxers tight against my thighs and balls. I got up quickly to shed my jeans and boxers and put on a comfortable pair of basketball shorts. Now I could watch and pleasure myself without obstruction, but not be completely exposed if for some crazy reason I was walked in on.

The picture was somewhat grainy. The bandwidth was low, and there wasn't much light in her room. But I could clearly see her peeling out of her clothes. She stripped completely naked and then knelt by the bed and waited for him. In her right hand she was holding a piece of cloth. Maybe it was a hand towel.

I heard a door open and close, then another door open and close. My father appeared in the frame, naked from the waist down. He stood in front of her. She held out the towel. He took and used it to wipe his hands and face. While he did, she leaned forward. The angle was such that I couldn't see her fully, but she clearly had her face pressed in his crotch. She was sucking his cock.

I was angry and completely aroused at this same time. I could see her general shape but couldn't see much details. I strained to see if I could make our her nipples on those pert, little breasts that were safe behind polka dots just earlier today. My cock was rock hard and pre cum was oozing out and onto the inside of my shorts. A wet spot quickly appeared and widened as I kept watching.

After a while, there was some movement. My father pulled out of her mouth. It looked like he was talking to her. Then he took a hold of her by the hair and slapped her across the face with his cock. She winced slightly but didn't look away. He held his cock out in front of her and she slowly leaned forward and kissed it.

He was forcing her to look up at him by pulling her hair back. With her chin jutting up, her breasts pushed out because of the angle he was holding her, he slapped her face again with his dick. She leaned forward again and kissed the tip lightly.

Then he hovered over her and slapped her face over and over again with his cock. Precum must have splattered out because she kept blinking.

At the end of the cock slaps, he made her kiss his cock again, almost as if in thanks for the treatment she received.

He then let go of her hair and pointed to the bed.

To my amazement, she got on all fours facing the Mac Book and the web cam. She arched her back so that her tits were in view, with erect nubby purple nipples and broad aureola. I wanted to think that she was looking at me and talking to me with her eyes, because her stare at the web cam was so intense. He knelt behind her and took a hold of her hair again. He was certainly the driver and he was taking the reins. With a slow, but steady motion, he began to fuck her on all fours. Every two or three thrusts he spanked her ass, almost in timing. She responded each time it happened, clearly turned on by it. After a while, he began to pound her mercilessly. He was certainly the alpha dog and she was his bitch. Through the doors could hear the muffled noise, and then her screams. I wondered if she was being unusually loud so that I could hear her as well as see her. It didn't matter. Watching her being fucked doggy style was so potent that I jizzed right into my shorts. I stopped as soon as I did, to check if I had been too loud.

I continued to watch after I came. As the orgasm hit and flowed, I felt the descent in my rush. As I kept watching I felt an ache and an envy. What I was watching was wrong on multiple levels. I knew that, but couldn't turn away. As I watched her writhe and buck under his forceful pounding, I felt a sadness for my mom, I felt a loss I couldn't replace, of a boy who didn't have a connection with his father.

It became too much, and I turned off the computer. I was drained from the orgasm, and fell into a post orgasm comatose sleep. That, coupled with the alcohol from the evening took me through the night. When I woke up it was 6:30 am. I lay in bed, not knowing what the mood would be like outside. After lying there for 20 minutes I figured I'd have to brave it.

The entry into civilization was anti-climactic. I could sense from the energy in the space that my father was gone already - no doubt to one of his conference centers. She was outside today, in sweats and a t-shirt, doing a sun salutation out on the deck. I stood and watched how graceful she was as she flowed through the poses. I made coffee again, and left her some.

She came in after she was done and went to the coffee machine. She silently poured herself a cup and then came back to the kitchen counter.

If I worried that she had lost any of her directness I was wrong.

"Did you enjoy the show last night?" She asked

I turned and looked at her. Her voice was steady but she was not looking at me. Eyes down, she was sipping her coffee and waiting for a response.

I shrugged my shoulders, then slowly said "Yes. It was very troubling. I was angry and jealous, but yes. I did enjoy it."

she nodded. "Good." She said. "I'm glad you did".

I looked her then. Because I wanted to understand. I had so much I wanted to say, but I knew I wasn't ready to say most of it. But if I could understand this one thing, perhaps it would help some of it come out at a later time.

"Why?" I asked.

I didn't have to explain the question. She understood.

She looked back at me.

"Because you are your father's son."

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