Paul was at work, and I had a day off. I decided to pop round and check on Dad. Since I was up to date with the laundry and had a casserole quietly cooking for tea, I felt prepared. I had a few hours spare, and seeing Dad was a wonderful way to fill them. I showered, put on clean underwear and a dress and flat shoes, and I was ready.

I grabbed my keys and phone, locked the house and set off for Dad's. He lived just a few miles away in a nicely settled estate. Everyone there knew everyone; they often stood chatting to each other in the summer months as they washed cars and tended to gardens. Most of the houses had couples or families; I think Dad was one of the few widowers on the estate. From what he had said, he was very much included, though. He wasn’t pitied; he was spoken to, and he was invited to gatherings. Yes, it was a lovely estate. I was happy that Dad was there and hoped that he would be able to stay there a while yet.

Dad didn’t have a car. He shopped on the internet, had a weekly shop delivered by Waitrose, and anything else he needed seemed to come from Amazon. If he wanted to go anywhere, he sometimes asked me to take him to places like the garden centre, or he would ask my brother Mik instead. Other times he would take an Uber. He was fine, and I didn’t worry about him at all, but it was still nice to go and see him.

Paul or I always went to pick him up on the first Sunday of the month and had him over for a Sunday dinner. He enjoyed that, and as I cleared away, he would sit in front of the TV with Paul watching the football. Happy and relaxed times. The last Sunday dinner had been two weeks ago; a visit wouldn’t go amiss.

I pulled up in front of his house and reversed onto his drive. His front garden looked tidy; he had swept away the leaves that always seemed to find his garden at this time of the year, and all his shrubs and bushes were trimmed ready for the cold winter months. I rang his doorbell and opened his door.

“Only me, Dad,” I called as I stepped in and slipped my shoes off. Dad doesn’t like outdoor shoes in his house; he had many reasons, too many to list, and I simply followed his wishes.

“In here,” Dad called, his voice coming from the kitchen.

I walked down the hall and into the kitchen, giving Dad a big hug and a squeeze.

“Hello Dad, how are you?” I asked as Dad turned to face me.

“Oh, you know, I’m doing as well as can be expected.”

Dad had never really gotten over the death of Mum. She had contracted pneumonia, and within a couple of weeks, she had faded away and passed on. Dad had been devastated and had withdrawn into a shell for months, but neighbours had rallied around, Mik and I had called and cajoled, and slowly Dad had returned, almost, to his old self.

“Good, so you should be. The front garden looks nice.”

“Yes, I have spent some time out there this past week, between the rain showers. The Acers are looking nice and adding a bit of colour to the garden. I might go to the garden centre in the spring and get a couple more.”

“Well, you only have to say, and I will take you; you know that.”

“I know, I just don’t like to be a bother.”

“You are my dad, the only one I have; it is no bother. Are you going to make me a cup of tea, or am I going to stand here dehydrating?”

Dad tutted and turned away. He filled the kettle and put it on to boil. He rinsed the teapot several times under the hot tap and put it to one side, waiting for the kettle. When the kettle had boiled, he poured some of the boiling water into the pot. He swirled the water around and then tipped it away. He added three spoonfuls of leaves from his caddy and then poured in the boiling water from the kettle. Gave the pot a thorough stir and put the lid on, leaving it to one side to brew.

He poured some hot water from the kettle into two cups, swirled them to warm them up, and then emptied the water away. He took the strainer off its little hook on the wall and rested it on one of the cups. The teapot was picked up and then given a swirl before a tentative pouring of tea through the strainer. Dad looked at the tea in the cup and nodded.

“That looks right,” he said and proceeded to fill the two cups. The strainer was left to drip over an unused cup while Dad went to the fridge to get milk. He topped each cup with milk, placed them on saucers, and slid one towards me.

“We’ll sit in the sitting room,” Dad said, picking up his cup and heading off. I followed, my tea held firmly in my hand. Dad waited for me to sit on the sofa before sitting next to me. The sofa wasn’t huge, but there was room for the two of us, and we each had a side table to put our teacups on while they cooled.

I put my tea on its side table and then dropped my hands; Dad sighed. I looked across at him, and then I looked down. Oh. My hand had landed on his lap, and I could feel his dick getting hard under my palm. I wasn’t sure what to do; should I move my hand or leave it there as if I didn’t know where it was? I think I was most surprised at Dad getting a stiffie; that was a real surprise. I had just assumed he was beyond all that.

Dad leaned back into the sofa; I left my hand where it was. It seemed the most obvious way to ignore my mistake. Dad’s dick was really beginning to push upwards and press into my palm. I turned in the seat, causing my hand to rise, and I retrieved my cup of tea from the side table. My faux pas was corrected; one hand held the saucer, the other the teacup. I sipped at my tea; hopefully I got away with it.

Dad sat up and retrieved his tea, slurping at it. As I drank mine, I was able to look down; it seemed his stiffness had not receded. Gosh, sorry Dad. I wanted to make small talk but didn’t know where to start. I couldn't stop thinking about his hard dick, and almost everything that came to mind sounded like an innuendo. I finished my tea, returning the cup and saucer to the side table, and was very much more careful where I put my hand. This time I rested it on his thigh, keeping away from his crotch.

Dad finished his tea, placed his cup and saucer on the side table, shuffled in his seat, and lowered his hands. His right hand resting firmly on my crotch, a finger perfectly lining up with my crease. I stifled a gasp and stared ahead. Dad’s finger pressed down; I could feel my knickers sliding into my crease. I eased my legs slightly apart, and then I wondered why I had done it.

Dad moved his fingers, and my dress began to ride up. When I had sat down, my dress had flared behind me, and so I wasn’t sitting on the fabric; it was loose, and Dad was revealing my knickers. His finger returned, pressing against my knickers and into my valley, with no dress obstructing it; I gasped, unable to stifle this reaction.

Dad slid his finger to one side, running along the leg hem of my knickers; his fingernail traced along my thigh, and then he eased his fingers inside my knickers.

“Oh fuck,” I gasped as his fingers touched the flesh of my sex and then slid into my valley.

Oh, God, I was so wet; Dad’s fingers slid between my labia, no resistance, moving from my nubbin to my entrance with ease. I eased my legs as far apart as I could; my breathing was ragged, my buttocks clenching. What was happening? I knew what was happening, but why? I knew why; it was because I had made the first move. I had pressed my hand on Dad’s dick. He couldn’t know that had been purely accidental, and now he was responding by feeling me up. I was responding by getting wet, very wet.

I couldn’t reach across with my dominant right hand and hold his dick, not easily. I tried with my left, managing to undo his trousers and fish inside. As I encountered his dick, it lurched strongly, and my fingers curled around it. I moved my hand slowly, easing it up and down, squeezing his dick as I moved.

I gasped loudly and lifted my hips; Dad had found my entrance and pushed in through my opening. Dad was fingering me while I slowly wanked his dick.

Dad said, "Let's go upstairs."

“Yes,” I said. My early mistake had led us down an unexpected path that neither of us could reverse. I gasped as Dad’s fingers pulled out of me, my fanny suddenly feeling empty. I took my left hand back and stood up, my knickers askew in my crotch. I ignored them; I doubted that they would be in place for much longer.

I followed Dad upstairs to his bedroom, Dad clutching his trousers all the way, stopping them from falling. In his bedroom he let go, and they fell in a puddle at his ankles. He stepped out of them and pulled his shirt off. As I was pulling my dress over my head, Dad was removing his underpants, and Dad was standing naked in front of me. As I put my hands behind my back to undo my bra, Dad turned to the bed and pulled the bedding down. I slipped my knickers down and got on the bed; Dad lay at my side looking at my body.

“You are so like your mum, how she used to be when we first got together; the only difference is that she had her hair down there.”

“I have shaved my hair for years, Dad; in fact, I actually use wax. That tends to pull out the hair follicles. I hardly ever have to tidy up nowadays.”

“It wasn’t a thing when we were your age,” Dad said. I knew that it was a common practice, but that 'thing' hadn't reached Mum and Dad at that time. However, Mum was a natural blond like me, which meant that our pubic hair tended to be thinner than that of dark-haired girls, resulting in less coverage.

I reached across and held his dick, squeezing it, and then rolling his foreskin down. I loved to watch as the foreskin slipped over the rim of his glans, which was shining in the bedroom light. I was frankly amazed at how firm Dad’s dick was. The outer skin, his foreskin, was soft and pliable, but inside his dick was exceedingly rigid. It was easily as hard as my rolling pin and just about the same girth. I would never look at my rolling pin in the same way again.

I began moving my hand faster, Dad’s glans appearing and hiding as his foreskin rolled up and down. Dad’s eyes were closed, and for a moment it was as if I were outside my body, looking down. What was I doing? How had this happened? I had popped across to see Dad and have a cup of tea, and now, here I was naked on his bed giving him a wank. What the fuck?

Dad reached down and held my hand, stopping me. He got to his knees and ran his fingers along my crease, each movement moving just a little deeper. I closed my eyes; I wanted to enjoy the sensations. I didn’t want to get lost in a guilt trip. Oh, yes, lovely, just there, Dad.

His fingernail was tracing lines along my valley. I felt him at my entrance; I felt him go beyond my perineum; I felt him press briefly at my urethra; and then, oh my goodness, my nubbin. My pleasures were flowing, my pressures were building. His fingers returned to my entrance, circled it, and then began pressing.

“Oh, yes, Dad, yes,” I said softly as he penetrated me, his fingers pushing past my entrance, through my opening and seeking my depth. Oh, it felt glorious. My legs were as apart as they could be; the movement of his fingernails over the ridges and bumps in my fanny walls was electrifying. My breath was held in my throat, and my buttocks were clenching, as if trying to clamp me to the bed. The sensations were so intense that I began to rise, my back arching.

“Oh, God, fuck,” I screamed as Dad’s tongue lapped at my nubbin, his fingers pushing up from inside. My pleasures were in free flow; my pressures were about to burst. Why? Why was this sensation so pleasurable? Was it taboo in nature? Or had Paul and I simply become too familiar and comfortable with each other?

I heard screaming; it was me. My lungs emptied as my pressures released, and an orgasm exploded through my body. The bed was shaking; it was me. I was bucking up and down and side to side. I could not control myself; my orgasm was so intense. Such pleasures were rare. Paul made me orgasm, but not to this level. I was lying there, my chest heaving, my lungs gasping for air, my throat dry from screaming. I was lost in the moment.

Things felt different. I opened my eyes and looked directly into Dad’s. He was above me, and the different feeling was his dick, replacing his fingers. He was pushing inside me. My fanny opened like a flower’s petals under the sun, my buttocks relaxed, my thighs moved further apart, and I was full. My dad was deep inside me, the end of his dick at my depth, pressing my womb open, pushing my depth deeper inside me.

Dad leant down and pressed his lips on mine; my mouth opened, and his tongue invaded. As his tongue pressed in, I felt his dick recede, my fanny emptying, and a feeling of longing to be filled again.

“Oof, fuck,” I gasped as Dad slammed his dick back into me, air rushing from my lungs. My fingers screwed into his bedding, my buttocks tightened, and my mouth pressed hard against his as my eyes locked onto his. His eyes smiled, and he withdrew again.

“Oof,” he slammed into me again and withdrew and slammed and withdrew. He was fucking me with an intensity I hadn’t experienced since Michael Thompson when I was at college. Faster and faster his dick moved inside me, louder and louder the slaps of his belly against mine. There was no doubt, there was no fantasy, no hallucination or daydream; my dad was fucking my brains out.

It wasn’t gentle lovemaking; it was primal, animalistic fucking, and I knew it. I was grunting as his dick thrust in, and I was gasping as he pulled out. My fingers moved from the bed and pushed at his shoulders, driving him on. Somehow I was gasping ‘yes’ as I was being fucked, a mantra of ‘yes yes’ between the cracks of the slaps and the grunts.

Dad’s tongue pushed into my mouth harder than before, pinning my tongue to the floor of my mouth, drool flooded me, and then Dad slammed in harder than before and stopped moving. I felt his spurts deep within me, powerful and cool as he filled my fanny, and I let go again. Screaming, grasping, clamping, tightening, back arching.

Dad pulled back and slammed in once more; vaguely, I felt him unload more sperm in my fanny. I was out of it. I collapsed back into the bed, arms outstretched, legs wide apart, breast heaving on my chest. Dad moved away, our lips parted, and his dick slipped from my fanny with a gurgling sound. He rolled onto his back next to me; I just lay unmoving. I could feel the cool of his sperm as it dribbled out of me, down my perineum, pooling beneath my buttocks.

 “I didn’t know why you held my dick,” I heard Dad say from somewhere. “I just touched you, and you responded. This was something else, though, Mica.”

I didn’t like to tell him that touching his dick was an accident.