Under-dressed and rain-splattered, my entry into the bar caused some disruption. Every male eye in the barroom must have been on me and my slightly damp T-shirt. I felt somewhat conspicuous and was glad Daddy greeted me as a friend rather than a daughter; that made me feel like a saucy young tart, possibly one of the hired variety. And it made me feel good too.
No, it made me feel better than merely good . . .
‘Lotus,’ he said, holding his arms out wide, ‘at last!’
‘I’m bang on time,’ I protested, kissing both his cheeks. ‘Good old British Rail . . . or whatever they call themselves this week.’
Within two minutes we were armed with pints of Doom Bar (by far the best beer ever to come out of Cornwall, in my opinion) and sitting apart from his barfly mates.
Ten minutes after that we were eating a decent steak and chips, me flirting, him cautious.
And before we knew it we were calling another cab and heading for bed.
*****
That last statement is inaccurate, by the way. At that stage of the evening we didn’t go anywhere near a bed. No, we made do with Daddy’s exceptionally plush lounge and even plusher leather settee. And Daddy certainly did not have bed on his mind. Well, not for the same reasons as me, anyway.
While I swigged wine he toyed with a small Glenmorangie and tried to explain exactly why it wasn’t a good idea for us to sleep together.
I told him I had no intention of sleeping anytime soon.
He reminded me that what we’d already done together was illegal.
I said it didn’t matter if only the two of us knew and we weren’t for telling.
He pointed out that if we had an “accident” our “offspring” might be terribly deformed.
I reminded him I was on the pill and other options were available if the worst came to the worst.
He observed that Mother would raise holy hell if she ever found out.
I felt he was starting to repeat himself and, instead of arguing, sucked him off. Then I put his still hard cock between my quivering breasts . . .
And that brings us back up to date once more.
Back up to date and delightfully so, I must admit.
*****
It was great having Daddy’s exceptionally large cock burrowing a furrow in my squeezed-together tits; it possibly thrilled me even more than I was thrilling him.
Trust me; I really was happy in my work. If Daddy had lacked at all the previous weekend it was in not paying enough attention to my tits. Okay, it was partially my fault for not encouraging him enough, but it had been an opportunity missed for both of us as far as I was concerned.
And I wasn’t going to miss it again.
‘So good,’ I said, moving on him, moving on him.
I wasn’t exaggerating at all. His skin really was adhering. And the core of him was harder than hard. A distant bit of my brain recalled school. Some of the gobbiest lads had called the fundamental sex act “boning”. It had been a crude and not very nice term . . . but not totally inaccurate.
Yes, those gobby lads (most of them probably still virgins themselves) had described the feeling quite precisely. Daddy did seem to have a big bone inside him; one that moved independently of flesh and skin and whatever else made up his rock-like cock.