This is the story of when I cheated on my wife with my best friend's wife and how I fucked my Mom.
In this first part, we will meet Liv, my best man's gorgeous wife, and my increasing urge to fuck her.
Enjoy the story, and for the record, none of the characters (fictive) are below 18.
Note: I am not en English-speaking person (Swedish) so please try to look beyond grammatical fuck-ups and misspellinnngs.
Warning, this story contains nudity and sexual suggestive language and words (like p...y and c..k). And later on; incest and group sex (well not part 1, so you're safe). IF you do not enjoy stories with this content, I suggest look at stories more to your preferences.
Here we go, round 1.
_____
The first time, I noticed Liv was years before she married Brad, my best friend (I was his best man at the wedding). The sun shone beatifically as I sat on the park bench, eating my turkey sandwich.
It was five minutes past noon, and I was on my lunch break. It was my first job as a financial advisor and I cherish this hour to myself, eating lunch in the park on a sunny, late-spring day, taking in the expansive green lawn before me and the still, blue pond that lay beyond it.
Movement to the side of me caught my attention, and I inclined my head ever so slightly to see the source of the movement, my eyes hidden behind dark aviator sunglasses.
It was a girl my age. She was not just any girl. She was exquisite: Pale skin, large pellucid lips, crimson eyes, dark, thick hair flowing past her shoulders in intemperate waves. Her neck, arms, and legs were slender, but her breasts pushed forward with the succulent, ripe fruit and the firmness of a young girl.
She wore a dress that was no more than a little gauzy, creamy mini tunic, tight at the waist but otherwise loose and flowing and held up by the thinnest of spaghetti straps running over her slim shoulders. From the way her breasts swayed as she walked, I could tell she wasn't wearing a bra, and from the way the sun illuminated her figure, and especially the gap between her legs, I guessed that she wore no panties. She strolled along the curved path to my right, until she sat on the bench next to mine, perhaps 20 feet away.
Taking no mind of me, she pulled a cell phone out of a purse and looked at it.
After watching the ethereal, mysterious angel of a girl, I came to the park and sat on my bench many times.
I wondered what she was doing there; she didn't look like she was in a hurry, like if she would've been on a lunch break. Perhaps she was waiting for a lover. I shifted slightly on the bench toward her so that I could watch her discreetly through my sunglasses. Time passed, and no lover came. Surely, no lover would keep such an angel waiting?
Eventually, she shifted toward me, exposing more of the perfect, lambent skin of her thighs.
Was it intentional? How could it not be? Yet her face remained impassive and her gaze remained fixed on the phone. She was dressed so immodestly for a public park. Surely, everyone who saw her would see that she was naked under her dress. Perhaps her errand was professional, not personal. An escort... That seemed plausible. So at ease with the display of her body, the shopping of her ample feminine wares. If, indeed, she was a professional, was she on a break, or was she looking for business? If the latter, could I afford her?
Suddenly, one day, she looked up from her phone, looked at me, and smiled.
It was only for a moment, and she turned back to her phone, but at that moment, I could tell our connection was more than just professional. I detected a note of invitation, an attraction?
Perhaps this beautiful young sylph had been jilted or mistreated, the subject of a recent painful breakup, maybe, and was looking for companionship.
She recrossed her legs, and for a split second, I saw pale thighs retreating under the slight dress into shadow. I felt a tingle between my legs. Did she want my attention? No, surely not.
Images filled my brain in a montage: the two of us walking hand in hand, out of the park, me removing her dress and making love to her as sunlight streamed through the window of my apartment. The caresses, the lovemaking, the bliss. That pale body, lying on the bed, black hair wildly strewn about. When the lovemaking was done, we would get dressed and go out to dinner, and we would run across my friends in the street, and I would show my newfound angel off to them, and they would tell me how happy we looked together.
But, then, one day, she was gone. Imagine my surprise when my best friend told me he had met a very special girl... The beauty from the park...
____
A year later.
I had just split up from my girlfriend and was staying at my friend's house.
One afternoon, after I had finished work, I went for a run. I think it was a warm day in early September.
I hit the running trail and headed up a steep incline, wearing black nylon shorts, a tight T-shirt, socks, and running shoes. I also wore a GPS watch that would track my time, pace, and distance. My cell phone was Velcroed to my right bicep, allowing me to stream music through tiny headphones stuck to my ears. I'd made a special playlist for my run, mostly complied with hard, pulsing rock music.
After about twenty minutes, my body was covered in sweat. I was running well, my limbs loose and strong. This was my favorite part of the run, the part where I was warmed up but not yet tired.
The sun beat down on me in a cloudless sky, but the glare was no problem because of my sunglasses.
The trail on which I ran curved up the hill. I reached the crest steadily, and before me lay a smooth, flatter stretch with some oak trees scattered around.
On the trail before me, I noticed a woman. She was running too, about 200 yards ahead of me, and she was running slower than I was, but still with grace and vigor. I picked up my pace, estimating I would catch up to her in a few minutes if I kept doing so. As I drew closer to her, I saw her more clearly.
I confess I had a mild fetish for women in running outfits. As a former high school cross-country runner, I had been around runners of both sexes for a long time, and I had developed a keen eye for the way shorts and tops hugged and set off a woman's limbs and curves. The woman ahead of me wore blue shorts and a white shirt. The shorts were short, with probably no more than a 3-inch inseam, and they fit her snugly, accentuating the length and leanness of her legs. As I drew closer to her from behind, I saw the contraction of her thigh and shin muscles with every step. She was a graceful runner. Not all runners are. Some runners plod. Others run with short, jerky steps. This woman's stride was fluid and feral like an animal to whom running came naturally.
As I drew still closer to her, I saw her butt more closely. It was pert and round, like a ripe apple. Definitely not wide like on some older lady, and her hips contrasted with the narrowness of her waist. Her little T-shirt didn't fully cover her.
As she ran, the bottom hem of her shirt moved up and down, momentarily exposing glimpses of the skin of her back just over the waistband of her little shorts.
