New Horizons (pt. 01)

"That was nice," my wife whispered, as I rolled off her.

I could hear her shuffling as she pulled on her pyjama bottoms, and decided I should do the same, trying to avoid catching my t-shirt on my dwindling dick and leaving marks like snail trails.

I quickly wiped my prick with a tissue, removing both my own emanations and the lubricant my wife used, before slipping into the baggy trousers and sliding under the quilt.

And that was that. Our weekly (well - three out of four weeks) round of sex, over and done with. Every Saturday, regular as clockwork, except for birthdays, our Anniversary and Valentine's Day. I just hoped none of those fell on a Saturday.

It was good. We would watch TV until about 10.30, with a glass of wine each. She would change in the bathroom, and I changed in the bedroom, then lights went out and we got into bed.

Our goodnight kiss would be extended, and she would push her body into me. I would feel myself getting erect. Her hand wandered down, touching my swelling cock, and she would giggle.

"Ooh. Someone's feeling naughty," she would whisper, and stroke me.

I would lift her top and play with her breasts, touching her nipples, feeling them harden to my touch.

Then we would spring apart, each of us discarding our lower garments, then she fumbled in her drawer, found whatever lubricant she used in her bedside cabinet and rubbed it between her legs.

We came back together, and my fingers found her private parts, while her hand encircled mine.

After a couple of minutes playing, I would claim on top of her and push my way inside. Then I would hump away until I shot my load.

"That was nice," she would say.

Sound boring? It wasn't. I love and respect my wife and would never do anything that might impair her dignity. If this routine makes her happy. So be it. I'm happy too.

But... I'm not. In the middle of each week, I masturbated several times. I watched porn and wondered how the women got such pleasure from sucking a cock, or anal sex, or being spanked, or sharing with others, or exposing themselves to strangers or friends, pushed pieces of plastic into themselves, crushed their nipples with clamps. I know it objectified them. Surely, they must feel used, disrespected. Still... it made me hard as I jerked off onto a wad of tissue paper.

I loved watching oral sex. And women having sex with two men. And two women. And two women having sex (fucking) one man. And... well... you get the picture.

However, we were both in our mid-forties, married over twenty years. Surely once a week was as much as I was entitled to.

As I rolled over, I wondered if I should ask. We were still on a post-coital high. Well - I was. Maybe now was the time to ask if she would suck me. Or if we could actually be naked when we had sex. Or if we could keep the light on. Or...

That was the thing. She was still beautiful. She trained at the gym with me, was a keen swimmer and generally kept fit. After two kids, her figure was remarkable. Slim, just a few stretch marks (if she ever exposed them, on holiday or whatever, she called them her 'tiger stripes' and smiled proudly) as evidence of our daughter, hips broadening as a mature woman should, bum firmer and rounder than her friends. And her breasts... mmm... large, rounded, soft pillows. A DD cup enhanced by the slimness of her body, which attracted attention everywhere.

She always said she hated the attention - "Why can't people look at my face?" - but I often suspected she protested too much.

I used to get incredibly jealous. My blood would boil if I saw another man looking at her, but I mellowed. I don't know what it was. Maybe half a dozen doctors staring at my wife's cunt when she pushed out our daughter had some effect. Maybe I just got older and less body conscious. Whatever it was, I came to accept, and more recently, I actually liked it when guys checked her out. I felt proud.

Whatever. Our life was good. We loved each other and were happy with our routine.

Of course, our daughter would be home from University soon, with her friend, which might disrupt our routines. We certainly wouldn't have sex while they were awake - but thankfully we made very little noise, so maybe we could keep going most of the time.

The day after our Saturday 'naughty time,' my daughter appeared, as bright-eyed and vivacious as ever. She dashed in, threw her firm muscular arms around me and pressed her well-rounded twenty-year-old breasts into my chest as she kissed me.

She was a younger version of her mother - blonde hair, blue eyes, heavy up top and slim down below. She was tanned from a short holiday in the Spanish islands and glowed with a passion for life. A terrifying prospect for any parent. I remembered well how every red-blooded male at my University had wanted to get in her mother's knickers - but I was the one who, after six months of dating, finally got to slide into her.

I wondered if my daughter made the men at her University wait six months. Somehow, I doubted it, and a brief rush of parental outrage flowed through me.

Behind her stood a small girl dressed in baggy jeans and an oversize t-shirt, sporting the name of a band I'd never heard of. The effect was to render her utterly shapeless. She had auburn hair and freckles. Green eyes peered up at me through a pair of round spectacles.

"This is Imogen," my daughter enthused, "Immy, this is my dad, Kevin."

The girl stepped forward, extending a limp hand. I took it and was surprised as the fingers curled firmly around my hand. She held me firmly, her eyes fixed on my mine.

"Hi Kev. Good to meet you."

My daughter jumped in, just as the moment became a little uncomfortable.

"Immy's stopping for four weeks, if it's OK. Her mum and stepdad have buggered off on holiday to Australia and she doesn't want to be home alone. Is that OK?"

My wife and I nodded our agreement. We had a spare room that was unused, and it was good to see our daughter with a friend - especially as the friend didn't look the sort to go to night clubs and cause chaos. A bit of loud heavy metal, maybe, but I could live with that. Would be like getting back to my youth.

We helped them to unload their possessions from my daughter's car and left them to settle in their rooms.

Over the next few days, everything was fine. Imogen gradually came out of her shell, starting to join conversations a little, occasionally smiling, but retaining her distance from us - which was a little odd, as we heard her and my daughter laughing and enjoying themselves as one would expect people of their age to do.

They were an odd pair. My daughter had a penchant for tight crop tops, showing her toned belly and emphasising her breasts, often paired with denim shorts. Imogen, meanwhile, kept to her baggy jeans and outsize t-shirt, totally hiding her shape. I wondered if she had major body issues - perhaps scarring or something else that made her self-conscious. Regardless, even in the hottest weather, she remained embarrassingly overdressed.

On the third day, we decided to go wild swimming at a nearby pond - all of us except Imogen.

I wore swimming shorts - and was glad I had, as I watched my wife in her bikini - a respectable outfit, but which drew many admiring looks as her nipples hardened after being in the cold water.

My daughter's bikini was less 'respectable.' Much of her large breasts were on show, and as she emerged, I got the impression that the small triangles of the top were held in place solely by her nipples, which matched her mother's in their pert rigidity. The bottoms, too, were revealing. Her bum cheeks were exposed as two round, smooth peaches, while the front barely covered her slit, and made it clear that she had to be shaved.

My two ladies behaved totally naturally, as if unaware of the admiring glances they drew. I sat on the floor near Imogen, and basked in the sun, feeling like a king as others gawped at my harem - not that I had sex with my daughter, of course, but she was still mine.

It was as mother and daughter stood in front of me, bending over to sort out towels and dry clothing, that I felt myself getting hard. It was hardly a surprise. My wife's firm, fleshy buttocks, covered in tight lycra, stretched across her cheeks, next to my daughter's bare arse, as smooth as the day she was born, but slim and muscular.

Not just their arses, though. Their wet costumes moulded to the skin beneath, their vulva obvious - maybe less so for my wife, as hers were hidden beneath neatly trimmed pubic hair. If I had been unsure if my daughter was shaved, I now had absolutely no doubt. I also noted the lack of tan lines and wondered if her holiday had involved wearing even less than she wore now.

Briefly, a wave of guilt overcame me. I was sitting next to my daughter's friend getting an erection looking at my wife and daughter. Was this wrong? I was appreciating my wife's body - but that was a lie. I was also getting horny looking at my daughter.

They stood and wandered off to some bushes to hide while they dried off and changed. I was going to dry in the warm sun.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?"

I jumped at Imogen's voice, apparently reading my mind. Then I blushed. My erection was invisible in my shorts (I hoped, anyway), but maybe my face conveyed my lust, and the pleasure I took in admiring their arses and cunts.

I was so surprised that I was speechless for a minute.

"Er... thank you." I mumbled incoherently and nonsensically.

"You're lucky," Imogen went on, "all three of you look great. Must be the swimming and the gym. I'm more into sport. I play football and cricket."

I looked at her in surprise - she didn't seem the sort for team sports, being so quiet.

I felt her eyes on me and realised that she was looking me up and down. I wriggled to make certain my erection was hidden.

"They're lucky too," she continued, "you look after yourself. So many men just let themselves go as they get older. My dad was very large when he died."

"Oh. I'm sorry," I mumbled.

"Don't be. It was a while ago. Cancer. Nothing to do with his weight - mind you, he lost it all in the last few months. Looked like a famine victim in the end."

She fell silent, and as my two beauties came back towards us, muttered one last sentence.

"I wish my dad had been like you. I feel really comfortable with you."

After that, it was as if an invisible barrier between Imogen and I had been broken. We chatted and laughed together, relaxed in each other's company and started to feel like friends. My daughter even commented on it:

"It's great to see you and Immy getting on so well. Her dad died and her stepdad's a real prick. She needs a father figure in her life."

I felt rather proud. It was great to know that I was helping.

It wasn't until the next day that I realised just how comfortable Imogen was.

I was working from home, as I do for three days a week, and had been in my 'study' - the tiny box room upstairs. I had finished a Zoom meeting and completed the necessary paperwork, and it was time for a break.

I walked on to the landing and stretched, just as the bathroom door opened. Out stepped Imogen in a silky, very short bath robe, her hair wrapped in a towel.

My mouth dropped. It was the first time I had seen without jeans and t-shirt, but more than that, the robe had plastered itself to her wet skin, becoming translucent where it touched. Her dark, round areolae and sharply pointed nipples were plainly visible, as were her shapely legs, pale as alabaster, but as developed as I would expect from a football player.

At first, she didn't see me.

"Shit," she muttered, turned back and bent over to pick up her glasses from the bathroom floor. The robe rode up, her bum clearly displayed to me, along with a flash of pussy lips.

She stood and turned, spotting me. She giggled.

"Oops. Sorry. You must have got quite an eyeful. I s'pose you're used to it though, with a wife like Marie and a daughter like Emmy. She's always running about naked in her Uni lodgings. Don't blame her with a body like that."

"Um... it's a long time since she's done that at home," I replied, "I don't think I've seen her... like that... since she was so young she didn't care."

Imogen smiled, apparently unaware of her nipples, so clearly revealed beneath her robe.

"OK. But you obviously see Marie quite a bit."

I shook my head. "No. She changes in the bathroom. We don't tend to do that sort of thing I don't know why not. We just don't."

Still, Imogen showed no desire to curtail the conversation.

"Really? You poor thing. How unfair. Oh well. You've seen most of me now." She looked down at the shadowy outlines of her breasts and the rigid points atop them. "Hope you enjoyed it."

With that, she gave me a rare smile and skipped away to her room.

I turned and rushed back to my study, rock hard now and desperate for the company of some of the wanton young women on my favourite 'adult' website. I clicked on a video of two female 'students' having sex with an older man and jerked off into a tissue from a box which I kept handy in there. As the performer in the video emptied his balls over the faces of the two women, I visualised myself in his place, and the faces of Imogen and my daughter greedily slurping the string of creamy ejaculate that flowed freely.

Over the next couple of days, things were entirely normal - with the exception that Saturday Night Sex didn't happen. I made my usual overtures, but my wife pushed back, reminding me that Emmy and Immy were in the house and still up and about, and we wouldn't want them to hear.

I lay there, hard and unsatisfied, gently stroking myself and contemplating a good wank as my wife's breathing settled into the gentle rhythm of sleep. I was too irritated though. I knew they wouldn't hear us - and if they did, so what. From what Imogen said and did, they were more likely to be impressed than traumatised.

I turned over and lay awake, too sexually charged and annoyed to sleep. I imagined making love with Imogen - not the standard, lights out, missionary position that I had with my wife, but every type of sex I saw in my porn videos. I was sure Imogen (and my daughter) were into all that - not like my wife with her repressed upbringing and prudish ways.

In some ways, it was lucky that I was awake, or I wouldn't have heard my daughter moaning. At first, I thought she was having a magnificent orgasm (like the ones I saw on screen - I don't think my wife ever had one), either with some hidden sex toy, or perhaps with Imogen. It hadn't escaped me that my daughter might be gay, and I have no real prejudices about that.

The moaning continued, followed by a rush to the bathroom and the sound of vomiting. That's when I realised that it was the sound of pain, not pleasure, that I was hearing.

I dashed out, not thinking about my erection, and bumped (literally) into Imogen, who was also wondering about her friend's distress.

My erection hit her just above her belly button, covered by an oversize sweatshirt, and I was instantly aware that she knew exactly what it was, as our eyes connected.

This was not the time nor place for worrying about a misplaced hard on, however, so we both ignored it and rushed to the bathroom.

My daughter was curled up over the toilet, retching, her body wracked by violent heaving as she sought to expel something from her already empty stomach.

She was naked - I presume she slept that way - and although it was wrong, I gazed appreciatively at her backside as she bent over, noting, for certain this time, the total lack of tan lines.

This, however, was also not the time to consider my daughter's nudity on a foreign beach, especially as my wife appeared. Instead, I grabbed a bath towel and threw it over her.

The next hour was chaos. Emmy slipped on a dressing gown eventually, and curled up on the bed, clearly in severe pain. I was despatched to call an ambulance, only to be told there would be a wait of several hours, and couldn't I transport her to hospital myself?

Imogen and I got her to the car, where she curled up in the back, head on Imogen's lap, washing-up bowl nearby, to catch any fresh, gritty, black vomit that might appear. My wife remained at home to clean the bathroom, as the three of us drove across town at high speed.

If that hour was chaos, the next few hours were infuriating. We sat in the Emergency Department, waiting, waiting, while Emily writhed in agony, intermittently vomiting as we tried to get the attention of stressed and overworked nurses who were dealing with the drunken incidents of a Saturday night.

Eventually, with the sun coming up outside, a doctor saw her. He palpated her abdomen, before declaring:

"She needs her appendix out. I'll sort out a bed on the ward and we'll get her on some pain killers and operate as soon as possible."

Then he disappeared, apparently teleported elsewhere, as we never saw him again.

Almost two hours later, a nurse arrived.

"We've found a bed on a ward. Let's get her up there and you can go home."

And that was that. Almost ten hours after we first heard the sound of vomiting, Emily was whisked to a nondescript room on the sixth floor with half a dozen other patients, placed in a bed with various tubes attached, while Emily and I watched her pain being taken away as she drifted off to a drug-induced sleep.

We walked to the car in silence, and it was only as we walked past a catering franchise near the entrance that I realised how hungry I was.

"Let's get coffee and a bite to eat," I decided, "Marie's going to be in bed till mid-afternoon - I've been texting her all night - it'll save bothering when we get back."

Imogen agreed gratefully, and we found a quiet, corner table, with Americanos and two pastries each. I would have loved a full English breakfast, but sadly, these were far too unhealthy to be served in hospitals.

We sat in silence at first, stuffing food and quaffing the searing coffee, not caring about the risk of scalding our mouths. We got two more coffees to drink in a more leisurely manner.

We relaxed and smiled at each other, happy that Emily was in the right place and would have a straightforward operation, followed by a week or so in hospital to recuperate. She would be fine. Obviously, there were lingering concerns, as when anyone is in hospital, but we were satisfied that she would be fine - just a scar marring her perfect skin.

We talked about this for a while, before lapsing into a comfortable silence.

Imogen looked at me, chewing her bottom lip uncertainly, before speaking.

"You had a hard on when you came out last night. I hope all this didn't disturb anything. Emmy says you and Marie always fuck on Saturdays."

I spluttered on my coffee. How the hell did our daughter know that? Imogen laughed, her eyes sparkling as she realised that this was pretty much a taboo subject.

"Sorry. I've embarrassed you. You shouldn't be embarrassed. Fucking's fun. You should do it more often. Lovely people like you should make the most of it while you can."

I stared at her. This girl, in her baggy jeans and outsize t-shirt had said more about our sex life than my wife and I had in over twenty years. I was overcome by an urge to talk to her, to let her be my counsellor, and to see where it all led. First, though, I had a question.

"You've got a good body. I saw most of it after your bath. Why don't you make the most of it?"

She giggled, and it was infectious. Despite my fatigue, I smiled at her.

"Oh, I do," she replied, "I just prefer to save it for people I want to see it. Like Emmy - and you, of course. That way, I choose, and it's special. Not like Emmy. She just likes being looked at. Like on holiday. She disappeared all day to the nude beach, while I went to the bars. Different ways, that's all. Marie likes to be looked at too - and I think you like people looking at them. I noticed when we went swimming."