There comes a point in one's existence when there is no turning back. Ed had just reached that point and, implicitly, had accepted his fate. He was not proud of himself; to the contrary he was ashamed. But things were in motion, the motion was unstoppable, and he had resigned himself to its inevitable conclusion.
He was going to go out on the lanai and masturbate all over his daughter's backside.
For a good ten minutes now he'd been standing just off the kitchen behind the nearer of two sliding glass doors staring at his semi- or outright unconscious daughter as she sunned herself next to the glittering pool. Ariel lay on her belly, her brastrap undone, a skimpy string bikini bottom all that separated her 24-year-old body from being completely naked. And even that minimalist patch of teal nylon left nothing to the imagination. Underneath Ariel's folding chair lay a thick, old-fashioned hard-copy novel, open and also lying face-down, a bottle of water and a pair of sunglasses. But these things were incidental. Ariel's horny dad was concentrating on the luscious spectacle of his daughter's oil-slick, sweat-slick, for-all-intents-and-purposes nude body as it acquired a tan. That body had never been curvier but—was Ariel putting on weight?
Ed also was nearly naked. And if you count the fact that his baggy, variegated swim trunks were down below his balls, the elastic waistband tucked behind them as a matter of fact, producing a bulging effect not unlike looking at them through the magnification of water, he truly was. Naked. Completely exposed at any rate.
Prior to three nights ago, when Ariel unexpectedly arrived—"Dad, I'm at the airport. Don't have money for an Uber. Can you, like, pick me up?"—Ed hadn't seen his daughter in over two years. Ever since the break-up with her mother, consummated almost the second Ariel graduated from college, father and daughter had been, well, estranged. Emails, texts, phone calls went unanswered; Christmas gifts unrequited. And absolutely nothing received on Ed's birthday, not even when he rang the bell at 50. Ariel had apparently blamed her dad for the break-up—despite the fact that her mom had unceremoniously run off with a guy more in line with Ariel's age group than middle-aged, perpetually 39 Gloria. They departed on a Harley. Next stop New Mexico. Or was it Arizona? It was left to poor cuckolded Ed to pack Gloria's voluminous stuff up and ship it off.
Now, without much—so far—in the way of explanation, Ariel was back. With plans, big plans, but without a job, a car, or a cent to her name other than what Ed had so far provided her. Beyond that came no explanations, lots taken for granted, and a heady determination, for these first few days at least—"while I think about my future"—to acquire a suntan. But had Ariel put on weight? Her face rounder? Her breasts fuller? Hips wider? Her waist and thighs thicker perhaps? And was that beautiful ass of hers even fleshier? Rounder? Firmer?
One thing was for sure: Ariel fit quite nicely into her mom's left-behind teal bikini—something that could not have been said two or three or certainly four or five years ago.
So now, on a Saturday, three days in, Ed was staring at that bikini-clad body while secretly stroking himself in andante fashion—not too fast, not too slow. A walking pace as it were. He did not want to cum prematurely, as was his wont (just ask a frustrated Gloria). In fact, as the irreversible wheels turned in his fevered mind, Ed wanted to save it—for his daughter's bare back. He would—soon now—slide the glass door open quietly; walk barefoot across the lanai to the folding chair; stand on the right side of his daughter, at about thigh-level; point the thing at her, bending it down; increase his hand's tempo to allegro; and then...
...blast off!
Ed knew exactly what would follow. Ariel would shriek and twist her head around. Probably in her confused and half-conscious state she would mistakenly think she was lying on a beach (and not in the sinecure of dad's screened-in pool) and a seagull, a fucking seagull, had just flown past and dropped his sloppy load on her. Corkscrewing further, and rising, with frown, she would see her father's hasty retreat, swim trunks rising as he ran, even as his fresh load of sperm ran south down Ariel's back to her right side and began dripping from there to chair's lattice. Disgusting!
Knowing Ariel, bit now between her gnashing teeth, she would dive in the pool (shallow end) to purify herself (rather like someone in Greek mythology), partially dry off and chase after her dad wrapped in a towel. Ariel that is, until, at last, she found him cowering in a far corner of the master bedroom—as far as he could go without jumping through a window.
"Dad are you crazy? What's gotten into you? Are you sick? I'm your daughter, dad! That was, like, incest! Know what incest is? You need help! I come home after two years and this is what you do to me? You jerk off on your own daughter? Sick! You're a sick man! You're mentally ill!
"I'm outta here!" Ariel might continue. "Where's your wallet? I need money for an Uber and a plane ticket somewhere. Anywhere! I'm telling mom! I should call the police! Where're your pants at? I'm taking cash and a credit card and there's nothing you can do about it! You can cancel it tomorrow, I don't give a shit! You owe me for this, dad. You owe me big time! Otherwise I tell mom what you fuckin' did and...and she'll come down here and fuckin' kill you!
"Where's his wallet at?" stomping down the hall on wet, bare, size nines.
Or...
Finding you slumped in the corner the former psych major enters wordlessly and lowers herself beside you and shushes your feeble apologies and brushes the thinning hair back from your face. She says, soothingly:
"Daddy, you're so lonely. This is what loneliness does to people. It's a cancer. Have you dated one person since mom ran out on you? One? Man or woman I don't care. I bet you've been spending all your time cooped up in this big old house. We don't even have a dog anymore, dad, since Blitzkrieg died.
"Jesus, daddy. Poor dad," again stroking your forehead. She settles in closer, so your bodies touch. Her towel is falling away, her flesh sun-warm. "Daddy, why didn't you tell me you wanted me? You could've had me the first night. I would've slept with you, fulfilled your needs. I'd be glad to. Why didn't you say something?"
Giggles: "You didn't have to shoot it on me, daddy. You could've shot it IN me. I don't care. I'm in a good place sexually right now. It's safe. A hundred percent. We can make love every night if you want. Or as often as you...I know how you older guys are," giggling again. "But it's, like, zero guilt, dad. Repeat after me: Zero guilt, understand? There's nothing to worry about, nothing to be ashamed of. Love-making. It's the ultimate expression of, well, two peoples' affection for one another.
"I'll suck your cock, too, dad," she might go on, in this variation on a theme. "Get you all revved up. I'm not like mom. I LOVE sucking cock. I know, I know how it was. I heard these things, OK? Through the walls? Relax, dad."
Then, accompanied by more stroking: "You know your credit card? The AMEX? You can get a second card in my name, right? It would just be for the short term while I, um, get back on my feet. A few months, tops. Just so I have some independence and I don't have to bug you every time I...I...need to get a pedicure or whatever." (Giggles) "We could go again right now, dad. I mean...for the first time. We could do it right here on the floor. Or on the bed, I don't care. What? No?
"I know! Let's get naked and go for a swim! The neighbors can't see. And who cares if they can? Fuck 'em. Father-daughter love is a beautiful thing..."
These are two (out of myriad) possible outcomes.
Here's a third:
Ariel rouses herself even as you advance on the chair, erection in hand. She looks around, frowns disconcertingly and puts on her lollipop sunglasses.
"Daddy, what the...?"
You stop. Grab a towel off the back of a nearby chair and enshroud yourself, your pointy lower self, with it. "Ariel, I'm sorry. I had a...a...I looked out the door and saw you and for a moment I thought it was your mom. Her bathing suit and all. I had a kind of...a flashback and for a moment I thought we were together again."
"We are together again, dad."
"No, I mean your mom and me."
"Oh, poor dad. Really? You thought I was mom?"
A feeble nod.
"I'm a lot skinnier than mom aren't I?" your daughter vainly protests, holding, pressing, her mom's bikini bra to her mom's voluminous boobs.
"Well not when I...I first met her. Not when I was...she was your, um, age."
"Oh. Cool!" your daughter declares, for some reason. Then: "Did you and mom, like, ever do it out here? By the pool?"
"Oh, sure."
"IN the pool?"
"Sure."
"Let's get in the pool and do it right now. No one'll see. We'll be under water!"
