This is a follow-up to "From This I Was Made," published in the incest/taboo section 3/17/17. Reading that story first helps gain insight into this one. Both, however, can stand nicely on their own.
*
Roland King knows the drive home will take him close to a half hour, and that's a good thing because he needs time to cool off and gather his wits about him. He knows his wife Emily will ask him why he stopped over Carrie Ann's after work. She'll ask this not out of suspicion but curiosity, and he better come up with a plausible answer if he wants to keep it that way. Obviously, telling the truth is no option. Telling Emily that he and their daughter made wild love wouldn't go over too well. The shower he took over Carrie Ann's cleansed him on the outside, washed away her lovely scent from his body. Inside, he feels less than clean. How could he feel otherwise after fucking his own daughter? Even so, he had to admit it might be the most exciting sex he ever had. He hates feeling like a pervert, yet not enough to resist another round of taboo intimacy with the sexy Carrie Ann if she is so inclined, and he has no doubt that she is.
Pulling up to his split-level home in upper-middleclass, suburban Berwyn, he's got a ready answer for his stopover at Carrie Ann's. It was "business related" he tells Emily upon entering the house, finding her on the stuffed white sofa in their cozy den, reading a Jacqueline Susann novel. "We needed to go over some work that we didn't have time for in the office," he says. He volunteers this bogus information before she even asks. She's attired in a plain old housedress. Like Roland, she's in her late forties, and still attractive enough to collect her share of admiring glances by men, both older and younger. She's tall for a woman, though not as tall as her daughter, and her still young looking skin bodes well for Carrie Ann aging gracefully into middle age. Her hair, once as brown and long as Carrie Ann's, is shorter now, shoulder length, and streaked with blond lightener. And that body, still firm and thin and the envy of her women friends sliding into middle-age sag.
He stands on the parquet floor, suit jacket slung over his shoulder, barely able to look his wife in the eye. Fishing for a diversion, he asks her about the book. "Any good?"
"Can barely put it down," she says, crossing her legs. She looks up, hones in on his hair. "It's not raining, is it?"
"Raining? No, why?"
She marks her place in the book and places it on her lap. Then she says, "Because your hair looks a little wet, like you've been out in a drizzle."
He runs a hand through his thick, chestnut hair. "Um, so it is." He forces a smile.
Grinning, she says, "Did you and Carrie Ann have a water gun fight or something? I remember when you two used to do that in the backyard during the summer."
"Right," he says, remembering very well. "Now we just lob water balloons at each other." He forces a chuckle.
Her grin melts. "I can believe that. She was always daddy's girl, always having more fun with you than she did with me. I'm sure you've become even closer since she joined the firm." She says this more as a statement of fact than a lament.
He swallows hard. If you were more nurturing, he thinks, she'd be close to you too. "Become closer? Professionally, I suppose we have. Outside the office it's the same."
She nods. "Okay, well, I guess you want to take a shower. So why don't you do that. Meanwhile, I'll finish this chapter." She reopens her book and begins to read.
Upstairs, he strips and jumps in the shower, his second of the evening. He'll go to any length to allay even a hint of suspicion of what took place between himself and Carrie Ann. Any lingering scent of sex should be totally gone now, he thinks. Thoughts of Carrie Ann's long, beautiful legs wrapped around him arouse him once again. Closing his hand around his soapy dick, he begins to stroke. He can still hear Carrie Ann's moans ringing in his ears, can still feel her firm breasts and smooth skin, can still see her body quiver before she passed out. It doesn't take long for him to ejaculate into the soothing jets of warm water.
Just as he steps from the shower, the door opens and there stands Emily, fully in the buff. "That book makes me very horny, Roland," she says, spreading her legs and rubbing her pussy. "There's more steam on one page than there is in this bathroom. I know that Jacqueline Susann isn't exactly your cup of tea. But if you ever read her, you'll know what I mean. So, can you do me?" She reaches out and wraps her hand around his now limp dick. "I want this, Roland. So stiffen up, baby."
He looks her over wearing a smile of shame. If only he had known, he would have saved that second orgasm for his wife while still fantasizing about his daughter. Alas, he didn't and now he's running on empty, unable to perform three times in as many hours as he once did. He knows he's faced with two choices: make up an excuse or try to "do" Emily another way. It's been a few weeks since they last made love, a quickie on the living room rug right before they left the house to meet another couple for dinner. She'd be in a sour mood for days if he rejected her, creating the sort of tension that can make for some very unpleasant domestic relations.
Grabbing a towel, he says, "I'll meet you in the bedroom, dear."
"Don't take too long," she says, then shuts the door on her way out.
Well, there's always my tongue, he thinks while drying his hair. He's gotten her off that way before. The problem, though, is that she wants his dick—now, not later—something she just made perfectly clear.
When he enters the room, she's on her side, clutching the sheet to her chest, a warm, seductive smile creasing her lips. He slips under the covers and pulls her toward him. Engaging her in a long smooch, he figures, will buy him some time. Making out like this came so naturally during the honeymoon phase of their marriage. Now, it's a rare thing, supplanted by quick pecks on the lips or mouth, mechanical and routine. That quickie they had on the rug was rarer still, a spontaneous thing driven by a mutual explosion of lust, the epitome of perfect timing.
He's still limp when he slides down between her legs. He never liked doing this with Emily. Her pussy, no matter what she did, always had a less than pleasant odor, far from the sweet-musty fragrance of her daughter's. Still, he goes to work, buying time, hoping he can get her off this way. He rubs his dick against the mattress, trying his best for a third hurrah. Her groans and thoughts of Carrie Ann do something, though still not enough for him to perform. Ready or not, she's crying for him to enter her, and not just with his tongue. The music has arrived and now he has little choice but to face it.
He moves up between her legs, supporting himself on his arms. He feels a sense of desperation flapping his barely hard cock against her wet pussy, hoping for a minor miracle. He sucks on her nipples, kisses her tummy, tugs on his cock. Nothing. "I'm trying, Emily, I'm sincerely trying," he says.
She grunts in frustration. "Well, try harder, Roland, because I need that dick of yours. Ram it home like you did on the rug that time."
Roland knows this will never work. In addition to being out of gas, he's now saddled with performance anxiety. He's had it before, knows the futility of "trying" to get an erection. Trying harder only makes things worse. He leans over and kisses her on the mouth. "I'm sorry, Emily. Guess it just isn't my night."
