Oh lovely pussy, oh pussy my love,
What a beautiful pussy you are, you are,
What a beautiful pussy you are.
(Edward Lear)
Sat at the large desk in his spacious office, Don reflected on the 17 happy years of marriage he'd enjoyed with Debbie; his soul mate, his best friend and, above all, his lover.
Marietta was the product of just one of their many, many unions. A not too common name for a British girl child, Marietta was chosen as a beautiful name for a beautiful baby and despite her name being contracted to Mari - a two syllable alternative to a four syllable mouthful, Mari continued to be beautiful through her childhood years, through puberty and adolescence to her current 19 years, a fact not unnoticed by the many boys who vied for her friendship since she first started school, 14 years before.
Born out of wedlock? Not at all, for Donald and Deborah had been married for just over 22 years. All their happy, fulfilling unions were as regular as could ever be wished for, a simple daily pill postponing Mari's arrival until the happy pair were ready to welcome a new baby into their life.
Sadly the happy pair were no longer a happy pair. 17 years of marital bliss - except for the occasional tiff - had ended when Debbie had volunteered to help at a church based soup kitchen and food bank 5 years before. Not both tasks at the same time, I would add. The food bank, handing out a carrier bag full of donated groceries to families in dire need, ran through the day. The soup kitchen ran evenings, except lunchtimes as well in the depth of winter, when the homeless or lonely people gathered for a simple meal, a wash, an occasional change of donated clothes, or simply for a chance of seeing a happy smiling face followed by a chat with others in a similar situation to themselves.
That's where Debbie excelled. Debbie wore a smile from the moment she awoke to the moment she allowed herself to succumb to sleep, after a tiring day. She could talk, too. She could make someone who she'd known for just a few minutes go away feeling that she'd known them all their life.
Don sat back in his very comfortable, luxurious leather office chair. Equipped initially with an accounting degree and a higher national diploma in business studies, he'd worked his way through various positions, starting in small, local estate agency. Such were his abilities as a salesman, Don quickly earned the agency a reputation for selling houses quickly. Offered a position with a larger agency, he took up the challenge and, later, through mergers, acquisitions and damned hard graft he become a partner in a regional network of top-end high street agencies. Commercial and residential ownership, lettings, leasing of land - all came under the umbrella of businesses they owned. In short, he was talented, successful and rich.
This success had meant that Debbie had no real need to work. Embarrassed at times at the salary with regular bonuses that Don earned - and estate agents are well renowned for charging high fees - Debbie began to repay the community through her voluntary work. Don often worked hours to suit his wealthy clients. A major land deal, a large company seeking new premises or major contract office leasing all meant keeping your potential client happy until the deal was signed. There were times when Debbie rightly felt neglected.
***
Mari stood in the shower, the warm water tricking down over her head, easing her shoulders, running playfully over her small breasts, down her tummy to where daddy's razor removed even the slightest stubble from her perfectly shaped pussy. She soaped the area again, not with her usual top quality shower cream but with daddy's sports-branded shaving gel. She liked the gel. It tingled, and it tingled in just the right places. It was meant, of course, to freshen a man's face, to awaken his facial senses ready for the day ahead, to awaken what might remain from the night asleep in bed, but Mari knew it refreshed other parts as well.
She carefully washed her long auburn hair, again with an amazingly fragranced herbal shampoo bought online from a top London store. The herbs had been carefully chosen, carefully blended to invoke a sense of smell that invaded her brain, made her feel good, made her feel so bloody damned good. It was 10.37am by the radio frequency clock on the bathroom wall, a clock - like all other clocks in the house - that picked up the caesium atomic time signal transmitted from Cumbria.
Daddy's life was ruled by the clock. Timing had to be perfect, his life had to be timed to perfection. In his mind even one minute late to an important meeting could mean a contract was doomed, one minute could ruin his whole day. If a man could be totally obsessed with time then it was her daddy, to a T. Mari turned her attention back to the senses her shampoo was invoking. The luxurious foam was running down, tickling her nipples as it ran over them. She let the foam run lower, teasing the perfect valley atop her legs. She dipped her finger, her eyes closed to avoid any sting from the foam. Concentrating fully on one single finger, placed automatically without any conscious thought in the place which felt so damned good, she began the slow, rhythmic movement that started the cycle which ultimately led to release.
Mari was bright, eager to learn at school then college. She had an artistic mind, passed on to her by her mother. She also had a logical mind and an excellent memory, courtesy of her father. The three, blended together, helped just now, helped every day in fact to enhance what had become a daily ritual, sometimes a twice-daily ritual. Sod it, who was she kidding? Nothing wrong with six times a day. Her eyes now tightly shut, the water and the lather now stimulating her, she pictured her daddy in her mind. The image used to be of a boyfriend but since she had stumbled one morning out of her bedroom, sleep still numbing her brain, desperate for a pee and into the bathroom where her daddy was showering, the mental picture she used for her daily masturbation was strictly of her daddy.
Sure, she had seen him naked in the past, but that was quite some while ago when her brain was much less aware of such sexual delights. This particular occasion was only months before, indeed only, what, 8 or 9 weeks ago. Mari conjured up the full vision again, her artistic brain able to burn the image into permanent memory. He, like her just now, had his eyes closed. He also, like her, had been shampooing his hair. He too, like her, had let the foam run down his hairy chest, his flat muscled stomach, his taut abdomen, his cock.
He wasn't masturbating, not a sneaky tug whilst showering ... but he wasn't leaving his generous length alone either. He seemed to be pulling his foreskin back, in a quite routine way of personal cleanliness, revealing a shiny knob which he ran his fingers over, then pulled his foreskin back as if wanking. But maybe, thought Mari, this was a thorough cleansing wash, that was all. She was wrong about the apparent gentle washing, the tugging of his foreskin back and forth, a look of concentration on his face, his eyes still closed. The same semi-limp generous length of male pleasure was now thick, swollen and, Mari supposed, steel hard. Would he continue and shoot his load? Mari dare not stay to find out.
Of course, Mari was not to know. What she had seen was a shower swollen daddy phallus; her daddy's cock in all its temporarily swollen glory, the head perfectly shaped, the veins on the shaft standing out. Mari wiped and returned to her bedroom before her daddy's eyes opened, not daring to flush. Hell, if mummy had known then both her and daddy would be subject to a long lecture. She waited in her bed, eyes closed in case daddy had any inkling of what had happened, or had wondered why the un-flushed toilet had a pussy-wiped tissue. She feigned sleep, just in case.
Mari, in her sleep fogged state had forgotten daddy was going straight to a client appointment from home. Of course he had showered and shaved, but now he was dressed and downstairs. She moved her hand, her well educated fingers feeling out her own copious lubrication. There was the very slightest of stubble there - that she would sort out later. Right now a picture was fixed in her head; a moving picture, like a video playing. With her eyes closed could easily see a replay of daddy teasing his own senses. Had he cum? She didn't need to know. All she needed were two lubricated fingers massaging that special pea sized lump that felt so bloody fantastic until she sailed over that beautiful, wonderful point of no return.
Her mind suddenly returned to the present and, once again, under that warm shower, her dexterous fingers working madly, once again she sailed over that oh so familiar edge. It felt better, so much better when she concentrated on daddy, when she concentrated on daddy's huge cock. Boys came and went. All they wanted was blowing off, a wank, a crafty feel inside her knickers. Daddy was always there, safely locked in that taped recording in her head - no batteries required.
***
Debbie chatted away to the people she was helping to cope. Each had a voucher from the Social, the government agency that decided who were needy and who were just trying to greedily grab any hand-out that they could. Debbie knew the signs of the occasional person trying to bypass the voucher, those with sunken, bloodshot eyes, faces drawn and thin, their attempted parcel of food being sold in return for their next fix.
That aside, Debbie chatted away, listening occasionally to a story of how a family once thriving had to humble themselves, accepting charity through no fault of their own. The steelworks had closed. A job for life became a job until cheap imported steel robbed the men of their livelihood. Fat pay packets became a fortnightly Social Security transfer to their empty bank account. She chatted too to church people and had joined their ladies circle, meeting every Monday evening in the church hall.
Debbie didn't go to church as such. She didn't go to hear the vicar preach about God, or Jesus, or the Holy Spirit, or the transformation of lives. She went every Monday to chat with new friends she'd made there. One or two had commented on a particular low cut sweater, or her nipples poking through her thin but comfortable and supportive bra, her nipples so erect as to be visible through her silk blouse too. They talked too about how teenage girls, for they knew of Mari, could innocently arouse their father's natural desires to copulate. Indeed, Debbie too could cause lust to raise its ugly head by wearing such sexual clothing. Sex, even with her husband, should only happen occasionally and to have marital sex even once a month would surely invoke the Devil himself.
