Mr Cartwright's Pornography

Freya was sat cross legged on her bed when I finally turned the brass door knob and stepped gingerly inside her room. She looked beautiful, with her blonde locks falling across her face as she read from one of her obscure novels in nothing but a pair of fluffy socks and the patchwork hippy jumper I'd bought her at Fleeburg market.

I'd hoped it was a hint at détente, but Freya shrugged and feigned not having realised what she'd pulled on. She didn't even look up - so I languished in the doorway, desperately trying to match her indifferent disgust with my own sombre reticence.

It was genuine - I was still shaking from when I'd timidly rapped my fist across her bedroom door. I'd figured that making me knock four times was all part of the penance and the suffering.

'It isn't so much that you fucked my dad.' Freya suddenly offered from beneath the waterfall of cascading golden hair hiding her face, 'It's that you did it so duplicitously. I thought we shared everything.'

Four days earlier.

Mr Cartwright's letter hit the doormat on an otherwise inconsequential Saturday morning. I'd have snuck down and snaffled it had I known it was coming. Alas, my dad always rose early and the illicit piece of correspondence was propped up against a box of Coco-Pops by the time I'd dragged my ass out of bed.

'Who's this from then?' He queried, gesticulating to the envelope with his cereal spoon.

'Who's what from? I mumbled irritably, resentfully turning my attention away from the cafetière.

I blushed when I saw it, and as if in acknowledgement the envelope seemed to sparkle with eccentric delight from atop the kitchen table.

This was no ordinary letter.

The address had been scribed with lavish, poetic swirls of a fountain pen. Each word had been crafted with the elegance of an artisan whose love affair was with the quill so majestically put to work in his hand. Even my name had been afforded a sophisticated flourish;

...F.A.O Miss Molly Graverson, esquiress...

Eighteen year old sixth form students from northern council estates didn't tend to receive such correspondence, which made my dad's apparent curiosity somewhat understandable. Moreover, this was the mid-nineties, a time before texting or email. In many ways it was an era when receiving correspondence from a would-be lover could be greatly more rousing, and precarious.

'It's probably just bumph from one of the universities I've applied to.' I offered, hoping to appear utterly indifferent despite the butterflies performing loops, rolls and spins in my tummy.

My dad nodded, apparently assuaged, and plunged his spoon into the milky mass of coco-pops.

'I'm reet proud of yee' He somehow elucidated despite the shovel full of churning breakfast cereal suddenly filling his open cakehole, 'Youse'll be the first Graverson ever to gairn to University.'

I waved his compliments away with a vague swish of my hand. More importantly the diversionary tactic had worked. My dad found higher education exceedingly daunting, and had something of an insecurity complex relating to anyone involved within it.

'You have your own talents dad, those people are no better than you. Never forget that.' I reminded him as I eased the letter off the table, 'Just because someone can recite Ovid or Plato, it doesn't mean they know how to build a wall or fix a broken faucet.'

I headed upstairs with my coffee in hand. I was so giddy with excitement I nearly tripped over my own feet when I reached the top of the stairs. Closing my bedroom door felt like a blessed relief.

My hands were shaking when I eased the letter from the envelope. It was neatly folded in two and felt luxurious to the touch - with each written word dancing off the cream paper in an ebullient flourish of black ink.

...My dearest Molly,

I write following the events of last weekend.

It seems selfish of me to begin by admitting that I think constantly of our inaugural night together. It was such joy to have you submit to me as you did.

Equally it's with a coalescence of pride, fascination and arousal that I continue to peruse your marvellous compendium. You not only displayed considerable bravura in placing the work under my mattress, but a compelling creativity in compiling such a visceral expression of your burgeoning sexuality.

I am in no doubt that you have the mind of a precociously sexual young woman. I believe in the right hands such predilections can be moulded and nurtured, and in the wrong one's just as swiftly damaged and reduced to nought. Please take this assurance that your trust is in good hands.

I crave you, dearest Molly, and mine is the covetous desire of a Dominant for his submissive. There is a connection between us, one that I feel we must explore further.

Which brings me to the issue of Freya, who is understandably disappointed and confused. I feared the worst when she stumbled in on us, though as the days have passed I have noted something of a thawing in her, and I believe she is ready to forgive us both.

Indeed, I am now quite sure that she sees, once again, the immense value of your friendship. Moreover I have implored her to recognise that such a special bond ought to weather what is more of a rainy day than a storm. I believe if you were to come to the house she would reconcile, and I urge you to do so, shall we say Saturday, midday?

Yours expectantly,

Julian Cartwright.

I fell back onto my bed with a mixture of relief and giddy excitement, intermittently sniffing the letter as if it might bring me closer to the man who'd fucked me so violently, but a week previous. I poured over his words, scrutinising everything he'd written, delighting in his wonderful declaration of there being a 'connection' between us.

His reference to me being a 'precociously sexual young woman' sounded wonderfully sophisticated, and I briefly countenanced a tattoo, in Sanskrit or latin, probably up my inner forearm.

...Praecoquem sexualem...

Perhaps the best news was Mr Cartwright's inference that Freya was of a forgiving mood. What relief! I hadn't seen or heard from her since she'd discovered her father and I fucking. I knew I'd let her down, yet, no matter how many times I thought of what had happened, I felt certain that given the opportunity, I would do it again.

It was something to ponder whilst smoking a joint, and I somehow completely overlooked the day and time Mr Cartwright had suggested for my mediation with Freya.

The numbskulls dropped that little nugget into my thoughts with all the subtlety of an atom bomb.

...Shall we say Saturday, midday?...

My bedside clock suddenly leered at me in bright red oversized digits - 09.35am.

Fuck!

I wasted at least five minutes scurrying to and fro in my bedroom without actually achieving or doing anything other than cussing and disrobing.

'Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!'

How on earth was I to do my hair, make up, throw on some clothes and make the twenty minute journey across town with a measly timeframe of two and a half hours in which to prepare?

Tears began to well up. Worse, I then heard the distinctive thud of my dad's gargantuan feet climbing the stairs.

I vaulted off my bed with the agility of an olympic trampolinist, and exploded out the door like a sprinter upon the bang of a starter's pistol. Dad was already atop the stairs, newspaper under his arm, but I had the element of surprise and legged it passed him in a jiggling blur of naked flesh before skidding to a halt inside the bathroom doorway.

'I've got first dibs on the shower!' I shrieked demonstrably, star-fishing myself in the doorway with a wide eyed thousand yard stare.

There was, for the briefest of moments, a beautiful stand off - one in which I stood naked and vulnerable in front of my fully clothed father, his eyes salaciously wandering over my exposed breasts, before lingering at the bushy thatch between my legs.

'Nee bother.' He shrugged, turning back down the stairs whilst muttering something about how he'd take a dump in the cloakroom shitter instead.

Eight and a half minutes later I scampered out of the shower with only one thought on my mind - what to wear? I wanted to look hot for Mr Cartwright, yet demure for Freya, to whom I needed to appear contrite.

I opted for my fave pair of fashionably ripped blue jeans, the one's that Freya had once said made my ass look like a prize winning peach, and a clingy vest top that clung to my braless tits like a second skin.

I'd have preferred to wear heels but it was one of those days where I hated every pair I owned, so I left my entire collection lying in distressed abandon across my bedroom floor and marched out the house in my converse flats instead, grabbing a cardigan as I went.

Mr Cartwright let me in the backdoor. He was wearing an apron and reeked of garlic, but we snogged like star-crossed lovers nonetheless.

'She's upstairs.' He explained sombrely, when we finally came up for air.

I nodded and wiped my feet on the mat. There was a saucepan boiling over on the hob, but snogging seemed so much more pertinent, so we did some more of that as stew hissed and spat itself across the hotplate in the background.

I could have stayed like that forever, but it wasn't to be. The saucepan would never have survived, nor would my friendship with Freya. So I took to the stairs and knocked fearfully at her door.

'I should've been honest about what was going on with your dad.' I conceded, sitting on the edge of the bed and reaching for her hand. She at least let me hold it, even if the loving squeeze I gave her wasn't reciprocated. At first.

'I was jealous.' Freya admitted, hiding behind her flowing mass of blonde locks, 'How fucked up is that?...'

'We're all fucked up sweetie, it's just a sliding scale.' I offered, 'Like, believe it or not I flashed at my dad this morning.'

'Really?' Freya smirked, her beautiful blue eyes peering through her hair at me.

'Uh huh. He literally ogled the shit out of me, and I got off on it.'

We smoked a joint and didn't even bother huddling at the open window like we had in the past. The wrath of Freya's dad didn't quite hold true anymore. I guess screwing your daughter's best friend is the death knell to parental authority.

'Not sure if it'll make you feel better, but your dad was gawping at you when I stripped you out of your clothes the other night.' I explained, dropping the dog end into a mug of half drunk coffee.

'I can't work out whether it makes me want to vomit or masturbate.' Freya retorted, and the two of us fell about laughing.

We spent the rest of the afternoon cuddling and getting baked. The fantasies involving her father, Freya admitted, had begun after her mother had upped and left them.

'We bonded over the trauma.' She explained, 'It wasn't anything conscious, but I've kinda become the woman of this house...I know I'm not supposed to want it, but I can't help what I feel.'

By early evening we'd lost the ceiling to a cloud of dirty grey smoke, and our minds to industrial strength weed. Mr Cartwright popped his head round the door when the stench of youthful exuberance began filtering downstairs. He was thrilled, he cooed, to see that his two favourite girls had made up.

'Now you can fuck us both.' I grinned cheekily, as Freya and I peered back at him with bloodshot stares from the bed, 'Admit it - you loved watching me undress Freya the other night, didn't you.'

Mr Cartwright's face flushed rouge and he mumbled something about his stew being ready, before hurriedly eloping from the scene. Freya buried her head in a pillow and I broke into a fit of sniggering giggles - but there were no denials.

Dinner was an uncomfortable affair. There's only so many times one can praise the flavour of a stew before one has to simply accept that a meal table will be beset by excruciating silences.

'Is Molly staying in your room tonight or mine?' Freya suddenly asked caustically. Mr Cartwright winced and I nearly choked on my venison.

I drew Freya a bath afterwards, with candles and fluffy towels warming themselves on the heated rail. She didn't say a word when I left the door wide open - and merely whimpered with pleasure when I climbed into the tub behind her and began running hot water through her blonde locks.

Mr Cartwright must have sensed the moment, for there could be no other reason to abandon Noel's House Party in favour of ambling up the stairs in his green corduroy slacks and checked prince of Wales shirt, shock of grey hair all skew-whiff.

'Let him look at you.' I whispered, feeling Freya's body tense as she noticed her father climbing the stairs. Mr Cartwright stopped abruptly on the landing when he saw us. I smiled at him through the open bathroom door. Yet this time his gaze was only for his daughter as she looked back at him from the bathtub.

Their eyes locked, and for a moment there was pristine silence as Freya arched her body and ran her hands through the soap suds in her hair, her huge pendulous bare breasts jutting prominently for her father's wanton gaze.

'That would make a beautiful photograph!' Mr Cartwright exclaimed, framing the scene with his hands as I began rinsing his daughter's mane.

'So go and grab your camera!' I encouraged.

He lingered hesitantly, his eyes looking hopefully across at Freya as she playfully, and deliberately cupped her breasts in her hands.

'Perhaps this would make for a good shot too, Daddy?' She queried teasingly, biting her lip seductively as her fleshy bosoms spilled across her open palms.

The manner in which Mr Cartwright bolted for his camera suggested he wholly concurred. He even brought a flashlight that he positioned on a stand inside the bathroom, that splashed a soft, low light across us with each frenetic click he made.

He began on the landing - shooting from a voyeur's perspective, he explained, as if the camera was the eyes of a lucky stranger upon discovering 'two beautiful sirens bathing together' when looking through an open bathroom doorway.

Freya and I played to the theme with the verve of seasoned exhibitionists. I poured jugs of soapy hot water across her hair, she arched her body, dipped her head back and elegantly ran her hands through her soaked locks.

Click!

We gave him some lizzie love too, as I reached around and cupped Freya's wonderfully fulsome bosoms in my hands whilst she looked back over her shoulder at me, meeting my lips with hers.

Click!

Freya then lay back with her head between my boobs, one leg languidly thrown over the edge of the bath, her blue eyes gazing up at me. I Looked down at her adoringly, teasingly tugging on her taught nipples and stretching her fleshy breasts in my fingers.

Click!

Mr Cartwright waxed lyrical throughout - we were his 'buxom beauties', two young sluts teasing a pervy older voyeur, such good girls, naturals in front of the camera! On and on the compliments came, and we soaked up the adoration with pose after pose.

'Go to him.' I whispered, leaning in and softly kissing Freya's cheek, 'Become his woman, and I will serve you both.'

Freya nodded and climbed elegantly from the bathtub with her father's eyes unashamedly roving across her buxom hourglass figure. For a fleeting moment she stood in the doorway, her father's camera clicking frenetically to the vision of her naked form glistening in the candlelight. Droplets galavanted across her heaving breasts, streaked across her tummy and clung with glistening zeal to her thick lustrous bush.

'I want you to fuck me Daddy...' She started, her voice cracking, 'I can't explain how badly I need you to fuck me Daddy, but I do...'

Mr Cartwright's camera suddenly ceased its maniacal clicking as if in reverence to the moment and the young woman sharing her deepest truth.

'...I want to be the woman who shares your bed...'

'I want that too.' Freya's father replied in a soft reassuring tone, looking up from beneath his camera, 'And there is nobody I would rather have in my bed than you.'

Mr Cartwright strode purposefully towards his daughter as she trembled with nervous excitement in the doorway. He immediately ducked down and began desperately sucking her fulsome bosoms with the craving hunger of a man who had been denied what he desired for too long.

Freya clasped the back of his head and groaned huskily as her father's mouth passionately roved across her veiny udders. Spittle sparkled on her expansive, speckled roseate areola with each adoring, tongue lashing suckle of her protruding nipples her father made.

As I looked on I revelled in the obviously greater pleasure he took from being with Freya. My moment with him had been but an aperitif. His daughter, quite rightly, was the feast. Her milk white breasts were even larger than mine, her endless curves somehow more grandiose, her bushy cunt infinitely hairier and uniquely blonde. She was my superior, just as her father was, and I loved them both so deeply for it.

I wondered if perhaps it was to further illustrate my sentiment that Mr Cartwright reached around and clasped his daughter's buttocks in his hands, spreading his fingers across her cheeks before roughly pulling her open to expose her gaped anus and the exquisite inner beauty of her cunt beneath the thick tuft of hair protruding so exponentially from between her shapely legs. Or perhaps it was simply that, for the first time in his life, he could.

He went down on her as she fell back against the doorframe. Freya's arms reached upwards, arching her body with majestic grace as she widened her gait accommodatingly and gripped the wooden stanchion for support.

'We can be a family - the three of us.' She moaned, as Mr Cartwright crouched at her feet, his eyes keenly inspecting his daughter's thick, meaty cunt petals as his elongated fingers splayed her open for his wanton gaze, 'That would be so special wouldn't it Daddy?...'

Mr Cartwright looked up at Freya and nodded, his gaze eagerly watching his daughter's face contort with pleasure as he pushed two fingers up inside her.

'Daddy and his two girls.' He offered agreeably, upping the impetus of his fingers as they worked his daughter's pussy to and fro, 'Now let me taste your beautiful quim.'

The resultant moans from Freya were probably heard in Sunderland.

The water had cooled somewhat, yet there I remained, frozen in awe amongst the stagnated bubbles, my own fingers rubbing and edging my pussy as I watched Mr Cartwright climbing to his feet with his daughter's juices glimmering off his cheeks, lips and chin.

'Kiss me Daddy.' Freya pleaded - and they Frenched like long lost lovers, with his huge hands groping her enormous breasts, while her dainty fingers frantically reached down, popping the button and unzipping his corduroy slacks.

It was as she reached for her father's cock that Freya groaned luridly and slid to her knees at his feet.

'Daddy, you've got the biggest dick I've ever seen.' She hummed, looking adoringly up at her father as she took his thick fat cock in her hand and playfully pressed the tip to her lips, kissing it lovingly as pre-cum began to seep across the bulbous purple head.

He gave his daughter the time she needed, praising her as she ran her tongue along his thick shaft, guiding her head with his hand as she took him in her mouth and began to choke gratefully on his size.

'Good girl.' He encouraged, as he gradually took control, grasping her blonde locks in his fist and thrusting deeper into her mouth. Freya reached out, her dainty hands clinging to her father's skinny thighs as she fought to endure the force of his thrusts. I wanted to cry out my encouragement, to tell her how beautiful she looked with saliva lolloping to and fro off her chin and tears streaking down her cheeks - but I remained silent, for it was their moment, and theirs alone.