The continuing saga of me, my wife Carrie and our gymnast daughter Lynette. It's probably best to read at least some of the preceding chapters in order to get a better feel for the story. As the category suggests there are some pretty strong elements of incestuous activity here. If that's your thing, great. If not, you should probably read another story. Thanks and I hope you enjoy.
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Dinner was odd. That's about the best I can describe it. My wife, Carrie had finally come downstairs about 45 minutes after her strange, harried entrance earlier. She was in a decidedly friendly mood, first coming up behind the sofa and throwing her arms around my neck from behind, leaning over it and kissing me on the side of my cheek. I crooked my head a little, squeezing her away. I was watching the basketball game for heaven's sakes, and besides that, it tickled. But she was persistent.
She stood, up and casting me a smirking, playful look while tossing her chestnut tresses over her shoulder, she sashayed around the couch to plop herself down beside me. She then proceeded to run one finger around my ear, through the surrounding hair on that side, tracing the outer lobe. I shrugged that off as well, trying to maintain focus on the game. But she continued and finally I looked over at her with a "What the fuck?" kind of glance and she just sat there, eyes glittering under half-lowered eyelids, lips slightly parted. My expression dissolved into wary amusement and I shook my head slightly and chuckled.
"What's all this?" I asked, pulling back a bit to look at her.
"Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about how handsome you are and how lucky I am to have you!" my wife responded, smiling seductively.
"Uh huh," I grunted, not really sure where this was going. I mean I'm sitting there, golf shorts and a sloppy old white T-shirt, minding my own business, nursing a Killian's in one hand with my feet up on the coffee table, big toe poking out of one of my slightly soiled and heavily worn athletic socks and she thinks I'm handsome. 'Well hang on baby, I got loads more handsome where that comes from!' thinks I.
"Did you get high when you were at the mall, sweetheart?" I quipped.
The sexy smile evaporated from Carrie's pretty face, replaced by a look of exasperation and bemusement. She pushed herself up from the couch and stalked off towards the kitchen. Oops. OK, maybe that wasn't too cool on my part, I thought as I watched her stomp out of sight. Better go fix that, I decided. But not until the final 2 minutes ticked off the game clock first. Typical guy.
Fifteen minutes later, I figured I'd better get into the kitchen to make amends, especially since my lovely wife was preparing dinner for us. Now before I go much further and you get the wrong idea, I also pitch in on the cooking from time to time. Usually on the barbecue and usually involving charring some kind of animal smothered with lots of sauce and spices. But tonight was Carrie's night. We don't really have a pattern. Generally she cooks four nights to my one, but well, I do other important stuff. But I digress.
I sauntered into the kitchen where my wife stood in front of the sink tossing a salad. The scent of warm dough and garlic from the freshly prepared frozen DiGiorno Pizza wafted from the oven. It was accompanied by a slight hint of vinaigrette from the bottled salad dressing. Not fancy but, hey, it was a Saturday night -- what do you want?
Carrie was beating the salad into submission with a large fork and spoon, probably imagining it was my head from the looks of her vigorous ministrations. I approached with caution. She stiffened as I laid my hands on her shoulders, my thumbs tracing the inside of the neckline of her top. I leaned over and placed my head softly beside hers. "I'm sorry hun." I whispered. "I didn't mean to ignore you like that. It was the end of the game and I'd been watching the whole thing and I just wasn't...I didn't know what was going on. I didn't mean to be a jerk," I tried.
"That's OK honey. You can't help it," she replied stiffly. Ouch.
I let my hands slide down her shoulders a bit. "You look amazing in that top you know." I purred, rubbing her shoulders up and down.
"Is that right?" she replied coolly as she picked up a penis-length carrot and starting hacking off pieces into the salad bowl. "Or are you sure you're not just high?" Ouch.
"I'm high on looking at you right now," I smiled. Even without seeing her eyes, I knew they were rolling upwards at my lameness. I could feel the tension in her shoulder coming down though, and watched as she just shook her head a little from side to side.
"You suck," she announced before easing her head to the side to press against mine signaling a slight thaw.
"That's because you've got good such stuff to suck on, Ma Cherie," I rejoined, sliding my left hand from her shoulder around her front and down into the inviting scoop neckline of her stretch top. It found its heavy target and I began feeling her, stroking her big, firm breast, then her large, soft aureole. Her head rolled backward into my neck as she gave a sharp intake of breath. I felt her big nipple harden almost instantly against my fingertips as I began to pinch and pull it softly and roll it around. I noticed she'd stopped slicing the carrot. I moved my head to the other side of her and dropped my mouth to the soft, exposed flesh of her neck, kissing and sucking on it as I kneaded her amazing breasts.
"You're a prick," she mewed, without much conviction, as I pulled on her nipple and grazed the skin of her neck slightly with my teeth, causing her to groan a bit.
"I thought you liked pricks Carrie. I thought you liked to make them big and hard," I breathed.
"Mmmm...yes baby, keep talking just like that," my sexy lady answered.
"Jeez you guys! Get a room!" came the sarcastic blare of my daughter's voice as she entered the kitchen, straightening me up like the sound of a fire alarm at three in the morning. I clumsily yanked my hand out of my wife's top, whacking her in the chin with my watch as I did and causing her to yelp a little in the process.
"Jesus Christ, Lynette! You scared the crap out of us!" I barked, whirling to face my daughter, who stood in the kitchen doorway with her hands on her shapely hips, adorned in a tight, teal top with the words "For Your Eyes Only" across it. A pair of three-quarter length white sweats completed the ensemble.
