I flirted with my friend’s dad and got more than I bargained for [F21/M40s/F40s] [groping] [oral] [threesome] [sex] [age difference]

I was dorky as a teen, not knowing how to dress my awkward, gangling long limbs and thinking that the acne on my face was ‘no big deal.’ I wasn’t a pretty sight, and my ill-fitting clothes and pizza-face and granny glasses helped none. I cringe thinking back to the girl I was then, thankful that I’ve figured things out.

But an adolescence full of guys scoffing when I came near, making fun of me when I talked, and just generally being assholes has left its scars on my confidence. Now that I’m a little older and fitter and hotter, my gut reaction whenever a guy makes a move is to shoot him down, since he’s obviously making fun of me. I do it immediately, automatically, a defense mechanism against rejection, no matter how cute and sincere he is.

I’m trying to stop doing that. Yet old habits are hard to break.

I need a confidence boost, and I think I’ve found one, even though when I think through what I’m planning, I freak out and panic and second-guess myself.

I’m at Jen’s house — she’s my best friend — and I’ve just spent the night without meaning to. We got drunk last night and I was in no state to drive. So now it’s the morning after, and Jen’s still passed out while I’m showering in the hall bathroom. My hangover is surprisingly mild, and the steamy water washes it away.

Jen, she still lives with her parents, and I hear her dad pacing down the hallway.

Am I really going to do this?

“Hey, Mr. Wilcock?” My mouth forms the words and the sounds escape my lips while my brain still vacillates. “That you?”

The footsteps outside the bathroom pause, and I know he’s hesitating. “Uhh, Kasia?”

“Yeah, Mr. Wilcock,” I say, “I, err, there’s no towels. Can you bring me one?”

I hear him take a step. “A towel?” He steps away, then closer. “You need a towel, Kasia?”

“Please.”

“Ok,” he says, but it’s a few seconds before I hear his footsteps recede.

I rinse Jen’s shampoo from my long brown hair, watching the suds slide down my body and circle the drain. The shower is big, with a thick glass door and wall separating it from the rest of the bathroom, the hallway door on the far side. Beige marble tiles with inset patterns form the walls, a window above letting the bright morning sun in to fill the space with light.

A take a bottle of body wash from the shelf set into the wall, building up a lather and rubbing it down my body, from shoulder to knee. My hands shake.

The footsteps return, stopping outside the bathroom door. “I’ve got the towel,” Mr. Wilcock says, “Um, do you want to, err… How do you want to…?”

I swallow, then say, “Can you bring it to me?”

“Uhh…”

I’ve always had a little crush on Mr. Wilcock, ever since I met him when I was fourteen, and all seven years since. But while he’s stayed his handsome, quiet self, in the past year-and-a-half I’ve noticed his attention on me increase in subtle, barely-anything ways. Nothing obscene, he’s not like that, but things like, he never used to initiate any conversation with me, and now, even though it’s small-talk, he does. Or that when I told him I was thinking of applying to medical school, he remembered that and asked about it a few months later, even though I’d since changed my mind. Or that time I caught him staring at my ass.

I’d been laying face-down on his living room couch, Jen on the other one, and we were chatting about God knows what, when I glanced over my shoulder and saw her dad’s gaze fixed on my butt. His expression was distant, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. Our eyes met, his cheeks went bright red, and I’d smiled. He made a hasty exit, with the whole incident lasting no more than a few seconds, but I could still replay those details in my heads clear as if it’d just happened. It was a thrill — guys never used to do that to me!

I watch the bathroom door. “Please?” I say, “I don’t want to get water everywhere.”

“I, umm…”

“Please, Mr. Wilcock.”

The door handle rotates and it slides open, but pauses after just a few inches. “Uhh, Kasia, I–”

I try a new tack, “Don’t be weird about it.”

“Ok,” he says to himself, “Ok, ok.” Eyes down, moving robotically, he walks in, towel held out in front of him.

“Oh, I don’t need it just yet,” I say, “Can you hang it on the hook right there?”

He carefully avoids looking my way, mumbling, “Uh, sure,” as he hangs the towel. Why doesn’t he want to see me naked? If he keeps this up, it’s going to break me.

“Mr. Wilcock,” I say, “If you sneak a peek, I won’t tell.”

“You– you’re naked, Kasia.”

“So?”

He looks up, his eyes finding mine. He looks cute, so serious with his salt-and-pepper hair and goofy old t-shirt and shorts. “I don’t know what you’re doing, Kasia, but–”

“I’m showering, Mr. Wilcock,” I say, stepping back into the stream of water, letting it run down me, washing the soap off.

“I– yes.” His resolve breaks, and he glances at my bare, wet, naked body, just for a moment before he forces his gaze back to me eyes. “But the rest of this, it…”

“I know you want me.” I grin at him — my most impish grin — as I cup my chest, squeezing my tits in my palms. Water splashes and sprays, pooling in my angles before spilling over and crashing to the tile floor around my feet. “I know you think I’m pretty.”

“No, Kasia. I mean, yes. You’re very pretty. It’s just that–” His words stall mid-sentence and his breath catches as his eyes flick to my pussy. He swallows, starts again. “It’s that you’re you, and I– I can’t. No! Don’t look at me like that, Kasia.”

How am I looking at him? But I can feel it, my resolve breaking, the tide of rejection drawing up and looming over me. “I thought you liked me,” I sob, the deep pit in my stomach reminding me of what an idiot I am.

“No, oh my god,” he says, scrunching up his face, “I’m married, Kasia. I’m not… ahh.” He turns and leaves.

I finish my shower and dry off as quickly as I can. Without speaking to Jen or anyone I slink home and flop face down on my bed, wishing I would just disappear.

Three days of avoiding Jen later, I get a text from Mrs. Wilcock asking me if I can please come over the next night to walk Baxter, their dog. This is something I do for Jen’s family on a regular basis, and so even though I don’t want to show my face over there, refusing without reason would raise questions I don’t want to answer.

So the next night at five I head over just like normal, going in through the side door to the kitchen using the code they’ve given me.

“Baxter?” I call out. Usually the dog comes running, a little furball giddy to see me. “Hey, Baxy-poo?”

I look around as if the dog is hiding somewhere. Maybe he’s asleep? I walk into the foyer where his leash is kept, intending on jangling it. But the leash is gone. I scrunch up my face — is someone else walking him?

“Kasia? Can you please join us in here?”

I jump, yelping as I spin around. Someone is silhouetted in the door to their downstairs guest bedroom. “Oh!” I clutch a hand to my chest, “Mrs. Wilcock! What’s going on? Where’s Baxter?”

“Baxter’s with Jen,” she says, “They’re on a little overnight, won’t be back until tomorrow.”

“Oh, um, ok. Then you don’t need…?” Sometimes I’m slow to understand.

“No, Kasia. I’m afraid I lied to you. Now, would you please join me? I need to discuss something with you.” She holds out her hand, reaching to take mine.

I let myself be guided into the guest bedroom, it’s decor oddly banal, the bed high and set with far too many pillows.

“Hi, Kasia,” Mr. Wilcock says, shooting me a weak smile. He sits on the bed’s far side, half-on, half-off, his torso twisted so he can face me.

My stomach drops to the floor as the nature of Mrs. Wilcock’s betrayal spells obvious. “Oh, no, no, no, no… I’m sorry, I… I…”

“Relax, Kasia,” Mrs. Wilcock says, “I’m not angry with you. Just, calm down. Don’t hyperventilate.”

She says this, but she’s intimidating, standing near me, taller, older, far more assured of her place in the world than I ever will be. I whither, backing away until I bump into the wall, unable to bring my gaze up off the floor. “I’m sorry,” I mutter, “I’m sorry…”

Mrs. Wilcock takes a step closer, watching me impassively. Her short, dark hair is asymmetric, cropped close on one side, splayed down over her ear on the other. She’s wearing her usual — a white, lose blouse and charcoal gray slacks. “You tried to seduce my husband, Kasia. What I’m trying to figure out is, why?”

“Why?” I echo lamely.

“Yes, ‘why.’ Why you thought my husband would cheat on me. Why a cute young girl like you would be interested in an older man. Why you thought he would keep your lark a secret. Why you thought your best friend’s dad, who’s known you since you were yea high, would fall prey to your game? Well, Kasia? Why?”

“I– I wasn’t trying to seduce him,” I say, not really believing my own words.

“Oh?” she says incredulously, taking another step closer, “What then were you doing?”

My gaze is glued to her feet, and my jaw is nearly locked shut. I have to force the words out, and when they emerge, they’re low, barely audible. “I just… I wanted him to think I was sexy. I mean, I–”

She waits for me to finish, and when I don’t, she prompts me, “Yes? You what?”

The silence lingers, begs for me to fill it. “Sorry. I saw him look at me, you know, that way. And I wanted him to know it was ok. That I didn’t mind.”

“This true, Tom?”

I swivel my head up, eyes wide with guilt at exposing him.

Mr. Wilcock just laughs, though. “That did happen, yeah. It wasn’t on purpose. My eye just kind of… snagged, you know? And I felt real guilty that you saw me do that. I was hoping you’d just forget all about it. And then… well, this happened.”

Mrs. Wilcock says, “Kasia’s become an attractive young woman, hasn’t she?”

“She has,” he says.

“But do you think, Kasia, that just because Tom and I have been together for a couple decades, that I’d let my man just go about his day without his balls properly drained?”

“What?” There’s no way I heard that correctly.

“He’s a man, Kasia. And a good looking one, at that. You’re not the first girl to notice, and you won’t be the last. But I make sure his eyes don’t wander, or, given the particulars, that at least that his dick doesn’t. Not thirty minutes before you pulled your little stunt there, Tom’s thick, hard cock had been throbbing in my palms, and his balls had been emptying themselves down my throat.”

My eyes bulge out of my head. “What?”

“It’s true,” Mr. Wilcock says, “Anna is a goddess with her hands. And the rest of it, too.”

“Don’t you forget it, mister,” she laughs along with him.

I feel like I’ve slipped through the looking glass, my attention bouncing back and forth between these two people I thought I knew. “Huh? What?”

Mrs. Wilcock leans in close, her humor gone in a blink. She presses in, pinning me against the wall, her eyes glaring at me from so close I can’t focus. “You’re a pretty girl, Kasia, but nobody fucks my husband without my say-so.”

“I’m sorry!”

“Do you like to fuck, Kasia?”

“What?” I whimper.

“Do you have a lot of sex? A lot of boyfriends?”

“What? No! I’m a good girl, I swear. It was just this once–”

“Forget about Tom there — Mr. Wilcock — for a minute, Kasia. What I want to know is, are you a slut?”

“No! I promise–” My words seize up with a gasp as she grabs my crotch, her fingers digging in through the thin fabric of my yoga pants, groping my pussy.

Breath rushes in and out of my chest, the only sound. Her fingers press into me, untroubled by whether or not they belong there. I don’t want this, or at least I don’t think I do, yet I feel my body open up for her as she rubs my sex. I’m an animal bowing to the whims of the pack leader, my body subservient to her desire. Effortlessly, expertly, she makes me blush with heat, and a moan escapes my parted lips.

I don’t know where this comes from, how I went from one moment guilty to the next horny. Nor do I understand how it’s Mrs. Wilcock making me feel this way, making my skin tingle and my pussy drip. Yes, she’s beautiful, but she’s a woman, and I’m not into women, am I? I push her away, and she gives me what I think I want, pulling her hand off me and stepping back.

I whimper, rubbing my thighs together, desperate to sate the need she spurned in me.

“Look at you, Kasia,” she shakes her head, “You’re too easy. All it took was a little attention, and already you’re losing your mind. Never figured your nerdy ass would be such a slut.”

“I’m– I’m a good girl!” I say.

She chuckles. “Bend over. Show me your ass.”

It’s back, that authority of hers, that pack-leader aspect. I’m thirsty for her approval, longing for her attention. I lean down over the bed, doing exactly what she says. I’m facing Mr. Wilcock, ignoring the amused look on his face.

“So obedient,” Mrs. Wilcock says, squeezing and groping my butt.

I arch my back, push my ass out, eager for her touch. I need her fingers back on my pussy. I’m desperate not just for her touch, but for tacit display that I’m worthy of receiving it. That it’s Mrs. Wilcock — my best friend’s mother — I’m begging for it shames me, and the shame makes me want it more. I moan with pleasure when I feel her hands on my waist, peeling my pants down.

“Good girls wear panties, Kasia.” Her hands slide down my ass and up inside me.

I moan again as she fingers me, feeling my heat surge and drip down my thighs.

“Good girls don’t get eaten out by their friend’s moms.”

And then I feel her tongue slide up my pussy, and the pleasure is too sudden, too intense. I groan and shudder, my legs quivering as the salvo of bliss blasts through me, smiting any last barriers holding ecstasy at bay. Her lips and fingers and tongue caress me perfectly, and I have never needed an orgasm as much I need it right now.

I cry when it ends, when she pulls back. “Please,” I beg.

“C’mere, Tom,” Mrs. Wilcock says, “Give the girl a nice, solid fuck while she tongues my clit.”

I glance up at Mr. Wilcock. He winks at me as he jumps off the bed. And then I have a face full of pussy as his wife leans back against the headboard, legs on either side of me, pants and panties gone, crotch in my face. She’s waxed perfectly smooth, her tan skin taut and firm despite her age.

I’ve never even seen a pussy in real life other than my own, let alone had one shoved in front of me. Yet as her fingers work their way through my scalp and she presses me down into her, I know what to do, sticking my tongue out and licking, licking, licking.

I kiss her pussy lips and suck on her clit and slide my tongue inside her while she watches me with an amused smirk. I’m craving her approval, yearning to give her the sexual rapture she gave me, but while she seems to enjoy what I’m doing, she’s not overwhelmed the way I’d been.

All my concentration is on her, on getting her off, so I tense and my eyes go wide with surprise when Mr. Wilcock’s hard dick shoves its way inside me. I shudder as it stretches me open, wider and wider, deeper and deeper.

“She likes,” Mrs. Wilcock grins, “How’s she feel?”

“Fucking wet,” he groans, his hips rhythmically pumping his shaft in and out of me, “She’s a real fuckin’ treat.”

“Do you need to blow your load? Or think you can hold back?”

Between breaths, he scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Mrs. Wilcock shoves me back into her pussy, back into eating her out. I oblige automatically, nothing but a vessel for this couple’s pleasure, a plaything for them to have fun with. I love it, need it, am so powerfully aroused by it.

“Fuck, she’s gonna cum,” Mr. Wilcock grunts, adjusting his tempo, drawing me onto the edge but taking me no further. He pushes his thumb into my ass, and I squirm and buck. Then he slams his hips into me, and his prediction plays out — I climax, an enormous, earth-shattering climax. I grab the sheets as every muscle in my body tenses, my eyes pinching closed, the cock inside me driving powerful waves of bliss into me.

I shudder and collapse onto my side, hair splaying across my face.

When I blink my eyes open, I am presented with a view of Mr. Wilcock kneeling over Mrs. Wilcock, his thick cock skewering her pussy with a strong rhythm. Her pussy lips are stretched open, his shaft is slick with her fluid, his balls swing back and forth between them.

I crawl forward, hypnotized by his sac’s pendulous journey, pressing into her sex over and over again before swinging back. I open my lips, sucking them into my mouth.

“Good god,” he moans, rolling his head back but never faltering in his pace.

It’s not long before I feel his balls tense in my mouth, before I hear his groaning grow in urgency. His hips jerk and his cock throbs, and he cums into his wife’s pussy.

When his shaft springs free, I pull it into my mouth, sucking it clean, before turning and licking up Mrs. Wilcock’s sex and the cum dripping from it.

“She learns quick,” Mrs. Wilcock moans, stroking my cheek. “We might have to fuck her again.”

“Oh, definitely,” Mr. Wilcock says, his hand coming down, making me jolt as he smacks my ass.

I moan in pleasure, basking in their sanction.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/12dvnj8/i_flirted_with_my_friends_dad_and_got_more_than_i