The Time Val [F]ucked, A Memoir: My Best Friend’s Dad (Part I)

It was mid 2008, I had turned 18 the last week of May thanks to being enrolled late and not speaking a lick of English when I got here in the 2nd grade. We had all the songs we downloaded from Limewire that our hearts could desire cued up on Windows Media Player and bumped to them as we danced—more like moshed—around my best friend’s room head-banging to My Chemical Romance and Fall Out Boy.

I had streaks of red in my hair and I couldn’t find any skirts or dresses longer than mid-thigh in my size because I was half a foot taller than all of the girls in my class and about three bra sizes bigger. Nothing seemed to fit because it all hugged me too tightly, and I wasn’t allowed to walk out of my mom’s house without an obscenely outdated wool cardigan that made me look like I was going in to a diner for an earlybird senior citizen special.

School was out for the summer and I had next to nothing left to do before we rushed into our senior year. I was a bookworm and had read all of the assigned summer reading books for fun in my spare time already and I didn’t have much to do other than waste my time and the time of my friends’ older siblings.

Last summer was the first summer we started sneaking out to go to house parties when parents were away on work trips. Sometimes, when I was caught off guard before preparing a good excuse earlier that week on my whereabouts, I told my re-married mom that I was going to stay with my dad and told my twice-divorced dad that I was going to stay with my mom so I could party the night away with my group of friends at someone’s beach house, drinking cheap booze their older brothers bought for us when they came home from college. We’d stay over where we could—limbs piled up on each other on couches, on the floor, on blow-up mattresses, on staircases, even bean bags.

This summer was eventful for many reasons, but the highlight was—much like the summer before—the sex. I’d gotten rid of that pesky little thing called a hymen the previous summer, and although the fun escapades that I indulged in with boys and girls my age created fond memories, this year was going to take the cake.

I customarily stayed over my best friend’s house during Vacation Bible School. That week was a week of incessant church-going from the afternoon to the evening, and my mother was very involved, as was hers. They, too, were best friends, and spent the week running around like cackling hens getting everything ready for the evening’s worship and teachings, arts, crafts, and pretending. It was a fucking joke how hypocritical and antithetical our lives were by day and night, when the doors closed behind us at home. Everything our moms were building during Sunday mornings, we were destroying Friday and Saturday nights.

We were up late that night, unsurprisingly, given that we woke up at noon almost every day to have her mom feed us sunny side up eggs with bacon, sausage, biscuits, gravy, and chocolate milk in our favorite neon 90s plastic cups. We were her little girls, and she would always see us as the messy, Heelys-wearing schoolgirls who ran around the house with Lisa Frank stickers on our cheeks.

Her dad, however, did not appear to have this stagnant view of time. He seemed to notice how I was growing up, and how the hormones pumping though my body were affecting me. He had not failed to notice the double D’s on my chest, which I caught him glancing at in my Sunday dresses and when my white uniform shirt were bursting at the seams.

He was the cool parent. He sat on the porch smoking a cigar and drinking an old fashioned, listening to classic jazz. On the rare nights we stumbled back home from a house party that was cut short due to a raid, he just smirked, looked up from his cigar at us, took another puff, eyed the piece of ass hanging from the bottom of my short shorts, and didn’t say another word. He certainly never told his wife.

He didn’t buy into the church bullshit, but he did it to appease his wife and to keep the peace in home with their three kids. He wasn’t overbearingly strict but he was stern when he had to be. Sometimes he would be a stickler with the boys, but we could get away with murder. He never disciplined my best friend, and as much as I desperately wanted him to, be never disciplined me, either.

I had been having fantasies about him for ages. Even as a very young teenager, I remember thinking he was so handsome—tall, bulky, with his sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of his nose and the more-salt-than-pepper hair he combed to the side, and scruffy stubble I felt when he gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek, with his sweet, perfect smile but wicked green eyes.

I used to dream about what it would be like if he found me making out with his eldest son and became furious, deciding to discipline both of us. I was curious about how he would react when finding out I was a little slut who couldn’t control the heat between her thighs and frankly just didn’t want to deny herself the pleasures of everything she wanted when they were so easily attainable. I spent many uncomfortably hot nights in bed beside his sleeping daughter, rubbing myself furiously, imagining what would happen if he snuck in and crept into my side of the bed. I pictured how he would give me what I needed desperately and how I would cum on his fingers with his other hand tightly over my mouth drowning out my breathy moans while he called me a good girl. I had come so many times to the endless scenarios, that he was in the forefront of my fantasies, one of the star frequent flyers in rotation.

I knew, of course, that the reality of the matter was that I didn’t have even the most minuscule chance with him. Absolutely none. He was the type that loved to look but would never touch. He was a lactose intolerant kid looking at an ice cream cone—he wanted to lick it but he couldn’t and wouldn’t do it. He was a good man, he wasn’t a religious nut so he didn’t live by the church rule book, but he was a faithful husband and a caring father. He would never risk it to be a naughty Daddy, and if he did, I most certainly would be the last person he would consider taking the risk with. He was sophisticated and intelligent, mature, experienced—he would surely want to take a risk with a woman who could offer all of these things as well.

On that late night when I crept down the old creaky stairs to go to the kitchen, I didn’t expect to find the door to the guest bathroom creaked. I could see the light from inside was turned on, but I thought someone just forgot to turn the light off before they went in there—after all, there were about 6 people in the house at that point. Not thinking anything of it, I opened the door wide and stopped, stunned, at the sight of her dad leaning against the sink, head thrown back, lips parted, stroking his hard veiny cock with one hand and massaging his balls with another.

I don’t think he heard the door opening because he didn’t stop his stroking and didn’t open his eyes. He looked incredible like that, with his white t-shirt, his gym shorts stretched around his thighs, cock glistening with oil or lube. I couldn’t tell which it was and I didn’t really care as long as it made his long thick fingers glide up and down the one thing I’d been dreaming about for so long. I don’t know how long I stood in that doorway staring at him pump his strong hand up and down his cock as his other squeezed and tugged on his tight balls… but I knew that I had to do something, anything.

So I did what any sensible girl my age would do—I stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind me, not taking my eyes off of his pretty cock for a moment until the door clicked closed. My eyes shot up to him—the moment he heard the door close, he snapped his eyes open and stopped, looking wide-eyed and afraid. He’d been caught by someone—his wife, his daughter, one of his 2 sons, or even me. It took him a moment to realize it was me, and when he did, he just leaned back looked me straight in the eyes and started to stroke again, this time slowly. This was the moment. It was now or never for me. I knew what I wanted to do and I had every opportunity to make it happen, all I had to do was take a few more steps and fall to my knees—there was no way that he would deny a good blowjob, I figured this was the best approach, the one that would probably be most successful.

And that’s exactly what I did. I slid down to my knees and brought his gym shorts with me as I brought my already salivating mouth toward his cock and slid my eager wet tongue around his pulsing head and down his shaft. I looked up at him when I took his cock into my mouth and that moment I knew we were both done with the coy prudish game that we had been playing. We were done tip-toeing around each other and it was time to dance. The look in his eyes was the hungriest I had ever seen and it told me without any hesitation that he did not plan to hold anything back.

He did not. He slid his fingers into my thick black hair and pulled me forward as he rammed his cock into my mouth as deep as it could go, and when I relaxed me throat enough, he slid in there, too. He didn’t have a monster cock, but it was long and thick enough to make me gag and drool and connect a long string of deep throat spit between his glistening cock and my wet lips when I brought himself out of my mouth and slapped his cock on my parted lips. This was the first time that anyone had ever treated me this way, and it was making me feel a type of arousal that was unfamiliar—a burning, aching pulsating in my pussy and a throbbing in my clit I only felt mildly when I watched fetish porn.

He face-fucked me hard, the drool slid down my face, neck, and tits liberally, pooling on my tank top and soaking his thighs and balls. I was just getting the hang of it when he suddenly pulled me away from his cock, brought me up from my knees and bent me over the sink, to look at my self in the mirror, with him directly behind me. As I looked at myself in the mirror I felt more beautiful than I ever has before—I had tears streaming down my face, snot down my nose, and spit everywhere—but I was glowing and my eyes were burning. He dug his fingers into my hair again pulled my head to the side. I watched as he came closer to my ear and told me he wanted me to watch as he fucked me.

Unceremoniously, he ripped off my shorts and panties in one swoop and they fell to the floor, discard just like his shorts. I could feel how wet my pussy was without even needing to check, or needing to him to give me a confirmation. He didn’t. He roughly sunk his cock to the hilt into me and I dug his fingers into my hip, the light pain making me cream myself even more than I already had. It slipped in without any resistance, and slid back out and in again a bit harder the next time.

I couldn’t decide where to look in the mirror; I was caught between watching his body move, watching his face with a slight smirk and glazed eyes, watching my tits bounce with every thrust, or watching my face, full of pleasure and wicked delight in the merciless pounding that I was receiving. The hard hitting strokes were making me cross-eyed with how good they made me feel, how much more they were making me drip all over his cock. I could hear his low grunt, and I desperately wanted to fuck him somewhere where I could hear him moan and curse and grunt and growl nasty things into my ear. I had but down on my fist to try to be quiet, but it was becoming harder to do with every stroke.

When he roughly reached for my hard nipple and pulled on it, then gave my tit a hard squeeze, I felt him pull out of me and slap his cock against my ass. I tried to turn around to see what was going on, but he held me down, still bent over the sink and told me that we weren’t done yet. He wiped away the cum on my ass cheeks with his shirt and then disappeared behind me. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but it didn’t take long for me to feel two fingers sliding into my pulsating pussy and his wet tongue licking over my tight little ass. Even though it caught me off guard and I had never felt that before, I let myself enjoy how good it felt and the ridiculously huge orgasm that was building, which I was dangerously on the edge of.

I didn’t last too long after he started rubbing my clit with his other hand—everything was just much too much and I couldn’t handle it anymore. When I finally stopped convulsing, he took his fingers out of my pussy and brought his fingers away from my clit and lapped up my cum. I straightened up and he put my shorts and panties back on me. I got up from the floor and put my tits back into my shirt, then picked up his shorts and slipped them on, up and over his hips. Just like that, he leaned down and gave me a kiss on the cheek and whispered a breathy thank you into my ear.

I waited several minutes after he had gone and I heard the stairs creaking. I still couldn’t believe what happened and turned back around to look at myself in the mirror. My shirt was still soaked, I was flushed, my hair was standing in all different directions, and anyone who saw me could undeniably tell that I had been thoroughly and excellently fucked. I ran my fingers through my hair and turned off the light, left the bathroom, and closed the door behind me. I had no idea what I came down to the kitchen for, but I took a bottle of water with me and slowly creeped upstairs praying I didn’t see anyone on my way up. I opened the door to our bedroom and was relieved to hear my best friend snoring and saw her open-mouthed and passed out on her side of the bed. I climbed in to my side and waited for my heart to stop hammering so hard.

I suppose it finally hit me—when I was back under the comforter with my panties sticking to my sore pussy—that I had just fucked my best friend’s dad while his entire family was upstairs sleeping. I didn’t regret it, I wasn’t ashamed, I didn’t feel guilty, and I wanted it to happen again.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/c7s3fy/the_time_val_fucked_a_memoir_my_best_friends_dad