Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Enjoy. Everyone is over 18 in this story.
My daughter, Cala, sat beside me on the bus. She started riding with me after her mother and I got divorced, concurrent with her being accepted at a new high school for her Senior Year.
The combination of events was 1) her getting accepted to a magnet dance school, and 2) our divorce draining us of the financial resources to support her. The compromise was that she did not have a car, but she could go to the school. Like everything, it had been handled emotionally and poorly with much shouting and tears I felt guilty but she got over it.
I was a disaster after the divorce, emotionally in pain, angry, and hurt. Depressed. Cala did not fully comprehend my feelings, as she had just turned 18, a teenager in the prime of her life excited about dance. Actually, the divorce meant I got to be with her much more than I ever had in the past, and given my emotional state I came to rely on her emotionally, as I put forward a veneer of adult calm. I hid my pain well. I also could not help but notice how she had grown into a woman, particularly the way she dressed for her dance school; and, her ability was truly amazing. I loved watching her as we waited for the bus, surreptitiously practicing steps, moving her foot forward and to the side, shaking her shoulders a little, turn her hips. You could see her mentally run through routines, and the way she could move, the pliancy of her body. The intensity and level of her dancing had given her an amazing body, which I would be lying if I said I did not notice. I certainly did.
But it was one day, in particular, I remember: The day she wore a pair of large sunglasses. It proved to be the seminal event which utterly changed her and us.
The other thing I remembered was her boots. She had on a pair of black boots tightly hugging her calves with buckles cinching into the leather, which is so popular now. Rising to just below her knees. She had on a pair of black tights, like colored opaque nylons. Over those she had on a pair of short shorts, dark brown with a tweed pattern, and with cuffs. Loose around her legs high up on her thighs, they accentuated her hips and bottom perfectly. Her top was a shimmery loose white pullover with a collar that hung down loose around her shoulders and front. And with those large dark sunglasses, and her enormous bag. She was mesmerizing, the most beautiful and alluring that any woman had ever looked to me. And the giant bag which had everything. Her phone (which she had at all times), her makeup, shoes, everything I ever saw her with was always in that bag.
Cala had long brunette hair, like her mother, thick, shiny and perfectly cut and combed. She could toss it around, a beautiful mane of hair cascading down her back. She had a small mouth, a protruding lower lip, bright shining brown eyes, and the whitest teeth I had ever seen. She would smile at messages as she glanced at her phone and write furiously as she sat next to me on the bus. While she tended to ignore me, she still did sit next to me. Her earrings were gold, dangly, delicate and beautiful. She liked red, and leather and black, but always with a hint of the feminine. Patterns and fabrics, flowers and soft curves. Light fabrics. Her lips shined with a pink/red lipstick to which she applied gloss which she drew out of her giant bag. I noticed so many things about my daughter that day, all burned into my memory. Her mouth formed a frown if you looked closely, but somehow always gave the impression of an impish grin. A Mona Lisa smile.
She did not ride with me always. Some days she got rides with friends, and her mother would give her rides when she was staying with her. So it was one week on and one week off.
But those days she wore the glasses, she felt like an exotic stranger to me. Whether she noticed, I do not know. But I could not help but watch her sitting next to me, all exotic, and beautiful and mysterious. She became someone else altogether to me.
She fed my every fantasy after that.
There is a routine on a bus. Any bus will fill out at basically the same rate every day along its route. Everybody catching the bus at more or less the same time, at their same respective stops, with only a subtle variation near holidays or weekends. Overall, every day works and looks nearly the same.
Since you get on at the same time on your same corner, and the bus has filled to essentially the same level when you get on, your experience of the bus is also the same everyday. The habit extends to where you sit. There is a tendency to seat yourself in the same place. Another rule of the bus is that the seats do not start to double up until every vacant seat has been taken. Hence, for some there is always a window seat because the stop is early. For others you must always choose to sit next to someone. It is this second group who istanbul escort do move around a bit, as they are less likely to take the same seat. To do so would tend to place them next to the same person, who does take the same seat when it is empty. To do so among the second set of seat takers is to sit next to same person, putting one in a too familiar position relative to the stranger they must sit next to.
This is the etiquette of the bus.
But we violated these rules, getting on the bus early and sitting next to one another. We, therefore, being early boarders sat above the wheel well and behind the interior heater. A warm place in winter, a cool place in summer, and on the side of the bus which gave me the morning sun on my skin. I was a cat in my former life and I loved the feel of sunshine.
We rarely spoke, we never made eye contact – or I can’t say for sure when Cala had on those sunglasses. Her outfits were different every single day, save for tights (her dancers uniform), never repeating and, yes, I noticed it all. She also had white ear buds, always, listening to music and tapping at her phone.
Her impish grin, and those impossibly white teeth, if something she read struck her fancy.
After the divorce I moved to an apartment which is 1/2 mile from my former home. I have been working the same job and living in the same neighborhood, and prior to one year ago, the same house for the past 25 years. My life had had all the hallmarks of stability, until I was thrown out. The surface stability has mostly held, but internally I have been a wreck, and no one to really talk to. No adults, and I am still too embarrassed, too emotionally vulnerable, to open up to any of my professional male friends. And I have much higher expenses on the same income, and somehow have to hold it all together. It felt as if it were all lost, all a waste, fruitless. The years of comfort – as I had been such a creature of habit – doing the same things, going to the same job and raising two wonderful children resulted in two adults who lived together all of that time somehow losing track of one another. I had been fine with it, Lisa was not. She came home one day and wanted more out of life, the end result was that I was to no longer live in the house with my children. It also contributes to this story, in that this was the event which led Cala and I to commute by bus.
I moved close by, into a nice little apartment with three bedrooms; and have the kids – Cala and Mark – one week, she the other. In hindsight I could have suspected, as my wife of 25 years suddenly began to lose weight and take an inordinate interest in her appearance. I have since learned it is called the divorce diet. Our relationship since has evolved in, how shall I call it, interesting directions. First of all, her dreams of the newly single life was not as exciting as she imagined. Not much demand out there for the freshly divorced forty something mother of two, as she had hoped. She also felt guilty about what she had done to me, as I took it particularly hard. I could not hide THAT from her. What has grown out of it all was an ongoing *secret* relationship, where we do go out, spend time together, and have sex. As Lisa puts it, fulfill our ‘needs.’ So a certain strange stability has held in that department. Although, I believe it has made things more disruptive for me emotionally, and also kept my libido elevated as I never knew when these little sessions might spring. They were spontaneous and based upon her needs. On the surface, we get along amicably, and at least do not fight in front of the kids. Cala is 18 now, so I guess she’s an adult, but I hadn’t been able to share anything negative with her about her mother. So again, this dichotomy between my surface life and inner life. How shall I say it, it’s been thrilling and awful.
The end result of all of this, and why I include it here, is that the whole event of the past year has yet left me depressed, but led me to an escape hatch has been a rising sexual appetite, where my imagination and my libido feed into a world of fantasy, erotica and pornography most days. Fed, in part, by my ex-wife. I have needed to escape, and it led me into porn, which also gave my stress and depression what it needed. Call it addictive, or whatever you want. I was not dealing with my emotions in any meaningful way. I treated myself with distraction, fantasy, porn, alcohol, and it all left me in a particularly heightened state of desire, with dreams of adventure, lust, and beautiful women. I began reading stories, erotic stories, or looking at pictures (porn), dreaming of tete a tetes I would never in reality engage myself in. I am not particularly outgoing and meeting a woman for a new relationship is a complete mystery, and I simply say to myself – I am not ready. I do know I am drawn to particular types of women, essentially Lisa and variations thereof. I call cebeci escort them female women, girlie girls, I love dark hair (and dark pussies), mysterious eyes, and bodies that move and exude confidence, lithe and flexible. Something the young girls these days seem to exude in spades. Somehow, my daughter triggered an innate desire in me whenever she put on those dark sunglasses, becoming someone else entirely. She became the fantasy of my fantasies. But I could do nothing about that, except within my own imagination. She was my daughter for gods sake. But she became, for me, a living avatar, a living manga cartoon. She fed my visions and my libido, I could feel my loins rise, on those days we rode together and on those days she dressed in her tight outfits, her leather boots and those glasses.
And when she sat beside me, her little lithe frame alighting next to me, this little bird, her thigh just brushing mine. I could feel my heart leap and let my imagination run wild.
It was on one of those warm spring mornings which come too early, bursting onto the scene catching you unawares. I have a particular stirring in spring, get an especially wild feel and it triggers memories of my youth. I had been such a wild child in my youth, as had Lisa my ex, all of that satiated in my middle years. But it was the kind of sun and warmth and scent which makes one think of sex. I’d had a frustrating week at work, but the day pushed any thought of strategy, phone calls, computers out of my mind. Deadlines were vanishing and my heart felt wonderful. The sunshine on my skin, warm wind and the smell of summer and wet grass.
Naturally, my thoughts wandered to Cala, sitting beside me in those dark glasses, feeding an ongoing fantasy of her as stranger. I ran a comb through my hair, felt warm and aroused.
THE FIRST TIME
The sun was bright, warm, and the heater in the bus was turned off allowing the spring smells in.
Today she was wearing a perfume I did not recognize, exotic and sweet. The perfume was citrus with honey and definitely rose, but with a bite. Her neck was exposed because of the low dip in the dress she wore, a light yellow dress cinched at the waist. But still those thin tights beneath the dress, white today, and the presence of the tights allowed the dress to be quite short. No necklace, but a pair of loose earrings with a green gem. Her collarbone, completely exposed, her beautiful bare throat was her jewelry today. Her right hand had a large ring in the shape of a flower. She was feeling spring too, I thought.
I glanced at her, she did not move at all, her impish face looking down, staring at her phone and selecting some music. Neither looking left nor right. So economical in her movements. Pouting. Her eyes covered in those large dark glasses.
She was small, stood to my chin when we faced one another. Her breasts were exquisite, a guilt rising in me as I daydreamed of her breasts, the perfect size and shape in that tight fitting dress, tear drops clinging to her front. I could make out the pattern of lace in the fabric of her top, a lace bra. Did her panties match? Oh, this was too much. I felt this wonderful stirring as the bus accelerated onto the highway and we settled in for the journey. I was feeling unusually aroused today, I felt hot, lurid as this object of my fantasy was sitting next to me. My daughter. Recklessly, I let my leg slide toward her and brush along the length of her thigh, touching her knee with mine. I held my leg like that, and looked out the window as I did so.
I felt an unmistakable pressure back. Cala’s leg pressing to mine, unmistakable. And it was not a bump, I could read that. She was not trying to bump me away, signalling me to move, back off. It was, rather, a light and persistent pressure back, our legs pressed together. Our bodies touching, by choice. Her warmth penetrating my trousers, her smell capturing my imagination. We sat like that for perhaps five minutes or so. She moved only to tap tap tap on her phone. Her head tipped down, but her leg still pressing itself to mine, her big bag laid across her lap.
I could have been imagining all this, it all could have been a dream, but she seemed somehow restless too. The vibration of the bus was shaking us and our legs at times clung together, and I wondered if it had anything to do with the vibrations from the bus causing our thighs to brush up and down and back and forth. The bus slowing now, stuck in slow traffic gridlock, and as I glanced at her she gave no notice. A deep breath filling her lungs, I looked to the window again and reached down my hand; lay it at the top of her thigh. Just to have some human contact I told myself.
My heart fell from my chest, rolled to the center aisle. My breath left me and my throat went dry to the point I feared falling into an uncontrolled coughing fit. I did not know where to look. This was ankara escort absurd. It was an innocent touch, holding her leg, but inside the turmoil of what I felt. Her leg pressing to mine, and my hand wrapped lightly around her thigh right along the hem of her cute little yellow dress. The throb from the bus engine accelerating and decelerating, her leg so warm and soft, and me watching that window, looking at nothing, fearing to look at her. Ready to apologize, or do whatever I needed to do to get out of this outrageous behavior I had just engaged in. But my little girl did nothing at all.
The bus was slowing now, exiting and entering the city. The idling engine vibrating my hand, her pressure on my leg continued unabated. It all giving me a horny buzz. In all of it, she did not move, she did nothing. In my mind she had become my avatar, a stranger, a beautiful siren. She was frozen, looking off to the right (I lied, I peeked), a slight turn of her head. Her chin lifted somewhat higher as she listened to the music, as if balancing a pencil on her chin.
Did she realize how turned on I was? That she was arousing her father? I had carried it all this far. Why not? And I squeezed, moving my fingers lightly and then squeezing her softly again. There was no mistaking my contact now, my touch at her thigh. My idle hand had sent a smoke signal out to the ‘mystery’ girl in glasses, my Morse Code. Cala. Cala. You are so beautiful. My hand trembled, and my fingers felt numb. I relaxed my leg and pulled it away from her, leaving my hand where it was. She could stop me now. The heat between our thighs cooled, but the heat in my hand rose. I could see her breathing, and she still did nothing, no movement, her leg relaxing as mine had since we were pressed together. It was as if a spring had been unwound. I began curling my fingers further between her legs, stroking her thigh, stroking lightly over her tights, small movements. My hand easily wrapped around her leg. This taboo-breaking contact established, what now? What is the code of conduct for groping your daughter? At this point I was doing it because I had done it, how do I stop such an outrageous thing? How innocent? How depraved?
I began to curl my fingers, holding to her, draw my nails along her flesh, could feel the fabric of her tights press along ahead of my fingers, so thin. It was as if I were touching her bare skin. The etiquette is this, my friend: Slow. Gentle. Stop and go, a move and wait, move and wait, a touch which allows for my little girl to signal, whether to proceed, to end it, or to wait for the police. My rationalization was that I was placing it onto her. She, the governor of me. An absence of response, a face turned away, is a green light – so I told myself. It has been established since the game of red light green light was played in back yards forever. Curling my fingers over her smooth tights, feeling the hem of her skirt and listening to her breath, I squeezed again and she brought her chin lower, turned her head from the aisle in a distinct shift my direction. She had reacted to my presence for, perhaps, the first time. Her mouth was a straight line, slightly pursed, assessing. Her motionlessness perhaps the most erotic thing that had ever happened in my life. The imperceptible permission. I felt the hot ache of desire spread through my chest, and could feel my penis stiffen. It was too good to be true. I glanced once more in her direction, much more obvious than I had. Her dark glasses hiding those eyes, but her head inclined down before that imperceptible impish smile/frown of her small mouth turned into a teasing and imperceptible grin. A sort of mocking, I cannot believe you are doing this, but what the hell I’ll play.
I let my hand drift down further between her legs, which were never pressed together. The front of my hand drawing back and forth along the inner thigh of her left leg as the back of my hand bushed along the inner thigh of her right leg. Stroking both sides of her inner thighs in deliciously growing, lengthening strokes. The big bag hiding it all. She waggled her hips a little, nothing more. Total permission granted, my strokes extending from her knees to the hem of her skirt, which you must understand was high up my little girls thighs. The heat rising as my hand touched the hem, cooling as my hands ran back down to her knees. Feeling the heat of her sex had me turned on like nothing I could imagine. Even just thinking about my little girls sex. Her lips turning positively wicked as my fingers stroked and teased at the hem of her little yellow skirt. Giving me a kind of pout, pressing out her lower lip. As if to say, I dare you.
But we were both surprised when the bus pulled into her schools stop. We had lost all sense of place or time or day or year, the bus pulled to its designated corner, my daughters magnet school, being several stops before mine. She took my hand off her thigh, setting it back onto my lap. A sort of stern tut tut registering on her lips.
Rising, she simply said, “See you tonight, daddy.”
And did not turn as she tucked her phone into her bag and walked off.
I had not realized what an emotional wreck I had become until she had gone.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32