Daddy's Bedtime Taboo Sex Stories

by Kelly Fleming

  My head spun and I came again. I felt him join me with one final thrust. The pleasure was unbelievable. One wave after another hit me as my nails dug into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood. I had made my small mark on him too.

  We both laid on the mattress struggling to breathe. "You are mine now," he whispered in my ear.

  I don't know why I resisted for so long when surrender was this sweet.

  The End.

  Dinner With Sister In Law

  Sitting at the dinner table with my husband and his sister, my heart is racing with excitement. The familiar tingle between my thighs has now escalated to a wet slithery sensation as I rub then together and feel my own wetness on my soft flesh.

  Thirty minutes ago I excused myself to go to the toilet....

  Having locked the door behind me as I entered, I conducted my usual perverted raid on her washing basket, hoping that she had not recently completed her laundry. My eyes bulged to illustrate my joy when I lifted the lid back and noticed an almost full basket, full of beautiful clothing waiting to be washed. Silks, satins, fine cottons. All scented with her addictive perfume and her own feminine body scents. Heaven!

  Thankfully for me and my perversion, she is a fitness fanatic, and there is usually a selection of gym clothing and swimsuits for my private pleasure. Rummaging through her soiled collection I chose what must have been her underwear for a recent gym session. The black cotton thong was still slightly damp, and the smell was intoxicating. Sweat, pee, and a bit of excitement from her sessions on the cycling machines no doubt, all mixed together and absorbed into this flimsy material. With clammy hands I pulled them out of the basket, inhaled all her scents from the underwear, noting not only her body odours but also her hypnotic perfume. God, I was in heaven!

  With my heart threatening to escape the confines of my chest, I nervously put each stiletto-heeled foot through the relevant holes in her thong, pulled them up my waxed legs until they reached the bottom of my mid length skirt. At this point I grabbed my hem and lifted it so that I could keep hold of it with my teeth as I continued. Knowing and hoping that this would happen tonight I had anticipated my need for not wearing my own underwear. When the cold damp material touched my hot intimate wetness I gasped with excitement and joy. I was such a dirty tramp. Wearing another woman's discarded thong. Soaked in sweat, pee and her own intimate juices. God, and now they were mixing with mine. I could have died and gone to heaven right there and then!

  With my middle finger I push the material hard against my soft folds, and force them slightly inside me so that they would remain there when I left the toilet. With skirt lowered, and thighs rubbing together to enjoy the kinky sensation, I lifted my middle finger up to my nose and inhale the musky aroma. I couldn't help myself as I then tasted it with my tongue, savouring 'our' wetness.

  With toilet flushed and my face reddened with sexual excitement, I left the toilet and headed for the dining table, where I sit down squirming in ecstasy. The wetness was already seeping through as we were served dinner.

  So ... here I am. Gently, teasingly rubbing my thighs together. Feeling the ever so slight yet wonderful friction of the wet thong caressing and pleasing my swollen clit. With every movement the material is taking me closer and closer to my needed release, but I dread to let on to the siblings at the table.

  The tingling rises and rises to become that itch which needs scratched until orgasm, and I delicately rub my thighs tighter together. My breathing becomes deeper, heavier, and more irregular. Surely they will notice? But I can't stop myself. I so need this. Now!!!

  Thinking of her wearing and grinding herself into the thong which is taking me to my release, sends me over the edge, and I grunt and shake for what seems to be forever as the waves of pleasure rip through my tender body. My husband notices my shaking, stops eating, and turns to me asking if I am OK. I stutter that I am fine and that I just got a chill up my spine, and excuse myself again.

  Inside the confines of the toilet again, I need to continue my orgasms to try and cure my itch. I hitch up my skirt, dip my hand down between my soaking thighs, and rub myself furiously through the wet thong. The rising odours hit my nose just as I reach that second plateau. Grinding hard into my soft lips my body shudders and knees buckle as I take myself over the orgasmic edge again. As the waves fade to an amazing tickling sensation, I grab the waist of the thong and pull it hard so that the material is almost cutting my soft swollen lips. With this delightful friction, I decide to tease myself all night and keep it in position.

  Without washing my hands again, I exit the toilet and return to the table. The night ahead is sure to be filled with so many more orgasms.

  The End.

  The Pop-Out on the Patawanee Creek

  Running is a Relief. And an escape.

  Saddled with three kids under the age of eight and a wife with a demanding corporate job, I found myself spiraling downward four years ago. Not only did I have a full-time job of my own, but I also had to shuttle the kids to and from the many after school events and keep up with the housework and grocery shopping. Oh--and did I mention feed everybody? My wife was loving and caring, but she had neither the time nor the energy to offer much assistance..

  I needed something different. Something to take my mind away from the stresses of home and work. Something to refocus my energies and channel my thoughts. And that's when I discovered the freedom of endurance running.

  At first, long jogs were a means to reduce stress through exhaustive physical exertion. I left the house after bedtime and ran the darkened streets, working up a heavy sweat. After returning home, I would strip down naked and jump into the pool. The contrast of inner burning heat and the outer cooling chill enlivened me. And the best thing: The entire time (usually a full hour) I was alone. No expectations. No demands. No requests. Those late-night runs were blissful, relaxing pleasures.

  But, as one who enjoys challenges, I found myself wanting more. I became obsessed with the desire to run both farther and faster. I had mastered the five-mile, fifty minute run--but so what? It became dull the moment that I realized that it posed no difficulty. I would have to do better. I pushed myself towards nine-minute miles and set a goal to one-day average eight over longer distances.

  To test myself against others, I began to enter local 10K and 20K races. (They tended to run early weekday mornings when my wife could watch the children). I never placed high in my age group, but I was quite pleased with my performance, especially considering that I had never been a trained runner. Soon I yearned for the middle-age ultimate: The sub 4:00-hour marathon. (For those of you who are serious runners: Hey, I know human beings can go a lot faster. But that time's pretty awesome for a former run-of-the-mill 39-year-old.)

  With my wife's support, I joined a local marathon-training group that operated out of an athletic shoe store. Over six months, I trained with like-minded folks. The longer runs grew increasingly difficult, but peer camaraderie melted time away on the trails.

  Our group of 20 met each Saturday morning at 5:30 A.M. Over two months of gentle increases, we reached a base run of 12 miles; thereafter, we slowly added miles every other week, maxing out at 22 (the other week was always the base miles). I know this sounds impossible for those who have never run long distances. I can only say that the human body is an amazing mechanism. It can learn to do whatever we desire. With careful instruction and preparation, the body can adapt to the most extreme challenges.

  The longer runs took up to four hours. Though our group did tend to spread out over a half a mile, most of us still had an opportunity to chat with each other. Over time I realized that we all shared one thing in common: We were trying to escape something.

  For some, it was advancing age. For others, excessive responsibilities, or professional disappointment, or a failed relationship, or increasing body weight.... There was always something. It was rarely spoken directly, but it was inevitably made clear during conversation in the early morning hours. I felt comf
ortable in this group. I ran up and down the line each Saturday, catching up with everyone, sharing the highlights and low-lights of my week.

  Most of the other runners were considerably younger than myself. This didn't bother me at all. In fact, I enjoyed hearing about their lives. It reminded me of my own past, my life before marriage and children. A core group had become quite friendly with each other and socialized outside of our training runs. The rest of us were always invited, but I could rarely make it. (Wednesday happy hour is difficult when you need to pick three kids up after work and get one of them to baseball practice and the other to piano lessons--only to circle back to pick them both up again in 60 minutes.)

  Time passed and the marathon came. I felt great throughout my training and--one the day of the big event--ran effortlessly. My final time of 3:41:23 didn't put me anywhere near the top runners of my age group, but I beat my original goal by nearly 20 minutes and average about 8:30 per mile.

  Most members of my group did even better (I was one of only a few first-timers). Jon, our leader, ran 2:58:30. Not world class, but a worthy achievement.

  As we sat around after the race drinking the free beer provided by the Shiner Brewery, we lamented that the season was over. Most pledged to return in the fall for next year's sponsored training. But some weren't quite ready to let it go yet.

  Marybeth, one of the younger single girls, suggested that we have an end-of-season celebration. With the summer months approaching, she suggested tubing on the Patawanee Creek, which runs through North Texas into the Red River.

  "We have to!" she implored. "We can haul coolers with us, lounge under the sun, spend time together. And it's beautiful and remote. I bet we have the creek to ourselves! I grew up near there and I know just where to go!"

  It didn't happen right away, but after much Facebook messaging, Marybeth's idea became reality. The group set a Saturday afternoon float date. Even though most of us had to travel an hour's distance, twelve of twenty group members confirmed.

  I was a "No." It was Saturday. I had housework and my usual shuttling duties. I didn't even ask my wife. But when the event came up later in casual conversation, I was shocked when she said, "Well, did you want to go?"

  I didn't say, "Hell, yes!" but that was my immediate sentiment. I love the great outdoors. and a slow tubing down a river is a favorite of mine--although regrettably an activity I've done rarely since college.

  We worked out the details, and I changed my reply to "yes."

  Now, I am content in my marriage, but that does not mean "happily ever after." To be sure, I can't complain: I have a loving wife with an exceptional character. She is pure goodness through and through. But....physically, she let herself go 13 years ago. Whereas I will challenge my body on a daily basis, she allows hers an eternal rest.

  And it shows.

  I guess I must admit that this adds a hot spot in our marriage (the wrong kind). I want to perfect my physical body for my lover. It bothers me that she won't make such an effort for me. So...that attractive girl I married is no longer my wife.

  And, because of it, I admit that my eye does wander, and I yearn for the physical companionship of other women.

  Which is why the thought of spending a day on the river, surrounded by young attractive girls with tight runner's bodies in tiny swimsuits, was extra appealing. (I would lie if I didn't admit that part of the joy of athletic training is spending time with women who are exceptionally physically fit.

  On the day of, I arrived at the drop-in site on time and quickly busied myself arranging my tube and supplies. Jon had rigged two tubes for hauling food and beverages. One was attached to his outfit and the other to Marybeth's. I added my items to their coolers. Then, I took off my shirt, threw it in the back of my truck, and oiled myself up. (You only need to live in Texas for a week to learn the importance of suntan lotion.) Lastly, after consulting with Jon, I handed my car keys over to group-mates Alex and Bill, who were driving several cars down to the pick-up site.

  While we waited for them to return, I listened in on a few conversations. I must admit that I wasn't very talkative. But, behind my dark sunglasses, my eyes were very active.

  Of course the women in my training group had fantastic bodies. Running 30+ miles most weeks eliminates fat and hardens muscles. Though I had seen all the women many times in tight shorts--and a few in bra tops--I had never seen them like this: Sporting skin-tight shorts that revealed all their curves. My eyes drank in the sights. They were my friends, and I had no sexual desires for any of them, but that doesn't mean I couldn't appreciate the beauty of the human body.

  But,--dare I say, none of them were my kind of woman?

  Thin. Tight. Zero fat. Muscular. But not for me.

  I know that there are men that couldn't possibly understand such feelings. So be it. There I stood at the drop-in, surrounding by my female running mates in their skin-tight swimsuits. Nine women. Eighteen tight-butt cheeks. Firm abs, hard thighs, and taunt arms....

  They looked great. But my eyes instead fell on the one woman I didn't know. Full breasts. Wide hips. Round thighs. A pronounced hourglass figure. And a stomach neither firm nor loose. It was just right.

  A woman with curves.

  Oh--the other girls had curves. Tight little curves. Often perfectly shaped. But...so, so small.

  The object of my attention had real curves. Perhaps I should say pronounced curves: She looked as a woman should. And she was clearly a marathon runner: One of the rare women who doesn't have to sacrifice her full-body figure to reach maximum shape.

  She stood there impressively in a tight yet modest gray and white bikini. Her large breasts were pressed together and up by the top, creating a magnificently deep line of cleavage. Her stomach showed body yet still had the outlines of well-developed abdominal muscles. Her thighs were round and thick but yet muscular. She carried an ironic beauty: Physically strong but yet soft and womanly. She didn't have that male, muscular edge that too many female athletes carry.

  And, unlike the others, she appeared to be my age. Suddenly feeling conversational, I walked over to her.

  "Hi, I'm Ed. Don't believe I've seen you on the trails."

  I extended my hand.

  "Rhonda." She shook my hand pleasantly, a sincere smile on her lips. "I'm part of the Grand Prairie group, but I knew Jon back when he ran with us. We keep in touch, and he invited me along. My girlfriend was supposed to join me, but she bailed at the last second. But, since I have two young kids at home, and I don't get out much on my own, I decided to come anyway"

  Her words struck an immediate cord with me. Not only did she have the body I loved, but her life situation seemed familiar.

  "I'm glad you did. It gives me someone to talk to who understands children. The rest of these folks are a bit too young and free. They don't quite understand what it means to run 18 miles and then come home to young children."

  I wanted her to see that we shared something in common. And she gave me what I wanted: An understanding smile and a brisk nod of the head.

  We chatted a bit more. Our home schedules and responsibilities mirrored each other as we both had a spouse with a demanding, time-consuming job. Our reasons for and love of endurance running were the same.

  I felt that we hit it off well, and we mutually stood next to each other as the tubes were rolled down to the river's bank and the calls for departure commenced..

  We all hopped into the water and excitedly began our five-hour float. This stretch of river--according to Marybeth--was rather remote and rolled largely through Texas ranch land. She said that we wouldn't pass by any homes, but that we should see more than our share of cattle.

  At first, we all grouped together, using the food and beverage floats as our center. We laughed, reminisced, and drank. Eventually, the creek's movement and channel broke us up into smaller groups. After 30 minutes, I found myself alone with Rhonda at the rear of our party. It was by accident, but I was quite glad. I wanted to get to know her better. (And
I must admit that I quite enjoyed stealing glances at her bountiful cleavage).

  We fell into deep conversation. Children. Jobs. Spouses. Hobbies. Passions. Delights.

  It would be wrong to bore you with details. We all have diverse tastes. Can I just say that I felt magic? I laughed. She laughed. I smiled. She smiled. Sincere pleasure, and enjoyment, with each other's company. We connected on so many levels. We shared so many common interests and passions. It even felt a little unnerving. Two strangers shouldn't feel so comfortable with each other only one hour after meeting.

  There are few rapids on the Patawanee, but experienced rafters know that no fast-moving body of water should be taken lightly. No matter how deep.

  After three or four long, slow bends, the creek narrowed and sharply dropped perhaps one foot at the next turn. At the time, we were perhaps 20 yards behind the main group. Instinctively, I watched the others go before us. None had difficulty, but I could see their tubes quickly accelerate as they hit a yard-wide gap in a water break. A large rock appeared in the middle of the narrow, about five feet after the gap, forcing passersby to either go hard to the left or to the right. I could see that each person in our group had to lean or paddle slightly to avoid hitting the rock head on.

  I communicated what I saw to Rhonda and took the lead, excited for a little action..

  A bit experienced on watercraft, I shifted my weight as my tube, used a hand to paddle, and easily passed through the drop, avoiding any contact with the imposing stone.. I immediately turned my attention to the group in front, who--due to the creek's sudden velocity--were already partly around an upcoming bend. I could hear them yelling at me, but their words were indecipherable. I put my thumb up in the air and waved with the other hand. They waved back and turned their attention back to each other as they turned the corner.