Ron Taylor - Hot for dad

Betsy looked up, her blue eyes big arid vacant. "He deserved it," she said. "He put me down once, and everyone at school heard about it. I always knew I'd get even." She giggled. "Oh, it wasn't so bad. I mean, cum isn't poison. God, I'd be dead."

"Not that," Sibyl said, shivering at the memory of what Betsy had done to the boy. "I meant, how could you have done that at all? Put his thing in your…"

Betsy tilted her head to one said and she laughed softly. "I suppose you've never? Oh, my God, you haven't! Don't blush, Sibyl. Being a virgin isn't the worst thing in the world. I mean, there's cancer, and – you are a virgin, aren't you? I mean, a real, honest-to-God…" She stopped. "I'm embarrassing you."

Yes, very much! Sibyl wanted to shout. In fact, she was even more embarrassed than when she'd stumbled in to watch Betsy's act of perversion. Of course she was a virgin. Chastity was a girl's greatest treasure. All the nuns had agreed on that. Bad girls went to hell and scorched in the fires of their sinful lusts. Betsy would probably go to hell, or at least to purgatory, and Sibyl found the thought saddening. Betsy didn't seem like such a bad girl, though her morals were obviously flawed. There was something fresh and appealing about Betsy, something which especially reached out to a girl like Sibyl, who'd always had trouble making friends.

"Look," Betsy went on. "If you're a good girl, that's nobody's business but yours. I'm a naughty girl, and I dig the hell out of being one. Talk about ironic. Look at us. Here you are, pure as a rose, and you have that really sexy red hair – mm, it feels just like a horse's mane, very nice – and freckles, and your face! Lord, you've got the kind of face that kinda smirks, you know? Naughty, but wouldn't it be soooo nice?" She did a half-turn and came round wearing a big-eyed kissy-face that shocked Sibyl all over again.

"No," Betsy protested. "That's how you look. It doesn't mean anything, necessarily. Take me, for example. Here I am, five-feet-four of blonde, blue-eyed apple pie. I was first runner-up for Miss Teenaged Albany County. Not bad, considering that I'd probably win it hands down for Town Slut, if they held a contest. See? Oh, we're two different people, you and I, and neither of us is responsible for the other's moral values. Is there any reason we can't be friends? Okay! Let me get some coffee, and you tell me about yourself. You're new in town?"

Sibyl began to talk at machine-gun tempo about herself, about her father and his adventures and books, about the house they were renting here, about the California house to which they'd move come fall. She couldn't believe she was talking so much, but it was her voice, sure enough.

"Oh, you're at the O'Brien place," Betsy deduced. "Up on the hilltop. Pool and patio out back. Yeah, that's only a few blocks from our house. God, you should be soaking up the sun, not wasting your days pepperminting. I wish we had a pool."

"Maybe you could come by sometime," Sibyl offered hesitantly, not sure Betsy would accept. The other girl was so outgoing, so self confident – why did she want to be friends with a wallflower like Sibyl?

"I was hoping you'd ask," Betsy mugged. "Maybe I'll just pack my bikini and sunglasses and take you up on it. Very soon."

Sibyl sighed. Betsy had the kind of figure bikinis were made for. Long-legged, well-proportioned, not busty but not flat-chested. Betsy would be dynamite on a beach. She'd have to carry a whip and gun to keep the boys away. Sibyl felt inadequate in comparison, though the two girls could probably have interchanged clothes from the skin out, with perfect fit. There was something about Betsy, though, an aggressive confidence, an elan, which Sibyl knew she lacked.

"Please do," she said in spite of her envy. "It would be awfully nice."

Sibyl's shift ended at four-thirty. She changed from uniform into shirt and jeans, mounted her bicycle, and pedaled home. A good cyclist, she was able to pedal all the way up the steep hill which led to her summer residence, though she was puffing by the time she reached the top. A small Japanese car was parked in front of the house, alongside Daddy's gray Mercedes. Who? Oh, sure! The girl who typed Daddy's final drafts. She was in and out every day, it seemed, dropping off batches of manuscript. And staring at Daddy with big calf eyes, too, Sibyl thought. As if he were some hot-stud rock singer. Women certainly didn't mature just because they got older. Sibyl parked her bike and went inside.

From the foyer she could hear the sounds. A woman, sighing, sobbing, her voice cracking with some emotion Sibyl didn't recognize. Pain? Delirious excitement? It smacked of both. The young girl hesitated, rocking on her heels. A man's voice, too, deeper pitched, calling out with the growl of a well-fed lion. A bed, and she was certain it could be only a bed, heaving like a trampoline. The shaking, the rattling, the creaking of mattress springs – Daddy certainly wasn't pounding his typewriter!

She took off her shoes and crept up the stairs, very softly, very slowly, watching where she stepped. The sounds Sibyl heard emanated from her father's bedroom. She was positive of that as soon as she'd climbed halfway up the staircase. The bedroom door was opened all the way. She glued her face to a gap between banister rails and looked straight ahead, into the bedroom, to the bed. As clearly revealed to her sight as if it were in the center of a theatrical stage were two people, a man and a woman, both of them completely naked, their bodies joined together as they exercised on the bed. It was Daddy, of course, and with him was that girl – what was her name? Cheryl something. And – God! thought Sibyl in revulsion.

She had a profile view. Certain details were obscured, but she could see enough to know what was going on. Cheryl was on her back, legs kicking high in the air. Her brunette hair was flipping and swirling in a disordered mess, and she sang and purred in a gasped breathless tone. Sibyl's father, Ed, knelt on the bed, behind Cheryl, the cheeks of her ass balanced on his folded thighs. His loins pressed against the space between her legs and he kept pushing himself against her, sighing each time he rammed her body with his own. And each time Ed sighed, Cheryl moaned, and her feet paddled in the air as if she were pedaling a bicycle downhill.

He's-he's fucking her, Sibyl told herself in shock. Not the least of Sibyl's horror was traced to the fact that she even thought of such an obscene phrase as "fucking." But she'd heard it so often today during her conversation with Betsy. The sweet-faced blonde could talk up a storm, and her favorite adjectives and modifiers were "fuckin'" and "bitchin'". Now it was rubbing off on Sibyl. I should have my mouth washed out with soap, she thought.

But he was fucking her. Or having intercourse with her. Or whatever description, polite, or impolite, was appropriate. Cheryl even said so. "Oh, come on, fuck me!" she moaned, over and over as her body and Ed's slammed together with squishes and thwacks of flesh. She used the word nearly as often as Betsy.

It's disgusting, Sibyl fumed. Hideous and disgusting they looked like animals, doing that. She closed her eyes, not wanting to watch another second, but she opened her eyes almost as soon as she'd shut them. Some power stronger than her outraged moral sense was controlling her, and she was helpless. She could only watch.

Ed doubled his pace. His body was a blur of motion as he shoved his cock in and out of Cheryl's sucking cunt. It was the third time they'd balled this afternoon, besides the first-time sixty-nine. His cock was harder than ever, and he was giving Cheryl unmitigated hell. She screamed in joy every time it banged its fierce way into her pussy, and she rotated her feet in the air. His hands burned where they gripped her ass, lifting her to receive him, and there was a strained ache in the small of her back which meant nothing in comparison to the feverish delight of her pussy.