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The next day, as soon as my wife finished school in my daughter’s body, she bounded into my office where I was finishing up some contracts.
“Hey honey,” I said without looking up. She hadn’t come into my room that morning, and I hadn’t seen her at breakfast. For a moment, I’d even forgotten about the swap that my wife had orchestrated and wondered if Belle had returned to her old ways.
There was no response, and I turned to see Belle standing there, her hands twisting together nervously, my wife’s eyes peering out at me from my daughter’s face.
“What’s up?” I asked warily.
She stopped abruptly, and threw herself face-down onto the couch. From between the cushions, I heard a muffled “Oh, god…”
“What is it? Honey, what’s wrong?”
I sat down on the couch next to my daughter’s prone body, and put one arm on her shoulder. She shrugged it off; a move totally foreign to my wife, but one very familiar from my daughter.
Had it worn off? Had they swapped back, twelve days early?
What was happening?
“No,” the muffled voice replied. “It’s still Mary.”
“What the hell’s happened?”
She rolled over, and looked up at me with big, sad eyes.
“Andrew, this is so much harder than I thought it would be.”
My mind started racing with potential problems and their solutions. If she was struggling with school, we could take her out for a few weeks. If she missed her friends, we could…they were trustworthy, surely? Maybe we could explain to a few of them what had happened.
I mentally ran through a dozen different possibilities before my wife continued.
“I…oh god, this is so embarrassing!”
She flipped back over, and buried her head in the cushions once more.
“Honey, I promise – whatever it is, I’m not going to judge you.”
“Yes you are!” came the muted reply.
“Stick a needle in my eye, I’m not.”
My wife rolled over again, revealing a solemn look on her blushing face.
“Honey, this is the strangest thing I’m ever, ever going to ask you, and I want you to promise that you’re not going to hate me for it.”
“Of course,” I urged. “What’s wrong??”
Another sigh, and for a second I thought I’d lost her, and she was just going to hide her face in the couch again. Her blush deepened, and her response was so quiet I couldn’t make out the words.
There it was again, that whispered response.
“Honey, if I don’t know what’s happening, I can’t help.”
“…I want to make out.”
I felt like I’d just been slapped. I stood up in shock, and at the strength of my reaction, a tear appeared in my daughter’s eye and began rolling down her face.
My mouth was suddenly dry, and it felt like it took a few minutes before I could gather up enough saliva to reply.
“Oh god, I told you that you’d hate me.”
“Honey, I don’t hate you. I just…I just don’t understand.”
“It’s the hormones, Andrew, it’s these damned hormones! I couldn’t tell you the full of it because I didn’t want to admit it myself, I didn’t want to weird you out. There’s no way you can understand – it’s like there’s a thousand ants running around my body at all times.”
“I mean, I was a teenager…-”
“No,” she interrupted in a whine. “You don’t understand. When you’re a teenager it’s all abstract, it’s all just ideas. I know. I know what it’s like to be fucked so hard that you lose count of your orgasms, I know what it’s like to cum around the cock of the man you love.”
I blinked twice, taken aback by the crude words coming out of my teenage daughter’s mouth.
“I know what it’s like to be truly sexually satisfied…and I know what it’s like to be touched. Oh god, Andrew, please…I just want to be touched.”
“Honey,” I stammered. “I can’t. I…you know I can’t. I just can’t.”
She sighed, and threw her head back.
“I know! I know it’s weird! God, don’t you think I know it’s weird? But I spent all day today surrounded by teenagers, knowing that every one of them was going through the same thing as me. All of them are craving to be touched, are just desperately wanting to feel a pair of hands on their skin, to feel wanted…”
My wife sat up abruptly, and gestured to our daughter’s çapa escort body.
“And I know we’ve never talked about it, but none of this would be a problem if Belle wasn’t hot. Honey, our daughter is gorgeous. It just makes it worse – with a word, with a gesture, I could convince any one of those greasy, sweaty teens to take me into the supply closet. I could have their hands on my body, I could have my hands on their cock…”
She slumped back again, and I realized my mouth had gone dry once more.
“I love you,” she said quietly, staring up at the ceiling. “You’re the only man I’ve ever loved, and I never want to be with anyone else. I never, never, never want to cheat on you. But it’s cruel, telling me I can’t have you and then surrounding me with sick temptations. If I have to spend another day around all those boys, around all those cocks…”
Her eyes glazed over slightly at that last word, before she swallowed and continued.
“…then I genuinely don’t know if I can resist.”
Mary sighed, swung her legs around to the side of the couch, and looked me dead in the eye.
“I know how weird this is for you. I know how weird this is for both of us. But if you don’t kiss me, if you don’t touch me…I’m going to go mad. Please. Shut your eyes and pretend I’m me, but just…I need to make out.
“I need to feel wanted.
I stared at my wife for what seemed like an eternity.
Intellectually, I knew she was my wife.
But it felt a lot like I was staring at my daughter.
My daughter, who had just asked me to make out with her.
No. No. It was Mary asking to make out, not Belle.
Mary and I had a healthy, active sex-life. Between her bullet vibrators and our shared passion for the other’s body, we’d never been left wanting.
Once or twice, just to mix things up, we’d even engaged in some role-play. For our fifteenth wedding anniversary, I’d ‘picked her up’ from a hotel bar. Neither of us had been able to refrain from smiling as we clumsily exchanged fake names, but we’d otherwise gotten into our characters.
Maybe I could treat this like that.
Yes, that was the ticket. If I thought of this not as…my daughter. If I instead treated this like a costume my wife was wearing, a game we were playing.
I took a deep breath.
I couldn’t do it.
I loved my wife. I loved my daughter. But I had never, ever thought of my daughter in a sexual light. Yes, I’d known that her body was blooming, that she was growing up. Objectively, I was even aware that she was stunning.
But I’d never considered her a sexual creature, on any level.
I couldn’t start now.
“Honey, I can’t.”
“I need it,” my wife urged, speaking through our daughter’s teenage lips. Her voice was dripping with lust; I could practically feel the heat radiating off her.
It was a tone I was extremely familiar with, but not coming from Belle’s innocent face.
“Please,” she pleaded, and when I hesitated, leaned forward and planted her lips on mine.
My eyes widened with shock, and I froze.
For the next half-minute, I experienced something I hadn’t expected (or wanted) to experience – the taste of my daughter’s soft lips on mine, her hands on my chest, and the vibrations of her chest as she silently groaned with need.
I didn’t react. I couldn’t. Like a mouse staring down a snake, I was unable to move.
Finally, in response to my total lack of response, she pulled away.
“Mary,” I interrupted. “This isn’t fair.”
As I saw Belle’s eyes darken, I knew immediately that I’d said the wrong thing.
“Fair?” she hissed, another tone I was altogether too familiar with. “Fair? Honey, let me tell you about fair.”
“This morning, I woke up from a dream that I was being taken by the entire football team. I climaxed four times before bed to try to avoid sex dreams. It didn’t work!”
I wanted desperately to cover my ears, but I had an inkling that wouldn’t be well-received. My wife needed me; the least I could do was listen.
“I woke up dripping; all I wanted was to roll over to my loving husband and ride him to an early morning cihangir escort orgasm. But I couldn’t.”
“I know…” I said soothingly, but Mary was having none of that. She continued, in a zealous tone that I’d never before heard coming from my daughter’s mouth.
“Do you know why I couldn’t? Because I’m doing this for our daughter. For us. For our family.”
“And I appreciate it…” I said softly, but Mary continued without pause.
“Instead, I got off twice. Twice! And then I got dressed and went to school. School! School, Andrew!”
“I’m forty years old, and I’m in high school. And oh my word…you don’t remember, Andrew, you really don’t. You think you do, but you have no idea. They treat the children like animals, herding them from room to room, needing to ask permission to go the bathroom. And the teachers…the teachers! They drone on and on and on about dates, molecules, conjugation. And no one cares, Andrew. The students don’t care, the teachers don’t care. Why do we make them sit through this for thirteen years?”
My wife interrupted me before I could respond, sparks flying from her eyes.
“Rhetorical, Andrew! Rhetorical. I don’t know any of our daughter’s friends, and from what I’ve seen of them, I don’t care to. So I sit in classes, trying desperately to pay attention to concepts I learned thirty years ago, with no one to talk to, with nothing to occupy me. Yes yes, it teaches patience, it builds character – I already have patience! I already have character!”
“You do,” I said, and the teenage girl in front of me took a deep breath.
“So do you know what I do all day?”
“Tell me,” I said. “Tell me what you do all day.”
“I think about you. I think about you, Andrew.”
My smile was genuine.
“Honey, that’s so…-”
She held up one hand.
“I think about you pounding into me. I imagine you bending me over and railing me. Taking me up against the classroom wall, on the teacher’s desk. I imagine this…”
My daughter’s hand squeezed my cock, making me jump.
I deliberately avoided looking down to see where my daughter’s other hand was.
“And it makes me happy. It gets me through the day.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Because if I didn’t, Andrew, if I didn’t spend my day remembering all the times you’ve made me cum my brains out, I would go crazy. I would go crazy, and I would follow my instincts. And I know from watching our daughter for the last few years – these instincts are not to be trusted. Do you know what my instincts are telling me?”
I did, but was very interested in not following that train of thought.
“My instincts are telling me to get out of there, to find Spike, and to show him that he didn’t need any other fucking sluts.”
“He wouldn’t need any other fucking sluts, my dear, because I would be able to show him what twenty years of experience has taught me about pleasing a man. I would choke on his cock, I would have him cum in my ass, I would wrap my body around him so tight…-”
“Sweetie,” I interrupted, trying desperately to change the subject. “Please. You know I…”
One of my daughter’s fingers made its way to my lip, and I fell silent.
“I know. Believe me, I know. But this isn’t about you. It can’t be. This is about me, and this is about our daughter. I’m lonely, she’s horny, and this is the only way I can think of to avoid doing anything we’ll both regret.
“So please. Do whatever you need to do. Shut your eyes, pretend I’m somebody else. Anything you need. Just…kiss me.”
I nodded, and for the second time in my life, I felt my daughter’s lips meet my own.
It wasn’t easy.
That was something I could hold onto, at least.
It was a genuine struggle to let myself relax into the kiss. As my daughter’s arms wrapped around me, pulling me closer, as my wife pressed my daughter’s body against mine, it was almost impossible not to shove her away, to scream at her, to remind her that what we were doing was wrong, wrong, wrong.
But her words had left an impact. She needed this.
When Mary had been pregnant, I’d done all that I could to pick up the esenyurt escort slack. For months, I was solely and entirely in charge of housework, errands, shopping.
At the end of it, we’d gotten Belle and Ben, and it had been worth every moment of work.
Now, my wife needed me again.
Again, I would do whatever needed to be done.
And so I closed my eyes and – although it went against everything I believed in – returned my daughter’s kiss.
Her lips were soft, softer than her mother’s. Her tongue was delicate, strangely timid, as it ran its way across my lips. And her hands were needy – they ran across my back, occasionally grasping and releasing.
It was such a different experience to kissing my wife, I couldn’t even pretend it was her.
The soft moans coming from her mouth were a higher pitched than my wife’s, and so I used my imagination. I pretended that my wife had a younger sister, and the two of them had decided to share me. It was close enough to my wife that I wouldn’t feel like I was cheating, but distant enough to justify the differences.
I pretended that I had her fictional sister – “Ellen”, I mentally named her – in my arms, and I was able to bring myself to return the kiss.
But as fiercely as I tried to pretend, I couldn’t shake the truth: the body pressing against mine, the saliva I was gingerly tasting, the hands grasping at my back…
They belonged to my teenage daughter.
After ten minutes, Belle’s lips left mine, and she leaned back. Her eyes, so fiery just a few minutes ago, looked as though they were glazed over. Her hair was messy, her clothes were rumpled, and if I’d walked in on her like this a few days ago, I would have furiously started searching the room for a boy.
“Wow,” she gasped. “Andrew. Andrew, that was…”
“Are you okay?”
“Mmmm,” she said, and for the first time in my life, I wished that my wife’s voice wasn’t so expressive.
“Was that what you needed?”
“Yess,” she moaned.
We sat in an awkward silence for several minutes, as I tried to erase the afternoon’s events from my mind, and my wife slowly came back to earth. I watched her straighten up Belle’s hair and clothing, and it wasn’t long before it was impossible to tell that anything had happened.
“Thank you,” she said, stepping into a hug. I’d held my daughter like this before, so many times – her head on my chest, my hand on her hair. It had always made me feel like I was able to protect her, like as long as I could bring her in for a father-daughter cuddle, nothing could ever go wrong. “I really, really needed that.”
“I know,” I said simply, and she smiled and skipped out of the room.
I was still quite shaken up when my daughter (in my wife’s body) approached me later that night. She had some more questions about her job, but it was clear that I was distracted.
“What’s wrong, honey-buns?” she said, and I pretended not to notice the flicker of disgust on her face as the term passed her lips.
My opportunity was here, and I seized it.
“It’s Belle,” I answered honestly, and – exactly as I expected – she took the bait. Who doesn’t like talking about themselves, after all?
For the next few hours, we spoke about ‘our daughter’.
It’s hard to say, of course, but I feel like I did a pretty good job. Without being preachy or judgmental, I managed to convey my worries, the potential I saw in Belle. Without being too sappy, I told her how much I loved our baby girl, how I just wanted to be there for her – any way I could.
By the end of the conversation, I felt like I’d really made an impact. She’d started out guarded and defensive, but as she left for the couch in the spare room, I felt like she’d begun to actually understand that her mother and I weren’t doing this to control her, or using her to attempt to correct our teenage mistakes; that we really cared.
In turn, she’d managed to voice some concerns I wasn’t aware of. It was a tricky conversation to have through the layers of subterfuge that we had to navigate, but while playing the role of her own mother, Belle managed to expressed “her daughter”‘s fears, her loneliness. Mary hadn’t been imagining it; our daughter genuinely didn’t have any friends she was close with.
No wonder this ‘Spike’ character had managed to get his claws into her. Alone, full of hormones, scared…she must have been easy prey.
What I’d done that afternoon had been wrong, I knew that, and I hadn’t gotten any pleasure out of it.
But if it helped us get through to our daughter, it was absolutely worth it. I’d do anything for Belle. For Mary. For our family.
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