The hookups happened more or less on schedule: one to three times a week. They didn’t drag on, lasting a maximum of an hour and a half to two and a half hours. After work, sometimes during the day, or occasionally on weekends when Lorenzo went to the chess club or Chiara faked an errand. The apartment was empty, and the old man always called ahead.
Sex varied each time: blowjobs sometimes, sometimes not; eating her out yes or no; 69 now and then; mostly straight fucking in every position. Vincenzo craved variety, with no holds barred, putting on a show—unlike his son. Chiara felt strange after all those sessions. She’d gotten used to her father-in-law as her fuck buddy. She didn’t hate him, felt no shame, and barely suffered anymore. It was like a gig, with no emotions involved.
Nobody at work noticed. The boss still ignored her. She put extra effort into her fiancé to make up for the lies. Sometimes she’d snap at him, letting out her hidden discomfort with this life. If she had a choice, she’d quit the meetings right away.
But doubt crept in sometimes: Was she really that miserable? Did she suffer that much from her sex addiction? Didn’t she need it? Some encounters stuck in her head with vivid details, mainly because they were so different from life with her fiancé. Father and son were total opposites, and Chiara understood that.
He’d lay her down, dressed like a whore, on her back. He’d throw himself on top and kiss her forever—he enjoyed that optional routine. Then he’d straddle her stomach, shove his cock between her tits, and squeeze them around it. He’d slide back and forth while she’d press her tits tight. He’d grab her nipples with two fingers and rub them over his hard dick.
He’d talk dirty and stare in the mirror, then suck on her lips and tongue again. If his cock went soft after the titfuck, Vincenzo would stand over her face and jam his dick in her mouth. Sometimes he’d grab her head and ram it in, fucking her face himself; other times, she’d do the work. He’d place her hands—later she did it herself—on his ass and balls. She had to rub them, stroke, knead, and shove a finger up his ass to twist it around.
Often, he’d bend forward during the blowjob and finger her cunt. He loved 69, and Chiara got used to it slowly, putting up with it. In those moments, he’d torment her for ages. He’d comment on what was happening in her slit, describe how the lower lips looked, the clit, how they reacted to his touches, how much juice flowed, how hot he found it, and how she should get off.
When Chiara twisted and jerked in ecstasy—those licks got her to cum more than vaginal sex—and begged him to stop and not rape her swollen, burning cunt anymore, he’d laugh and ignore it. Instead, he’d ramp it up, fucking with fingers, sucking and licking, kneading her pussy harder. He’d lay on her face, pin her to the pillow, and not let her pull his mouth-filling cock out.
He almost always came after her, lasting forever. He’d lap up Chiara’s juices greedily or smear them on her thighs. Then he’d leave her cunt alone, ram harder into her mouth, and shoot inside. He didn’t force her to swallow, but he’d wipe the cum off her face and rub it into her tits and neck, calling it skincare.
He’d explain a lot about why he ignored her wants and followed his own. In his view, he knew better what she needed, thanks to his experience. Chiara just figured he got off on playing boss and the idea of an obedient sex slave.
Or he’d sit at her feet, hoist her legs on his shoulders, and rub her clit—it usually hurt Chiara and felt bad. She’d endure or yelp and squirm, but he’d laugh and keep going. He’d spread her legs wide, shove fingers deep in, and stir, twist—not forgetting to work the clit with the other hand. He’d order her to knead her own tits and twist her nipples.
Then he’d dive between her legs and try to tongue her to orgasm—it didn’t always work for Chiara; sometimes it just hurt. He’d lick her cunt, suck the clit, shove his tongue in, and spread the lips with his fingers.
After that, she’d give him head if he wasn’t ready yet. He loved blowjobs, holding her head, trying to shove his cock deep in her throat and hold it. Then sex in multiple positions.
More from the memories: She’s standing on the balcony, lost in thought, when he comes from behind. He grabs her tits and cunt, kisses her roughly. He pushes her to her knees and yanks her head to his cock. She sucks and licks, strokes the balls, takes them in her mouth on command.
He positions her in front of the mirror and pounds from behind. In the reflection, you see his smug face and Chiara rocking with legs spread, sometimes his hands in her cunt and on her tits.
Or like this: He sits in a low armchair, calls her over, yanks down her panties as she approaches. He pulls her close, puts her foot on his shoulder, and spreads her pussy lips with his hands. He grabs the clit and pulls, watching her reaction. He stares into her eyes and demands the same from her.
Chiara wants to close her eyes, but he repeats the demand. He shoves one finger in, then a second, third, fourth into the cunt, moving them. Chiara moans, sometimes reaching orgasm. Then he grips her ass cheeks, digs his fingers in, presses his lips to the cunt, and licks, sucks, bites the clit.
Sometimes after foreplay, he’d sit her on his stiff cock, and she’d bounce. He’d rip off her bra or top—during foreplay, she wore lingerie, see-through and skimpy. He’d hold her by the nipples, knead her ass or tits.
Another one: They’re sitting opposite each other in the big oval tub. She runs her toes along his cock, teases it. He leans back, eyes closed, groans low. Often he’d shoot into the water; sometimes they’d stand, she’d turn her back, bend over, and he’d thrust from behind.
She’d straighten up, brace her hands on the wall; he’d knead her tits and fuck. He’d slide hands over her belly, reach the cunt, pull the lower lips apart, pluck the clit, pinch. She moans and holds on to not fall.
Often he’d get her going too, sitting opposite in the tub. He’d run his toes over her slit, push into the cunt, press on the clit. He watches her reactions closely, demands she say what she feels. He loves commenting on the process, wants to hear how good it is for her.
He’d run his feet over her tits, squeeze them. He’d shove his big toe in her mouth, and she’d suck it. Often his fingers in her two holes: top and bottom.
After games like that, he’d pull her close, lift her ass, and plant her on his hard cock. With hands on the tub edge, she’d bounce up and down. Sometimes he’d lean back and watch; sometimes knead and pull her tits, twist nipples; sometimes hug her, hold her ass, shove a finger in the anus—sometimes two.
Chiara had tried anal a long time ago, just a few times. She didn’t like it. She wasn’t prudish, but it hurt and wasn’t fun. The father-in-law didn’t ask her preferences. He did what he wanted; she endured and faked pleasure.
Once, he set her on her knees in front of the bed headboard, stood behind, groped her tits and cunt. He bent her forward, spread her ass cheeks, and lubed the anus. Chiara tensed and bit her lips. The guy shoved one finger in her ass first, then two, moved them, pulled out.
Then he pressed his lubed cock in slowly and started thrusting easily. After that, he wrapped around her and shoved fingers in the cunt. He fucked like that, filling all holes and making her scream from exhaustion. Chiara got no orgasm—just pain, pressure down there, and this sick arousal.
The apartment had several vibrators for ass and cunt. Chiara washed them and laid them nearby. After starting with anal, the father-in-law loved filling both the girl’s holes at once. Before vaginal sex, he’d shove the vibrator in her ass and turn it on. Before anal, he’d stick the vibrator in the cunt, sometimes moving it himself, turning it on, picking speed and depth.
In those minutes, Chiara burst from inner pressure, thought she’d rip apart, screamed and moaned. The father-in-law laughed satisfied, said he’d found her magic button.
For example, Chiara sits with her back to him on the cock, bounces; he orders her to lean forward, shoves a vibrator or finger in the ass, and she keeps fucking. Then he pulls the vibrator out, grabs her shoulders, lays her back on his chest, gropes everything. Chiara writhes on him until he cums.
Normally the act lasted 15 to 25 minutes, with one to three rounds per meeting and breaks in between. Mostly he started and stayed active, but sometimes he asked her to begin, watched passively, and joined later.
He always asked about her sex with his son, laughed at the basic and boring stuff. Yeah, it wasn’t dull with him.
The double life was tough; Chiara had to control herself hard not to slip up. One plus: Vincenzo wasn’t a sex fiend, didn’t need tons, or the girl would’ve cracked from the intensity.
Once, Vincenzo ordered Federico—Chiara should tell Lorenzo about a two-day business trip to another city. He drove her to a vacation house on the outskirts, put her in a twin-bed room. During daytime work hours, they fucked wildly, then walked, ate in the cafeteria, more sex, walks—alternating rest and action.
At night, the father-in-law drove home to his wife; in the morning, he came back, and it repeated. Outside, Chiara relaxed, even mentally.
The surprise from the father-in-law stuck with her long. When they got to the apartment once, a tenant was waiting—a girl like Chiara. She didn’t rush off like Chiara thought, but chatted happily with them about nothing and sipped wine.
As Chiara got warm and giggly from the wine, the father-in-law kicked off the show. The girl, Martina, stripped; together they stripped Chiara. The father-in-law lounged on the bed in a robe and watched. Martina kissed Chiara skillfully; Chiara responded sluggishly.
Then Martina sucked her tits, shoved her on the bed, got on all fours over her face, and lowered her cunt onto Chiara’s mouth. The guy nudged the hesitant one, and she licked the new girl, pleased her with her tongue. Martina spread Chiara’s legs and latched onto her cunt. Chiara writhed and moaned while Martina lapped her wildly and bit.
Then Martina lifted her head, and the guy took over with his tongue. The father-in-law sucked hard on her hole as usual, shoved tongue and fingers in. Martina got off her face, kneaded her tits, and kissed her roughly. Chiara, with multiple orgasms in a row, felt like she’d explode or fall apart. The pair didn’t spare her, working her skillfully and tirelessly.
Vincenzo lay down, wanted oral. Chiara took his cock in her mouth; Martina lay under her and kept eating her out. The cock got hard; he pulled Chiara onto him, she sat on it and moved.
After a bit, he bent her down to him; Martina shoved a vibrator in her ass, moved it, pressed tight against Chiara. They thrust into her at once, rocked in rhythm. His hands played with her clit; her hands kneaded tits and pushed the vibrator. Martina turned her head to her and sucked on tongue and lips. The orgasm hit both hard—Chiara’s was long.
Then Chiara held Martina from behind by the tits; the guy shoved the vibrator in her. Later, Chiara ran home; the lovers stayed.
Chiara hadn’t decided yet if the experience with her future father-in-law was useful. There was no one to apply the new skills to; the fiancé might get suspicious. And something else bugged the girl: She didn’t understand herself, her feelings, sensations that didn’t protest against her not-boring life and justified this almost family tie.
The father-in-law advised her not to think about it and not adopt the new stuff, or he’d consider if he needed a daughter-in-law whore.
