Wife & daughter hot-tubbing with my dad

My single Dad, Mike, was staying with us this summer for a month. I had, of course, discussed this first with my wife, explaining to her I wanted him to have a little company, a little diversion, perhaps a little "vacation." She loved the idea, telling me that that was very sweet of me, and she agreed right away.

"It will be good to have him around the house again,"

I didn't understand what she meant with that, but I ignored it.

I called him at the end of July, proposing to him the idea. He didn’t want to impose, but I convinced him with all kinds of goodies: the pool, the hot tub, the second floor for him entirely, the little forest behind our house for good walks, and of course that my wife Gina could do some clothes shopping with him.

“Oh, I almost forgot. " I added, "It is also a chance to see your granddaughter Tahlia again. She had her 19th birthday a couple of weeks ago, and she really adores you.”

This finally convinced my Dad, and he asked if I could pick him up at the train station next Saturday.

“Sure. Just let me know the time.” I answered, thinking that I should check the second floor on cleanliness.

We hung up, and I decided to be lazy; a cleaning company should do the second floor. The rest of the house was fine. I asked them to come next Thursday so my wife and I would have one day after the cleaning to make the place cozy. I went upstairs to check if any big changes were needed, but it was all there: a fine king-sized bed, enough furniture for two persons, empty cabinets and drawers ready to use, and the bathroom was in excellent shape.

I went all the way to the back and found in the room I used for storage some souvenirs from my wild past, before meeting my wife, Gina. I found sports equipment, an old kayak, a helmet, motorcycle brochures (I had considered getting one, but it never happened), and then, covered with a sheet, a sex bench that I had never used. Shit, I thought, I had forgotten all about this, smiling. I carefully covered it again and placed a cabinet in front of it, so it would be out of sight.

I locked the door but let the key stick; there's no reason to hide anything.

…

On Thursday, the cleaning company left after easily convincing my wife to get a weekly service for the entire house. She did manage a good discount, I must say, so I was fine with it. They even threw in a little bonus; we do the entire house on Monday, but we do one bathroom a second time on Thursdays. That was a good trick; they knew that women like to have a really clean bathroom, so I just smiled. I checked the second floor, and they really did a good job. I went into the “storage” room, and I had to laugh; they even oiled the sex bench! Hilarious. I wonder what they must have thought.

Gina took care of making Dad's bedroom cozy. I didn’t mention that the scented candles were a “bit much. "I just let her do whatever she wanted to do.

On Saturday I picked up my Dad. He looked all dusty. We chatted on the way back and proposed we hit the hot tub with a couple of beers.

“I don’t think I brought my swimming trunks," he confessed.

“No prob, Dad, you can use my spare.”

“Will I fit?” he asked.

"We'll see!" I replied, "or we'll just drink a lot.”

We both laughed.

As we arrived, Gina came out to greet him with a big smile. "Hi, Daddy!” She shouted.

I helped carry his suitcases, and we showed him the upper floor. He was indeed a bit overwhelmed with the scented candles, and I grinned.

"What's that door?” he asked, pointing at the storage room.

“Ah, that's my old crap room, Dad. “Not very exciting.”

“OK.”

“Here are his other swimming trunks.” My wife said, handing them over. “Will your big lump fit in it?” she asked, and they both laughed. Downstairs, my mobile rang, and I left the conversation to answer it.

It was our daughter, Tahlia. She was babbling before I could even say hello. I tried to follow the 19-year-old conversation, things like “aura farming," “it is 6-7 here at the campus," “going delulu," and “I don’t know what to do."

I simply gambled and proposed she'd stay with us during her summer break, adding that my Dad had just arrived.

"Your Dad is there?” She shouted, “He is such a rizz!”

“Yeah, whatever.” I replied. “But he stays in the main guestroom; you stay in the little one next to it.”

“Sure! Can you pick me up at the station, let's say… in one hour?”

“I will, cutie pie.”

And off I drove again, picking up the next guest. I told my wife, just before leaving, that Tahlia is coming too.

“Full house!” She exclaimed, happy.

Well, after delivering our daughter, my taxi service was over. Tahlia was looking for her mom, but I told her they are probably in the hot tub already. “Why don’t you join us?”

“Sure, let me unpack a little first; you go ahead.”

I changed and grabbed 2 six-pack boxes of beer and 2 cans of mojitos. As I walked up to them in the hot tub, the first thing I noticed was that my wife, Gina, was wearing the skimpiest bikini ever. The top was barely holding her large breasts inside and was doing its best to not let them spill out. A lot of side boob and under boob was visible. Since when did she have such a tiny bikini? I wondered.

Anyway, I tried to pretend I am a modern guy, placed the 18 cans of alcohol in the cooler we have next to the tub, grabbed some ice from the bottom of the cooler, put it on top of the cans, and hopped in.

“Who wants to drink what?” I asked, and Gina went for a mojito, my Dad, or a beer. I took a beer too and sat down, the hot water massaging my muscles. So nice. Dad was chatting with Gina, so I had a chance to observe them. He did often peek at her barely covered, big tits, but I would do the same, I guess. Her bottom was even smaller, and I wondered if the fabric had a function at all. She must have bought it this week, I guessed.

I sat next to my wife, my Dad on the other side of her.

We were all hanging around, enjoying the hot water and the drinks. Or maybe I was enjoying them a bit more than the rest, because I was already drinking my eighth beer. Gina took another Mojito, and my Dad still had his first beer in his hand.

And then my Dad looked past my shoulders towards the house, his eyes growing bigger by the second.

My wife looked too and giggled.

I turned my head and was speechless.

My daughter walked towards us, topless, and her breasts were massive. She only wore a bikini bottom, and it was barely covering her young, wide hips. I hadn’t seen my daughter in a bikini since she was younger, since I traveled so much for work.

As if it was the most natural thing in the world, she grabbed the last mojito, sat down on the other side of my Dad in the hot tub, and took a sip.

My Dad was quiet too. He had to process the big breasts, which were now surrounding him. He kept glancing at my daughter, enjoying the naked flesh.

Gina noticed my Dad staring at her daughter's beautiful, big breasts and complained.

“Daddy,” she asked, “What about my boobies?”

Dad somehow managed to say, “But they are covered, honey.” And smiled at her, hoping the excuse would stick.

“Oh, I can change that, darling.” My wife Gina whispered. “Honey,” she said, looking at me now, “Can you undo my bikini top?” and turned her back to me.

I hesitated. Long enough for my wife to say “Honey?” again.

Well, I did as I was told, and her tight bikini finally released those oppressed big tits.

“Thank you, darling, for undressing me for your Dad. " My wife chuckled.

My Dad was in heaven. Wherever he looked now, he had big naked tits right next to him. Within three feet. And of course he couldn’t behave himself.

“Those are nice titties, Tahlia." He casually said, as if he asked for the sugar.

“You like them?”

“Very much. Your boyfriend is very lucky.”

“I have no boyfriend.” She pouted.

“How come?”

Gina stepped in and told my Dad that the boys in college are not what she “hoped for.”

I knew right away what she really meant—no big cocks.

“What a waste," my Dad continued, "they're so heavy and full, with real weight to them—the kind that is so young and strong, sitting up stiff and airbrushed.

“How do you know they are heavy?” My wife teased.

“I don't; you are right.” My Dad replied. And then he continued admiring them, “The areolas are wide, a dusty rose that darkens toward the nipples, with a fine, pebbled texture where they pucker. Simply beautiful.”

“Thank you, Daddy," my daughter said, a bit too excited, if you ask me. And using his new nickname, I guess.

“What about both nipples pierced through with small silver barbells?” he inquired. “So a man can find them easier in the dark, those shiny piercings leading the way?”

“Good one, Daddy. Tahlia replied and then countered him, “The piercings lock your mouth on my nipples; that’s why.”

That is not countering, I thought. That is, I don’t know, flirting? Teasing? Or is she already challenging him?

Is my daughter really with my Dad?

“What do you think about my boobies?” My wife asked them.

“Oh, I will find those babies in the dark without shiny piercings' help, honey.”

“So, you can suck on them too?”

“And other things," Dad insinuated.

Is my wife now flirting too?

I grabbed another beer and almost drank in one go.

“You like my heavy ones, Dad?”

He teased back, saying, “I don’t know if they are heavy.” And then he added, “Same goes for my granddaughter; who knows who has the bigger and heavier titties?” He grinned.

“You should compare them!” Tahlia blurted out. So typical, I thought, talking before thinking. And to my shock, my wife then said,

“You are so right, honey!”

“So how do we do this?" my Dad said. “And what are the criteria?”

The bastard is enjoying this.

Tahlia went first, “Weight.”

“Size.” My wife added.

"Nipples, too, Mom?" Tahlia asked.

“Of course!” Gina said, seeing a chance to beat her there.

“What about suckability?”

“The most important one.” Dad intervened, grinning.

“And I want to press them together and see the tight valley in between them," Dad added.

The asshole.

…

And then my asshole, Dad, took the lead, right in front of me.

“Switch places, Gina; I want all boobies side by side.”

Gina giggled and took his place; my Dad now squatted in front of my girls.

“Now to be fair, I will not always start with the same boobies. So, I start the weighting with Tahlia, but for the second exam, I will start with Gina.” The girls nodded, all excited.

And then to my unbelief, he put his hand under my daughters’ boobs and lifted them up and down.

“Very nice," Dad said, pretending not to be excited about touching my young daughter’s breasts.

“Very full, nice, and heavy. A delight to play with.” He tried to say it in a jury-like kind of voice.

And from the simple fondling, I saw, to my horror, my daughter’s nipples get hard.

He didn’t miss it. “Excited?”

She nodded, and I swear to God she wanted to close her eyes, but at the very last moment she could control herself.

Now the size,” Dad announced, and I expected him to just look. Measure by eye, maybe, like a man appraising big melons at a market stall.

He didn’t just look.

He got both hands in there, palms cupping the outside of Tahlia’s breasts, and pushed them together, slowly, so that they swelled up into each other and made that deep, tight valley he’d promised himself. Then he let them fall apart and pushed them together again. Again. A third time, slower, like he was testing a mattress.

“Fullness on the sides is good,” he said, mostly to himself. “Symmetry. Very nice.”

He never let go. He kept working them, thumbs dragging underneath where the weight hung, lifting, settling, lifting, and feeling how they pulled and bobbed. At some point the “exam” had completely stopped, and it was just fondling. Tahlia’s chin had tipped down a bit, her lips parted, and she was doing that thing where she tried to keep her eyes open and lost the fight every few seconds. One of the barbells caught the light as he rolled a thumb across it, and she made a small sound she clearly didn’t plan on.

“And the nipples,” Dad murmured, completely forgetting the order of the exams, and thumbed one, then the other, twice each, and the points pulled tight and stood up like they’d been told to. “Small and neat. Very responsive.”

“Dad,” I said, mostly to remind myself I was there. He didn’t hear me.

He moved on to "suckability," and I swear he took his time with the concept. He squeezed one breast from underneath, brought it up, studied the way the nipple lifted off the surface, and gave a slow nod like a man solving a crossword. Then the other. Then, and this is where he lost me completely, he pressed them together again and looked down into the crease and just… sat there. Breathing on it. One thumb moving lazily back and forth across a barbell.

Tahlia’s nipples were so hard by now they looked sore.

“Oh.” My daughter let out a sigh; you didn’t bite them.”

“Them?” Dad asked.

“The nipples.”

He looked at her nipples like they’d just introduced themselves. Then back at her face. Then he smiled, slow, and said, “No. No, I didn’t.”

And then he took his time about it, and I understood, finally, that everything up to that point had been the warm-up.

He got his hand under her breast and lifted it up high, holding it there, so the nipple stood off the surface, stretched and stiff and helpless. Then he put his teeth on it. Not a bite—a grip. He caught the barbell between his front teeth and held it, and Tahlia’s breath went out of her in a rush and didn’t come back.

He worked that barbell with tiny, sawing bites, side to side, and the nipple rolled with the metal, pulled this way and that, and she made a noise like a kettle starting. Then he released it and bit down on the areola instead, small quick nips all the way around the rim, and she arched and grabbed the back of his neck with both hands.

"Oh—oh my god, that's—"

He moved to the other one and did it slower. Same grip, same sawing, and this time he added his tongue flat against the underside so the whole thing was wet and she could feel every tooth. Her leg came up out of the water and hung over the rim, toes curled hard, and her hips were going now in a rhythm that had nothing to do with keeping still, water slapping the side of the tub.

By the time he lifted his head, she was shaking. Both nipples were swollen up, fat and dark, and bitten red around the edges, so tender she flinched when the air moved across them. She had her forehead pressed to his shoulder, and she was breathing like she’d run somewhere.

“That’s the difference,” Dad said, quietly, into her hair. “With the sucking, you can be gentle for a long time. Biting, you have to keep stopping. Keeps them guessing.”

“Keep guessing,” Tahlia mumbled into his shoulder, and he laughed.

I was sitting in the water with my hands on my knees, an empty can balanced on the tub rim beside me, and I want to say for the record that my father had just explained technique to my nineteen-year-old daughter in a way I have never once managed to explain anything in my life, and she had asked for more of it, and neither of them had looked at me for ten minutes.

“Honey,” my wife finally cooed, all honey and sugar, “you forgot something.”

Dad blinked like a man woken from a nap. “Did I?”

“Mm. You forgot my boobies.”

“Oh, so I did,” he said, without a gram of shame, and let go of my daughter’s breasts—which gave a slow, soft wobble as they settled, the both of them—and Tahlia exhaled the breath she’d been holding.

He shuffled across on his knees, and Gina, my wife, presented herself like it was her turn at the counter. He didn’t grab her, though. He started with the backs of two fingers, tracing up from her waist along the side of one breast, right along that pale skin the bikini had been strangling all afternoon. Then under, cupping, and lifting, and this time he didn’t hurry at all. He lifted her breast up high and held it, studying the weight of it in his palm and the way it hung full over his hand, and let it down again with a slowness that made the water stir.

“The side fullness is good here too,” he said. “More of it, actually.”

She laughed, low. “That’s the beer and the babies, darling.”

“Good on you both.”

He pressed hers together—they were bigger than Tahlia’s, softer, wider apart, and harder to get into a valley—and when he got them together, he leaned in close enough that his nose was almost in the crease, breathing, and did not come up for a good while. Then he went back to lifting, one at a time, weighing them, rolling the wide dark areolas under his thumbs, and she let her head fall back against the edge of the tub and closed her eyes outright, no fighting it.

I looked at my wife’s face. Then at my daughter’s. Then back at my father’s hands, which were somewhere in the middle, working, patient, unhurried, and fondling my wife’s tits with the total confidence of a man who had nowhere else to be and no intention of ever stopping.

And me? I was a spectator. A spectator with a beer in my hand going warm in the heat, in my own hot tub, watching my own father get further with my own wife and my own daughter in ten minutes than I’d manage in a week of conversation. My eighth beer was finished. I hadn’t said a word in I don’t know how long. Nobody had asked me one either.

“Honey?” Gina said, without opening her eyes. “Be a love and get me another cold mojito from the kitchen.”

I got up. Nobody watched me go.

I came back with the mojito. Nobody thanked me. Gina took it without looking, sipped it, and set it on the deck behind her like a woman settling in for a show.

“Right,” Dad said, and cracked his neck. “Suckability.”

“And you start with me this time,” Gina said, smug. Forget what you did to Tahlia.”

“I will.” He leaned in, and my wife made a noise before his mouth was even on her, which tells you something about my wife and about the last twenty minutes. He took her nipple in with a slow, sealing motion, drew it deep, and her hand came up and landed flat on the back of his head like it had been waiting all afternoon for permission. He worked her maybe half a minute, with long pulls and a little tongue, letting go with a wet sound to look at the pulled-tight point and nod.

“Good,” he said. “Very good.”

Then he turned back again, eager to suck her nipples again, and went to my daughter, and everything about him changed. Slower. More careful. Like he was switching from a pint to a glass of something expensive.

He got his hand under her left breast and lifted it, and Tahlia’s whole body went still, waiting. He didn’t go straight in. He kissed the underside first, up along the curve, and then the flat of his tongue dragged over the areola without touching the barbell once, twice, and her stomach caved in.

Then he took the barbell between his lips—just the metal, gently—and tugged. The whole nipple pulled out from her with it, stretched, and she gasped like she’d been dunked in cold water. He let it snap back, then did it again, and the second time her knees came up off the bottom of the tub.

He took her in properly after that. Full mouth, deep pulls, and the barbell rolled against his teeth, and she said, "Oh my god," into the warm air and then stopped being able to form anything at all. Her hand went into his hair. Her other hand found the tub edge and gripped it white.

And her nipples—God. They’d been hard before. Now they were swollen and dark and standing out so far off the areola they looked angry about it, and every time he pulled off, they dragged a half-second behind, like they didn’t want to let go of him. He moved to the right one, and she made a sound like a whimper and a laugh at once. Her hips had started moving, small tight circles under the water, and she wasn’t hiding any of it, chin up, eyes half shut, mouth open, hair sticking to her wet shoulder.

He pressed both her breasts together around his mouth, took one nipple, then the other, alternating fast, and her back bowed. The water slopped over the side. She lifted one leg and hooked her foot over the tub rim, and I could see the shape of her whole thigh come out of the water, tense, and the tiny scrap of bikini bottom was a lost cause.

“Daddy,” she breathed. Just that. Not to me. Not to anybody. To him.

He came off her with a wet smack, and she actually groaned at the loss, then laughed at herself, then put her hand over her face for a second, then took it away, flushed scarlet right down to her chest.

“That,” Dad said, sitting back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist, breathing a bit hard himself, “is a very close contest.”

Tahlia let her head fall back against the edge and stared at the sky with her mouth open. Her chest was heaving. The barbells were still standing up, and one of them had a bead of water on it that kept not falling.

“You didn’t nibble on mine.” My wife Gina pouted.

“True.”

He went back to her without ceremony, and where the sucking had been patient, this was toothy and quick. He took a mouthful of her breast—not the nipple, the meat of it, up high near the top where the skin is pale and soft—and bit down in little steps, releasing, biting again, dragging. Gina’s head went back over the rim of the tub, and she let out a long, delighted groan.

He worked his way down the side of that breast in small nips, and everyone left a red bloom behind it. Some of them stayed red. Some of them got darker as we watched, going from pink to a raw-looking rose, and one near the underside settled into a deep plum blot the size of a thumbprint.

Tahlia leaned over to look, all interest. “Is that a hickey?”

Dad lifted his head. “That’s a hickey.”

“I want one too!” she said, entirely too fast, and shoved her chest at him, both hands pushing her breasts up toward his face like an offering.

“Greedy,” Gina said, grinning, and sipped her mojito.

Dad just laughed and got to work. He took the left one, up high, and bit down, and then instead of letting go, he sucked—hard—and held it and kept holding it while Tahlia’s whole expression came apart. Her mouth dropped open. She made a small high noise in her throat, and then she had a fistful of his hair again, and she was pulling him in, not pushing him away.

He came off with a pop, and there it was, dark and wet and unmistakable, right on the swell of her breast above the barbell. She looked down at it and grinned like she’d won something, and Dad took the other breast and did the same, and she didn’t even look down for that one—she just tipped her head back and let him, her hand still in his hair, her hips moving again under the water, a real moan this time, no holding back.

When he was done, she had two of them, matched, deep and purpling, sitting right where the top of a bra strap would never cover them. She pressed her fingers to one carefully and hissed through her teeth.

“Ooh,” she said, delighted. “It’s all tingly.”

“It will be tender tomorrow,” Dad said.

“Good.”

And she sat back down in the water with her marked-up tits pushed out and her nipples still standing up like little silver-tipped thumbs, glowing, and looked at her mother’s hickeys, and then at her own, and then at him again, and said:

“Daddy, you should really get in on this.”

And me? I was standing in the tub, dripping, holding a beer I had apparently been holding for a while, with my mouth open too. Nobody had asked me for a verdict. Nobody was going to.

I looked at my beer. It was empty. Again.

…

“So?” my wife Gina asked.

“What?” he replied, taking a sip of his beer.

Before my wife could say anything, he looked at me, saying, “Son, give me a cold one.”

Just like that. Polite, but in charge. Like a natural dominance. I gave him a cold new one, and Gina spoke up.

"What's the score, Daddy?”

“Well, of course your daughter has the advantage of her youth and her piercings. So, I need to deduct some points. If not, she would have won by a narrow margin. But once deducted, it is a tie.”

Both my girls smiled, and Dad was very smart, not letting down anyone. Well, letting down his son by sucking on their tits, yes.

“So, what now?” Tahlia asked.

“Our butts!” Gina shouted.

“Yes, our butts!” Tahlia agreed, excited.

“Maybe, but I cannot do a proper evaluation with all that fabric on.” He teased.

“Honey?” my wife purred. "Be a doll. Could you take off our bottoms for your Dad?"

To be continued