My dad probes my wife's & daughter's asses

I couldn’t believe my ears. My wife wanted me to undress her and my daughter for my dad. So he could play with their butts. My own dad groped my wife. I hesitated. I didn’t want to. What would happen after that, I wondered.

“Darling?” My wife woke me up. “Like now?”

I swallowed. There would be no way back after this, I speculated. I still did as I was told, which surprised me the most. Stripping my wife for another man so he could touch her, sacrificing my own daughter too. I could already imagine my dad's hands roaming over their asses; knowing what a perv he is, he would probably insert a finger too.

I reached for Gina’s bottom and pulled it down. My wife supported herself with one hand on my back and carefully stepped out of it. The first thing I noticed was her shaven mound. That was surprising. She hadn’t shaven her pussy since our daughter was born. The year before her birth, she had suddenly started to shave it, but we barely had any sex, so I didn’t really enjoy it. Now she was bare again. For a second I thought I saw her pussy glister, as if she were aroused, but that must have been the hot-tub water, I guessed.

“Thank you, darling,” my wife cooed, “for getting me naked for you, Dad."

Gina gave me a strange look, as if she was enjoying the moment.

“Now prepare your daughter so your dad can do hers too.” My wife added.

I turned to Tahlia and pulled her bikini over her young hips. She didn’t even let me finish getting her naked; she asked my wife what the criteria would be.

“Width?” Gina said, without thinking.

“Weight.” My dad added.

“Smell?” Tahlia asked, giggling.

“That’s a good one, darling.” My wife replied, "But for that we need to sit on the edge of the tub, I guess?”

“No,” my dad said, "you just lie on the edge, both of you on your stomachs, so your butts are up in the air. I can sniff them from the tub.”

“Deal.” They both said, like a choir.

“We should do pussy-smelling too.” My daughter said dreamily.

“That comes after the butt examination.” My wife said in a stern voice but smiled as she announced it.

“Only three criteria?” Tahlia asked.

“We will do the fourth one later; it will be a surprise.” Gina giggled.

“OK, you two, turn around. Whose butt is first?”

“I don’t remember; just do us, Daddy.” My wife purred, at the same time turning around, showing my dad her sexy naked ass.

Of course he started with her.

“Let me check your size, honey.” He announced, “See if it is bigger now.”

“What if I am not?” Gina teased.

“Then a spanking would be in order.” My dad grinned. He started kneading her ass, taking his time.

He started at the top, both hands flat, thumbs pressed into the crease where her lower back met her cheeks, then just pushed. Slow. Downward. Like he was testing dough to see if it was ready.

Gina hummed and let her head drop.

“Well?” she murmured into the tiles.

“Well, what?” My dad answered, but he didn’t stop. He cupped her—a full palm on each cheek—then simply lifted, thumbs and fingers digging in, until her ass was two round handfuls of tight, stretched skin, her feet nearly leaving the ground.

“Oh,” my wife breathed.

“Still firm,” my dad reported, as if he was grading a piece of fruit. “You’ve kept it up. Good girl.”

“Told you.”

He let her drop. The soft slap of her flesh against itself made a sound in the night air that seemed far too loud for our little backyard. Then he pinched her. Not gentle—a proper rolling pinch on the outside of her right cheek, caught between thumb and knuckle, twisted a quarter turn, and held.

Gina yelped and laughed at the same time, rising on her toes. “Hey!”

“Too much?” he asked mildly.

“Do it again.”

He did. Twice. One on each side, lower, near where the crease began. I watched my wife’s fingers curl against the tiles, her breathing going shallow and fast. My own hand was still resting on Tahlia’s back, forgotten. My daughter had gone quiet. When I glanced down, she was staring at her mother’s ass with her lips parted like she was studying for an exam.

Then my dad started to knead. He worked her like he had all night. Fingers spreading, gripping, releasing, and moving in slow circles that pressed her cheeks together and pulled them apart again. Every so often he’d drag his thumb down the middle, over the dark seam; Gina’s hips would follow it, tipping back, chasing the touch.

“Dad,” she said at one point—not to my father. To me. “He’s very thorough.”

“Mmm,” was all I managed.

“You could learn something,” she added, and the three of them laughed at my expense.

“Turn a little,” my dad said. “Let me see the side of it.”

Gina shifted, still bent over the edge, and gave him her hip. He gripped the outside of her cheek, pulled it wide, holding it stretched for a long moment, then let it snap back.

Slap.

Light. Then harder, three more times in quick succession, spaced out, each one landing square on the fullest part, so the sound rang off the water, the underside of her cheeks flushed a deep, angry pink. Gina took it with her jaw set, a grin she couldn’t hide, one heel lifting with every hit.

“Count them,” my dad said.

“Four,” she said.

“Four what?”

“Four, thank you.”

He laughed—that low, pleased sound he makes when he’s enjoying himself—gave her one more for free, right where the skin was already hottest. Then he smoothed it with his palm, both hands, apologetic and not apologetic at all, squeezing what he’d just reddened until she let out a long, unsteady sigh, her shoulders dropped.

“That’s a nice ass, Gina,” my dad said quietly. “Better than it used to be, actually. You should be proud.”

“You’re a flatterer,” she said, but she was glowing.

What are they talking about? I wondered.

“I’m a surveyor. Now—how does it smell?” He leaned in, close enough that his nose was almost in the crease, and breathed in. Deliberately. Twice.

Gina made a small sound that she tried to turn into a laugh.

“Mmm,” my dad said. “Warm. Clean. A bit of the tub water. And underneath that…” He inhaled again. “Underneath that’s the good stuff. That’s a yes from me.”

“Of course it is,” my wife said, hoarse.

Something not planned happened. My dad's tongue slit inside my wife's little brown pucker.

“Oh.” She sighed and pushed her ass against his face.

I saw how his jaw was moving from the effort; he was tongueing her asshole.

For a moment nobody said anything, and the night seemed to hold its breath.

Then my father's jaw got to work; there was no pretending anymore. His mouth was pressed flush to her, his chin tucked so close the stubble rasped on her inner cheek. The flat of his tongue came out, starting to lap—slow, wet, deliberate strokes, bottom to top, over the little gathered knot of her, then down again.

Gina's whole spine folded. Her hands scrabbled on the tiles, found nothing to hold, and pressed her forehead down against the deck like she was praying.

"Ohh—" It came out of her broken, half a moan, half a laugh, the way you sound when you're ticklish, being touched anyway. Her toes curled over the edge; her knees drew together, then immediately fell open again, useless, like she couldn't decide what to do with them.

My dad didn't rush. He never rushes. He worked her sphincter like it was the only thing in the world worth doing—small circular licks, unhurried, the tip of his tongue tracing the ring of it over and over until it was glistening and slack, until the tight pucker had loosened, softened, and begun to answer him, flexing under his mouth.

"Dad," Gina gasped, "oh my god."

"Mmm," he said into her, and the vibration made her jerk.

Then he pushed. Just the point of his tongue, testing; her whole ass lifted to meet it, pushing back at his face without her permission. He grunted, pleased, pushed a little further, working the tip of it just inside the ring, teasing the first half-inch, then withdrawing to lap at her again, then in again—deeper this time, jaw rolling, chin slick, breathing hard through his nose against her skin.

Gina had gone from humming to outright moaning. Her cheeks were pink from more than the spanking. She was grinding back on his mouth in a slow, shameless rhythm; she didn't care who saw it. I heard her breath catch, stuttering in a way I hadn't heard in years.

"Oh, that's—Daddy," she panted, then corrected herself, laughing wildly, "your dad, I mean, oh, fuck—"

Beside me, Tahlia had stopped breathing almost entirely. Her lips were parted, her eyes fixed, wide. When my father's tongue pushed in again, deep enough that Gina cried out, her hips gave a sharp little buck, and my daughter's hand closed around my forearm and squeezed hard.

"Look at Mum," she whispered.

I was looking. God help me, I couldn't look anywhere else.

My dad came up for air at last with his chin shining and blew a warm breath across her wet skin; Gina shuddered from her scalp to her heels.

"Second yes," he said, hoarse, satisfied, wiping his mouth on the back of his wrist. "Now straighten up, honey, before you fall in the water."

She got up, shaking arms and hair hanging on her face, and turned round with her chest heaving, her thighs pressed together, a look on her face like she'd just been let out of somewhere.

He sat back, wiped his hands on his thighs, and looked up at the two of us. “Right. Next.”

“Now do me!” my daughter almost shouted, eager to have his big hands on her young butt.

My dad grinned, turned towards her, grabbing both her cheeks in his big, strong hands.

“Oh.” Tahlia sighed, “You have strong hands, Daddy.”

She bent over the edge the way her mother had, but she did it wrong at first—feet together, back flat, her ass low and tucked, and my dad just looked at it.

“Straighter,” he said. “Hips up. You want me to see it, don’t you?”

“I do,” Tahlia said, arching until her cheeks lifted into the air, two small, firm rounds that hadn’t yet learned to be big. Her bikini bottom was still hanging off one ankle. She kicked it free.

“That’s better,” my dad said. “Now stay.”

He didn’t start with his hands. He started with his eyes and took his time with those too. I watched my daughter endure being looked at—really looked at—for longer than was decent. Her knees shifted. A blush crept up the backs of her thighs.

“Daddy,” she complained, “you’re just staring.”

“Surveying,” he corrected. “You’re narrower than your mother.”

“Is that bad?”

“It’s neither. It’s information.” Then he put his hands on her.

He was gentler with her—at first. He cupped the whole of her, one cheek in each palm, and squeezed lightly. There wasn’t much to fill his hands, which seemed to please him. His thumbs pressed in, drawing small, slow circles. Tahlia’s breath went out of her in a rush.

“See,” my dad said, “you don’t need to be big. You just need to be tight.”

“Is that a compliment?” she asked, muffled.

“It’s a finding.”

He lifted her next—just an inch, but she was lighter than Gina—brought her up higher than he had my wife until her toes skimmed the tiles, and she squeaked and grabbed at nothing. He held her there, both hands full, thumbs spreading her wide enough that I could see the pale, hidden underside of each cheek, then shook her. Small shakes. Letting her weight settle into his grip.

“Oh my god,” Tahlia said.

“Hold still.”

“I am holding still.”

“You’re wriggling.”

“Because you’re shaking me!”

He put her down, pinched her before she could argue more—a quick, sharp little nip of her left cheek, high up, more skin than fat because there wasn’t much fat yet. Tahlia yelped; her whole body flinched forward.

“Ow!”

“That’s the sound I wanted,” my dad said, and pinched the other side.

Then he kneaded her properly, the gentleness over. He pushed her cheeks together, rolled them, worked his knuckles up the middle, and ground the heel of his hand into one side until she was up on her elbows, twisting, laughing in little bursts that kept breaking off into gasps. She talked the whole time, too—that was the difference between her and her mother. Gina had gone quiet, gone along with it. Tahlia narrated.

“Okay—okay, that's—Dad, that’s a lot—Dad—"

“Say when,” my father said, and didn’t slow down.

“When!”

He didn’t stop.

“DADDY.”

“I heard you.”

He shifted his grip, pulled one cheek aside, held it, and brought his hand down flat.

Slap.

Tahlia shrieked. It echoed off the water, probably off the fence, possibly off the neighbor's house. Her right cheek wobbled from it, going pink immediately. My wife—who had settled onto the tub step to watch with her arms folded—laughed out loud.

“Quietly, Tally.”

“You try it!” my daughter shot back.

Slap. Lower. Harder.

“Three,” she gasped, before he asked. “That’s three—thank you—"

“Good girl,” my dad said, giving her a fourth, a fifth, spaced so she had time to feel each one before the next, so her voice climbed a step higher each time, until on the fifth she stopped counting and just pressed her forehead to the tiles.

Then the soothing—both palms, slow, sweeping circles, spreading the heat around until her breathing came back down. Her cheeks were blotchy, deep rose; she lifted her head to glare at him over her shoulder, her hair in her eyes.

“You’re mean,” she said.

“You liked it.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

My dad leaned in, sniffed her, unhurried, close, then closer. Tahlia held her breath. He drew it in twice, then once more, longer. When he pulled back, there was a quiet, satisfied look on his face.

“Well?” she demanded.

“Warm,” he said. “And you’ve got your mother’s soap. And something under it.” He paused, considering. “Sweet.”

“Sweet,” Tahlia repeated, delighted. “Mum. I’m sweet.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Gina said.

My dad sat back in the water. This time he didn’t wipe his hands. He looked at the two of them, both bent over the edge, both pink, both breathing hard, and then he looked at me.

“Both pass,” he announced.

As he finished, he was grinning at me. “Beautiful asses, my son. Now help them up the edge so I can do the smelling. So far, I think we have a tie.”

I went for my wife and wanted to lift her up by the butt, but she stopped me right away.

“No touching. Just lift me by my feet.” She said in an authoritative tone.

I did, thinking that it was like a double standard, my dad reaming all over her butt but not letting her own husband touch her there. I lifted my daughter the same way; I didn’t want any discussions.

I must admit that the spectacle was delicious. Two beautiful butts exposed to our eyes, ready for my dad. I could now clearly see that my wife's slit was moist. I had been right. As I checked my daughters, she had the same shiny slit. Both were aroused by what was coming: my dad putting his nose on the assholes, his mouth resting below them, on their pussies.

“So now I should sniff Tahlia?” my dad asked, knowing very well who’s turn it was.

Tahlia's moan came out high, startled; she grabbed at the tiles with both hands.

My father didn't hurry into it. He got himself positioned first—came up out of the water on his knees, hooked one arm around her thigh to keep her where she was, and then simply put his face into her. Not delicately. He buried his nose in the crease of her, all the way, so the bridge of it split her cheeks, and the tip of it pressed hard against the tight little pucker at the top. He breathed in.

“Oh!” Thalia let out a little moan, the stubbles on his chin touching her most sensitive.

Deep. Then deeper.

"Daddy," Tahlia said, and her voice cracked in the middle of the word.

His mouth, hanging open against her, had settled a hand's width lower, right over her slit; I could see that the wetness of her was already on his lips. He didn't move for a long moment—just held there, nose jammed in the cleft, breathing her in with long, deliberate pulls; every one of those breaths pushed his nose a fraction further, nudged her pucker, and made her whole bottom flinch.

"Oh—oh, that's—" She was up on her toes. Her calves had gone taut. "Dad, that's my—"

"I know what it is," he said into her, muffled.

Then his tongue came out.

It started at the bottom, flat and broad, right up the middle of her pussy—one long, gathering stroke that scooped the wetness of her and carried it upward—ending at her asshole, where he stopped, pressed, and rolled the tip of his tongue around the ring of it, slow, three full circles, while his nose slid down into the space his mouth had left.

Tahlia's knees went. She sagged, caught herself on her elbows, and let out a sound that was half a giggle and half something with much less control in it.

"He's licking her," Gina said softly, from beside her, in a voice like she was breaking news. "Look at him go."

He grunted and pushed his tongue at the tight little hole. It gave. He got the point of it inside her, just barely; my daughter's whole body jolted.

"Ohhh—oh my god—Mum—Mum, it's—"

"Shh," my wife said, entirely without sympathy. "Just feel it."

He worked her in tiny increments—in, out, lap, in again—small, patient, maddening movements, jaw rolling. Every time he pushed deeper, Tahlia's toes curled off the tiles, her hips tipped back into his face as if she had no say in it at all. Her pussy was running now; I could see it shining even from where I stood, his chin wet with it, his breath hard and rough through his nose against the underside of her.

"Oh," she kept saying, "oh, oh, oh," in a small, steady rhythm, like a count, like she'd forgotten there were other words.

Then he pushed his nose back up hard, his tongue in at the same moment. She shrieked—properly shrieked—one of her feet came off the tiles entirely.

"Dad—Dad—it's too—"

"Hold still," he said, and did it again.

She held still or tried. The second time it went deeper. She went quiet—completely quiet, mouth open, eyes screwed shut, nothing coming out—my father kept at it, tongue working her loosened little hole in slow plunging strokes, nose buried, chin slick, one hand still clamped hard around her thigh to keep her from climbing off the edge of the tub entirely.

"Tally," Gina said, "breathe."

Tahlia breathed. It came out as a moan.

I stood there with my useless hands at my sides, watched my father's face buried in my daughter, and felt something turn over slowly in my chest. Not jealousy exactly. Something more like being late for a train that had already pulled out.

Then he pulled back. My daughter dropped her forehead to the tiles, gasping, her bottom pink and shining; my father wiped his mouth with the flat of his hand and grinned up at her.

"Sweet all the way through," he said. "Third, yes, and a half."

"Half?" she panted.

"For noise."

Tahlia laughed, weak and wobbly, letting her head hang. "You're mean," she said again.

"I'm thorough," my dad said, smiling at my wife, who answered by nodding.

“Oh yes, honey," she whispered to my daughter, "your granddad can be very thorough.”

…

I don’t know how I felt. How I should feel. Did my wife just cheat on me or not? Was this just a harmless dare because my daughter was involved too? I realized I must have looked stupid, or I was still looking stupid, not saying anything against it. The beer was hitting my brain.

“I need a nap.” I said, "Leave the house."

Inside, I changed my mind and decided to have two large coffees and food. This always worked well when I was drinking. I let the coffee machine make the first one, dug into the kitchen, quickly finding a pre-cooked oven chicken. Exactly what I needed! I found a pan large enough for it and set the oven.

I grabbed my coffee and sat down near the window, which was overlooking the garden. From there I could see my two girls and my dad. He had taken his place in between them; they were all drinking, chatting. The girls had slid really close, leaning against him, my dad now having a naked breast resting on each arm.

I heard my daughter propose it.

“He should compare our pussies too.”

“Yes, he should.” My wife replied.

“We need some criteria, girls.” My dad said. “I cannot just start licking your tight pussies just like that.”

“Oh, you can, honey.” My wife answered. “But let’s make it more fun.”

“Smell?” Tahlia suggested.

“Yes.”

“What else?” My daughter asked.

“Labia check," Gina added. “Oh, and clitty check too.” She whispered, but I could hear her.

“Texture?”

“Yes, that too.”

“You mean if our pussies are ribbed and bumpy right at the entrance?” Tahlia asked.

“Exactly that.”

"Mmmhh, Daddy,” my daughter teased him, "you are going to have to insert your finger inside of me. Aren’t you afraid, Daddy?”

“I am sure you will support me, darling.” He answered, the cheeky bastard.

“How long are your fingers, Daddy? Ate they long enough to probe me?” My daughter clearly teased him.

“Hop on the edge, girls. And make some space in between your legs for Granddaddy.” As he was playfully pinching their nipples.

They both squealed but eagerly did as they were told.

To be continued.