Emma stared critically at her reflection in the mirror as she smoothed down the dress over her body. This was her big day, an interview for a job that she was really keen on. But how to ‘dress to impress’? Without knowing the identity of the interviewers or the norms of the dress code, Emma was in a quandary about what to wear…She had finally settled on a simple black dress, but now her brow furrowed with uncertainty as she looked again at her reflection. The dress clung to her slim, lithe body like a second skin, so tight that the line of her bra straps and even the bumps of her hip bones showed through. Stopping just above her knees, Emma knew that the dress made her look good, but was it sufficiently formal?
“Emma!”, called a voice from downstairs. “Are you ready yet, Emma? We’ve got to go soon!”
The voice belonged to her father. Neither Emma’s mother, nor Sarah, her sister, were home for the week, and Emma’s Dad, Chris, was taking her to the interview. Looking at herself once again, Emma this time enjoyed the reflection that she saw — pretty young woman, brown hair piled on top of her head, ruby-red lipsticked mouth, she looked the epitome of the young professional. Sure, the dress was tight, but she knew, she had the body to carry it off…there was no way that she was going to have a ‘visible panty line’ and had therefore selected one of her flimsiest thongs (navy blue, not matching black with her dress, but nobody was going to see it anyway, she calculated); it was just that bloody bra ruining the effect, she thought as she looked at the visible straps and even the cups. Impulsively, Emma quickly unzipped the dress and shrugged her shoulders out of it, and before she could give it any more thought, unclipped and tossed away the lacy black bra. I’ll get away with it, she thought — her petite little tits, 32a, would surely fit neatly inside her dress. One last look in the mirror confirmed it — with her pert breasts now bare, she noticed that the tiny, tight mounds of her nipples were just visible through the material of the dress, but Emma preferred that to the strap-line. Giggling, she blew a kiss to her reflection, before dashing downstairs to her waiting father.
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Chris drove carefully through town, eyes alert with exaggerated concentration. Concentrate on the road, he thought, focus on the road…ostensibly because, although in good time, having an accident would delay them. But the real reason was less acceptable…concentrate, he repeated mentally, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter.
Just minutes earlier, Chris had given his daughter the classic double-take as she had hurried down the stairs. Always proud and inordinately fond of his eldest daughter, he had become used to seeing Emma in her jeans and t-shirt combination, and had forgotten just how good she could look when she was trying to impress. The sight of Emma’s body, petite and moving with lithe grace, dressed in what he privately thought a too-tight dress for an interview, had certainly distracted him. And when she slid into the seat next to him in the car, Chris’s gaze had instinctively fallen to his daughter’s thighs encased in sheer, dark nylon as the dress inevitably rode up, disturbing him further, his thoughts running away as if of their own accord, reacting to his daughter as any man would to a confident, young attractive woman…any man other than her own father ought, anyway, he thought.
The journey progressed smoothly, Emma reading through her notes in preparation and not therefore her usual chatty self. Chris drove on with sure competence, but in spite of his best efforts, his mind was not fully engaged…snatching quick glances at Emma’s legs, Chris’s thoughts wandered.
Chris remembered the first time that he had given full vent to his feelings. Emma had come home late from a night out with a boyfriend, who was staying the night. They were both a little merry, and Chris watched them as they half sat, half lay on the sofa. The boyfriend, a strapping young mixed-race lad, was idly stroking Emma’s hair as they stared blankly at the television. As Chris watched, the lads hands at first rested on the curve of his daughter’s hip, and then slowly moved to cup the pert curve of her bottom. For her part, Emma was running her hands gently up and down her boyfriend’s thigh, before lifting her head to gently kiss him. It was just a soft kiss, held for a few seconds but with no tongues apparent, but Chris was captivated as he watched his daughter behaving as sexual woman, however briefly. Chris had been staring intently, and at one point was surprised to see Emma open her eyes while kissing her lover and briefly glance over at her father — and it was at that point that Emma clearly opened her mouth and slid her tongue into her boyfriend’s mouth, transforming the situation into an openly sexual kiss. Chris had stared for a moment longer, as if to burn the image into his mind, before tearing his gaze from the scene. A few seconds later, he heard alanya escort Emma’s soft voice say ‘let’s go to bed’, and the two disappeared upstairs. Almost involuntarily, as soon as he heard his daughter and her boyfriend close the bedroom door upstairs, Chris found himself imagining his young daughter performing with her boyfriend, the thought of her semi naked, perhaps allowing him to undress her…Emma, his own daughter, aroused and ready to give her body to a man. Chris, his head spinning as if he were drunk, had gripped his cock and started to masturbate, steadily and firmly, picturing Emma in his mind, the soft curves of her mons, her labia swollen and parted, her clitoris perhaps just slightly protruding, pushing its way out from between her moist lips, signalling her readiness for cock. Pumping his engorged cock harder, Chris whispered his daughter’s name through clenched teeth as he wanked himself to completion, his sperm jetting out obscenely as a result of his incestuous wank.
After that, Chris could not deny his own feelings, but would occasionally make half-hearted efforts to fight his urges. However, Emma’s demeanour and occasionally her outfits fought against his resolve — there was often just something about the interaction between father and daughter, sometimes a glint in Emma’s pretty eyes or a slightly risqué conversation, that would drive Chris to distraction. And then, if ever doing the laundry, he would catch sight of a pair of his daughter’s knickers, invariably skimpy, flimsy thongs that he could easily imagine decorating his daughter’s most intimate parts, his resolve would weaken further, until it would break — and then he would go through periods, weeks long, when he would actively search out Emma’s used knickers, breath in her taboo aroma, and be driven to a masturbatory frenzy, guiltily filling his daughter’s flimsy knickers with his rich sperm before making sure that they were quickly washed. His orgasms would be tremendous, the strongest of his life, as he would let his imagination run wild, depicting lurid fantasies of his eldest daughter as some sort of porno-queen, wanton, cock-hungry, with a sexual appetite as voracious as any whore…nothing would be too outrageous, not even — he trembled as the thought crossed his mind — not even sex with her own father. Chris would supplement the pleasures of his imagination by watching Emma around the house, her slim figure allowing her to make even normal clothes sexually appealing; and he would enjoy the fact that Emma seemed to be a little bit of a tease, even with her Dad, and was also naturally tactile, allowing him to revel in her hugs and kisses…until, incredible as it was, Chris found that his daughter was rapidly becoming the main object of his sexual urges.
Arriving at their destination, Chris’s thoughts snapped back to the present. “Ok, here we go…good luck — ‘babe'”. Emma giggled, and Chris was embarrassed — why had he called her ‘babe’? ‘Darling’, ‘love’, or simply ‘Emma’ would have been normal…he felt self-conscious. But Emma just laughed, in a friendly manner thankfully, saying “thanks Dad”…and leaning over to peck him on the cheek. Just as she did so, Chris had turned his head slightly to check his parking position, and Emma’s lightly puckered lips bumped and then brushed against his own. It was as if Chris had been jolted by electricity…the soft sensation of his daughter’s lips was simply incredible. For a moment, time stood still…and then the instant broke, Emma leaning back.
“Whoops!” she said, still smiling. “If anybody saw, they’d think that you were my sugar-daddy or that you’d picked up some young tart!”
Now it was Emma’s turn to flush slightly…why had she said that? There was an awkward silence for a moment, and then Emma made to get out of the car. Just as she was doing so, she exclaimed — she suddenly noticed a ladder in her tights, running from her knee to where the hem of the (by now ridden up high) dress, quite high on her thighs. She couldn’t go in to the interview like that! Without a word, Emma slipped off her heels, shimmied her hips and pulled up her dress (not without a struggle, it was so tight), and reached to her waist, pulled down her tights. “Good thing I noticed the tear!” she said to her Dad, but as she did so Emma did a double-take at her father. He was staring…really staring, transfixed. Emma suddenly realised what a spectacle she’d be making, dress up around her waist, bare feet, and a long expanse of bare leg on show. She suddenly had a flashback to the number of times that she’d been on dates with men and been in exactly this position, but then it was purely sexual, either after or before a heavy kissing session, the man’s fingers perhaps about to delve between her legs, her hand maybe about to stimulate his penis…again, time seemed to stand still and the inside of the car was suddenly thick with atmosphere. Emma’s words tumbled out of her mouth now, her usual poise gone — “gotta go dad, sorry about my tights, they artvin escort got torn, can’t go in with them”, and so saying exited the car, tossing down her ruined hosiery on the passenger seat. She needed to regain her composure for the interview, and as for Chris…well, he was left in the car, stimulated and aroused, with his daughter’s used and casually discarded tights. Somewhere deep inside both of them, father and daughter knew that those tights would be further used and abused before they were discarded…
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Emma tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she absent mindedly watched the waiter walk away, having served their coffees. Under other circumstances, she might have been interested in the fit young man, wearing tight black trousers, but today her mind was on other things. Not that it stopped Becky, Emma’s friend of many years, whose pretty face clearly revealed her interest.
“Mmm, nice bum, hasn’t he,” said Becky, her tone both mischievous but also throaty with a hint of lust. “Want a competition?”
Emma smiled, her mood lifting for a moment. She and Becky often ‘competed’ when seeing a bloke they both fancied, and it had led to some pretty outrageous situations in the past, when both girls used their ‘talents’ (i.e. their tight young bodies and their flirtatious manner) to see who could get the guy. And of course there had been that one time when the guy just couldn’t decide, and Emma and Becky had ‘compromised’ by taking him on together…
“Em? What’s the matter?”
Becky’s voice brought Emma back to the present. It had been a couple of days since the interview now, and Emma had been troubled by the feelings that had entered her head in bed that night…and, in fact, had been with her since. Not knowing what to do, she had turned to her long-term friend. Becky, at 25 in the prime of her life, was just about the only person with whom Emma could share everything, including her strong, almost aggressive, sex-drive, for Becky was the same — utterly uninhibited, with enough sexual confidence and experience to know what she wanted and how to get it. Emma took a deep breath, and began.
“Bec, you know I had that job interview the other day — “
“Yeah, I remember,” interrupted Becky. “Was one of the interviewers dishy? Don’t tell me you let him fuck you or something, you little slag!”
Emma laughed in spite of herself. It would be just the sort of thing that Emma or Becky would get up to, and they often used terms like ‘slag’, ‘slut’ or ‘tart’ as terms of endearment; being such free spirits, uninhibited and confident, both girls used such words as a compliment, almost looking down on women who thought of the phrases as insults because they were too uptight to enjoy themselves.
“No, it wasn’t that, Becky,” continued Emma, already feeling more relaxed. “But…well, Dad gave me a lift to the interview, and I laddered my nylons just before I went in. I could hardly go in with ripped tights, I’d have looked like a right prostitute, so I took them off. Dad saw all of my legs, almost up to my thong, and…” Emma hesitated, as if giving voice to what happened would make it more real. “Well…he checked me out, Bec! You know that look that blokes get…well, he definitely had it!”
Becky just sipped her coffee, her prettily made-up face observing her friend calmly. Eventually Emma continued.
“That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about Dad’s face when he saw me with my dress up around my waist…he didn’t say anything, but he was staring. And…well, I don’t know if it was the tension of the day or whatever, but I…I just couldn’t stop thinking about it…I thought about Dad looking at me, and – and I felt fantastic!” Emma blurted out.
Emma looked down, her expressive face creased with confusion. Becky felt a rush of affection for her friend, so obviously upset, and leaning forward took Emma’s hands in her own.
“Did you feel proud, Emma? Feel like a real woman? So hot that she can even get her Dad to look at her…?” she asked softly.
“Y-yes,” stammered Emma, quietly. “That’s just it — I enjoyed it”.
Becky bit her bottom lip, doubt momentarily crossing her mind, before it cleared. Stroking her friend’s hair, Becky leant forward and spoke softly but urgently.
“Emma, do you remember when my uncle was sick, about a year ago?”
Emma nodded. Becky’s uncle, Dave (her father’s brother), had been through lots of tests, and at one stage it looked as if he might have been seriously — terminally — unwell. Emma didn’t know the details, but was aware that following some surgery, Uncle Dave had been fairly immobile for a bit, before the good news had come through that the illness was not terminal after all and that his prognosis was reasonably good. Emma knew that Becky had visited Uncle Dave quite a lot, and had been quite preoccupied for a while. But what had that to do with what Emma had just confided in Becky?
“Well, one day, after his op, burdur escort I went round to his place to see how he was doing. Uncle Dave had got himself into the bath, but was struggling to get out, so obviously I helped him. As I was helping him out of the bath, I noticed that his cock was getting hard, and I realised that he could see right down my top. I was wearing my black bra, you know, the one that ‘makes the most of them’, so in a way, I wasn’t surprised that he was getting hard — he obviously wasn’t that unwell! Anyway, I must have been staring, ‘cos Uncle Dave started to apologise, telling me that he hadn’t been able to get any action for ages, and that it was just a physical thing…”
Becky paused, looking around to make sure no-one could hear. Emma was staring intently at her friend.
“I suddenly felt really sorry for him, Emma. He was obviously used to getting quite a lot of action before he was unwell, and now there I was showing off all I’ve got without even thinking about it or the effect it might have had on him. If anything, it was me who had been inconsiderate, showing myself off when I should have realised how it would have been for him. At that time, we didn’t know what was going to happen to him…so, I thought, ‘sod it, what can I do that would that would make him feel better?’, and -” Becky lowered her voice until it was almost a whisper, but her tone was urgent and excited — “I put my hand around his cock. I thought he might act all outraged or disgusted or something, but he didn’t try to push me away or anything — typical bloke! — but just groaned. His cock got properly hard in seconds, it was like magic. I just started to do what I’m best at and wanked him off there and then, Emma, until he came all over my hands.”
Emma stared at her friend, wide-eyed and incredulous. Becky, cheeks slightly flushed, carried on.
“After that, it became a bit of a regular thing. I would go round to Uncle Dave every week, and we would just chat, I’d tidy up a bit for him, we’d share a beer…and then I’d wank him off. Sometimes we’d do it on the sofa, sometimes in his bedroom…he’d never say anything and nor would I, it just kind of happened when we got to a lull in the conversation. As he slowly got better, he would sometimes get his cock out when he felt ready, and I would bring him off. After a few weeks, I’d do things like take my top off for him when I wanked him, making sure that I put one of my sexy bras on for him…and then, when got the all clear, we kind of ‘celebrated’. I-” Becky hesitated again, but this time to savour the memory, it seemed — “I stripped totally naked for him and gave him a blow job. You should have seen him Emma, he couldn’t take his eyes off my body, and that kind of turned me on as well, made me feel really desirable, as if I was a pop star or a sexy actress or something. The amount of appreciation he had for me…it really turned me on, just like you said it did when your Dad looked at you. So I do understand…anyway, I started to suck off Uncle Dave like a right tart, he came really quickly, and after that I let him feel my tits up, and put his fingers in me until I came myself…”
Becky was now definitely aroused, her breathing slightly quicker, the flush spreading down to her chest. Emma noticed that her friend’s nipples had tightened into small, hard knots that were visible through her tight t-shirt.
“After he got that all-clear, it kind of felt natural to stop.”
“But how did you feel?” asked Emma, noticing the tremor in her own voice. “Didn’t you — didn’t you feel disgusted, or guilty or something? I mean, doing your own uncle…and he looks so like your Dad!”
Becky leaned back. “Why should I feel guilty? I felt that I’d done what I could. You know, some people help out others by cooking meals for them or whatever, and I just did what I’m good at — sex. You know Uncle Dave has always been a bit of a lad — and I was just being ‘nice’ to him. We would joke, afterwards, that he would tell my Dad what a tart I was, and that my Dad would probably pretend to be poorly so that I’d wank him off too…” Becky laughed. “Anyway –“she said, tone earnest now — “the point is, Em, that Dad’s, uncles, whatever — they’re just blokes. Tell me, what teenage girl hasn’t had a crush on her Dad? Or what Dad hasn’t looked at his precious daughter sometime, and thought — ‘wow! She’s become a real hottie!’ It’s only these so-called ‘morals’ that tell us that it’s somehow ‘wrong’…c’mon Em, we’ve always been proud of how free we are. If your Dad looked at your legs, and you liked thinking about it later, how is that different to enjoying showing yourself off for blokes at a club or something, and getting fucked later? At least you know your Dad loves you, whatever happens…if you feel like it, Emma, go for it, I say. The way I see it, it would make you both happy — and what an experience! Imagine, we could be ‘incest sluts UK!”, she laughed.
Becky let go of her friend’s hands as the waiter came back to clear away their cups, giving them both his best smile. Becky’s eyes followed the handsome dark waiter as he sauntered away. Quickly putting on another coat of lipstick and smoothing her tight jeans over her pert bum, Becky coolly appraised his receding figure.