After seeing dad performing like that, nothing was the same. I couldn't look at him without seeing him pounding his meat into a wet, pink pussy. I couldn't talk to him without watching my every word, fearful that I would say something that would reveal my knowledge of who dad was in his past life.
Past life...?
I began to wonder, Do you ever leave a past like that? Oh sure, he'd married mom, settled down, bought a house, gotten a regular guy job, had kids; all the proper and obligatory suburban male stuff. But questions came to me ... like, did he fuck my mother the way he'd been fucking that babysitter ... or the nurse ... or the meter maid ... or any of a number of other women he'd performed with. Did you grow out of that kind of dramatic sex? And what if you didn't?
Was there the possibility that...? Naw ... dad? Could dad possibly STILL be doing that, still be making pornos, still be fucking young women with massive store bought tits? And ... if he was ... could he get me laid?
I doubted that he was still in the industry, but I knew one thing for sure: dad had fucked a lot of women, he probably still knew a lot of names ... and I was sick and tired of Rosy Palm being my only lover.
His eyes widened as I held up the CD cover with a picture of him ten inches deep into a hunched over school marm. "I want to do that ... and if you don't help me ... well, I don't know ... but it won't be purdy." |