Fun in the Sun

Dad hunts his son's virgin girlfriend

Andrew Mc Cormack watched his sons fumbling unsteady hands apply sunscreen lotion to 'sweet 'Amy's legs from the bedroom window of their second-storey home. Stewart's tame, meek mishandling of the situation was shocking. Even from a distance, Andrew could take in the smooth shaved tan perfection of Amy's thighs and now splotchy glistening calves. Stewart was squirting sunscreen in globs like the jizzed mayhem of a male wanking contest at a sports camp. How in the world had Stewie scored a girlfriend of Amy's calibre? 

She was spunky hot. She was searing, a blistering excess of nubile femininity basking in her luxuriant, opulent, fleshy body by their backyard pool. Her full cupped breasts demanded attention, seriously seeking more than the touch of sunshine on this balmy early summer afternoon. Her breasts: that's where Andrew would put the sunscreen, rubbing it in, slowly, lingering to impregnate her softness with circulating motions, constantly massaging with sensual gentleness, over and over, till the lithe bitch murmured in pleasure at the delight of her own body. 

Stewie had no idea what to do. He was looking to Amy for guidance. Amy's eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. Andrew knew Amy wanted her inner thighs rubbed with suntan lotion, get a feel for Stewie's hands, and decide if she would let them wander under her skimpy bikini. Andrew could tell this bikini was not a rack special or a whim purchased by Amy. It was neon yellow; some bastard of a designer knew exactly how this would lure male eyes to brunette waves of hair and their matching dark mound of brunette pubic delight if left unshaved, or heaven if trimmed or rapturous bliss if shaved. Even before buying it, Amy knew exactly how the colour would complement and shape her body. She was not disappointed in the bikini. 

She was, however, wavering in interest about Stewie.

 Shit, the bikini was taut, thought Andrew, stretchy defining Amy's pubic shape, sheer, thin fabric, the ultimate tease. It couldn't hide Amy's delectable and pushily scrumptious camel toe. Then the taunt of unbearable taunts, the two drawstrings, the loops of strings, dangling below her hips, waiting to be pulled…his mind went to her hidden bits; waiting, her cleft, her labia, folded, resting in relaxed profuse perfection…demanding to be parted and then pulled… Amy's Sweet's labia…what a surname….Sweet… surely, her surname contained both the potential debauched promise of licking a treat and the unattainable flaunting mockery of candy denied. Still, Andrew didn't have a reputation as a sugar daddy based on regular visits to a confectionary store. What was most confronting about the afternoon was the nearly unpardonable scene of a father having to meet head-on their son's college-aged girlfriends in a slinky, scanty, oh-so-meagre bikinis. The head part could be dealt with; Andrew was already scheming how to get Amy's lips wrapped around his own cock.

Those fantasy films where you are eighteen again but have your adult brain came to mind. Andrew knew he hadn't done much better applying the sunscreen himself at the beach at that age; he recalled it was Tiffany, yes Tiffany, he recalled: the blonde delight, but boy, had he made up for it later in the dunes. Stewie was now applying some sunscreen to Amy's arms, tentatively and slightly roughly like the maiden speculum entry by a gynaecologist. It was awful to watch like a poorly made porno. Amy, it seemed, did like Stewie's muscles. The home gym might save the McCormack gene pool, thought Andrew. He knew the sperm that caught the missus the night Stewie was conceived was not overly endowered with intellect, or maybe the missus' egg was off. Stewie would never pull the girls with suave chit-chat; it was built muscle, followed by his raw muscle, and the McCormacks were in front of the pack. For his eighteenth birthday, Andrew had had Stewart officially certified into the eight-inch club; shit, it had been close, but he made it eight exactly, unlike his own generous eight and a half. 

Stewie was still applying the lotion where he was game. He was on her shoulders. Even from upstairs, Andrew could tell Ms Sweet was disappointed. She was actually thinking, what does a girl need to do to get her tits licked and her pussy groped around here. If it wasn't for that old leering letch, Stewart's dad, she would have taken her top off to get Stewie focussed on the main game here. God, he was rubbing her shoulders, probably how he handled his own dick, fast and quick. Slow down, Stewie, she thought, shit, if you treat my clit that way, this could be a very short relationship. Amy knew she had to educate Stewart. It was man training time. She only hoped the investment was worthwhile. Still, if she applied lotion correctly, she could gauge the size of the meat on offer in his board shorts. 

"Stewie…the lotion…my turn…that's it… just relax"

She was straddling his thighs, working his chest with two hands, smearing the lotion in a fine film and kneading like she was gently moulding dough, manipulating her fingers skilfully and shrewdly. It was a quality chest rub down, close to professional masseuse style. The cheeky vixen even ruffled his hair once or twice. 

Then she bent over Stewart's chest. 

Even Andrew upstairs felt his member stir below, and she gave Stewie the 'goods' to think about, brushing her twin melons across his chest.

Next, she rubbed his lower, very lower abdomen. Then, her newly moistened hands applied lotion below the belt, way below the belt. 

Amy operated with relaxed pressure to taunt his love muscle into rigidity beneath those shorts. 

Stewart's cock was well on the way to a full girth erection virtually instantly, given the fantastic level of attention it was receiving. Amy had the lotion everywhere she needed it. Not everywhere she needed it on herself. But everywhere to gauge Stewie's obvious whopper cock. She got the lotion on his silky sac just before it tightened, close to his body. Stewart's pecker was in the sunlight. It's one single eye shedding a precum tear. Amy thought that was cute. The precum glistened in the sunlight like a drop of moisturiser. Amy had never tasted cum and was very interested. She gobbled it up quickly, and instantly, her mind was set on more. 

Amy was ready for her first head job and, having recently practised on bananas, was confident she could do it well. 

Stewart was struggling with a major eruption shit Krakatoa had nothing on what was about to happen. Stewart watched Amy gobble up his cock in a beautiful smooth wet, gliding but soppy sucking motion; then his cock appeared, and her gorgeous pink lips held his glans, head-to-head perfection; then she was down again; she had the rhythm.

Stewart, unfortunately, was about to create an unwanted record, the quickest premature ejaculation of his life. He fired off the first spurt without warning inside sweet Amy's mouth.

 What the fuck thought Amy. She knew it was too sudden. 

Her pleasure was denied. Stewart was out of control, his rampant useless cock gushing and spraying cum like a high-pressure hose whipping insanely in every direction. 

Amy scored direct hits to her eye and nose. It was dribbling down, joining the wet goo around her lips and sitting on her tongue. Amy had that horrible thought. It was like being licked by their family dog, a French Mastiff before you have properly woken up, the full drooling, slavering slobber wake-up call, just a fucking mess. 

Stewie was a total embarrassment. 

Amy was in complete frustration. 

Andrew was in stitches of laughter and then worried, shit, maybe Amy wouldn't be around here again. Quality perve material was lost too quickly for his liking.

Andrew thought the inexperience of youth, its fumbling, hesitant moves, fine flesh waiting to be felt up, fingered, teased, then spread for fucking; Stewie could have taken her here today, poolside. 

He just didn't know—the dithering of youth, faltering when it is assured, sitting on the fence when Ms Sweet should have been queening his face. Andrew knew he needed to save the situation—well, for Stewart and himself. He set to work fast. Hell, Amy might just go home.

"Guys… it's so hot…I brought you out…a rum and coke each."

"Thanks, Dad."

"Thanks, Mr McCormack," said Amy, her face clear of any pimples, blemishes and hints of cum. 

A rare, perfect, tanned complexion partnered with the smouldering glow of youth. 

Her eyes! Christ, were liquid cognac, thought Andrew. They caught the sunlight, had that sexy swirl of the finest brandy, and hinted at self-indulgence, a soul that needed to be indulged. 

Amy was crying inside to have her body pampered and spoilt, sensually and explicitly, the true romance of being taken in an exciting, memorable location, like a sunset beach, by a big cock. In the rush of the masturbatory moment in the shower, the back of the car usually sufficed and seemed more realistic for a girl her age. Still, she kept her dream.

"Stewart …invite Amy out on our yacht tomorrow… let's cruise the bay…make a day of it."

Amy accepted the invitation and would meet them at the Marina tomorrow morning. 

Unknown to Amy, Andrew laced Stewie's Saturday night curry with generous laxatives. Andrew had no intention of sharing Amy on Sunday. He was going to fondle and squeeze those soft breasts alone and apply the sunscreen as it deserved to be spread on a young woman. Andrew didn't need to fantasise; his course was plotted like auto navigation. 

The svelte lissom, exceptionally well-proportioned Amy was sauntering through the Marina like she owned the place. 

She dominated the scene physically, million-dollar yachts not even bothering the eye. She was slinky, she had the walk, she had the attitude, and she had an even more sexually maddening bikini than yesterday. 

It fitted so perfectly, and it was surely custom-made. 

Most bikinis are good; this was a nightmare — not a cock up nightmare- rather one of raging desire because it was design perfection, made for Amy, so it seemed. 

It comprised a body-hugging bandeau top that wrapped and defined her shapely flesh and a skimpy bottom piece resting well below her hips. The classic Lyrca white against her free-flowing brunette hair was causing Andrew mental chaos. As Amy got closer, it was evident that her bulging camel toe was joining the cruise, too. 

He barely noticed her small, matching white beach shoulder bag.

"Where is Stewart?" Amy was a bit perturbed.

Keeping his mind and body under control, Andrew had pants and a T-shirt on, as he knew, if it was only board shorts it would chase her away. "Stewie sick…gives his apologies…text him…he said to go anyway."

Amy didn't board Miss Stress; she called Stewie instead. 

He was as sick as a dog and sounded like it. He couldn't talk any longer, as he had to rush to the toilet.

Amy decided what the heck. Impulse is impulse; the inclination was there —unknown to her — because of her inexperience; impulse and inclination lead to desire. 

Amy was on board. Andrews's mind was tipping overboard with anticipation.

She asked with inquisitive interest: "Why the name Miss-Stress, Mr McCormack…is it to miss the stress of your wife…"

"Yes, and …where I entertain my mistress of the moment". There's no point being coy; besides, he was casting off. "Call me Andrew…less formal, okay."

"Oh… do you have a mistress …Stewie didn't say anything."

Andrew ignored this.

"Amy, come here … I'll show you a few sailing basics. Make yourself useful and feel needed." Andrew got right into her personal space as he showed Amy how to secure the mooring lines.

Amy was surprised she didn't mind his physical closeness. His blue eyes were a bit shifty, but his body was fully manly and hard. She was very aware of her own feminine softness in the moment. He was guiding her hands, teaching her, but more, he was touching with a confident assurance she was aware that Stewie lacked and maybe never would have. 

Andrew invited her confidentially into the wheelhouse. While there were state-of-the-art electronic navigational panels, the traditional wheel was still used. It was solid and wooden, matching the interior wood panelling. Amy was worried it would be hard to manoeuvre and clunky like Stewart's hands. She was steering with guidance. Andrew perfectly positioned behind her, pressing his groin into her cute soft butt. His large hands on her slender, refined, elegant fingers manicured diligently. Andrew was thinking Amy might also go in for pubic pussy sculpting was likely here too, though at eighteen, probably not yet. 

Andrew was rubbing his groin on her bathers. Fabric to fabric in reality, but they are already anticipating flesh to flesh in their minds. Amy was nestling her butt back into the stiffness behind her. It was nice. Impulsive was nice. Then, in an instant, she didn't want to be nice. Nice girls didn't get fingers in their bathers. Nice girls were left fingering themselves under the doona after afternoons in the sunlight with inept male company like Stewie. Stewart was fading fast, replaced by a hard, swelling cock in pants, prodding and probing vainly but seeking escape from its restrictions behind her. 

 Amy wanted her bikini off now. That would be nice, she thought. Andrew had the patience of experience, the restraint of life lived to tease this out, make pussy wait because pussy made to wait was filthily urgent and unbridled in the moment of its taking. Amy's cunt was craving cock. It was that basic. The virgin fire was fuelled and needed consummation. Andrew steered Amy's hands on the wheel to anchorage in a nearby sheltered bay.

Andrew invited Amy on deck. Amy wanted a different kind of invitation that was more urgent. There comes that instant when a virgin knows this is it, the long-anticipated moment of cock embraced between their thighs. The fantasy planning of first sex, the rich lingering kissing, and the tender murmurings of eternal love accompanying the instance, the ego-intense pulsating orgasm delivered by the ideal man of your dreams were still here on the yacht with Amy. 

Desire led by impulse changes memory forever. 

Amy was against the railing of the boat. Looking out past the head of the bay. Two dolphins were cavorting playfully in the distance. She felt her wetness from the wheelhouse; was it already a couple of minutes ago, sticking her labia to her lycra virginal white bikini. Her own often explored gashy moisture hole needed cock. She kept coming back to that, the fundamental instinctive need, fuck, she needed a root. 

Andrew was behind her, pressing hard, squashing into her body, then whispering in her ear,

"You know, Amy, dolphins are like humans. They mate beyond reproduction…and they touch before mating."

 Amy turned and kissed Andrew suddenly, fully and sensuously. Her tongue was immediately hungry for more, and she was exploring rapidly in and around his lips and mouth. Her brain was fragmenting with unlimited virginal desires, and her pussy was soaking, held in check by a piece of thin fine material, nothing more. 

Andrew eased the snow-white bathing piece down, held and stretched by Amy's parted thighs. His fingers were greeted by moist, supple, fleshy, candy-sticky pussy. Her dark pubic hair fluffy like fairy floss. Andrew knew the rest was craving, touch their gash and melt any resistance. Lick their sweet gash, and you can take them to any position you choose. Fill their raging hormonal gash and obscenities they had never uttered, ever, would fill the bay. 

He teased her lips open. She was moaning softly. She was fully intensely wet. She had the white thickened femcum oozing around her vagina. He was enjoying the full pubic richness of young unshaved women; no need to draw the eye with a trimmed shape; Amy was here in her body as herself. Andrew liked that. Trimmed pubes too often meant the lady had a preference for position to achieve orgasm. Her wild young pubes wanted genital interaction; this was all new territory, her furry wilderness looking for a lurking beast. Ready to meet it head on. 

Andrew knelt to take a closer look. Her pubic hair and labia were a stunning combination, a perfect pairing. Amy had it all, the cute face, the full breasts, the tanned lithe body and a secret to match just waiting between her legs. 

Her pussy was held open by his fingers, the right lip a small curving away crescent moon of rigid firmness, her left lip from her petite clit, wider but still a tight sliver of tapering flesh, their mutual thick and thinner beginnings, both thinning to equableness as they joined the flexible inverted cathedral arch of elastic flesh at their base. Looking back up between the parallel best gifts for male eyes in the universe, Andrew gazed, captivated momentarily by the soppy leaking wetness, already dribbling down from the left towards her perineum. 

Then Amy's pussy-struck Andrew with mentally searing carnal force; the pinkness, the sweet given pinkness, the glistening pinkness, all the way from her vaginal opening back up to her smallish hard waiting clit. Waiting no longer to participate in fun in the sun. It felt the heat of the sun's rays but even more intensely the warmth of a human tongue.

Andrew realised that there was a bay of delight and wanted to anchor Amy's body. 

He licked her petite exposed clit, flicking and then sucking. Forcing her steadily ecstatic bead out and upwards as his tongue came from below rigidly onto the nub of now tensing firm flesh. His tongue deft, deliberate pushing, sensing the occasional involuntary spasms of growing muscular tightness and ripples of sensation forming in the whole region between her sweet thighs and circling in her womb and filtering stabs of delight to her brain. A true aficionado of cunt, a lifetime devotee to pussy.

Andrew was also cognisant to fairness and turned his attention only by the force of will from his cuntstruck daze to Amy's cute arse hole with its sweet short radiating lines, all falling into, diving together, then disappearing into the tightest of holes, seemingly sealed but craving, poised for open exploration like an underwater sea cave. Andrew rimmed her gently, and her thighs quivered. 

Then his eyes took in her now glistening with his saliva, awesome butt hole, radiating in like ridge lines of dunes on a hot undulating landscape of expanding skin, her fleshy white untanned buttocks, usually hidden, now seeking more than the sun, more than warmth. Yet, it was warmth they wanted, warm massaging hands, then the heat, then the fiery heat of a male poker, searing into all her cavities and exploding its warm delivery of male desire deep into one. She hardly cared as she felt they were all virgin cum holes. Stewie's effort was dismissed as a failure. 

Amy had self-explored enough to understand orgasm. Yet, she craved the next plateau of pleasure, the reaching for the next level of pleasure in sex-the more you touched, the longer you lingered, the more you explored your own internal canyon- the more compelling the delight and the need to find another to share it, to give it to and to take that hard male flesh as pleasure given and pleasure reciprocated. Amy was wrapt as pleasure kept building like the heat of the day. God, he was good. 

He pushed to the limits, drew back before she exploded, and drove her wild for more. Andrew was tongue fucking her sopping creamy hole, his tip probing intensely deep, where Amy realised even her own fingers couldn't match this sensation. Pleasure was fully disseminated; all that remained was to penetrate her sweet parcel of flesh, what Stewie and his mates in their sniggering virginal jokes termed a girls box. Yes, a container with sides and flaps, Andrew supposed.

No, it was a parcel, a surprise gift, wrapped and hidden, then exposed, then embracing its own wonder, like a long-anticipated but unexpected gift when it is finally visualised and touched.

Amy was ready for give and take, this was it. She was ready. Her pussy was over ready. Andrew eased her around and spread her thighs kindly with one open hand, then gently nudged his burgeoning massive shaft into her sweetmeat, her delicate, honeyed girly bit. Amy felt its hugeness. Shit, she knew it was big, but she wanted it all, deep and held. She was taken aback by her flexible but tight gripping and her design elasticity as Andrew's colossal sausage eased in and out, then eased in deeper. Andrew was amazed as he looked down between her legs; shit she had taken about seven inches and was into the rhythm, like picking up the beat of a new dance tune naturally. 

Andrew saw his cock glistening, covered in her juicy femcum; the shiner and glossier his hardness got on each thrust made him push just slightly deeper. Amy was inebriated with pleasure. Intoxicated with delight. Her vaginal orgasm was assured. His cock's depth had her moaning, a new experience added to a new experience. Only her clit had taken her to this high of self before. She felt all woman, and she was. The sun's warmth on her skin was surpassed by the bathing internal warmth of spreading feminine fullness of being, like an undertow of self-expanding beneath the skin. Barely contained by skin. Yet the delight was the explosion, the imploding in her. It hit her skin from the inside and bounced around like a pinball. The sensation was everywhere and then peaked in her pussy, then spiked in her mind, then cavorted in leaps of delight like the two dolphins she momentarily took in as the pleasure steadied, steadied but lingered. It was still there in her body.

Indescribable pleasure. Her body was euphoric like a wild drinking party. All senses heightened. Then, the wild became untamed. Andrew's cock was going to take her arse. Amy was beyond controlled thinking. She just knew she wanted it all. Had to have it all. She was all-body in the instance. Andrew used her own soppy juices and his heavy glistening rod to enter trouble-free. Amy's orgasm had relaxed her completely. There was no tightness of doubt here. Still, he wanted her to remember the double pleasure moment and always tie his name with it. It was carousing of self to Amy. Shit, the pleasure her body could give her, it seemed unlimited. She was strangely delighted, as we are with the novel. We seek, and we find. We find delight. We seek it again. She was seeking each tight thrust and was amazed at the generosity of her body to engender unsought pleasure. Andrew was trapped in the male moment, trapped as only a male can be in a female cavity of desire and pulsating delight.

One to go. With regret, he left Amy's still greedily demanding back orifice. Amy was disappointed. She still needed more. More she said to herself, yet I've had so much, I'm a nympho today. I just need more. Andrew guided her onto her knees, taking in those brandy eyes. The visual became Amy's more. His slightly curved spear was hers to explore and taste. Small ridgy blood vessels translucent below delicate stretched skin. His cock was huge, but she wanted it. She licked its length and flicked his balls like a pro. Amazing how you learn so quickly. Amy's lips moulded, then sucking down the size of the shaft for several inches. She was purely instinctual. She was purely engaged. She was purely crafting pleasure for two.

Andrew withdrew close to orgasm. Amy looked at him, puzzled. She wanted his jizz. She didn't care where.

"Andrew, I want it everywhere, spray me…fucking spray me," 

Shit thought Amy. Where did that thought come from?

Andrew was nearly taken aback, too. Virginal moments don't last long. Amy was already sexually primed and chasing sexual fullness. He gave her his wad like sea spray hitting a harbour wall. The first jerky squirt hit her sweet cheek. The second, her extended anticipating tongue. The next jet aimed across her breasts. And the rest, fuck, wherever it landed. Andrew was lost in self by then, beyond directing the remaining receding spikes of self-delight. 

They were breathless, their energy sated, and they needed natural, calm rest. They tidied themselves up and were appropriately and respectfully clothed as a speedboat passed nearby. 

Well, Amy was getting a tan on her breasts, Andrew's expansive chest was on public display, and he was still belting his pants. 

Amy ignored the gawking eyes of immature youth in the speedboat, Stewie's friends; instead, she thoroughly enjoyed the dolphins cavorting friskily in the water. 

Amy was intent on becoming the mistress of this craft. 

On a more submissive note, she realised, too, that she was happily surrendering herself to be the mistress to the mysteries of her own unfolding sexuality.