My Best Friend's Dad

Ryan is my best friend’s dad. Married 24 years, two kids in college, sex life dead for the last five. His wife sleeps in the spare room “because of his snoring,” but everyone knows it’s because she checked out years ago. I’ve been crashing at their house on and off since freshman year. Last month I caught him staring at me in the kitchen at 2 a.m. while I was getting water in just an oversized T-shirt and panties. Instead of looking away, he just muttered, “Jesus Christ” under his breath and adjusted himself.

Two nights later his wife left for a girls’ trip to Napa. At 11 p.m. he knocks on the guest-room door holding two beers. Doesn’t say anything, just hands me one and sits on the edge of the bed like he’s scared to breathe. I set my beer down, crawl into his lap, and kiss him. He kisses back like a man who’s been underwater for years.

I push him onto his back, straddle him, peel his T-shirt off, and work my way down. When I pull his boxers down his cock literally springs out: thick, rock-hard, leaking like crazy. He hasn’t been touched in so long he’s shaking. I take him deep and slow, letting him feel every inch of my throat, looking up at him while he groans “fuck, baby” over and over. He lasts maybe ninety seconds and comes hard down my throat, hips jerking, apologizing the whole time. I swallow every drop and keep sucking until he’s hard again in record time.

Round two I ride him slow on the guest bed, hands on his chest, letting him watch my tits bounce while I grind. He’s grabbing my ass like he can’t believe it’s real, whispering “you feel so fucking good” like he forgot sex could feel like this. When he comes the second time he pulls me down hard and fills me raw, pulsing so deep I feel it in my stomach.

We didn’t stop all weekend. He fucked me on the couch his wife picked out, bent me over the kitchen island where they host Thanksgiving, ate me out on the dining table while I wore her apron and nothing else. Every single load raw and deep, like he was trying to make up for five years in four days.

Sunday night before his wife got home he had me on my knees in their shower, begging to come on my face one last time. I let him paint my tongue and tits while he groaned “thank you, babygirl” like I’d just saved his life.

Now it’s our routine: whenever his wife goes to bed early or leaves town, I sneak over. Sometimes it’s quick and dirty in the garage, sometimes slow and filthy in their bed while her pillow’s still warm. He keeps a secret phone just for texting me times and places. I keep him drained, happy, and smiling at the breakfast table while his wife wonders why he suddenly has so much energy.

She still thinks I’m just “the sweet girl who house-sits.”
She has no idea her husband’s been balls-deep in me twice a week for the last three months.