The Daughter
On that day, just before father’s day, I was in a store buying some shirts when a young customer came in and asked the saleswoman for information about a gift for her father. I was a little distant and thought I recognized that beautiful face, the beautiful head, led by a really well-made body.
Suddenly, my heart began to beat fast and images came to mind from twenty-something years ago, when she, the girl, should not have been born, when the only responsibility for me was just to study. The rest was just fun. And that woman, still a teenager, at the counter, at least for me, central figure of that delightful time — not her exactly, but her mother, of whom she was practically a doppelganger. I kept staring at her, admiring her beauty and traveling through that history of youth.
She noticed my stare and was immediately recognized, despite a few pounds more and less hair. With a sweet voice, she asked, “You are Caius Caesar, aren’t you? I am Julia, daughter of Francisca”. And he hugged me. The hug was long, long and sincere. There I was with my young best friend's daughter. Julia is the exact copy of Kika—so we called her—at that age. It's a little over 6'6", silver hair, very light green eyes, almost gray, very white skin and even mother's body at age 20 —all proportional, small breasts, generous hips, fleshy thighs and well-turned legs.
Normally I am a private person, and therefore the shop employees —who attend with a certain attendance — have missed such enthusiasm on my part. But do what? If I had now returned at 18, just in a look through a counter. After the initial impact, we decided to continue the conversation at a nearby bar.
Needless to say, the conversation yielded until the evening, with Julia telling everything about the separation of her parents, the change of her mother to Turin, Italy, where paternal ancestors still live. Around eight o'clock in the evening we said goodbye, because both she and I had family commitments, but not without making lunch for the next day.
I came home with my heart racing and no power, for obvious reasons, commenting on nothing with my wife. From 16 to 24, when I got married, Francisca and I had been very close friends and we saw each other every day. We studied together since the gym, passed science, college and college, when we stopped studying together (I did Marketing, and she, Architecture), but I did not let live friendship. At that time, we often exchanged hugs, kisses, caresses — some even intimate, but never got to bed.
The next day, at the scheduled time, there I was waiting for my friend’s daughter —who, I expected, would become my friend as well. She arrived radiantly, in low-waist jeans, a little white camise that left a beautiful belly showing off, a leather jacket and high-heeled boot. It was amazing how much Julia even looked like her mother in her dress —I must say that the last time I saw her was just a little more than a baby. During lunch, we catch up. I had continued to marry Mila, had two teenage daughters and, between us, had never “jumped around”. Francisca also got married, and early, and twice, it's true. He lived in Rio de Janeiro at the first wedding, and Turin at the second, and two years ago he split up.
The lunch with Julia was light, with the talk spinning about what we were doing in life, memories of youth and their relationships with their mother. It seemed to be the same age, such as our intimacy shortly after we met. Who knows why, the topic of the conversation was directed towards sexuality and Julia told me that, at the age of 18, she was still a virgin, not for the purpose of being home, but for the pains she felt every time she was the target of an attempt at penetration, although the doctors ensured that physiologically she was perfect.
That conversation created a different climate. Every touch of his hands, his arms, it felt like we were getting an electrical discharge. When I mentioned it, she confessed she was feeling the same thing. We remember Santinho’s beach —which she knew as a child —, where we were going, her mother and I, skip school and drink beer on sunny and scorching afternoons.
Around three o'clock in the afternoon, after two bottles of a great cabernet, we decided to meet your mother and mine's youth spot. Like in those days, we just drove in her car, me driving. In the past, it was a blue Chevette; today, a red Citroën, with providential smoke glass. At the first sign, some caresses rolled on the legs (I was enchanted with those milky, fleshy, feverish thighs) and arms. I put on a jazz CD and told her how Mom had learned from me to listen to that sexy song. Now we were —Julia at 18 and me at 43— at 19.
Francisca and I had never again returned to the beach of Santinho, and, surprisingly, almost nothing had changed. The day was beautiful, the sun was strong, the beer was cold and the beach was as deserted as at that time. “Are we going to fall?” she asked, suggesting a dive. “Let’s go”, I replied, excited. She quickly took off her boots and, with some difficulty, her jeans tight, before my eyes wide open by surprise. Then, already standing, he took off his white shirt, letting him see his stiff, uptight breasts —and I would even say turgid — with his lap covered with small, charming freckles. Francisca never liked to wear a bra. Julia was the opposite, but that day she was out.
We got in the cold water. She's wearing silky white panties, with little drools on her waist, and I'm wearing white and silky underwear. Kisses, tongues running through each other, breasts glued to me, my hands straightening on the back, back; hers squeezing my ass, sticking up my underwear. We get out of the water and lie in the sand. In Julia's body, I noticed, surprised, three illustrations, a tribal tattoo on the back of the neck, another in the coccyx region, right at the beginning of the canon between the buttocks, and a flower on the outside of the left cinnamon. “Tattoo has to be in an odd number,” she taught.
Lying in the sand, the afternoon sun illuminating her white body and without bikini marks (Julia does not like beach), I admired and thought how life changes suddenly: the day before yesterday I was 43 years old and at this hour I would be working in my studio; today I am 20 years old and I am here on the beach with my best friend's daughter, about to discharge a passion for the dam mother for years. My left arm passed behind Julia's neck and her hand smoothed the hard titty pointed at the sky.
I kissed, licked and bit the right breast, while with my right hand I tore off —not without some violence the silk panties. “Fuck me!”, she whispered sensually and naively to my ear. I thought about the difficulties I had to be devirginated, the pain I said I felt. But she didn’t seem to even remember it. Because I decided to be very calm and delicate. I laid on top of that healthy, lascivious young body, which, with its legs open, offered itself in a hip shuttle movement.
She tore my underwear off turned me upside down to the towel stretched out in the sand and decided to ride me, fitting my penis into the entrance of the vagina lightly covered in thin furs. He made sure to stick it in slowly, feeling every inch of my dick penetrating his unexplored sex. She squeezed my chest with her legs wide open, knees bent in the sand, exclaiming in my ear: “It’s delicious!”
Julia's body was now moving upwards and downwards, rolling at a deadbeat pace. I felt my own for rubbing on hers. “He loves me with strength that I want to come to you”, she offered. It did not take long and she had a strong, deep orgasm, punctuated by loud groans and fast-paced breathing.
Then he asked me: “Do you eat me on four?” How do you resist that? She turned around and was on all fours, leaning on her elbows, with her cute little ass up. The slope of the sand (we were so close to the water that sometimes wet our feet) left it at the perfect time. Again I tried to shove it slowly, but this time she wouldn't let me. In a sudden motion, he recoiled his hip and swallowed, with his pussy, my dick at once. He turned his face to me and, with his hair disgruntled and full of sand, offered himself, almost sobbing: “Now I am your little bitch. I am your little bitch”.
The sun was already starting to drop on the horizon and I, holding Julia by her hips, stuck her little yawn with violence. She didn't complain. On the contrary, I kept leaning on my elbows, ass leaning towards me, shaking, moving, rubbing. "Fuck that I'm coming at you! Fuck more than I'm coming! More! Like this! Put it all in! I'm coming! ", screamed. "Come on to me, bitch! Come on, angel! Come on, you little bitch! That, roll and come to me, that I will come along with you!”, I answered. “I’m coming and feeling you come at me!”, she replied.
We lay for a while, quietly, both still naked and hugged. I put my belly up, and she's got her head on my left shoulder, face down, with her left leg on my right leg. Our gasping breath denounced the emotion of both. Without a word, she got up, grabbed her panties in the sand and went for a swim.
She swam a little and then stopped standing in front of me. The naked body, wet, with small drops reflected by the sun, the panties hanging on the left hand. "It's getting late, come on?" he asked. I kept lying in the sand, not believing what was happening. "Rise up, softy!"; she lovingly commanded me by the arm. I took a dip, we picked up our clothes and we walked naked and hugged, with our clothes in our hands, towards the car. We left your panties and my underwear hanging from a tree and got dressed.
I looked at Julia. I thought of Francisca. And I felt like a time traveler. And we went out on Citröen, listening to a dead blues, with the voice of Sam Lightning Hopkins.
Suddenly, my heart began to beat fast and images came to mind from twenty-something years ago, when she, the girl, should not have been born, when the only responsibility for me was just to study. The rest was just fun. And that woman, still a teenager, at the counter, at least for me, central figure of that delightful time — not her exactly, but her mother, of whom she was practically a doppelganger. I kept staring at her, admiring her beauty and traveling through that history of youth.
She noticed my stare and was immediately recognized, despite a few pounds more and less hair. With a sweet voice, she asked, “You are Caius Caesar, aren’t you? I am Julia, daughter of Francisca”. And he hugged me. The hug was long, long and sincere. There I was with my young best friend's daughter. Julia is the exact copy of Kika—so we called her—at that age. It's a little over 6'6", silver hair, very light green eyes, almost gray, very white skin and even mother's body at age 20 —all proportional, small breasts, generous hips, fleshy thighs and well-turned legs.
Normally I am a private person, and therefore the shop employees —who attend with a certain attendance — have missed such enthusiasm on my part. But do what? If I had now returned at 18, just in a look through a counter. After the initial impact, we decided to continue the conversation at a nearby bar.
Needless to say, the conversation yielded until the evening, with Julia telling everything about the separation of her parents, the change of her mother to Turin, Italy, where paternal ancestors still live. Around eight o'clock in the evening we said goodbye, because both she and I had family commitments, but not without making lunch for the next day.
I came home with my heart racing and no power, for obvious reasons, commenting on nothing with my wife. From 16 to 24, when I got married, Francisca and I had been very close friends and we saw each other every day. We studied together since the gym, passed science, college and college, when we stopped studying together (I did Marketing, and she, Architecture), but I did not let live friendship. At that time, we often exchanged hugs, kisses, caresses — some even intimate, but never got to bed.
The next day, at the scheduled time, there I was waiting for my friend’s daughter —who, I expected, would become my friend as well. She arrived radiantly, in low-waist jeans, a little white camise that left a beautiful belly showing off, a leather jacket and high-heeled boot. It was amazing how much Julia even looked like her mother in her dress —I must say that the last time I saw her was just a little more than a baby. During lunch, we catch up. I had continued to marry Mila, had two teenage daughters and, between us, had never “jumped around”. Francisca also got married, and early, and twice, it's true. He lived in Rio de Janeiro at the first wedding, and Turin at the second, and two years ago he split up.
The lunch with Julia was light, with the talk spinning about what we were doing in life, memories of youth and their relationships with their mother. It seemed to be the same age, such as our intimacy shortly after we met. Who knows why, the topic of the conversation was directed towards sexuality and Julia told me that, at the age of 18, she was still a virgin, not for the purpose of being home, but for the pains she felt every time she was the target of an attempt at penetration, although the doctors ensured that physiologically she was perfect.
That conversation created a different climate. Every touch of his hands, his arms, it felt like we were getting an electrical discharge. When I mentioned it, she confessed she was feeling the same thing. We remember Santinho’s beach —which she knew as a child —, where we were going, her mother and I, skip school and drink beer on sunny and scorching afternoons.
Around three o'clock in the afternoon, after two bottles of a great cabernet, we decided to meet your mother and mine's youth spot. Like in those days, we just drove in her car, me driving. In the past, it was a blue Chevette; today, a red Citroën, with providential smoke glass. At the first sign, some caresses rolled on the legs (I was enchanted with those milky, fleshy, feverish thighs) and arms. I put on a jazz CD and told her how Mom had learned from me to listen to that sexy song. Now we were —Julia at 18 and me at 43— at 19.
Francisca and I had never again returned to the beach of Santinho, and, surprisingly, almost nothing had changed. The day was beautiful, the sun was strong, the beer was cold and the beach was as deserted as at that time. “Are we going to fall?” she asked, suggesting a dive. “Let’s go”, I replied, excited. She quickly took off her boots and, with some difficulty, her jeans tight, before my eyes wide open by surprise. Then, already standing, he took off his white shirt, letting him see his stiff, uptight breasts —and I would even say turgid — with his lap covered with small, charming freckles. Francisca never liked to wear a bra. Julia was the opposite, but that day she was out.
We got in the cold water. She's wearing silky white panties, with little drools on her waist, and I'm wearing white and silky underwear. Kisses, tongues running through each other, breasts glued to me, my hands straightening on the back, back; hers squeezing my ass, sticking up my underwear. We get out of the water and lie in the sand. In Julia's body, I noticed, surprised, three illustrations, a tribal tattoo on the back of the neck, another in the coccyx region, right at the beginning of the canon between the buttocks, and a flower on the outside of the left cinnamon. “Tattoo has to be in an odd number,” she taught.
Lying in the sand, the afternoon sun illuminating her white body and without bikini marks (Julia does not like beach), I admired and thought how life changes suddenly: the day before yesterday I was 43 years old and at this hour I would be working in my studio; today I am 20 years old and I am here on the beach with my best friend's daughter, about to discharge a passion for the dam mother for years. My left arm passed behind Julia's neck and her hand smoothed the hard titty pointed at the sky.
I kissed, licked and bit the right breast, while with my right hand I tore off —not without some violence the silk panties. “Fuck me!”, she whispered sensually and naively to my ear. I thought about the difficulties I had to be devirginated, the pain I said I felt. But she didn’t seem to even remember it. Because I decided to be very calm and delicate. I laid on top of that healthy, lascivious young body, which, with its legs open, offered itself in a hip shuttle movement.
She tore my underwear off turned me upside down to the towel stretched out in the sand and decided to ride me, fitting my penis into the entrance of the vagina lightly covered in thin furs. He made sure to stick it in slowly, feeling every inch of my dick penetrating his unexplored sex. She squeezed my chest with her legs wide open, knees bent in the sand, exclaiming in my ear: “It’s delicious!”
Julia's body was now moving upwards and downwards, rolling at a deadbeat pace. I felt my own for rubbing on hers. “He loves me with strength that I want to come to you”, she offered. It did not take long and she had a strong, deep orgasm, punctuated by loud groans and fast-paced breathing.
Then he asked me: “Do you eat me on four?” How do you resist that? She turned around and was on all fours, leaning on her elbows, with her cute little ass up. The slope of the sand (we were so close to the water that sometimes wet our feet) left it at the perfect time. Again I tried to shove it slowly, but this time she wouldn't let me. In a sudden motion, he recoiled his hip and swallowed, with his pussy, my dick at once. He turned his face to me and, with his hair disgruntled and full of sand, offered himself, almost sobbing: “Now I am your little bitch. I am your little bitch”.
The sun was already starting to drop on the horizon and I, holding Julia by her hips, stuck her little yawn with violence. She didn't complain. On the contrary, I kept leaning on my elbows, ass leaning towards me, shaking, moving, rubbing. "Fuck that I'm coming at you! Fuck more than I'm coming! More! Like this! Put it all in! I'm coming! ", screamed. "Come on to me, bitch! Come on, angel! Come on, you little bitch! That, roll and come to me, that I will come along with you!”, I answered. “I’m coming and feeling you come at me!”, she replied.
We lay for a while, quietly, both still naked and hugged. I put my belly up, and she's got her head on my left shoulder, face down, with her left leg on my right leg. Our gasping breath denounced the emotion of both. Without a word, she got up, grabbed her panties in the sand and went for a swim.
She swam a little and then stopped standing in front of me. The naked body, wet, with small drops reflected by the sun, the panties hanging on the left hand. "It's getting late, come on?" he asked. I kept lying in the sand, not believing what was happening. "Rise up, softy!"; she lovingly commanded me by the arm. I took a dip, we picked up our clothes and we walked naked and hugged, with our clothes in our hands, towards the car. We left your panties and my underwear hanging from a tree and got dressed.
I looked at Julia. I thought of Francisca. And I felt like a time traveler. And we went out on Citröen, listening to a dead blues, with the voice of Sam Lightning Hopkins.
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