Page 14 of British Daddy to Go
The memory of Sean’s finger inside of me washes over my body. What would it feel like to use my own hand the way Sean had used his?
Quietly, I remove my panties, dress, and bra, leaving myself completely exposed to no one but myself. I scurry under my floral comforter, just in case my parents decide to make an appearance. Though my door is locked, they have a key, and they’re not afraid to use it.
I slowly move my hand back to my slit and feel the wetness there. All of this is from thinking about Sean! I wonder what he’d say if he knew? He’d probably whisper something dirty in my ear, the words sounding out of place with his posh British accent. I can practically hear him and feel his breath against my neck as he pleasures me.
My finger dips inside my waiting hole; the pressure feels incredible. Sean had only used one, but his fingers are each the size of two of mine. I slip my index and middle fingers deep inside my pussy and hold them in that position. It feels almost as good as when Sean was in the same position!
As an experiment, I decide to add a third finger. Oh my goodness! It feels so good. With my other hand, I rub the upper part of my pussy in circles like Sean did.
Within seconds, I’m trembling beneath the comforter as an orgasm takes control of my body.
Someone knocks on my door as I come down from the pleasure. “Maggie, honey, it’s dinner time!”
“Okay, Mom. I’ll be down in just a minute!”
How am I going to sit at the dinner table with my parents after what I just did? It’ll be impossible! They’re going to smell the sin on me, for sure.
I have no choice, though. Even when I’m ill, it’s expected that I join my parents in the kitchen for dinner.
My dress is a crumpled mess on the floor, so I change into new panties, jeans, and an elegant shirt that my mother loves. This is my usual attire at dinner, so they won’t suspect anything. I hope.
Dad eyes me curiously when I sit down in my seat at the table. “Are you okay, Maggie? You look flushed.”
“I’m fine,” I tell him quickly. “Still a bit tired. I’d only managed to change when Mom knocked on the door.”
Does my voice sound almost British? Is it possible that after just an hour with Sean, I’ve adopted his gorgeous accent?
I clear my throat, hoping that clears the accent from my voice.
“You were in your room for thirty minutes!” Dad exclaims. “What were you doing all of that time?”
“I checked my emails and read a few articles about sewing techniques that I can use to improve my work. I couldn’t turn my mind off enough to rest.”
Mom fills my plate with alfredo and settles into the seat across from me. I hadn’t even noticed her scooping food for my father or for herself. My mind is far from this table right now. I’m too stressed about hiding my newfound experimentation from my conservative parents to focus on what’s going on around me.
“You poor thing,” Mom says. “Are you sure I can’t talk to your boss about working you so hard? You’re even working at home!”
I shake my head. “It’s okay, really. The sewing articles were more for my own designs.”
My parents dig into their meals silently, choosing to ignore my statement. They’re supportive of me in a lot of ways, but they don’t want to get my hopes up about being a designer. I’m grateful they’ve allowed me to get a job outside of the family business. Even so, it’s expected that I’ll take over the dry cleaners when my parents decide to retire. This new job is a taste of freedom that I could lose at any moment.
Mom and Dad had me late in life. My father was already thirty-nine when I was born, and my mother was thirty-five. In just a year, my father will technically be at retirement age. I have to savor this taste of the outside world while I can.
“This alfredo is delicious, Mom.”
She beams, clearly glad for the change in subject. “I’m glad you like it! I know it’s your favorite, so I made it to celebrate this special occasion. I have a surprise for you for dessert, too!”
I don’t have the heart to tell Mom that alfredo isn’t my favorite food; it’s hers. I prefer soba noodles. The gesture is so nice that I don’t want to break her heart with that admission. At least the alfredo is actually delicious.
We eat silently until Dad finishes his second helping. I rinse our dishes and load them into the dishwasher while Mom gets out my surprise dessert. She makes me sit down at the table with my eyes closed like it’s my birthday.
“Okay!” she cries right into my ear. “Open them!”
On the table in front of me is a burning pile of merengue and ice cream. Baked Alaska actually is my favorite dessert, but it’s so hard to make that we rarely get to eat it.
“Where’d you get this?” I ask. “It looks incredible!”
“You know that bakery you love down the street from the dry cleaner? I asked them to make it special for you. We really are so proud of you for getting this job.”