Camping with mom

CHAPTER FOUR

Frank's attention was homed in on Karen during dinner that night.

The young girl sat close to Bret, her thigh pressing his, or a hand brushing over his. Her attention belonged solely to Bret. Frank was aware of that fact whether the others were or not. And her father's attention was on her.

But not now as she was seated there, but on the image of her naked body so willingly receiving Bret's young cock.

It was an image that refused to leave Frank's mind. After returning to camp, he had tried to lose it by reading, then by eating, but the vision persisted, haunted him, taunted him. Nothing he could do would shake the tantalizing picture in his mind's eye.

He said little during dinner and even less as he and Mona retired to their tent. While his wife gathered her towel and soap for her nightly bath in the river, he waited. And when she left the tent, he quickly slipped into his pajamas and stretched out his sleeping bag. He didn't try the book again, realizing it wouldn't help.

Damn, he cursed. His daughter was no better than a two-bit street walker and he couldn't get her out of his thoughts. He couldn't bury the tempting vision of her ripe young body just lying there in the grass, thighs opened and ready to take the thick, long, hard length of her step-cousin's prick.

Lust stirred in him, re-awakening in his loins. He felt the throbbing need coursing through his groin. His cock was rising, twitching and jerking with desire – desire for his own daughter – a desire he could never fulfill – a desire that was forbidden to him.

Damn!

He was a haunted man. His carnal lusts had betrayed him. All his life, he had lived as he had been taught by his parents. They had been strict, but they had shown him the path of right. It was a path he had treaded all his life – until now. Now there was Karen, his own daughter, a temptation that rocked his very soul.

The tent opened and Mona stepped in. He looked up. His eyes scanned her body hungrily, realizing that he hoped she was in the mood as she had been last night. But his wife wore a nightgown beneath her robe.

"The water was nice," Mona said, slipping off her robe and moving to her sleeping bag. "You should really try it with me one night, Frank."

"Mona…" His throat was dry, his words sticking in his throat.

"Yes," Mona turned to him.

"Mona, I…" He wanted to say he wanted her, wanted to fuck her, but he couldn't. "Mona, I'm in the mood."

She glanced away. "Frank, we've got to talk. We've got to work out…"

"Mona, I'm in the mood," he repeated. "We can talk later."

"No, Frank! We've got to talk now."

He didn't listen to her. Instead he moved to her sleeping bag. "I'm your husband!"

"And I'm your wife," she said. "Doesn't that mean anything? I'm more than just a hole for you to put your prick in when the mood strikes you. I'm a person, a human being, a woman who feels! Until we get our problems worked out…"

"I'm your husband!" He glared at her, reaching out and pinning her shoulders to the ground. "And I demand a husband's right with his wife!"

"No, Frank! I don't want to, not now."

She struggled to get away from him, but she was a small woman. He held her there without effort.

"I'm your husband. You owe me this, it's mine!"

"It'll be rape." Mona stared up at him. "Is that the way you want your wife?"

"A husband can't rape his wife. She's his and her body is his!"

"Is that what you believe? Is that what you really think?"

"Yes," his voice was low and deep, like the growl of an animal. "And I'm going to get what's mine!"

Suddenly, she went limp beneath him, tears welling in her eyes. "All right, Frank. If that's the way you want it."

Then she was silent, staring up to the roof of the tent, her eyes never turning to him. He didn't care. All she had to do was just lie there.

Reaching down, he hiked her nightgown up around her waist bunching it there. She was naked beneath it. The muff covering her cunt was shining black, the pink lips of her sex under the furry covering. It wasn't the soft, light brown moss of Karen's pussy, but it would serve to relieve the burning fires of his groin.

He fumbled with the fly of his pajamas. The hardened length of his prick sprung out, jerking in the air. Gripping the blood-engorged shaft, he lowered himself atop his wife's body. She didn't move, but just lay there completely still.

In the next instant, he pressed the glans of his rod against the lips of her cunt. His hips jerked, knifing his lance into the socket of her belly. Mona cried out under the brutal entry, then she was silent again.

She felt different to him. The warmth and moisture he was accustomed to finding within her body were missing. She was dry. He didn't care. He hunched into her, drilling his rigid shaft into the depths of her cunt.

His testicles were burning. Fire consumed his loins. He took his wife, fucking her while in his mind he ravaged the body of his teenage daughter. Harder and harder he pumped himself into the furrow of his wife's sex, until at last he found the release of his lust.

Hot and thick, sperm and semen gushed from his balls. He emptied himself into the motionless socket of her cunt. Blast after blast of sexual cream fountained from the end of his prick, filling Mona's pussy with his seed, filling her as he wanted to drain his lust into Karen's tight, pink-lipped twat.

He shuddered and moaned under the fiery force of his release. Then he lay there atop the limp body of his wife, sated. When at last his cock deflated, he lifted himself from the woman under him and moved back to his sleeping bag.

Without a glance back to the woman he left there, gown still crumpled around her waist, he pulled the top of the sleeping bag over him and rolled over. Frank Stivers was asleep within minutes.