l Want To Fuck My Daddy
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Airtime free porn video
Airtime
By Rosie
The opening credits roll by and my mother appears on the screen. She's
wearing a shiny, lime green jacket.
"Is that satin?" I whisper to my father, not wanting to drown the sound
of the television.
The seams on it are very stiff, making it look almost as if the
shoulders are padded, and although the neckline is quite high, her
breast are accentuated by darts that run all the way down until they
disappear in a black patent leather waist. Below the waist, the jacket
flares out in an almost obscenely large peplum. The matching skirt, by
contrast, is almost boring. It simply runs down in a straight line until
it ends just below her knees.
The camera zooms in, accentuating the details of the fabric.
"Yes, it's definitely satin," I say in disbelief, and my father raises
the volume. The camera also accentuates the details of my mother's face.
Despite the masterful touch of the makeup artist, the teeth of time have
left their traces. The skin on her neck is no longer taut, there are
tiny wrinkles around her eyes, and the lines around her mouth make her
cheeks stand out like pouches. She looks strict and severe, even with
her blonde hair framing her face and ornamenting the shiny green
shoulder. Yet somehow, she radiates an air of warmth. And her outfit
with the almost embarrassingly effete peplum, and bright green
shininess, does not so much clash with the look of the dignified lady as
much as adds to the warmness she projects on the screen.
"It's not satin," my father whispers in response. "Brushed cotton, more
likely."
For a split second, my eyes meet his. Then, we turn back to the screen,
shaking our heads in disbelief that so much unwarranted kindness is
radiated by the same woman who rules our lives with an iron fist.
Ever since she has begun her broadcasting career, my mother's contracts
have always specified that the clothes she wears on camera become her
private property. During her years as a newscaster, she'd bring home the
clothes that would get phased out of rotation every once in a while.
Ever since she started hosting her own show, she has brought home the
full outfit each time. In a way, that was to be expected. As a
newscaster, the majority of her clothes were mix and match items that
could make up different outfits. With her new show, her clothes soon
became much more flamboyant, much more noticeable, so that she simply
couldn't dress twice in the same clothes. And while they had less use in
the daytime than the inconspicuous business-like clothes from her
newscaster days, she certainly had no reason to leave them in the
network's wardrobe. My mother has taken good care of her body, but
still, the time goes only forward, and she certainly didn't want the
same outfits worn on camera, in different shows, by other, younger,
sleeker, taller or bustier women.
There is another reason why my mother insists on bringing home her
clothes, however, which is why my father and I are so interested in
them. It is because we know that one of us will be wearing them
tomorrow, when we attend the weekly tea party of her social club.
Usually, that honor used to be bestowed upon my father whose closet is
where my mother's clothes have been ending up since her newscaster days,
but since four months ago, it is an even chance that I will have to put
them on.
Ever since I can remember, my mother has been making my father put on
her clothes. While it was clear that he didn't really enjoy it, and that
it caused him a great deal of embarrassment, he pretended that he was
going along with it on his own volition, rather than risking a
confrontation with my mother. From time to time, he did try to talk his
way out of it, but he always backed down before his pleads could develop
in a serious argument with my mother. Instead, he'd puff theatrically,
"Oh, all right", as if to say the thing he puts up with for the woman he
loves, and then he'd emerge from their bedroom minutes later, dressed
from the skin up in my mother's clothes. "Just a bit of fun," he'd say,
although there was probably nothing fun about cleaning the house in a
tight dress and high heeled shoes.
Looking back, I guess he was avoiding an open confrontation with my
mother because he knew that she'd have her way in the end. Eventually,
my mother managed to force him to rebel against her. The breaking point
came when my mother brought home a ball gown had worn at an awards
ceremony and told him to wear it for his birthday party. As outrageous
as her demand was, my father's resistance was an even bigger surprise to
everybody. This had infuriated my mother so much that she staged an
impromptu, but nonetheless formal feat-of-strength, with both of my
grandmothers as referees. Not wanting to fight, my father hid in their
bedroom. My mother was adamant - when he came out she'd fight him
whether he fought back or not. The only way she'd leave him alone was if
he came out wearing the gown. After a brief intervention by my two
grandmothers, my father put on the gown and formally accepted that from
then on, he would wear what my mother wanted, when she wanted and where
she wanted.
On the screen, my mother walks across the studio to welcome her first
guest. From the side, the tailored jacket nicely accentuates her slim
figure. The same slim figure that has caused my father so much grief.
Unlike her, my father's metabolism is much more prone to putting on
weight, and she does get more exercise than him. To make sure he
continues to fit in her clothes, she has him keep a very strict diet.
"Isn't that great? I can eat just about anything and not gain a single
ounce," she'd often tease him, wolfing down steaks, potatoes and deserts
while my father nibbled on a salad.
He keeps his hope alive that with age, she'll eventually start gaining
weight which will allow him to eat a bit more as well, but so far, she
has managed to keep her figure.
She walks across the studio coquettishly, the flared hem of her jacket
dancing under the bright lights with her every step. Is it my
imagination, or does she does that on purpose? Is she taunting us with
the overly feminine detail of her outfit that tomorrow will serve to
even deepen the embarrassment of one of us?
Unlike my father, I was allowed to live as a boy, and, except for the
dresses I had to wear to frankly not very frequent formal visits of my
maternal grandmother, I was free to wear whatever I wanted. Yet I never
felt quite free and my father's fate was a constant reminder that kept
me in line, well into my early adulthood. It wasn't until college when I
moved away from home that I gained independence from my mother. Sadly,
that only lasted one semester.
When she learned about my failing grades, it was decided that I'd stay
home until she was convinced that I had the determination to finish
college. Three days later, I was having tea at my mother's club while
the other members couldn't agree which one of us was more embarrassed -
my father, who for the first time in years had to wear a dress he'd worn
before, or me, wearing my mother's on-screen outfit that should be
rightfully belong to my father.
It is during the first commercial break that we allow ourselves to take
our eyes away from the screen. My father gets up and paces nervously
around the living room. He is wearing the dress my mother wore last
week, a knee length, straight skirted creation made of mocha-colored
sating, with a black lace overlay that just about covers his breasts,
and leaves the dress above them bare. He has pulled his hair in a tight
bun at the back of his head, just like my mother wore last week. His
breasts, which I can't help but to admire how they push forward the
bodice of his dress, are part hormones, part implants. Mine are silicone
breast forms that feel both alien and disturbingly natural bouncing
around in my bra.
I keep looking at my father and I simply can't help but to wonder how it
must feel like, to have them under your skin, a part of your body. How
does it feel like when you don't have to worry about buttoning your
blouse all the way up, or to wear a low-cut top. But then I look down at
my own and I can't help but to admire the dance of the light, reflecting
from the bright red satin of my dress with every breath I take.
The commercials are over and the screen again fills up with that sleek,
shiny lime green fabric.
"Are you sure it's not satin?" I ask my father, but he just shushes me
into silence.
"I sure hope it's satin," I mutter for the last time until the end of
the show.
The End
Mei
- 16.04.2020
- 28
- 0
