My daughter, Madison, splayed dramatically across the dining room table, without removing her backpack first. I bit back a sigh and looked up from my laptop. Putting her head down on the table and pretending to be dead was not a new occurrence— becoming a teenager empowered my daughter with preternatural levels of melodrama, and the wife and I had grown accustomed to it by now— but today she didn’t even bother to sit down first. So she stood, doubled over, arms out and face pressed against the table, with her backside stretching out her black leggings. Genes and a love of track and field were giving the material a major work out. At a glance, the seams of her underwear were easy to see and maybe a print, too, through the spandex. Hell, a passerby could have seen the outline of her crotch molded into the apple-skin tight material.

Leggings are not clothes.

I had only had one rule when gym clothes became common and popular, when my wife and daughter started filling their closets with stuff from Lululemon: Leggings are not clothes. My rule lasted for about a week, until the wife started wearing them to the grocery store. And if mom can do it…well… there is no stopping progress.

I closed my laptop, set it aside and extracted myself from the couch.

“Bad day at school, Maddie?” I asked, walking around the dining room to her. She turned her head to one side, so she could see me.

“The worst. Mrs. Frasier is doing pop quizzes, now.” With monumental effort she lifted her flat-ironed dirty blonde head out of the table’s gravitational pull and rested her chin on her hands, with a pout. My daughter has a round, babyish face and light, warm brown eyes that seemed genetically designed to make her pouting look adorable. She was not in an adorable mood, though.

“I hate algebra. I don’t get it,” she confessed, with a sigh. I sat down on the bench seats of the table, nodding. She squished her lips to one side, wrinking her nose.

“Ahh,” I said, patting the seat beside me. Apart from the leggings, she’d worn a crop-top pullover sweatshirt, with the neck cut out, so it regularly fell off one shoulder or the other, exposing the sports bra she wore underneath. The sports bra completely flattened her out and left nothing for the sweatshirt to hang onto if, and when it lost its grip on her shoulders. With a huff, she shrugged out of her backpack and flopped onto the bench beside me.

“I know what you’re gonna say but I am doing the homework, and studying, but it’s just not sticking.” I patted her thigh, with a wry smile.

“Maddie, honey, it’ll be fine.” She tried to protest, but I wrapped an arm around her waist and gave her bare midriff a squeeze. “I promise. Get your work out, I’ll show you a trick.”

With another little pout, more for show than anything, she leaned over and rummaged through her bag. The dimples on her lower back appeared, as she leaned. She was built like her mother, with a small chest, even when she wasn’t wearing a sports bra, narrow waist, and a round butt. Short too, at 5’1”, and probably done growing.

Madison spread her textbook and notebook, graphing calculator and some pencils out on the table. When she started pulling out homework sheets, I stopped her.

“Let’s start with the book, first. Get to the first part that you don’t get, and we’ll start there.” She obeyed, and I continued. “Ok, so this is a study trick I learned, back when I was going through school. First, lets read the instructions they give us out loud.”

Adjusting in her seat— feet wide, knees together— she began to read aloud. I rested my hand on her thigh.

While she read the explanations of quadratics, I would give her thigh a gentle squeeze, every time she came to an important process or concept. It was subtle, but deliberate. She looked at me with a raised eyebrow, the first time. I nodded with a slight smile, and pointed towards the text with my forehead.

Math is not my subject, but I’m a smart guy and I know how to identify the important details in a list of instructions. The section was long, but we got through it.

“Great job!” I said, cheerfully, as she finished the description. I patted her thigh, and planted a kiss on the top of her head. “Now, ok, I want you to do your best to translate everything we just read, into your own words for me.” My daughter’s brow furrowed as she looked back to the first line.

“But I—” she started and I cut her off, with a pat on her thigh.

“I’ll be fine.” I left my hand resting on her leg, and she started.

It was slow, at first, but as she struggled to remember a key detail or instruction, I gave her another gentle squeeze on her thigh. By the end, she was excitedly explaining how the equations worked as if she was gossiping with one of her little girlfriends and her knees were bouncing opened and closed with nervous energy. In the movement, I wasn’t squeezing her thigh, there was no point, but my hand slid down between her legs to be crushed between her thighs as she bounced in her chair.

She blew out a happy sigh, as she finished her explanation.

“Whoa.” She smiled up at me. “I…I think I kinda get this, now.” Her knees were locked together, squeezing my hand.

“Feels good, huh?” I laughed, gripping her inner thigh, briefly.”

“Yeah!” She looked back at her textbook, amazed.

“Lets work on some problems, now,” I suggested, and she gleefully pulled out her algebra worksheets.

As we began, I had her start with the practice problems and, again, I gave her inner thigh a gentle squeeze at each key point. She was still excited, but she was engrossed in the work now. Her knees stayed clenched, but I could feel her leg muscles tighten and relax to squeeze my hand. And I could feel her skin getting warmer. My hand was beginning to sweat which, squeezed between spandex-coated thighs, meant it began to slide a little with each flexing of my daughter’s leg muscles.

The house rumbled slightly, a sure sign the garage door was lifting. I gave Madison’s leg a firmer squeeze. Almost like waking from a trance, she blinked looked around, and let her thighs relax enough for me to slide my hand free. I gave her another side-hug and kissed her on the temple.

“You see, nothing to worry about.” I tapped her on the thigh, just as the door to the garage cracked open from the far side of the kitchen.

“Heeeey!” my wife called from the door.

“Hey mom!”

“Hi, Honey,” I said, “what took so long?”

“Got groceries on the way home. Give me a hand?”

I gave Maddie’s bare midriff another little squeeze, and headed out to help the wife.

Alice, my wife, is thirty-seven, but I swear she’s part elf. The santa-kind, not the Lord of the Rings kind. She’s 5’3, skinny, pert little ass and perky b-cup breasts. They went up to C’s while she was pregnant, but that just proved to me how much I love her itty-bitties. Natural brunette with a bit of a curl in her hair that tends to frizz if she’s not straightening it. She’s a bit of a freak, when she wants to be, but you’d never known unless you catch her giving me one of her wicked, knowing smiles. She’s also a doctor.

In practical terms, this means one or two nights a week, she works the “shit shift”, 12am to 12pm. Usually on those days, she’s at home and asleep before Madison gets home from school, and it’s become our default day for sex.

Not that we don’t fool around other times, but it’s a lot less than it used to be.

As I walked out to the land rover, I found her already leaning into the back.

“Fucking bagger didn’t tie off the fucking cans,” she growled at me, as if I run the grocery bagger’s training program. As she dug around the trunk for canned goods, her ass was sticking out, stretching her rose-colored medical scrubs to their limit I saddled up behind her, leaning against her firm backside.

“You’ve got a dirty mouth, this afternoon, Doctor Marshall.”

“Never bothered you before,” she snapped back. Her voice was not in the mood, but her hips started to push back against my rapidly hardening dick.

“Who says I’m bothered?”

In one, smooth, motion, she bent, straightened and bent her legs again, running her ass along the length of my dick.

“Well, I’m a motherfucking medical professional. You can trust me.”

With a chuckle, I pulled her hips hard against me, grinding the bulge in my jeans against where years of experimentation told me it would graze her pussy from behind. Alice bit back a squeaking giggle.

“Mike… the garage door is still open. Someone might see.”

“And…”

“And,” now her voice dropped to a harsh whisper, “I’m on the fucking PTA. Last thing I need is Susan hearing that some jackass saw us fucking in the drive way.”

I knew that sound. My wife could be a dirty whore, but it was always going to be on her terms. I gave her one last thrust, just to remind her I could have just made her, if I wanted, then switched to helping lift the bags out of the car. It took us both two trips, despite my best efforts to be the king of grocery transportation, and we both ended up in the garage when it was over. Alice smiled, wickedly, as soon as the garage door closed.

“Whip out your cock and tell me about your day.”

Before I could argue, she’d removed her scrubs top, and was pulling at the fitted t-shirt she was wearing underneath. I fumbled with the buttons on my jeans, and pulled my dick out.

I’m nothing special. Six and a half inches, with a solid, meaty thickness. I’m not particularly hairy, in general, but the wife likes me shaved, so I shave. I try to keep in shape, and I think I’ve managed to avoid the “dad bod” thing, for the time being. I found a grey hair a few weeks back, and I’m still kind of pissed about it.

Alice was rubbing her nipples as she sank down to her knees in front of me.

“Talk, Mike.”

My wife is kind of an asshole. She knows I can barely put two words together while she’s sucking my dick, so she also knows I won’t actually talk very much about my day. She knows she’s supposed to care how my day went, but sometimes she just doesn’t. This way, she gets to avoid “small talk bullshit”, and I get head. Not complaining, just an observation.

I looked down. My dick was twitching with anticipation, and Alice positioned her lips so that each twitch would bounce off of them. She looked up at me, and pouted.

Madison is the sort of girl who you want to just cuddle and squeeze to death when she pouts. My wife is the sort of woman you know is full of shit, when she pouts, the sort of woman you just want to skull-fuck when she does it.

So, I grabbed her by her auburn ponytail, and started telling her about my day.

Which wasn’t much, really. I spoke with a few clients, set up a meeting for next week, and scheduled some in-office time for later this week. All of which I told my wife, in between “fuck, bitch” and ‘you naughty little whore.” Alice is a tease, but she knew there wasn’t time for me to reciprocate here in the garage, so she gagging down my dick like she was on contract.

I was almost there, when I mentioned Madison’s school work.

“—So I was showing her our study strategy, from college. That tactile memorization thing.” Alice stopped, which for my wife meant one last long suck off my dick, and looked up at me, from the floor.

“I seem to remember those study sessions getting a little R-rated,” she said, smiling wickedly. I couldn’t hold off, I was going to cum, and my hand instinctively moved to pinch it off. Alice’s hand whipped out like a cobra, and pinned my hands to the car. They were burning warm, soft and sweaty. Like Maddie’s crotch had been. She was so close, her breath was hot and moist on my aching dick.

I came, hard. Cum splashed across Alice’s cheek, her open mouth, then on her lower lip and chin. She looked up at me as she swallowed. My cum dripped from her chin down to her chest.

“Yeah,” she said, wicked grin wide on her lips, “Something like that.”

I gasped and nodded, leaning back to rest my head against the car. When I looked down at my wife again, she was collecting and eating my cum from her chest.”

“I guess I should start calling you daddy, now, eh?” she chuckled.

“Hmm?” I wasn’t really forming reasonable thoughts at the moment. Instead I cupped her cheek, collecting cum from her face with my thumb and guiding it into her mouth. She sucked it clean, even as she milked the last, sticky fluid from my softening dick.

“Well, since your all hot for your daughter now…”

“Perv!” I hissed, with a low chuckle. She just laughed, and stood.

“Oh fuck off.” She leaned into me, pressing against my chest. “I seem to remember your tutoring really helping me through med school, Mr. Marshall. But it really made me want to fuck you, all the time, too.”

“Yeah, because you were my girlfriend, and I’m awesome.”

Alice lifted onto her tiptoes and kissed me on the corner of my mouth.

“That… and something else. The mix of it all, it was like programming. A big fucking “on” switch and I couldn’t have stopped it, if I tried. And I really didn’t want it to stop.”

I looked between my little wife’s eyes, her flushed cheeks, her nipples still hard, and her hand conspicuously inside the waistband of her scrub pants.

“So….” I wasn’t exactly sure where she was going. Was she upset? Concerned? She seemed turned on, but given the day and the present situation, it wasn’t that strange. Alice bit her lip.

“So, what are you going to do, if it happens to Maddie.”

I snorted.

“I don’t know. Nothing. It won’t. It’s a non-issue… and if it isn’t. We’ll figure it out when we get there.”

I helped Alice get dressed, and to look a little less flustered, before we walked back inside to put the groceries away. I stole a glance through the living room, to the dining room. Madison was there, working furiously on homework. Her legs were squeezed tight together.

And her hand was crushed tightly between them.