It’s peculiar, the life of a single father that is. I learned long ago that it is not what I want that I get, but those things that no one believes one can get. To the point, sexual intercourse as a single parent to two sets of twins. I was put in a situation that no one parent should live. My wife, of just four years, took her belongings shortly after our last set of twins were born and left us. The note read, “I never wanted this. I did it for you.” I suppose that’s love; giving just because it makes the partner happy. She gave me a family, then left us sort of… strung.
I understood her, didn’t really; still I expected a fulfillment to her vows, but after three years of absence, I sort of gave up the hope. Here is where things get interesting. Her departure directly affected “me” time, there isn’t any. What once was a two hour slot on Saturday mornings of “me” time, was filled up by the little ones’ desires. To somewhat regain that departed time slot, the girls came up with, what I fear, a losing arrangement for me. Yes, I said girls. Four of them, and twins. Gosh, I began to lose my hair so it had to be cut, all of it, all of is gone; I’m bald not because I want to, either. So, what do the two more talkative set of twins choose as an arrangement? Playground time, they want to spend more time at the playground. According to them, I can sit at a bench and “watch” them play thereby, gaining alone time. As if it really worked that way.
Now, tracking one child at the playground is most difficult, multiply that by four and that equals to about thirty or forty kids. The relationship is not linear, believe me when I tell you; four kids is like being in charge of the world population. Back to the agreement; such task requires some sort of military style strategic approach. I mapped out the playground, identified problem areas, exits, and proper viewing areas… then, I was ready to take them to our very first playground date as a family for the summer of 2013.
Aw, the dawn of summer. We are graced with one of them late spring, early summer northeastern United States type of days where its perfectly hot, just as it is perfectly cool. Couldn’t have been more the 77 degrees in direct sunlight, and no less than 72 in the shade. The climate meant that I had to be more vigilant than anticipated as there would be more traffic running around the park, there would be irreversibly more parents interrupting my “stake-out”.
For a parent of four “velo-ciferous” girls, weather is essential. I can’t be a sweaty mess just two seconds into the day. There is still an entire day ahead of us for that. So, the day was heavenly. We are out of the house by ten AM. The plan is to arrive at the park at 10:30, play for a couple of hours, find a nice spot for a picnic, let them loose on the park again and hope that they are so tired that after a shower, they can be asleep by 7PM. Consequently I gain “me” time to look at inappropriate websites, massage my anatomy a whole lot — the most action I’ve gotten in… oh, I’d rather not say.
We are at the park, the youngest set of twins play by the toddler area, while the elder set head toward the “big” kids area. I keep my head in a swivel trying not to lose sight of my kids. It’s a tiring job, more so than a marathon run. As my head is in the swivel, please understand, it was an unintentional observation, I get to see how many of these moms walk around with their splendor hugging their leggings brutally tight, telling single parents like me who haven’t had fulfillment in many-a-month, come look at me, fantasize about me, I’m here for you, just dare come get it. At “normal-height” adult crotch level, where kids the age of mine are in height, nothing else could have come about.
The beloved sight is that some of these mothers, more so those wearing jeans, appear so well crafted, so nicely created that when they tug upwards at the waist of the jeans to prevent them from falling off, I get slapped on the face with works of art. It’s as if they needed to choke themselves hard enough to engage the imaginary lock down the middle of the crotch to maintain equilibrium. After a while I began to think that it was just made for me. There were no other men there, I was the only parent surrounded by mothers; easy and egotistical… perfectly normal reasoning, I think.
A few of them caught my attention. Nearly all of them did, honestly. Why wouldn’t it be so. There was so much delight to want to order that I spent more than half my time debating as to which would most perfectly mold to my lips. I must have not been as inconspicuous as I wanted to be. After about an hour of being at the playground, this delightful young mother sat next to me. She wore yellow leggings, a body-tight tank-top reaching down to her belly button. She strikes a conversation with me. The norm for parents is to first introduce their children as they run by. This woman had two. Two kids and she looked like a teenage girl with her flat stomach and perky bosom.
I introduced my four, told her some about me. As did she. As luck had it, she’s recently married, her second marriage in fact. The kids are from her first. Her hubby is some well-off entrepreneur, whose success leaves her with desirable amounts of time to craft her physique. I haven’t worked out on my body in a few years. I might watch what I eat, but I’m not exactly the physique to lust these days of washboard abs and shapely quads everywhere.
After the formalities she says that she’s been watching me since I got there; that being the only male has the mothers in revolt. Gossiping as to why I am there with four kids without speaking to anyone. Well, during her interchange of “nosy-ness” with the other mothers, she happens to notice that I did not really elevate my eyes from about three feet off the floor. Then, she figured out why. I looked at her trying to be smooth until she asked that I look down at her crotch. I looked around, chuckled, said “You noticed that!”, and went on to explain my situation.
“No need to apologize. I can imagine how you feel.” If you need to look around, please be my guest. There are more than a few mothers here who’d like you to see more than just the outline of their will. “Is that so”, I replied. As she’s telling me this, she scoots forward on the bench while leaning her back against the backrest.
“You can look around or concentrate on something closer.” She nods my attention towards her crotch. I look down and the yellow tights are pressed tightly against it. I imagine the leggings have pulled forward by the pressure of her weight against the bench-seat forcing the front to display the force by which the the fabric was being pulled back. For the size of that woman, she had more than mothers twice her stature. It was an uplifting experience, seeing her so vulnerably voluptuous. I would have not gotten aroused had this pair of tights not been the type that when stretched, they become sheer showing what is right underneath. She wore… absolutely nothing. She didn’t need any undergarment, there was nothing undesirable to cover down there; and, I was the recipient of an up close and almost personal view. I could see she was nicely groomed. She looked fresh out of the bathtub if I had my say.
When she stood up from the bench, there was no time to adjust anything. She left the tights stuck down her crotch and up her bottom. The view from the rear was as stimulating as the front. I can already see her standing in the nude with her legs slightly separated giving plenty of obstacle-free view of her package. I wondered if she were one of these women that when cold, the hair follicles stand erect. Oh, I lust for a view of that, yes, I thought it to myself, ass.
She walked over to her friends, turned around, and readjusted her pants, sending me the wickedest smile this side of malice. I could read her lips: “this kitty wants to play”.
Now, I was never smooth with the opposite gender. So after such a long time without a woman, I can’t possibly have improved any. So, I sat there lost for a course of action. I didn’t even noticed that one my girls had fallen off the slide and was bleeding at the knee. I rushed over, cleaned her up, and decided it’s time for the picnic. If I can’t get to eat that mom in the yellow shorts, I might as well savor some fruits and sandwich. We had quite the good lunch. My girls made me forget about yellow pants, and meaty endeavors. I welcomed the change, had I remained thinking on her, I would have most certainly released unwanted results right then and there in my pants.
For the remainder of my time at the park, she flirted from a distance. Stroke arousing poses just to call my attention, positioned mothers just so that I could peek at their secrets. It was a great day of play time for me. I spent it aroused. When it was time to leave, I collected my young-lings, grabbed our things and headed towards the vehicle. Before I got to the exit, she calls me, walks over and hands me a piece of paper with a screen name on it. She tells me that I dropped it back there. That it seems to be a clue, that all that’s required of me is to be on-line at around 8PM; oh, and that the messenger client must also be found. If I do find it, then there will be no yellow on the other side.
She left it at that. “It’s up to you. Eight O’Clock, remember.” My girls asked what she was talking about, and what she handed me. I memorized her screen name, and discarded the piece of paper. I told the girls that it was nothing, a piece of paper I didn’t need. On the ride home, we stopped to have diner. Burgers and shakes for the little angels that don’t care to eat much of anything these days. We reached the house at 5PM. Enough time to bathe them, watch their favorite movie, read Harry Potter, and out by 8 O’clock; I hoped.
That they did. My four ones were down by 7:45 PM leaving me enough time to search around the world wide web for her screen name. By 8:05 PM I had found the correct messenger client to use; very same one I use. I’m a little slow at times. I add her to my list of contacts, and bang, her availability light is green. I ping her: “Hello from the playground.” It takes her some few minutes to respond. I’m thinking that my tardiness has been costly. I decide to get up and get into my PJs: tight briefs, and because I might encounter her, a shirt; otherwise, it would have been just the briefs. Amidst changing I hear the “incoming ping” audio notification. I double up to my laptop and see it’s her requesting a video chat; of course I accept!
She’s laying face down on a bed. Waves hello and asks what I thought about the playground. I replied that I didn’t really get a chance to think much about it, that it was all consumed by bodily reactions.
“Are those reactions presently the same? Stand up, show me.”
I’m far too shy, but knowing that distance separates us and we are just a click away from canceling the conference, I stand up, wrap the briefs around my aroused emotion and show her the reaction of what she’s done to me.
“You are a big boy, mister, aren’t you. I want to see more where that came from.”
Now, I’m no dummy. I didn’t get through grade school for nothing. This is my chance to reach some sort of agreement. We go back and forth debating a fair trade. I say that because she’s got quite a few more parts that engage consciousness than I do, that she should have the final say. The woman, for God’s sake, wants to see my buttocks, and thighs. So, I’m obliged. I turn sideways, draw my shorts down to my knees while using my right hand to cover what I can of little me, and show her my thighs and buttocks.
“Yippee, you’re a cyclist, aren’t you?” She asks.
“That deserves, hm, let me think. That you see, well, I’ll show you my chest, maybe even down to my navel”, She says.
She’s a “C” cup, in my infinite wisdom of women’s size, I gather she’s a 32-C. Perfection trapped in a chest. She’s full, perky, and by good, I release my hand covering me, and I pop out in full display. She disappears for a second to turn the lights in the room on and better situate her laptop. She stands in front of the camera and, God shows no mercy! She doesn’t have a six pack, but if a flawless figure was ever created, that woman had it.
“Where is hubby?”, I nervously blurted out.
“He just had his tongue right down here”, touching herself and putting it in her mouth. “But, he’s gone to work now. Why do you ask about him? He’s gone and I want to play.”
I leaned back and did what any decent man would have. I put both my feet up on the desk and began to stroke.
“Ooh, and here I thought I had to give you more of an incentive to let me see that much. But, it would be better if that hand was my hand. I could even use my lips and you could”, pointing the camera to a tattoo off of her left hip, “suck me a little.”
She adjusted the camera to where I could see her crotch. She had enough cushioning there to withstand the thrust of numerous ravaging men. Whatever the yellow tights showed, was exactly what was present: a meaty feast as a treat.
I apologized to her for the short “date”. I had to close the video call and run. One of the girls awakened crying and needed comforting. I slapped my shorts on, ran into the bathroom, washed my hands, and called on my fatherly duties. It took some twenty minutes, but when I returned to my room there was another video-chat notification awaiting response. I opened it, and it was her. She was nude again asking me to see me climax, that she enjoys the view of a man spewing about.
I think to myself that this is the most action I’m going to get in the near future. So I again pull out of my shorts. But instead of removing the shorts, I pull it out the bottom. I’m look up at the screen, she’s position her buttocks towards me, legs spread out, while looking through a mirror back at me stroking gently. She shakes her buttocks, and massages herself. I can see details I haven’t seen for quite some time. And the size of her persona sticking out between her legs isn’t leaving room for imagination. She’s chunky and imagine plush to the touch, that had I my way with her, my mouth would wrap around her to suck and lick until, even my nose, became covered in her secretions.
I finished all over my shorts. Moaning and grunting, telling her that I wanted to come to the park, take her in a private area and leave what I’ve left on my shorts, stuck between her legs. She turns around, tells me to wait, and sends me a picture of her face down on the bed, leg flat, spread to the side and she is covered in semen, some of it on the bed, some of it on her thighs.
“Was that what you had in mind?”, she asked.
We chatted for a while longer, the entire time I stroked as if looking to climax again. She agreed to be naughty if I dare find a babysitter to come smell her scent and eat from her dish. The date was set, now all I needed was a sitter, because the will I had. I had an arousal expecting to wage a battle that it willingly wanted to lose.
And here it is said that the playground is kids play. Nonsense, nonsense…