My Father's Second Wife

Story Info
Aimless girl finds a place in her father's life.
18.7k words
4.62
186.5k
242

Part 1 of the 4 part series

Updated 09/22/2022
Created 12/10/2012
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This is a work of fiction. It isn't fantasy, but it is fantastic. It is not a short read, so those seeking instant gratification might be better served elsewhere. Enjoy.

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I pressed my face against the door. Cold waves of sweat danced across my skin. I'd had too much to drink, again—way too much. But hey, how many times do you turn 21? In my case, this was the third time I'd celebrated my coming of age with a night of partying. Or maybe this was the fourth? Whatever.

I just needed to catch my breath and let the pounding in my head subside. The wood of the front door felt cool on my cheek. My father certainly loved his wood; the double-entendre made me laugh, which immediately sent a fresh wave of pain through my skull. Shit. "Just breath," I said out loud. If I could just make it to my room, I might survive this.

I had plenty of time to sleep this one off; partying started early today. I hooked up with Derrick in the middle of the afternoon. Derrick was my current partner in crime, and occasional fuck-buddy. We were already on our fourth round of drinks when Derrick's rotating posse of glassy-eyed party animals showed up. By the time we stumbled out of the second club, I was good and truly ripped. And it was only 9:30. Early by my standards, but when you're cooked you're cooked, so I called it a night.

I had almost found a lull in the pain and the nausea long enough to attempt the next leg of my journey when the floor fell away. Correction, the wall fell away. No, the door I was leaning against opened. I didn't have a firm grasp on the whole "vertical vs. horizontal" thing at the moment.

I instinctively tried to take a step to catch myself, but that only served to propel me further into the entryway. I came to rest on my back, limbs at odd angles. The light above me was glaring. I turned my head so my cheek was against the floor. "Is this oak or maple?" I thought to myself, examining the inlaid wood that had so recently come into view. There's so much fucking wood in this house, you'd need a botanist to identify it all.

Instead of focusing on the floor, I probably should have been focused on the five people standing over me: three distinguished gentlemen in conservatively tailored suites, accompanied by two elegantly dressed ladies. I should have recognized that my father occupied one of those suits. I should have been concerned that my already disheveled hairdo had become unraveled, that one of my favorite "fuck me" stilettos had lost a strap in the fall, and that my shamefully short pink party dress had ridden up and was now well above my waist.

What should have been at the very top of my list of concerns was my traffic-sign yellow G-string with the words "slippery when wet" across the crotch, which was now clearly visible to all present. That thong was intended for Derrick, but he got too plastered to do anything about it.

No, I wasn't concerned about any of those things. My inebriated brain was actually worried that it would look bad for a professional party girl, such as myself, to be found sneaking into the house at the outrageously early hour of 9:30 PM. I hatched a plan. I would hop to my feet, make some witty remark, and stroll gracefully from the room.

What actually transpired was that I tried to stand with all the grace of a newborn calf. My rubber legs and disconnected shoe strap sent me right back down to the floor again, this time sunny side (ass cheeks) up.

And then it happened. The sudden fall, followed by my pathetic attempt to right myself, followed by another fall was too much movement, too soon. I could feel the freight train of nausea start at the pit of my stomach as it began its journey north. I knew there was no stopping it. I knew I was going to hurl, and I did. Jell-O shooters, some hot wings, and a lot of booze now covered several pair of expensive leather shoes, at least one exquisite pair of pumps, and the oak flooring. "Definitely oak" was the last thing I remember thinking before passing out.

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The light through the window was strong and bright. "It must be late morning," I thought, congratulating myself on my razor sharp deductive skills. I slowly took in my situation.

I was in my own bed. That was a huge relief. My shoes and dress were nowhere to be seen. A peek under the covers showed I was still wearing the G-string, but nothing else. I didn't reek of vomit and vodka, so someone must have cleaned me up. The bed was warm. My head hurt. I laid back down hoping the pounding would stop.

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I woke again an hour or so later. The pounding in my head was reduced to a low thrumming. I got up and assessed my condition in the mirror. My hair was a mess. I'd decided to go for shoulder length blond with kinky curls last year. The curls were more like clumps this morning, tangled and confused. It was nothing a shower couldn't fix. The rest looked pretty good. I was still the same height (about 5' 10"). I reached up and gave my pert B (almost C) cup tits a gentle squeeze, causing my small nipples to stick out a little in the cool air. No damage here. I think my breasts are, by far, my best feature and I worry for their safety.

It isn't bragging to say I had a knockout figure, but it wasn't from some vegan diet or days spent at the gym. I'm just young, energetic, like to dance all night, and tend to drink when I should be eating. I was naturally trim, a little pale, and sexy as hell. Hate me if you must.

I pushed the G-string down and tossed it across the room. My brunette bush—my natural hair color—was trimmed short and neat, but not sculpted or shaped like so many of the girls I knew. There was no landing strip, or heart, or "V." I didn't like it unruly (that would ruin my outfits), but I had no desire to be a porn star either. My college roommate, Kate, tried to give me the nickname of "Harriotte." It was supposedly a combination of "hairy" and "Charlotte," but thankfully that didn't stick.

My hips and ass were a little on the boyish side. I always wished I had fuller, more "womanly," hips like my mother did, so I didn't look so much like a stick with boobs. On the the other hand, it made it easy to wear jean skirts and tight dresses. And it actually made my tits look even bigger, so I couldn't complain.

Yawning, I walked naked to the bathroom. No one would be at this end of the house this morning. I took a long overdue piss and started the shower. The warm water was easing a lot of the pain. I shampooed the cigarette smoke, and other unpleasant smells, out of my hair. I rubbed soap over my neglected pussy. "Sorry," I told it "you're probably not going to see any dick again tonight."

After toweling off, I grabbed a short terry cloth robe and headed towards the main kitchen. The cotton felt good against my skin. I couldn't prance around nude in the main part of the house. I was likely to run into someone there.

There was, thankfully, no chance of running into my father. My dad was a "Captain of Industry" (que trumpet fanfare). He was up by 5:00 every morning, at the latest, and was out the door by 6:30.

I couldn't say that about dad's seemingly endless stream of "girlfriends." I don't know what else to call them, although they were more like call girls or one-night stands. Most I never saw more than once, while a few were repeat customers. There was never any wining, dining, or romance that I saw. As far as I could tell, they were just there for the sex.

On most mornings I could bump into a fashion model, or a sleeping-her-way-to-the-middle office assistant in a short skirt, bent over the sofa trying to retrieve her panties from between the cushions—assuming she came with any panties to begin with.

My dad didn't seem to have a type: tall, short, black, white, older, younger, it was all good. If they were pretty and had holes between their legs, they were fair game. I've come down to meet everything from a middle-aged businesswomen looking for her car keys to a Swedish tourist with an insufficient grasp of the English language trying, unsuccessfully, to order a cab.

I once saw a girl in a cheerleader's outfit disappearing done the front hallway. It was just a glance, but I swear it was Joanne, a former friend from school. I had just started college then. Joanne was a year behind me and, still a senior in high school, couldn't have been more than 19 years old. "Christ," I thought, "now my dad's fucking girls younger than his own daughter."

I smelled coffee as I rounded the corner. That meant that Kwan, our housekeeper, was around. This was no surprise; Kwan was always around, rarely seen, but ever present. Kwan lived in her own apartment attached to the south wing and she managed almost every aspect of the house: cleaning, maintenance, food, the wine cellar, decorating, you name it.

Kwan is a petite, exotic, woman in her (I'm guessing) mid-thirties. She's some mix of Asian and Latin, or maybe Hawaiian. She never talks about her parents, or her past, and changes the subject if you try. I've developed the impression that she's an orphan, or was maybe a foster care kid. Anyway, she's fiercely loyal to my father for some mysterious reason.

I poured a cup of coffee and sat on a barstool. The cold, hand-carved, mahogany was like a slap on my bare ass. I should have found a longer robe. I took my coffee into the day room and curled up on one of the couches. That was much more comfortable.

There didn't seem to be anyone else around this morning. I guess my dad's dinner guests decided not to stay after I retched on their shoes. I tentatively sipped the hot coffee.

My ass reminded me, again, of my mother. Mom died in a freak seaplane accident in Cuba several years ago. The incompetent pilot was landing in a bay and struck his wing on the mast of a sailboat. The plane lost control and crashed into the breakwater. They said she died instantly from the impact, but it still gives me nightmares thinking about it.

Dad did not take mother's death well. They were like two halves of a finely tuned engine. While my dad was the official head of the business, mom was just as involved, complementing everything he did. She spent most of her days preparing elaborate parties, going on trips, meeting clients at the airport, and keeping her "trophy wife" body in shape and in style.

Despite this, she always found time for me. That ended, of course, when she died. Dad was not there to pick up the slack. We'd never been very close, and drifted further apart after her death. That's when dad's girlfriends started showing up.

My senior year of high school I discovered expensive clothes, which got me into parties, which got me alcohol, which got me laid. Dad and I were hardly even speaking to one another when I left for college, so life didn't change much for either of us. The parties were a little bigger, there was even more alcohol, and now I had a sexy roommate that I could swap (or share!) some hunky college stud with. I thought life was pretty good.

I started out as a business major. I mean, what else are you going to study when your dad's been written up in Forbes? I did pretty well the first year or so. But after another night of partying, booze, and boys, it was really hard to concentrate on school the next day. So I just skipped class and slept in. Then I did it again. Then I was doing it a couple of times a week. A few months ago I stopped going to class altogether. A few weeks ago I just drove home. My dad's only comment was "back from college, I see." I've been living here since, hooked up with Derrick, and reestablished my party ways.

----------

I returned late from shopping. I figured I'd give the nightclubs a break, given the epic fail last night.

I was wearing skinny jeans, boots, and a silk halter-top that really shows off my tits. The silk is jet black and completely opaque. The silk drapes over my precious pillows like water. From a distance it looks quite modest. Up close you can see their shape, and every unconstrained movement, as plainly as if I were topless. And my little nipples look really cute when they got hard, which is often. It was the kind of top that most girls would only dare to wear to a dimly lit nightclub. I wore it to the mall, just to see the looks on people's faces.

I discovered that my dad was upstairs in the den. His den was another monument to dead trees, sheathed in expensive wood flooring, wall paneling, and furniture. I quietly set down my bags in the hall and crept in, hoping to first assess his mood on the 1 to pissed scale.

Seated in a leather chair, my dad was an imposing figure even when he wasn't mad. He was tall (6' 2"), had broad shoulders and a lantern jaw. He was muscular. When he was very young he worked at a steel mill and never lost that "iron worker" physique, even after decades behind a desk.

"Hello, Charlotte" he said in a quiet, controlled tone. He was sipping whisky or something out of a tumbler.

I knew instantly that I was in big trouble for two reasons. First, when my dad gets angry (which isn't often) he raises his voice. When he's really mad, he'll actually shout at you. But when he's furious he gets very, very, quiet. He was very quiet now.

The second reason is he called me "Charlotte." He always calls me "Char." Always.

I got "Look, dad, I'm really sorry about..." out before he cut me off.

"Shut up and listen. I'm going to set you up with a trust. It will pay you $70,000 a year for the rest of your life. You'll move out next month. I don't care where you live or what you do. Your tuition is already paid, so you can go back to college or blow it off. You can get a job and add to your trust, or just sponge off of it. You won't inherit the business or the estate. I'm changing my will and leaving everything else to charity."

I was stunned. I thought maybe he was going to spank me or, at the worst, send me to an all girls college in Belgium or something, but this? This, I did not see coming.

I just stood there. I was at a complete loss for words. Dad continued to sip his drink.

I really had nothing to say, but I just felt I needed to say something. My mouth seemed to open on it's own. "I really just need some ... I don't know ... time to..."

"Charlotte, there's nothing to say." he said. "I know your mother's death left a hole in your life. I know I can't fill that hole. She left a hole in my life too, and I can't fill that either. I also can't make you get your act together. I can't make you stop partying and find a purpose or a career. I'm not going to try. It's your life. You have to live it. I'll make sure you're not destitute, but that's all I can do."

Again, the silence returned. Usually I have a witty comeback, more often than not one that includes a lewd double-entendre, but not now. Not at this moment.

The silence stretched on. I started to shake. I still couldn't think of anything to say. But the silence was worse, so I tried again.

"Maybe if we..." was all I got out.

Dad exploded out of the chair. "Thirty million dollars, Char! Thirty million (he drew out the word 'million' for emphasis) dollars in new business."

All I could do was think to myself, "at least he's yelling and calling me 'Char' again, so maybe he's getting less angry?"

He went on. "I don't have your mother to help me with these deals anymore, Char. I have to do all of the entertaining, all of the travel, attend all the dinners, carry all the conversations. After a month of convincing those four that we were the organization to handle all of their manufacturing, what do I get? I get a drunk, bare-assed, fucked-up, slut on my floor, flashing her porn-star panties and vomiting on my guests. I don't think it's too much of an exaggeration to say that they weren't impressed."

"I'm so sorry. I had no idea. I'll apologize. I'll do anything" I blurted out.

"It won't help Char. I need someone to handle this side of the business, not to fuck it up. I need a business partner, not an albatross. I need your mother. I don't need you."

The instant he said it, he turned a little pale. Even in his rage, he knew he'd gone too far. He'd thought it, but he'd never said it. And I'd never heard it. But there it was, out in the open.

He abruptly turned and left, leaving me standing there. I started to cry. The tears made the black silk even blacker.

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A couple of hours passed. I'd cried myself out. I just sat in my room staring at the wall. I thought I'd be angry or hurt, but mostly I just felt numb. Everything he said was true. I was fucking up. Mom was gone and dad would never take her place.

Eventually, I came downstairs. An empty plate on the dining table told me dad had eaten, probably something Kwan whipped up. I wasn't hungry in the least.

I eventually found dad in the entertainment room with his eyes closed. The lights were low and he was listening to some jazz. The entertainment room had state of the art big screen TVs, movie theater seating, the latest video games, and a 1,000 watt sound system—most of it wasted on my father. Dad never watched TV and the only time he saw a movie was to take me to some animated flick as a kid. But, he did like jazz.

I cleared my throat and he opened his eyes. We just stared at each other for a moment. I started to say something, but he got there first.

"Char, I'm sorry for what I said earlier. It was unfair and..." he started to say, but this time I cut him off.

"You were absolutely right, dad" I said with a little more conviction than was I was feeling. He said nothing, so I continued.

"I haven't done anything with my life. After mom died, I had no one to tell me what to do, so I did what I felt like. And that turned out to be getting drunk, and then laid, and then drunk again. You might not have been there for me, but I wasn't there for you either."

I plowed on. "Maybe you'll find someone to replace mom, but you'll still share your empire with her, not me. I get it. I'm the third wheel, and the sooner I get out of here the better. But I can't help feeling that we're missing something. You always said the hard solutions were never obvious."

"So you were listening," he interjected. We shared a laugh, the first time in a long while.

I sat down while we silently contemplated the problem. Eventually dad said, "Listen Char, I can't expect you to do what mom did."

Something went "pop" in my brain, like a little light bulb flash.

"Why not?" I asked suddenly, almost before I'd thought it. He shook his head slowly with that "you just don't understand" face. But I would not be deterred.

"I can dress the part. I can organize a party. I can converse with muckidy mucks. I've chatted up a U.S. Senator, for fuck's sake!" Hey, I was on a roll!

"Dress the part?" my dad asked, almost laughing. "Skin tight jeans and a top that looks it was painted on? Your chest could stop a bus honey, but that's not appropriate business attire, in or out of the office."

"Oh my God, these aren't the clothes I'd wear! I've seen mom dress. I know how to do elegant, demure, even exotic. I wear this," pointing to my tits, as if there could have been something else I was talking about, "because I like to see the boys drop their jaws and then their shorts." I slapped my hand over my mouth. I couldn't believe I just said that to my own dad, but he was completely unfazed by the statement.

He went on. "Alright, but your language leaves something to be desired. We don't refer to people as 'muckidy mucks' or use the phrase 'for fuck's sake' in a sentence," he paused, "or ever," arching his eyebrow at me.

I sighed. "I know that," I said in an exasperated tone. "And I didn't say 'for fuck's sake' once when talking to the senator," I said, punctuating the sentence by sticking out my tongue. "And I have been studying business; I just haven't actually used it. But that doesn't mean I can't talk business. Want to discuss the relative merits and capitol expenses related to dock sharing?"