A Week of June: Sunday

Her pace was frustrating, but I knew that in her game there was no active role permitted for me. I only had two more stations left, and my desire to see the denouement was like an ache that I felt in the root of my painfully erect cock. As if drawn out by her magnetic nature, a bead of pre-cum formed at the tip of my glans. Finally, the knot of her skirt came undone, and the flap closest to me dropped down in between us.

Station number four! The student opposite us stood up to get off of the train, saw us, and dropped her book with a gasp. I made no effort to cover myself, but invited her to drink in the rude sight of my distended organ, glistening in the unflattering light. My elegant artiste was likewise unmoved by the astonishment in the young face. The poor girl, flustered, hurriedly bent down to pick up her book and barely managed to exit before the doors closed.

I returned my attention to the main attraction. As the train picked up speed en route to my destination, she, perhaps sensing the waning of our time together, quickly and facilely twitched the flap covering her lap. As I had suspected, the minx wore no undergarments. She spread her thighs apart slightly, and I could see her sex. Her mons veneris was almost entirely shaven, with but a small tuft of hair at the top of her lips. The olive color of her skin lent an exotic cast to the display, the labia engorged and spread out in her exquisitely controlled passion, the inner pink of the organ in stark contrast, highlighted by the evident moisture emanating from within.

And thus we sat next to each other, our lack of restraint in exhibiting ourselves in delicious tension with our restraint in not progressing to what might seem a logical conclusion. And yet, what could be more logical than this mutuality as an end in itself? Restraint is an essential part of exhibitionism: one does not wish to force intercourse on the observer; rather one wishes to communicate sexuality explicitly. If such a display leads to a consenting and satisfying release, that is a bonus beyond the original motivation.

As we approached Penn Station, I stood up, and gently (very gently!) covered myself once more. My penis, still raging in erection, made an unseemly protrusion in my running shorts, so I tucked the head under the waistband, and allowed my T-shirt to fall over it. As I turned to the door, I noticed that the actress was demurely clad once more, with no evidence of the trip's debauchery. Neither of us acknowledged the other as I stepped off of the train to meet my daughter.

****

I have since had cause to wonder if the events of the following week would have come to pass had I not been in such a heightened state of sexual awareness as I walked through the underground passages of Penn Station. Every human being walking through those halls seemed to emanate erotic potential, an almost sensible aura of warmth arising from each. Without release, I was floating in a Tantric spell, the energy of my aclimacteric condition propelling me along. I felt every contact, every friction as a jolt channeling into my entrapped member.

In a few minutes, I found myself at the terminal where June's train was due to arrive. I had to get a hold of myself. My erection still felt as massive as a baseball bat in my shorts, and the bulge it created was fairly noticeable. I sat down on a bench and closed my eyes, performing some deep-breathing exercises. In a short time, my erection had subsided, but I still felt sexually charged. Then I heard a familiar voice calling.

I turned, and there she was. Could this creature be my daughter? In the intervening two years since I had seen her last, she had developed into a ravishing being. In my heightened state, I could not help but evaluate her sexually: she was still tall, but now she had settled into her body and wore it naturally. Her honey-blond hair (still highlighted) was drawn back in a simple ponytail with a scrunchy. She wore a simple yellow sundress, halter-style with a tie around her neck. Her bust filled out the top more than admirably, the cotton material softly outlining the rounded hillocks gently swaying underneath. The style of dress combined with the freedom of movement advertised the lack of a bra. In addition, she had a purse with a long thin strap slung over her shoulder, with the strap crossing her front between those outstanding breasts, thus forcing the cloth of the dress to conform more closely to the curves they covered. The dress extended below her hips to about mid-thigh, with a slight flare. From there to the ground, her slim but muscular legs seemed to last forever, until finally they gracefully poured into a simple pair of sandals.

Every detail burned itself into my mind: with a photographer's discrimination, I admired the flat abdomen, the curve of the hip, the long lines of the arms, one raised in greeting, the other pulling her valise behind her, the gentle golden hue of her skin. The clean unlined features of her face were so familiar: the mischievous glint in her remarkable eyes, the upturned nose, all as I remembered from the little girl I had raised. And yet, now they were transformed into a womanly whole by a mysterious element, a secret knowledge that she had not possessed when I last knew her. I felt a stir in my groin, but with a wrench, suppressed it.

All of these observations whirled through my brain in a matter of seconds, before I jumped up and embraced my daughter. I nearly melted at the onslaught of sensation brought on by that embrace: the warmth of her skin felt through two thin layers of cotton, the fruity scent arising from her hair, the sound of her voice. All brought on memories of the years we had shared together, at once pleasurable and saddening. At the same time, I was all too aware of the soft feeling of her breasts crushed against my chest, my arms wrapped around her slim waist. I felt tears in my eyes and a simultaneous rush of blood to my penis.

To hide my incipient arousal, I held June at arms' length, and said, "Let me get a look at you." She laughed, a girlish tinkle, and spun around daintily, ending with a mock curtsey.

"Do you like?" She asked, coyly. I chose to take her statement at face value, and laughed back at her coquettish display. I took her arm, and we started walking out of the station. She chattered away, gaily, about this and that. I just drank in her presence, punch-drunk from the fact of her, at last to have her with me again.

"What do you want to do this week?" I asked. "Anything in particular for your birthday?"

"Well," she said, with a moue of disgust, "Mom wasn't too happy with my going away for my birthday, but she did give me a bunch of money to have a good time here in the city, so that's what I'm planning. I'm going shopping, we can go out for some good food, but otherwise, I just want to spend time with you, Dad."

I felt the usual frustrated rage at the mention of her mother, but hid it. "OK, honey," I replied, carelessly, "I'm yours for the whole week, except tomorrow morning, when I have to talk with a prospective client. Let's go back to my place and get you settled, and then we can decide what to do with the rest of the day."

She nodded her acquiescence, and we hailed a cab to go back uptown. I put her valise in the back, surreptitiously watching her as she got into the back seat. She moved with such effortless grace, never appearing awkward, completely in tune with big city sophistication. Truly, although only just about to turn 18, she came across as a very self-composed older woman. I sat down next to her and gave the cabby our destination. I tried manfully not to glance at her smooth, tan legs arrayed so neatly on the tough vinyl seat of the cab.

When we got back to my apartment, the air conditioning hit us like a palpable release. The relief from the overwhelming heat was enough to cause both of us to sit down, I in one of the chairs, and June on the edge of her bed. She removed the purse from over her shoulder and lay back on the bed. The movement caused the hem of her dress to sneak up her thighs, exposing almost the entire length of her legs, until it slyly stopped a scant three or four inches below where her legs met. With her eyes closed, she heaved a contented sigh at the pleasure of the cool air. Even on her back, her breasts pushed proudly at the yellow cotton, and now I could see her nipples, erect from the sudden temperature transition, making their presence known through the thin dress.

I was sitting, slumped in my chair, desperately trying not to appreciate the display of female physicality in front of me. I felt, maybe for the first time in my life, overly exposed myself. I was all too aware of my own state of undress, the small pair of shorts being all that contained my fatherly modesty. I had never had cause to worry about a physical reaction to my daughter's femininity: I had scarcely seen her during her adolescence. In addition, as a family we had never been worried about casual nudity around the house, and I know that June had seen me unclothed even when she was eleven. Yet I had never reacted to her, had never exposed myself to her in a sexual manner, had never even felt the urge to do so. Now, I was in danger of revealing to her that I found her physical form arousing, and the last thing I wanted to do today, the first time I had seen her in years, was to disgust her, send her away. And even so, I found it impossible to tear my eyes away.

And then she stretched, her arms over her head, her back arching. The combination of movements caused her breasts to push even higher. Worse, the hem of her dress crept upwards again, daring me to glance between her legs. I stared, fascinated, hypnotized. The moment seemed to stretch out for an eternity. Did I catch a glimpse of yellow, a patch of soft material at the junction of her thighs? Or did I imagine it? In either case, my cock swelled somewhat, pushing in its own insistent fashion against my shorts. So I did what any father would do in the circumstances. I closed my eyes.

By the rustle of her movement, I could tell she sat up on the bed. I hoped my charade worked, and opened my eyes to see her smiling at me with a twinkle in her eye. All of a sudden, a strange surmise overcame me: could she have meant to expose herself to me? If so, she would only be a chip off the old log, wouldn't she? And the off-hand manner in which she pulled it off, if that's what she intended, implied a masterful hand that could only come with long experience. And yet, due to the ease of the supposed maneuver, I could not be sure. I would have to keep an eye on her, as it were. And I found myself thinking, "two can play at that game."

She pushed herself up off the bed and strolled into the kitchen. I followed her with my gaze, admiring the structure and strength of her shoulders, the casually sinuous lines of her back, the skin as golden as her limbs. And, I noted, my artist's eye once again serving me well, lacking any tan lines to mar the uniform coloration. Of course, many girls undo their bikini tops to achieve better tans, without having to sunbathe nude. This was no proof of exhibitionist tendencies. I could not stop my eye from gently wandering down to examine her butt, which, even hidden behind the soft folds of the dress, promised the same firm muscularity combined with feminine curvature displayed elsewhere on her divine form.

Returning with a glass of ice water for herself and another for me, she said, "Well, Dad, what shall we do today?"

"It's far too hot to do anything outside, or at least for very long," I replied. "I'd like to get over to the Metropolitan: they have a new exhibition of early photography I've been aching to see."

"Sure, Dad, that sounds like fun! Let's go."

The rest of the day passed in relative normality. I thoroughly enjoyed myself at the museum, and recovered a modicum of my fatherly role in pontificating on the subtleties of Stieglitz and Man Ray. Remarkably, June seemed just as interested, firing back queries that denoted a subtlety of thought unusual in a girl her age. We both enjoyed a glorious series of photographs by Eugene Cuvelier, from the 1860s, of the forests near his home in Fontainebleu.

After lunch, we managed to get to the Gauguin exhibition. June commented on the natural beauty exhibited by the native women in his paintings. Unfettered by social mores, they were able to allow their bodies to remain unconstrained, and thus more in tune with their natural surroundings. My earlier thoughts returned to me, and I couldn't help but notice that once again, her nipples poked through her dress, twin declarations of what? Passion? Or simple reaction to the air-conditioning?

The afternoon air was cooler than it had been, so we elected to stroll through the Park to get back to my apartment on the West Side. A slight breeze had picked up, ruffling June's hair gently. We ambled aimlessly, allowing the unexpected curvature of the paths to lead us where they would. I finally got up the courage to ask June about her mother.

"Ugh. What can I say? She is as difficult as ever. Frank [her stepfather] continually argues with her. And her affairs have become more blatant than ever." At this I gasped slightly.

"Oh, come on, Dad," she said with a little exasperation. "You can't think I'm that blind. I knew how she carried on when I was eight years old, for crying out loud. Ever since then, I have no respect for her at all. How could she treat you like that?"

I knew I should make an effort to defend Alice, but really, I had no wherewithal to attempt to do so. We walked side-by-side in silence for a few minutes. I felt that June had other things she wanted to say, but she was not forthcoming. All of a sudden, she ran onto the grass and twirled in a girlish pirouette.

"Oh, if only we could be like Gauguin's women! Think, to be free of the prudery of 'civilization', allowed to do what we truly desire!" Her eyes shined, her hands toyed with the hem of her dress. I felt that, with but slight signal from me, she would have lifted the garment straight up. But I lacked the bravery to encourage her. Yet. I had a sense where things were going, but I needed surety before taking the risk she seemed to be daring me to take. I looked away, and in a moment, she was back at my side. We walked on, as if nothing had happened.

****

We made dinner together that evening, maneuvering around each other in the small kitchen, giggling at our awkward positions. At one point, I reached over her to get some oregano while she was stirring the pasta. My hip pushed up against her butt as I stretched forward. The firm tautness of her muscles imprinted itself on my side. It seemed as if she pushed slightly into me as if attempting to prolong the contact. I placed my hand on her shoulder to steady myself, and allowed myself to enjoy the feeling. For a quick moment, she was not my daughter; she was a woman expressing the pleasure of intimate contact with a man she loved. Then, I broke away, feeling at once aroused and ashamed of my behavior. And then, she turned her head over her shoulder, and flashed me a smile of pure happiness. Whatever her intention had been, the smile explained to me that she was not displeased with the moment.

Over dinner, I felt as relaxed and comfortable as I had with any person in my whole life. We talked about her upcoming time in college, what she wanted to study. We discussed my company, my professional and artistic aspirations. The delicious pasta and sauce, salad and wine all contributed to an informality and intimacy I had missed for too many years. As I gazed at my beautiful daughter, tears sprang to my eyes.

"What's the matter, Dad?"

"Oh, darling. I've missed you so terribly. It's been far too long, and I never want it to be that long again."

"Me, too," she replied seriously, an earnest set to her eyes. "Mom can't keep me from you any more, you know. I'm all grown up now."

And how, I thought to myself. She reached her hand across the table to me, and I took it in mine. The gentle touch communicated by her fingers was both reassuring and soothing. On an impulse, I brought her hand to my lips, and softly kissed the back of her fingers.

"Mademoiselle, I believe the time has come to retire," I said playfully. Her eyes widened for a second, but she quickly recovered herself.

"Certainly, Monsieur," she replied, coyly casting her eyes down. "Would you care to use the facilities first?" I laughed at her manner, and stood up, bowing.

"No, no, no. After you, I insist." Her eyes positively gleaming, she swept before me regally into the bathroom, and winked at me before closing the door. Chortling, I cleared the dishes and cleaned up from supper. Then, I went to my room to change into my nightclothes: a pair of maroon silk boxers. In a few minutes, she emerged from the bathroom, wearing a long T-shirt that covered her from shoulder to below her butt by a few inches, her long legs free. The T-shirt seemed a little old, worn a bit in a few areas, over the shoulders, at the waist. I stepped into the bathroom, performed my ablutions before coming back out.

When I came out, I saw my daughter bent forward over the bed, folding her dress from the day. The T-shirt had lifted up over her butt. Her asscheeks, golden like her legs, were revealed, intersected by a white line of material, all I could see of a silk thong. Between her legs, the material pouched out over her sex, thoughtlessly outlining its contours more than disguising them. I could even make out the line of her lips down the center.

I cleared my throat. She looked over her shoulder and saw where I was looking. "Oops," she giggled, and straightened up, smoothing the shirt back over the fronts of her thighs as she turned around. Her nipples, once again, shone through. I felt like I was getting to know them very well. She danced over to me, and threw her arms around my bare shoulders. She gave me a hug, molding her body to mine delightfully. I felt every curve and valley of her breasts against my chest. I felt her taut stomach against my lower abdomen and groin. I felt my dick, thickening with desire, push against her leg. I even felt warmth from her groin against my leg.

"Night, night, Daddy!" She laughed and twirled away from me, leaving me like a statue, momentarily frozen by the apparent brazen nature of her behavior. And then, a wicked smile played across my own lips as I went into my bedroom and closed the door behind me, thinking:

"Payback can be such a bitch!"