Reality is Different Ch. 01

"Daddy," I'd whimper to him, whisper pleading and pathetic, mindful of the eyes around us. "You can't, not out in public. Somebody could see..." I don't dare to push away his hand away myself - I know that's not my place.

He just chuckles there beside me, deep and easy, unconcerned. "Well, then you'd better not make any noise, hadn't you?" Teasing, as his hand slips in still further, hiking up the bottom of my dress under cover of the table. His fingers scraping on my skin, tracing bold along the little valley where my thigh joins with my hips. Already I can feel the subtle tickle deep inside me, dripping damp between my petals, the flow of my arousal stirred to motion by his touch. Fear and pleasure deliciously commingled in my belly as I strive to do as he suggests, as he commands, biting at my tongue so that an inadvertent moan or murmur won't reveal what he's doing to me. So that he doesn't have to stop...

He doesn't even look at me, frowning at his menu as his fingers slip beneath the waistband of my panties to glide and wet themselves against my dewy lips. As though it takes him no attention whatsoever to make me feel this way, for his idle hand to play my body like a harp - my heartbeat thunders in my ears as his middle finger insinuates itself between my folds, touches lazily upon my pearl, and despite the need for silence I can't help a little gasp, a cry that sounds like I'm in pain. A word, "Daddy..." - I'm just a puppet here beneath his hand, my hips mimicking his motions, pressing hopefully against his finger as it slowly circles round my button, my body trembling and hot, and I'm sure anyone who looks can see it, can see my daddy slightly smile as I grab frantic for the table edge and struggle to withstand the rising tide of-

"Here are your drinks." The professionally sunny voice of the waiter yanks me back to reality, my eyes opening for real to see him set down a wine glass and a plastic cup of cola. My heart is pounding, and I can only hope the darkness of the room will hide the heat upon my cheeks. Damn it. What is wrong with me? "Are you ready to order?"

Shit! I didn't even figure out what I wanted. "Yeah, I'd like the special you mentioned earlier, the pollo asada." Dad answers first, while I scramble through the menu. 'Sopas?' No, I don't really feel like soup. Burritos? Well, maybe one of them could be good, but god, they've got like fifteen different kinds...

"Very good." A subtle sound of scribbling beside me. "And for you, señorita?"

No time. "Um." There's a little quaver in my voice, still unsettled by my daydream - I search desperate through the listings for a few more seconds before giving up. "I guess I'll have the enchilada dinner, the one with the rice and beans and everything. Beef."

"Yes, of course," the waiter genially agrees, scratching down the order before collecting up our menus. "I will try to get those out to both of you with all due haste. Don't hesitate to flag me down if there's something else you need." It's not until he strides briskly off again that I hear dad's exaggerated sigh beside me.

I almost don't dare look at him. The fantasies aren't usually about him so directly. Not with his face, his voice, his hand. They're just about somebody's daddy, not mine. Not with me. Not really. I can practically still feel his fingers on my leg; to look him in the eye right now would be...I don't know. But it's not like I can just ignore him. I have to take a breath, steel myself to look half in his direction. To see one eyebrow raised, the sardonic little smile on his lips as his voice pretends at tragedy. "Another promise broken."

I can manage laughter - a trace of it, at least. The nervous blush still warm upon my face, tight inside my throat. "Yeah, well..." Words. I need words, I need something I can say. "I guess I'm just a, a creature of habit."

"Now that's something I believe...I imagine I can forgive you for it, just this once." His words don't carry quite the humor that they often would - it's muffled by a tone of faint concern, a wrinkle on his brow as his eyes find mine still skittish and evasive. "You all right, sweetie?"

"Sure." What else can I say? A chipper smile pushed onto my lips; I force myself to meet his gaze, not to flinch away. Get a grip, Sarah. "Just kind of a big day, you know. How was work?"

I'm sure he doesn't miss how obvious a dodge this is - I can see his eyebrow lift a trifle, taking note. But he doesn't challenge me on it. "Entirely too productive, I'm afraid." Spoken just a little rueful, as he takes a sip from his wine. "The second storey's already completely wired up. There was actually an error in the schematics that they gave me that would have likely shorted out the power if anybody drew more than ten amps or so from the bathroom outlet, but I was able to catch it before I started that section. Of course, if I had half a brain in my head, I'd have just wired it to spec first, then discovered the mistake, torn it down and done it all again to get three times the pay. I know the guys working on the piping downstairs wouldn't have hesitated two seconds to do a thing like that..."

The smile on my lips becomes a bit more real, settles into place as I lean back in the seat with my glass in hand, listening to him ramble on. Not so much to the words - more just to his voice. He has a nice voice, kind of rough and deep, warm and resonant. A quiet rumble in it, like the purring of a cat, or maybe of a lion. Soothing. I used to fall asleep to it, ages ago, listening to the bedtime stories he made up for me. The adventures of Princess Sarah, finding treasures and fighting dragons. Now...it's still a comfort to let the words flow over me, to let them slow the rapid, guilty patter of my heart. It's just a little daydream, a wandering imagination. Hardly a surprise, with the stuff that I've been reading. Probably a lot of women have such thoughts, momentary fantasies about men they wouldn't really ever do anything with. Even about their fathers. It isn't a big deal, if I don't let it freak me out so much.

I do feel a lot more normal, more myself, by the time our food arrives. Steaming plates, piled high, hot enough that the waiter warns us not to touch - I dig into my meal with gusto, chattering freely now between mouthfuls of enchilada soaked in mildly spicy sauce. Joking with him, the way we often do. Laughing. Enjoying myself, my time with him. That's something the stories don't have, don't bother with. They're all about the lust, about grunting, sweating, fluids spurting, bodies stretching...they don't talk about the smaller, honest pleasures. About the warmth and comfort just of sitting there beside him for a meal. About the goofy face he makes to show me that I've got a string of melted cheese dangling from my lip. That's more precious, anyway, I think. I wouldn't trade it for any steel-eyed Daddy with a sculpted body and a foot-long cock.

Dad's the first to finish, pushing in his plate as he takes another sip from his second glass of wine. I'm still working on the remainder of my beans and rice. "So." His voice is lightly teasing. "Twenty years...is that old enough for me to start annoying you about grandchildren?"

My answer lies somewhere between laughter and a groan. "I think I need another decade or two before I'll start worrying about that."

He laughs as well, an easy, rolling baritone. "I think I may have said the same thing to your grandma, right before I found out that a certain someone was pregnant with a certain someone..."

I just roll my eyes and hmph a bit. "Don't think I really need to worry about that, either, the way my love life is going at the moment."

"Now that," he utters somewhat dryly, "is a complaint that I am all too glad to hear." Belied a moment later by the note of sympathy that creeps into his tone. "It's not all that bad, is it? I know you went out with that one boy not too long ago, what was his name...fellow who showed up in a baseball cap."

"Greg." It comes out like a groan. "I'd say it was a pity date, but I'm not sure which one of us was pitied. Maybe both...he spent practically the whole time talking about this TV show he liked. I mean, maybe it's a funny show, but come on." I'm exaggerating a bit - the date wasn't that bad. But neither did it much endear him to me, and when he tried to invite himself inside afterward, I just...I don't know. Freaked out a little. Practically demanded that he leave, didn't even talk to him in lecture the next day. Not a great success. There's a lot more satisfaction in complaining about it, a certain playful spark inside my breast. "I don't really know if boys are doing it for me anymore."

"Oh?" One bushy eyebrow shoots high, genuinely taken aback - it's a moment, and another sip of wine, before he tries an answer. Circumspect. "I didn't actually realize that you had any, ah...inclinations, in the other direction."

"What?" Confusion slides into a mild blush as I realize what he means. What he thinks I meant. "Oh, no. I didn't...not like that, I'm not...uh. I was just saying, thinking I should maybe look for someone more mature." A tickle of excitement, saying it, despite my fumbling embarrassment. "Someone older."

"Oh my god." His turn to groan. "Don't tell me that. You ever show up on the doorstep with somebody my age, and I'll disown you."

Silence. Suddenly I don't know what to say, my lips just hanging open, barely parted. The blood abruptly rushing from my face. I didn't expect the strength of this response, even clad in humor. And the quiet brings a cutting self-reflection - what exactly am I even trying to do? Flirt with him? Now that would be messed up. And stupid, too. Obviously when I say 'someone older,' he's not going to think I mean him. Which I don't, even, of course. I'm just-

"Hey." A look of worried reassurance in his gaze - my sudden scurrying of panic must be all too plain. And realizing that makes my stomach squirm a little more. "Sweetie, I'm kidding. You know that." A pause, a beat before he speaks again, cautiously. Inquiring. "Are you...I mean, is there someone you're involved with, like that? Is that what this is about?"

"Dad!" My laughter sounds forced, even to my own ear. "Of course not! I told you, I'm not, there isn't...I'm just talking, you know?" God, why do I have to be such a weirdo. "Talking nonsense. You should probably just ignore me."

"I see." He doesn't sound entirely convinced. But as before, he doesn't challenge me. Never does, basically. It's not his way. I remember once when I was little, I broke a lamp by playing around in the house, and then denied that I had done it when he asked what happened. He didn't make a single accusation; instead, he 'called the police' (holding the receiver down, I later learned) to report that someone had broken in and smashed his favorite lamp - his favorite. Then he told me how glad he was that I was safe, that whoever had done it hadn't hurt me, too. I wandered off, consumed by guilt, and lasted maybe fifteen minutes before rushing back in tears to confess the truth. I'm not a great liar anyway, but ever since then, to my dad, I just can't do it. Even hiding things from him makes me feel uncomfortable. Especially when he looks at me all sincere and caring, the way he's doing now. "Honey, you know the only thing I really care about is that you find somebody who treats you right. Who you love, and who loves you back. I mean, I'd like to think I'm open-minded." He chuckles wryly. "As long as you have that, it doesn't really matter if you're with a boy or girl. Or even some old codger, I suppose. Okay?"

"Okay. I know." Softly. I do, too. It's hard for me even to imagine how a father could be more supportive than he's been. If I were gay, I don't think I'd be a bit afraid to tell him. Well, maybe just a bit, but...it'd be so much easier to say than what's really going through my mind. The babble of my foolish inner voice, thinking about what he said. Someone I love, who loves me back, who treats me right. Only one man I can think of who fits that description.

Stupid, Sarah. Get your head on straight. I fork up another big bite of mingled rice and beans, so I don't have to speak. Leaving dad to pipe up in my place, adding "I'll say, though, it'll make this old codger feel a little better if you at least try to find somebody in your own age group, first. Not that I've had a huge amount of luck with that, myself." A slight, self-deprecating smile, overwhelmed a moment later as he cheerfully declares, "Now, I'll bet you're wondering about your present."

"Dad," I groan around my food. Swallowing before I continue, chiding. "The dinner is enough. More than enough. You don't have to get me anything."

"Good!" His brown eyes glitter brightly, mischievous. "It's much more fun to give because you want to, anyway. Giving because you have to is just a chore." Nodding at my food. "It's in the car...are you about done, or would you like to get some dessert first?"

"Oh, no," I shake my head, emphatic. "I couldn't eat another bite. Don't think I'm even going to finish this." The cheese congealed as it cooled, making what remains a rather unappetizing mess. "I figure I'm about ready to head out."

"All right, then." He swiftly downs the remainder of the wine that he's been nursing, and hails our waiter, and it seems hardly a moment later that the bill is paid, that we're walking through the quiet parking lot back out to the car.

There's a chill now in the air, the temperature descending with the fall of night, but I still hesitate a little before crowding close against my dad for warmth. Self-conscious. I mean, it's not like it's anything I haven't done before. We're not super feely with each other, I don't think, nothing out of the ordinary, but I've never been afraid of getting close to him. Leaning against him as we walk, or together on the couch...not like in the stories, of course, where even at eighteen the girls still climb up eagerly into their Daddy's lap. Just normal stuff. His arm around my back, sometimes, comforting and warm.

"Here we go," he remarks unnecessarily as we stop before the car. It's nothing particularly fancy, not a sports car or a Lamborghini or an expensive Jaguar or anything. Just a regular sedan, getting near a decade old. Dark red paint, somewhat faded. "Now, I'm afraid I didn't wrap it," he unlocks the trunk, "So you're going to need to close your eyes."

Obediently, I shut them, an indulgent smile tugging softly on my lips. He loves the ceremony of these things, the familiar rituals. I guess I do, too, though it makes me feel a little childish to admit it. Surprises on my birthday. My hands held out expectantly before me, waiting for my gift...I can't quite keep my mind from wandering, thinking once again about the stories that I've read. A few of them were centered around birthdays, though it seemed like it was always the girl's eighteenth.

I can practically imagine how it would go, if this were one of them. Seeing it in my head. I'd be on pins and needles, excited, wondering what my Daddy got me, even while a secret part of me knew that all I really want is Him. That I want nothing given to me so much as I desire to be taken. Trembling a little from the cold and from his nearness, my eyes held firmly closed at his command, I would truly not expect the warmth and pressure of a pair of weathered lips kissed suddenly to mine, of strong arms circling around my back. But my shock is melted to delight as swiftly as he lifts me up into the air, crushes me so sweetly against his chest. Liquid fire flowing in my hips, my legs already wrapped around his waist - he kisses roughly, nibbles at my neck, growling as he descends that he's been waiting years to give this gift to me.

I can feel now exactly what it is, the steel rod that's pressing hot against my inner thigh, thick and tall and hungry. The present every little girl wants, her Daddy's cock, hard and throbbing just for her. My nipples ache and tingle, my body fairly shivers with anticipation as he sets me down atop the trunk, as his hand slips beneath my dress to rip away my flimsy panties and I feel suddenly the chill of evening air blowing slow across my flushed and dewy flower. My eyes still raptly shut, absorbed completely in sensation as he brings one calloused finger there to ease between my thickened, sopping lips, probing there inside me, preparing my untrained body for the moment soon to come...

This time, it's the sound of the trunk slammed shut that jolts me back to reason. Frustration, anger at myself pounding hot at the back of my skull for the ease with which I slipped into the fantasy, for the trace of dampness that I feel between my thighs. This is ridiculous. Doubly ridiculous. Even if my dad were somehow attracted to me, he sure as hell wouldn't do something like that in the middle of a goddamn parking lot. And I'm not even going to both trying to think about what he would do, because he isn't, and the whole thing is absurd. And I wouldn't want him to be, anyway. It would only make things insanely complicated, awkward, no matter what some people claimed in a few 'confessions' that were probably as much a work of fiction as the stories. It's just a fantasy about control, about authority, about obedience. It's not really-

I almost jump as something touches on my hands, before suddenly remembering what I'm doing, why my eyes are closed. Large and flat. A slight weight to it, a texture like that of glossy paper. I can't quite place the feeling of it, despite the sense I have of its familiarity...Dad's voice rumbles pleasantly before me in the same moment, warm and energetic. "Okay, you can open them again."

The first sight that greets me as I open up my eyes is his open, hopeful grin. The second is the record lightly balanced in my hands, still held half in his so I don't accidentally drop it. A simple thing, the design of the outer jacket - a field of black, the left and lower corner filled up with the figure of a suited man in shades of grey, holding in his hands a slightly battered saxophone. Text across the top, printed big and blocky; 'Thomas Parker,' and below it, 'Ice and Stone'...my heart almost stops beating as I realize abruptly what I'm holding. My voice still disbelieving. "Dad, you didn't...is this an original?"

His grin widens just a little as he nods; I can only stare, marvel at the relic in my hands. I guess to most people it wouldn't look like much - the jacket all scratched up, faded and marked with age, and god knows what condition the record inside is in, if it's even playable. I don't care. It doesn't matter...it's a piece of history, Tom Parker's first album, released half a decade before he found his fame. They didn't make many of them at all, and a lot were lost, destroyed one way or another even before he made it big. So rare now that even a sleeve alone in good condition can go for hundreds of dollars. "We can't afford this!" It's all that I can think to say, struggling to find my tongue. "How much did you...I mean, how did you even...?"

His gentle chuckle rings warmly in my ear. "Wasn't especially easy, I'll admit." A tone of explanation, story-telling. "I started looking months ago. Not just for this - I drew up a little list of rarer records that I thought you might appreciate, though this one was near the top. Called all the music shops within about a hundred miles, plus thrift stores, consignment, that kind of thing. No luck. I was thinking I'd have to give it up, just get you a book or something...until just a week ago, I finally got a lead. At an antique store, of all places. Almost didn't believe it, 'til I drove out there myself." A twinkle in his eye. "I don't think the man there even really knew what he had - he only wanted ten bucks for the record, tried to sell me on the player that it had come with. I gave him fifty, so at least I wouldn't be ripping him off too badly."