Reality is Different Ch. 04

"That's what I think, too." The words spill out a little quickly, urgent, almost whispered as I dare to meet his eyes. A trace of conflict there, I think. If it isn't my imagination. Wishing, hoping that his thoughts were even more aligned to mine, that he might have meant the intimations I can read into his answer. A man I absolutely love - who could that be but him? Who else could I love so utterly as the man who made me, raised me, who's been caring for me all my life? Who, if his words are any indication - and an excited tingle aches along my spine at this - would see allure in my inexperience, my innocence. Would maybe want me more, knowing he would be the first to take it.

It happens like that sometimes, in the stories. The daughter pure and chaste, virginal as fallen snow - still impossibly adept at sex, of course, once the action starts, but described as never having been with anyone before. She confesses to her father, to her Daddy that she's always loved him, yearned for him, that she never yielded to any of the countless boys and men who lusted for her beauty, because she knew she wanted him to be her first, her only. A dream that found its spark when she was just a little girl, cradled in his arms, or maybe spying on her parents in their bed one night, learning how a woman is supposed to treat the man she loves. The years she's waited only make her longing keener, deeper, until the night she comes to him and begs for him to take her, teach her in the ways of love, to mark her as his own.

I can't say it's really like that, my own situation. Not honestly. No such years of dreaming, praying for my dad to show up at my bed, to step into the shower after me. The image of him didn't occupy my thoughts when I struggled anxiously to figure out the what and if I ought to do, sitting with my boyfriend on the couch. But it isn't so far off that I can't pretend, imagine. Wonder. That unease, uncertainty I always felt, the flame of hunger and the fear of what pursuing it would mean. The hesitation, the note of dissonant dissent that held and strengthened til I knew I didn't want to give myself away, not then, not there...it wouldn't be so difficult for me to tell myself my father had some role in that, even if I didn't recognize it at the time. To make myself believe it was an instinct that I felt, some subconscious certainty that there was only one man that I really loved, one man I would want to take away my innocence. A whispered voice inside of me that I just didn't understand, until I read the stories, the confessions, until they made me realize the way I really felt. Made me realize what's possible between us, if only we accept it. Want it.

"I mean, it shouldn't be some random guy I get set up on a date with. It should be...someone special to me, someone who really matters." The answer falters slightly on my tongue, artlessly uncertain, my gaze again evading his as I strive to offer him some hint of what could be, some tiny hook for his own desires to maybe latch upon, without actually revealing the truth of what I feel.

"It can be, sweetheart." There's a touch of distant puzzlement mixed in with the comfort in his tone. I can hear it there, mixed in quietly behind the words. "It will be, rather. Nobody's saying that going out with someone means you have to - have to do anything that you don't want to. Or, well, I'm sure the boys in question might be inclined to say that, but you can pop them in the nose a couple times if they get pushy." His smile amused, flickering a moment before he speaks again more seriously. Tenderly. "And yeah, you probably aren't going to fall in love with him. With Andrew. You might find out after five minutes that you can't even stand the guy. But you can't be sure until you try. Love won't just...fall into your lap, sweetie. I wish it did. You have to put yourself out there, meet people, spend time with them. Hard as it can be, sometimes. Embarrassing, or awkward, or it can even hurt, but you have to wager something if you want to win, y'know?" A tiny pause. Then, like a capstone, "I think you should probably let me arrange this with him."

It isn't quite an order that he gives, not a command. But it's about as close to one as he would ever give. He's telling me to do this, in his own way. All those fantasies of dutiful submission, of obedience before a father's whims - it isn't quite the same, to obey a firm suggestion that sends you off with someone else. Not the way the stories tend to go. And what the girls that I read about would do, confronted with a situation like this...I don't even know. It isn't something that's come up, if any of the ones I've seen.

She might resist, in words alone. If she raised her eyes again to him in pitiful protest, her lower lip aquiver, her aspect like a prayer. "But Daddy, if I went out with him, I wouldn't be a virgin anymore when I came back." Her voice descending then, hushed and sorrowful, answering the question on his brow. "I wouldn't want to do it. I swear I wouldn't. But I can't help myself. I just get so excited when I'm around a boy, when they start touching me. It makes me feel so good to do the things they say." Moving closer, huddling herself against him, her bosom crushed against his chest as she seeks out the comfort and the warmth of his embrace. Her voice near tears, confiding, pleading. "I'm just too weak, Daddy. Someone's going to take control of me, to use me, I know they are. And I just wish it could be somebody who loves me, someone who would keep me safe..."

...yeah. I don't think so. There's nothing I can really say, no protest I can make. Nothing I can do but nod my head a trace, reluctant, misgiving lumped uncomfortably in my throat. "Okay." Quiet. Sullen-sounding, more so than I mean or want. I shouldn't be so bothered by it, really. It's just a day, a single date, if it even comes to pass. Nothing that I haven't done before...though I haven't been on any since I started with these stories, with the fantasies of lustful fathers and their willing little girls. He's maybe even more right, righter than he knows, my dad. Maybe this is what I need, to meet somebody my own age, an ordinary boy who stirs my heart. Maybe then I would forget all this, get over my perverted daydreams. If it's just desperation, loneliness that's pushing me to such ideas, the fervid imagination of a girl driven slightly crazy by too much time alone.

Strange, though, how much I'm troubled by the thought of all this ending, how much my heart rebels against it, stubbornly insistent. Wanting for this to be real, a genuine desire, not just a phase or passing fancy. It feels real. The excitement that it sparks inside my breast, the tingle deep between my thighs, imagining what he could do to me. The tender warmth that I envision, nestled naked in his arms, cradled close in his embrace. Even if it's crazy, even if it isn't something that could really happen, I don't want the dream of it to go away, the ideas in themselves. There's value to the fantasies, even if they're destined never to be more. A thrilling ache to think about them, a sweetness that I wouldn't want to lose.

"All right, then." His tone is mild, delicate, clearly conscious of my limited enthusiasm for the plan. "I'll talk to Frankie tomorrow, get it all set up. Tell him to make sure Andy doesn't expect too much from it, either. It's...just think of it as something fun, you know? No pressure, nothing too important, just a chance to spend some time with someone new." He pauses then, giving me a reassuring smile that I struggle to return, before briskly changing subjects. "Anyway. What was it you were going to say before?"

"What?" Confusion for a moment, before I realize what he's referring to. With all this talks of dates and virtue, I'd almost forgotten my intentions for the evening. Ironically enough. But even now that I remember, I'm not sure the time is right. Not anymore. "Oh, um. I was just - it was nothing. A silly idea I had."

"Yeah?" Lively, bright, the sparkle in his tone, the warmth that carries from his steady smile. His arms are lightly crossed upon his chest, a strangely soothing pose. "Well, you know me. I'm all for silly. What was it?"

Hesitation. I can only do this once. Or at least, it might not be the same, the second time. I wanted it to be the ending to an evening almost intimate, something casual and close. A dinner where we laughed and drank and looked into each other's eyes, descending practically into flirtation as the alcohol sat warm inside his belly, awakening the instincts of desire. Some deep and hungry part of him that only saw a woman there across the table, a girl to be won, a form that he could strip and twist and use for his own pleasures, so that by the end his body almost groaned with thoughts of what he'd like to do...and yeah, I guess a lot of that was never going to happen, probably. But it still doesn't seem completely wise, to try for this when he's just talked of handing me to someone else.

Maybe it could work, though. After all, I didn't plan on telling him that I was still a virgin, either, didn't realize how it would please him. A pleasant tickle yet to think of it, of the subtle tracing of a smile he wore, relieved and...curious? Intrigued? If it wasn't my imagination painting my own dreams upon his face, seeing them reflected in his eyes. It isn't proof he feels that kind of interest in me, isn't even really evidence. But it's enough to hang a hope upon. A wish.

"I was just thinking we could watch a movie, maybe." Glancing up again to meet his gaze, to watch for his reactions. "Something I downloaded, that I had recommended by a friend." Martin's kind of a friend, at least. Maybe more of an accomplice.

"Well," he answers mildly. "I imagine I could be persuaded. Not much else I had to do tonight." A pause. "Downloaded, though. What, so we'd watch it upstairs, on your computer?"

"No, no." It's oddly comforting, a balm upon my confidence, to correct him on this stuff. A reassurance that I sorely need, with what I'm trying now. "I burned it to a DVD. Remember how I had you get the player that can handle DVD-Rs? So we could do that?"

"I remember you being very insistent about something when we picked it out. That's about all." Laughter in his tone, in the teasing curl of his lips. "Downstairs, then, I take it. Sounds like a plan...what's the movie?"

A secret little smile tugs in my expression as I push up from the table, excitement thrilling soft along my nerves. "Snow White." And though his eyebrow lifts a bit, he doesn't question this before I've scampered off to climb the stairway to my room.

---

They come up pretty often in the stories. Movies do, or TV nights. Not just in the stories, either - the confessions sometimes feature them as well. Evenings spent together on the couch, crowded close and warm against each other, watching anything that happens to be on...I must have read a hundred little tales that had it as the moment things began, the circumstance that set the wheels in motion. A widower and his devoted daughter, perhaps, maintaining a tradition that they had since she was just a little girl. An excuse for her to squeeze up snug against him, for him to slip his arm around her waist, each of them so painfully aware of the other's presence at their side, of the desires that they've felt and never spoken. Not until tonight.

Or other situations. The mother still alive, there in the same room, stretched out alone in the recliner while the girl and her father share the couch. She doesn't satisfy him anymore, his wife, doesn't give him the attention that a man requires, and the pent-up need inside of him is more than strong enough to overwhelm his shock and hesitation when his daughter starts to touch him under cover of the blanket that they share. Stroking soft and tantalizing on his chest, across his leg, a subtle exploration that somehow promises so much. His own hand soon finds itself upon her thigh, caressed across her satin skin, moving boldly inward while she fumbles at his fly. And god, that single, perfect moment when her soft and loving fingers are first wrapped around her Daddy's cock, when she feels it in her grasp, throbbing with desire, hard and hot as iron from the forge. That shiver of delicious satisfaction, knowing it's because of her, knowing that her Daddy wants her, the finest compliment a man can give his little girl.

She wouldn't dream to let him down, not the way her mother does. She wouldn't want to. Triumphant satisfaction sizzling along her nerves to hold his tempting thickness in her hand, to feel his heartbeat in its steady, hungry twitch. To run her fingers down along his length, stroke him back and forth, pressing closer to his side as she slowly masturbates her father there beneath the covers. His own hand hardly hesitates before it ventures to her inner thighs, sneaking underneath her skirt to brush upon her veiled treasure. It's a struggle not to gasp, to moan, to reveal what they're doing to the woman that's so near - but somehow the danger only makes their pleasure greater, adds a thrill of wickedness and risk to every slow caress.

And yet they still want more. An ache of disappointment for the father, of desire left frustrated when his daughter stops abruptly, pulls off from his side, saying that she has to use the toilet - but understanding brings an ardor burning only brighter when she returns a minute after that to climb into his lap, and he can feel her bottom pressing naked now into his groin. His erection slipping hot between the heaven of her thighs, slick with her arousal. Rubbing eagerly against her puffy, shaven mound, brushing at her labia with every jostle, every twist...the pleasured hunger of the moment is so powerful that he feels more annoyed than worried when his wife, her mother breaks the silence. Her voice like nails on a chalkboard, commenting sidelong and snippy that she's getting much too old these days to sit up in her father's lap like that. Disapproving. Blindly unaware of what's really going on, those scant few feet away.

He can't think of anything to say, to answer. Not with the distraction of his daughter grinding so deliciously upon his groin. She has to respond instead, a gleeful mischief in her smile as she looks backward to her father, still slightly squirming in his lap. Speaking in a little girl's voice. "I'm not really too old to sit with you like this, am I daddy?"

Her tone is dulcet, sweet, a sheer façade of innocence that shimmers in her wide and open eyes, even as she gives her hips a subtle twist around his straining hardness, sends a jolt of pure and primal pleasure shuddering along his spine. He can't keep his arm from clutching tighter on her waist, instinctively possessive, can't answer anything beyond an almost gasping affirmation. "No, baby, you can do this any time you want."

The groaning of desire, of lust, is hardly hidden in his tone. Only a fool could fail to notice them, could not think that something was amiss. But her mother is just such a fool, returning her attention to the television with a petty hmph as the father starts to slowly thrust between his daughters thighs, his thickness sliding so exquisite on her sensitive and swollen lips. Rocking gently there beneath her, as urgent and remorseless as the tides, the tip of his arousal kissing teasingly upon her opening with every pass. Wetting one another with their commingled need. Her back is arched, her body burning in his grasp, a pulse of sheer sensation shivering along her spine with her Daddy's every thrust, with the feeling of his manhood slipping, rubbing deeper in her folds. Nosing at her clit, almost captured...so near, so close. She's built for this, her form, her body, shaped to guide his arrow to its mark, every line and curve and channel made to show the way. They don't even have to try. Not consciously. Not really. The slightest touch of instinct, angling herself a trifle forward, pushing backward with her bottom just as she feels his hips reverse, and then...

There. Ohh, I can see it, I can feel it, almost, the gasp she has to try to turn into a yawn as at last her Daddy's cockhead batters past her sopping petals, stretches wide her womanhood to sheathe himself inside her. That ecstatic, agonizing instant as her body tries to fight and welcome his intrusion both, clenching tight before his thickness even while the eager flow of her arousal eases his advance. Sensation rolling up in waves along her nerves, singing, screaming, crying out in pain and pleasure as he plunges halfway to the hilt in this single, sudden stroke. Her Daddy. The thought is sharp and shining in her consciousness, deliciously divine, a jagged line of blissful triumph atop her body's maelstrom of feeling. One that pulses only brighter, breathlessly exhilarated as time begins to flow again, as he gingerly withdraws a little just to push in deeper. His strong arm locked about her waist, crushing her into his lap, and she feels as though the very air is being forced out of her lungs to make room for his invasion. Her Daddy laying claim to his possession, filling up the emptiness inside her, making her his woman. All the other boys she's known are nothing to her now, their faces cast into the fire as submission shivers sweetly through her soul, as she yields herself completely to her father's will, the way she ought, as her body molds itself in service of his lusts.

She belongs to him. The fact is plain, apparent, written out in every move she makes, in the ecstasy that shudders up her spine, in her muffled whimpers of delight. Their pace accelerating now, with her mother safely gone upstairs to bed - her father pounds inside her faster, harder, murmuring into her ear how tight she is, how wet, how much he loves her little pussy. How good a girl she's being for her Daddy. The praise, the husky tone of his approval is a rapture of its own, an ecstasy that puddles perfectly inside her mind, mingles so exquisite with his quickening assault upon her puss. Filled, fulfilled in every sense. This is what she wants to be, what she's meant to be - bent before his will, a toy for his desires. His obedient, obliging little girl, eager for the moment that he thrusts again so deep inside her, one last time, when she can feel his manhood pulse and thicken, preparing to unload into her depths. Her Daddy's cum, his seed, his essence, the gift for which she aches so desperately. The moment when she's claimed forever as his own, marked as his possession, bound and bonded to his side...

God, not right now. A scowl to the mirror, nervous, tense, excited. I have to force myself to step out of the fantasy, to stop the subtle rubbing of my thighs against each other, the sneaking of my hand beneath my waist. Now's not the time, not with him waiting for me in the living room downstairs. Despite the warm and smoky pleading of my hips...it's better anyway, maybe, if I'm a trace frustrated when I sit down there beside him, if I'm a little bit aroused. Dads can tell that in the stories, sometimes, responding to their little girls' unanswered needs, their own desires aroused in sympathy. Like a stag confronted by a lovely deer in heat.

A dream, of course. As is the evening that I've planned, the idea that my dad would suddenly lust over me, if I just sat down to watch a movie with him, if I scooched up close beside him on the couch. I don't believe it, not as such. But even if they're massively exaggerated, the reactions that the stories talk about, there might still be a grain of truth behind it all, some foundation that those writers simply build up to the clouds. Some trace of an association that a man might feel in a darkened room, with his arm around his daughter's back, alike to when he'd go out with a woman he desired. The slightest consciousness of where his hand is touched, of my presence at his side, my cheek against his chest...that's all I'm really hoping for, tonight. The most I'd possibly expect.