Reality is Different Ch. 04

I don't really mean the protest, don't feel it in my heart. He knows I don't - the knowledge spoken in a tiny, subtle smirk before his lips are crushed to mine, devouring and dominant, before his arm hooks firm around my back to hold me tightly to his chest. The little gasp that I release just lets his tongue invade my mouth, probing powerful within, testing, tasting me. Claiming me, because he wants to, because he knows he can. Because a girl's body is her Daddy's property, his to use as he desires.

God. Maybe it's a little strange, the wicked thrill I feel in the words. The subtle pleasure that I find to think them, turn them over in my head. There's often something like them, in the stories. An assertion coming basically right from the author, the word of god that writers get to use, carving out their own realities. An affirmation, that there's really nothing wrong with this, that it's all perfectly okay. More than okay - that it's meant to be, supposed to be, that it's the dads who don't sleep with their daughters who are doing something wrong. "A daddy loves his daughter best." "A girl belongs to her daddy." Things like that. Ideas that deny the taboo of all of this, that turn it on its head. They have such a ring of...I don't know. Not truth, exactly. I can't say that I believe them, not in any realistic sense. But compelling somehow, simple. Powerful. The feeling of a notion that maybe should be true, could be, in some other world than this. Some alternate reality, where a father is still seen as the unquestioned ruler of his house, where it's an accepted truth that he should be the one to introduce his daughter to the ways of love, of sex, to teach her what she needs to know to someday keep her husband happy. Or whomever she might end up with...

Maybe some of them would take it as a burden. The daughters would, I mean. Another chore, complaining to their friends at school of how they had to give their dad a blowjob yesterday, how completely gross it was, unfair. But the girls who really loved their fathers would look forward to the days when it occurred, when he called her down into the living room and she could feel the now-familiar way his gaze would linger on her body, or when he came into her room a little bit before she went to bed, telling her how stressful work had been for him of late. She'd welcome the occasions, sliding eager to her knees, or slipping off her clothes, glad for every chance she got to make her daddy happy, to hear him groan with satisfaction and know it was because of her.

And the best, the most devoted daughters, the ones who would do anything to please him, whose devotion never showed a moment's doubt or hesitation - they could even earn a higher honor, maybe. She could be gifted with a permanent position in her father's bed, trading places with her mother as the woman he most fancies, most desires. Together with him every night thereafter, held and treasured, loved and used...ohh, if we were only in that world, I'd have tried to win my father's favor so, so long ago. I'd have acted how the girls in the stories do, kissed him fervent on the lips with every chance I got, brushed up close against him, climbed into his lap, and any time I felt or saw the slightest hint of his arousal I'd have offered up how "I can help you feel better, daddy, if you want me to." Sweet and quiet in his ear, pushed up on my tippy-toes so that my lips almost make contact.

Even if I hadn't earned a place yet in his bed, it might have made the revelation of my mom's affair unfold a little differently. After she was gone, once we knew how terrible she really was...he might have called me down to face him, serious and stern. Standing tall before me as he said that I was now the woman of the house, that there were new responsibilities I would be taking on. To cook for him, to clean, to be a charming hostess anytime his friends might visit. And more important, that it was now my duty to attend to his desires, to satisfy his needs. To offer up my body to appease my Daddy's lusts, any time they should arise.

He doesn't ask if I agree, if I accept. He doesn't have to, shouldn't - it's not my place to tell him no. But he still can plainly see the bliss that washes over me at his pronouncement, the happiness that flashes in my eyes, and his sternness softens to a slender smile, affection, indulgent. Paternal and possessive. The distance separating us reduced to inches with a single step - he stands so close, so tall in front of me, so strong, and I can only shiver, close my eyes and bite my lower lip to feel just his calloused hand laid warm upon my cheek, my jaw, caressed inside his grasp.

"My baby girl..." His voice is powerful before me, a husky rumble in my mind. I only murmur back, mewling pathetic at the pleasure coursing warm inside as I surrender to his touch, rubbing eagerly my cheek against his palm. The joy, the energetic lightness in my heart as he would sweep me from my feet, lift me up into the air as though I were a doll, a toy, a little girl cradled close against his sturdy chest. Carried to his room, tossed to lightly bounce once on his bed before he dives down hungrily on top of me, before my clothes are torn away like tissue and my Daddy takes me fully, finally, properly at last. Before he pins me to the sheets and makes me scream and cry and shudder with delight, crushed beneath his weight, filled up with his love, and I know that I belong to him, I know I've found the place I'm meant to be...

Distracted by these fantasies, these thoughts, I almost fail to notice when the scene I'm waiting for begins, the one I wanted him to see. My attention is only kicked back to the television after it's begun, by a line of dialogue I recognize, one I heard a couple times before as I was skipping through the movie, trying to identify the parts that were important.

It's a dance, a royal ball - that's what's on the screen. Noblemen and ladies, spinning slow and elegant across a marble floor. And in one section of the room, an almost army of well-dressed suitors, waiting for their turn to spend a moment dancing with her. The movie's heroine, Snow White. Not an easy thing right now, to be the daughter of the King. She has to smile at them, to be polite, to let herself be passed from one man to another for a fragment of a waltz, make pleasant non-committal noises at the barely-subtle hints of courtship that every one of them is quick to offer. Her father watching from the corner of the room...the actor did good work with this, I think. Even just right here, you can see there's something off, feel the touch of hardness, darkness in his eyes. Jealousy. A jealousy that knows it shouldn't be, that won't admit itself, that dares not speak its name - but one that still exists. That itches at his chest, gnaws upon his will until he has to settle it with action.

He wears a formal, proper smile as he closes on the clustered men around the girl, as they respectfully retreat, granting passage to their King. Even the man who's dancing with her at the moment somehow manages to pull himself away, to stop and bow a bit, to offer up effusive greeting. But her father barely even casts a glance in his direction before turning to quietly address the gathered crowd. "I think perhaps my daughter needs a rest." They come across as almost jovial, the words, an easygoing affectation that belies the hardness lurking just beneath, the steel of command that sends the other men to grudgingly disperse, scattering across the room in search of all the women who were left abandoned when they went out to seek a turn with Snow.

Despite his words, it isn't really such a rest her father has in mind. His features are a mask, impassive, regal as he steps up close before her, lifts his hands up near her shoulder, by her side, wordlessly requesting his own time with her upon the floor. And even were he not the King, she hardly could refuse - she steps obedient into his arms with just a slight, uncertain smile, a tiny nod, placing her own hand in his as they begin to dance with one another, slow and formal, close.

So close. It's plain to see, as moments linger, as her father's arm drifts further round her back, drawing her against his chest. It's in the way he looks at her, his gazed fixed on her features even as she hides her eyes, uncertain. Need. Desire. Conflicted feeling torn inside of him, an agony of want and guilt...he knows it's madness, but the knowledge doesn't stop his dreams, doesn't give him strength to keep his hand from stroking on the smooth curve of her back. She doesn't understand it, not completely, but any time she dares a glance she sees the tangling of love and hunger in his eyes, the heavy burden weighing on his will, barely held in check. If he but had her by herself, alone...

It would happen here, if I were in a story. I know it would. I'd glance over to him from the television, half by chance, half from the flutter of a quiet yearning in my heart, and find my Daddy there already looking at me, staring serious upon my features, on my form. His mien a mirror of the father on the screen, desire only barely touched with doubt, not powerful enough to hold him back. That slow, exquisite moment as his lips would lower down to mine, his fingers curl firm behind my neck, and I would only close my eyes, offer not a shadow of resistance to his kiss...

But it isn't one. He doesn't. I've been halfway watching since the scene began, to the extent I'm capable of doing so without it being obvious - he's only sat there, looking at the screen, without an even momentary glance in my direction. Stiff. Uncomfortable, perhaps; it would hardly be surprising. That's the way it always feels, normally, if you're watching television with your family and passion suddenly explodes upon the screen. The way I've felt myself, before all this began. And that was just the ordinary kind, a man and woman who had no particular relation to each other. How much worse if it had been a thing like this, a man entranced with longing for his daughter, for the little girl who's grown into an image of the woman that he lost...

And then there's that. Jesus, Sarah. Faint recrimination echoes quick along my nerves, regret for what I overlooked before. It's not the same, not really. The emotion that the movie shows, and what I hoped it would inspire in my dad. In the movie, Snow White's father starts to feel this way because his daughter has become an almost double of the wife he lost, because every time he looks at her he can't help but be reminded of her mother, of how deep and powerful a love he felt, the nights together that they shared. The feelings she evoked.

But that's the last thing in the world that I'd want my dad to think about, with me. I don't want to look like her, my mother, don't want to remind him, don't want him to see the slightest shadow of the woman who betrayed him when he turns his gaze to me. I don't even want her to exist. Not in our lives, at any rate, not in his thoughts. Not in mine. I want for it to be just us, just him and me, and when his eyes track down possessively across my body the desire that he feels would be for me, his baby girl, not for some awful person out there I might happen to resemble. When he holds me down upon the bed, when he thrusts inside of me so fierce and fast and strong that I can't even think, can't speak, can only squeal and gasp in helpless, overwhelming pleasure, when he murmurs in my ear that I'm his little slut, his whore, his toy, and I feel such a sense of perfect rightness, of belonging, knowing that it's true. Knowing that he wants me, that he's chosen me for his possession, that every name and epithet is given as a gift for me alone...that's what I imagined, what I dreamed. What the movie doesn't quite so much support.

Oh, well. The sluggish warmth of wine inside my belly makes it easier, at least, to shrug myself from dismal introspection. I didn't really think that it would happen anyway, any sudden blossoming of lust inside his heart, his gaze, his hands. Perhaps a couple quiet hopes...but no. Yeah. The only goal I really counted on was putting the idea in his mind, allowing it to worm its way inside, take up residence a while and maybe, maybe, maybe find a fascination there for him, the way it did for me. A sweetness, an allure.

Which, and I don't even know if that part really worked, I guess. If he thought about it. If he's thinking of it now, turning the idea over in the background of his mind, wondering a trifle guiltily if something like that ever really happened. An honest man who loved his little girl just a bit too much. Or if he's just relieved the scene is over, that the movie's moving on already to the wicked mother's plot. Stepmother's, rather. If the thought of someone's father lusting over her does nothing more than freak him out.

It doesn't really bother me that much, considering the possibility. Not at the moment, anyway, or as much as I might fear. Another benediction from the pleasant fuzziness of alcohol inside my system, circulating slowly through my mind, rounding off the sharper corners of my rumination. I mean, yeah, it would be a disappointment if my dad were nothing but revolted by the notion, if it were something that could never, ever be...it's still nice just being here with him. This evening, this moment, curled up cozily against him on the couch. Dreaming all these sexy little dreams, secret fantasies made only more exciting by his presence at my side. Now that the most suggestive scene is done, I think it's even safe enough for me to squirm myself in closer, shifting in my seat so I can slip one arm behind my father's back, the other thrown across his chest, snuggling in tightly for a warm and pleasant hug. Affectionate. Adoring. Innocent - at least, as far as anyone could say, what they could see, if they were here with us right now. Just a girl who loves her Daddy, who treasures what she has, who smiles a little brighter as his hand shifts up to rest half on her shoulder. Elated at his touch. No one else would see the dusky warmth that sweetly trickles at her center, the eager ember of desire at the union of her hips.

Mischievous, the thought. It's true. I'm wet right now, completely. I'm sitting here beside my father, and I'm sopping...it's almost thrilling in itself, the spark of nervousness that twists inside my stomach, considering the fact. What I'm doing. If he knows, if he can tell. They sometimes can, inside the stories. They can smell their daughter's womanhood, her readiness, the musky scent of her arousal. It's an awakening to notice it, the stirring of an instinct so, so deep inside. Animal awareness of a female at his side, a fertile womb, a woman waiting to be bred. Just biology, just pheromones and nerves and need, nature's orders echoing beneath what thought would counsel.

I'm wet, daddy. They tingle on my tongue, the words. I've read the things the girls say, a thousand iterations. I could say them, if I had to. If I wanted to. If it would make the difference, if he were teetering right now upon the edge, his mind aflame with lust. Needing just a single push, a whisper in his ear. Feel how wet I am...and his hand would stroke along my thighs, would lift my shirt to slide between. Firm and powerful, possessive. He would roughly tug upon the gusset of my panties, pulling them aside to verify the truth of what I've said, his middle finger probing at the garden that's revealed. Slow at first, experimental, the roughness of his fingertip an agonizing pleasure as it slides between my glistening and swollen lips, as it wets itself with my arousal, gently rasps against my clit - and then a gasp, a shiver, and my spine is arched with sudden, aching ecstasy to feel him thrust within. My daddy's thick, delicious digit plunging slick and forceful into me, battering apart my gates to feed my hungry puss, pistoning inside of me so quick and strong that I can hardly even breathe, can only cry and tremble with sensation, buck my hips instinctively against his hand. My legs spreading open wide, my nectar flowing, my breasts, my body hot and throbbing with excitement, creamy slippery inside.

Cum, Sarah. The order only spoken in the powerful, convulsive movement of his arm, his other fingers almost slapping at my labia with every thrust. Impressed upon my consciousness with the look that's in his eyes, darkly flashing, dominant, demanding. I couldn't look away from him, even as my eyes lolled back into my head, consumed with overwhelming pleasure. Cum for me. Cum for your Daddy...and even if I wanted to, there's no way I could resist. I scream and shudder as I'm overtaken, broken, shattered by the strength of my release, as I surrender to my father's hand and know that it's forever. I could never live without him now, instantly addicted to the satisfaction only he can give. I could never think to go against his will. I belong to him, his little girl, his possession - he knows it just as much as I. The subtle smirk he wears is one of victory, of ownership, slipping out his finger from inside of me and bringing it up to my face, smearing languidly a line of my own nectar on my cheek, my nose, my pouting lips, already parting for his passage. And as he thrusts into my mouth, I can taste my own submission on his skin, a heady flavor, sweet...

A dream. The thought is wryly aching, a almost pang of loss to face reality again. So many dreams, so many fantasies, drifting lurid and impossible into one another. Absurd. It's dark outside the window now. The cloak of night descended gracefully upon the world. The warmth of wine still flowing fuzzy in my veins, egging on the wandering of my imagination. Not that it needs encouragement, of late. I'm sure that even if I were completely sober, I'd still be coming up with ways this evening with my father could evolve into a night of lust, of passion, wild and rough and thrilling. Pulling him into my daydreams as a Daddy like the ones I read about, demanding, powerful, maybe slightly one-dimensional. Consumed with the desire to possess his little girl...reality is somewhat duller, by comparison.

Or, I don't know. Not duller, really. Just different. Quieter, I guess, the two of us just nestled pleasantly against each other. Holding him, my Daddy in my arms...it's literally quiet, too, especially for us. We don't really do this all that often, watch TV together, but when we do we often talk, chat about whatever comes to mind. Making fun of TV shows is practically his second nature, something I've picked up as well. And yet today we've been near silent, hardly any words exchanged since the beginning of the movie. No sidelong little comments noting how the Huntsman sounded like he must have come from Jersey Shore. Maybe not so strange for me, considering how little my attention has actually been focused on the film, how many of my thoughts are things that I could never share, but him...

It's more an iceberg than a lightning strike, the possibility that crashes forcefully into my consciousness. The potential explanation slowly dawning in my mind, widening my eyes, twisting nervous in my stomach as my heartbeat races faster once again. The breath catching in my throat. But him. It could be just the same as mine, the reason for his silence. He could be filled with fantasies as well, his imagination captured with scenarios of what he'd like to do to me, what I could do for him. Casting me in moments like the ones in all the videos on his computer, my body bent across the couch, caught and captured for his use. His dreams a hazy mirror to my own...and god, there's such a poignant feeling to the notion, an almost ache of tragedy, of poetry. That we could both be sitting here with one another, thinking the same things, wanting the same things, secretly united by a longing neither knows the other carries. That fear would hold us back, keep our tongues from what we want to say, our hands from where we want to touch each other, when it would be so, so simple just to let the walls collapse and love each other every way we've dreamed. Like a couple in a movie, a romance, who weep and wonder and resist the way they feel, and it's obvious to anyone who watches that they're made for one another, that all their troubles could be ended with a single, fervent kiss.