Reality is Different Ch. 04

Not that I know, of course. Caution counsels on the backswing, the pendulum reversing from its course of giddy aspiration. I can't be anything like confident that that's actually the reason for my father's quiet. I can't even say it's likely. Or that it's possible, at least beyond the sense that anything could be. I mean, there could be a hundred reasons why he'd be distracted now, not as chatty as he often is. Troubled by concerns at work, or by other such financial matters, the kind that have been weighing on our budget since the whole recession started. He could be thinking what he's going to have to do to fix the truck, or about the termite trail that he found the other day in one part of our rear porch. He could even just be concentrating on the movie, because he likes it, or - I don't know, but it's absurd, it's crazy to imagine that him simply being quiet means he's having thoughts like that about me. Even if I couple it with how he briefly looked at me, my breasts, or how he almost seemed to be relieved when he found out I was still a virgin...and of course, of course, my foolish heart immediately seizes on those memories, holds them tight, insisting that they must have meaning, that it can't all be coincidence. But even if I look at them together, it's still a million miles from proof. It's barely even evidence. A recipe for misery, for heartbreak and disaster, if I did something drastic in reaction to an idle glance, an hour's silence.

It wouldn't have to be so drastic, though. The answer comes back anxious from inside of me, stubborn, slightly pleading. I wouldn't have to make a declaration, a confession. I could just - do like Martin said to do, try for something small but telling, something he would simply disregard if he should only see me as his daughter. If I kissed him, just a little...not as a dream, not as the first note of a fantasy that will quickly spiral to my utter subjugation, to the shattering of every last taboo. If I really did it. If I turned to touch my lips against his shirt, his shoulder, slow and slight, and if he asked what I was doing I could just laugh a little, like I'm being silly, or - or maybe that would be too much, still. I don't know. But I could maybe take his hand, instead...

They've been on my mind a lot, his hands. They're featured so much in my fantasies, worshipped for the things that they could do, for what they mean. A symbol of his power, his authority, his ability to punish and reward. My Daddy's hand...if I raised one up against my face, gently rubbed my cheek into his palm, the way I've thought about before. It would be giving him an offering, a demonstration of how eager I would crawl into his grasp, how gladly I would place myself beneath his thumb. If I kissed his fingertips, his knuckle, if I brushed my lips against his skin, mapping, memorizing every inch. If I opened up to let his finger in, like in my daydream. Just one. His index finger, or his thumb. Just to taste it, to feel his presence in my mouth. To suckle at him softly, bathe him with my tongue, attending to my Daddy as a loving daughter should...

Too much, again. I frown at myself, in my head. Too much of a fantasy, as my mind slips off into familiar patterns, phrases, themes. Too obviously sexual, deliberate, sucking on my father's fingers - particularly if I have to bring his hand up there to start with. That's a trick as well, I guess. After spending half an hour mostly still, any major move I make is going to garner his attention, cast a spotlight on whatever I might do right after. And despite how tempting it might be, it's not completely natural and normal for me to move his hand around myself, to put it somewhere on my body, on my skin.

There's always my hand, though. A quiet thought. Slippery, seductive. I've had it resting for a while now on his stomach, on the little paunch that gently rises at his belly. Shifting sometimes, side to side. It might not be so obvious an action, necessarily, if I should let it drift a little lower. If it descends the short few inches that it would have to cross to rest upon the waistband of his jeans, to touch upon his groin...only barely, it would be, only just across the boundary that separates affection from desire. Small enough an indiscretion that he could easily dismiss it as an accident, a thoughtless error from a girl who's had a bit to drink, unaware of where her hands have wandered. If that's what he's inclined to do, if he has no temptations of his own, no hidden thoughts of me as more than just his daughter. He'd say something, probably. I guess. Call my attention to it, embarrassed and amused, straighten up his spine to minimize the contact, at least until my hand was moved again to somewhere safe.

But if he did feel something more, if he wanted more - what would he do? In a story, in a dream, a man's reaction might be swift and unambiguous, sending over his own hand to rub upon his daughter's leg, the skin I've left exposed for him to touch. He might speak, a lustful rumble in my ear, a smirking tone of voice that leaves no question what he thinks of my flirtation. What are you doing there, babygirl...it wouldn't really happen like that, though. Not with him, at least, with us. He's never shown the slightest edge of sexuality in his relationship with me - even if there were desires he kept hidden, he wouldn't just embrace them all at once, from something that could simply be an accident.

What he would do instead, though...I don't know. It's hard to say. Anything that he could do, any overture that he could make would have concerns the same as mine. Or even worse, in fact, for him. For all my worries that he'd find out about my fantasies and be repulsed, that he would never look at me the same again, that he would never let us get this close to one another, physically...at least I know that he'd still love me, even if he did find out, and didn't feel the same. He'd still care about me. He'd keep it secret, too, I'm sure, keep my humiliation just between the two of us. And maybe a psychiatrist, if he made me go to one. But him - he'd have so much more to fear, as a father putting hands upon his daughter, with the way things are today. Police. Disgrace. He might even think that it would shatter our relationship, that I wouldn't love him anymore, if he touched me when I didn't want him to...and god, the surge of stubborn, plaintive feeling in my heart, crying out against the very notion. It isn't true. It wouldn't be. I love him so, so much, completely, utterly. Even if I didn't feel like this, even if I weren't excited by the thought of us together, I think I'd still be glad to offer him my body, to let him see me, touch me, use me any way he wanted. Just to make my daddy happy. To let him have the pleasure he deserves.

Not that he could know it, I suppose. I don't think it's quite what most girls mean, when they say "I love you" to their fathers. If it's even really true, not just a pretty self-deception...either way, there's plenty reason he would hesitate before he'd act on any urges he might feel. He couldn't really act the savage, the barbarian that he so often claims to be, when he'd basically be risking everything to simply put his hand upon my breast.

So maybe he just wouldn't. The answer seeming obvious, at least now that I've thought of it. Maybe he'd do nothing whatsoever, show no reaction to my touch, as though he hadn't even noticed it. When the only 'proper' thing to do would be to make me stop, it would almost be a bidding to continue on for him to simply sit in silence. Perhaps a minute there before I'd let my fingers drift a little further, another inch across the border, another pause so that he can object. Repeated once or twice, or as many times as it would take until my hand lay firmly there upon his groin, undeniably, until I felt the stir and twitch of his desire underneath the fabric of his jeans. A shape that grows and stretches, bulging upward as the moments pass, rising eagerly to press against my palm - my Daddy's cock, his manhood, his arousal, felt for this first time. Almost held within my grasp...and if I got this far, neither one of us could really doubt the other's interest anymore, but I could show him one more sign to prove I'm his to take, that there's nothing he should fear. If I started slowly rubbing there against his hardness, stroking lovingly along his girth, encouraging the steady, hungry pulse that I could almost feel as he thickened still with every heartbeat. My fingers warming with the heat of his desire, teasing at his lust until resistance snapped inside him, until an instant passed and abruptly I was pinned beneath my Daddy on the couch, my clothing ripped away, exultant in my helplessness as his kisses rain down rough upon my neck, as he prepares to claim his prize.

I could do it. I could really do it, try...I find my fingers even moving slightly on his shirt, stroking absently upon his stomach, an errant effort that I'm slow to stop. A shiver of conviction underneath my skin, tingling with nerves. It's a plan, of sorts, a course of action I could follow. And probably it would end almost immediately with a startled comment and a moment of uncomfortable laughter, lifting back my hand to safety, but I could try, could roll the dice and see what happens, maybe find a story of my own. A confession I could post with all the others, writing how I dreamed and dreamed, and never thought that it would really happen, until the night it did. It'll never be more safe than it is now. Just a touch...he couldn't figure out my fantasies from that, if he didn't have them, too. He wouldn't let my hand remain, unless he wanted it to stay.

Unless he did. Urgent, anguished, how the answer comes, an ache of worry and misgiving in my gut. I don't know, I can't. It's impossible to say exactly what my dad would do. Maybe he would probably say something, if he were unsettled by the exploration of my hand. But if he thought it was an accident, that I didn't even realize what I was doing, he might just as well keep quiet so I wouldn't be embarrassed by it. And if I blithely continued, assuming that his silence was encouragement...it's obvious where that would end, the catastrophe that would unfold. The queasy horror that would clutch upon my stomach as suddenly his hand rose up to push mine off, as he spoke. "What are you doing, Sarah?" His voice not full of lust the way I fantasized about, but troubled, shocked, crawling with a visceral revulsion. It could still fail, easily, this scheme that I imagine. It could crumble to disaster, poison the relationship that we have with one another.

And what's maybe worse than that, it could succeed.

Crazy, probably, how much the thought of it still frightens me. Absurd. After all the fantasies I've had, all the nights and afternoons I've touched myself while thinking of my father, fallen into ecstasy imagining the two of us together. Slipping off into a dream about him any chance I get - I should want it to be real. And I do. A part of me. A big part, even. It's exciting, thrilling, the thought that it could really happen...but it's terrifying, too. The change that it would be to our relationship. It would turn everything around, complicate the bond between us, the affection which had been so simple. Adding in new expectations, new roles that each of us would have to play, duties that I can't pretend I know too well. The anxiety, the self-consciousness of sex and of romance. It could never be as easy as the stories make it sound, the effortless surrender into bliss they almost always paint. The fairy tale. I dream about a love that lasts forever, when I've barely even hit six months with either of the boyfriends that I've had. Even if he did want me, even if he felt some instinct of desire, a temptation he was willing to indulge, it doesn't mean that this would lead us into anything except disaster.

All too easy to envision, that. If we tried and failed, if it wasn't like we thought it would be, either one of us. Or even if it worked a while, a year, before the secrecy and shame outweighed the thrill of the forbidden - what then? We couldn't ever take it back, what we had done, couldn't just pretend it never happened. It would change things once again, drive a barrier between the two of us, a wall. We would never be as close as this again, after that, our actions held restrained by memory, regret. And it would be my fault for stepping forward here, for making him decide.

Perhaps it's cowardly of me, the weight that seems to carry. Or selfish. I mean, if it were him that started it, if it happened like it mostly does inside the stories, triggered by a father's hand, his lips, his hardness pressed against my thigh...I'm pretty sure I'd go along, despite the shrill and nervous warble of these worries in my mind. If I had only to surrender, to submit. Which is always simpler, I guess, to be in the passive role. For him to tell me what I had to do, instead of trying to be seductive on my own. But I think I could forget my doubts and let myself be taken, be ravished and possessed, if it were him that really started it. If I were only following my Daddy's orders, doing what he said. It wouldn't be my fault that way, if things went wrong. It wouldn't even be my choice. Or it would be, but it wouldn't. I'd be giving up my choice to him, my will, surrendered for safekeeping. And maybe it would be a better omen, too, a better prelude into something that would last, if his need for me were strong enough that he would be the first to try, despite the risk he would be taking.

Without that, though...my hand stays where it is, resting softly on his stomach. I can't. I shouldn't go for something so direct. Not now, at least, not yet, when all I have to go on are these tiny crumbs of possibility, of hope. It's better to be careful. Better that I just enjoy the simple pleasure that I find in being here beside him, take my satisfaction from the little fantasies it spurs. Let him have a chance to think about the evening that I've given him, the awkward shadows of flirtation that I've tried to show, hints and glimpses of the body that could be his prize. If he wants it. If it's even an enticement...and I can't help thinking of that other world again, where a girl could ask her father if he thinks she's ugly, and the answer she receives could be more than blandly reassuring words.

There's more I had intended, too, along those lines. Temptation. Giving him an opportunity to act upon whatever he might feel. And though the foolish, dreamy part of me is less than eager to release the thought of touching him myself, she's mercurial enough to switch allegiances as minutes pass, spinning out new possibilities for what could happen if I follow through. Egging me along with little images, dreams and visions set to tickle at the center of my thighs. I can't pretend it doesn't frighten me as well, of course - but this time I think the heat inside of me is stronger.

---

It's another twenty minutes til I try. Twenty minutes spent with glazed and lidded eyes, paying more attention to the fiction in my head than to what's on the screen - I hardly even notice when we pass the climax of the movie, when it starts to wind back down. Our drinks long finished, resting on the coffee table counter, the night outside now fully settled. Late enough that I could halfway plausibly be sleepy anyway...it takes that long before I feel the yawn rise up inside of me, and recognition sparks a nervous shiver of excitement down my spine. Showtime.

It's critical, the yawn. I didn't trust myself to fake one out of nothing, at least convincingly. I wasn't comfortable with faking one, at that. Besides, it gave me something of an exit, to hinge my plan on needing it; I could chicken out that way, and tell myself it was because I hadn't gotten tired enough. But here it is, and even if I don't think that I can manufacture one completely, it's infinitely easier for me to just exaggerate, embrace the one that's really happening. To play it up for all it's worth. Stretching languidly against his chest, arching back my spine, sighing deeply, even curling my toes - for all that he can't see them. And though I practically expected it to happen, it still startles me a bit to hear him speak for only like the second time since the beginning of the movie. "Tired?" Pretty normal, actually, the way he sounds.

"Mmm." I can't be too cogent here - I just look up a bit to catch the corner of his gaze, smiling sweetly. Hoping that my glassy vision strikes him as a symptom of fatigue. Or of inebriation and fatigue. Which isn't even that far off, in fact. "Yeah." Spoken slowly, fuzzily, the implication stronger than the words.

"Really?" He's surprised - I can hear it in his tone, atop its casual inquiring. Understandably. This isn't really all that late for me. I think it's only nine-ish, something like that. And I feel a trifle guilty just for this small deception...but he doesn't have a lot of reason he should doubt me, I don't think. A moment's pause for thought before he answers further. "Well, we could always stop the movie, if you want to go to bed. Finish it some other time."

"No, no." I only half-pronounce the words, slurring slightly as I lay my cheek back down against his shoulder. nnho, nnho. I even practiced it a little bit this afternoon, before my dad got home. Laying on my bed, my pillow playing as his chest...not these words specifically, of course. Just how to sound as though I'm on the very verge of sleep. "I want to finish now, even if I fall asleep. I'll just...mm." I trail off vaguely with a brief and quiet hum, a sigh, feeling slightly clever as I do. It doesn't make a lot of sense, that answer, doesn't carry any clear suggestion for what would fit into the hole I left. But it doesn't really have to, if it's supposed to be the mumbling responses of a girl just a step away from dreamland.

"All right, then." Softly. I can hear the tiny chuckle of amusement in his tone, acceptance as we settle back again to finish off the film. Warm. His voice, his body next to mine, kept apart by just a few thin scraps of cloth. His sturdy palm still loosely set upon my shoulder - chaste, but still a symbol of possession, almost like the ones I dream about. Familiar. Close. The weight and presence of my father's hand.

He doesn't notice when I close my eyes. At least, I'm pretty sure he doesn't notice - I can't imagine how he would. Likewise, there isn't much to call attention to the moment when I stop myself from moving to lay instead just slack against him, breathing slow and even. Or as slow and even as I'm able, considering the way my heart is beating. Not until the movie ends a dozen minutes later, maybe two, and I feel him shifting slightly underneath me as he reaches out for the remote, hear the click and hum of the television turning off. A comment, quiet, almost underneath his breath. "Well. A bit unusual, maybe, but I didn't think it was too bad." And then a trifle louder, when I fail to respond. "How about you? Up to par?"

It isn't hard to keep myself from answering - I hardly even paid attention to enough of it to form a real opinion for myself. Instead I only sit, laying on his side unmoving as he shifts again to look at me. At least, that's my best guess for what he's doing. "Sarah?" Gentle inquiry, as it maybe dawns on him that I'm 'asleep'...that was the goal, of course, the idea that I had. After everything this evening, the fragments of romance, the slight suggestions of the film, to leave myself unconscious in my father's arms and see what he would do. Give him the chance to act on any kind of a temptation he might feel.

It's one of the confessions that inspired the idea, mostly. One that I believed was real. The man who came home late to find his daughter passed out on the couch, half-undressed and badly drunk, sleeping off some party she'd attended. He'd looked at her before, he said, noticed how her body had developed, but he'd never really felt himself particularly tempted. He was her father, after all. That's what he'd always told himself, what had always seemed to settle things before. He'd even tried to wake her for a while, until repeated failures showed him just how far out of it she was, made him realize that nothing he could do would wake her from her drunken stupor.