Reality is Different Ch. 04

I'm far too overcome to answer him coherently, too lost inside the pleasures of his touch, the sudden ache of my elation. I can only moan and whimper up at him, crane back my head to look up plaintive and adoring to his eyes, to let him see the eagerness of my devotion. Affirmation in my gaze, in the desperate fingers that are clutched upon the covers at my side, the tender neck I leave exposed for him to grab, to squeeze. He understands. Of course he does. He sees through me like glass, he knows my heart, my longing, knows there's nothing in the world I want more than what he said. He didn't even have to ask. It's only for my benefit, the offering of it. For the joy that beats inside me as his hand lifts up to stroke along my skin, my chest, my jaw, to curl again across my cheek. A velvet grip that hints of iron.

"Then cum for me." The growl in his words lurks at just the bottom of perception, more felt than heard. Strength and softness mingling in their command. "I want to see it, Sarah. I want to feel you cumming on your Daddy's cock." Ardor throbs inside my consciousness as he accelerates again, squeezing forceful through the tightness of my virgin channel, filling me so thoroughly, so deep. Completing me with every thrust as he erases all my emptiness, all of my uncertainty and doubt. This is what I'm made for, what I'm meant to be - a vessel for my Daddy's love, his lust, a willing receptacle. My body stretches just reluctantly around his mighty shaft, flexing for his passage, hugging close around as though to hold him in, to keep him there inside of me. My nerves inflamed with agonized delight, desperate to extend that perfect little instant where he's buried in me to the hilt, when his crown is kissed against my womb, when our hips collide in such a shattering of pleasure, and I know, I know that I belong to him...

Scarcely seconds til I'm driven to the edge of rapture by his strong and skillful thrusts. He could shove me off without a thought, I know, could play my pleasure like a harp, send me into ecstasy at any moment that he chose - but he just holds me there upon the precipice instead, staring solidly into my eyes, hypnotic. His gaze of brown and green, so dark and hard and powerful, penetrating to my soul. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't look away. "Do what Daddy tells you, Sarah." As he speaks the words, his thumb hooks up to slide between my lips, to probe into my mouth, the meaty digit muffling my moans beneath its girth - and instantly I leap to bathe him with my tongue, to seal my lips around him, to lick and suckle at that blessed presence, worship him the way he's due. Lapping soft and tender at his skin, welcoming the richly textured taste of oil and dirt. I adore it, live for it. The taste of Him, my Daddy, scraping rough and tantalizing on my consciousness, my body aching in an anguish of delight, resonating with his words. "Cum for Daddy, sweetie. Show me you're a good girl. Show me that I own you, princess." One more order falling husky on my ears, his voice the only sound I hear. The only sound I want to hear. "Do it now."

Obedience. I can feel it in my stomach, in my hips, the weightless little flutter as I dive across the edge. Hanging for an ageless instant, that tiny moment when you know the dam is broken but the water hasn't reached you yet. Anticipation sharp as knives...then it hits like a tsunami, and my body arches upwards, shivers, spasms, drowning in the tide of unendurable elation that comes pouring raw along my nerves. "uhnnnn...daddieeeee...!" The words are only vaguely shaped, instinctively, whimpering them pitifully around the thumb still planted in my mouth. The one I suck upon as though it really were his own. "daddy...god, daddy..." Like a mantra, like a magic spell - my pleasure burns a little hotter every time I say the name, every invocation strengthening the fever of my fantasy, the urgency of my release. My fingers working frantically between my thighs, fluttering upon my clit, slipping slick between my petals, begging that the joyous madness of the moment will persist a little longer. Pleading to wring out every drop of satisfaction that my body has to offer. Giving everything to hold on to that crystal glow inside, the perfect ache of ecstasy that rolls in waves as sweet as syrup up my spine, that tingles so exquisite on my skin. "Daddy..."

It slows, eventually. It always does, the eager bucking of my hips, the rapid beating of my heart, the aimless twitching of my legs beneath the covers. The cacophany of rapture playing out its last few wild notes before it settles down to silence, lets the quiet voice of reason speak again. Or try to. So often in these moments afterward I end up leaping headlong into shame and self-reproach, to a biting condemnation of how insane, perverse I'm being with all this. Hissing acid in my mind, how dad would be disgusted if he knew what I was doing, what I fantasized about.

But tonight...my thoughts just wander back to where it started, to the feeling of his arms around me as he carried me upstairs, to the warmth and subtle roughness of his hand against my cheek. To the little goodnight kiss my father planted on my forehead, the love and tenderness that seemed to flow so sweetly from that momentary contact. I dwell on them, the way they felt inside me, as I try half-heartedly to straighten out the covers where I kicked them out of place. Even if the rest of this is all impossible, insane, if he'll never think of me the way I have of him...there's something special, still, in being close to him like that. In touching him, in being touched. Something that isn't sexual, so much - or that's maybe more than sexual somehow, deeper than it, further. Belonging. A little girl with her daddy, taking comfort from his hands, from his presence at her side.

It's something that the stories call upon, of course, painted up all steamy, sexy and enticing. But it's reality as well, the way things really are when you're a child, when everything is simple, innocent. When love and touch are intertwined so close together, when there's no pillow quite as comfy as your father's shoulder, no chair as pleasant as his lap. No goodbyes without a kiss, or at least a hug that's strong enough to lift you up into the air. And it seems suddenly so bitterly unfair that it should have to stop because you get a little older, that he would think he has to hide such simple, earnest signs of his affection, show them only when he thinks that I'm asleep...it's even my own fault, in part. Growing up, pushing him away, trying to assert myself as my own person, no longer just a little kid. And it takes til now, I guess, for me to recognize the things I've left behind, I've lost. The lack that maybe even helps explain how obsessed with all this I've become, turning on to these incestuous imaginings because at least they promise what I used to have, the comfort and the reassurance of his kisses, of his touch.

Something for me to think about, at least. A wandering consideration in the background of my mind as I close my eyes and curl up beneath the covers, starting the descent towards sleep. Still feeling on my cheek the warmth and texture of my father's hand.