Reality is Different Ch. 05

And does it even make a difference. Whatever way the reason goes, I didn't feel anything for Andy past a certain vague comradery, alternating with discomfort. While my dad, my Daddy...it trembles yet inside of me, the yearning he inspires. It thrills delicious through me when I gaze upon his features, when I listen to his words. And in the spark of this reflection, I hardly hesitate to add a little more. Looking at him, from the corner of my eyes. "You must have had women tell you that you have a nice voice."

He only seems to shrug at that. Just easy, unconcerned. Amused. "Well, I suppose I haven't gotten any complaints, at any rate. I usually consider that to be a victory." Laughter sparkles in his eye, good-natured. "Just out of curiosity, did you enjoy yourself at all, or should I call up Frank and let him know his kid's a completely unappealing lump?"

"Mm. I mean, I didn't hate it." I answer somewhat distantly, after a breath. "We had an early dinner, and he took me to a stand-up thing. Um, a comedy show, you know, at that old theater downtown. That part was pretty fun, I guess." A beat. "We talked a little, too. A bit. We have some things in common, even. Read some of the same webcomics." My smile is a little sheepish, saying that. Embarrassed. "He was nice and everything. But it's like - he was too nice. Or...maybe 'nice' isn't even the right word. It just seemed like he didn't ever want to disagree with me. He didn't really tell me his opinions about anything, practically, until he asked me mine. Except - once, near the beginning, we were talking about music, right? And he says he'll listen to everything but rap and country. And I say that I actually like some of those earlier country singers, from the 70s and stuff, like Jerry Reed. And so then he turns around and says that yeah, no, definitely early country's good, he likes that too. And can you guess the one singer that he said he likes?"

"Hm." Dad's mouth quirks up in wry commiseration. "I'm going to say 'Jerry Reed.'"

"Bingo." I let out a sour sigh, roll my eyes a little at the recollection. "I mean, really. Come on. That's just...dumb. I probably should have asked him what his favorite song was, of Reed's, but I guess I didn't really want to make a whole thing out of it. Still, though." It seemed so pointless, so trivial a thing for him to lie about. Petty, even if it had been true. So shallow a connection claimed, to say our taste in music is the same, or in movies, or in comic strips, as though that would be a reason we should leap into each other's arms.

I guess the funny thing is that it kind of has been, in the past. With the boyfriends that I've had before, with the guys that I would even sometimes try to talk to, once in a blue moon, bringing up a movie or a television show I'd seen as a way to start a conversation. As something we could talk about, while we got the feel of each other. Or as a flag that we could wave - and I've felt it for myself, the subtle glee of finding out he also watches Doctor Who, or listens to the Cardigans. But tonight it seemed just silly, when I thought about it, a vacuous connection when compared to others I could share. To one other in particular.

It's so much deeper of a link, the one I have with him. My dad. It's all our history together, all my childhood, everything he's done for me, everything that makes me who I am. Or even more than that - it's anchored in our very being, written in our DNA. Carried in my every drop of blood. I'm only here because of him. I'm of him, of his stock, his seed. Like Eve and Adam, created from a part of him to be his wife, his mate...no other man on earth could ever rival that connection, could ever be as close to me as he is, at the very heart of things. No other man could ever matter more.

There's one more thought in that, as well, another little notion that I almost hesitate to entertain. It's crazy, and it's backwards, and I know full well that it's the very opposite of true...but still, a tiny voice inside me wants to rhapsodize that somehow, all the genes we share would only make me better suited as the mother of his child, if such a thing could ever happen. That they would mean I'm tuned and fitted to the task, my body built to fill that function, my womb intended for his seed. Purring senseless deep inside of me that any sons or daughters I would give him would be even more 'his children' than the ones that any other woman in the world would bear - and the thought of that suffices to call up a fantasy I've had a couple times before, played back in a flash inside my head. The one where he declares he's going to knock me up, and frowns at me when I respond with shocked denial. Where I'm bent across the armrest of the couch, my face pressed down into the cushions, my wrists held pinned behind my back. My bottom lifted helplessly into the air for him to use, or to abuse...

He starts out just with little swats, spanking mostly gently through the fabric of my skirt, telling me I shouldn't contradict my Daddy. Explaining that it isn't my decision, that I belong to him, his property to do with as he wishes. But when I try again to squirm away, to free myself, when I answer that he can't, that I'm his daughter - that's when the flame of righteous anger touches harsh and smoky to his voice, when it curls taut and vicious in his assault upon my flesh. My skirt pulled up, my panties torn away; his calloused hand now slaps against bare skin, far stronger than before, and I can only cringe and whimper there beneath, jolting deeper down into the cushions as the pain of my defiance rolls like thunderclaps along my nerves, dampens in the corners of my eyes. His words implacable inside my mind, the voice of god, commandments carved in stone. I own you, babygirl. Your body is my toy. Your only purpose is to please me, to be the little slut your Daddy wants. His meaty fingers probing, pressing painful at my entrance, slick with my own treacherous arousal. His hardness there as well, nosing dangerously between my folds, rubbing so exquisite underneath. Now beg for me to do it. Beg for Daddy's baby.

I do beg. I plead, I pray, I offer to do anything he wants instead. Anything but that - and then I gasp, I shudder in an agony of pain and pleasure as he sheathes himself inside me in a single, savage thrust. My teeth clenched desperate to withstand the strength of the sensation, my fingers balling helpless into fists upon the cushion as my Daddy takes me, as he fucks me hard and fast and merciless. The slapping of his hips against my skin almost as loud and as excruciating as the spanking he was giving me just moments prior...his voice behind me growls rough and low, sneering that I'm right, that I will do anything he wants. That right now he wants to breed me like the little whore I am, to fill me with his seed so he can watch my belly grow, so that anyone who looks at me will know I'm taken, claimed, possessed. So that I'm bound to him completely, not just his daughter but his little wife, the mother of his child, of all the children that my womb will give him.

I struggle to resist, of course, despite the subtle tingle of the words inside my stomach. I buck, I twist, I strive to push him off, to get away - but his strength is that of steel, his grip like shackles round my wrists. He doesn't even have to try. His victory is easy, his conquest of my body so complete and absolute...it flows inside of me, the sweetly anguished thrill of my defeat, pounding hot upon the center of my consciousness in equal tempo with his manhood there along my channel. And my eagerness to fight, my desire to resist his will is further decimated every time I'm drowned beneath those tides, every time I quake and shudder in the throes of an unwilling rapture, the ecstasy he mercilessly hammers from my flesh.

The feeling is a fire, an inferno that consumes my mind and leaves nothing to remain but instinct, nothing but sensation and desire. There's nothing left of me than just the hungry little whore that my Daddy said I was, the toy he wanted me to be, mewling in pathetic, overwhelming gladness as he ravages my tender, dripping puss. Pushing back to meet his thrusts, trembling with joy at every dirty word he growls in my ear - my submission is already certain by the time he groans behind me and accelerates his pace still faster, by the time his thickness swells and pulses deep within. It's only icing when I feel the messy splatter of his cum explode along my battered channel, ropey salvoes painting hot and white against my inner walls, overflowing in my womb. Shuddering, collapsing to a final, cataclysmic bliss certaint that he's just fulfilled his threat, his promise, that my Daddy's seed has taken root inside his little girl's belly...

"-overly enthusiastic, I suppose." It takes a slow, reluctant moment before his voice begins to drag me back, before I'm able to let go the little vision so I can face reality again. Disentangling my focus from the tangled nest of fantasies inside of me to point it at my dad, to hear his words despite the noisy thumping of my heartbeat in my ears. Despite the warmth that tingles on my cheeks, between my thighs. "Can't completely blame him. When you build something up enough inside your head, any little conflict can start to look like a catastrophe. And then you end up making something of an ass out of yourself trying to get it all to go the way you want again." I barely manage to look up enough to catch his wryly self-effacing smile. "I don't think I ever pulled exactly that move there, myself, but I certainly acted like an idiot trying to impress my share of women, way back in the caveman days. Not that I'm trying to really make excuses for the kid, but...well, at least it's something of a compliment for him to act like that, right?"

"Mm." I only hum a quiet answer, staring mostly at my folded hands, my knees. Still not listening to him completely, if I'm being honest. Other thoughts are on my mind, other feelings clutching crowded at my throat. The lingering remainder of my daydream that my consciousness refuses to let go, that tugs so deep and urgent at my stomach. The wild, eager voice that wheedles in my ear, pleading that I've tried the 'normal' thing now, haven't I? I went out on this halfway date, I gave the guy a chance, and my feelings haven't dissipated, haven't weakened in the slightest. Isn't that an indication that it's something real, my desires, my attraction to the man that sits before me now. Isn't it a sign that I should follow them, pursue these dreams that ache inside my breast?

"I don't know." Murmured softly, to myself as much as him. "I guess so, maybe. I just wish I didn't always get my compliments from people I don't like." A feeble smile, served up like an offering.

"Well, better that than insults from the people who you do." It's a gentle teasing in his tone, mixed with sympathy in equal measure. Settling more seriously as he asks, "Definitely not a keeper, then?"

"No." I firmly shake my head. "I mean, like I said, it isn't like I hate the guy. He just didn't...didn't make me feel anything, you know? He didn't grab me. Literally, even; I'm pretty sure he didn't touch me once, the whole time we were out. Which..."

It starts as just a verbal stumble, consternation reigniting on my cheeks how I feel how he could misinterpret what I said, what it would mean about my expectations for the evening. But the thought that follows afterward is almost an epiphany, a sudden fervent hope of something I could say. A touch. If I told him it was something that I liked, for a man to make himself my master, that it was something that I thought about, imagined. That I was waiting for someone to put his hands on me, to take control. I wouldn't have to say that it was him I thought about, wouldn't even have to hint it, really. But he could think it for himself, if he were so inclined. If I made sure he knew how eagerly I would obey, how certain he could be of my submission. It's daunting, terrifying, the thought of really saying it to him, the image of me spilling such a secret, even if it's not my worst...but it isn't quite as scary as I think it would have been, a couple weeks ago.

"...um, which, I mean, just like a little bit, you know, like on the hand or on my arm or something." I falter through the explanation, thinking frantically about what I should say, how I can phrase the feelings in my head without them sticking in my throat. "And I wouldn't especially have wanted him to do it anyway, of course. But he was - I guess he was just overall too careful with that stuff. Especially there at the end, when he asked if he should kiss me."

I take a couple careful breaths before I speak again, piling up together all the courage I can find into the center of my chest. Quickly - I don't want him to change the subject now, to take away this little avenue I think I've found. "That kind of thing, um." Anxious tightness in my throat, still looking at my hands, my fingers curled round each other at my knees, kneading nervously together. "I feel like, a guy I'd want, you know...he wouldn't do that. Or - hah." Tittering a moment's skittish laughter. "Or yeah, obviously, he wouldn't ask like that. But like, the man I think about - I wouldn't want for him to even care so much, maybe, if I was wanting him to kiss me, or to touch me or whatever. He'd just...just do it, you know. Because he wanted to. Even if he thought I maybe didn't."

I risk a glance into his eyes at that, appraising. Unsuccessful. His mouth a thin, flat line, his body still, his brow set low above a gaze of quiet brown, dark and strong and thoroughly unreadable. There's little I can do but swallow down my nerves to push on further, looking down now to the armrest of his chair. "It's something that I've kinda thought about, sometimes. That it would be exciting, if somebody just...if he was aggressive, you know. Authoritative." Somebody. He. The name I really mean hangs heavy on my tongue, unsaid. "If he didn't worry what I wanted, because he just decided I - that I was his, that he could treat me any way he wanted to. If he told me what to do, and if he punished me when I-"

The words are coming faster as I build up steam, as I force myself beyond the fear and the embarrassment of telling him this kind of thing - but it all comes crashing to a halt when I look up again and see his lips now shaped into a subtle frown, their curve a seeming flavor of distaste. Disgust. Suddenly my heart collapses in my chest, my waning fear is vaulted back into its fullest strength, lodges like a rock inside my throat, cutting off what I had thought to say. Leaving me to only stare at him as though I were a deer before a speeding car, frozen by the doom about to strike.

A moment passes in that panicked silence, a second's searching for escape. "...I'm...I mean, I don't..." Reaching desperately for a reversal, to back away from what I've said - but it's too late for that, too late by far. I can't take back the words, can't pretend I was just kidding, that it was only some strange joke. Or...I guess I maybe could have, actually. If I'd done it right at the beginning, instead of freaking out like this, instead of sitting here so plainly mortified. But of course, I missed that chance. And all I can think to do instead is minimize, to play it off as best I can. "...I guess that's pretty crazy, huh." Humiliation in my voice, mingled with self-pity.

"No..." It comes out awfully false, his first response. Flat and blandly reassuring, like an automatic instinct of some comforting denial. He has to cough, and shake his head, and flex a plastic smile experimentally across his face before he sounds himself again. "No. No, that's not crazy, sweetie. I'm just...huf. God. Uh. I understand it's actually quite common, that kind of - of a thing. Of a desire, for a woman to have. Probably even the most common kind, as far as those things go. I only, ah." The breath that he lets out is slightly strained, tinged with an uncomfortable, self-conscious humor. "You're certainly hitting me with these little revelations lately. Not that I'm complaining, mind. I'm glad you trust me enough to tell me. I just need a bit to get accustomed. And with something like this..."

He shakes his head again, a trace. A pained expression flitting through his features, thoughtful, troubled. Inward-looking, til his eyes rise up again to mine. "You know how important you are to me, princess. I'm your dad. And it's bad enough sometimes just knowing that you're going to...going to do what all young ladies do, get yourself involved with a bunch of idiots who don't deserve you. Eventually get married to another idiot who doesn't deserve you. That's - it's one of those things that you learn to accept. But the thought of some lunkhead treating you like that, like what you said..." His lips curl briefly in a sour rictus of a smile, tight against his teeth. But his voice is only gently rueful, wry. "It's about enough to make me want to lock you up in that tower, after all."

Silence for an answer. The only one that I can think, can give. I wish he would, would lock me up, would keep me close. But I can't exactly tell him that. No more than I can tell him that he was supposed to cast himself into the role that I described, that if he thought of other boys at all they should have only been the competition, a pack of fools for him to shove aside when he asserts his own dominion. So I simply sit there, hunching over, staring at my hands. My lower legs pulled back beneath the table under me, as though I might just curl into a ball to flee from my embarrassment.

"Listen. Hey." Strong, but soft - his voice is like an outstretched hand, already bouncing back to its accustomed self-assurance. Reassurance. "Don't worry about it. Like I said, it's a pretty common thing. You shouldn't have much trouble finding someone, ah...someone who can scratch that kind of itch." The euphemism spoken slightly hurried, rushed off the scene before it has a chance to linger. "But you know, what I'd say - what I would say is, you maybe shouldn't be expecting anyone to act like that out of the blue, if you just go on a date with them. It's the kind of thing that people tend to talk about to one another first, let each other know exactly what they like. Because, well...anyone who really treated you like that before you told him it was something that you wanted, that's a guy who genuinely doesn't care about you. That's someone who I guarantee will hurt you, and not in any way you want him to."

He speaks it seriously, cautioning, despite the halfway joke that's tossed in at the very end. The firm and careful tones of fatherly concern...but they relent a little as he presses forward, sliding back towards notes of lightness, humor. "Anyway, though. It isn't really something you should have to look for, I don't think. Not specifically. I'm not any kind of expert on the subject, but I'm pretty sure most guys out there are more than willing to play up the alpha male act if a pretty girl asks them to. Mind you, they might need to practice at it for a while to get it right, but..."

I'd still been mostly stewing in self-pity, in the cringing of humiliation, only inching towards recovery of some composure. But something in the way he says this catches my attention. A certain rueful self-awareness, like the flavor of a memory, reflection. A crooked curve I notice at the corner of his lips, when I raise my eyes enough to see...and somehow, I find my voice again, or at least a piece of it. "Most guys?"

It comes out quiet, hardly taller than a murmur. Probing, with my eyebrow raised - but he understands the wondering implicit to the words. He laughs, a trifle awkwardly, and briefly nods before he shakes his head. "Hell, I probably shouldn't even tell you this. But if we're apparently just spilling every grisly secret now..." Still hesitating for a time, before he pushes on. "Your mom - and don't let her know I told you this, because she'd probably fly back here just to kill me. But she used to be into that kind of thing herself. She'd ask for me to slap her, spank her, when we were...well, I'd imagine you can guess the 'when.' Plus a couple other things along those lines. I suppose I maybe shouldn't be surprised, so much, that you'd turn out to have some similar...proclivities, let's say." Flashing me a faint, half-hearted grin.