Reality is Different Ch. 05

My own expression is considerably flatter, blinking with a broad, ambivalent surprise. That's not something I expected of my mom. It doesn't feel like it fits the image that I have of her, all tightly wound and falsely proper, preoccupied with just the outer face of things. And it's pretty gross to think about, as well. Picturing my mother naked, being spanked - ugh. But what really bothers me about it is the seeming similarity it brings to light, the idea that there's anything I share with her, beyond the biological relationship I can't escape. The hateful thought again that he could be reminded of the woman who betrayed him when he looks at me. It's almost enough to turn me off to it completely, the whole idea of submission to his touch, to his command.

Almost. Because the silver lining of the news would be that this is nothing new to him, not something that disgusts him after all...or at least not in itself. Not if he agreed, at any rate. I wouldn't think...

"Did you, um." The question comes out tinged with an insistent inquiry, a need for certainty that pushes past my hesitation. "Did you do it?" My gaze appraising, venturing to meet his own.

He laughs again, an uncomfortable chuckle. "Well. It's not exactly my first instinct, understand. But I think I managed well enough. Once I'd had a bit of practice, anyway." Smiling wryly as he says it - but his humor seems to dim a little in the momentary pause that follows. The faintest shadow falling on his features. His tone as he continues tastes somewhat more of a confession, an inner secret told. His eyes unfocused, looking through me to the wall behind, or to the past. "I did wonder, just a bit, after everything went south. If that was part of it, if I wasn't - wasn't giving her something that she needed. I don't particularly think it was. We were always rather different people. And that part of our relationship, the physical part, was probably the last to fall apart, when I look back on it. But still. It's the kind of thing a man can tend to fret about, somewhat."

I want to reassure him, to tell him that he's right. There's no way she could have been unsatisfied by him, no way that any woman could. He's a stud, a love machine, the king of every sexual delight - not that I can say such things, of course. Not that I even really know. I mean, I think I can be pretty sure he isn't terrible, at any rate. Mom never hurled any accusations of incompetence in that arena at him, none that I heard. And the fights sometimes were serious enough that I'm pretty sure she would have, if it were something on her mind...but he could be merely decent, adequate, if I think about it honestly, given only what I truly know. It's just the fantasies, the stories that insist he has to be a titan in the bedroom, unequalled at the art of love. Or that whisper crooked logic in my ear, how it doesn't matter anyway, how great he is compared to other guys. If he's the only one who takes me, he'll be the best I've ever had.

All unspeakable - although the thought, the inquiry that does climb up upon my tongue is only slightly less so. Humming with a faint, peculiar hopefulness, an urgency I pray is something only I can hear. "Was it something you liked, too?" I know how dangerous the question is, the further probing that it represents - or at least, I realize it by the time the words are fully spoken. But I feel like I have to know, to get this further glimpse into his dreams before the opportunity escapes me. "Or was it only...was it just because she did?"

His gaze refocuses, and he looks at me a moment. Just briefly, level, his smile flat, and I can't even say if there's a question in his eyes, the way that there so often is of late. The only thing that's saving me from breaking out into a blush is the fact that one's already burning on my cheeks...but when he speaks, his tone is light as ever, the gentle rumble that I know, and I can't help a certain quiver of relief. "Like I said, it isn't my first instinct. But it's...I think most men can come to an appreciation of it. Probably for the same reason that so many women feel an interest. One of those primitive instincts, I suppose, some kind of yin and yang." The gaze that drifted from my features as he answered flits back over to me now, smirking wry and self-aware. "Me, I...I didn't mind. I'll put it that way."

I had retreated when he seemed to show displeasure at my revelations - but I'm leaning forward now, closer to him, eager and excited. Nervous yet, of course, a tickle of it high up in my throat, even as I try to lightly tease him. "Is that why you never spanked me, when I was growing up?" Innocently spoken, more or less. But it's the nearest thing that I can think of which would link me to the notion, that could spur the image of it in his mind.

"You?" My teasing is at least returned. "I'm not sure you've ever done anything to deserve a spanking, have you?"

"Da-a-ad." I playfully protest, a bid for time as I consider what to say, what transgression I can offer. Thinking for a moment if I dare to throw out something naughty and salacious, some sexually charged infraction that could inflame his lusts, his jealousy, even as it demonstrates how badly I'm in need of his correction. Tempting him to make up for the time he's lost...unfortunately, though, I can't really even think of anything I've done that qualifies, and after a couple seconds pass I opt instead for softer fare. "What about the time I set the bathroom rug on fire?"

"Nah." Something like a wink within his tone. "That was for the best. I never liked the color, anyway."

"Oh, of course." I roll my eyes a bit, affectionate, struggling to hold my smile in check. "Well, then what about...what about when I borrowed the truck without asking you, and scraped the side of it all up against a wall?" Just a couple years ago, that one. I'd have been more than old enough for it to have that spice, that spark of possibility, if he'd have ordered me across his knee as discipline for what I did.

He laughs in recollection. "Okay, that time, I might have been a little tempted. If you hadn't practically been crying when you came in to let me know..." His smile curving tender, warm. Starting to relax, perhaps, from the uncertain caution that I pushed him to before. "No, you were always a good kid, sweetheart. Even when you were bad, you were pretty good about it. I never felt like physical punishment was ever really called for."

"Still, though." A little quieter as I push on, hesitation traced across my tongue. The lilting melody of teasing sinking down into sincerity, to an earnesty that thuds inside my heart. "Do you ever wonder if I might have turned out better, if you did? Like maybe I'd be...I don't know. More behaved, or more obedient, or if it would just, um..." God, I don't know how to say it, don't know what I even want to say. The sentiment that aches inside of me gets jumbled, broken, blunted by the rules I have to follow, by the walls that block the way, an incoherent mess of words in place of everything that can't be said. I need you, daddy. I want to be with you. I love you, need you so, so much...I have to reach for anything instead, for passing thoughts, for idle recollections, detritus of the mind that might show just a sliver of the truth.

"I read about - there was this experiment they did, you know, with dogs. Or with puppies, anyway. Where they split them up into three groups, and like...one group, the first group, they only treated them nicely. They would pet them, and give them treats, that kind of thing. And the second group, they only punished them. Not for anything they did, but just as a general rule, like hitting them with newspapers or something. And then the third group, they did both. They were nice and mean at different times, but totally at random, not based on how the dog behaved."

"And it was kind of funny, what they found. Because...I don't really know why they thought to test this, even, what the point of all this was. But they found out that it ended up being the third group that showed the most affection to the researchers. Who would like run up begging to be petted. I guess since...I mean, you'd think that it would be the first group, really, that would act like that the most. But it, um. It wasn't."

Bizarre. I know it is, by the time I'm halfway through the explanation. But it doesn't really hit me fully til I finish. The judgment slicing sharp inside my stomach as the seconds start to pass without an answer, as I see the furrows rising on his brow, the little frown that curves his mouth again, perplexed. God, how weird a thing for me to say to him, to bring up at this moment. I'm not even sure exactly what it would suggest, what I'd intend for it to tell him. It's just something that I've read about online, a second-hand account that stuck in my imagination. I don't know even what it means to me, how it fits into my feelings.

Maybe part of it is that it doesn't fit. Part of the problem with it, anyway. After all, if you were looking at my life through the lens of that experiment, there isn't really any question of the group that I'd be in. Never given any punishment more severe than just a weekend's grounding. Treated with unfailing tenderness, concern and kindness from the man in charge of me. And the thought that this could mean that I'm a runner-up, that some other girl out there would love her daddy more than me, just because he smacked her butt a bit when she was being bad...it feels like a bitter insult, something that I can't believe is true, I don't.

But then just as much, beside the instinct of denial, is the idea that it maybe could be true. Applied to me, specifically. The foolish thought that it would somehow make me love him even more if he just did that kind of thing, if he made me sometimes taste his wrath, his ire, instead of just his gentle fondness. Thinking of the sort of discipline, of course, that the daddies often give their daughters in the stories, that he even said he gave my mom. Little slaps and solid spankings. Being grabbed by his strong hands, being tossed about at his desire - the fantasy itself is thrilling, but even more to think that it would only heighten how I feel. The dream of being so fanatically devoted, desperate to deserve his touch and his affection, of rushing eagerly to meet him at the doorway, like a loyal pet would for her master. The thought of having nothing else inside of me but this, nothing but my adoration for my beloved Daddy...it's compelling and disturbing, all at the same time. Enough to spin my mind in circles, to make my heart beat faster, if it weren't already going like a kettle drum.

And it's crazy, too. I know it is. Obsessive. Jesus christ, I mean, it isn't even something about people. It was an experiment with giving random punishments to dogs. The only kind of a connection that it has to what we've been discussing is the one that I've imagined, that I've just made up in my head. That I couldn't even say to him, if it were genuinely something real. Hardly any kind of a surprise, that he'd be looking at me with that faintly questioning expression once again, the subtle, troubled frown that tells me that I've screwed this up. And if I were really clever, charismatic, if I were as seductive as the girls that I read about, then maybe I could find a way to turn it all around, to repair the moment that we almost seemed to have...but as it is, there isn't much that I can think to do but pull away, try to flee the scene. Speaking faint into that awkward silence, as I rise up to my feet. "Anyway, I've got homework I should-"

"Sarah..."

He interrupts me as I'm halfway turned around, looking to the stairs. Quietly. A little pained, almost, the way he says my name...it feels like it, anyway. And I'm almost afraid to face him, too, anxious feeling in my throat as I turn around again. "Yeah?" Glancing for the briefest moment up into his eyes, before the significance I feel there sends my gaze escaping to the safety of his shirt.

A second passes. Then he smiles slightly, crooked, shakes his head. "Nothing. You've got the right idea. Take care of that homework, huh?"

My own lips flicker momentarily into a shadow of a smile. But I don't really answer anything. Just nod a little bit, turning on my heel a final time to make my way upstairs alone. Wishing once again that things could only be as simple as they are in all the fantasies, the stories, that I could know what's in his heart, find the words to make him feel the way I do. The ache of yearning tugging forceful in my stomach, in my breast, as I step beyond my bedroom door.

-

Calculus assignments, for better or for worse, have a way of clearing out the stronger feelings from your consciousness. Or at least, of clearing everything except frustration. The chain rule, the quotient rule, the product - it seems like there's a million different algorithms that I have to keep in mind, flipping backwards through the book to check back over the examples, and then forward to the end to be certain that I've done it right. It's half past ten before I'm done, and even that is likely quicker than it would be if my professor hadn't given us a relatively small assignment for tonight. It's more than a relief when at last I pop my papers back into my bag, when I can scurry off into the bathroom so I can get myself prepared for bed. Slipping off my outer clothes and sliding down beneath the covers, waiting for my dad to tromp his way upstairs and bid me my good night.

And waiting. I'm not exactly worried, at the start. He doesn't really show up on a schedule. Just heads up usually before he goes to bed himself, any time from maybe nine until eleven. Sometimes when I'm tired I even fall asleep before he gets there, though I'm light enough a sleeper that I usually wake up again when he opens up my door, when he pokes his head inside. But today, tonight - I can't help wondering a little, as the minutes keep on passing. Particularly when the hour comes and goes. I don't hear any sounds of his activity downstairs, even when I strain my ears against the silence. No quiet creaking as he wanders to and fro, no vague and incoherent beetling of a television playing softly through the floor. And I can't entirely prevent myself from wondering if he simply isn't coming, if he maybe just forgot.

Silly, probably, how much I'm bothered by the thought. It isn't like I've never slept a night without his blessing, like it would be something truly shocking if he missed it just this once. It's a ritual we share, but not a perfect one; there's certainly been scattered days on which he hasn't given me that benediction, for one reason or another, or even none at all. And with all the things I dream about him giving me and never actually receive, it seems almost absurd that I'd be troubled by this absence in particular, that a part of me would feel hurt by the denial of a couple simple words, an almost pointless trip up to my room.

Maybe that's the reason, though. When so much of what I think about is fantasy, the little touches that I have of something real become more precious, more important. It's something I can cling to, a scrap of solace to appease the gnawing hunger of my heart...that's the intuition that I feel, anyway, as I slip out of my bed again and pad my way downstairs. Not sneaking, really. Not exactly. Just careful, every footstep planted flush against the wall to minimize the noise when I pass along the squeaky section of the stairs, poking out my head around the edge before I walk into the living room.

Quiet. Dark. He isn't there. Which is pretty much what I expected, I suppose. But it's still a certain disappointment as I tiptoe out into the hall to see the light that dimly seeps beneath his bedroom door, to have the confirmation that he just forgot about the nightly ritual we share. Injured feeling with the implication that it doesn't mean as much to him. Not what it does to me.

I've padded silent to the door, already put my hand upon the knob, before another notion wanders in, called to mind by my accustomed reason for intruding on his space. Remembering the videos he watches, the ones I go in there to see...I don't know when he does it, really. When he masturbates. He doesn't have a huge amount of time alone, without me in the house. Or at least, not time he can rely upon, that would be neatly patterned, known before the moment. I head out with my friends sometimes, on weekends or on other small excursions, but that isn't really something that he could predict, look forward to, even if I hadn't kinda fallen from the habit recently. And I guess probably the thing I'd most expect would be that he would simply take advantage of that kind of opportunity as it arose, that he maybe even did today, while I was on my quasi-date.

But if he has some kind of a routine for it, a schedule...it would almost have to be a time like this. Late at night, when I've already gone to bed, when he can feel more or less assured that he's effectively alone. That's when he might open up his hidden folder, let his sturdy jeans drop heavy to the floor. When he would bring himself to hardness with his videos of teenaged girls stripped and screaming, servicing the lusts of older men.

He could be doing it right now. My breathing shallower, excited, enamored of the thought. His meaty fingers stroking lazily along his manhood, wrapped around his girth, engorged with all the strength of his desires. With his headphones on, his attention on the screen, he might not notice as the door behind him eases open, as I take a step or two inside...there are stories like that, that I've read. Of course there are. Where the girl walks in on her father masturbating, where she's scandalized, and then swiftly gripped with growing fascination, hunger. But I could almost see it happening with him, with us. If I played the proper part. If I spoke up loudly from the doorway, with a tone of startled disbelief, aghast. "Daddy?!"

Maybe he would spin around to face me in his chair, just from the shock of the occasion. Giving me a chance to look at him, to stare, to spend that little instant memorizing every inch and vein and wrinkle of my Daddy's cock. The totem of my fantasies finally exposed for me to see, tall and proud and powerful...but even if he didn't, it wouldn't really have to change that much. If he just closed the player window, tried to quickly shove himself into his boxer shorts - it would still be more than obvious what he was up to. I'd know, and he'd know that I knew, and I'd know that he knew that I knew, as far back into repetition as you'd care to go.

In the stories, they apologize. Pretty often, anyway. And I can see him doing it as well. Even if it just would be a minor thing, a little 'sorry' let out with an awkward chuckle in between the rest of what he'd say...it still could be enough. Because then I could be reassuring, comforting, the way he was with me when I came home a couple hours before. Drifting closer to him as I told him it's okay, I understand the way it is. "You're a man, daddy. You have needs." Pouring every ounce of adoration that I can into the words, mingled with an urgent undercurrent of concern. Maybe I could put my hand upon his arm, a gentle touch. Maybe I could kneel before him on the floor, staring worshipful into his eyes. "It must be so hard for you, the last few years. Not having anybody to take care of you, that way. It isn't fair." I could leave in long, expectant pauses, opportunities for him to make the final move himself, to murmur low and hungry in my ear how I can make things right. How a good girl always tries to make her Daddy happy, if she can. Only if he kept his silence would I have to offer for myself, biting softly at my lower lip before I asked, "Is there anything that I can do to make you feel better?" A pleading in my eyes, a prayer. "Anything at all?"