Reality is Different Ch. 05

The lesson that I'm meant to take away could hardly be more obvious, of course. If I really want for this to happen, I can't afford to wait for him to do the work, to make the strongest moves. I have to be aggressive, to almost throw myself into my father's arms, or else I'll probably just end up like those other women, looking back to fantasies of things that could have been...in the past, I've always had a million reasons why I couldn't do it, a host of fears and worries, of arguments to hold me back. But I don't feel any of them now. I don't want to feel them, not anymore. I always listen to my head, to the voice inside that pleads restraint, and it always leaves me wanting, waiting for a certainty that's never going to come. It's time I listened to my heart instead, time that I obeyed the whisper of delight which proclaims that this is it, the sign that I've been waiting for, the signal of my daddy's secret thoughts. Like in the stories, where some little clue sneaks through to tell the girl of her father's fascination, setting stage for everything to come. This is where it starts, where my own story would begin. Today. Tonight. Even the date of it seems foreordained - a Friday evening, free of all constraints upon his time, open to whatever scheme of daughterly seduction I could try to put together.

God. My heartbeat pounds inside my chest as I consider it, stirring absent at the food still sizzling upon the stove. There's so, so many possibilities, things I halfway planned before, or thought about and never did. We could go somewhere together, to a movie or a meal, something that would put him into mind of dating...but I think that it would probably be better if we stayed at home, alone with one another. No one else to see us, or to judge what we might do. I can make him the romantic dinner I've considered in the past, put out candles, dim the lights. Music playing softly in the background as we drink and laugh and look into each other's eyes. If I can manage it, the last part there. I can wear the dress I had on on my birthday, the one that made me look 'adult,' he said. The one that saw me fantasize about him for the first and strongest time - it would be poetry to wear it as those fantasies came true, to have him strip it from my body, toss it crumpled on his bedroom floor. A silent witness as I'm taken, as my daddy claims me for his own.

But that's skipping to the end. I hope. There's so much else I need to do to show him my devotion, to make him see how much I need my father's love, his touch. I can try to meet him at the door when he gets home from work, to greet him with a hug, a fervent, close embrace that presses me so tight against his chest he can't avoid reflecting just how much I've grown since I was little, how my body's turned into a woman's, ripe and ready for a man's desire. I can murmur soft into his ear, cooing eager with affection just how glad I am to see him, how I've missed him so, so much today. How I set this up for us tonight, a daddy-daughter date. That's what I'll say it is. I will, no matter if it makes my heartbeat skip to simply think it now. Hanging off his shoulder as we step inside together, burying my cheek into the upper corner of his chest. I'll help him strip away his outer clothes, the heavy jacket that he wears outside this time of year, the belt of tools around his waist...ohh, my god, that could be perfect, perfectly outrageous. Taking off his belt. If I dropped down to my knees to do it, ran my hands along his chest to reach my destination. My face, my lips in line with his arousal as I languidly undo the loops...

It's too much. Yeah. I know it is, I know, even for the thrill of daring that I feel now. But maybe if I took his boots off first, if I had that as a reason why I should be kneeling at his feet. And if I glanced up at him midway as I was working on his belt, looking up with utter supplication in my gaze, my pose, my very aura. A doe-eyed little waif who doesn't understand the things she does, but longs so desperately to please. He'd look down at me and plainly see how much I need my daddy, how gladly I'd obey his whims. He'd notice how I fail to even hide the open neckline of my dress, permitting him to peek in from above, to whet his appetite upon that glimpse...

Not that there's a lot that he could really see, I guess. A note of pity for myself, dissonant against my brighter fantasies and plans. I wish again that I had more to show, a pair perhaps of those 36DDs that the girls in the stories always seem specifically to sport. The perfect size, apparently. But there isn't much that I can do to make that happen, especially before this afternoon. And if I can't show more...I might be better off to show him slightly less, instead. If there weren't a bra for him to find beneath my dress, just the pale hills and valleys of my breasts, beckoning for his attention.

I could go further still, in fact. If I wore nothing underneath at all, removed the pair of panties from the outfit that I wear tonight. Sitting maybe with my legs a little bit askew, encouraging the dress to ride up higher on my hips, so that my daddy will be properly rewarded if he decides to take a peek. And if said anything about it, if he tried to give some subtle notice of my oversight, I could just blush and giggle foolishly, say that I had so much on my mind tonight, I must have just forgot to put them on. Looking up at him expectant through my lashes as I speak the words, daring him to disagree. To lightly scoff, to tell me with a lustful smirk that knows exactly what I'm doing. That I'm going to get what I deserve, for teasing him like this.

God. I'd have to make myself look nice for it, of course. To shave myself down there, completely, bare and clean like the girls in all the videos he watches, practically. Like most of them in stories, too. I've been thinking of it for a while, anyway, but never seemed to find the chance, the impetus. Concerned about how often I would have to do it over, and about how it would even look on me, if it would leave behind some speckling of stubble there to ruin the effect if I just use the normal razor for my legs...maybe I should try to get it waxed, instead, get something professional. If there's even someplace close to home that does it. If I can schedule a time for it on so short a notice, for tonight. And then there's the expense, however much it'd be, and the fact that I would have to basically expose myself completely to the person who would do it. At least, I'm pretty sure that's how it works...guh. Complicated. Quite an anxious little headache, all of the details of preparation that the stories never dwell upon.

It doesn't matter. I'll figure something out. I'll skip my classes for today, buy myself the time to put the rest of everything together. Or everything I can, at least. I'll work out exactly what I ought to say to him, what I should do to shape the kind of evening that I've read about in so many different stories. Maybe even look back over them for inspiration, for moments I could try to weave into our own. Perhaps. Giving him a neck massage, or playing truth or dare, or putting music on the stereo and asking him to dance...things that in the stories served to stoke the father's lusts, to cut away at his resolve until at last he grabs her, until he kisses her with all the hunger he's been hiding in reserve. Strips away her pretty packaging to claim the prize that lies within.

That's the idea, anyway. Almost embarrassingly simple, really. To find out if he wants me, if he feels anything like that at all by simply offering myself to him, in everything but words. Dressing up as sexy as I can, to sharpen any hungers might lurk inside of him, and reassure him that there's nothing he should fear in showing them to me. That I wouldn't scream, or try to stop him. That I wouldn't tell a soul. I could even say it openly, a quiet murmur in his ear. "Daddy, I'd do anything for you." It sounds innocent enough for that, almost. And with the way I feel now, it isn't hard to tell myself that it could work. That it will work, soon. Tonight. All of the ingredients are there, all the bits and pieces of a story like the ones I've read. A man divorced from his terrible ex-wife, living with his daughter, by themselves. The little girl just into adulthood, practically, and humming with devotion for the man who means so much to her. Single, both of them - of us - our souls and bodies aching for a lover's touch.

I'm not sure quite how long it's been since he's had sex. I think he must have, probably, back when he was going out on dates. But it's been almost a year since then, since he basically just stopped. Almost a year without a woman, without the satisfaction that a man requires - the lack of it must burn inside of him, ravenous for anyone that he could use to sate his needs. For a girl maybe like the ones in all his videos, young and wet and willing. A role that I can play for him, if I only choose to try.

Probably it wouldn't be so fierce and forceful as the stories often have it. Not at the start. Even with my worship shown as plain to him as I can bear, he might still hesitate to take advantage. He'd endure throughout the rising tide of his desires, temptation stronger in the pleasant fuzz of drink. He'd hold until the evening's end, until he could retire to his room, let down his guard, grope himself a bit beneath the covers as he guiltily imagines all the things he could have done to me.

That's when I would show up at his door again, changed into a shirt that reaches down to just my upper thigh, that makes him wonder if I'm wearing anything beneath at all. The image of it lodging tight and tempting in his throat...but I would only smile at him, angelic and adoring, hopeful as I scamper near to beg for him to read to me again, the way he did last night. Pouting out my lower lip if he should show the slightest sign of hesitation, swaying slowly on my feet, bowing down my head just far enough that I can assail him through my lashes as I plead for just this little thing, a single chapter, nothing more. "Please, daddy? Pretty please?" The words a little girl might use, excitable and innocent, helpless to resist whatever use her dad might put her to.

He wouldn't have the heart to turn me down. He wouldn't want to turn me down, the animal inside of him demanding that I stay, bullying away whatever cautious impulse he might feel. I can see the flash of steel in his gaze, of danger in the way his jawline clenches briefly tighter, hesitating as his eyes descend across my form...only fleeting, just a hint. His face, is voice is neutral when he finally agrees, patting lightly at the place beside him on the bed, an order that I'm swift to follow.

This time, though, I'm not afraid to slip beneath the covers, too. To cuddle up against my Daddy just as closely as we've ever been, as intimately as a father and his little girl could ever be who haven't crossed this Rubicon already. My hand upon his chest, trailing my fingertips, my nails amidst the scrubby forest of his hair. My cheek against his shoulder, breathing soft across his skin. Our legs halfway entwined...ohh, god, I can feel it, rubbing slowly with my foot on top of his, the tickle of his rougher skin against my sole. Daring further inward, upward as the moments trickle past, as he maybe hits the sexual encounter that a book like that so often has. My shin, my lower thigh caressing slow and rhythmically on his until I'm almost making contact with his groin at every stroke, until I'm not so far away from outright humping on his leg. Until finally he stops his reading, and I can hear the husk of hunger in his tone, the growling of masculine desire underneath the amiable warning that he tries to speak. "You know, sweetheart, that's a little bit distracting."

"What is, daddy?" My answer hums back sweet and trusting, a melody of quiet wonder.

"What you're doing with your leg, there." He coughs a trifle, clears his throat to speak minutely firmer. "You're going to have to stop."

"Oh, daddy!" I disregard his warning with affectionate exasperation, almost giggling beneath my breath as I continue squirming there against him. Murmuring in tones of faint amusement, "Don't be silly. Why would this be distracting?" My hand upon his stomach, playing in the thicker thatch of hair that trails down below his waist.

"It just is." Strained, now - his voice is tight with conflict, harsher with his rightful irritation at my disobedience, and with the gnawing hunger of his own unsated needs. "Come on, now. Get - just lay down there normally. Just..." His body tenses with a pulse of anger, a churning of frustration as I fail to cooperate again, playfully evading his attempts to brush my hand away. Squirming lithe and soft beside my daddy, almost on top, giggling delightedly as though I think it's just a game he's playing. My breasts, my eager nipples rub against him through the fabric of my shirt - he's forced to try to wrestle me away, snapping sharper warnings than he's had to use in years, or ever. "Sarah, stop it," as he grabs my wrists, as I wriggle slippery seductive on his chest, my thigh caressing 'accidentally' across the hardness that he's trying to conceal.

It's not entirely for me, because of me, the tempest of desire and of rage that boils in his gut, that finally collapses what remains of his control. It's everything before as well, everything he's ever wanted that he's known he couldn't have, every prize he's been denied that flashes furiously in his gaze, tightening his fingers painful on my skin as he abruptly rolls me forcibly onto my back, pins my body to the bed beneath his weight. "Dammit, Sarah, that's enough." His voice a growl, thick and thrilling. "You're going to fucking listen when I tell you something." A jolt, a jerk to emphasize the threat, shoving me a moment deeper to the mattress. "You're going to do what I tell you, understand?"

The silence that ensues is deafening. No sound except the beating of my heart, the hissing of my father's breath between his gritted teeth. He looms above me in the dim light of the room, huge and powerful, his hands still locked like steel cuffs around my wrists, holding them against the sheets a little bit above my head - I can't escape from him, can't move at all, can only whisper, whimper my apologies for him to hear.

"I'm sorry, daddy." Faint and trembling, the words, straining with sincerity and with the sweetly textured thrill of fear. My eyes are damp with feeling, glistening for him to see. Pleading an apology that tastes of absolute surrender, of yielding to his will the way that he demands. The way I always should have done. "I'm sorry..."

The tension holds another beat, another moment. I can see the muscles of his jaw clench tighter, feel his calloused fingers crushing briefly firmer round my wrists, his pelvis shifting heavy on my hips. "Oh, Sarah..." A sigh, almost a groan when finally he speaks again. Flavored faintly with his own apologetics, with a shadow of regret for his reaction - but desire echoes deeper in the words, scraping rough and resonant upon his tongue. Neither one of us could fail to notice in the sudden stillness how his manhood presses hard and hot upon my stomach, the shape and throbbing heat of him unhidden by the cloth between. Grinding just so subtly against me, even now, animated by his deepest male instincts, an iron rod against the vulnerable softness of my flesh...

I still don't speak, don't dare to say a word. But my eyes convey a question all the same, glancing down between us and then back up to his face. What are you doing, daddy? My lips just barely parted, flushed a deeper pink. Innocent. He knows I am, can see it plainly printed in my gaze. Just as he can see the trust I have for him, the utter adoration. The eagerness to prove myself deserving of his love. He knows that I'd do anything he tells me to, anything at all, and the feeling of this power rolls like thunder in his soul, temptation quarreling with conscience. One hand slowly drifting down to touch upon my cheek, to softly stroke upon my flushed and heated skin, to hold it tender in his grasp...the moment seems to linger an eternity, conflicted love and hunger flashing in his eyes, before at last he speaks, he whispers, murmurs somewhere deep inside his chest. "Daddy needs you, princess."

"But daddy..."

I don't know why I try this tremble of resistance. Propriety, perhaps. What I'm supposed to say, supposed to do, to be. It doesn't matter why. Almost instantly his weathered fingertips are pressed against my lips, silencing whatever words might follow. Shhh...rubbing gently, perfectly upon those pliant little pillows, crushing them so perfectly beneath his touch. Frightened, fervent feeling pounding mad inside my chest, quickening the breath that hisses past to brush against his skin. Even when his hand retreats, when my heart cries out at its removal, I still don't dare to speak. I only lay there frozen, staring up at him in wide and wordless worship as he tugs my tattered, threadbare nightshirt up about my hips, my waist, my shoulders. As he pulls it off of me entirely, leaves me suddenly completely naked to his gaze, struggling to cross my arms and legs to halfway cover my most secret places. I can't tell if the shivers tickling along my flesh are from the chill that's in the room or from the power of his eyes upon my body. Appraising me. Caressing slow and wandering across my form, on flesh that blushes to be seen, on parts of me that have been hidden from his gaze since I was just a little girl...

"Do you..." The question tumbles from my lips despite myself, despite his admonition. A plaintive whisper, warbling a trifle for the feeling that lies underneath. The agony of want. "Do you think I'm pretty, daddy?"

It takes a moment for his eyes to trek back up to mine, to cross the path again already taken. And even when they do, he doesn't answer. At least not with his words, not right away. He only smiles quietly, the smile that I know so well, soft and self-aware. The look that makes my stomach flutter with desire, with love that throbs inside almost beyond what I can stand. Then his lips are parted, and he answers in a voice like velvet, rich and textured on my soul. "You're beautiful, princess." A murmur that I have to strain to hear above the beating of my heart. And underneath the words, to feel the husk of hunger telling me they're more than just a father's reassurance.

"Let me see you." Just the faintest note of hardness marks the words as a command. I'm still too anxious to obey the way I should, petrified by how my fantasies have come to life. He has to move my hands aside himself as his descend upon my chest, revealing my breasts for him to see, to touch. To squeeze between his strong and sturdy fingers, pinching at my nipples standing tall and firm and pink, hearing how I faintly squeal as he does...he has to spread my unresisting legs apart to find my pouting little puss, pink and glistening with need, to trail the roughness of his thumbtip slow across my swollen lips and watch as helpless spasms of sensation arch my spine into the air.

It's here he pauses, with his fingers spread upon my freshly-shaven mound, tracing tiny circles on my skin. A shadow of a frown upon his face, when my eyes unglaze enough to see it. A taste of warning, subtle in his tone. "Did some boy tell you to do this, Sarah?"

With all the fuzz of pleasure flowing from his touch, I hardly have the sense to understand the question. "What?"

"To shave yourself like this." He growls slightly deeper, fiercer, having to explain himself. Staring fixed into my eyes, as his fingers further dampen on the slick of my arousal. "Only sluts go around without their panties, with their pussy shaven clean. Are you somebody's slut?"