The Unintended IncidentbyPrevertedMe©
Tom Gill slipped his sedan into park then grabbed his gym bag from the trunk and trotted up the stairs to the front door.
"Hey Honey, you home?" He called out, tossing the bag into the laundry room.
He already knew the answer. And that he would not be getting any response. He could hear music coming from his daughter's bedroom, its volume keeping her from hearing him. At the little bar that set against one of the living room's walls he poured himself a drink. With glass in hand he headed down the hall. He stood outside his daughter's room for a minute, mentally steeling himself for what he expected to find on the other side of the door.
"Hey Missy," he called, knocking at the door. "You decent? Can I come in?"
The music quieted and the door swung open.
A sudden surge of mixed emotions coursed through Tom.
His nineteen-year-old daughter stood in the doorway wearing a fuzzy, pink sweater that clung to the curves of her full c-cup breasts while leaving her lower abdomen completely bare. As if the revealing sweater wasn't enough, her pleated skirt hung down just enough to cover only the very tops of her thighs.
These were the things that first registered in Tom's mind. The kind of things that caused single fathers to have sleepless nights. These sorts of clothes. The kind their little girls wore when they grew up. The skimpy outfits that flaunted their womanly bodies. The provocative outfits that Missy had been wearing more and more of lately.
But then he looked into her eyes and all he saw was his little girl again. Even if those large daddy-melters were presently adorned by a light coating of eye shadow and mascara, they were still the sparkling brown pools he had floundered in for years. Between the limpid pools sat a delicate little nose. And below that, a set of graceful lips painted a muted red. Surrounding these soft features was her auburn hair; loose and flippant, hanging just past her shoulders.
This view, and the consequential tug at his heartstrings, conflicted with Tom's first emotions. They reminded him of how he wanted to protect her, to shelter her from the bad parts of the world.
"Hey Honey," he sighed. "Plans tonight?"
"Yes, Dad." Missy answered with a tone that conveyed the question was silly.
"Christy and Amber'll be here in about an hour."
"Then you've got time to talk for a few?"
"I guess," she shrugged. "Let me finish my make-up and I'll be out."
"I'll get you a soda," Tom volunteered.
Walking back down the hall he heard the bedroom door shut behind him.
In the kitchen Tom dropped a couple ice cubes into a glass then poured soda over them. The collection of tormented thoughts filling his mind mirrored the dark liquid's violent swirling and hissing bubbles. He didn't want Missy going out again tonight. Not again. He just wanted to spend one evening not worrying about where she was . . . or what she was doing.
For over six years Tom had been a single parent, ever since the day Missy's mother had decided she missed her youth and took off. At first Missy and him had bonded over their shared betrayal. But as the years passed Missy pulled away, growing more independent and expanding her circle of friends. A few months before graduating high school she'd started staying out way too late and Tom's restless nights had begun. Now mere weeks away from starting college, she went out every night and came home at all hours of the morning, sometimes in obviously impaired states.
I just wish she'd stay home one night. Tom thought, jabbing a straw into the soda filled glass.
The stress of it was wearing on him, with his daily trips to the gym possibly the only thing keeping him from snapping. He had talked her into attending the local college so that she could live at home, saving him some on the expenses. But with the way things were he had to wonder if this was a good idea. He already felt like a prisoner to his situation, always worrying and waiting for her to get home. Maybe it would be better if Missy was away, living in a dorm, so that he wouldn't have her disruptive antics constantly thrown in his face.
I don't know, he thought, turning to leave the kitchen.
That was when he noticed the bottle of prescription sleeping pills setting on the counter. During his annual physical a couple months earlier the doctor had prescribed them in response to his stress. The bottle's image caused him to instantly formulate an idea. An idea that he immediately pushed aside due to its immorality. But one that obstinately resurfaced.
At least I'd know she was safe, he heard himself thinking. And I could spend one night at peace.
This argument was enough to make him hesitate on his path from the kitchen.
No! It wouldn't be right, he argued with himself.
But then, even as that argument was forming, he saw his hand reaching for the prescription bottle. His body ignored his mind as he snapped the lid off and dropped a pill onto the counter. Using utensils he smashed it into a fine powder that he poured into Missy's soda. Stirring it he made the powder disappear.
He had barely set the glass on the coffee table when Missy appeared. Any addition to her make-up was imperceptible. In her hand she carried a pair of strappy high heel shoes, obviously intending to where them out, but not wanting to put them on just yet. This meant that his 6 foot frame still towered over her by more than 6 inches when they hugged, his strong arms wrapping around her and affectionately squeezing her demure body to him for a minute.
Sitting in one of the easy chairs she set the shoes on the floor and took a long sip of her soda. Tom stepped over to the bar and added some bourbon and an ice cube to his glass.
"College starts in a few weeks," he mentioned as a conversation starter. "You got all your books?"
"Yea. Me and Christy went yesterday and got the last couple."
"Good." He took a seat in the other easy chair, glass in hand.
"How was work today?" Missy took another sip of her soda.
"Okay. There was a moment of near panic when someone thought we'd missed something on an important calculation."
He watched her take another sip and he suddenly realized that he had no way of knowing if, or when, the pills would kick-in. Nor how they would affect Missy. He had acted without calculating, just smashing up the pill and dumping it into her soda without trying to figure out how much he actually needed. Now a series of questions presented themselves. Would the soda's caffeine counter the pill's meditative qualities? Had he given her enough? Too much? What would happen if it didn't kick-in until she was out and had a drink or two?
"Any special plans tonight? Or just hanging with friends?" He asked her, trying to mask the panic starting to boil up inside him.
I've got a good 95 pounds on her and one of them can hit me in like 20 minutes, he silently told himself while barely hearing her answer. But then I don't drink a lot of caffeine and usually have a drink before taking them.
"What about you, Daddy? You doing anything tonight?"
"No, Baby. I'm just gonna sit at home and watch a movie." He sipped at his drink and stared at her, trying to discern any sign of the pill's effects beginning.
"Poor Daddy," she offered. "Such a boring life."
"It's not all boring. You provide it with a sense of excitement," he grinned. "Waiting up for you. Worrying."
"Oh Daddy," she brushed the comment aside. "I've told you, you don't have to worry about me . . ." the sentenced trailed off as Missy's mouth opened in a deep yawn.
Tom's heart leapt and his breath caught.
"Yea, well, I've told you Honey, it's my job to worry about you," he said, then stifled his own reactionary yawn.
"I know. You're such a good Daddy."
Tom couldn't stop a pang of regret in response to this last statement and the obvious conflict with his most recent act.
Missy took another sip of her soda. The glass was now nearly empty.
"So unselfish . . ." she whispered as an afterthought.
Sipping at his own drink Tom watched her set her glass down then partially snuggle into the corner of the chair. He saw her struggle with her eyelids as they grew heavy and tried to close.
"I don't know what's . . ." she yawned again, "up, but I'm feeling really tired."
"Maybe you should take a quick, ten minute nap," Tom suggested after reflexively yawning himself.
"Yea, maybe . . ." she snuggled deeper into the chair's corner, her head leaning into it and resting as her eyes slowly closed.
Within moments her breathing was light and steady.
"Oh god," Tom sighed with a mixture of relief and conscience.
He stared at her for a long minute, once more seeing only his precious little girl in her relaxed features. But his revelry was soon interrupted by the unmistakable chirping of her cell phone. It lay on the coffee table next to her drugged soda, its face beaming brightly in response to having just received a text message.
His daughter's friends were another piece of the plan he had failed to think through. They would be arriving soon to pick her up. In fact the text was probably telling her that very fact. Grabbing the phone he typed in the code that unlocked it, thankful for having insisted she let him know it. Sure enough, he'd guessed right, the text was from Christy and it said she'd be there in about 10 minutes. It took Tom a minute to figure out a course of action, but once he did he didn't hesitate in talking it. He hit reply then began typing.
'This is Missy's dad. She is very sick and won't be going out tonight. Please leave her alone and let her sleep.'
After hitting send he waited for a response.
Add lying to tonight's list of transgressions.
It didn't take long for a simple 'OK' to pop up.
Certain that her friends would continue texting her, and not wanting the phone's insistent chirping to wake her, he shut it off. Then he poured himself a fresh drink and turned on the television.
He soon got interested in a movie, forgetting any qualms about his actions. In his peripheral vision he saw Missy sleeping in the chair, but paid her little attention, simply content in the knowledge that she was there and not out gallivanting through the night. When the movie ended he went into the kitchen and got himself a glass of water. Commercials were still occupying the television when he returned so he absently strolled over to look down at his daughter's sleeping form. She had twisted around and was curled up in the chair with her legs under her. Her head rested on the arm. At first he just smiled down at her angelic face, feeling the usual parental pride.
But then his eyes wandered.
It was an unconscious act, but it happened. His gaze drifted down away from her face until he was staring at the firm swell of her breasts straining against the fuzzy, pink sweater. From the smoothness of their outline he could tell she wasn't wearing a bra, a fact that made him acutely aware of just how firm the mounds were. That was when his mind wandered to a weird place. A place where he imagined how they would feel if he were to cup and fondle them. A place where he wondered about her nipples, their size and shape. Their color.
What the . . .? He mentally slapped himself when he realized what he was doing.
Pulling away he moved over to his chair and sat down. He tried to figure out what the hell had just happened, why had his gaze roamed over her like that, and why had his thoughts . . . gone . . . THERE?
Another movie started and he turned his attention to it. But it proved less than interesting and his gaze kept wandering back across the room to Missy. When he realized this he tried to concentrate on her face, but his gaze kept shifting. He found himself looking at her bare stomach and legs. Like a lot of girls her age Missy had a soft body without any extra weight. And the outfits she wore, like tonight's skirt and sweater, displayed her body, enhancing her sensuality. This was a major factor in Tom's concern for her. He routinely caught himself looking at her peers with impure thoughts, so he knew what other males were thinking when they looked at her.
How it would be to run my hands up under that skirt . . . The thought formed itself before he realized it was happening. Wait! What?
He shook his head, again mentally chastising himself for allowing such a thought to even begin formulating.
I guess it's been a while, he offered himself as an excuse. I'm gonna have to do something about that.
What he meant was that he would beat-off in his bedroom to a private movie that night and then get a date sometime in the next week. Over the years he had made friends with a few ladies who were usually up for a date if they weren't involved with someone. It was just a matter of finding time with one that was presently single.
With these thoughts in mind he turned back to the TV. But his attention was soon pulled away by Missy shifting in the chair. He quickly glanced over at her.
His breath caught in his throat.
She was now laying back into the chair rather than curling up in it, and her legs were no longer under her. Instead they hung over the edge, her knees slightly bent, her feet resting on the carpet.
And they were spread open.
Her already short skirt had ridden up too. Below it her white cotton panties were crisply molded to the curve and crown of her sex.
Tom's eyes locked onto that view. Staring intently he instinctively memorized every miniscule detail of it. The way the pantie edges traced the slight indentations where her thighs met her pelvis. How her mound curved up from these lines into the delicate crown. The barely perceptible outline of her labia pressing at the crisp cotton material. And the way the panties dipped down between her legs, disappearing beneath her.
Fuck. That . . . is . . . beautiful. He silently sighed.
He continued to stare at his daughter's crotch for several moments, his heart racing as his eyes devoured the image again and again. He even grew convinced that he could make out the delicate outline of her feathery hairs through the panties.
What the . . .? For the third time that evening he mentally slapped himself.
Continuing to chastise himself he walked into the kitchen where he added water to his glass just so he'd have something to do. Standing at the counter he tried to make sense of what was happening. He couldn't believe his own actions. The way he was looking at his own daughter. And the thoughts running through his mind.
"It's gotta be the stress," he told himself. "And I just really need a date. I'll call Angie tomorrow. Or Karen."
With this decided he took a drink of his water before stepping back into the living room. A wave of relief rolled through him when he saw that Missy had once more shifted in the chair and was no longer displaying herself as she had been when he'd left the room. Instead she was turned partway on her side with her legs closed, her knees perched precariously on the edge of the chair. Her head was once more resting on the arm while her own left arm was tossed up across her face and her right was snuggled under her.
Turning his attention to the TV he dropped into his chair. After a minute he glanced over at Missy.
Again his breath caught.
Sitting gave him a completely different view than when he had walked into the room. And while his initial relief remained intact, he couldn't help noticing the alluring vision her new position offered.
The way her body was curved and balanced on the chair edge provided a tantalizing profile. The way her arm was thrown over her head pushed her chest out, making her firm breasts strain against the sweater even more than before. Below it her tummy and sides were smooth, her flesh shimmering. Her skirt was still riding up and now he could just see the bottom edge of one side to her panties where it curved around the very top of her thigh. From there her legs curled down and around, soft yet tone. And so delicate.
Holy fuck. It's no wonder she's so popular, Tom thought with an odd mixture of parental pride and male lust that he couldn't suppress even though he knew he should.
It was true though. Missy didn't lack admirers. And he knew, or more accurately he assumed, she wasn't a virgin either. She'd been too serious with too many boys over the years for one of them not to have talked his way into her pants. It was just something Tom had come to accept.
This was his train of thought while his eyes continued to crawl over her. His gaze inched its way up and down her legs several times, admiring their delicate shape. At their top he stared at her disheveled skirt and the minimal glimpse of her panties it presently allowed. Her left arm shifted back a little, jutting her chest out slightly more, and his eyes crawled over the swell of her breasts as they gently rose and fell with her breathing. She shifted again, rolling forward a little to present the very bottom curve of one taunt asscheek from under her skirt.
Okay. Okay. Wait just a minute here. What in the fuck am I doing sitting here looking at my daughter with these thoughts racing through my mind? This ain't right, damn it. She's my daughter.
But even as he actively tried to shove the appreciative thoughts aside, they continued to thrust themselves to the forefront.
Then Missy's arm dropped away from her face, uncovering her angelic features; her little mouth and delicate nose, her lightly shaded eyelids. All of it framed by her auburn hair, now messy and tousled as she slept.
Shit. I need to put her to bed, he suddenly told himself.
His intention was to protect her . . . from himself.
The idea was to carry her to her bed then take his uncontrollably lecherous mind to his own room and "relieve some stress."
Switching off the TV he stepped over to look down at her sleeping form once again. And once more his gaze spent several long moments crawling over her body, devouring her curves and soft edges. The thoughts about how it would be to touch her, to run his hands over her warm body, were quickly reawakened. He forced them aside, at least temporarily, with yet another mental slap across his face. Then he bent down and slipped his arms under her. Lifting her from the chair he cradled her in his arms. As her lithe body snuggled into him he felt the protective father in him reemerge and he carefully carried her down the hall and into her room. Laying her across the twin bed he gently pulled his arms out from under her. As he stood up Missy shifted around, rolling onto her back at an angle across the mattress.
Tom froze, his heart leaping into his throat.
The light from the hall was falling across her body as it lay angled across the bed, her head resting near the one side and her hair hanging over the edge. Her legs were tossed out, her ankles crossed and dangling over the opposite edge. Her skirt was just as disheveled as it had been in the living room, riding up and reveling the bottom portion of her crisp white panties. Her arms were splayed out to her sides, putting her chest on full display.
It was this region that had caused Tom's heart to leap.
Somehow her right breast had slipped out from under her little sweater. The compact mound jiggled imperceptibly while the portion of the sweater that was supposed to be covering it was piled above it, its minimalistic clump proof of its skimpiness.
Tom stared down at the mound, hypnotized by its ripeness and its pink areola.
Reflexively he reached out with the intention of slipping it back inside the sweater. In slow motion he saw his hand advancing toward his daughter's breast and for a second his moral compass made him hesitate. With his fingertips mere millimeters away from touching the creamy mound he questioned whether he should actually be doing this or not. In that brief pause he told himself that the skimpy sweater would likely prove unable to hold either breasts through the night, and so slipping it back under now would only be a temporary fix.