Becoming Kitten Pt. 01

In real life, her father is deeply decent and so, so appropriate. She is realizing that she doesn't orgasm want him to be appropriate. Just being in the same room with him last night had flooded her pussy and made her feel electric. She needs him to be bad, to take care of her, give her what she needs. She grinds the vibrator into her clit, as new images of his muscles, his scent, his shoulders flood through her, bringing a new rush of heat to her pussy. With the dream image of her father's face between her legs, Jessica finally--finally! --comes, her twisting her around inside and her breathy whine echoing around the room like the keening of a wild animal.

Panting, she switches off the vibrator and tries to catch her breath, blood pounding in her ears.

---

Sunday evening, Nick is standing at the stainless grill, the purpling-orange of sunset clouds tumbling across the sky before him.

It's fucking hot. All weekend long, the heat and humidity have pushed themselves on him every time he's been outside, sticking like wet leaves. Standing at the grill makes everything feel worse: the sweat runs down his muscular chest and soaks into the waistband of his swim trunks. He swam his workout laps an hour ago but still hasn't put on anything more. It's just too damn hot.

It's been a good weekend, otherwise. He's unfortunately had to spend many hours at his computer working from home, but he's had lots of time with Jessica, too. She has continued to blossom, becoming more open, more interested in spending time together. She seeks him out now, sometimes. Occasionally it feels to Nick as if Jessica needs just to be together in the same room, and he feels empowered by that, by being for her a silent, solid comfort. A few of those moments have been shoulder-to-shoulder tasks like cooking together or sweating together as they dug out the stump of a lightning-struck tree near the pool. A strange bolt of dry lightning had taken down the tree the same night as the crash that killed his ex-wife and her husband. But some of those moments have been simple, like reading next to each other on the couch, her feet tucked under his. She's been seeking out more physical contact too.

Looking down at the steaks sizzling on the grill and thinking back on Jessica cleaning up after they'd finished with the stump, he smiles. "This wood seems magical," she had said, turning the pieces of it over in her sweating hands. "Fire from the sky came and shattered this tree, and turned it into something else..." She had been captivated by the shards of wood as if they were artifacts from some far country. He had been captivated by her. He'd saved a chunk of the charred tree trunk for her, not understanding why.

The coals flare up, drawing his attention back to the present. He's already flipped the steaks and is now waiting to pull them off at just the right time. Turning raw meat into something delicious takes just the right kind of attention and the filets are turning beautifully. He congratulates himself on having created the perfect heat for a hot pink center in his steaks, as he and Jessica both like it.

Looking up, he watches her make a turn in the pool, flipping into what must be her hundredth lap. Orange light from the sunset flickers down her arm, shoulders, and across the muscles on her back. Damn, she looks good. . . he catches himself admiring her body.

The steaks sizzle again and it's time to pull them off. "Jess!" He calls out. "Come eat!"

An hour later, they are sitting at the patio table, their plates cleaned and the lush chorus of cicadas rolling over them from the trees around the pool. She sips her iced tea, while he has decided to treat himself to a second three finger glass of bourbon, and he's feeling the warmth of it course through his veins.

They've had a great time, laughing about the past, talking about the future. For the first time since the accident, things have felt. . . easy. Except for one thing.

While darkness has long fallen, the heat of the day hasn't abated. It stays wrapped around them both like a shroud, and Jessica hasn't changed out of her red string bikini. Her skin, air-dried and subtly tanned, glows under the porch light. He lets himself look. Whiskey has dulled his judgment but not his perception. When she cuts her meat, he watches her long hair swing, her toned muscles tense and release, her young breasts swing heavily with the rhythm of the action. More than once, he's had to adjust his posture to accommodate his hardening cock. When her flirty glances return he wonders if she's noticed his dilemma. He's a father, but he's also a man, and the bourbon has him smirking privately as he allows himself a few deliciously sexual observations of the nubile young body in front of him while still chatting with his daughter as if they are two different experiences.

At some point, the conversation settles down to a quiet resting place, and he leans back to look at the stars. Heat and humidity roll across them like the music of the cicadas, and once again he notices his swim trunks sticking to his skin.

"Hey, Dad...." she says tentatively, looking up through half-lidded eyes. Her tone is no longer playful--it has a... searching quality to it. An innocence. An importance.

"Yeah, baby?" Baby? some remote part of him asks. He's never called her that before. He can tell she's working on bringing up something deep. Her eyes search into the forest around them, obviously looking for words. He doesn't rush her. Finally, she speaks.

"I just. . ." she shifts her gaze her blue eyes finally locking on his green ones. "I want to thank you. For taking me in. For being. . . the man I need right now."

His heart pounds at her words. Some remote part of him wishes he hadn't been drinking, wishes the bourbon wasn't warming him from the inside and making him misunderstand what she was trying to say. His daughter is trying to say something nice, he knows, but it's how she says "the man I need" that he latches on to. He hears the phrase again and again. It has echoes of something. . . inviting in it. He is sure of it. . . or. . . is he? She isn't shy around him - there are towels around. There are robes inside. But she has sat there in just her string bikini and eaten her meat. Her tits swinging, her ass flaring out against the seat. To Nick's tipsy eyes, it seems the heat around them has concentrated itself in her and is radiating out through her pores. She glows.

For a moment, concern flashes across his consciousness. Am I drunk? After all, he hasn't put on any more clothes either. Caught up in his own thoughts, he doesn't know what to say. Fortunately, she saves him from the moment.

"When I came here, I was pretty. . . broken." She lays her hand out on the table, reaching for him. Moved by the aching heart of a father, he reaches across and takes her hand, looking back into her deep blue eyes.

She closes her hand around his, gripping it tightly and continues. "I wasn't sure there was any safety left in the world." There is a tension in her words--she is sharing something incredibly important. Not breaking eye contact and not letting go of his hand, she slowly rises and moves around the table until she is standing before him, the tiny red triangle of her bikini bottom at eye level. Achingly aware of this, he keeps his eyes locked with hers, leaning back in his chair and looking up at her.

Barely contained by the tiny bikini top, her full breasts rise and fall as she breathes deeply. Softly, slowly, she whispers. "Dad, you gave me. . . something. Just by. . . being you."

Her words land in him and lock into place. A deep part of him opens to the idea that maybe he can make up for being absent for so long. Maybe he can give her what she needs. His heart fills with a kind of hungry pride at the idea. He wants that. His desire to learn what she needs and give her everything shakes his bones like a gong ringing.

Slowly, she moves forward and eases herself onto his lap, her legs to one side and her arms around his neck, hugging him. He feels the press of her tight butt on his lap, the heat of her skin against his, the smell of her neck and hair as it brushes close. All these sensations intoxicate him more than the bourbon ever could.

Her face is very close, her breasts inches away from his mouth. Suddenly his smirking, mischievous thoughts take on a deeper quality, swelling far past innocent titillation. Here is his daughter, the girl he cares more about than anything in the world. And yet here also is an incredibly gorgeous, sexy young woman, nearly naked, pouring out some strange magic onto him, setting his body on fire. He hasn't felt this kind of fire in a very long time. He can't speak, his attention fixated on the fact that his cock is rock hard and pressing against her ass. He is afraid to move in case she notices, and he sits as still as he possibly can, breath shallow and quick in the shadows of their patio.

They sit like that for what seems like forever.

"Dad, I like it here." She finally whispers, barely audible over the cicadas. "Can I stay?" She shifts her weight slightly on his lap.

For a quick moment his awareness narrows down to the thin fabric of their bathing suits and all the places their skin is touching. Nick searches for what he thinks sounds like a good, fatherly answer. "Of course you can, honey. As long as you need."

Her skin is very hot against his, and a thin layer of slippery sweat is forming where they are pressed against each other. Looking deep into his eyes, she shifts her weight again, her lips slightly parted. The movement send electric shocks deep into his balls and up his spine.

Wait, a sober voice in him cries out. Is she grinding on me? He hurries to do the right thing.

"You know I love having you here," he croaks, "but, you're getting heavy." He squirms under her, signaling for her to stand. "Can you—"

"Thank you, Daddy." She interrupts, not budging, except to shift her weight again. Shifting, and definitely grinding on his hardness as he tries not to gasp. Daddy? Another alarm in him goes off. She's never called him that before.

"I need you to get up, Jessica. Please just—"

Her hands locked behind his head and her eyes locked onto his, her breath washes over him. She sounds different. Older and yet so very young. "Something tells me you like me right where I am, Daddy," she whispers, this time grinding back and forth in an obvious rhythm. Nick feels suddenly very, very sober.

"ENOUGH!" he erupts, grabbing her hips and pushing her off him like a rag doll, lifting them both to a standing position. Much taller than her, he looks down at her pixie-ish features and grabs her shoulders. "Jessica Hyde, I am your father and that's completely inappropriate. I get that you're confused and. . . it's a tough time right now."

His heart hammering, he is both angry and terrified. He must draw this line, to be a good father, but he doesn't want to push her away for good. He just holds onto her shoulders and looks into her eyes. Her huge, beautiful, deep blue eyes looking up at him. "I love you, Jess. But I don't want you doing that anymore. Do you understand?"

She keeps his gaze, and nods slowly as she whispers "But. . ." She pauses, then slowly, reaches out to brush the back of one hand against the hardness blatantly tenting his trunks. "Daddy, I think you do. . ."

Her touch crackles through him and he is filled with anger at her insolence, frustration at her persistence—and a pounding need. He has a sudden vision of throwing her down and fucking her right there by the pool.

"DAMMIT!" He shouts, pushing her away. Pleading her with his eyes to stop. "I—" he stammers, the spins on his heel and marches away. "I'm going to bed."

The air conditioning in the living room hits him like a cold shower.