Nothing I Won't Do

I smiled warmly and lovingly at her as I stood up to hug her the way a father should. "It's okay," I said as she wrapped her arms behind me, returning the hug and appreciating the comfort of it. "You're still growing up and learning about boundaries. I understand that and always have. You're my daughter and I love you. I meant it when I said that there's nothing I won't do for you, including and up to putting you in your place when it's necessary." We broke our embrace sort of halfway so that we could look at each other eye-to-eye. "Kind of sobering, isn't it, to feel what someone else is feeling?"

She nodded slowly. "Yeah. I was just so wrapped up in whether or not I COULD flirt with you that I didn't give much thought as to whether or not I SHOULD. When my imagination started going into overdrive, though, I kinda got scared. Scared of myself, mostly, because I could see just how easy it would be to go that far." She completely let go of me and walked further into my bedroom. "Actually, I have a third apology for you. A confession, really." She indicated that I should sit down for this one.

I walked over to my bed and sat at the edge of it, somehow understanding that this next apology was going to be a whopper. "Okay," I said cautiously.

Beth turned around to face my computer, took control of the mouse and clicked it a few times. She was blocking the screen from my view so that I couldn't see what she was doing, but a moment later she stepped aside. On the screen was a Literotica user account. "While you were away I used your computer because mine had gotten a virus. At first, it was so that I could get the latest antivirus updates and fix my computer like you taught me. But when I opened the web browser and saw your Favorites list, I saw this website. Well, you know me, always getting curious about stuff. So I clicked on it. What came up kind of surprised me. I thought it would just take me to the index page. I didn't know you'd set it to the Search page with specific parameters already set in. At first I was kind of upset about it but, after a few days of thinking it over, I decided to read some of them and it wasn't so bad, really. But the thing that really threw me," she said as she turned around to manipulate the mouse once again and suddenly my own profile page was on the screen, "was when I saw your own account. I'm not sure what surprised me more, Dad: the fact that you wrote those stories or that you wrote them so well."

So the cat was out of the bag now and she knew my dark secret. I'd been afraid that this day might come, but never really thought it would. Was I just stupid or did some deep part of me want her to possibly find out? I couldn't answer that one right away, but I began to understand her behavior the last couple of days.

"I became a big fan of your work, Dad," she continued, as though to confirm my burgeoning suspicions. "I read every single one of your stories and couldn't believe that YOU were the person who wrote all of THESE. The safe guy. The careful one in the family. Stories about dads getting their daughters pregnant. Stories about whole families having orgies. Stories about twins seducing their parents. It was like you had this alter-ego personality and I was just amazed by it. Humbled, really. So, when I started flirting with you, I thought that you'd get into it like one of your characters and make my pulse race a little, give me a cheap thrill to be one of your fantasy girls or something, I don't know. But when you said what you did at the mall, all of it became very real and, for a moment, I saw how the fantasy could so easily become the reality. And I didn't want to do that to you. I didn't want to trick you."

I was immediately on my guard at that point. Without even trying to, without taking any kind of active role, I had managed to cause distress in my little girl. "Honey, I can explain-"

She held up a silencing hand. "Don't," she said simply. "You don't need to. Look, Dad, I understand that there's a difference between fiction and reality, okay? It's like, Stephen King may write stories about people being killed by homicidal maniacs but that doesn't mean he's going around Maine with an axe in his hand, right? We all have demons, I guess, and this is probably just your way of dealing with them. I totally respect that. And the way you behaved with me today, the way you controlled yourself despite my best efforts, only confirms that you're not some horn-dog with a letch for getting into his daughter's pants. Well," she blushed, "not until I pushed you a little too far."

"Sweetheart," I interjected, "stop. Hold on, okay? Those stories... yeah, they interest me. Yeah, I've even written a few-"

"Twenty-four," she corrected flatly.

"Okay, MORE than a few," I amended, "But you have to understand something. I've had an interest in those kinds of stories since before I got married to your mother." I then went on to explain how her mother and I both had an interest in incest stories and where our interests were exactly. I also explained how, no matter what our interests in erotic fiction were, neither of us ever gave it serious consideration in our real lives. "When I wrote those stories, you were the furthest thing from my mind," I told her. "Honest to God."

Beth frowned a little at that while she thought about it. Then she looked up at me. "But what about now?" she asked. "What if you write another story sometime down the line and, after today's events, I'm NOT the furthest thing from your mind?"

I gave it some consideration and conceded the point as valid. "That's a possibility, I guess," I answered. "But I haven't written one of those stories in years. Look at the publication dates- the last one was more than three years ago, before Lynn passed away. I've been too busy to sit down and write anything and I'm pretty sure that will continue to be the case until I get out of the Army."

My daughter took a deep, cleansing breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she said, "What if I WANT you to write a story? About me. What if you wrote one and got it out of your system that way?"

"What are you talking about?" I asked. "There's nothing to GET out of my system."

"Bullshit. I love you, Dad. You have no idea how much. And I don't want you to look at me with feelings of guilt or shame. I saw the look in your eyes when you said that, if I wasn't your daughter, you wanted to fuck me. But I AM your daughter and it was a real desire, one that you were barely controlling. As they say: thought may as well be deed. So write about it. I WANT you to. I couldn't bear it if, one day, you just ignore me because your conscience is eating at you. Write about it and get it out of your system."

I shook my head at the idea. "Sweetheart, I wish I could tell you that it worked like that for me, but it doesn't. You'd be amazed at the stories I've written over the course of my lifetime, from all kinds of different genres. Each one of them was the result of inspiration. I've tried forcing myself to write, but it never works out. It always comes out stunted and fake-sounding. Flat." I shrugged. "I just couldn't begin to think of a story I'd write about you or anyone else, really. The writing bug isn't biting and there's no real switch that I can flip to make it happen. Maybe, one day, it will, but I can't guarantee what the story will be about or if it'll even be erotic fiction. But I'll tell you what: if the urge strikes me at some point, if I get sufficiently inspired, you'll be the first to know about it."

"All you'd need is the inspiration." It didn't sound like a question, more like a clarification, I guess. I nodded in reply. "Would you let me read it?" she asked.

I blinked owlishly at her. Why on earth would she want to read such a story? You'd think that would be just a little over the edge of weird. On the other hand, she'd already read my other stories, so reading one more can't be any more damaging, even if she ends up being the subject matter. I answered her as honestly as I could, though. "If you want to, sure."

Beth nodded and started to walk back out of my room but paused at the doorway to look back at me over her shoulder. "You really are a good writer, you know," she told me. "That third one about the twins? I came, like, three times the first time I read it." And, with that, she left me alone to my thoughts and misgivings.

I then realized that today's events were nothing new to her: I'd made her cum plenty of times without touching her already.

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I emerged from my room a few hours later, feeling a bit hungry and having taken a lot of time to consider the most recent conversation with my daughter. I hadn't had lunch and it was nearly five in the afternoon. It was still Beth's eighteenth birthday, and I wanted to take her out for a nice dinner, but I wasn't sure how receptive she'd be to that. From what I could tell, it seemed like she was feeling kind of ashamed of herself, like she'd somehow let me down. I didn't want her to think, for a minute, that I was disappointed in her, for anything. Had she tried to manipulate me and put me through an emotional wringer? Yes, absolutely. But that was a teenager's job, isn't it? She might still be a legal adult now, but she was still growing and one's age is not always an indication of one's maturity level- she probably wouldn't FEEL like a young adult for another six months, possibly even another year. She still had college in front of her and a whole slew of experiences that she could scarcely imagine. Most of MY life was already behind me while most of hers lay ahead. As her father, it was my duty to guide her down that treacherous path to adulthood and I couldn't very well accomplish that task if she didn't feel comfortable around me.

What was I supposed to do at that point, though? I meant it when I'd told her that I couldn't just sit down and bang out a story the way a chef whips up a good soup. The ingredients for creating a believable, worthwhile piece of fiction are infinitely more complicated (no disrespect meant to chefs, mind you- not being a chef, I could be totally wrong). Writing a good story, and that's all I'd ever let myself spend time doing if I DO write, takes a lot more than mere inspiration. It takes time, it takes patience, it takes motivation, it takes lots of experiences to draw upon, it takes... Life. In my mind, a writer's job is to tell the story of his characters and treat them as though they're real people who are simply using the writer as a sort of medium. Whether it's first-person subjective or third-person objective, if the characters don't come through as being real to the audience, the story goes cold and the audience loses interest. As the writer, I tend to write stories that I would like to read. That others enjoy them, too, is merely good fortune (and good taste on the part of my audience, I suppose- you can't see the wry grin I'm wearing right now). If I'm writing a story and I don't buy it as a member of the audience, why continue with it? Why force it? Trying to go back to the beginning and rewriting it will just result in a completely different story. And if I'm not feeling the motivation to write, the words just don't come as easily as they should. It becomes a pointless endeavor.

So how was I supposed to write a story about fucking my daughter when... oh, hell, let's face it, I wasn't interested in writing such a story- I was more interested in living it out in real life. Why was I kidding myself and dancing around the issue? I needed to man up and face the truth of the situation. Yes, Beth had almost completely gotten under my skin and I, against my better judgment, enjoyed the hell out of it. When I uttered those words at the mall there was more than a grain of truth behind them and she knew it. Yes, I was trying to put her in my shoes and force her to identify with what I was feeling, but I was also speaking from my gut- at that moment, I truly did want to throw my daughter over one of those indoor mall benches, flip up the hem of her cute summer dress, rip off her panties (if she was wearing any) and fuck the living daylights out of her, right there in front of God and everybody. If I was a different sort of man, if I wasn't her father, I probably would've tried. She brought out, or at least brought to the surface of my psyche, the savage, carnal animal that resides within most of us. And even though the part of me that dearly loved her as a father managed to retain control, managed to put that beast back into its cage, the desire and knowledge of it still lingered in my mind. I'd had that desire, that clear and unbridled lust for my own daughter, and there was no escaping that fact.

Strangely, though, I didn't feel too guilty about it. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I wasn't a sole conspirator in that episode. Beth really had pushed my buttons and kept poking and prodding at my capacity for self-control every chance she could. At breakfast I'd warned that she was playing with fire, that she might get burned, but she took that risk anyway. Yes, she had her reasons and some of them, even if I couldn't agree with her rationale, were at least understandable. She wasn't going to be my little girl forever and I needed to own up to that. Sooner or later she would go out into the world on her own and she would need to know her limits lest some guy came along and destroyed her emotionally or physically. She'd pushed me and, almost out of reflex, I'd pushed back. It was a hard lesson for both of us, but it was no reason for either of us to feel shame or guilt. If we owned up to our feelings and thoughts, if we were honest with each other and ourselves, we might be able to get back to where we were and just look at this whole thing as a weird fluke. Hell, we might even find ourselves laughing about it someday down the road.

One thing was certain: we wouldn't get to that point if we avoided each other.

I knocked on her bedroom door and waited patiently for her to answer. A moment later, the door opened and there she stood before me, her hair slightly unkempt and looking like she'd just woken up from a long nap. "Hi," I said lamely. "Sorry if I woke you up."

She shook her head at the apology. "It's all right. I needed to get up anyway. I shouldn't spend my entire birthday in bed. What's up?"

I patted my stomach. "Baby hungry. Baby need food. Baby wants company for dinner."

Beth smiled at me, helpless to appreciate my sense of humor. "Is that so? Well, what is baby hungry for?" she asked. "These," she hefted up her breasts, "aren't giving any milk right now. And probably won't be for a long while."

My eyebrows perked up at that. I don't know what came over me, but I decided to test the waters just the tiniest bit. "Baby doesn't mind waiting."

Beth let loose with some hearty laughter at that and walked away from the door to grab her purse. "Now who's playing with fire?" she asked. "But, seriously, what're you hungry for?"

I shook my head. "You're the birthday girl, honey. You decide."

"I think," she said, "I'd like some Italian. There's that place downtown that I've heard about from some of the girls at school. Want to give it a try?"

I shrugged my shoulders. I'd heard of the place from a few of my buddies, too. Nearly everyone who mentioned it had nothing but good things to say about the food, service and establishment. Besides which, the stuff they call spaghetti in Afghanistan has left me wanting in a big way for a true, decent Italian meal. "Sure," I said. "Why not? And how about you drive this time?"

"You gonna have some wine with dinner?" she asked.

I blinked in surprise. I honestly hadn't considered it, but a glass of wine, after today, probably wouldn't be such a bad idea- my nerves were shot. "I hadn't planned on it, but now that you mention it, I might. I really was just wanting to let you drive, that's all."

She mulled it over for a second and then shook her head. "Nah. You drive. If you do have some wine I'll be happy to drive us back, but I'll have plenty of opportunity to drive while you're gone. This is as much your time as it is mine."

I stepped back into the hallway and bowed regally. "Well, my good and gracious lady, if you'll come this way, your chariot awaits."

Beth breezed past me, shaking her head, and muttered, "You can be so corny sometimes."

We were just about to go through the kitchen, which has a balcony exit that leads out to the driveway, when she stopped short of the door. "You forget something?" I asked, perplexed.

She just stood there and then looked to the side like she was staring at the cabinetry. "You know what?"

"Uhm... what?"

She turned. "I think, for my birthday, I'd like to make you dinner. Why go out? It's not like I don't know how to cook and I've actually missed doing that for you. Yeah... I want to cook YOU my birthday dinner."

I cocked my head to one side, still somewhat confused, but wasn't about to argue the matter. Beth cooks one hell of a good batch of spaghetti, lasagna, tortellini- you name it, she knows how to make it. The only real limitation for her, when it comes to cooking, is utensils and ingredients. In the intervening three years since Lynn died, Beth had learned quite a bit about cooking and was actually pretty talented. I'd have to be crazy to turn her offer down, even if it was a bit strange. I mean, really, who wants to cook on their birthday? I thought that your birthday was a day when someone else was supposed to cook for you. Nevertheless, her offer seemed earnest and I wasn't fool enough to turn down one of her home-cooked meals. "All right. Home it is. Is it okay if I help?"

Beth put her purse down on the kitchen table and shook her head. "Nope. You go listen to some music or watch TV or something. I'll call you when dinner's ready."

"What about supplies?" I asked.

"I got everything we need already," she said as she started to make her way into the kitchen. "I figured that I'd be cooking for you at some point so I got all of the ingredients of our favorite meals."

"Great!" I enthused. "So... what's for dinner?"

"I'm not telling. Let your nose try to figure it out. But I'll tell you this much," she turned back around to face me and once again hefted her breasts in my direction, "you won't be feasting on these puppies tonight."

I feigned a disappointed look and said, "Awwww. Not even for dessert?"

My daughter laughed lightly. "Scat, you, before I make you chop onions."

"Well, at least, then, I'd know what you were making for dinner."

"Uh-uh. I'd make you chop them downstairs. And I wouldn't even use 'em. I'd make you chop 'em just so I could see you cry. Now scoot. Babygirl needs her privacy to cook," she finished as she shooed me away.

I went downstairs and decided to watch TV. Almost as soon as I flipped it on, the doorbell rang and I was suddenly reminded of the fact that we had a new TV which was supposed to be delivered that day. As I turned the TV off and started to get on my feet, Beth called down, "Dad! It's for you! And I'm pretty sure you want to hurry." Yep. That was the new TV. I bounded upstairs happily and was surprised to find that the TV wasn't just being delivered but that installation was part of the delivery package. I guided the installers downstairs into the family room, quickly removed the old TV and put it in a corner of the room (to be placed in our storage shed later, I decided) and watched diligently while the installers hooked up the new unit. They moved surprisingly fast and were done with the actual installation in about ten minutes. One of them gave me a guided tour on how to use the remote and all of the TV's features, bid me a good evening and left in no time at all. I started to go upstairs to excitedly tell Beth just how cool the new TV was, but she shouted at me to stop before I could even reach the top landing and told me to wait until she called for me. She promised that it wouldn't be much longer. I prayed not, because whatever she was cooking smelled fantastic.