Porn Star's Daughter Ch. 05

I closed my eyes and leaned back against the headrest, trying not to think of two enormous cocks in the car. I guess that's why they call this a cock-pit, I thought.

"What's so funny," my father asked, taken aback by my sudden mood change. I hadn't realized that I had chuckled out loud.

"Oh, nothing, really," I said, looking at him. "Just happy to be here."

My nipples agreed. Not once had they ever returned to normal, but had stayed painfully erect and at attention. I just couldn't seem to turn them off. It was as if my small, padded bras had been like earmuffs, deadening the sound around me, and this new bra was like high quality earphones, where every small detail was crystal clear, with deep resonating bass and high, crisp treble.

Unfortunately for me, I was in the worst possible place for this. I was trapped next to my father, my tiny tits screaming for attention, and making obscene tiny mountains against my T-shirt.

My father must have noticed. "I see," he said, vaguely. Was he making a comment about my chest, or just simply responding to what I said?

This is torture, I thought.

We hit a bump in the road, hard. The bag shifted, and I felt the fake cock pressing into my leg. I tried to adjust the bag so that it was more 'comfortable,' but the truth of the matter was that I felt an urge somewhere in my loins to press against it instead. In fact, I think I may have done just that, involuntarily.

Out of the corner of my eye, my father moved. Did he just adjust himself? My god, how does he even sit down? Where does it go? Is it between his legs? Is it laid to the side over his hip? Is he sitting on it?

I could imagine the giant toy, right now between my legs. Hell, I could feel it. Of course, I was a full foot shorter than my father, but that shouldn't matter when we were both sitting down. I knew, knew that with the toy pressed up against me in the bag that it must extend past the edge of the seat. Is that where his was? Was it pointing straight down one of his pant legs?

My mind raced. How can you wear underwear like this? Boxers? You certainly couldn't wear briefs. Was he going commando?

I couldn't help myself, I looked at his legs, hoping to see some sort of answer emerge, so to speak. As I looked, I saw it. At least, that had to be it. Now that I saw it, though, I couldn't unsee it. My father never wore shorts, and now I knew why. There wasn't so much a "bulge," as his pants leg simply showed a wider, rounder left thigh than his right.

I snapped my head away, and looked out the window. I even mouthed the words, oh my god silently.

"Are you okay?" my father asked, concerned.

"Fine," I said. What the hell could I tell him? Oh, sorry, Dad, I was just surprised at seeing the outline of your cock in real life after I've been staring at it on a porno all week. Oh, and by the way, I happen to have a life-sized replica of it between my legs right now, and I've been slowly fondling it this whole time.

Of course not. Wait... what!?

I couldn't help myself, I looked down at my lap. Underneath the bag was my hand, absent-mindedly stroking the length of the dildo's length through the side of the bag. I hadn't even known I was doing it.

Obviously, I stopped immediately. And then started again. And stopped again. I put my hand on the armrest of the car to keep it away from the bag, but I was my own worst chaperone.

"So how have things been at work?" I offered, hoping to get him talking about something that I had no interest in, and fortunately he obliged. It allowed me to look at him as he spoke, and steal furtive glances at his left thigh whenever he was focusing on the road too much.

My father worked in construction, and I had apparently said exactly the right thing for not paying attention. He drove on, rambling about problems with the reliability of his crew, issues with the corporate higher-ups, new government regulations, and so on. As he talked, I was left to my thoughts, and was having my own inner dialogue with the devil and angel on my shoulders.

Being this close to him, and knowing what I knew, I struggled with my thoughts and emotions. I was right next to him, and the new found attitude got me imagining all kinds of things with new spatial perspective. I imagined what he would look if he had an erection. How high up would it go?

I felt the side of the bag again, pressing my palm against the girth beneath. No way, I thought, and unzipped my bag just enough to get my small hand inside. I dug down into the bag, moving things around, until I finally got ahold of the cock.

This was, it dawned on me, the first time that I really held the damn thing in my hands. I mean, I had picked it up, moved it, even thrown it around my room. I even washed it. But this was the first time I actually wrapped my tiny fingers around it as a representation of a real, male organ on purpose. Not just any male, but my father's organ. My father, who was sitting next to me.

My father, who had the real thing.

It was also within my reach, if I wanted to. I mean, of course I didn't want to, but if I did, you know, stretch my hand out across the small distance between our seats, I could easily reach his crotch. I mean, I didn't, but I could. I mean...

I don't know why that sudden knowledge meant anything at all. I didn't know what it meant. The image came straight to the front of my brain, and I suddenly had a mental visual of stroking both my father with one hand, and the dildo in the bag with the other, while he drove down the highway.

I shuddered. It wasn't an orgasm, of course, but it was definitely a shudder of excitement. My hand felt like it was on autopilot, and started feeling its way down to the base, and then back up to the tip.

Holy fuck it's long! I thought. Once again I transposed the mental visual of what I had in my hand with where it would be in the space in front of him. Jesus Christ, it's so long he could steer with it!

The thought made me giggle. My father glanced over at me, and I froze, my hand gripping the fake cock hard in fright of being caught.

"I know, right?" he said. "You can be sure that he never went into the 'comfort house' feeling comfortable again!" He laughed.

I slowly let out my breath, not realizing I was holding it. Evidently sheer, dumb luck had made my laughter coincide with his story. I did not, however, release my hold on the cock.

I'm not going to lie. It felt good. No, it felt amazing. It was a piece of rubber, formed and molded into the shape of a cock, but for some reason I loved having it in my hand. Suddenly, the thought that it was based upon my father wasn't repulsive or repugnant any more. In fact, sitting here with him in the car, my hand wrapped around his (fake) cock, a warming comfort began to wash over me.

With it in my hand, I didn't realize how much I was getting used to it. I had washed it, I had carried it, I had moved it, I had even slept with it. At this point, the shock and complete insanity of the object itself had almost worn off. Without knowing when it had happened, I had also started to see it as mine.

It felt so... pleasing. Feeling the heft as I wriggled my fingers underneath it, the curve as it conformed to my tiny hand, it seemed that I could just hold it forever. It was an amazing calming totem.

Without any preamble, my mind went back to the bitchy brunette at the beginning of the video. How she had practically wretched when he came over her. I felt protective of my father once more, more of a remembered feeling than anything else, and as I sat in the car next to him, I found myself inexplicably closer to him. He continued to talk about things that I had no interest in, but I felt a growing contentment with being near him. I couldn't remember the last time I felt like that.

There was a part of me that wanted to tell him that I was sorry the brunette had been such a bitch to him, that he deserved better. I knew that I couldn't, but even though so much time had passed since he made the video, it was still new to me. It was still fresh.

I shifted my weight, turning slightly so that I could face him as best as possible while still being belted in. My hand remained in the bag, holding the heavy toy in a firm, comfortable grip. As he told his stories, talked us through the long drive, I found myself continuing to warm up to him. I rested my head on my free hand, and listened to him talk, absent-mindedly continuing my stroking motion. As I did, I brought it closer and closer to my groin, until the base was pressing against my jeans zipper though the backpack.

The damn thing was facing the wrong direction, but I really didn't care. I was just enjoying the occasional bump against my pussy, so it didn't matter which end was doing it. In fact, given that it was facing the same direction as my father, my daydreaming began to think about whether or not I could please him with my rather amateurish "technique."

I should have been horrified. I should have been disgusted. I should have felt guilty, but for all that was holy and good I only felt bliss. After so many days of struggling with this, I had finally started to come to accept that there was a part of my life that was untapped.

"Shannon?"

"Hmmm?" I said, being brought out of my own thoughts.

"What are you doing?"

Now I was mortified. My father had just caught me, well, masturbating, right in the passenger seat.

"My bag," I said, trying to think quickly. "Um, my bag keeps slipping off the seat."

"Well, why don't you just put it in the footwell so that you don't have to worry about it?"

I made a show of looking embarrassed (not that difficult to do, considering), and put on my best oh-how-come-I-didn't-think-of-that face, and let the bag slip to the floor. The weight now gone, I hadn't realized how much comfort I was getting out of simply holding it on my lap. Part of me wanted to cry at the loss.

The rest of the ride was spent in silence, me looking out the window, and my father not sure what to say. His face was enigmatic, but I was convinced that he hadn't been fooled by my pathetic excuse.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!