Reality is Different Ch. 01

But me? Ha. I didn't even grow out of an A-cup until I was seventeen years old. I'm thin, too thin, tall and lanky like some teetering performer pushed up onto stilts. Taller than most guys I meet, which of course makes me super popular with them. I remember when I was younger, fifteen, sixteen, reading a magazine interview with a supermodel who said that she was awkward and skinny in high school herself, before her body eventually finished blooming - I waited for so long for the day when that same thing would happen to me, when I'd wake one day to find my lean and gangly figure transformed into a thing of grace and elegance and beauty.

By now, I've pretty much given on that. I'm just a bony, gawky girl. Woman. Whatever. Freckles on my face, moles on my back, my arms, my legs...they're tiny, but I can always see them when I look, dark little splotches that are never going to go away. And my hair - no matter what I do with it, it only seems to want to lay down limp and flat upon my scalp. Sandy brown, lighter than my dad's. Bland. The whole package is bland. "Sarah, plain and tall." Murmured sour to the mirror, the way I have a million times before. It fits me to a T. Not the kind of body that would haunt a father's dreams. Not the kind that most guys would even glance back over their shoulders for. And it shows - what have I had, two boyfriends? Three, counting the handful of dates I had with Mark? Maybe I'm only getting into this 'Daddy' shit because I feel like a father is the only man would even care about me.

Blah. Self-pity. I quirk a broken smile at myself in the mirror - I'm no stranger to it. It burns savagely, but quick. And there's a certain solace at the end of it, once you've torn into yourself for all your faults...I don't think that's it, anyway. The reason why I find this so exciting. There's something else in it, something powerful and scary and comforting all at once. Forbidden. And anyway, I'm pretty sure my dad wouldn't do anything like that even if I were the sexiest woman on the planet. It's just a fantasy. Just pretend.

Harder than I'd like to hunt through the outfits I have hanging on the rack; I need a bigger closet. Or maybe fewer clothes. Track shirt. My old prom dress. Thick brown winter coat...in a story, a girl in my place might decide to slip into a low-cut top and a ridiculously tiny skirt. She might 'accidentally' give her Daddy a good look at her panties as she got into the car - or even go without them, to tempt him, tease him with the briefest little glimpse of her naked puss. Brazen. About a million reasons why I can't do that, why I wouldn't; the most immediate of them is the fact that I don't even own a miniskirt. And it's not like I'm actually trying to act out one of those stories here. I just want to look half-decent, if I'm going somewhere special with him.

Here's a possibility. A moderately long black dress of slightly shining charmeuse, slim and fashionably asymmetrical, with just one shoulder strap. I bought it half on impulse (and on sale) when a friend offered to take me clubbing, an adventure that I didn't much enjoy - it's just been sitting in my closet ever since. Not like I have much occasion for it; the look is somewhere between formality and daring, neither one of which is exactly 'me.' But tonight...maybe.

It's the work of moments to undo the zipper on the back and step into the dress, to tug it into place, the fabric sliding smoothly on my skin. Not a perfect fit - it's a little tight around my hips, and loose (of course) around my bust. But I think it makes my legs look nice. Draping down on one side to my shin, and on the other only to my middle thigh. Makes me feel very...adult. Which I guess is only right, for this. The neckline even shows a little cleavage, and would likely reveal more if I had more to reveal. The notion flits across my mind of stuffing my bra, something that I haven't done for years. Just to fill it out a bit. I mean-

"Sarah?" Dad's voice rumbles from outside the door, derailing my train of thought. "You in there?"

"Yeah, dad!" No time to worry about it, I guess. Silly, anyway. He's not going to be looking. "Just getting some new clothes on."

"I didn't mean for you to change." He sounds mildly amused, even muffled by the door; I can hear a quiet thump as he leans back against the wall to wait. "All right. Don't take too long, though, or I'll leave without you."

Right. I roll my eyes at that, a smile tugging on my lips. Trying to hurry up a little through the rest of my preparations. Shoes - some nice black flats. Dad would have a good few inches on me even if I did wear heels, but still. Jewelry - I hesitate a little before picking out a simple pair of tiny silver hoops from the box on my armoire. Subtle. I think that works best, here. Hair - flat and disobedient, as always. I let it be. Makeup...bleh.

I don't have the time or the skill or the no-doubt-vast collection of cosmetics that would be required to make me beautiful, but I can at least accentuate a bit. Eyeliner and mascara, to bring out my lashes. A touch of perfume, the bottle given as a gift from my grandmother last Christmas; it smells a bit like cinnamon and apples, sweet and spicy. Lipstick painted careful on my lips - typically I just use gloss, but today I reach instead for the tube of crimson that I bought and almost never dared to use. The color of it seems almost garish as I press my lips together, survey the overall effect. Eye-catching.

'Painted up like a whore.' That's what the Daddies in the stories sometimes say, when they catch their daughters sneaking out in too much makeup. Telling her that he has to teach her a lesson, as one strong hand holds tight around her wrist, the other rips away her too-revealing clothes. That if she dresses like a whore, he's going to treat her like a whore...I don't really have on that much makeup at all, of course. But the lipstick is a little daring, even by itself.

I remember the writer of one story went on and on about his daughter's lips, how full and plump and luscious they were. How hard he'd get, watching her licking clean her lips after a treat of glazed doughnuts, or pancakes and syrup. "Dick suckin' lips," he called them - an ugly, vulgar name, but one that still inspired in me a certain jolt of unspeakable arousal. Particularly as he later wrote about them wrapped lovingly around her Daddy's cock. About looking at her down there on her knees, his hand tangled in her long blonde hair, watching as that ring of soft, plump scarlet slid slowly back and forth around his shaft, as it was painted bit by bit with the smearing of her lipstick on his skin. About the perfect seal they made, permitting not a single drop of precious cum to slip away before she swallowed, and took her Daddy's seed inside herself...

I shiver just a trace, thinking of it, and the hint of redness on my cheeks isn't from cosmetics. It shouldn't be so alluring an image. It really shouldn't...I try to pillow out my own lips a little, pursing them, pushing them together, but it only makes me look like a duck. Of course.

Whatever. I'm ready. Ready enough. And a little nervous, for no reason I could coherently explain. I have to take a couple calming breaths and fix the smile on my face before I can bring myself to open up my bedroom door, step outside again.

Dad's still waiting on the other side, of course, dressed up nicely now himself. His mouth already parting for some cheerful crack or comment - but he falters as he looks as me, stumbles on a vague and half-formed fraction of a word. Shakes his head and chuckles for a moment before he tries again. "Well." My muscles tense inside of me, anxiety I didn't realize I felt. God, I hope I don't look too ridiculous. "I guess maybe I should go back and put on a tuxedo or something. I'm still going to look like a bum if I walk in next to someone dressed like that."

Faint relief runs swiftly through me, solidifies the smile on my lips. He likes it. Or he's acting like he does, anyway, which is...it's good enough. "Don't be silly, dad." The words hum brightly from my tongue. "You look fine. You look..." Handsome. No, I can't say that. He does, though. Dark brown slacks, a lighter jacket hanging open over a cream-colored shirt, a trifle worn. The top two buttons sit undone, revealing a hint of chest hair there beneath. He looks a little like the mobsters on those TV shows, drinking with each other in the back of smoky rooms - save for the friendly, honest sparkle in his gaze. His eyebrow lifting lightly upward...shit, I just trailed off in mid-sentence, didn't I? Um. "Uh, good. You look good."

"Good enough, eh?" Self-deprecating, as he often is. I can see his pupils flitting here and there across my outfit, upon my features. Holding for a moment on my lips - I bite at one a bit, thinking unavoidably again of what the story said. "Well, so do you. If a little more grown up than what I'm accustomed to." His gentle smile softens any judgment that there might be in the statement. "You all ready to go?"

"Yeah," I vigorously nod before remembering I'm not. "Or, well, just about. If you could just zip me up in back..." And I turn around to present him with the zipper, the last few awkward inches still undone. Waiting, as he murmurs his assent.

This could almost be a moment from a story, that breathless, shameless voice inside of me is eager to declare. I don't think I've read one quite like it, but it's easy to imagine. The daughter needs help with her outfit, with a stubborn zipper that simply won't obey. Her Daddy, there to lend a hand...but he can hardly focus on the task, looking at her. Distracted by the vision of her body, her slender neck, her shoulder left exposed. Maybe she's skinny, like me. Maybe he likes that. His gaze drifts slowly down her back, jealousy and hunger abruptly burning in his chest as he tastes her with his eyes, as he sees his little girl dressed up like a woman and knows that something must be done. Knows that he must remind her who her Daddy is, that he must teach her she belongs to him, always and forever, before she starts to think that she can just grow up and slip away.

One hand grips firm upon her shoulder, steadying. The other on the wayward zipper - but he doesn't pull it up, the way he said he would. Down instead, a smooth and steady motion revealing the bare skin of her back, broken only by her bra clasp. She's too shocked to say a word, standing stiff and helpless as he reaches up again to pull away the single shoulder strap and let the slinky dress tumble off her body to the floor. Abruptly almost naked, and she feels the heat and subtle menace of his presence there behind her. Wondering-

Dad's hand touches on my shoulder, and suddenly my heartbeat hastens twice as swift; I have to consciously control my breathing to keep it sounding mostly normal. A tickle in the middle of my back as his thick fingers fumble with the tiny black tab of the zipper, and for a moment, I almost think that maybe...but no. Of course not. He just zips it up, solid and secure. "There you go." Brightly spoken, no quaver in his voice that might signify a struggle with his conscience, with his inner demons. Why would there be? I'm his daughter. He's not like that. I'm sure I'd know it if he were - something would have happened to reveal it, in all the years before.

"All right." My own voice sounds a trace unsettled, scratchy; I have to swallow quietly to try to get it back to normal. Turn around again, not quite looking in my father's eyes. "Let's head out, then."

---

The days are getting shorter. The sun is low already in the sky as we park outside the restaurant and walk in the front door. Still darker in than out - it's a cozy place, romantic even, lit by candles in colored sconces on the tables and a few low-wattage bulbs hidden in recessed fixtures. Conversations held in murmurs inside lavishly appointed booths, while elegantly-dressed waiters scurry swiftly back and forth with steaming plates of food. Mom and dad went here together sometimes, before I was around. Then it was a place for all of us, a special treat. Now it's just for dad and me...though we haven't been here for a while, in light of the expense. Hard to justify. Still, I'm glad that he suggested it.

Sometimes we have to wait around a while for a table to be ready, but it isn't quite as bad as that today. Not long at all, in fact, before we're ushered to a booth, brought past clinking glasses and quiet, throaty laughs, couples gazing at each other in the candlelight. I'm trying to be halfway reasonable, to ignore the foolish thoughts that have been crowding in of late. But I still can't help wondering for a moment if the host that leads us thinks we're one of them. A couple. A pair of lovers, out for a romantic night together. Do we look like one? Hard to miss, of course, how much older he is than me. But that doesn't have to mean so much. He could be in a midlife crisis, a pricy sports car in his garage and a college girl on his arm. I could be looking for support, for comfort, for a sugar daddy. (Funny that they call it that, isn't it?) Or I could just like older men, more mature, more experienced - at least, that's what people say. I don't really have the experience myself to judge. Or I could just be earnestly in love, not care about the difference in our ages. There's no ending to the reasons why we might be together.

If he thinks we are, though, or even that we aren't, he doesn't give a hint of it. Perhaps in his position, you learn to show no sign of any such assumptions...he just leads us to our table in sleek, efficient silence. Sits us down - I hesitate a moment before slipping in beside my dad on the same side. I think that's better, right? I mean, if this really were a date, we'd be seated opposite, so this is...I don't know. Maybe I'm just being weird. Too late now to switch. The host leaves us with the menus, and I'm more than glad to bury my face inside of mine. To distract myself with it, hunt for some delicious meal while dad murmurs quietly beside me, half to himself, about his own possibilities.

"Hello!" I've hardly even had the time to glance at appetizers when our waiter shows his face. A sturdy black moustache and a mild Spanish accent. "My name is Miguel, and I will be serving you this evening. Our specials tonight are the pollo asada, and a salmon taco plate which I can assure you is very, very good. Would either of you care for anything to drink?"

Dad glances expectantly at me, and I answer automatically. "Uh, I guess I'll have a diet coke." My standard drink. Go through too much of the stuff at home, really.

"Very good," he makes a discreet scribble or two on the tiny pad of paper clutched in his hand, turning to my dad. "And for you, sir?"

Dad flicks a moment through the menu, thoughtfully, before looking up again. "Do the specials still come with a glass of wine?" And as the waiter affirms it with a nod, he smiles decisively. "Then I suppose that's what I'll be having."

"All right," the waiter brightly agrees. "And what variety would you like? We have just received a very fine pinot noir from a winery in Portugal, although I would confess that I am partial myself to the Dawson Ranch cabernet sauvignon. Particularly if you are having a meaty dish, it is quite magnificent."

"Yes, well..." He shrugs carelessly, glancing down the wine list. "Ah, I'll just have a white wine, I think." A subtle eyebrow lifted from the waiter, as I smile to myself. Dad's about as far from a wine snob as you can get, at least in someone who still drinks the stuff.

The man at least recovers his composure quickly. "Of course, sir. White it is. I will be back shortly with your drinks." No sign in his tone, or in his stance as he swiftly walks away, that it was anything but the most refined selection possible.

"Honestly, father. White?" I can't resist teasing him a little bit, of course. My voice raised high and posh with the affectation of an aristocratic accent. "He'll think you're a barbarian."

"Well, then he'll be right. I'm thinking I'll just order a big hunk of beef, eat it raw." A jaunty grin, effervescent in his expression. "You sure you don't want anything stronger than a soda?"

"I'm sure." I shake my head a trifle. "Besides, I might have to drive us home, if you're going to wine it up tonight."

"Takes more than a single glass to have much effect on me. More's the pity." He chuckles softly. "Anyway. Pretty sure I'm going to get that pollo asada. You know what you want yet?"

Another tiny flutter of my head, negation, as I pick back up the menu. "Not yet. Gimmie a minute." Looking down again across the endless rows of entrées. Silly, but it's difficult for me to even focus on the words. I just feel a little weird tonight. Here. Probably the birthday's a big part of it. I mean, jesus, I'm only nineteen. Twenty. I ought to be enthusiastic about getting older, being an adult. But somehow, I'm just...not.

I guess I maybe feel like the world's gotten darker in the past few years, like the brightest moments of my life are in the past. When mom and dad were still together, when it wasn't faintly shameful for me still to live at home. When I hadn't disappointed dad by getting rejected from all the universities I applied to, having to go to a junior college instead...he didn't say he was disappointed, of course. Didn't even act like it - but how could he not be? After all the encouragement he gave me, all the times he helped me when I struggled with my math...I cried, when the last response came in, when I saw that damned 'unfortunately' standing like a scarlet letter in the first few words. I couldn't help it. I'd thought for sure that even if my grades weren't great I'd at least get into one of them. Each rejection hurt a little more, took a deeper bite out of my remaining hopes. When my final chance was dashed, I felt like someone punched me in the stomach, struggling to breathe as tears welled up helpless in my eyes.

Dad had been there, giving me some privacy as I opened up the letter but still half-watching from the kitchen; he didn't have to ask me what it said. When he saw me crying, he just came in and put his arms around me, hugged me softly while I wept into his shoulder. Told me it was no big deal - I could just take classes at the community college and then transfer to a four-year. Lots of people do it. He'd taken some required courses at one himself, in his own university days. No big deal...yeah, right. But it made me feel a little better anyway, to have him say it. To have him hold me close and tender, like it didn't even bother him that his only daughter was such a failure, like he wasn't ashamed of me.

It was different, then. I hadn't read about this crazy stuff yet, hadn't got the notion of it in my head. A hug was just a hug - comforting, calming. Like a fire in the winter night, pushing back life's chills and sorrows, a warm embrace in which I might easily slip off into a peaceful rest. Now...all of that's still there, but there's an added tingle when I think of it, a nervous tickle in my spine that wasn't there before. Remembering a hundred dirty stories where a father's hug is just a prelude to affection rougher, deeper, stronger. It's not that I want that kind of thing between us. At least, I'm pretty sure I don't. But the image of it still dances in my mind, thrills teasingly along my nerves. I can feel him sitting next to me, his warmth, his presence just half a foot away. He's seated on my dress' shorter side; if he wanted to, he could just reach down and lay his hand upon my knee, squeeze it softly in his grasp. Possessive. Would I like it, if he did?

I don't know. It'd be shocking, most of all. He's never done anything to hint that he would have that kind of interest in me. I think I'd be too surprised to stop him, to push his hand away. I'd just sit there frozen as his fingers closed upon my skin, firm and self-assured. As his hand began to move, stroking in a gentle little back-and-forth that brings it slowly upward on my leg, until his fingers sneak beneath the edges of my dress, curl smooth and confident onto my inner thigh. It's an all too easy thing to see, to imagine, to feel myself already warming with his touch, squirming slightly in my seat with the sensation of his thumb drawing slow across my private flesh, his fingertips brushing softly on the gusset of my panties, and the little kiss of pleasure that it gives me shivers slickly up my spine.