Reality is Different Ch. 02

It's ready, finally. Booted up, sitting at the desktop. He doesn't even use a password. Open, honest, welcoming...that's my dad. And a silent stab of guilt inside, thinking it. I'm invading his privacy here. Or I'm planning to, about to. No doubt of that, no pleasant-sounding justification - he's always respected my space, and now I'm very deliberately prying into his computer to try to find out where he gets his jollies. God, it sounds awful when I think about it like that. It is awful. I mean...maybe in the stories a girl and her dad always turn out to have the same desires, but in reality I could find almost anything. He could be into something totally disgusting, like scat, or animals, or corpses, something that would freak me out to find, and it would be completely my own fault for looking when he'd kept it private, hidden. And even if he isn't, even if I don't find anything at all, it's still a violation for me to look. I shouldn't do it. I should turn this off right now, go back to my room, finish up my reading.

I don't though. Guilt threads quiet through my nerves, mixed with my excitement, but I stay right where I am, sitting in his chair, biting slightly anxious at my lip as I open up the browser. I need to know. If I find something weird, anything except the kind of thing I'm looking for, I'll just - I'll forget about it. Put it out of my mind. And if I do find what I'm looking for, if he's been looking up the same kinds of things that I have, then...then I'll know. I still wouldn't do anything about it, necessarily, not like I'd immediately strip down to greet him in the nude when he came home. But I'd know that he might be open to the possibility of something more between us. That if I crept into his bed one night, the way the girls in the stories sometimes do, it might not have to end in tears.

It isn't really unexpected, but I still feel a trace surprise to see how empty his browser history is. Numerous days missing altogether, when I sort by date, times he maybe didn't even turn on his computer, and the recent dates that I expand only have a couple dozen records each. Google maps, our bank's website, the news...nothing that looks in the slightest to be sexual in nature. Not yesterday, anyway. Nor the day before, nor three days before that. Maybe there just isn't anything here for me to find. It's a little hard for me to picture, anyway, my dad looking up porn on the computer. Like it's something that's beneath him, unnecessary, undignified. Not that he's the sort to worry too much about looking dignified, but...

Wait, now. There's something distinctive - 'X-hub adult torrent listings.' Rather suggestive, to say the least; my heartbeat tickles faster as I click the link, check it out. At first glance, it looks to be pretty much exactly what it sounds like, a bunch of links with very porny names. Frequently added, apparently - the ones I see right now are dated for today, classified as movies, pictures, clips...how about that. I didn't realize dad even really knew about torrents. I'm kind of proud of him. It's just a few moments hunting through the start menu to figure out what program he uses to handle them, and from there, what his standard download folder is. 'C:\Docs\Financial\Taxes\Tax04' - I can't help giggling a little, seeing that. I guess he does have a bit of sneakiness in him, after all.

I don't know quite what I expect to find, opening it up. What I hope to find, maybe. I've read stories where a girl happens across her father's porn collection, though it's usually presented as an accident, not like what I did. Where she becomes aware of his desires with the discovery of a folder titled with her name. Inside it...different things, in different stories. Sometimes pictures taken of her, surreptitious in the shower or asleep, liberties taken when she was unaware. Sometimes mostly innocent, images of her dancing, or on the beach, or doing gymnastics, photographs whose intent is only made apparent by the fact of where they're found, and that they all at least are mildly suggestive of her form. Sometimes they aren't of her at all - a large collection that seems at first to be no more than random, different women posing naked, or engaged in sex, and only gradually does she come to notice how each of them resembles her, at least a little...

But there isn't any folder here entitled 'Sarah.' Nor any text files that might be stories like the ones that I've been reading - I wouldn't care to admit the chill of disappointment that settles in my heart, noticing that absence. It looks like it's mostly videos. A scattering of subfolders, too, that might be pictures or something. Names like those that I saw listed on the website that he used, eye-grabbingly explicit. 'Naughty teen drains cock after school.' 'Hottie fucked hard.' 'Teen gets first cock.'

...actually, hey. My pulse sparks up again a little faster, excitement prickles on my skin as I scroll back up to scan the names, confirming what I think I see. A lot of these mention teens, maybe even most of them. Even some of those that don't have titles that are suggestive of it, of youth. Mention made of babysitters, of cheerleaders - a nervous, gleeful grin tugs upward on my lips. I think my dad likes girls my age. Or, well...damn it. I'm not even a teenager anymore. Close to my age, though. Close enough, as far as these things go. Right?

The next file that catches my attention is no less intriguing. 'Tiny-titted teen taken from behind.' A thumbnail that looks consistent with the title - jesus, that could be me. I mean, I don't usually think of them as tiny, but let's face it, if I were in one of these that's probably how I'd be billed...I have to see it. Breathless feeling aches eager at my chest, tickling between my thighs. This is what he's into, what he likes. It's a peek into his desires. I have to look. I have to.

Two tries required for my anxious fingers to manage a proper double-click, before the computer chugs audibly into action, throwing up the player window. A second after that before the movie actually starts. The girl that shows up on the screen is wearing a bright pink tube top and a pair of shorts so tiny they might as well be underwear, swaying slightly on her feet, coquettish for the camera as it pans across her body. There's sound, too - a quiet beetling from the headphones that I didn't even notice until just now, stuck behind his cheap white speakers; I quickly grab them, stick them on my ears to listen.

Not that there's all that much to hear. Not even the suggestion of a plot, just a man's voice from off-camera, speaking firm and smirking to the girl. Commands, compliments - that she's got a hot little bod, that she should take off her top. And she doesn't hesitate to obey him, smiling confidently as she pulls it up and off her body, revealing breasts about as big as mine. Maybe a little smaller...the man appears now on the screen as well, cooing about her 'itty bitty titties.' Crowding up behind her, one hand stroking at her chest, the other slid down inside her shorts as he murmurs breathily, filling up the silence with vaguely possessive appreciation. "Oh, yeah. Nice little tits on you."

It's not so interesting, in itself. In fact, I'd probably just think it silly...if it weren't for the awareness which keeps pulsing in my head that this is what my dad enjoys. What excites him. That almost certainly he's sat down right in this very chair and touched himself, watching it. The same hand that softly strokes behind my neck wrapped instead around his shaft, rousing it to stand up tall and proud. Did he imagine himself as the male star? His arm wrapped around the girl's waist, lifting her bare toes just off the floor as he carries her over to the couch, tosses her over the side so that her hips are raised up high above her head? Her shorts pulled down around her knees, holding them together as his hand slides hungry down her thigh.

It could be in our living room - the style of our couch is even similar, if a bit more worn and dirty than the soft white fabric on the screen. The girl...she doesn't really look that much like me. Skinny, maybe, but her hair, her face is pretty much completely different. As is the steel stud that passes through her clit, revealed as the man buries his face between her legs, her starkly-shaven mound clean and bare for his exploring tongue. Maybe even waxed. I mean, I try to keep things mostly trimmed down there, but...she isn't me. No. No real chance that he'd have thought about me, watching it. I wouldn't think so, anyway.

Oh, well. I can still pretend to hear a few more words amidst the girl's murmurs of encouragement. "Do you like my pink little pussy, daddy?" Just the addition of that single name, and it turns into something from the stories, from my fantasies. Wetness stirring eager there inside me, a tingling between my hips. An easy thing to let my hand slip down inside my jeans, my fingers quietly exploring in long-familiar territory, rubbing slowly at my pussy through the cotton fabric of my panties. Stroking the little fire there inside as I watch the figures on the screen carry out their roles, the man standing up again so that he can fulfill the promise of the title. His erection heavy in his hand, aimed between her slippery and swollen lips. The somewhat unconvincing cry of pleasure that she makes as he first thrusts inside her.

My attention, though, is only halfway on the video - visuals aren't usually what does it for me, anyway. The other half is on my dad, on the idea that I'm pleasuring myself right where he has, to the same video that he uses. Trying to imagine how he does it. He wouldn't have his pants completely off, no, I can't see that. Just open at the top, unzipped, his boxers pushed down, his manhood thick within his grasp. Slowly. He'd do it only slowly, his big hand gliding up and down across his shaft, his breathing heavy, forceful, rough. My own hand mimics the pace that I imagine, tracing back and forth along my moistened lips, excitement soaking in my skin. What does he do, when he gets close? Does he make weird faces, like Jeremy tended to? Noises?

I can maybe hear him growling, when he's near release. Low and quiet in his throat, in his belly, powerful and masculine like the purring often present in his voice, the little rumble of it stronger at the edge of ecstasy. Tension stiff inside his limbs as it comes over him, as his cock swells up one last time, huge and red and angry, and then fires resolute into the air, unloads his precious seed in a grand and pearly barrage. My daddy's cum, spurting messy, ropey, thick to splatter where it may...

Or, well. Reality is a dull, didactic pedant - I don't actually see any conspicuous stains around his computer. Maybe he uses a tissue or something to catch it, to clean up afterwards. Though this, too, seems somehow as though it should be beneath him, the image of him carefully wiping off his softening manhood with kleenex. The soppy bundle thrown into the garbage afterward, or the toilet...I'm sure it's just the stories that I've read that makes the notion of it seem almost like sacrilege. In the stories, a father's cum is always treasured, always valued and adored, not something to be just thrown away.

If we were in one of them, my dad and I...I might have another duty, helping him on the computer. He might call me in before he started with this stuff, have me ready, standing by. He might let me watch him as he brought himself to hardness, leaning backwards languid in the chair so I could clearly see his sturdy fingers curled around his thick and throbbing shaft, stroking slow and powerful as he sampled from the vast array of sex that the internet has to offer. He wouldn't have to say a word, when the moment came for me to help - I'd be eager, ready when his testicles pulled up tight in anticipation of release, diving down between his knees to take him in my mouth, to seal my lips around his cock before the first jet even fired. Welcoming his every salty spurt of cum as it spatters viscous at the back of my throat, puddles delicious on my tongue, swallowing it every time so that not a drop is wasted, not a drip is lost. And when his orgasm was complete, I'd so diligently lick him clean, attend so lovingly and thorough to my daddy's mighty cock that not a single one of all the countless billions of his sperm would have to end up anywhere except inside of me. Where it belongs.

Somewhere at the back of my mind, a voice is telling me how silly all this is. Ridiculous, the idea of basically giving him a blowjob just for masturbation cleanup. But the feeling of the daydream still runs thrilling through my nerves, throbs so wild and enticing. The fantasy of it played out inside my head, my attention shared between it and the action on the screen. My fingers slipped down inside my panties, rubbing quick between my slick and aching petals, tweaking softly at my pearl as I listen to the pair of lovers moan and grunt and swear at one another. Easing towards my own release.

God, I shouldn't do this here. It's too distracting. I might not hear him if he does come home, especially with the headphones on. If he found me like this, caught me masturbating in his chair...an anxious shiver trembles through me, but it takes no longer than a moment for my imagination to seize upon the notion, to claim it for her own, guided once again by the stories that I've read where something like that happens. Where a father finds his wide-eyed little girl looking at his porn, staring so enthralled that she doesn't realize he's there.

Excitement prickles down my spine, contemplating that. He could be home already. He could be standing in the doorway right now, watching me - I don't let myself look back to check, to dash the dream upon reality. It would be impossible for him to miss what I've been doing, the figures looming on the screen in peach and pink, my legs pulled up before me on the chair, spread wide to let my fingers roam and play. With the fevered groaning of the actors in my ears, he'd hardly have to strive for stealth to step up close behind without me knowing. I wouldn't have a clue that he was there until suddenly he spoke, bending down a little so that his mouth was right beside my ear, so that I could feel the warmth and moisture of his breath as his words come rough and firm right there beside me. Slightly smirking, teasing, taunting. "Find anything you like?"

"Daddy!" I'd almost jump out of my skin, startled at his sudden presence at my side, mortified that he should catch me like this. Perhaps my flailing might pull the headphones from their jack, and the sloppy, squealing sounds of sex would blare loudly from the speakers, as though it weren't already obvious enough what I was watching. And though I'd try instinctively to conceal myself, to close my opened thighs, turn half away from him, there'd be no way for me to hide the color on my cheeks, nor the anxious stutter of my tongue as it tried pathetically for an excuse. "I was only, I - I didn't..."

I can hear the throaty rumble of his chuckle, low and quiet as he looms above me. Feel the heat and tension of his gaze flowing slowly down my body, stroking on my stiffened nipples, on my hips, on the jeans that still lie open and undone. The normal friendly timbre of his voice now mixed in with a deeper roughness of command. He glances over for a moment at the monitor, at the bodies locked in carnal congress, before his eyes return to me, staring dark and penetrating. "Has anyone ever done that to you, baby?" The slightest note of warning to his tone. If I should answer wrong...

"No." It comes out just a whisper, at least at first, a nervous shaking of my head. "Never."

"No?" He repeats it, questioning, rotating my chair so that I have to face him more directly. And when I still try to hide my gaze away, his hand reaches back behind my skull, grips it tightly, forces me to look him in the eye. "You're not lying to your daddy now, are you?"

Terror rushes slickly down my spine, blended achingly with my arousal. I can hardly speak, can hardly breath, forcing words out high and trembling through an anxious throat. "No, daddy, I swear! I've never...nobody's ever done that to me." Answering the question there beneath, the one he almost asked. "I'm still a virgin, daddy."

The intensity that burns within his gaze doesn't waver, doesn't falter - but his grip behind my neck does soften, fingers stroking slightly on my skin the way he has before. "Good." The word is drawn out long and slow, deep and approving. Then his mouth pulls wide into a dark and hungry smile, and my burgeoning relief is turned to ice inside my veins. "You won't be, soon enough."

"What?" It's a strained and shaken whisper, looking fearful up into his eyes. I don't know how to process what he's said, how to face what it could mean. My stomach twisted up inside, queasy, frightened. Thrilled.

He ignores the question. Just speaks again, commands. "Stand up, Sarah." Firm words, without a trace of doubt that I will jump to his instruction...and indeed, I'm already rising to my feet, obedience a quicker thing than thought. Struggling a moment to pull my jeans back up into place, before he stops me with a frown, another word.

"No." He speaks it slightly softer than before, but it's still an order, still holds my hands in place as surely as if he'd grabbed them in his own. Standing there before him frozen now, trembling, feeling the denim slowly slipping down upon my skin, beneath my fingers. "Take them off. Everything."

Shock. My heartbeat pounds inside my ears, the blood rushing from my face. This time I'm not able to obey. "Daddy, I can't." The words escaping hushed and pleading. He wouldn't really do it. Make me strip down in front of him...

No mistaking, though, the storm of anger welling up inside his gaze, fury cold and pointed at my defiance. Biting scorn that hits me when he speaks, stinging like a slap across the face. "You can't? Or you won't?" A curl of displeasure at his lips that sets my soul to ache.

I try to answer, to explain, excuse. Still a shaken whisper. "Daddy, I-"

I get no further, interrupted. "I thought you were a good girl, Sarah." Sharp, accusing. I can feel his disappointment in me, his ire crawling on my skin, and I want so bad to make it better. "Was I wrong?"

My head shakes frantic, fervent, looking up at him. "No, daddy, I am, I swear, I just-"

"What does a good girl do, Sarah?" Again he interrupts, breaking up my answer before it's halfway formed? His gaze in mine, unrelenting - I feel like I should look away, but I can't do it, staring captured up at him like a fawn before the coming headlights of a car.

I know the answer to the question. It's a struggle for me to say it, though, to force the words out ghostly from my tongue. "A good girl does what her Daddy says."

"That's right," he murmurs back, and the trace approval that I feel in his voice is like a lifeline, a slender thread of hope to which I cling, desperate in the storm. He speaks again, quiet, measured, giving me another chance. "Now be a good girl, and strip down for your daddy."

It's a long and anguished moment, hesitating, staring up into his hard brown eyes. The stern, demanding frown that's drawn tight across his lips. Feeling the rapid patter of my heart, pounding as though it's about to burst. He's so close before me, so big, so strong. He could do it in an instant, if he wanted to. He could tear away my clothes, rip them into tatters and leave me naked in the shreds. Or he could force me to do it, strike me, slap me, hurt me until I had no choice but to comply, just to make it stop. I know that it's because he loves me that he picks this way instead. Because he wants me to obey him of my own free will. Because he wants me to be a good girl...and god, I want to be one for him as well, the tug of longing deep inside that goes beyond what words can say. Wanting to put all my trust in him, to drown my doubts in the waters of devotion, to have no space at all between his command and my desire. The feeling in my breast of what it would be like for him to whisper in my ear how much he loves me, as I lie naked in his arms, stripped to serve him...