Reality is Different Ch. 03

Primed already by the dream, it takes no more than a minute for my busy fingers to carry me beyond the edge. My orgasm only small this morning, quick and sweet, a warm and vibrant shiver running frantic through my body as my toes curl up ecstatic at the bottom of the covers. A few brief moments in that fuzzy realm of agonizing pleasure - then reality returns again around me, the thrilling madness of desire draining from my skull and leaving in its wake a familiar mingling of shame and longing. Embarrassed by my thoughts, by the absurd direction of my dreams, even as that foolish, hopeful little part of me still wishes they were true.

Ugh. I swing up swiftly out of bed, trying to get focused, to shake off the cobwebs of fatigue and bodily distraction still clinging to my bones. Glancing at the mirror as I move over to my chest of drawers - the same girl that I always see is still there looking back at me, tall and mousey, her hair all mussed from sleep. Somewhat pink of cheek right now, after her release. Bare legs stretching down below a loose and slightly holey nightshirt...god, if I just lift it up a couple inches you can see the little patch of dampness at the bottom of my panties, evidence of my activities. Blatant. Obscene, almost.

I could just go downstairs like this. The thought slips tantalizing though my mind, daring, mischievous. Dangerous. See if dad would look, if he would notice. In the stories, they could sometimes even smell it, the fragrance of their little girl's arousal. A subtle, powerful perfume that tells him all he needs to know, that stirs the flame of his desire, deep and urgent instincts called up by his daughter's scent...

Yeah. Or more likely, he'd just think I peed myself a little. I glance again into the mirror, give myself a grimace as I peel down my sodden panties to replace them with another pair. Safer this way. Wiser. The fantasies are fun, exciting, but I can't go acting like they're real...though there is an eager little sparkle of excitement in my breast as I make sure the used pair of my underwear sits at the top and center of my half-full hamper, plainly visible if anyone should look. Easy for my dad to snatch up, maybe, if the impulse takes him as he wanders through my room. Sniffing at them, when he takes them to a private place. Rubbing them all over his erection as he envisions what they held. Ejaculating right into their base, so that even if they're cleaned I'd soon be wearing something that was soaked with our commingled cum, so that a little bit of his might be there still, held against my puss.

Grr. Get a grip, Sarah. My blush persists, my pulse still rapid as I stand hesitant before the chest of drawers, trying to decide if I should put on pants or anything before I go downstairs. A question that would once have been almost irrelevant. Three months ago I wouldn't have thought twice before heading down like this. It's only with the emergence of these feelings that I've become aware of my exposure to him, when it happens. Those bare legs in the mornings, before I shower and get dressed...I've started sometimes slipping on a pair of shorts beforehand, just so I can look him in the eye. So that the feeling that I have of almost nakedness before him doesn't paralyze my tongue.

I shouldn't, though. That's what Martin says. The man who answered my request for help, a single offer of assistance mixed in with all the other responses that I got - condemnation, mocking, and more than a couple comments bragging about unrelated affairs with their own family members. Martin at least gave me an email address, a name, said that he'd been involved with his own daughter for a number of years. That he would try to answer some of the questions that I have.

He did, at that. Some. Not everything, of course. Not my biggest wonder, the question that feels as though it's at the center of all this. "Is my dad interested in me?" Couldn't answer that, he said. No way that he could tell for certain, hearing just my second-hand descriptions. Not unless a move is made. But he's been providing me with other little pieces of advice, saying that if I want my dad to see me as a sexual creature, as a potential object of desire, I need to be sexual around him. To flirt - not necessarily with him, but for him to see. To dress up in appealing clothes. And maybe more important, to stay undressed in any circumstance I can, any occasion where it can be justified...I mean, it makes sense, mostly. More or less. I do want him to see my legs, to want them. I shouldn't cover up. It's just hard for me to act normal, if I don't. And there's that quiet, doubtful voice inside of me, pointing out that he's already been seeing me like that for years, that if it made any difference, surely he would already feel the way I hope.

Still. It takes a couple moments, breathing slow and even as I stand before the mirror, tugging at the bottom of my nightshirt to get it mostly even...but eventually I do decide to head downstairs the way I am. Tamping down the persistent jitter that seems to find its way so often to my nerves, of late. I pad my way along the wooden flooring, my feet protected from the increasing chill of autumn by a pair of calf-length woolen socks, thick and woolen with a red stripe at their tops. At least it's Saturday. Not going to be late for anything. He should be at home all day, too. Unless he has any important jobs to get done...but for better or for worse, that hasn't been the case too often, recently. I used to hate it when he would have to work on weekends, when I was little. I'd nurse a quiet grudge at him, pettily upset, as though he chose to be away...I know better now, of course. Though I think I might still be somewhat disappointed, if I should find him gone.

Not an issue, it soon seems. "I don't even know, honestly." My dad's voice comes faintly through the doorway when I'm halfway down the stairs - I almost answer back in greeting, before I realize that he's probably not talking to me. His tones mostly mild, touched just faintly with vexation. I don't hear anybody else, but he speaks again a moment later; I guess he's on the phone. "No. I mean it's nothing I can put my finger on, exactly. She's just acting strangely lately."

Another step. Then the meaning of his words hit home, and I freeze immediately in place, a sudden fluttering of tension in my stomach. He's talking about me. He must be. I mean, okay, he could mean someone else, but...I lean carefully against the wall, delaying my descent into the creaky section of the stairs while my ears strain forcefully to pick out the low rumble of my father's voice. "Hell, I can't even say. Just odd, you know? A little bit erratic. Half the time she's quiet, totally distracted, and the other half she's acting just about as sweetly as I've ever seen her. She made dinner for me four times in the past week, if you can believe that. I don't know if she's feeling guilty for something, or..."

He pauses then again, waiting for the person on the other end to finish speaking. No question now that he's talking about me. "No, I haven't asked her." A beat. "That's just not how things are with us. It's been...no, listen. She talks to me, you know? Tells me what's going on in her life. Usually she does, at any rate. And I-"

Suddenly he sighs, and I can hear the tiny thread of irritation tugging at his voice. "No, that's not a dig at you. It's just the way things are. Point is, I want to give her a chance to tell me what's going on herself, before I go demanding answers. If she doesn't want to, I'm sure she has a good reason." Another pause, before a tiny snort of laughter sounds gently disparaging from his nose. "No, that would surprise me very much. Listen, just...maybe I shouldn't even have said anything. This could easily be nothing, anyway, just a mood she's in."

There's a longer quiet this time, as he listens to the person on the other end. The person whose identity I'm pretty sure I know. Not a lot of people he'd be talking to about me, after all. Not many who could interpret the fact that I'm mostly open with him as an insult. "Yes, of course I will. You - yeah. Honestly, if I had to guess, I'd say she's just lonely. You know how shy she can be. And on her birthday, she was complaining to me a little bit about her love life. Or her lack of it. I think it's bothering her, maybe."

"Mmm." He listens for a while again, interrupted only by a moment's chuckle and a brief, sardonic comment. "Not to change the subject, of course." And then a long ensuing silence before I hear him softly whistle, mild and disapproving. His voice more careful, neutral when he speaks. "Well, I'll pass it along, of course. But to be honest, I don't expect that she'll be interested."

A beat. "No, I don't have anything to do with that." The tone of irritation returning, stronger now. "Believe it or not, Elaine, I'm on your side in this. More or less. I think she needs her mother in her life. But there's not a lot that I can do when she says she doesn't want to see you, you know?"

Ha. My lips tug upward towards a tiny smirk of satisfaction. I was right. It's my mom. And better still, she's getting the reminder she deserves about how terrible she is...though my gleeful schadenfreude is tamped down a moment later, as dad adopts more sympathetic tones. "No, I understand. It's okay. God knows, I wouldn't want to be in your shoes with this...listen, it might take her a while, but I do think that she'll forgive you. Eventually. She told me the other day that she doesn't hate you, which is - well, it's something, right?"

Another quiet huff of laughter while he listens to her speak. Then, "Exactly. So. I'll try to float the idea, I suppose, see if I can sell her on it. And I'll give you a call if she wants to go, okay?" A tiny pause. "Okay. Talk to you later, then. Bye."

I don't actually hear him hanging up...but he doesn't speak again, and as time begins to pass I can soon pick out the sounds of footsteps ranging further from the phone, wandering a bit. I'm pretty sure the conversation's genuinely over. Not that I feel I should move quite yet. It would be a little too coincidental if I appeared the very moment he hung up. Better if I wait a while here, consider what I heard before continuing downstairs.

What there is to consider, anyhow. Some suggestion of my mom's that I'm already itching to refuse, to throw back in her face, even if it's only indirectly. And dad...I can't be too surprised that he would notice something off in the way that I've been acting lately. He knows me much too well for a thing like this to slip beneath his gaze. And certainly I've seen the little looks he's given me, the questions in his eyes.

Lonely. I guess he's pretty close, at that. Maybe even closer than I'd want to say. Those bitter worries that I've had, self-pitying, wondering if I'm only focusing on him like this because I feel like no one else would want me. Because unconsciously I think he's safe, he won't reject me...and because he wouldn't ever actually pursue me, either. Someone I can fantasize about, someone I can snuggle up against and tell myself that I desire, without the obligations or the nervous anguish of any actual involvement. Like some foolish schoolgirl, dreaming of whatever heartthrob decorates her bedroom walls, knowing deep inside herself that it can never happen. That could be how it is with me. Just a fearful, lonely little girl, focused on her daddy because she knows he'd never really touch her. Because she doesn't have the guts for what she tells herself she wants.

No. The answer surges stubborn out of me, tight and troubled. It isn't like that. I do want this. If he wants it, if he wants me...and maybe it does frighten me a little, thinking how it might feel if it really came to pass, but that doesn't mean that I'm just lying to myself. The fear is even part of the appeal it holds. Putting myself into my father's hands, not knowing what he'll do with me. Being completely under his control, his to use, his to punish. His to love. There's a subtle, anxious sweetness to the threat of the idea, the spice of danger heady in my thoughts. If it were real, if it could be...

Downstairs. The steps creak under me as I descend, announcing my arrival before I have to say a word. My dad there on the couch, reading through the paper - but it's lowered by the time I'm fully in the doorway, his eyes cast up to meet me. Smiling, white and friendly. "Well, good morning, lazybones." His tone is ally to the cheerful greeting, humming with a spark of quiet laughter that welcomes me to join. "Good thing you came down when you did. I was just about to head up there to dump a pail of water on your head."

"Mm. Good thing then, yeah." I smile faintly back at him as I draw closer, feeling still the slightly nervous beating of my heart. It isn't that much of an answer. But I'm distracted, watching him, keeping conscious of his eyes. Another thing that Martin said to do - a man who feels an interest in someone that he shouldn't, or in someone that he thinks he shouldn't, may never genuinely act on that attraction. He may never say anything that would reveal it, even, if he has a modicum of self-control. But men's eyes don't take well to such discipline, he said. They instinctively explore on an inviting curve, devour any offering of flesh that they find pleasing, and it's always a conscious effort for their owners to keep them more or less in line. Which is why I have to present myself to him like this, wearing as little clothing as my anxious heart can handle. Giving him something he might stare at in some unguarded moment...and if I'm lucky, allowing me to notice.

No such luck, as yet. Yes, he looks at me. Even glances down as I approach, a flitting of his pupils that I barely catch, taking in my state of dress. But there isn't any staring at the way my legs are bare, revealed, no lustful, leering smirk. Just the soft and friendly gaze I know. The paper crinkles in his hand as he folds it over, speaks into the silence that I've left. "So, what's on the agenda for today? Get together with some friends, raise some hell?"

"Probably not, no." Quietly indulgent, edging closer to the couch. Closer to him. He's sitting there already dressed, an undershirt and sturdy jeans, a heavy watch around his wrist. Even if he isn't looking, I still can feel my relative undress, the subtle weakness of exposure. Vulnerability. An awkward simmer on my cheeks as my awareness fixates on the precise location my nightshirt's lower hemline. From where he's sitting, I'm pretty sure that he could clearly see the bottom of my panties protruding just below. If I had worn the pair that I had on last night, this morning... "Um, I don't really have any kind of plans today. How about you?"

"Eh." His broad shoulders ripple with an easygoing shrug. "I figure I should probably open up the truck. Thing's been giving me some trouble lately, starting, and dollars to doughnuts it's the carburetor again." A pause - his lip quirks up, wry, inquiring. "If you're going to be around, I suppose you could maybe help me out with that a little. If you feel up to it."

"Of course." My answer comes out eager, automatic. "Anything." Standing closer now, a few short feet before the couch, and I can't keep myself from thinking how sometimes in the stories a girl would be required to appear like this before her father, to present herself for his inspection. His gaze so firm and unrelenting as it draws methodically across her body, penetrating, potent. As though to see into her soul, to find the slightest lapse in her obedience, in her devotion - and then to cure her of them, by whatever means would be required. Pain or pleasure from his hands, sculpting her into his perfect little girl, his prize, his loyal pet.

Turn around, Sarah. I can almost hear him say the words, quiet and commanding. Just the barest moment's hesitation before I would obey, spinning in a slow and careful circle so that he can look at me from every angle, so that he can decide if I deserve to service his desires. A hopeful ache inside my breast, praying that I do. Perhaps he'd speak again. Kneel. A single word, imperative, as though from a medieval king - then I would gladly genuflect before him, abase myself upon the floor, crawl up close to hug myself against his leg the way that women sometimes do in those movie posters, paintings of epic fantasy. Barbarians standing tall and shirtless, nearly-naked maidens clutching tight to the protector who stands heroically above them. A pose that says so plainly she would do anything for him.

"Here, sit down." They aren't quite so demanding, the words he actually speaks, casual and mild as he pats briefly on the couch's middle cushion. But I still find a slightly wicked thrill in rushing to obey, plopping down affectionate beside him. My eyes in his, as he continues. "You know, your mom called me a little bit ago."

Blech. This already. I was hoping for at least a couple minutes here before I had to face it. "Yeah?" I'd worry that my sour look might give away my snooping - except I'm pretty sure I'd look the same way if I really had found out about her call just now. "What did she want?"

"Well, mostly just checking in on you. I told her you couldn't talk, too busy sleeping it off after your wild party last night." He says it deadpan, with just the slightest shadow of humor to his smile; I can return only a faint roll of the eyes, tolerant, amused. "But she also pointed out that Thanksgiving will be coming up pretty soon, and you still haven't been out there to visit her."

"And?" It comes out somewhat biting, despite myself. Looking halfway away from him.

"And she'd like to see you." No response in kind, of course. He speaks still patient, soft. Slightly wry, as he continues. "And I may have told her that I'd try to talk you into going, so I hope you'll think about it for at least a couple seconds before you turn it down."

"Dad..." The word is quiet, plaintive, faintly frustrated. Unfair of her, to make him ask me for her. I don't want to tell him 'no.' Don't want to throw him off with empty promises to consider it forever, the way I would if she'd just brought it up herself. He deserves better than that. And there's no reason why he should be asking, should be shilling for her like this, with the way that she betrayed him...

"Hey." He steps into my silence, speaks sincere and understanding. "I get it. She's the worst person in the world." His gentle smile doesn't quite endorse the words. "But she cares about you, sweetheart. You know she does. Wouldn't be bugging you to come and visit all the time, if she didn't. And hell, if nothing else, she's bound to have some better food out there than the crud I put together last Thanksgiving."

I have to laugh at that, my tense and restless feeling cracking with a snort of sudden, unavoidable amusement. It was pretty bad, last year. The middle of the turkey somehow was actually still cold, and the stuffing not just oversalted but burnt black against the pan. We eventually just got takeout. Chow mein...god. There's another snort of humor as I glance over at my dad again, the smile quirked up somewhat foolish on my lips. But my voice is quieter, restrained. Softly hopeful. "Would you be going with me?"

"Ah." My expression droops back down a bit - his answer's clear already from that slight and flat pronunciation before he speaks another word. Before he shakes his head. "That would be pretty awkward, I would think. I mean, I'd say we're mostly civil now, your mom and I, but - well, it's easier to be civil over the phone. And I'm sure Roger wouldn't be quite as eager to sponsor my trip out, either. I'm afraid you'd have to take this flight by your lonesome."