Reality is Different Ch. 03

"Mm." His voice still there behind my ear, above me. Superior amusement, joined with an equal measure of affection. "Yes, this is what you needed. Isn't it, my little slut?" Hiking up my skirt above my waist. His hands navigate beneath it to invade the inside of my dress, to caress and stroke and grasp upon my naked skin. He's right, of course, so perfectly correct that I can't even speak the words to answer. Writhing in his arms as my body burns with pleasure, as I melt beneath his strong and skillful fingers, dripping with desire. One hand snaking up again to fondle now directly at my breast, pinching savage at my aching nipple - I can only squeal like an animal, howl like a whore, thrashing for a moment in his arms before he tightens them around me. Holding me restrained with just a fraction of his power.

"Daddy..." It's a whimper, when I find the will to speak again, pleading and gratitude and worship all blended pitifully in the sound. An invocation, a devoted prayer, a sign of my complete surrender. My own hands are locked with one another at my chest, held there as if shackled while his fingers roam possessive on my flesh, affirming my submission.

"Such a sexy little body you've been hiding from me, baby." Husky. Hungry. I can hear it in his voice, feel it in the grasping of his hands, in the thickened rod that's pressed into my rear, and the awareness trickles sweetly down my spine, trembles giddy in my stomach. He wants me. My daddy wants me, and I want nothing more than that he'll take what he desires. To be his prize, his toy, his obedient possession. "Never again, you hear me?" His hand between my legs, shameless and demanding. Two fingers stroking slowly at the moistened bottom of my panties, wet cotton rubbing almost unbearable upon my aching lips. His voice like that of some unknown divinity, filling up my mind with its command. "You're mine, Sarah," and my heart thumps deliriously quick to hear him say it. "I think it's time I showed you what that means."

A moment lingers, teasing, thrilling. His big hand sliding further down to close entirely around my mons, to squeeze it gently in his grasp, to show me his authority and power with the flood of pleasure that rushes out and turns my mind to mush. Daddy...it's less a thought than an emotion, a trembling of need and adoration. His sturdy palm cupped firm upon my puss, taking hold of his possession. Driving me already to the brink of my release with just the subtle pulsing of his hand, the rhythmic shifting of those tiny muscles on my eager lips, engorged with want. I can't speak, can only utter little moans and murmurs, mewling pathetic with the bliss that he bestows. My panties soaked with my desire, rubbing warm and wet against my private skin. Soon enough they're pulled aside, bunched up sodden at one leg, and I tremble with anticipation and with nervous need to hear the rasping promise of his fly as its undone, as his rigid manhood slaps against my entrance, presses-

"Penny for your thoughts."

My father's voice. His real voice, just quiet, warm, without the arrogant command that I've been fantasizing. I couldn't name the sense of loss I feel to open up my eyes, to face reality again, to look at us still sitting only chastely at each other's side. Emotion tangled, twisted in my throat. My embarrassment is muted now, a background note, softened by developing acquaintance. Louder is the faintly adolescent outcry of frustration in my gullet, a self-pitying reprisal from the bodily desire that still simmers at the center of my being. Angry at the world for not being like my dreams. Angry at him, almost, for not doing what I'd never dare to ask him for, for not treating me the way he couldn't know I'd want.

At least today I manage not to turn around and ask about his work. No other answer ready, not at first - I only sit there silent for the seconds that it takes to swallow down my nerves, to force myself into a state where I might sound halfway normal when I speak. To come up with something I can say.

"I guess I'm thinking about the future, kind of." My voice a trifle husky, hoarse - I force myself to cough a little, clear my throat, hoping it will help. Painfully aware still of my father's body there beside me, of his form, of my cheek against his broad and sturdy shoulder. "Um. College, you know. What I'm going to do, all that." It seems safe enough an answer. Even true, after a fashion. I might not have been thinking of it right this moment, but the topic has been on my mind.

"Looking forward to it, I assume." A tickle of amusement in his tone. "Get to strike out on your own, no old man around to cramp your style."

"...not exactly." Quiet. It feels akin to a confession, saying it. Telling him a little of the worries that I've had. At least, the ones that I can bring myself to speak. "I mean, I don't...um. I don't know." Fingering uneasy at the edges of his jacket, the blanket spread across my lap. "It's just - I feel like I'm happy here, you know? With you. With everything. I'm used to all of this, to being here, to this - life. And yeah, maybe it isn't perfect, but I kinda wish..." An uncomfortable breath, looking down between us. I try again. "Do you ever think, like...what if I didn't have to do all that. If we could just - keep on, like this, if I could stay here." My throat is tight around the next few words - I know I shouldn't say them, but they force their way out on their own. "Be your little girl."

It takes him a while to answer, and for a moment I'm afraid I've truly said too much, that I've betrayed this secret that I have to keep. And what it would mean to do so flashes briefly through my mind, thrilled and terrified. If I just told him flat-out, blatant, if I turned and kissed him on his lips...but when he speaks, his voice is only tender, earnest, without the shock and horror that the truth would surely bring. "I think every father wishes something like that, sweetheart. At least a little bit." His arm shifts slightly at my back, pressure like a momentary hug. Reassuring. "I understand. I do. It's not easy growing up, god knows. Seems like it's never over, either, always one more milestone that you're not even sure you want to cross. And sometimes you're sharing them with someone else. Often times, really. You'll be moving out, living on your own. Me, I'll have to see my only child leave the nest. Thing like that..."

He chuckles, barely, the sound of it just low and faintly troubled. "It's bittersweet, at best. I won't pretend that I'll be completely glad to head home to an empty house. But the consolation is, I get to see you put together your own life, your own...grand adventure. I think some people call it that." The humor growing stronger, wry inside his tone. A smile. "And all us dads, you know, we've got a magic power called denial. It means you'll always be my little girl, no matter where you are, how big you get. No matter what the calendar might say."

I don't answer him immediately. Not with words. A tiny huff of laughter, a quirking of my lips, cheer that drifts away again more quickly than I'd like. Silence then, hanging for a while until I murmur out another portion of my woes. "I guess. But I just...I don't know. What I should do, or what I want to do, or...I mean, I plan stuff out, you know? I say I'm going to major in computer science. Get a job in networking or whatever, since everybody says it's in demand. And it makes sense, but then I think about it, and it's like - I can't see myself doing it, really. I don't think I even want to."

"Well, that's nothing to be too concerned about," he responds, mild and encouraging. "You still have plenty of time to change your mind, rethink your plans. Aim for something different. What do you think you want to do?"

"That's the thing, though. I don't really know." It's all too real, the faint frustration in my tone, moody and self-pitying. "I mean like, jobs, something day-in, day-out, for like decades, something that I'd enjoy...I can't really think of anything. Nothing realistic, anyway."

"Mm." He breathes in thoughtfully before he answers. "There's your problem, I imagine. Worrying about being 'realistic' is a great way to trim out everything you actually like doing." I can almost hear the crooked grin that tugs at his expression. "Let's say you can do anything you want, sweetheart. What's your pleasure?"

My pleasure. Foolish feeling shivers through me at his turn of phrase, yearning blooming warm inside my breast and then cooling to an icy self-reproach. Stupid, Sarah. Like he means anything by it, like that would make any sense at all. "I don't know." Dismal, quiet - but still I shift a little there beside him, nestle fractionally closer. My cheek against his chest, beneath his collarbone, my fingertips just touching at the edges of his shirt. Huddling against the chill I feel inside...it's hard to face it, anyway, to think about the prospect of some long career. About going to a four-year college, moving out, getting my degree. Growing up. Leaving him behind. That part bothers me especially, before I even try to figure out exactly what I'll do. I don't have an answer to his question. There isn't one. It takes a while to find a joke instead, a taste of faint nostalgia on my lips. "I might not mind being a princess, I suppose."

He laughs at that, at least. Chuckles briefly, caught off-guard - I can feel the momentary rumble of it through his chest, queerly comforting. "And I'm sure you'd do an excellent job as one, too." Affection in his tone...I wish he'd hold me. A sudden, hopeless thought. The arm he has behind my back, the hand that's laying on the grass. It'd be a simple thing for him to slide it up around my waist, to rest his fingers on my hip, on my stomach. Not even sexual, not really. It wouldn't have to be. Just warm, protective, close. "But I'll admit, that is a hard line of work to break into. Not a whole lot of openings."

"No," I answer quiet, half into his shirt. Silence afterward, thinking distantly of what to say. Resting there against his side. Conscious of the feeling of his chest, expanding gently as he breathes, as my disobedient imagination plays again with little snippets of the fantasy I had before, mingled guilt and longing. My voice is small, uncertain, when at last I venture further. "I've been thinking also, like...some people don't even really get careers. Some women. They just get married, and then they're - wives. Housewives."

"That's true." He speaks it with a faint suggestion of surprise. Cautious, questioning. "Is that something you're considering, for yourself?"

I don't really answer him, not for a time. Just shrug a bit, as though I don't have an opinion, my shoulder prodding at his side. A long few seconds of delay before I bring myself to speak again. "I think I'd like it, maybe." Hesitant and low. "I mean, if it was someone that I really loved, that I was with. If I knew that I was making him happy." A nervous lump inside my throat, tightening my tone. "It's like how I like to do nice things for you, you know?" Exactly like that, in fact.

"Mm." Noncommittal. He breathes in once before responding. Twice. "Well. It's not exactly reaching for the stars, but there's worse options out there, I suppose. Get to have a boss who likes you. Or to be the boss, maybe. Depends on your perspective." The thread of humor in his voice doesn't quite attain its standard strength, and I can hear the pause that follows after, the careful softness of concern. "Just...I'm not sure if that should really be your plan A, sweetie. It might still be a while before you meet your Mister Right, and you should probably have something you can do until it happens. Something that puts you out there, maybe, meeting people - not likely that you'll run into the man of your dreams if you're just hanging out around the house."

"No, yeah, I know." My tongue feels clumsy in my mouth, awkward, afraid that I've misstepped with the admission. "I'm not saying that I wouldn't go to college, or that I wouldn't get a job or anything. I'm just..." Dying off to silence. I don't know what I'm 'just,' don't know what words to use to please him. To prove that I'm the girl he thinks I ought to be.

"I understand." His voice quiet, comforting, as though it were really true. Proving that it isn't - he wouldn't be so reassuring, if he genuinely knew the thoughts I carry in my head. "Listen, sweetheart. When you fall in love, when you get married, the man you pick is going to feel like the luckiest guy in the world, no matter if you keep on with a career of your own or not. And of course he won't deserve you, not by half, but that's just the way it goes." Gentle humor, his chin touching affectionately to my scalp. "I don't want to tell you that you shouldn't plan to stay at home afterward. There's just some things that you ought to consider, keep in mind. Number one..."

He shakes his head a bit, reluctant. "...well, I kinda hate to say it, but the truth is, even if two people truly love each other at the start of things, it doesn't guarantee that their marriage is going to last. It's a gamble. It always is. And for you, if you've been out of the job market for however many years and then you get divorced...it leaves you vulnerable. Especially if it gets nasty, when things break down, if he doesn't want to help you out. You can end up in a really tough situation. One that you might be able to avoid, if you kept up your independence."

I don't answer him. I can't, there's nothing I can say. It doesn't feel like a concern that matters. Not for the scenario, the fantasy that prompted it. If it were me and him together, in something like the daydreams that I've had...the love that I imagine is deeper than the simple kind that wives and husbands share. More. Passion and desire, added to the ardent adoration of a girl for her father. Joined to the protective tenderness that he's always held for me. A thing like that, it couldn't break down, couldn't fall apart. It would be forever. If we wanted it to be.

"Number two," he continues quietly, after a time, "is that it isn't always possible. Financially, I mean. There are a lot of jobs out there today that just don't pay enough to support a family, not by themselves. I've been lucky that way, honestly, myself. Even with the way things are right now, there's still money coming in enough to make the payments on the house, to keep us fed. To buy you something nice, from time to time. And before...well. Your mom, she worked part-time because she wanted to, and because the money helped, not because we absolutely needed it. But it's not that easy for a lot of people. And so you should keep in mind that you might still have to work even after you get married, just to make sure that the bills get paid." A tiny pause, a breath - when he speaks again, his voice is fractionally tighter, carries a tang of bitterness so slight and subtle that I don't recognize it for a moment, don't understand its source. "That, or...I suppose you can just try to find a man who has a better job in the first place. Seek out somebody who can give you the kind of life you want."

Like mom. Comprehension strikes me faintly sickening, delayed awareness of the place his mind must be. Like mom, betraying him to crawl into that bastard's bed, to win herself the prizes that she used to fight with him about. A bigger house, a better car, a vacation in the spring...I feel almost hurt that he would hint at anything like that for me, that he would think I'd ever act like her, prostitute myself in payment for a little comfort. "I wouldn't do that." Murmured stubborn, fierce - but it's only half of what I want to say. I wouldn't do that to you. I swear I wouldn't, daddy. You're everything I need, everything I'd want. I'd do everything I could to be the woman you deserve, if you just let me try. If you could ever want me to.

God, it's foolish. Senseless, I know it is. This urge I feel inside my heart, to further turn in his direction, to throw my arm across his chest. To press myself as close against him as I can, to be buried in his warmth. To touch him, kiss him, to confess. To tell him everything. I love you, dad. Daddy. I think I love you love you. I dream about you. I fantasize about you, about your hands upon my body, about you making me your own...in my mind I know how awful it could be if I revealed the truth, but the knowledge doesn't make the impulse go away. Self-destructive, like the little voice inside your head when you stand atop a building's edge. What if you just jumped? You won't do it, really. Of course you won't. But what if you did?

The words come as a diversion. "Do you ever think about getting married again?" Quiet, uncertain. A shift of subject forced deliberately to my tongue, to tear me from the dangerous direction of my thoughts. The madness of my own emotion.

"Me?" I can hear his tone lift up in slight surprise, but it soon drifts back in the direction of his standard humor, cheer. "I don't know, sweetheart. Cheated on, divorced...if this were a movie, I'm pretty sure I'd be a committed misogynist for at least another act."

I should laugh at that, I ought to smile. But I can manage just a hint of it, a feeble curl of my lips. Thin, and swiftly swept away. "Really, though."

He pauses for a time before he answers. Quiet. I halfway wish that I could see his eyes, could interpret his expression...but I'm afraid of what he might be able to discern in mine. "I've thought about it, sure. Or at least about a step in that direction. Finding someone else." Mild tones, subtly abstracted. Honest. "Not completely sure I'm up to it, however. I've been out of circulation for a while now, you'll recall."

"You've gone on dates, though," I remind him. My fingers touching barely at his sleeve, there beneath the blanket. "It isn't like you don't know how."

"Hah." It's more a word, a spoken syllable, than it is a sound of genuine amusement. "Yes, well. That's true. It's not quite as simple as that, though. Unfortunately. Especially with the way that things have been, recently. I'm still old-fashioned enough to be uncomfortable with going Dutch. And besides that..." He briefly shrugs, his broad shoulders drifting underneath my head. "Some things are just more complicated when you're older."

"Complicated how?" Quietly inquiring.

"Well." He drags out the word a little, a shade of reticence. "Just one of those things, you know. Your teenage years, your twenties, that's the golden time for dating. Everybody's young and beautiful and single, or they will be in six months. Will be single, that is. Maybe not so much the rest." The smile in his voice sounds a trifle wry. "You're in the bloom of life yourself, fit and healthy, everything still bright and new. At that age you can fall in love three times a day, if you allow yourself. Get married to a woman that you've only known a couple months, despite your differences, because love will conquer all. At least, that's the way it was with me."

I can hear the breath he takes before he presses on. Slow, a faintly crooked fatalism in his tone. "Time has a way of squashing that kind of optimism, I'm afraid. Which is - I mean, god knows, I don't want to discourage you from following your heart, princess. Sometimes it maybe leads you into making a mistake, but I figure it's one that usually you'll still be glad you made. Your mom and I, I couldn't say that we were really meant to be - but if we didn't get together like we did, you wouldn't be here now. So I could never wish that hadn't happened." Affection in his voice, soft and warm...descending to a rueful humor as he speaks again. "I'm just not quite as eager to jump into things, the second time around. Plus, I'm not exactly moving in the same crowd I was when I was younger. The women that I meet these days, they're..."