Reality is Different Ch. 04

That was the key, the dark epiphany that led him into what came next. Reflecting on that fact. She was completely plastered, wrecked for hours yet at least. She wouldn't be aware of anything he did. No one would - they were alone there in the house. And as he dwelled upon the implications of those facts, the anger that he felt at her for her intemperance slowly turned into another kind of heat, a different urge to punish...it was the freedom that the moment offered him, he said. Knowing that he could do anything he wanted to her, and it would have no cost, no penalty, no price to pay. In the gaze of that anarchic liberty, the quiet notice that he'd taken of his daughter's body grew abruptly to an all-consuming hunger, need.

By the standards of the stories that I've read, the rest of what he did was almost tame. He felt her up a while, squeezed and stroked her breasts, took off her shirt to look at them directly. He rubbed his cock against her hand, her chest, her face, and even tried to put it in her mouth, until it became apparent that her utter unresponsiveness rather limited the pleasure he could get that way. And eventually, he just masturbated over her, came deliberately on her breasts. He said he thought about taking a photograph of the results, a memento, but decided quickly just to clean her up again instead, wipe her with a cloth, put her clothes back on. Leave her sleeping on the couch, more or less the way he'd found her. Too afraid, despite the freedom that he felt, to take things all the way.

That's why I accept it as the truth, though. Or at least, it's a big part of why. The made-up stories, fake confessions always seem a little perfect. The people who create them can never stand to leave things unfulfilled, never tell of an encounter that would come across as awkward or unflattering. So this one, with its subtle strangeness, with its fears, with what was left undone...I believe it, pretty much completely. It happened. It was real.

And it could be real here, as well. I mean, yeah, it clearly isn't quite the same, our situation. I'm not a tenth as drunk as the other girl must have been, not after just a couple glasses, neither of them even all that full. And my dad knows how much I had to drink, couldn't tell himself that I must be completely sloshed. But the core of it is there. I told him how it made me sleepy, let him see how I was nodding off. And with the way we're nestled close together, it'll be difficult for him to miss how thoroughly conked out I am, how deep in slumber, unaware of anything that he might try.

"Sa-a-arah." He's trying now to wake me up, in fact. Quietly, his voice a gentle sing-song, lined with his familiar humor as his arm rocks slightly at my back. Shaking me a little, back and forth...and I can't help feeling guilty, just a bit. A remonstrating little voice inside me. This is a deception, what I'm doing. I can't deny it. But it isn't like I'm lying to him, really. I'm not even doing anything at all. I'm just sitting here, laying at his side. I shouldn't have to feel too bad about it, I don't think. Not when my heart is thumping eager with excitement, so strongly that I have to try to calm myself to be sure my dad won't notice.

"Come on, now. Rise and shine." He hasn't seemed to, yet. Nor has he given up on rousing me, despite my steadfast failure to respond. Extrication, moving my arm off his chest with his free hand, his tone cajoling and amused - it isn't quite the best of what I'd hope to hear right now, doesn't hint at hidden lusts. But there's time enough for that, still. And it is a bit of a relief that he's still sticking with this light approach. If he really tried to wake me up, if he bellowed in my ear or shook me forcefully awake, I'd kinda have to let it work. It wouldn't be believable for me to sleep through that, with the only-moderate amount I've had to drink. These subtler attempts permit me to continue the illusion, breathing slow and even, reacting only limply when he jostles me. Showing him a girl who's fast asleep, who'd never know it if he let his hand to wander, to explore...

"God." The word sounds mostly spoken to himself, beneath his breath, tinged with tolerant exasperation. And it's just a moment after that he stops his gentle nudging, leaves me laying slack again against him. Deep in slumber, helpless. Like Snow White herself, I guess, waiting for her Prince's kiss. Or like a doll, a toy, waiting to be played with...I barely keep my breath from catching at the thought, almost give the game away. Foolish. But there's just this sense of promise in the air, of possibility, an atmosphere that only thickens as the seconds start to pass and silence lingers. The quiet deeper, with the television off. I can hear the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen, just at the very edge of my perception. I can hear him breathing, slow and thoughtful at my side, the rising of my Daddy's torso halfway under mine. It's soothing and exciting all at once, agonizing as I wonder what he's doing, what he's thinking. If he's looking at me now.

He could be. I can't resist the thought, the image of it in my mind. He could be, so, so easily. His head just tilted down and sideways so that he can look me over, his gaze caressing languidly across my body. Stroking on the bare skin of my legs, my thighs, staring hungry at my breasts. Thinking how he'd like to touch, to squeeze, to taste...he could be in a quarrel right now with his conscience, wrestling with his misgivings, with desire grown abruptly bolder in the knowledge of my stupor. He could be hesitating, wondering how safe it is, if he could run his hands across my body without me waking up.

It's okay, Daddy. I loudly think the words, emphatic, urging them into his mind. I'm fast asleep. I'll never know. I might not even give up my façade, if he did do something here. I might keep up the masquerade, pretending still to be unconscious as he fondled at my breasts, between my legs, and only later use the knowledge to decide what I should do. Or I could 'wake up' maybe just halfway, just enough to urge him on with drowsy murmurs, whimpers. "mmmph...daddy..." Purring softly with the pleasure of his touch, my eyes still closed, as though I'm speaking from a dream. Egging on my father's lusts, teasing him with breathy moans and whispers until the moment that his self-control abruptly shatters with the weight of his desires. The sharp, delicious ache of danger I would feel in my belly as I'm roughly spun around to face him, as my Daddy kisses me, intense, demanding, rips away the paltry scraps of cloth that hide me from his eyes, his hands...if it could only happen, if he'd listen to the pleas I send in his direction. You can touch me, Daddy. If you want.

I don't believe in ESP, in reading minds or anything like that. I don't actually expect that it does anything, thinking messages at him. But it's enough to almost make me wonder if I'm wrong, feeling how he shifts again beside me practically right after my last thought, as though responding to the words. Goosebumps rising anxious and excited on my skin as I strive to see just what he's doing, to understand the way he pulls his shoulder out from underneath my head, while his arm stays solid and supportive at my back. He pushes up and forward on the couch, turning as he does to face me, and suddenly I feel his fingers touch upon the bottom of my knee, slip beneath the subtle tenting of my legs...

For the briefest moment, I think that this is it, that it's begun. My own story, my fantasies becoming real, and my heartbeat spurs so deep and forceful that it hurts...then time flows on beyond that little instant, and the truth becomes apparent as his arm hooks up beneath my knees, as I'm lifted carefully into the air, a subtle grunt of effort sounding somewhere just above my head. He's only picking me up. Putting me to bed - but the stab of mingled disappointment and relief I feel is swiftly swept away, as I marvel at what's really going on.

I didn't see this coming. I thought he'd only leave me on the couch to sleep, if nothing came of my attempts - it's been forever since he's carried me like this, to bed or anywhere. A decade, probably, or something close to it. Not since I was a little girl...it was time that ended it, I guess. The way it ruins everything, awkwardness and distance thrown between us as I started to grow up, as it turned into something childish to be picked up and carried, something ridiculous and foolish, even as a bit of play. To be cradled in his arms, strong and solid at my back, beneath my legs, to feel his sturdy chest supportive at my side...I don't know how I ever thought that I'd outgrown it. I don't know if it's even sexual or not, the ache of satisfaction that I feel being held by him like this, the eager stirring of excitement in my breast, wishing I could press in closer, throw my arms around his neck.

It's both, I think. It is and isn't. A blurring, blending into one another of the heat beneath my stomach and the warmth inside my heart. Belonging. Like I'm once again the little girl that I was, all those years ago, hugging unselfconscious to my Daddy's chest, unaware of any boundaries, unafraid of loving him without reserve. Or as though I were a blushing bride, carried ardently across the threshold of some honeymoon suite...the reflection is enough to spark another wondering, another tiny fantasy. After all, I don't where he's taking me, not yet. He could be bringing me into his bedroom. He could set me down to sprawl across his bed, gently peel away the clothes from my compliant body, run his hands possessively along my heated skin...

He doesn't, though. Of course he doesn't. Just makes his way upstairs, turned sideways so he doesn't bump my head into the doorways, or the wall. Pushed backwards to my bedroom, elbowing a moment at the dimmer switch that's just inside - I recognize that only belatedly, by the subtle lightening beyond my eyelids, the glow that glimmers when I barely, barely crack them open. Then he lays me down a trifle clumsily upon my bed, and I'm left to grapple with a keening sense of loss as he departs.

At least, that's what I'm expecting, when he gingerly withdraws his arms from underneath me. A note of subtle anguish there, as contact breaks...but he doesn't leave, even after pulling up the covers carefully around my neck so I'll be warm. He stays there, sitting on my bed, its very edge. Looking at me. He is, he must be - I can almost feel his gaze upon my face, my features, watching in the dim light of the room, and it's all that I can do to focus on maintaining my pretense of sleep while my pulse pounds louder, quicker in my ears. The moment lingering as seconds pass, pile onto one another, as dreams and wonders bubble up inside my mind.

It does happen like this in the stories, sometimes. Restraint until the very end, until he has her in her bed, or his, until he teeters on the edge of action, conscience warring with temptation, with the hungers that have growled and grow inside him every time he's looked in her direction. It takes so little there, to push him over. The sounds she makes when sleeping, the almost sigh of exhalation, soft and sweet. The way her lips sit barely parted, moist and plump, driving him to think of how they'd feel wrapped around his manhood. The lock of golden hair that lays across her face, drifting slow and tantalizing with her breath...something in him snaps that moment, and he decides, he knows he's going to have her, no matter what the consequences are. No matter if she wants him to or not. The need for her is in his veins, thrumming thick and powerful, it burns like fire in his lungs. The hunger of some wild creature for his chosen mate. Nothing in the world matters more than this, the instinct deep inside of him, remorseless, the drive that pushes him to strip away the covers from her body, to-

Drifting off again into these imaginings, I almost miss it when my father's weight shifts forward on the bed, when the springs let out a subtle creaking on my other side, complaints of some new burden. I barely manage to prepare myself in time - for suddenly I feel his fingers touch upon my cheek, and it takes all my effort just to keep myself from gasping, flinching at the contact, at anticipation built up to a fever pitch and then triggered by his touch. By his caress...god, it is! It almost is. It's real. His fingertips are curled just beside my ear, behind my jaw, his thumb against my cheekbone, stroking slowly on my skin - ohh, my god. My god. I swear, my face has never felt as sensitive as this, never ached and thrilled and tingled at a touch the way it does right now. It's a struggle to maintain the steady rhythm of my respiration when my instinct is to hold my breath, to focus every atom of my consciousness on capturing the way this moment feels, absorbing every inch and instant of sensation that it offers. The subtle warmth that carries from his hand, held tenderly against my jaw. The slight, exquisite rasping of his calloused thumbtip as it traces out a gentle arc across my cheek. The presence of him there above me, leaning over, awareness almost palpable inside my mind...my daddy, god, my Daddy, touching me so like he does in the beginnings of my dreams...

It isn't fair, how swift it ends. A couple seconds, barely. Two strokes of his thumb before his hand retreats, leaving in its wake an imprint on my skin that pulses warm, cries out sorrowful and pleading for him to return - there's hardly time for it to even reach my thoughts. He's already moving, leaning closer over me, and I scarcely have a fraction of an instant to consider what that means before I feel another touch upon my forehead. Not his fingers, now. A pair of lips. A kiss.

This time I do react, despite myself. Only just. A tiny gasp, an inhalation slightly faster, sharper than I'd like. Small enough for me to pray it slips beneath his notice, as my heartbeat pounds like thunder in my chest. I can feel his stubble scratching at my skin, the hint of moisture from his mouth, and such an urge wells up inside to simply throw my arms around him, to respond. To rain down fervent kisses on my Daddy's neck, his jaw, his lips, to let him see my love for him, my adoration...

But I don't have the chance. It's over after half a second, before the impulse even can begin to worm its way towards action. A few words murmured as he sits up straight again, as his fingers brush just briefly through my hair, affectionate. "Good night, princess." Tender. Soft - then he pushes to his feet, treads quiet to the door, and I'm left to bear the agony of my own frustrated longing as I listen to him make his way outside and down the stairs.

I still just sit there for a while, unmoving, keeping to the role I chose to play. Hoping somehow that he might return, that whatever hunger he might feel could tug upon him stronger as he tries to leave, rise up inescapable inside, the way it does sometimes for fathers in the stories...it's not until he hits the bottom that I grudgingly accept it isn't going to happen. Only then do I permit myself to move again, allow my hand to slip between my legs the way that it's been begging. To touch, to rub against my dewy petals half in bloom, a pace that starts out slow but soon accelerates as the excitement I've been teasing for the past few hours catches sight at last of freedom and rushes forth with all its might. As I finally indulge the needs that I've had bubbling inside of me, the dreams that for a moment seemed so close to coming true.

God, the things that could have happened...the voice of reason disagrees, of course, the way she always does. Counsels quiet in my mind that it said nothing, what he did, that this was just the kind of chaste, paternal contact that he always used to give. That it was even more than usual the way he'd treat a daughter, not a woman he desired. That anyway, he probably knew all along I was awake, was only humoring my childish ruse - but I don't have the patience for such doubts, not right now. Not while I have the feeling of his hand upon my cheek still echoing inside my consciousness, the trace that lingers of his lips. Of my Daddy's gentle kiss...ohh, it's perfect, perfect, how it felt, how it still feels, a bliss that trembles sharp and aching in the center of my soul. It hardly even matters how he meant it. It's a sign of his affection, a symbol of his love. It resonates inside me, pounding louder than my heartbeat, telling me the truth I long so desperately to hear. That I'm his little girl. That I belong to him, my Daddy, that he'll keep me safe, he'll treasure me, he'll tell me everything I need to know or do, and all that really matters in the world is for me to love him back.

Oh, daddy. I think the words, I whisper them, aim them downward through the floor to seek his ear. My fingers working feverish between my folds, upon my throbbing button, even while my other hand is only touched against my cheek, rubbing in an hopeful imitation of my dad's caress. I love you so, so much. I do. I need you. I'll do anything you tell me, daddy, anything you want, if you just let me be your baby girl...a prayer, a plea as I squirm clumsily beneath the covers, breathless, frantic with the madness of desire. If I had only done it, when I got the urge to kiss him back. If I weren't always so intent on thinking, if I just did instead, showed him plainly what I feel, he could be here with me right now. He could be on top of me, my clothing torn away, his manhood rubbing teasingly along my leaking slit in preparation, anticipation of its conquest. He could be kissing me for real, completely, his hand like steel behind my skull, his exquisite lips exploring in my features, trailing slow and damp across my skin, stopping here and there to try a little taste...I could be impaled, split upon his straining hardness, rocked beneath him as he pounds inside of me with all his strength, takes my body for his own, driving headlong towards the chasm of release. The slapping of our hips together, the shock of pain and pleasure that flashes through my flesh with every brutish, virile thrust - it would force me backward if he didn't have me pinned against the bed, if I wasn't held exactly how he wants me, mewling helpless and pathetic as sensation arcs electric through me, agonizing, as it shatters every shadow of a thought I try to form.

"God, I love you, princess." So much his standard statement of affection - but this time he would speak it as a groan, a growl, his voice grown thick and husky with the satisfaction that he's wringing from my form. Still carrying that slight, delicious rumbling that buzzes warm and thrilling in my chest. "I love your sweet little pussy...you're being so good, baby, such a good girl for your Daddy." His praise like a caress upon my heart, my soul. It's an ardent pleasure of its own, a softer bliss that aches beside the shuddering of sex and passion. Fulfillment glowing eager, dizzy in my breast, knowing that I've made my Daddy happy, that I've pleased the only man who matters in the world. There's nothing else, no higher calling than to serve his needs, to give myself to his desires, to worship and adore the man I love, who brought me into being...

I wouldn't feel disappointment or uncertainty, when suddenly he slowed his pace. Only readiness, trembling with hunger and anticipation for whatever he does next. Sensation arcing sharp along my nerves as he leans down over me again to touch a firm and loving kiss upon my dampened brow, his lips sliding teasingly across my skin to stop above my ear. "You can stay here, Sarah." He murmurs low and tantalizing, his voice's tempo mirroring his motions down between my thighs. Simple, how the statement sounds - but my heart leaps up into my throat to hear it, to understand its promise. "You can be my pet, my toy, my perfect little wife." One harder thrust as punctuation, forcing the breath out of my lungs. His calloused hand upon my breast, squeezing, scraping, pinching as he whispers kisses at my ear. "Is that what you want, baby girl?"