Role Reversal Ch. 01

My daughter, the light of my life, was 18 when she got knocked up. I had been a single dad since my ex left for the store one day and never came back. Teddy, named by the ex, a name given just because she "liked" it, was one of those enigmas. She was good-looking, not pretty but cute if I'm being honest, smart, and athletic as hell. She ran track, did gymnastics, and even seemed to enjoy helping me work on old cars.

But she always had this thing about boys.

Hell, I don't know, maybe it was genetic. God knows her mother loved the dick.

We had The Talk and she assured me she was waiting for love. I took her to the doctor anyway after I realized she had her first period, and got her a shot that was supposed to be good for three months, something called Depo-Provera. That was when she was 13 and starting to bloom, and I figured that would take care of it.

Silly me.

I didn't mind when she said she was ready to date at 14. Hell, I trusted her.

I didn't mind when she cried in my arms when she was 15 as we stood, waiting to see if the damn stick turned blue. "Do you love him?" I asked and she said, "Daddy, I don't know but it felt so good."

So I wasn't surprised when this time the stick did turn blue. She was 18 then and I kind of liked the boy. But I wasn't surprised when he told her to get an abortion. I was surprised, at least a bit when she said no.

So I held her hand while she told me she was pregnant and held her in my arms while she cried. I wiped her nose and washed her face and for the next nine months, I tended to her, as I had with her mom while she was pregnant.

And that strange intimacy of the man and the pregnant woman grew between us. I mean, come on. What is more personal, more intimate, than holding a woman's hair back while she's going through morning sickness, and in Teddy's case this meant that practically every morning I would be surprised to NOT see her toenails in the water when she flushed. Her morning sickness was so violent that many times I had to get an old towel I learned to keep for the purpose, wet it with warm water, and clean her up where the force of her puking had left her ass dirty too. By the time she was getting close to delivery, I would use another damp, wet towel to wipe down her back and cool her off.

She was just starting to show when I took her out for her 18th birthday. She couldn't drink, of course, but she seemed genuinely happy for the first time since she got pregnant. She laughed at the comedian who was doing stand-up and ate her steak with gusto. She giggled, a little hysterically I thought, when a one-liner caught her off guard and she laughed around her Chocolate Lava dessert, leaving a smear on her rising belly.

She decided she wanted to do the natural childbirth thing. You know, the Lamaze classes and all that. So, of course, I became her coach/partner, and that strange, beautiful, forbidden intimacy grew even stronger.

I wasn't surprised when she climbed into my bed after our first Lamaze class. There is such a perfect rapport about those classes, as she sat, her back leaning against my chest, both of our hands lightly caressing her belly as she did that weird whistling panting breathing thing and the instructor counted slowly back from 10 and 15, and finally from 60. It was impossible to NOT feel her heavy breasts, preparing for the baby, pressing against my arms as I reached and caressed the hard roundness that was her belly.

She climbed into the bed with me, gravid now at seven months, her belly big and hard, very dark stretch marks ran across the tops of her hips, once narrow, now spread as her body prepared for motherhood.

She lay next to me, naked, and laid my hand on her belly.

"He's running tonight," she said and after a few seconds I felt what she meant, I felt movement and could actually see a small lump move across her belly.

Her head was turned on the pillow and she was looking at me.

"I wish it was your baby, Daddy," she said, "Our baby."

And I was lost.

The taboos no longer mattered. This was the woman I loved, the woman I wanted.

"The next one will be," I said, kissing, her, not a quick father-daughter peck but a real man-woman kiss.

When I broke the kiss we were both crying a little.

"Promise?" she said very softly.

"Promise," I said, "But beware what you wish for. I always did want my own football team."

She giggled and said, "Good. Because I LOVE being pregnant."

I did the awkward back-arched-knees-up movement men do to take off their shorts when they're lying in bed, and then pressed against her, my erection making my interest obvious.

"Are you sure, Teddy?" I asked.

"Please," was all she said, but the way she said it stripped the last shred of my inhibitions away.

I rolled up onto my knees and got them between hers before I moved forward, pushed down on my erection, and slipped inside of my daughter. Her labia were swollen with her third trimester and, I suppose, sexual stimulation. Her belly was big between us, and I caressed it, tracing the stretch marks, so deep I could feel them, as we adjusted, accepting our new joining, our new intimacy.

I looked into her face and found love in her eyes. Her nose was running a little, in her excitement, and I found that to be sexy, kind of surprising myself. Her breasts were much bigger than they ever had been. During the past seven months, she had gone from an A cup through a B until she now overflowed her C cup bras. Her nipples were very dark and her areolas were tightened to cones with distinct love bumps, what I later learned were her Montgomery Glands, as they prepared for the baby to come.

I couldn't kiss her in this position, kisses would come later.

I remembered the ex's pregnancy so I was careful, being gentle as my rhythm brought us both along, slowly, easily, lovingly.

She came first, I liked the sudden contraction, squeezing where I was inside of her, matched by her forehead squeezing quickly, leaving a series of lines. As soon as I was sure she was satisfied I let my control go and came, a good ejaculation sending a billion or so sperm cells to a place already full.

Oh well, it felt good for both of us.

But this was a night for intimacy and love, not just sex. The afterplay was spectacular. We said, "I love you" to each other over and over while sharing kisses. Some soft, some harder. She shrieked and giggled when I licked her upper lip where her nose was running but then sighed when I gently rolled her nipples. She was pregnant, but not very experienced, and I was enjoying her reactions to each sensation.

"I don't want to ever leave you," she said.

"I won't let you," I replied."

Suddenly she was crying.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she said, squeezing me, kissing me almost desperately.

"For what, Baby?" I asked, squeezing back, kissing back.

And now she was bawling.

"It's NOT YOUR BABY!" she wailed.

I laughed, softly, and kissed her, a very snotty kiss the way she was crying and her nose was running freely.

"It's OUR baby," I said, covering her face with kisses.

"Oh, DADDY," she cried, wrapping her arms around my neck and pulling me tight, "Do you mean it?"

"Have I ever lied to you?" I asked in response.

"No," she said, a smile breaking through the tears.

"Then believe me," I said, kissing her forehead and her eyelids and her cheeks and finally, her mouth, "It's OUR baby," I repeated, and I'll love it just like I've loved you."

She was still crying when the excitement took over her body.

She pulled me over and up onto her and we slipped together naturally. It was like we were made for each other, designed to not just be able to make it work but to match naturally.

"Fill me up, Daddy," she said, breathless, her hips bucking now, meeting my rhythm, "Please, show me what it will be like with you."

I dug my fingers into her hair and held her head immobile, forcing her to look into my eyes as I matched her increasing need.

"Will you be my wife?" I asked.

"Yes, Dady, yes," she said, breathless now, her size and the awkwardness of pregnancy making her work much harder than me.

And still, I held her eyes, as my rhythm sped.

"Are you certain, Teddy?" I asked once more.

"Yes, Daddy," she said.

"Will you still call me Daddy?" I asked.

She giggled then and said, "I may start calling you Hurry Up if you don't give me what I want," and she giggled some more, "But yes, even when I'm having your baby you'll always be Daddy to me."

I let my control go then and came and it was like nothing I had ever experienced.

I always understood that sex was more than just physical contact, but this was beyond anything I had ever imagined. My love for my daughter, the same baby I had changed diapers for, had tended to skinned knees for, had cheered on when she ran or swam, was to be my wife now and the emotions ran far beyond just gonads and nerve endings. I was crying as I approached the point of no return and when we came together it was perfect. This was truly a merging of bodies but more than that, it was a merging of hearts and souls. I knew, with perfect certainty, that she was my last and would be my only for the rest of my life.

And that knowledge made me happy.

I couldn't just relax when I finished, my body spent, because our baby was in the way. So I held that awkward position, my back bowed to accommodate the baby, as our breathing returned to something like normal.

I softened, as men must after the pure ecstasy of release, and then moved off of her to lay on my side, my hand light on the rise of her belly, of her baby, of OUR baby, and kissed her again.

"Yes," she said, very softly, smiling, "I'll always call you Daddy."

Before I could say anything her eyes fluttered shut and her breathing slowed into sleep.