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Mar 31

Reality is Different Ch. 04

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Amateur

All characters over 18. The story is intended to be read from chapter 1, and will likely lack a great deal of context if one were to simply jump in here.

*

It’s almost another week before I venture anything again. If I could even call it that, what happened in the park. A brief confession of domestic dreams he didn’t, couldn’t understand. A compliment I passed off as something second-hand, that probably he wouldn’t have thought twice about even if I’d said flat-out it was from me. In the moment I was nervous, terrified, my stomach tied up into knots, but when I look back on it again it seems like I did hardly anything at all. Especially when held beside the girls that I read about. The ones that deal with their attraction by sneaking down into their father’s bedroom, into his bed. That sidle lithe and slender to his side, slowly waking him with tiny kisses and caresses, with her body thrown on top of his. Naked there, as her hips rub hopefully against his morning hardness, playing to his lustful dreams, so that by the time his consciousness begins to surface he’s already half committed, taken too much by desire to stop when he discovers that they’re real, that the nameless woman in his fantasies is actually his daughter.

It’s fiction. I know that. It’s imaginary. The situations, the reactions. The girls who would do anything like that – if they exist at all, they must be vanishingly few in number. Probably. But it still makes me feel almost like a coward. I could do it, after all, if I really wanted to. I could try. Even if it might not resolve itself as perfectly as it does inside the stories…at least then he’d know. I’d know. There’s nothing stopping me, not really. Nothing but my own fears, my own worries. Self-consciousness. Inexperience. The quiet, scornful voice inside that keeps on telling me that this is crazy, that there isn’t really any chance at all that he would want me. It’s about the most that I can do instead to slip down into his bedroom when he isn’t there.

That’s something of a new routine, in fact. A habit. Or in danger of becoming one, at least. Wednesdays are too busy with my classes, and he often comes home early Fridays, but it seems like every other weekday I end up sneaking guiltily downstairs into my father’s room again, thrilling at the faint, ambiguous excitement that tingles down my spine. Nervousness, transgression, titillation, all wrapped up tight with one another in my stomach as I trespass into his space. Sometimes I’ve been sitting down in front of his computer, checking out the folder that I found before, browsing through this little peek I have into the shape of his desires. A giddy spark inside to notice some new video, or a folder full of pictures, to look through it myself and envision how he would have touched himself, wrapped his strong and calloused hand around his shaft.

Other days aren’t as dramatic. Or maybe they’re just different. Sometimes I just stay in there a while, sit in his chair, look inside his closet. Take off my outer clothes and climb into his bed – that part took some working up to, building up my courage, convincing myself that he wouldn’t suddenly show up before I could redress, that even if he did, I could come up with some kind of explanation for how I’d thought to nap in his bedroom instead of mine. The sheets, the blankets, he hasn’t washed them for a while now, and there’s an ambience that lingers when I’ve curled up between them, a subtle scent of him that’s left there from the hours that he spends here every night. Familiar, warm, the feeling it evokes inside.

I think I even understand a little better recently, what the stories have been getting at when they talk about a girl being spurred into arousal by the fragrance of her father’s body, of his sweat. Exaggerated, maybe, especially the ones that have her practically orgasm on the spot, just from sniffing at his shirt…but there’s something not so different in the pleasant ache I feel when I’m burrowed deep beneath his covers, delighting in the little traces there that tickle at my nose. Sweat, yes. His exertions of the day, with whatever million tiny hormones it contains. And soap, and skin, and the antiperspirant he puts on every morning, all blended in with one another to comprise my father’s own distinctive musk. His odor, masculine and powerful and just…Him.

I guess it makes sense, after all. In a way. Smell is the sense most linked to your emotions. I’ve read that somewhere, anyway. So smelling him, it makes me feel the same way he makes me feel. The way that the idea of him does. It makes it easier to think about him, to pretend he’s there beside me. And that’s mostly what I’m doing, on those early afternoons. Pretending. Thinking. Dreaming, with my hand slipped down between my legs, rubbing slowly at my petals when I happen on a fantasy I like. Or just wondering, sometimes, in the almost sleepy stillness. If I could only bring myself to follow bursa escort through, to slip down like this into his bedroom when I know it isn’t empty. If I only had a reason.

Reasons. Yeah. In the stories, it doesn’t have to be deliberate. There doesn’t need to be a scheme, a plan, a decision that you make. There’s no shortage of events and circumstances that can send a girl to spend the night beside her father, an arrangement that begins as something only practical and innocent, until awareness of one another’s bodies blooms into desire, and then to passion. It could be almost anything, the cause. Houseguests visiting, borrowing her room, or his. Some trip they take together, a hotel room that only has one bed. A lightning storm outside that drives the fearful girl out from underneath her covers in search of comfort, reassurance. The kind that she can only get when nestled close beside her Daddy.

It’s the last of these I find especially compelling, even if it is a little childish. Even before the girl’s descent into depravity begins. The idea of it, when I put myself into her place, of running to my father’s room consumed with terror, frightened at the crash and thunder of the hostile world outside. The dream of being swept up in his arms, held so close against his broad and solid chest as he murmurs in my ear how it’s okay, how he’s there for me, how there’s nothing that I need to be afraid of. The security I’d feel in his embrace, protected by his size, his strength, his love. It’s enough to make me almost wish that I still had such fears, that nightmares woke me screaming from my sleep, just so I could scurry from my bed to have my Daddy set the world right again. To put myself into his hands, let him take away my worries and my fears…

That’s something at the heart of this, I think. Something that the stories even sometimes miss, when they focus so much on the mechanics and the physicality of what the girl and her father do with one another. When it’s all about the act itself, how deep into her throat he penetrates, how many times she comes. Because it’s not just sex, the allure this has, it can’t be. I could imagine any man to be the perfect lover, some generic stud with superbly sculpted muscles and an erection out to here. There’d be no reason why it would have to be my dad, no reason there would be stories about anybody’s father, if it wasn’t the relationship that really mattered, the history they share and their feelings for each other. The fact that he’s been watching over me, protecting me, since earlier than I can even properly recall. The myriad of times that I’ve relied on him to help me with the problems that the world throws my way, or that I get into myself. I’d trust my life to him without a thought, my soul, because I know he’d guard them better than I could myself. Because he loves me more than any other person ever could. And I want so badly to be worthy of that love, to make him proud of me, to make him happy.

It’s from that kind of feeling that the fantasies arise. Taking those emotions, that relationship, out beyond all limits. To entrust myself completely to my father, devote myself to pleasing him, to show him my submission to his every whim and whisper. To have him be my guardian forever, my King, my Daddy. To be his little girl, his queen and princess both.

Names. It’s an idle thought, distraction, slow and lazy in the warmth beneath his covers. Pet names, that kind of thing. He calls me princess. Calls me his little girl, sometimes…or he did it at the park, anyway, when he was prompted. Sweetheart. That one’s probably his favorite, along with sweetie. ‘Honey,’ too, sometimes, though that’s mostly what my mother calls me…it’s kind of funny, really, how much overlap there is between the names that people call their kids and the names they use for lovers. Most of what dad calls me, it could be either. Both. And there are lots of others, too, ones that I’ve heard used. Mostly food-related, it seems like, or at least evocative of taste. Pumpkin. Cupcake. Sugar. Light names, nothing anyone would take as too suggestive, too salacious. Just endearing, pleasant.

They dare further, in the stories. Even at the beginning of them, before the action really starts, you can still tell what’s going to happen by the names the father uses for his little girl, the edge to them of sexuality, of possessiveness beyond what most would say is proper. Kitten. Baby. Baby girl…there’s a pleasant little shiver up my spine, thinking that one. So many stories use it, even though I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard a girl called that by her dad. Not for real, or even on TV or anything. The words sometimes conjoined, merged together into one, ‘babygirl’ – but I can tell why it’s so popular. There’s something just about it, the feeling of the phrase, a thrilling blend of affection and authority, of comfort and control. It speaks of ownership as clearly as a leash and collar, but bursa escort bayan in a way that makes it sound so sweet, so right. If my father ever called me that…

I speak it softly to myself, underneath my breath. Trying to hear it in his voice. Baby girl. Husky, quiet, with that slow, delicious rumble that he has. The two names flowing liquid into one another, rolling like a foreign tongue. Babygirrrl…god, he’d only have to say it once, and I’d know he felt something for me. It’s like a shibboleth, a sibboleth, however you’re supposed to say it. A secret word that speaks to the initiated. I can’t believe that anyone would use it innocently. I don’t. A man who calls his daughter that, he’s either sleeping with her, or else he wants to. Telling her his lusts in not so many words, in a way that she would only understand if she feels something similar herself.

There could be other things like that. Other signals, other signs that don’t convey their meaning until you view them in the proper light. Like the girls, the women that I’ve seen a couple times with “Daddy’s girl” printed on their shirts, their jewelry, their license plates. I always used to find it slightly odd, off-putting – I mean, I always loved my dad, even when we sometimes fought, but I wouldn’t have defined myself by that, made it front and center of the identity I show the world. Now…I wonder. It makes so much more sense if I look at it the way the stories always mean the phrase, as a sign of more than just familial belonging. If it’s intended as a badge of honor for the girls who’ve earned their fathers’ full attention, a wink and nod at anyone who comprehends its meaning, the other membership of that exclusive club. Or like before, it could be intended as a message to the man himself, to the Daddy that it names. A promise, an enticement. He couldn’t miss the implication, if he’s read the sorts of things that she has, that I have, if he’s shared such fantasies himself. Even if he didn’t know for sure she meant it in that way, he’d still have to wonder, he’d send her signals of his own. Run his hand along her thigh one evening as she took her place beside him.

I wonder what my own dad would say, what he’d do, if he saw me wearing something like that. Maybe a pair of those velour pants, the phrase curved brazenly across their back. “Daddy’s Girl,” spelled out ostentatiously in glitter. I don’t remember ever really seeing such a thing, but it must exist somewhere. If I made sure that I was bending over when he first saw me wearing them, stretched out as though preparing for a jog, the fabric fitted snug around my bottom, accentuating as best it can the meagre assets I possess. Presenting to my Daddy as clearly as I’m capable exactly what the words are there to offer, what’s his to take…god, the image of it stirs a flush upon my cheeks, between my thighs, my fingers rubbing quicker on my button. How bold, outrageous, blatant it would be, to pretend that I don’t see him there behind me, watching, to ‘limber up’ by wiggling my hips at him, provocative and tempting. Clinging to that thin veneer of innocence until at last he steps up close behind and plants his hand upon my rear, giving me a slight, possessive squeeze…

Or, well. That’s just another fantasy, I know. I’m not exactly skilled on putting on such a display – probably I’d look entirely ridiculous, obvious in my intentions, if I could somehow even get myself to try. Just the pair of pants would be too much, too distinctive, too plain in their suggestion – I can’t imagine what explanation I would tell him if I wore something like that, if he asked.

But still, there’s maybe something in the core of the idea, to giving him that kind of halfway-secret message. If the medium I used were somewhat less direct. Just a t-shirt, maybe. I know I’ve seen them. A baby tee, very girly, very pink, with it written out in cutesy letters on the front. And if he asked about it, I could just say I thought it would look good on me. And that anyway, I am a daddy’s girl – hiding in the ambiguity the phrase affords. Hinting at the truth I really mean, without having myself shackled to it. And if he had any thoughts along those lines himself, if he’s read the things I have, it would surely be enough to make him wonder. To attempt perhaps some subtle, soft suggestion of his own.

Something for me to think about. To maybe try, if I can find something that fits the bill. But not today. There’s another plan that I already have in motion. Another hope. I don’t like to really think that it’s a plan – it makes it sound like something cheap, dishonest. But everyone has hopes for what they do, and you don’t always want to blurt them out. This is just something like that.

Dinner, first. It’s much more regular in recent days for me to make it, but this time I pulled out all the stops. Or all the stops I can afford to, on our budget. A canceled lecture gave me time enough to head out escort bursa grocery shopping, hunting through the dollar store for deals before I moved on to the supermarket for the rest. An hour in the kitchen, chopping, mixing, roasting; I had to ruin the surprise a little bit by calling him at work to ask what time he would be coming home, but it was still a thrill to hear his work truck rumble up the driveway just as I was finished, setting down the stove to simmer so that I could greet him at the doorway, grinning like a fool. Excitement humming warm and giddy in my heart, enough to push me past my normal hesitation to rush in for a hug, treasuring the feeling of his brief embrace before he had to separate again, to put away his tools.

Euphoric. That’s the sentiment that carries through the meal, though his just-so-slightly hammy exclamations of how good it is, how amazing it all looks. Kidding on the square. Silly, blissful, adolescent, like a girl with her first crush. In my head I know it probably won’t come to anything, the evening I’ve arranged, but my heart is having none of it, singing to the heavens every time his eyes meet mine. There’s a glass of wine again for each of us, one I only sip while he drinks his more deeply, rambling at my request about his efforts of the day, rewiring a flooded basement and calling up a former client who still hasn’t paid his bill. Allowing me the chance again to lose myself inside the gentle rhythm of his voice, to laugh and chat with him across the table, intimate and warm. I didn’t put down candles for the meal, didn’t dim the lights…but I thought about it, doing so. Perhaps some other time, if I can find the confidence, can gird my will enough to try for such transparent signals of romance.

Almost over now, at any rate. My own dish sits already in the sink, while he works through the last few bites of his, takes another swallow from the glass that I quite recently refilled. Nearly dark outside the window, these yawning autumn nights…it’s time, I think, for me to ask, to offer what I hoped we would do next. I can feel the quiet simmer on my cheeks, just at the thought, even though I know it’s something that should come across as innocent. It is innocent. Mostly. The bulk of it. But it still takes a while for me to settle down the anxious tightness in my throat, waiting for a moment when his gaze is touched to mine.

“So, um, I thought-“

“There’s actually another-“

We start to speak almost in unison, stepping onto one another’s words until he swiftly breaks off, chuckling. I giggle slightly, too, a bubbling of nervous laughter as he gestures with his wine. “Go on, you go first.”

“No, no,” I instantly demur, glad for any little chance I get at deference. To show him my submission. A good girl’s not supposed to put herself before her Daddy, after all. A sparkle of excitement in my stomach, any time I get to play the role… “I’m sure yours is more important.”

“Well, I don’t know about that.” A snort of slight amusement, as he quirks a smile back at me. “But, ah, yeah. I told you how I ran into Frank at the building site today. You remember him, right?”

My answer is a momentary nod. He did. I do. I’ve met him, anyway, a couple times. My dad and him were kind of friends, once, colleagues – I think he was a plumber? Something like that. I remember once he came over with a bunch of other guys to watch the super bowl. But that was years ago – I haven’t seen him lately, and I don’t think that dad has either.

“Anyway, we caught up. He has a son, you know, about your age. Graduating high school now. I’m pretty sure you never met the guy, but I talked to him a couple times, a while ago. Seemed like a good kid. Nice enough. Respectful. Or he was then, at any rate.” There’s a certain circumspection in my father’s voice I don’t completely understand, a subtle dryness to his tongue. “From what Frank tells me, you and him really have a lot in common. He’s into the computers, too, writes programs for them or something. And I guess he’s…” A vague and errant gesture with his hand, conveying almost nothing. “He’s quiet, you know. A little bit withdrawn, which I think I might be able to accuse you of as well. So I thought – well, really, it was both of us, Frank and I. We thought that it might be good if you two, ah, met each other. Andy. That’s his name, the kid’s name. Andrew.”

It takes another second, staring, faintly puzzled, before I realize what he’s suggesting. “Wait,” my voice emerges slightly sharp with disbelief, with the faintest flutter of dismay. “Are you trying to set me up on a date?”

He looks sheepish. Awkward, uncomfortable at the suggestion…but he nods, lightly. “Hey, it’s not exactly my first instinct, believe you me. I’m pretty sure I’d rather lock you up inside a tower somewhere, not let anybody close. But, well…” A quiet clucking of his tongue. “I don’t know, sweetheart. It just seemed like you might need, or want, or – I don’t know, a bit of help. A push. Let’s call it that, a little push. You’ve kinda just been hanging out around the house a lot, lately, and I just…I thought it might be good for you. You know?”

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