Sandy
Rachel was relaxing at my dinner table with her customary after-dinner hot tea. I was sitting across from her, with some of the iced variety.
"So, how's your sex life, Dad?"
I was used to direct questions from my precocious daughter, so I didn't skip a beat. I replied without blinking:
"Oh, about what you'd expect."
"Taking things in hand with lots of virtual stimulation, I take it?"
"I'll leave that to your imagination. But I think you can figure that out for yourself."
Not that we'd ever discussed it, but Rachel knew how much I loved sex with her mother, and also how much I did not enjoy having to do without. I had no doubt she had a fairly good idea of the frequency of my solo activity during the last couple of years.
"You know Dad, it doesn't have to always be like that."
I figured I was in store for a little lecture about how I should get out there and date. We had touched on the topic a couple of times, and she knew I didn't like that idea. And I knew she understood why. It was for the same reason she was so particular about her own attachments. Since I had the absolute best for as long as I did, how could I expect to be satisfied with anything that couldn't possibly meet such high standards?
"We've been over that, sweetie. And I know you understand how I feel about dating at this point."
"I know Dad, and I wasn't referring to that. I've been thinking about your situation, and I think I might have a solution. But it's going to be a little bit out there, so I want to make sure you'll give the idea a fair hearing before I put it out there to you."
Now at this point, if my relationship with my daughter wasn't what it is and has always been, my dirty mind might have supposed that Rachel was about to suggest some "solution" that somehow involved her directly. But I knew better. We had long since discussed incest and sex within families, and she well knew that any such proposition was off the table as far as we were concerned. I was not the kind of person to ever cross that line, not after having the kind of father-daughter relationship we'd had her entire life. I just didn't, and could never, think of my precious daughter in that way.
But I was always open to any other kind of proposition, so I replied, "Well, this ought to be interesting. OK, dear daughter, I promise not to laugh whatever you're about to come up with out of the room, before you've had a chance to make your case."
In the bantering style to which we'd long been accustomed, she shot back, "Well, Daddy dearest, that's very good of you, and I appreciate getting a fair hearing."
Then, her face turned serious, and she continued: "Before I lay out my idea, I want to ask you something."
"Sure, anything, baby."
"Do you love women?"
"You know I do."
"ALL women?"
"Yes, of course. You know what I think of all women." We'd been over this a time or two over the years. Both Beth and Rachel knew of my feelings about women in general. To put it simply, I'd always thought women were remarkable. Their ability to hold and express deep feelings, to sacrifice, to nurture, to bring forth and sustain new life -- these qualities were nothing short of miraculous to me. And of course, their bodies. No matter what age, race, size, or shape, every feature of each woman's body was truly fascinating to me -- how each could display the same physical parts and features, but yet be so unique in her own right. Be they clothed or otherwise, I had never tired of looking at them all, no matter how many thousands I'd gazed upon, whether in person, in photos, or in artistic portrayals.
Rachel pressed on. "Even barely-legal women?"
My eyebrows raised, drawing a small smirk from my mischievous daughter. More than anyone, she appreciated being able to surprise me, even a little bit.
"Yes, ALL women. Even 18-year-olds."
"Would you be open to playing, shall we say, adult games with an 18-year-old?"
"If it was only playing, and if it was discreet and consensual, and the right 18-year-old, and I didn't think I was taking unfair advantage in any way, sure, why not? And certainly with no one younger than that."
"That goes without saying. I know you well enough to be sure, without asking, that you wouldn't cross that line. In fact, if I had even the slightest suspicion you would, I'd probably be reporting you to the police myself, rather than having this conversation with you."
I snickered. "And I wouldn't blame you if you did. I'm glad you know and trust me that well."
"Of course, Dad. I'd be more than a little dim if, after all these years, I didn't know exactly who and what you were." Resuming that serious expression, she continued, "Would you be open to playing the role of a Dom for a girl that age? If you could find someone willing to be your sub?"
"Sure, but you know as well as I do that, by and large, 18-year-olds are not yet sexually aware enough to be able to know or embrace such a role with that much clarity."
"Oh, my Daddy, you might be surprised."
I knew her use of "Daddy" instead of "Dad" here was intentional, and meant to titillate. This woman, my flesh and blood, had learned well; she didn't miss a trick. Even her use of the word commonly used to describe a male Dom brought a momentary thrill to my gut, as I briefly recalled the joy and fulfillment of playing such a role with her mother all those years, and of being called that nickname all that time by an appreciative and loving sub who just happened to be my soulmate and the woman of my dreams.
"And how would you know that --" I stopped myself, as I suddenly realized how she would know.
"Aha, Dad, you remembered where I work and in what capacity."
Where she was going with this became clear in a flash. "You can't mean a high school student from your school system."
She saw the slightly disgusted, distressed look on my face, and quickly responded, "Yes, I do. And before you get it in your mind that such a thing is too creepy to even contemplate, please allow me to fully explain."
I looked back at Rachel for a second or two. I knew that if I let her explain, whatever case she made for what she was suggesting would no doubt be intensely interesting, and, knowing her, would also reflect the application of at least some semblance of professional principles, as well as be the product of her typically thorough, intensive thought process. I owed her the chance to explain, and I had nothing to lose by listening. "Alright, my sweet, loving, smart, but devious daughter, please do. The floor is yours."
"Well, as I believe you've already figured out, as Director of Counseling for the school system, I have unfettered access to complete school records for every student in the system." I nodded yes.