I awoke Friday morning to a pervasive sense of well-being I had not enjoyed for many days. I luxuriated in bed, stretching. The morning sun cast a window-shaped slash of warmth across the sheets. For the first time since Monday, cool air swirled through the room, a breeze of refreshing air powered by the brand-new air conditioner installed in my living room yesterday afternoon while June and I had been out.
In addition, my sleep had been thankfully free of the disturbing dreams of the previous nights. No images born of guilt, frustration, shame at my actions, or lack of action. Rather, I had slept deeply, thoroughly, dredging every last bit of rest from the hours granted to me.
I turned over, and there was June, lying next to me, still lost in her own sleep. In repose, her perfect face regained the innocence that had been untimely ripped from her by her mother. A lock of blonde hair lay across her cheek, and I gently tucked it behind her ear. The sheet, silkily molded to her curves, hid the objects of my lust and revealed only my daughter. I felt such tenderness towards her, and finally, a newly awakened responsibility to redirect her towards normalcy.
The night before, she had not pushed any advantage she might have gained from our adventures in the Village. No doubt compounded by any discomfort she had from the tattoo, she had seemed reticent with me for perhaps the first time in the whole week. I myself was too tired from our exploits to wonder whether her attitude was a new ploy in her ongoing battle to win me over to her view of our future together. We undressed and collapsed into bed together, and I spooned her, manfully ignoring the rounded contours of her ass against my groin, until we both lost consciousness.
Coffee called me, and I answered, gently disengaging myself from the sheets so as not to disturb June or my newly rediscovered image of her as a child. I padded round the kitchen, preparing breakfast; coffee, bagels, cream cheese, lox. A classic New York City morning repast. A few minutes later, June appeared in the bedroom door, her eyes still dreamy with sleep, her hair mussed becomingly around her face. She had on an old sweatshirt of mine, which reached down to mid-thigh on her.
"'Morning, sweetheart."
"Mmmm..." she replied as she made a beeline for the coffeepot. She poured herself a mug, and walked with it to the couch. She sat down on it, curling her legs up under her like a kitten, and focused her attention on the steaming cup. I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. This morning had a feeling of domesticity that bordered on normal. I felt no urge to ravish her, no compulsion to indulge my lust. Instead, a joy unknown to me in so long began to rekindle itself within my heart.
"June, honey, I need to work today. Those pictures need to be finished and sent out to Flirty Girl."
June suppressed a giggle.
"What a name. Where do they come up with these things?"
"Considering the clothing they're selling, it seems only appropriate," I replied, assuming an air of mock sternness.
"Well, you better work fast, 'cause I've got plans for us this afternoon," she said, winking at me.
"Good God," I groaned, "don't you ever rest?"
"Not when I've got so much on the line."
"How are you feeling, by the way?" I asked, trying to change the subject. "I mean, down there."
"Really great, surprisingly! The stuff she sold me to speed up the healing process must be some kind of wonder drug. Look!"
And she lifted up the sweatshirt. Her sex was coyly hidden between her thighs, but the junction of her legs framed her lower belly and the work of art Joy had inscribed into my daughter's skin. There was no sign of scab or wound, and the red and black stood out brilliantly against her golden tan. The lines were etched with incomparable care, the peony alive with health. I gasped.
"I thought it was supposed to take several weeks to heal," I murmured.
"I know! Now my style won't be cramped at all. Thank goodness!" And she bounded off the bed and skipped into the bedroom. I sighed. No relief in sight.
****
The morning passed in the blink of an eye. The pictures I had taken of June were some of the finest I had ever undertaken. The light, the shadows, the stark lines of the rooftop contrasted with the gentle curves of June's outrageously sexy body. She was sex embodied, the avatar of lust, desire personified as an 18-year girl. I carefully selected shots that emphasized this aspect of my daughter, without revealing anything that would be considered inappropriate for a swimsuit catalog. I put the contact sheets and the finished pictures in a large padded envelope, and came out into the bright daylight of my apartment.
June was nowhere to be found. I thought I had heard her step out of the apartment at some point in the morning. I quickly typed up a cover letter on my PC and printed it out. I sealed and addressed the envelope and went out to mail it.
When I got home, there was a message on the answering machine. It was June, telling me to meet her downtown, in the offices of Kramer & Finzi. What the hell? I thought. What's this about? The express took me downtown quickly, and I found the building that was the home for the law firm of Kramer & Finzi. The elevator took me up to the forty-sixth floor, and I came out into a large waiting room, decorated in the standard style for such places. Behind a large desk, an attractive but very professional woman was answering the phone. I stood, waiting, until she finished. She flashed me a bright smile.
"How can I help you?"
"Um, Hi. I'm Ray Carlson. My daughter, June, asked me to meet her here."
"Of course. Please go on in. Take your first right, and go to the office at the end of the hall. Ms. Carlson is waiting for you in Ms. Martinez' office."
My curiosity was definitely piqued. I found my way to the office in question, and knocked on the door.
"Come in," said a female voice from within. I opened the door, and walked into a sunny office with large windows. Behind the desk sat a stunning young woman, who arose as I entered. She was dressed in a very professional and highly tailored pants-suit in navy blue. The jacket had one button, at around the navel, and she wore a sheer blouse underneath, through which I could make out the shadows of her modest cleavage. Her navy skirt, likewise superficially professional, was cut a shade higher than one would expect, coming about one-third of the way down her thighs. She smoothed it down, as she stood, and I noted that there was a slit on the side that showed an additional five inches of skin.
And that skin! The deep olive color of it, that rich deep tan that I associate with the best oil. I looked up at her face. Her hair, deep brown, straight, was gathered behind her head in a simple ponytail. Her pretty eyes, the white of them startling against the hue of her skin, flashed greenly at me.
"Mr. Carlson, I presume. Thank you for coming here so quickly. Your daughter will be joining us in a moment. Please, sit down." She indicated one of the chairs facing the desk. I sat down, sinking into the deep upholstery. She came around the desk, and perched on the edge of it, facing me. The action caused her skirt to rise up on her legs a little. I tried not to stare at her legs, at how the skirt, stressed by her position, was now only covering a few inches of her thighs.
"Ms. Martinez? Can you explain to me why I'm here?"
"Don't worry, Mr. Carlson. It will all become clear before too long," she said with a smile. She picked up a folder of papers, and began to page through them. With her attention occupied, I glanced down at her legs again. Now the material of her skirt was stretched tight across her slender thighs, and the slit on the side had somehow managed to shift towards the front. Pulled tight, the material gaped across the top of her leg, and I realized that the top corner of the slit was right at her panty line. The lacy cotton that peeked from the gap caused my throat to go dry.
"Would you care for some water?"
Her sudden question snapped my eyes back to her face. She seemed unconcerned, perhaps unaware of what I had been looking at.
"Um, yeah, sure."
She stood up, the skirt still rucked up around her waist.
"Oops! I tell you, these modern suits are very inconvenient," she exclaimed, appearing to notice her exposure. She tugged on the sides of the skirt to bring it back down to a more decent level. Then she walked over to a side table, where a pitcher of water and some glasses stood. She poured me a glass, bending over from the hips. She must not have pulled the skirt all the way down, because the motion of bending forward caused the skirt to rise up, and I got another flash of lacy panties. I was starting to experience discomfort of my own, sitting in the deep armchair, with an incipient erection.
She turned, the skirt once only an inch or so below her crotch, and brought me the glass. She bent forward, once again, to hand me the glass. Now her jacket fell slightly away from her chest, and I saw the outline of her right breast through the sheer blouse. It was only a quick glimpse, but enough to tell that the minx was braless, and that her nipple was hard and pushing against her blouse. Damned if she wasn't turned on also! What was going on here?
She sat back down again on the edge of the desk, the skirt dangerously flirting with exposing the crotch of her underwear. The telephone rang, and she leaned back over the desk to pick it up. Now I could see her panties well and truly. She held the awkward position as she carried on a brief conversation with the person on the other end of the line. Her stance meant that I could examine her body without fear of being caught.
The panties were french cut, I could see. The bottom half of her ass cheeks, happily freed from cover, were lovingly encased in the lacy nothing. She shifted her legs, now slightly parting them. The gusset of the panties was now in view, with several soft brown hairs escaping from around the sides. The gentle swell of her mound pushed out the material, with a subtle cleft just discernible running down the middle.
Suddenly, she said goodbye, and swung around to face me once more. Unfortunately, the button of her jacket got caught on the desk organizer and popped off.
"Shit! My jacket's ruined!" She yelled, hopping off of the desk, and holding the sides of the jacket apart to examine the damage done. Her sheer blouse, now fully exposed, did nothing to conceal her breasts. Like twin headlights, her nipples shone out at me, dark brown on the chocolate aureolas. Her breasts were small but perfectly rounded, not a hint of asymmetry or sag to their contour. To add to her predicament, her skirt was still up around her waist, her panties all that remained to disguise her nakedness.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Carlson, I'm so embarrassed. Would you mind if I took this jacket off?"
I barely suppressed my astonishment, but nodded to her to go ahead. She removed the offending garment, then appeared to notice what she was wearing underneath.
"Oh, Good God. This really isn't my day. I didn't even remember I was wearing this blouse. Now you can see all of my titties. Will you promise not to look?"
