Passions so sublime and wicked as those felt that day only seemed rendered obscure through retrospect. There would always be a need to feel again the way she did then, and with the need would always be a draw to replicate it down to every minute motion. Samantha would not know why until much later, but it was there. It was what brought her home from college so early this night. This is what caused her to peel her t-shirt and jeans off and slip the pink lace nightie her boyfriend had bought her a week before on over her matching bra and panties. This is what caused her to stare at herself in the mirror, replaying the events from last Friday over again in her head.
She was a commuter and still lived with her parents, but her time spent at the university was spent on more than classes. She was a graduate assistant too, serving the English department in many different ways, from aiding in securing panels at conferences in the Northeast, to more menial tasks like running copy jobs for the faculty. As a result, Samantha typically came home late, long after her father had gone to bed—her mother had her own night job and so she was out for the most part. She never bothered much with making her presence known when she arrived. She greeted both her parents each morning. The evening time was always different. And, besides, she liked to spend any small amount of freedom she had during those late moments in the day on pampering herself.
Tonight, though, she was more than a little distracted by thoughts of last Friday. Thoughts of his hands on her body, caressing her through this very nightie she wore now. Thoughts of his large form leering over her, dominating her through protests and confusion. Thoughts that she knew were wrong but simply could not shake. Thoughts of her father raping her.
It had started like any other day, that Friday. There was her Bio class in the afternoon-which she always dreaded. Samantha was not a science fan by any means. That might be shocking to some, though, since she had a somewhat bookish look. She was of average height, but she had red hair she wore just to her shoulders, a lithe figure with just enough curves to be feminine, small yet pert breasts, and, up until last year, she had worn fairly thick glasses. She had been striving to change this, to make herself look "hot" now that she was in college. Part of that change had been to opt for laser eye surgery, which thankfully worked wonders for her.
Her new direction all started when she met Todd. He was a handsome guy who also worked as a graduate assistant in the English department. They sparked a romance rather quickly. So quickly, in fact, that it took Todd less than two days to get in her pants. She had never been loose or anything of the sort, but the attraction was too strong and he had proved far too kind in that short period of time. They couldn't keep their hands off each other. Any time they were alone in a room, it would take Todd two seconds flat to have Samantha bent over some table, pinned to a wall, or simply spread out on the floor, and she loved every second of it. So, while it had been odd that he would give her a sexy pink, almost completely see-through, nightie for their first dating anniversary, as opposed to something more romantic like flowers for instance, she was ecstatic.
That was why she had gone straight home that Friday, skipping her duties so that she could try her gift on and prepare herself for a wicked night of sex with Todd—who had also skipped his own duties for the very same reason. Of course, she was forced to make up an excuse for why she had not slipped out and met up with him that night. He had been worried sick. This whole ordeal would, eventually, create a tidal wave through both of their live, but that is another story altogether. One she had not quite come to yet. The consequences of what she was thinking of doing, what she was thinking of perpetuating, would only hit her after the fact.
"I can hear you, daddy," she whispered beneath her breath with a tinge of anger blended finely with excitement. Her father, Jeremy, was awake, watching television in his room. It was clearly porn, as Samantha could hear the moans of some woman echoing through the hall. Just like the first time when she first discovered what he did while she and her mother were away.
Jeremy had made a habit of this each night. With his wife and daughter gone, he could unleash some of the pent-up sexual frustration wrought by his unraveling marriage. Samantha did not know it even now, but Jeremy had caught his wife cheating on him with her boss. He knew that many of her late night hours at work were actually spent sucking the bastard off. She promised to never do it again after he walked in on them one day—having planned to surprise her with flowers and tickets to her favorite band. She even seemed sincere. But she refused to quit her job or even request reassignment. She claimed it would look bad if she did, that she would never become a well-known defense attorney that way. He knew she was still fucking him.
Maybe if Samantha had known all of that then, she would have at least partially understood his actions. But she didn't so her feelings for her father were hatred complete. More than that, though, was a desire.
She looked once more at herself in the mirror. The triangle of her pink silk panties, decked with a lace design on either side, was perfectly visible through the nightie. Her bra cupped her small but pert breasts tightly so that it created just enough cleavage. She turned to the profile and arched, sticking her chest forward and her ass backward. "This should do." It was enough to satisfy her.
She walked to the top of the stairs. Her parent's room was just a few feet away. "Here goes nothing, Sam," she whispered to herself as she looked down. Flashes of the previous events ran their course through her head. She inhaled deeply, then, in one leap, threw herself down the stairs. Only, she didn't really. She thought about it, sure. It would be the most straightforward way to recreate her fall. But why really sprain her ankle again when she could fake it? Perhaps the real reason she thought about throwing herself down the stairs was in a feeble attempt to end everything. End the pain she suffered at her father's hands. End her odd desire for more.
Instead, she walked down the stairs halfway, to about the spot she had landed last Friday when she had tripped over her own clumsy feet. She lay down, her back propped to the wall, her knees up high enough that the hem of her nightie was pushed up her outer thigh, and her hands grasping her ankle. Then she screamed. At the top of her lungs, she screamed. It was just like the shriek she made when she really did sprain her ankle. And, just like before, her father was up, out his door, and down to her in no time flat.
"Not again," he said, looking down at Samantha's ankle. She noticed that his expression was different though. This was not the same genuine fear she saw in his eyes last Friday. The lust was already there. It did not take long for Jeremy's eyes to tracing up her leg this time. To drink in the pale flesh of her inner thighs along with the silk covered mound of her pussy. Jeremy was a handsome man for his age. He was in his mid-forties, but had maintained his highs school football figure with broad shoulders and firm pecs. He no longer sported a six-pack, as made apparent currently as he was only in his boxer-briefs at the moment, but his stomach was still hard as a rock.
"I fell, daddy," she said, ignoring this. Pretending they had not already been through this once before. "I think I twisted my ankle," she added, rubbing it and pushing it up toward his face.
He caught the hint it seemed, as the lust in his eyes intensified after a brief interlude filled with confusion. "I... I see, sweetie. Let daddy rub help," he said, reaching down and sliding one arm under her legs and the other around her back. His hand purposefully brushed against her soft pantied bottom this time, unlike the accidental brush from before.
