Another Level

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ANOTHER LEVEL

By J. Intrigued

Alice had reached the end of her rope. The feelings weren't going away. Tonight, one way or another, she was going to tell him how she felt—that she wanted him, in every way it's possible to want a man. She needed him to know.

The only problem? He was her father.

Eyes closed, Alice plunged her fingers inside herself again and again, nearing climax. Despite being alone in the house, she instinctively strained to keep quiet as the orgasm took hold and her lower extremities writhed in pleasure. She fell back exhausted on the duvet and let out an audible gasp, picturing him overtop.

Three times

. What had been planned as a quick tossing off before taking a shower had turned into a half-hour of self-pleasuring.

I could go again

, she thought, feeling insatiable, but she had to get up, and get ready. Everything needed to be perfect.

Staring at a lengthening crack in the plaster overhead, Alice breathed deep, then sighed. She'd increasingly began to imagine the blemish in the otherwise smooth ceiling somehow linked to her inner turmoil and would grow ever worse until she addressed it. It was sufficient annoyance to draw her to her feet.

As she wriggled out of her school uniform, a long unattended wall calendar caught her eye. What a difference a year could make. Some twelve months ago, she'd been seventeen, and though troubled by the state of her parents' deteriorating marriage, Alice was otherwise hopeful for the future. Adulthood hadn't brought with it any useful insight or perspective. If anything, she felt more confused in the days following her milestone birthday than before. And as if to pile further troubles upon her shoulders, new feelings began to develop; unexpected feelings, for which she had no solid explanation.

It was easy to blame the internet porn, the erotic stories and the online fetish forums. Alice was a naturally curious soul, a trait she'd inherited from

him

, no doubt. Sex was a natural area of curiosity for someone her age, but for whatever reason, she felt more comfortable in research than participation at this stage of her life. She had several school friends who were sexually active, but the tales of their fumbling, tentative and often half-drunken encounters with the opposite sex held no interest for her. Boys her age—it was impossible to think of them as men with a straight face—were frustrating at best, repulsive at worst. Small wonder she was attracted to more mature men.

But why had she become so fixated on one man in particular? And such a wildly

inappropriate

man to lust after. A perusal of many thousands of stories and titles on her favourite websites indicated incest was an evergreen topic for readers of erotica. One might conclude it ranked as more popular than any other genre, by far. The forbidden seemed to have an evident allure, and daddy-daughter pairings rated highly as a sub-genre.

Months later she couldn't recall exactly what had compelled her to read that first story. By the third page, Pandora's box truly opened, and her supple teenage legs with it. By the fourth page, her hand massaged her pussy, by the fifth, her desk chair was warm and soaked with her excitement. The last few tawdry paragraphs brough an intense release dwarfed only by the subsequent guilt. For she wasn't merely

turned on

by the racy father-daughter coupling being described, she mentally superimposed herself into the narrative, riding

him

, taking

him

, in place of the young, sex mad heroine on the page.

Had she been tainted? Perhaps these feelings for her father had been there all along, in some nascent form, and recent events had merely unlocked them. Or perhaps she was deranged, abnormal; it was hard not to feel that way, even when she had mountains of evidence to the contrary. Kinks weren't anything to be ashamed of, she was assured, by blogs, forum posts and interactions with other enthusiasts.

Alice grabbed a burgundy towel from the back of her bedroom door and made a half-hearted attempt to cover herself as she stepped into the hallway. She'd daydreamed about letting him see her undressed, innocently, accidentally. Titillating as the thought was, this kind of encounter couldn't solve anything. She needed to be direct, even brutally honest. From what little she did know about men, they didn't respond well to hints.

A glance to the left at the master bedroom brought a mixture of emotions. From the antique dowry chest at the foot of the bed, to the wrought iron wall-hanging above the headboard, traces of her mother were still everywhere. Her father had changed almost nothing in the home, though he claimed it was more out of inertia than hope. She wasn't coming back, that was crystal clear. Alice's initial anger at the split had later turned to disappointment. Now, a part of her was glad to have her mother gone, a part that made Alice feel small, and unworthy. And at times, shockingly territorial.

If you can't love him, I will.

With no siblings around, Alice had her father to herself. They'd committed to sharing responsibilities for keeping the three-bedroom house in good order, and to taking care of each other. She'd taken the commitment seriously. When she stayed with her mother on alternate weekends, Alice couldn't help but wonder if he was alright on his own. As an introvert, a tinkerer and a habitual busy body, it seemed ridiculous to worry about him, but she wondered, nonetheless.

The state of the main bathroom, now Alice's by default, was currently a shambles, but she could forgive herself the temporary mess. Her school week had gone terribly to this point, and there'd been little headspace or energy for tidying. Having set her mind to this evening's confrontation days ago, it was difficult to see beyond it. She could only hope a blissful, loving future awaited on the other side of the coming awkwardness.

And sex, lots of sex. She paused to examine herself naked in the mirror, appreciating her ample bustline. She'd developed frustratingly late compared to her fellow female students, but the results had been worth the wait. Like her mother, she measured barely over five feet tall, with the same dark eyes and thick lashes. Her brown hair hung almost to her waist, her tummy trim and pleasantly flat.

She wasn't curvy by any means, but her behind jutted out nicely when seen from certain angles. Alice grabbed contentedly at her breasts and leaned to bring a still hardened nipple to the tip of her tongue, tasting the remains of salty sweat that had cascaded down her chest earlier. Two cup sizes growth in the span of a year was unexpected. It pleased her to know her father had noticed, if his regular glances were any indication. She knew enough to understand he was a breast man, between the vintage pin-up calendar in his workshop and how, in more pleasant days, he would grope her mother's chest from behind when he thought no one else was looking. How she wished he would do the same to her.

The spray of hot water soon helped Alice's mind to wander again in the shower. Much as this evening was primarily about her and her father, there was also an interested third-party: the mysterious Frieda. Alice had been corresponding for weeks with the college-age, self-described hedonist before graduating to texting on an encrypted messaging app. From there, familiarity had compelled her to accept multiple invitations to voice calls with Frieda.

It was inaccurate to call Frieda a

friend

exactly—both of them still kept quite at arm's length regarding any personal details. Alice knew Frieda was American, living somewhere on the East Coast, and had recently turned nineteen years old, but little else besides. Most of what they discussed either directly or tangentially related to sex and kinks of one kind or another. For her part, Frieda was open-minded and never gave Alice any criticism for remaining a virgin. "I've been a slut for so long now I can't remember being normal. Good for you!"

It had taken two or three calls before Alice had the nerve to bring up incest, and another call to admit a very specific, and real obsession with her own father. Frieda hadn't shown a hint of negative judgement or reluctance to discuss the subject. "That's so fucking hot...your own dad? You naughty bitch!" The remark had brought on peels of laughter. She rarely discussed sex with any of her real-life friends, much less anything kinky. The openness was refreshing and encouraging.

"I want to see what old Mitch looks like!" said Frieda, one night. Alice felt somewhat perturbed by the casual shortening of her father's name but could forgive the girl's American informality. He was always Mitchell to her, or Daddy, or Mitt, occasionally with relatives on her father's side.

"Don't share this with anyone," instructed Alice, once she'd relented, feeling protective of her father, despite the picture being perfectly harmless, a waist up photo in a dress shirt.

Frieda had been impressed. "He's hunky! Such a daddy, I can totally tell." Alice had smiled on hearing that. Long before her feelings had changed from parental admiration to desire, she'd appreciated his transformation over the last few years. A heart-attack in his early forties inspired some serious lifestyle changes in her father. Regular, systematic exercise and healthy eating transformed him from the soft, almost pudgy man she'd known as a child to an impressive specimen almost three stone lighter. The feel of his arms around her had always been strong and safe, but now it evinced an almost immediate fluttering reaction in the pit of her stomach.

Frieda purred to herself, assessing the picture further. "God, I don't blame you for wanting to fuck him...mmm."

"Really?"

"Really...I've got two fingers inside already just from imagining it."

Their conversation had unleashed what became a near nightly ritual, whereby Alice would align a bedtime call to Frieda on which they would masturbate together feverishly. It was always Daddy this, or Daddy that, and rarely went into much depth once they got going, but it did the trick. Hearing Frieda say, "Fuck me, Daddy!" encouraged Alice to do the same for the first time out loud. Even in a half-whisper, it had a powerful effect. She'd never cummed so hard in her life.

From there, it was perhaps inevitable the other girl, who seemed untethered to reality in some ways, would encourage Alice to take the next step towards genuinely seducing her father. "You should just fuck him. What's the worse that could happen?"

Alice had left the question unanswered but admitted to the temptation. The situation felt deeply frustrating. He was the person she loved the most in all the world. Why couldn't she experience sex with him, rather than some inept, pimpled boy? It all felt deeply unfair, and the sense of injustice began to leak its way unpleasantly into other aspects of her life.

Brief thoughts of school and the harsh sensation of exfoliating beads caused her to pinch her own thigh in frustration.

I want to feel good.

There was a surefire way to do that. Letting the water passively rinse the soap off her body, Alice's right hand glided down her stomach and spread her lower lips gently. For a moment, she became dizzy, as much from the sensation on her slit as from the heat in the shower. The next minutes were a blur, and by the time she turned the faucet off, she'd managed to cum another three times. Perhaps the seventh occurrence that day, or the eighth. A month ago, she'd found herself searching women's health articles for perspective about her masturbatory habits and found little reassurance. All the more reason to address what was troubling her.

I can't think straight. Soon, I might not be able to study

.

After drying adequately, Alice sat before her dressing table, applying foundation. She imagined her father would appreciate a more natural look, but the balance would be a delicate one. Alice wanted to highlight the fact she was no longer a child, without managing to veer into resembling a slag. Her choice of outfit was equally as critical. Cute simply wouldn't do tonight; she needed to be feminine, sexy even. Irresistible.

She wouldn't

make

him do anything, only push things as forcefully as she dared. Alice trusted she would know the line when she reached it. No matter how horny or obsessed she became, it wasn't worth destroying her future relationship with her father if he proved ultimately unwilling. But she had to try. The question needed answering.

Tucked into one side of the dressing mirror's edge was a favourite photo of them at a Friendly Fire concert, six years earlier. It had been her first live rock show. The indie band's discography existed neither squarely as one of his generation or hers, so it felt like fitting neutral ground. The night had been a triumph. The way she embraced him and smiled so sweetly was true and pure, an Alice she scarcely recognized. A good girl.

In truth, she was still very well behaved, internet delving aside. Up until this week, she'd never given either parent much need to worry, and had been blessed with little scrutiny as a result. If anything, Alice was even more obedient since the divorce, a perfect picture of compliance. She didn't want to be a source of trouble or worry to Daddy. She wanted to be a refuge. To sweep away his cares with a mere word or a touch.

The recent trouble at school had not been a calculated cry for help, or a misdirection. Alice had enough self-insight to understand exactly where her anger and frustration came from. Verbal outbursts with a fellow student had resulted in supplementary discipline, so severe that the headmaster had informed her mother. Ignoring her pleadings to keep the matter quiet, Alice's mother had told her father in the days following, much to his chagrin.

Memories of that conversation still lingered. "I have too much going on the next three days, but we'll talk about this on Friday night, rest assured." The disappointed look he gave her had cut deep. And yet, there

was

a silver lining, an ideal opening to discuss the heart of the problem. Perhaps it might even help illustrate how serious Alice's feelings were.

Above all, once the truth lay out in the open, she didn't want to hear the dreaded C word. This was no crush. She wanted him body and soul.

He may still see me as a child, but I'm not a child, and I know what I want

.

When she'd finished with her face and hair, she set the flat iron gently aside and slid two large metal barrettes in place to complete the desired look. The crimson colour on her lips had an unmistakable intent, and the choker necklace wasn't something a little girl would wear. Alice felt alive slipping into the high-waisted black skirt that happily managed to accentuate the modest length of her legs. She'd opted for short, practical heels—there was no sense in wobbling about the house, as it would only hurt her chances of appearing mature. The low-cut white blouse revealed more cleavage than she'd ever dared show publicly. He'd be feasting on her with his eyes soon.

Her mind turned to the dinner preparations. Minutes later, safely covered in her mother's best apron, she attended to his favourite dish: a decadent Beef Stroganov. Alice was mostly an indifferent cook, but he'd raved about her Stroganov in the past. A bottle of mineral water chilled in the fridge, and in the freezer, their favourite ice cream: pistachio. Not the cheap Tesco rubbish, but the proper pints from an old-fashioned creamery in town he much preferred. Her father had been the one to introduce her to more adult tastes and even tolerated her teenage ground coffee habit with good cheer. A pleasant meal together would hopefully soften the blow about the school troubles and subtly remind him of their shared indulgences.

Perhaps an hour passed before the sound of her father's sedan pulling into the rear garage startled Alice from her reverie. The daydreaming had helped calm her nerves, but suddenly they were back with a vengeance. Setting aside the apron, she dashed into the downstairs loo for a glance in the mirror.

Ready

. She practiced a smile, somewhere between sweet and sultry, then returned to the kitchen.

Standing before the dining table, which had already been laid with two settings, she crossed her hands daintily at her waist. Right on cue, her father came through the boot room, muttering to himself, and emerged holding his boxy leather briefcase. Thinning hair askew, his tie hung loosened, and his shirt lay rumpled under a tweed jacket her mother had been begging him to throw out for years. Darkening stubble shadowed the lower half of his face, and his greyish-green eyes squinted in the hallway light. He wore the exact same disoriented expression he always had on returning from the corporate office.

"Whoever designed that motorway should be shot and buried next to it," he grumbled, never quite meeting her gaze. Giving a quick sniff, he gestured towards the oven. "Is that dinner then, love?"

"Yes, your favourite," she said, heart full of butterflies.

"Hmmm, good." He let out a long sigh. "We need to have a chat, Alice. Come with me to the office."

Not a promising start. "What about dinner?"

"We can reheat it after. It'll keep."

Waving for her to follow, he returned to the boot room to hang his jacket and remove his oxfords, before diverting into a side passage. Off-limits, except by invitation, when there were tough conversations to be had, her father's home office was usually his preferred venue. Alice's shoulders slumped. All the primping had been for nothing; he hadn't noticed her hair, her makeup

or

her outfit. Being summoned for a talking-to in the office made her feel even more childish.

The home office was half a workspace, half a workshop, one side reserved for a computer desk, filing cabinets and a drafting table, the other full of parts, wiring and odds and ends for her father's favourite hobby—building custom guitar amplifiers. His latest project was undergoing finishing touches, and might fetch a few hundred pounds, perhaps even enough to justify the excessive labour he'd doubtless invested in it. An old red and black Epiphone guitar sat on a stand nearby; Daddy wasn't much of a guitarist, he freely admitted, and rarely used it for anything more than quality testing his amps on completion.

Setting down the briefcase with a thud, Daddy leaned on the drafting table and gathered his thoughts. Alice stood impassive, just inside the doorway, alternatingly staring at the carpet or her father's powerful hands. The last light of the setting sun streamed in a west facing window.

Finally, he looked up at her sternly. "It's been so long since I've had any reports of you acting up at school, I couldn't believe what your mother told me. Must have been a case of mistaken identity, I thought. How many months have you got left in this school year? Three? Less than that? You know how important the A-Levels are, love. This isn't the time for sodding about. I know it's a lot of work, probably even more than in my day, but you need to dig deep and get through this. Once it's all over with, whatever you want to do next year is entirely up to you. You've earned a long break if you want it, I'll play nice with your mother if that's what it takes to convince her. Just no more nonsense now, do you hear me?"

Alice held back tears. "Don't you even want to know why it happened?"

"I'm not interested in excuses, Alice Jean. You know better than to act the fool, especially at a time like this."

"I'm hurting, Daddy," she insisted, raising her voice. "Every day..."

Something in her tone shifted his body language. He stepped closer and looked at her head to toe. "What do you mean 'hurting' love? Is something wrong? Alice, why are you dressed to the nines?" He shuffled uncomfortably, eyes lingering over her legs, chest and lips in turn.