Becoming Itten

This is a work of fiction. All characters are over the age of 18. It's a psycho-sexual story with a long build-up.

Jessica is laying on the couch in her father's darkened living room, her back to the shuttered windows. The room is too big for one person, but these moments alone in the house are so precious.

She is naked, and lets herself sigh aloud at the feel of the cool almost-grip of the leather couch against her skin. Whimpering quietly, she sinks into the sensations of the vibrator on her clit, her fingernails scraping lightly up along her ribcage. Pinching a nipple, twisting and tugging, she feels the vibration of her own moaning echo throughout her body. Alone in the house, her father at work, she tries to reawaken a side of herself that now seems lost.

For years now, she has thought about sex almost all the time, and the month she has spent living at her father's house has been no different in that way. An early bloomer, she had quickly discovered the sensations her young body was capable of. While living at her mother's house, she had often rushed home from school to spend luxurious afternoons with porn and her vibrator before her mom and step-dad got home from work. Those had been delicious times for her. Now, age nineteen, her body was addicted to the rush of intense pleasure she had discovered.

That is, until the accident a month ago.

Her memories of the crash are fairly spotty. When she tries to walk herself through what happened (because everyone says "talking about it is how you heal" yada yada) it's nearly impossible. From all the miscellaneous in her brain she can conjure up quick flashes: the music playing on the car radio, a moment of laughter right before, suddenly headlights outside the window, an overwhelming crunch, a shock of pain above her left eye.

It's the moments when she's really trying to let go of thought, however, that bring the memories flooding back. Moments like this. Moments when she just wants to be in her body, be out of control, feel reckless, feel like she's flying. When she's completely in her body, breathless with pleasure, right on the edge of falling apart with orgasm, her mind betrays her and floods with detail (all the shit she really doesn't want to remember, thank you very fucking much.) The laughing, her mom gasping from the passenger seat, tires screeching, sudden force throwing them to the left, broken glass, impact, blood in her eyes, slipping into unconsciousness.

These are the memories that come back when she's so, so close. In the final rush of chasing orgasm, she gets fear and pain instead (thanks a lot, Universe, good one.)

At the end of the day the result is the same. Mom's dead. Todd is dead. A drunk driver is in jail. She lives here now, with a dad she loves and trusts but doesn't really know very well.

Life is pretty cruel sometimes.

"GODDAMMIT!"

Her frustrated shout fills the living room as she hurls the vibrator away. Pleasure and despair are becoming irreparably linked. She wonders if she will need. . . anger management, or some other kind of shrink stuff.

Every goddamn time. Every time now, it's the same fucking thing. Every time she gets to the brink of orgasm, memories of that night crash through her, terrifying her all over again, trembling and vibrating through her body like a freight train. They flip her instantly from passion to panic, all over again.

Every. Single. Time.

She has tried everything: new genres of porn (everyone gets bored sometimes, right?), various toys, even different kinds of lube. But she has not come in over a month and the tension has by now built into a sense of daily urgency and nearly physical pressure. But every time she gets close, that wall of panic comes crashing down, making the frustration worse.

She stares at the ceiling, breathing hard from both from arousal and the panic attack. She feels scared all over again, fragile. But increasingly these days, she also feels furious at the drunk driver in the oncoming lane for new reasons. That motherfucker killed her family, stealing any feeling of safety she had with her closest family. Because that family is gone. Just gone. But more and more, it seems like he has actually stolen

sex

from her, too. And she fucking

loves

sex.

Or she had.

She sobs once and curls into a fetal position, a tear sliding down her cheek and puddling warmly against her face on the leather of her father's couch.

Fuck

, she thinks,

I need some kind reset button. It can't go on being. . . this.

Heavily, she thinks,

I

can't go on being this.

Like an after-shock, snapshot memories of that horrible night cascade through her. Broken glass on asphalt and the coppery taste of blood. Police lights, the ambulance, the iodine smell of the hospital. The funerals. And after it all, her father wrapping her in a blanket from her childhood and bringing her back to this huge house, where he lives alone.

She breathes deeply, drinking in the calm quiet of the empty house. It is a very nice place: vaulted ceilings, a sweeping staircase, huge windows. The décor is predictably masculine: imposing black furniture in leather and wood, a lot of glass, a gigantic granite-and-chrome kitchen. Looking around, she must admit it is. . . actually a pretty sexy place. (Like that's doing me any good!)

But the idea of her father's place being

sexy

is new to her. It lingers in her mind, and as she looks around the room with this new appreciation, something shifts in her, something soft and pleasing, assuming a deeply comfortable new posture. Like settling down into an extremely cozy bed. It uncoils in her, just a tiny bit. Enough so that she sits up with new eyes, a brand-new curiosity flickering in her mind and along her skin. She rises and pads across the carpet toward the foyer and hallway, scooping up her vibrator and leaving her sweats and hoodie in a puddle on the floor by the couch.

As if for the first time, she sees touches around the place that contribute to its sexy atmosphere: the black and chrome everywhere, the red silk pillows, and--most dominating of all--the orange, red and yellow blown-glass chandelier presiding over the spacious foyer, bathing the space in a hundred different shades of flame.

She steps into and pauses beneath the flame-colored light, looking at herself in the floor-length mirror across from the front door. Shifting her weight back and forth, rotating her body slowly, watching the warm oranges, yellows, and reds wash across her long brown hair and lithe, naked body.

This new, comfortable feeling of being sexy in Dad's house deepens and moves around in her, like the warm-colored light moving across her throat, her nipples, her belly, her pussy, her thighs. She feels a fresh wetness bloom between her legs, standing there bathed in that warm light, looking out at the huge living room, thinking maybe. . . maybe she could. . .

be part of this place

. Instead of just a temporary way-station en route to an uncertain future, maybe this could be. . . home. She has never considered this before with the depth and profoundness that now calls to her.

Her parents divorced when she was young and primary custody went to her mother, who remarried. Her father had traveled a lot for work, so she had not seen a lot of him growing up. He was hardly around when she was a baby and toddling around in diapers. She recalls him as warm and fun-loving when they were able to spend time together, but always with a little sadness behind his eyes especially whenever they had to say goodbye.

With an almost physical force, the realization hits her: he has always made her feel safe. No matter how long it has been since they were last together, she always felt completely safe with him. In this moment she also observes: her father is a handsome man, tall and broad-shouldered, sandy golden hair and emerald green eyes. She feels warm. She notices that she feels...wet.

That's interesting.

She turns from the mirror and wanders down the hallway to his bedroom, letting the realization soak in. She has always felt it of course, but she has never thought about it so explicitly--and never in a time when safety of any kind mattered to her so much. Against the jangly energy of sexual frustration and residual fear from her episode on the couch, this insight flows inside her like warm honey, softening and heating things in her mind, her heart. . . and her pussy. Safety has never felt so sexy. . .

Unconsciously, her hips sway loosely as she walks from the hall into his bedroom, taking in the king size bed that dominates the space, the heavy wardrobe and chest of drawers on the opposite wall. The room smells like him, and she inhales deeply, breathing in the aftershave and, beneath that, the musk she recognizes from nuzzling on his neck when they hug. She reaches up to roll and tug on one of her nipples, unaware she is doing it.

Sighing, she opens his wardrobe to reveal a large flat screen TV, positioned to be watched from bed. There is a remote and internet box, and several drawers of DVDs. (Wow. Old School.)

She pulls out a couple, and--"Oh ho." She says out loud to the room.

They are porn, and all starring the same actress: a petite blonde with the one-word stage name of Kitty. Jessica has seen her share of porn and even a few of Kitty's videos on the internet, and they are pretty hot. She picks up the box on the top of the stack--it is empty, the disc still in the player. From the cover of the box, Kitty grins joyously at the camera with a hard cock in one hand and a river of cum running from her mouth down over a thick rhinestone collar onto her small tits. She is on her knees, sitting back on her feet, the collar matching a pair of sparkling stiletto heels.

Kitty has a few trademark qualities that make her famous in the "nubile porn" world. She always keeps her platinum blonde hair up in a topknot ponytail which gives her an innocent, sporty look. And she has a famous tagline than Jessica first witnessed in a rough double penetration scene, in which Kitty knelt on all fours with a cock in her pussy and a cock in her ass. Sandwiched between the thick, muscled bodies, she had cranked frantically like a sweaty sex engine, impaling herself on them again and again, crying out "Who's your hungry pussy?! Who's your hungry pussy?!"

Standing in the middle of her father's room, smelling his faint musk lingering in the air, and looking at a scene of teen porn debauchery kindles Jessica's thoughts into flame. She feels the fire begin to burn, a tingling in her nipples, in her thighs. Jessica hears her own voice questioning what she is feeling (This is your Dad's room, your Dad's porn, what the fuck are you doing?)

She feels the burning and tingling between her trembling legs. Trembling, Jessica replaces the DVD and heads back to her own room, seeking sanctuary.

----

My nipples are screaming. He keeps biting them and all I want is for him to bite them more, to pull on them with his teeth and keep calling me "good girl." It's the only thing I want.

I reach for him, nails biting his skin, to pull him closer. I just want to pull him as close as possible, right up against my body, right into me. My legs open for him, melting, helpless. The boundaries between my skin and his skin blur as he lets the weight of his body settle between my legs and he starts to grind. Small circular motions, small whining sounds escaping his kiss-bitten lips as he lets sensation overwhelm him. His green eyes bore into mine.

His fingers clutch my shoulder blades, breath explodes from his lungs, he pushes inside.

The weight of him pushes me into my bed. I feel whole. I feel like nothing.

"Yes, yes..." I plead, hooking my ankles behind his back, desperate for more. I need to be filled. The need to be taken becomes more powerful, more real than myself. Our voices overwhelm my ears as we collide, again, and again.

"Baby," he whispers, "so good. So good for me, baby doll."

"Yeah," I whine, "Yeah, Daddy. Fuck me. Fuck me, Daddy."

She wakes in the night to wetness flooding her panties and the fading image of her father in a dream, above her, losing control. . .

--

--

"Hey, Jess, I'm home!" Nick calls out, tossing his keys into the bowl on the foyer table and glancing at himself in the tall mirror. In the red-orange like from the chandelier, he looks so tired, so worried. Since he'd brought her home, each day has been some version of the same: she has been on the couch reading on her phone, gaming on her laptop, or just listening to music. Withdrawn in some way, even if physically present. It's draining. He wants to get to know this young woman who is his daughter. But today she is nowhere to be seen.

"Jess?" He calls out again.

He has spent these past few weeks terribly concerned but not really knowing what to do. He's never been the day-to-day parent. He's only ever been the holiday parent, the fun parent, whose efforts to spoil her rotten in small doses could never really balance out the fact that they didn't see each other for long stretches of time. She was a new person every time, growing up so fast, and he wasn't around for the little things: delight over a new pair of shoes, making a mess in the living room, her first heartbreak. She has recovered from her concussion just fine, but has lost her mother and--the thought comes as a punch in the gut--the man who had been a father figure to her. While that reality never stopped twisting inside him, what matters to him most is her well-being and since he brought her home, she has been withdrawn and morose. Sometimes, he has worried she might try to hurt herself.

He has not wanted to push her, and his guilt at being absent for so much of her life makes him actually grateful, in a weird way, for this chance to make it up to her now. Looking back on it, he doesn't remember all the details of his decision to let her mother raise her. He is going to be there for her now, no matter what she needs or for how long.

As a parent, he feels completely out of his element. He doesn't really know how to be a dad, but he knows how to be a friend and he tries that, reassuring her that she should just take her time and he is here for whatever she needs. He has offered to help her find a job or even a therapist to talk to, but isn't surprised when she refuses on the last account--she has always seemed to be a girl of action, not words.

"In here, Dad!" Her voice rings out from the kitchen, accompanied by the sound of rattling pans.

He makes his way to the kitchen and blinks when he sees her. For the last few weeks, she has only worn sweatpants, baggy shirts, and hoodies. She has been fairly swimming in her clothes, her light brown air always down around her face, as if not wanting to be seen. But now she stands at the kitchen counter wearing boy-short athletic bottoms and a skimpy jog-bra, her hair up in the ponytail she wears when playing volleyball.

The change fills Nick with emotion. Here is his strong, beautiful Jessica again. Something has changed in her for the better. His heart swells and he feels almost like he can breathe for the first time in a month. Amidst this rush of loving relief and happiness, like a creature at the edge of the campfire's light, is the flicker of a thought. (Goddamn, that's a fine ass. . .)

The thought comes and goes barely noticed, outshone by how she glows in the middle of his kitchen, some exuberance seeming to light her up from the inside. Some new-found kind of joy seems to seep from her pores and the tips of her fingers and the ends of her hair. She's a wild horse, chasing a butterfly across a grassy field. Obviously, something important has happened--something good--and he feels ecstatic, the moment weighted and meaningful, but he keeps his amazement to himself. He doesn't want to call it out in case she is still fragile and only. . . trying it out. He takes a cautious approach, thinking about what to say while she fusses with some dishes, her back to him.

"Heya. Get a workout in?" He asks.

"Yeah, trying out this new outfit. You like?" she asks, wiggling her tight little butt and turning to flash a big beautiful smile over her shoulder.

Nick blinks, mute. This is not the Jessica he has been caretaking for a month--the recovering crash victim who preferred dark rooms and baggy clothes. This Jessica is busy, energized, even. . . flirtatious? She seems focused, playful, her eyes holding contact with his a beat too long. Nick feels suddenly as if he is the butterfly.

"You bet!" Nick tries to hide his dumbfounded reaction to her transformation. "You look great. You always look great." He crosses the room to hug her from behind and kiss the top of her head. She leans back into the embrace, inhaling deep and slow. He looks down at food she she's working on. "What's this?"

"Oh, just some recipes I found on the internet today. I went into town and picked up some things and thought I'd give them a try. Hope you're hungry! Also, I made you a drink." Jessica nods toward the bar, where chilled rivulets run off a full rocks glass. "Gin and tonic, right?"

"Wow, yeah. . . Thanks!" he replies, still amazed as details of this sudden change keep unfolding. Jessica, cooking? Whatever has happened, she seems more interested, energized, and full-of life than he's seen her since she the accident. He tells himself not to get too attached to this version of her, that she is still adjusting, but he knows it might already be too late. The Jessica in his kitchen is electric - alive in a way he has never seen her, and he just wants more. He retrieves his drink and takes a long sip, looking over the rim of the glass at his daughter. The month of inactivity does not show in her body at all: she is incredibly fit, her toned thighs and shoulders complementing the flat belly that rises into the ripe swell of firm and full young breasts... He feels drawn to her like a flower to sunshine.

"I'm going to go change my clothes," he blurts, needing escape.

"Sounds good. Dinner should be ready for you when you get back!" she chirps, flipping her wavy auburn ponytail as she shuffles pans on the stove.

------

The next day, Jessica lies naked on the couch again, fingers pinching one nipple and the vibrator sending luxurious sensation throughout her body. She lets her head fall back. Feeling closer to orgasm than she has in a very long time, she revels in these new sensations. Ever since "the dream" she has felt ... awake, senses heightened, awareness of her body overwhelmingly sharpened. She opens her legs wider, turns the vibrator up.

Dream-images and sensations flood Jessica' mind. She closes her eyes to give those images and sensations permission to be. (It's just fantasy, right? No harm in that.)

His hands cradling the back of her skull as his tongue plunders her mouth, the taste of him, the humid air surrounding their dream bodies.... How he held her down with one strong yet gentle hand to her collarbone, how he could have so easily dominated her but didn't have to, how she wanted to submit. How she felt so safe and her body so alive...

A low moan reaches her ears and she realizes it's her own voice. She is starting to feel like herself again, and yet she is also becoming someone new. She wonders briefly if this is what a bird feels like breaking out of its shell, as her skin prickles and her nerves explode with fire. She slicks two fingers with her tongue and slides them under the vibrator into her own wet heat. Her fingers become his fingers, the vibrator becomes his tongue. She begins to recognize that her father's cock thrusting deep inside her is what she wants more than anything in the world right now. She feels out of control and grateful for it, so close, finally so close to hurtling over the edge into coming for the first time in longer than she can remember.