Chloe A Father And Daughter Story

Frank and Chloe - A Father and Daughter Story

When Frank's wife moves out of the marital home he is devastated. The one scrap of comfort is that his daughter has chosen to stay with him. For Chloe, the departure of her mother opens up a world of possibilities...

I hope you enjoy the story. This is my first attempt at a Father/Daughter story, so I would appreciate as much feedback as possible. My thanks to Gemma for encouraging me to try new genres within the incest category and to try a new style of writing.

Sylviafan

Frank Harding stood at the front door of the farmhouse and watched the taillights of his wife's car disappear into the fine drizzle of a late November afternoon. He watched as she bumped down the long, untarmacked lane that separated the old farmhouse from the nearest road. He watched as she reached the end of the lane and turned left towards the town and disappeared out of his life. And Chloe's.

Feeling empty and dislocated he shut the front door and walked down the passage into the big sitting room at the back of the house with its vast fireplace and log fire and its jumble of mismatched furniture. Thank God Chloe hadn't gone with her, he told himself, trying to salvage something from the situation.

His daughter was sprawled on the settee, reading a book. 'Gone has she, Dad?'

'Yes,' he replied, quietly, staring into the fire.

'Good riddance!' said Chloe, vehemently. Then she threw her book down and sprang up from the settee and threw her arms around her father's neck hugging him tightly, feeling the muscles of his chest against her small breasts. 'Sorry, Dad, I shouldn't have said that. I know you loved her.' She laid her head on his shoulder. 'We'll be fine,' she whispered in his ear.

'I hope so,' said Frank, putting his arms around his daughter and hugging her lightly as though he were afraid of crushing her slender frame.

Chloe cooked dinner that evening, a job her mum had always done. But she'd stood in the kitchen watching her mother often enough and she was proud of the fish pie she set in front of her father at the big table in the dining room. But Frank's mind was elsewhere and he only picked fitfully at the meal.

Afterwards, when Chloe had cleared away and thrown a couple more logs on the fire, they sat side by side on the sofa and watched a film on the big flatscreen TV, the only concession to modernity in the room. Actually neither of them watched the film, both their thoughts were elsewhere.

Frank's mind was still numb; he played his wife's departure over and over in his mind; not just today's denouement, but the weeks and months leading up to it. The arguments, the silences, the feeling that she'd left the marriage a long time ago.

Chloe's thoughts were about relationships but could not have been more different. She thought about her father, how hurt he must be feeling and how he needed his daughter's comfort and support. After the second advert break she leaned sideways against him, resting her head on his chest. Frank took a few moments to register the movement, but when he did he responded by putting his arm round his daughter's shoulders, his hand on her upper arm.

'Mmm,' Chloe sighed. 'That's nice.'

Frank's mind went back to his wife, trying to recall the good times. Chloe's thoughts were still on her father, but now focussed on the physical contact between them. Darker thoughts some may say. She was aware of his physical presence, aware of her father as a man, tall and lean and hard-muscled from the endless hours spent scraping a living from the farm. She could smell his scent, a mixture of shower gel and that indefinable smell that she had always associated with her dad: an earthy odour that reminded her of rain and wind and the smell of freshly cut hay.

She was acutely aware of his arm around her, a strong arm that offered shelter and protection, his hand resting softly on her. She was equally aware of his chest against the side of her head, the muscle under his checked shirt, the slow rise and fall as he breathed and the faint thud of his heart.

She squirmed gently against him and his arm tightened and Chloe felt the stirrings of arousal, the faint itch in her loins, her heartrate increasing, her cheeks warm with the blood rising to her face.

At the third advert break Frank disengaged himself from his daughter. 'I think I'll turn in,' he told her. 'I've a lot to do tomorrow.' He stood up and stretched. 'Keep watching if you want to,' he said. 'I won't hear it from my room.'

'I think I'll go to bed, too. I'm tired.' Disappointed would have been a more accurate description of Chloe. She had wanted the hug to go on and on. 'Are you still ok to give me a lift to work in the morning? The forecast's terrible.'

Upstairs in the big front bedroom Frank lay sleepless in the bed he had shared with his wife since they were married almost a quarter of a century ago. He stared sightlessly into the blackness - no streetlights out here to pollute the night - conscious of the empty space next to him, although Carol had slept in the spare room for the past six weeks.

A marriage breaking up, that had been happy, was infinitely sad, but he knew he would cope, would learn to bear the pain. He had a farm to run, a living to make. And most importantly, he needed to be there for Chloe.

In her bedroom at the back of the house, Chloe was still thinking of her father. The electric blanket was on and she was stretched out luxuriantly, naked under the thick duvet, her long legs spread wide, one hand at her loins, the other cupping one of her small breasts. She stroked her thick pubic bush, running her fingers through the soft chestnut curls, feeling the heat of her sex, letting the anticipation build up, rubbing her nipple into stiffness with the tip of her finger.

She relived the delicious minutes when her head had rested against her father's chest and his enveloping arm had made her feel safe and wanted. Her breathing got shorter and shallower as she recalled the feeling of intimacy and the ache in her pussy. The need to go to bed and touch herself.

She slid a lazy finger up and down her labia, feeling the fleshy lips part and the silken wetness inside, hot and exciting. For long minutes she teased her index finger up and down her slit, touching her clitoris, wetting it, stroking it. 'Ooh,' she moaned as she slipped her finger deep into her sopping cunt. 'That's nice, Daddy,' she whispered into the darkness.

The secret statement sounded deliciously taboo. What would it really feel like, she wondered? What would it feel like to have a big, thick, daddy finger inside her? To simulate this she added a long middle finger to her index finger, pushing them both in as far as she could, clamping them with her vaginal muscles.

But maybe her daddy would use two fingers too. Chloe gave a little choking gasp and slid a soaking finger over her clit, squeezing her nipple hard with her other hand as she tried to imagine how it would feel to have her father's fingers inside her. And what then, she asked? What did her daddy's penis look like? Was it big and hard and knobbly? Or was it long and smooth, like Tom's? Would he like his daughter to suck it?

She was massaging her clitoris now, feeling pleasure ripple through her loins, the heat of arousal turning her mind's eye to more erotic and forbidden fruit. What would her daddy's penis feel like inside her? Would she be able to take it all? Would Daddy kiss her as he fucked her? Would he hold down her arms and give it to her hard, even if she cried out: No, Daddy, it's wrong!

Then Chloe was coming, arching her back and gasping out: 'Yes, Daddy, fuck me, fuck Chloe!' The orgasm throbbed through her slender frame and left her limp and spent. She brought her fingers to her mouth and licked her secretions from them. 'Would you like to taste your daughter's cunt juices, Daddy?' she asked the silent bedroom.

She turned over and tried to sleep, but it wouldn't come. Her body was relaxed but her mind was whirling. Not because she'd thought about her father as she masturbated, she'd done that before many times, hundreds of times maybe. But the difference now was that her mother had gone and Chloe had her father all to herself.

The next morning the old green Landrover bumped down the rutted lane with Chloe at the wheel and Frank in the passenger seat. He'd taught her to drive two years ago, when she was seventeen, and it was a pleasure watching her competent handling of the old bus. If he had a half-way decent harvest next summer, he'd buy her a little runabout. It was the least he could do for his daughter after she'd stuck with him.

He looked over at her now, concentrating on the road, wrestling the heavy steering to avoid the worst of the potholes. She was in her work clothes: black, skin-tight jeans and basketball boots and an electric-blue silky blouse. Hardly enough for November, he thought. She'd made her face up and her wavy brown hair was bunched up behind her head and held in place with a big, toothed, plastic spring clip that reminded Frank of an instrument of torture he'd once seen at Warwick Castle.

Five minutes later she was pulling off the road into the vast carpark of the Nether Weston Garden Centre, where Chloe had worked since leaving school at seventeen. They both got out and Chloe gave her dad a hug and kissed his cheek. 'Are you ok, Dad?' she asked, for the third time that morning.

'I'm fine. Don't fuss.'

'I'll call you at lunchtime,' she promised and he smiled. 'Thanks, love.'

Frank watched her walk towards the main doors of the Centre, admiring her long-legged stride, her narrow hips and small, taut buttocks highlighted by the skinny jeans. For just a second he forgot about Carol and was just a proud dad dropping his daughter off at work. But proud dads don't look at their daughter's behinds, he reminded himself, climbing back into the Landrover.

Chloe heard the old Landrover pull away but resisted looking back. Instead she went through the automatic doors and through the garden centre to the huge cafeteria at the back where she was the head waitress. Not that 'head waitress' was any great distinction; she still waited on tables, she still reported to Joanna, the supervisor. But she liked working there, liked the variety of customers and the challenge of delivering upwards of a thousand meals a day to the tables in the vast restaurant.

There was also Tom, the closest thing she had to a boyfriend. She'd even slept with him, once. She'd been a virgin, too, although she hadn't admitted it to him. The truth was that although Tom was a nice enough lad, he was always going to be second best. Well, third, really. Second best had been Toby, a graduate who had worked alongside her the previous summer. Chloe had really had the hots for him but Toby was only interested in older ladies, it appeared. He'd chased after Joanna, who was forty-something and then he'd left and gone around the world. Rumour had it that before he went, he'd gone to bed with two old ladies that he'd met at the Nether Weston cafeteria. They still came in twice a week. Margaret and Irene. A nice couple of old dears but hard to imagine them writhing on the bed with young Tobe. But then it would be hard for someone else to imagine sweet little Chloe writhing on the bed with her dad's cock up her cunt. Thinking this she felt a flush of heat in her loins. This weekend she would take the next step. Sunday morning.

Sundays in late autumn and winter were generally quiet on the Harding Farm. It was mainly arable, the only livestock being the couple of dozen hens that scratched around in the yard at the back of the house, and it was Chloe's job to look after them. For Frank, who during the busy season would be up at five am, it was a respite from the grinding toil of small-scale farming. On a Sunday morning he would often lie in bed until after eight, reading and dozing. This Sunday, he reminded himself as he turned over and looked at the bedside clock, there was even less reason to get up.

Shortly before eight o'clock, there was a light tap at the bedroom door and, without waiting for an invitation, Chloe walked in bearing two mugs of tea. She was barefoot and wearing bright-red pyjamas. Frank sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

'Morning, Dad,' she chirruped. 'I've brought you some tea.' She put a mug down on his bedside table and put the other mug down on what had been her mother's side. Then, again without invitation, she hopped onto the bed and sat back against the padded headboard.

'Thanks, Love.' Frank lay back down, pleased that he'd put pyjamas on the night before; in summer he usually slept naked, as Carol had done.

'Do you remember, Dad,' Chloe went on, sipping the scalding tea, 'when I was younger and I used to get into bed between you and mum on a Sunday morning? It was the nicest part of the week,' she added, wistfully.

'I remember,' said Frank, smiling. 'You wouldn't stop wriggling around. Plenty of space now,' he added, sadly.

'Do you mind if I get under the duvet, Dad? My toes are freezing.'

'Be my guest,' Frank told her. Chloe's slippers were still in her bedroom, deliberately left behind.

She slipped under the thick quilt and stretched out her legs. 'Mmm, it's lovely in here.' The curtains were still drawn and it was gloomy in the bedroom. But lying on her back under the duvet Chloe felt warm and secure and close to her father, smelling his scent on the quilt cover and the pillowcases, aware of his bulk just eighteen inches from her right arm. She closed her eyes and let her imagination run free. What would it be like to spend the whole night in her father's bed? She could wake in the middle of the night and slide a hand into his pyjama bottoms, seeking his flaccid penis, bringing it to hardness, rolling on her back and opening her legs as he climbed on top of her. And then the penetration, feeling the big, swollen plum press against her labia, feeling them open and the rigid pole slide into her liquid depths. Christ she felt horny!

'Can I have a hug, Dad?' she asked suddenly.

Frank held up his arm in mute consent and she rolled over and laid her head on his chest, her hand on his stomach. The arm came down on her left shoulder and pressed her lightly to him. 'Thank you,' she murmured, her head whirling with the sensory overload of being in bed and snuggling up to the most desirable man in her life, the one she most wanted inside her. Chloe felt her labia begin to itch.

Frank felt mildly uncomfortable. It was one thing to have your eight-year-old daughter get into bed between you and your wife, it was quite another to have your fully-developed and very attractive nineteen-year-old daughter get into bed with you, after your wife has left you, and ask for a hug. Not that he could refuse; his relationship with Chloe was the most important thing in his life, now. But it was awkward, all the same. Chloe was very slender but he could feel one of her breasts against his chest, could distinctly feel the nipple in fact, which must mean it was erect. Frank took a few slow, deep breaths, conscious that his daughter's head was on his chest. The last thing he wanted was to show signs of a physical reaction to her presence. But he felt hot and he wanted to release the tension by moving. And, worst of all, his penis was swelling and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Whatever dull thought he tried to concentrate on, the sensation of his cock growing and hardening was all-consuming. Oh God! What if Chloe noticed? How excruciating would that be? He froze as the tip of his rigid penis nudged against the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, a scant five inches from his daughter's hand.

Chloe was feeling warm, too, especially her pussy. Her breathing had become shallower and faster and her heart was thumping in her chest. Would her dad notice, she wondered. Had he already noticed? He must be able to feel my nipple, she thought, it's as hard as a marble. And the itch in her loins was becoming unbearable. She had to touch herself.

'Thanks, Dad,' she whispered, detaching herself from his arm and rolling onto her back. 'I'll let you have a doze.'

Frank felt relief wash over him as he turned on his side, away from his daughter. His cock was uncomfortable in his pyjamas, the foreskin had retracted and the sensitive glans was rubbing against the fabric. He made a surreptitious adjustment and closed his eyes, willing his erection to disappear.

Chloe slid her hand under the waistband of her pyjamas and cupped her vulva, feeling her pubic bush against the palm of her hand, feeling the wetness of her secretions. God, she was soaking! Cautiously she slid a finger into herself, feeling the heat and the silky lubrication. She closed her eyes as she found her clitoris with the tip of her finger and started a slow, gentle, circular motion. The sensation was exquisite and she fought the urge to writhe and groan. She wanted her father to know what she was doing, but she mustn't be too obvious.

Two feet to her right, her dad's cock had subsided and he felt pleasantly sleepy. Maybe half an hour's nap before he got up, he told himself.

Chloe was approaching an orgasm. She'd been in a state of intense sexual arousal since waking up in her own bed that morning, knowing that she was about to embark on a journey that could result in her becoming her own father's lover. How exciting was that? She'd been tempted to masturbate there and then but had resisted the urge. Now there was no holding back. However slowly she stroked her pearl, the bubble of immense pleasure was swelling and rising, expanding though her slim frame. Right at the end she strummed herself harder, raising her head from the pillow, her neck muscles rigid, gasping quietly as the waves of her climax crashed down over her.

As her orgasm subsided she relaxed and let her hand rest on her pussy while she stared up at the ceiling, relishing the physical relief but also shocked that she had done this thing in her father's bed.

Frank lay still, but he was not asleep.

After a couple of minutes Chloe slipped out of the bed and padded over to the bedroom door. 'I'm going for a shower, Dad, then I'll do breakfast.' She knew her father had been awake.

Frank rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, his mind in turmoil. Had his daughter just masturbated in the bed next to him? It had certainly felt like it. And Frank should know; his wife had been in the habit of masturbating herself on a weekend morning as a preamble to full penetrative sex with her husband. He would be woken by the faint vibrations transmitted through the mattress as Carol frigged herself and he would grow hard and breathless, knowing what was coming next. Carol would reach a gasping climax and he would enter her as the sensations subsided, pushing his big cock into her sopping pussy as she urged him to fuck her hard, to make her come again.

Now what was he to think? Why would his daughter do such a thing? And with her own father! Frank wasn't given to in-depth analysis of human behaviour - farming was where his expertise lay - but he couldn't help thinking that Chloe was sending him a signal, and a pretty powerful one. Then there were all the hugs and kisses she'd been giving him since her mother had gone. She'd never been so touchy-feely in the past. He felt hot, almost feverish. Surely Chloe didn't have designs on her own father, did she? He remembered her reaction the day Carol had left. 'Good riddance,' she'd said, which just about summed up the mother/daughter relationship. Did she have some distorted idea that she was going to take her mother's place in Frank's bed? It was unimaginable. It was incest. It was... well, it was wrong, wasn't it? He tried to blank out the memory of his daughter's erect nipple pressing into him. He tried to suppress the memory of his erection. Yes, he had been excited and now, as he thought about the tremors in the bed as Chloe masturbated, his cock grew hard again, very hard.