My Mother is cheating, again.
See, she's a stay at home Mom while Daddy works long hours at a very prominent laboratory, his scientific brain one of the highest IQs on their staff. She's always yelling at him about how he's gone for 15, sometimes 20 hours a day, then she yells about how when he comes home it's usually only to shower and go right back to work.
Daddy got promoted just before my 16th birthday, 2 years ago now. When he got that job, it required more attention and took him away from us. Daddy tries to make it up to us with black cards, new cars, new cell phones or other gadgets; but I just want my Daddy.
Last year, right after my 17th birthday party, Mom stopped nagging Daddy to stay home. She didn't need him, anymore, since she had managed to seduce one of my 18 year old classmates while dancing with him at my party. She had worn this fitted red halter topped mini dress that had clung to her body and it had been more than obvious that she wasn't wearing anything beneath it. Like AT ALL.
Every boy and even some of the girls drooled over my Mother at that party, but she was very careful to only show attention to the 18 and 19 year olds. She had danced all up against them, pressed her face into their necks, whispered things to them that had made them nod enthusiastically at her in return.
I was upset, of course.
I had always been my Daddy's girl. I just didn't have anything in common with my mother, truth be told. I was shy and quiet, she was outgoing and loud. I liked to fade into the background, she liked to be the center of attention. I liked to read, she liked to watch reality TV and those incredibly awful cheaters shows where people always end up fighting. I liked to cook homemade meals from scratch, she preferred to order in or go out to ridiculously expensive restaurants. I wore loose clothing, mostly my Daddy's old t shirts and basketball shorts or sweats, and she wore fitted things.
She always wore the tightest, littlest dresses and always without bras or panties.
She would always harp on me about how beautiful my body was and that I should be as eager as she was to show it off. I admit that I am my mother's clone and that people almost always mistake us for twins whenever we go out anywhere. I just never know if it's because I behave so much more maturely than she does or if she actually does look like she's my age; I choose to believe the latter. It makes me feel better.
We were both 5'8, though I think I was a bit closer to 5'9 since I turned 18. We both had slim figures with just the right amount of meat on our thin frames. We both had chocolate brown hair that fell in gentle waves, but mom always kept hers at shoulder length and flat ironed it every single morning while I insisted on keeping mine grown to my lower back in its natural wavy form. Mom's complexion was a warm honey color clearly indicative of her Hispanic heritage, but I'm milky white like my Daddy.
Pale as a ghost, mom would tell me I was.
We both had what Mom called, "Bubble butts" that fit nicely into whatever designer garb she would buy for special occasions; they were firm, soft, and just the right amount of jiggly, or so Mom always says. She would know, but I haven't ever checked out either of our butt's jiggliness. We both had 46C cup breasts, though Mom quite often begged Daddy to pay for a boob job because she always wanted to be bigger.
Since I turned 18, she even started to joke around sometimes that she would try to get him a 2-for-1 special so that she and I could both get our boobs done, but I always shot that down before Daddy had the chance to comment. She would roll her eyes at me, then shake her head and ask me how she ended up with a daughter so opposite her.
I always answer that I turned out like my Daddy.
Daddy liked that answer. He would always smile at me with so much pride in his gaze.
I would get warm all over from that look in his eyes. I loved earning his praise. I loved making my Daddy smile when Mom would only fight with him all of the time. I loved being the one he could depend on for his every need since my Mother was obviously busy doing whatever it took to make herself happy.
Daddy needed clean clothes, I washed them and even starched his lab coats. Daddy was hungry, I always had a warm plate waiting in the oven for him whenever he got home or breakfast ready for him to take with him on the drive to work and I even packed his lunches for him. Daddy was out of his favorite shampoo, I replaced it. Daddy was out of shavers, I refused to replace those.
Daddy with a goatee is freaking HOT.
I hadn't ever seen him with facial hair before last week. I had just taken dinner out of the oven while mom showered off whatever lover she had just fucked into oblivion and the front door clicked open. I thought her lover was coming back because he forgot something and was pleasantly surprised to see my exhausted Father heading toward me, the red hair of his goatee thick on his normally clean-shaven face.
See, Daddy is a ginger. He has bright red hair that he wears in a cropped spike do, the sides and back shaved close to his head. He has milky white skin with adorable tan-colored freckles across his nose, cheekbones, and on his shoulders. He stands about 6 foot 3 and is in the fittest shape of his life considering he's nearing 40. (My parents married right out of high school since Daddy had knocked her up with me.)
I had smiled hugely as he approached me and reached up to rub my palm over the facial hair while wrinkling my nose at him. "This is different." I said with a smile, my hand sweeping up from his chin along his cheek toward his ear and back. "I don't remember ever seeing you with facial hair, Daddy. I hardly recognize you."
Daddy had smiled tiredly, then glanced at the refrigerator. "Razors have been on my grocery list the last few weeks." he replies with a smirk, then he reaches up to scratch at the itchy hair growing along his cheeks and chin. "Someone keeps forgetting to buy them and my electric is only a trimmer. It can't get all of it off."
I brush my palm against it, again, and giggle. "It's ticklish."
"Is it now, Darlin'?" my Daddy asks with an almost evil smile.
I practically melted.
Did I mention that Daddy is Irish? He still has his brogue after decades of living in The United States and OH MY GOD. When he says, "Darlin'." like that, the "R" rolling softly and the "G" going silent; it just makes me so wet between my thighs.
I rub his beard, again, and nod before gigging some more.
"Oh, yeah?" Daddy growls, his arms going around me before I can react. He pulls me close and buries his face in my neck, then he presses his cheek against the column of my throat and gives his head a rough wiggle. "How's that?" he growls playfully, scratching his bushy facial hair back and forth over my sensitive skin.
"Daddy!" I squeal before I giggle hysterically. It really does tickle, but it's also ridiculously arousing. My body shivers while I giggle, my nipples pebbling as he holds me against his chest. I moan and press myself tighter to him all the while still laughing at his tickling me. I feel my pussy dampening and my body heating.
Daddy is laughing, too, the sound vibrating through his chest to mine.
"Hope I'm not interrupting anything."
Daddy and I both turn to find my mother standing in the entryway in nothing but her robe.
