Football Sunday 4

Note: This is a story about father/daughter incest. There's rough sex and dirty talking and so if any of that offends you, you shouldn't read. Nothing is intended to be strictly realistic, the people or their body parts, but rather the heightened reality of fantasy.

There's also some use of language that could be offensive to Native Americans. Just a FYI.

*****

Sunday, October, Somewhere in Canada

It was an ugly sense of deja vu that ran through me as I woke up. Somehow, I was back in high school, the cold grey dorm room I'd woken up in every day for the last year replaced by the bright yellow that had been my bedroom when I'd still lived at home. There was the photo collage of all of my friends on the wall and my old Macbook sitting on my desk.

Worse yet, I was waking up to the sound of my door being knocked on sharply by my mother.

"Keeley!" her voice said loudly, "Are you awake honey?"

My eyes slowly adjusted to the early morning light as I hopped out of bed and I remembered my surroundings. I grumbled as I walked to the door. I hadn't wanted to be home at all and that was before I knew about the involuntary early-morning wake-up call.

My plan had been to spend the holiday break with Mark, my now ex-boyfriend's family. I liked Mark's family, liked his mother's cooking and had been looking forward to a very nice thanksgiving. That had been before Mark had unceremoniously dumped me over the phone two weeks before. I'd heard about the "Turkey Drop" but it had still been out of the blue. Deep down I'd known that us going to different schools would make our year long relationship a long shot to continue but it had still been a shock to have been dumped so suddenly.

I opened the door to see my mother standing there. Her graying hair tied back, her coat on and her purse over her shoulder. I briefly wondered why she looked like she was going out at ten o'clock on a Sunday morning.

"What's up," I asked, trying not to sound too much like a bratty teenager True, having turned eighteen only nine months earlier I technically was still a bratty teenager but I was in college now. I wanted to at least seem adult.

"Oh, it's your Aunt Elizabeth I'm afraid," she said, "It seems like she's broken up with Tom and needs me to drive out to pick her up."

I shook my head. It seemed like it was shaping up to be a lousy Thanksgiving for many of the women in my family. Still, what my mother was saying didn't make much sense.

"That's insane," I said. My Aunt lived four hours away, "Can't you just send her the money for the bus?"

"I would, sweetie, but it looks like it's for good this time. She needs me to take the truck out there to pack her things and, you know..."

I winced at the mention of the truck. A reminder of why I really didn't want to be at home.

"Great," I said, "Give me a couple minutes to get dressed and I'll go with you..."

My mother took a nervous glance at the floor.

"Actually, honey, I was thinking you could spend the day here." she said, "There won't be a a lot of room in the truck with all of her stuff and it would give you a chance to spend some time with your father."

I stared in disbelief. She knew how I felt about my father even being in the house, let alone the idea of spending any one on one time with him.

My father hadn't been a presence in my life growing up. Or at least not a regular one. He'd left my mother when she was five months pregnant with me and had been a non-factor in my life until I was ten years old. That had been the first time that he'd gotten back together with my mother.

As I looked at her I wondered for the thousandth time why she did this. She was a smart woman, I thought. Hard-working enough to go from being a waitress to a secretary to a successful real estate agent. Yet, when it came to my father, her brains seemingly disappeared. My mom had even been seeing a reasonably nice guy named Terry who treated her well at the time. But she let him back in and even swore that things would be "different" this time.

That lasted all of five weeks. Then he was off again. That happened twice more in my life, when I was thirteen and again at fifteen. Both times the patterns were identical. He'd run out of money or been kicked to the curb by a woman who'd come to her senses and he showed up at the nice little house she'd bought for us, expecting to be taken back. And he always was. This time he'd shown up only a few days after she'd dropped me off at college.

"I don't want to spend time with him," I said, "I'll just go over to Rachel's or something,"

My mother's face twisted into one of exasperation.

"Please, honey," she said, "Your father likes to watch football on Sundays and really hates it when I'm not around. Just watch it with him and maybe fix him a quick lunch."

I stared at her in disbelief. Every fiber of my being wanted to scream at her, not just for the gall of asking me to make lunch for someone I couldn't stand, but for her inability to see him for what he was.

I held my tongue though. I might have had no use for my father but I cared about my mother. She'd worked hard to give me every opportunity I needed and now, with a seemingly bright future ahead of me, I owed her.

"Fine," I heard myself saying, "Just try to be back as soon as you can."

"Thanks sweetie." she said, kissing my cheek, "His beer's in the fridge and he likes his sandwiches with mustard and mayo."

My mother turned away from my room and I heard the heavy sound of her boots on the steps before hearing her shout a goodbye to my father and then the slam of the door shutting behind her. I exhaled loudly and reached into my dresser. I grumbled as I remembered that I hadn't packed many clothes and what I had packed was dirty. A pink pair of fleece shorts and a ratty old gym t-shirt were the best examples of the clothes I'd left behind. I pulled my long, strawberry blonde hair into a pony tail and tied an elastic around it.

Still, as I looked at myself in the mirror I realized there was a certain appropriateness to what I was wearing. It was exactly the sort of thing I might have worn on a lazy Sunday morning when nobody else was home and, as far as I was concerned, nobody was.

I walked down the stairs and heard the sounds emanating from the living room. I wasn't the world's biggest football fan but knew that games wouldn't be started this early. I briefly considered heading back upstairs and only coming down when the games would start but I'd promised Mom I would be around while she was gone and I felt committed to that.

The living room was different from how I'd last seen it. There was still the white couch and old coffee table but there was now a large black recliner to the left of it, brand new and expensive looking. In it, seated the person who, I hated to acknowledge, had been my mother's sperm donor.

Looking at him there were barely even any signs I was his daughter. I'd clearly gotten my height from him. At five-foot eight, I was half a foot taller than my mother but he was at least another half a foot taller than me but I was blonde like my mother had been and slender while he was at least fifty pounds overweight, with big arms and thick hands, one of which was wrapped around a can of cheap beer and the other around the TV remote. He had thick black eyebrows matched with black hair that was thinning at the top. He was, I thought, a pig.

"I didn't even know you were here," he said. I briefly considered saying something bitchy about how that had been true for the last 19 years of my life but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. The reality was that as I looked at him, I felt nothing. No hate, no disappointment. That would imply I gave a damn about him. He was just some asshole who lived with my mother. That we shared DNA was, as far as I was concerned, the stuff of trivia.

"I got in late last night," I said, referring to my last minute decision to not spend my holiday weekend alone in the dorms. A decision I was now regretting.

"What do you want?" he said, taking a sip of his beer.

"Mom asked me to watch the game with you," I said. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

"Do you have to?" he asked, his gruff tone seemingly indicating that even spending this much time with his only child(that I knew of at least) was too much to ask. A part of me was intrigued by his seeming interest in watching the games alone. Lord knows I wouldn't have chosen to spend time with him by my own volition. But there was another part of me that was pleased. Knowing that me being there annoyed him made the whole thing satisfying on another level.

"I told her I would," I said dismissively, "And I like keeping my promises to her. So why don't you just drink your beer and pretend like I'm not even here. That should be easy for you."

If he took any note of my shot in his direction he gave no notice, simply taking a swig of his beer.

"Well, at least try to be quiet." he finally said, "I fucking hate it when your mother talks to me all the way through a game."

No problem there, I thought. I had no interest in talking to him. I pulled my phone from my pocket and decided to make use of the good wi-fi the house had.

The next few hours passed fairly quickly. I ignored the pointless ramblings and bullshit that apparently made for football pre-game shows and sort of idly chatted with a few friends as my father watched intently. Every now and then he'd talk about what was being said on-screen but being as it tended to be crude, referring to players he didn't like as "faggots" or "fucking pussies" it certainly didn't prove itself to be the entry point to a conversation I didn't want to have any way.

Then the game started. I half-heartedly looked up at my phone to see who was playing. Dallas and Washington. I didn't know a lot about football but even I knew that this was a big rivalry game and my Father was a Washington fan.

"Ugh, they're still called the Redskins?" I said, almost involuntarily, noting the nickname of the team.

"Don't get started on that PC bullshit." my Father said dismissively, "Why should they have to change their name just because a bunch of whiny Liberals want to take the fun out of everything."

"Because it's not 1955 anymore, I don't know," I said, rolling my eyes, "Maybe it's not cool to use a racial slur so casually any more."

My father took another sip of beer.

"See, this is exactly what I meant," he said, "I don't want to listen to your big mouth when the game's on. Why don't you just fuck off to a friend's house?"

I felt the heat in me, start to rise.

"Why don't you fuck off? This is my mother's house, not yours, and I have way more of a right to be here than you do." I said, "She asked me to sit next to your worthless ass and watch the game and, believe me, if I didn't care about making her happy I wouldn't be here. I'm going to sit right here until she gets back and if you don't like it you know where the door is."

I could see in his eyes that my 'worthless ass' comment had stung him. I saw some fire in his eyes before he took another swig of beer and it was replaced by a self-satisfied look.

"Fine, stay," he said. I buried myself back in my phone as the game cut to a commercial. There were a few minutes of awkward silence before the game came back on.

"Look at that," I heard my father say, although I didn't think it was to me. Regardless, I looked up. There was a shot of one of the Washington cheerleaders in their famous Red and White outfits. She was a pretty blonde and the short shorts and cleavage bearing top revealed an athletic body with large-ish breasts, not entirely unlike mine. I snorted my disapproval.

"She looks like a fucking slut," I heard him say, "Bet she lets all the players fuck her after the game."

"Don't be gross." I said, screwing up my face.

"Tell you what they should do," he said, clearly not listening to me, "I'd use all of those cheerleader sluts like my own personal reward system. If a player gets an interception or a touchdown he should get to choose the one he likes the best and get sucked off before the next series. Bet they'd win a couple Super Bowls like that."

I wanted to leave. The last thing I wanted to do was hear my disgusting father say these things. But I knew what he was doing. He wanted me to leave. He wanted to get me out of the room and think those things in peace. Fuck him, I thought.

"They'd still fuck it up somehow," I said, "They're a piece of shit team, with a piece of shit owner and shitty fans. Go Cowboys."

I looked over at him as I said the last two words and he smirked. Clearly, I wasn't going to be as easy as he thought.

"Have to get good ones, though," he said, "The kind who really know how to suck a dick. These players probably get all sorts of pussy so they'd have to be the champion cocksuckers of the world."

"Probably need good players first," I spat back, "Most women don't want anything to do with pathetic losers."

Again, I saw a burning in my father's eyes. For a second I wondered if I shouldn't be playing this game. As far as I knew he'd never hit my mother but for a second it looked like he wanted to hit me. That faded, though, and he just went back to looking cocky as he took a sip of beer.

"You were a cheerleader, right?" he said, turning his head to look at me.

"What?" I asked, unsure of why he'd changed the subject "How do you know that?"

"Your mother told me in one of her boring ass-letters, I think," he said, "You ever fuck any players?"

I froze cold. He wasn't asking out of anything resembling fatherly interest, I could tell right away. I had expected him to be crude and filthy but not towards me. I had figured, wrongly it seemed, that some things were beneath even him. Still, I was resolved not to crack. He wasn't my father, he was just a gross old man I had to spend time with.

"It wasn't that kind of cheerleading," I said, refusing to answer the question "It was a competitive sport, not stand on the sideline and look cute cheerleading."

"You lez out with any of the other ones" he continued looking at me, rather than the game,

"God, no," I said reflexively, not so much at the suggestion than a growing distaste for him.

"No, didn't think so," he said, shifting in his seat "You're definitely more of a cocksucker than a rugmuncher."

I shifted in my seat as I saw his eyes roam up my body. I'd chosen my outfit to spite him but now I was regretting what I'd chosen. It hadn't seemed revealing upstairs but sitting on the couch I knew the shorts revealed most of my legs and the shirt was tight enough to reveal the outline of my full c cup breasts. I'd never considered someone would look at me in a sexual manner wearing but now I could see that was exactly what he was doing. It seemed as though there was no depths that my father's depravity wouldn't sink to.

And yet, as much as I hated to admit it. There was a part of my body betraying every instinct I had. I could feel the heat of my body rise and a growing wetness between my legs. I rationalized it away as being the product of not having had sex for weeks or even masturbating due to a busy first few weeks of classes and a desire to stay faithful to my now ex-boyfriend combined with the fact that dirty talk had always been a turn-on for me. I knew that those words coming from my father's lips shouldn't have had that effect on me but they did.

I tried to push that fact from my head and focus on the battle of wills. I wouldn't lose. My father couldn't push me into doing whatever he wanted the way he could with my mother.

"You're right about that." I said finally, hoping my words would push him back. I wasn't ashamed of having had sex and he couldn't make me feel that way. "I've definitely sucked a dick or two in my day."

"I bet you have." My father said, shifting in his seat again, "I bet you're fucking great at it."

"No complaints so far," I said smugly.

"It's those big cocksucking lips you have." he said, moving his hand down to the waistband of his sweatpants, "I bet they feel like two big, soft wet pillows running up and down your shaft."

I shrugged. Mark had said something similar about them. I squirmed again as I felt his eyes roam down my body. I felt the heat inside of me rise to burning as I watched him slide his hand into his pants where, I noticed, there was a very large bulge now straining against the crotch of the old fabric.

"Nice big tits too. I tell you, I wouldn't know where to cum if you were sucking me off." he said as his hands went into the waistband of his pants. I thought he'd just adjust himself but he seemed to grasp a hold of whatever he had inside there. Shaking myself from the fog I found myself in, I found room for one more retort.

"You'll never find out, you pervert." I spat, "I wouldn't touch you if you were the last man on earth. Last person, hell, last living thing."

Those words seemingly had an effect as he turned his head from me and back towards the football game. I felt a pang of relief. Whatever bizarre mix of emotion had led me to my heated state seemed as though it would dissipate now. I could ride out the rest of the afternoon and then later, when she returned, I could tell my mother about what happened and why I would never set foot in the house as long as he were here.

Or so I thought. My father, to my surprise, picked up the remote to the TV and punched in a number that I knew took him to the pay-per-view movies our cable system had. I didn't have to guess what he was about to do. Scrolling through the list of movies I could see which one he'd choose before he even stopped on it. The delightful title was "Cheerlead-whores #7" and after a few more presses of the remote pretty soon the screen was filled with the cheesy music and bad lighting of a cheaply made porno flick. A bleached-blonde woman in her mid 20's was the "star" and her clearly fake tits stretching out what looked like the sort of naughty cheerleading costume a cheap costume shop might have at halloween.

"You're not seriously going to watch this," I said angrily, more at myself than anything. I knew the right thing to do was just leave but there was something about the way that he just casually bought the movie, that I knew would be paid for by my mother, that made me more determined than ever not to let him beat me.

"What? You said to pretend like you're not here and if you weren't here and my dick got all hard watching those slutty cheerleaders I'd buy a porn and jack off." he said, sipping on his beer and watching as the girl was joined by an older looking man. I cursed the limited imagination of porn directors. If it had been a girl-girl scene that would be one thing but, now, it seemed as though our "cheerleader" was going to be fucked by the coach in the first scene.

And then, without warning, I watched almost in slow motion as my father grabbed the waistband of his sweatpants and yanked them down. His cock springing forth like a coiled snake.

I sat there dumbfounded. I could tell from the bulge that he would be big but I wasn't expecting this. Mark, I knew from health class, had a relatively average sized cock but my father's was at least twice as long with a bulbous head and a series of pronounced veins running along it's length. It was thick too. So thick that as I watched his big hand wrap around it his fingers only barely met.

More than that it looked hard as steel. I'd seen pictures of big dicks before but they always looked like they were only partially full, like they were sagging under their own weight. My father's dick looked like it would break if someone tried to bend it. Against my will, I wondered what it would feel like and immediately regretted it.

I watched as he began stroking it. Feeling paralyzed to move or speak as I watched his hand travel the length of the stiff, blood-swollen prick. I tried turning my attention to the action on screen, watching the porn with my father seemingly the lesser of two evils than watching him jack off. I felt the uncomfortable heat rising in me again and my mouth going dry as the girl on screen began sucking on a cock that, I had to admit, was definitely the sort of above average size you'd see in an adult film but that was significantly shorter and skinnier than the dick I could see my father stroking out of the corner of my eye.