Grace And Claire

On a Friday in April, I returned home for a regular evening. My daughter Claire was a senior in high school and I was enjoying the remaining time I had with her in the house. Her mother died a few years earlier, and I honestly had never moved on. I threw myself into parenting and work, using one when the other didn't suffice. Thankfully, Claire was a sweet girl, and apart from the usual teenaged arguments, she and I got along well. It wasn't uncommon for her to spend one or even two nights on the weekend curled up on the couch while we watched movies. We often liked the same sorts of things -- big

Star Wars

fans -- and made a point to order pizza and watch something almost every Friday.

Claire had always been a beautiful girl, but this year she had really blossomed. Now that she was eighteen, she had become more comfortable in her body. She was average height, slender but soft, and relatively modest in the way she dressed. At home, though, she would wear baggy tank tops without a bra and shorts. A few times when she lounged carelessly on the couch, I noticed how to shorts gaped and guessed she wasn't wearing anything underneath. This always gave me a peculiar feeling -- something like discomfort, but curiosity. I always turned my eyes away. I imagined it was normal for a father to be uncomfortable around his daughter's nudity. She wasn't just a beautiful girl, she was an extension of me, and forbidden. But she was also the person I loved most in the world.

"Want a beer daddy?" Claire asked that night.

"Sure."

She opened one for me, and I brought the pizza onto the coffee table. Since Mary died, we had become a bit more casual with dinner, something I'm not sure was good. But we each had napkins and grabbed the pizza. She turned on a movie, something we found online that was supposed to be good.

Claire finished eating and snuggled up to me on the couch. This, too, was normal; she was small, and often got cold despite the blankets I spread on her lap. Since we had been so close for so long, this sort of intimacy wasn't strange. Claire was a cuddly girl. She laid her head in my lap. As we watched the movie, I relaxed, enjoying my beer. Claire fidgeted around, and before I could stop myself, I was hard.

Now, before you think anything strange, know that I haven't been with a woman since my wife died. It had been years. So, this had nothing to do with Claire; I was lonely.

I moved away from her. She made a face.

"I'm tired, kitten," I said, using the nickname I had given her a long time ago. Somehow, with a hard on, this didn't feel quite as innocent. "I think I'm gonna turn in early."

She pouted, but nodded. "Alright daddy."

I started to clean up, but she shooed me away.

Up in my room, I closed the door. Two minutes hadn't gone by before I'd signed into my computer. I'd told Claire I'd gone to bed, but I needed something of a nightcap first. So to speak.

I signed onto literotica and went to the chat forums. It's tough luck being a middle-aged man here, but a few times I've had luck meeting women online to talk with. Sometimes they'd even masturbate on camera. This was always better for me than porn -- though I loaded up my favorite site as a second choice.

I posted that I was online and messaged the women I'd talked with before, but didn't have any luck. I kept the chat open and went over to the porn site. Boobs, pussy... lined up like that, my cock didn't fail to notice, but it was sort of bland, in that way that too much availability can make something less interesting. I scrolled, but a chat popped up in my screen.

Pussycat97.

I smirked. Pussycat? A little on the nose. But I clicked open.

Hi there. 18 yo female. Wanna chat?

I blinked. I'd never talked with a girl that young before, never even thought to. I didn't think there were many on lit either. But my cock responded before my brain; I imagined a cute young girl on her computer, scrolling through porn for maybe the first time. Jesus; it wasn't safe to chat with strangers online. For a moment, I thought of Claire, and felt a rush of protectiveness. I pushed her out of my head.

But then I thought -- well, I'm not a creep. I'd love to talk with a girl, see pictures of her, but I'd never dream of posting them anywhere, or telling anyone about her.

If she wanted to talk to a guy, she was actually better off talking to me. Right?

I practically had to.

But then I thought of something else.

Are you seriously a girl?

I waited, hands shaking, for a response.

She typed back fast.

Yes. You want a picture to prove it?

Fuck.

Yes.

Ten seconds later, a picture loaded on my screen. A pair of small, perfect, young breasts, close up. Pink puffy nipples. Flawless creamy skin.

Jesus. Is that you

?

Yes.

You're perfect.

You really think so?

Yes. God.

Wow. Thank you. How old are you?

I thought about lying, but then I thought -- well, what if she's into older guys? Wouldn't that be so much hotter, to know she knew who she was talking to, and wanted me anyway?

51. That too old for you, sweetie?

No way. ;) I like older guys.

Ever been with one?

No. I'm a virgin.

I smirked. Yeah, right.

I know you don't believe me, but it's true.

She sent through another picture, this time of her whole torso, on a white sheet. God, she was perfect. Small, sweet; a pair of lacy lavender panties could be seen at the bottom of the photo. My cock was so hard; a drop of precum oozed out.

You're so stunning. Any man would be lucky to have you.

Not the man I want.

I don't believe that,

I wrote back.

You're so sexy.

I'm into something a little weird.

Fuck. An 18 year old virgin with a kink? I desperately wanted to know what it was; until then I'd thought myself, not vanilla, but more toward the middle of the road. I loved experimenting with my wife, but honestly as long as a woman was there and she was naked I was happy. But now I was desperate to know what this young girl wanted.

Tell me.

Promise you won't judge?

Look, if I was with you, I'd do anything to make you happy. I don't want to judge you.

Alright then. I... I want my daddy.

I froze. Her daddy? But then I realized, she must be talking about role play. I'd never done incest play before, but something about it was so taboo, so naughty, that I was instantly into it. My skin felt hot, I felt my balls get heavy.

Aww, sweetie, you want to role play?

Well, yes,

she wrote,

but I mean really. Like my dad. I don't know. Do you think I'm weird? Do you think a dad would ever want his daughter?

I know what I should say -- sure, he'll want you, look at your body. She'd probably keep talking to me if I said that. But I had a daughter and the truth was, I wasn't sure.

He loves you. Do you live with him?

Yes.

I think it's tough to imagine a father thinking of his daughter that way.

But... I don't know. Maybe I'm sick. I've always wanted him. When I was a girl it wasn't sexual at all, I just wanted to be around him. But now that I'm grown up I can't imagine anyone else. I think about him all the time. It's so sexy to imagine being so bad, giving myself to my own dad. It's so slutty. But I imagine him when I touch myself. I think of him seeing me. I think about telling him that I am a virgin, letting him take off my panties and know that I saved my pussy just for him. When we go out to eat I imagine crawling under the table and sucking his cock. I want him to see my body and lose control, and just see pussy and know it's his. I mean what man couldn't resist 18-year-old virgin cunt?

Fuck she was sick. But I was more aroused than I'd ever been in my life. I reached my hand into my sweats and grabbed my cock; it was hard, hot, and dripping. I read and reread her message, imagining a girl -- not Claire -- offering herself up to her father. God. There was something so wrong about that, but I couldn't resist. I imagined having a girl in my house, a little slave like that. I began to pump my fist and managed to type back with one hand.

Send me another picture?

I can do better.

Thirty seconds later, she sent a video clip. It was of her breasts, her hands massaging her nipples. She spoke on the clip. "Oh, daddy... daddy..."

Her voice was a high whisper, transformed by arousal.

Fuck. I watched it again, and again.

She sent another, this time of her hand in her panties.

"Daddy, touch me there, please daddy, I need you so bad, touch my special place..."

I came, my spunk covering my computer screen, right over her little tits.

When I recovered, I typed again.

Babygirl, can I chat with you again? I think your daddy would be a fool to resist you, but if you're too scared to ask him, know that I'd love to be your daddy.

Yes.

We exchanged emails. I saved her videos. Even if we never talked again, I knew I would be watching those for months to come.

Her name was Grace. I worried that we would never speak again, but I was wrong. She was a nasty little thing, and horny quite often. I should have known that 18-year-old girls might have similar sex drives to 18-year-old boys, but I never imagined being at the receiving end of such desire.

We texted every day. I told her about how I imagined her, what I wanted to do to her. I told her I wanted her sweet little body over my face, I told her I wanted her under me. She was so dirty; she asked me if I'd fuck her face, asked if I'd cover her in my cum. It released something in me. I had always been more reserved, but Grace made me depraved. I told her how I'd tie her up, how I'd slap her pussy until she creamed all over my sheets. We roleplayed about bedtime stories turning into sex, fucking at grandma's house, accompanying her to her first gynecologist appointment.

Grace was generous with her videos. She sent me lots of her breasts and, after a week, started to show me her cute shaved pussy. It was perfect, tiny like an apricot. She sent videos of her with her purple vibrator on her pretty wet clit, then fucked herself and said daddy. She always spoke in that little sweet raspy voice, but it never failed to arouse me. She sounded so sexual, like a slave to her desires. Hearing her cry out "dad please" always made me hard.

Grace needed a lot of attention. She loved when I complimented her body, which was easy. She always asked me if she was sick; I always said no. Somehow it didn't seem sick that she wanted her dad. She talked about him, said how kind he was to her, said how much she adored him, and I began to think that it was sweet how she wanted him. Either way, it turned me on. I was jealous of the man, since I began to think of her as my little plaything, but her desire for her real father was such a turn on that I didn't mind. The fact that my little Grace fucked her cunt thinking about her real dad was so fucked up that I couldn't think about it without needing to cum.

I was obsessed with her. I knew she was on the internet, but I couldn't stop thinking about her. At work, I thought of Grace under my desk. On the train, I saw girls in skirts and imagined the story she told me about touching herself in the bathroom in her plaid schoolgirl uniform. And at home, I imagined having a girl like her in my house, my own personal sex kitten.

Keep in mind, all this incest play did not turn me on to Claire. It was like a divide in my head; this was play, fantasy. Once or twice, when I was more self-conscious, I would imagine Claire just to see if I was becoming so sick that I wanted my own daughter. But every time, the imagine made me recoil. Good. I didn't want Claire. I didn't

want

to want her. But the fantasy of incest was so intoxicating that I could not let it go.

"Will you get off your phone?" Maggie asked her best friend Claire.

"Sorry," Claire said, blushing.

"Who is this guy you keep talking to?"

"None of your business," Claire said. And it was none of Maggie's business; she'd never tell her. Maggie would not understand. No one did. She knew she was messed up. People liked incest porn, but no one actually wanted to sleep with their own father.

But she did.

God, she did. Claire couldn't imagine how it happened, but she wanted her father with an intensity she did not understand. It wasn't what he looked like -- though now she could not even look at him without getting wet. It was deeper than that, primal. He was her daddy, the man in her life. She wanted to surrender to him, serve him. Something in her rolled over whenever she imagined letting him have full use of her body, whenever he desired. It just seemed so wrong, yet natural. Her pussy, untouched by anyone but herself, throbbed when she saw him. She was soaking wet every day just being near him, but she was a coward.

The girls in stories always went about seducing their dads in such a brave way. They left their panties around, they showered with the door open. But that was unrealistic. This was her

dad.

If she messed up, she could not imagine the shame she'd feel. So she washed her own panties, afraid of him seeing how soaked they were every day. She locked the door to the bathroom, and she masturbated with her bedroom door closed.

Oh, and she made a fake screen name and online profile.

It started innocently enough. Well, as innocent as snooping through her dad's internet history could be. But she wanted to know what turned him on, what kind of porn he watched, what kind of women he masturbated to. And that was when she found his lit profile and screen name.

She hadn't thought she'd actually talk to him. But then, she thought, why not?

He would never know.

So she did.

And it had been the hottest thing she'd ever done. She was talking to her daddy about sex. The anonymity freed her; she told him everything about her desires. She sent him pics. He'd never recognize her -- she didn't show her face, and blurred out the birthmark on her left breast that he might remember from when she was a child. She took them all on her white sheets, and spoke in a sex-crazed girly voice he wouldn't recognize.

By now, she could almost convince herself it was real. Daddy talked to her every day. He even liked being called daddy. He loved her videos. Every night after dinner, when she would be soaked and dripping from watching him all night, she could hardly wait to go upstairs and take off all her clothes and show him. She sent lewd videos where she'd stuff her panties into her cunt, or fuck her dildo begging for daddy's cock. And none of it was play. She closed her eyes while she filmed, imagining that the pressure inside of her was really her father.

She'd even broken her cherry on video for him.

I thought you were going to save that for your dad,

he'd written.

Daddy doesn't want me,

she wrote back. She almost confessed then, and wrote "he wants Grace". But she didn't. She wrote,

you want me, so you get to see.

Fuck, little one. I wish it was me. I would hold you after until it stopped hurting your special place. But I wouldn't be able to stop, I'd had to fuck you so hard. I think you'd bleed, little kitten. But then I'd kiss your pussy until you sobbed from pleasure, until you begged daddy to do it again, like a good girl.

God

--

it was too much. He was so dirty, so into the incest play, that she could almost convince herself that he wanted her for real. But whenever she tried to broach the subject of Claire -- his "real daughter" he backed off.

I don't want to talk about her,

he'd say.

I just want to play with my Gracie.

It nearly brought tears to her eyes.

Don't you want her?

Look sweetie, I know you want your real daddy but I don't want to talk about my daughter. It's separate, for me, and I don't want her. But that doesn't mean you're wrong to want your father, or that I don't want you. Let's just play, alright?

So they played. She wrote to him every day and sometimes it wasn't even about sex. She talked to him in a way she didn't talk to him in life -- about her friends, about her insecurities, about her fears. He wrote back. He told her about missing her mom, about not being able to date again since he felt unfaithful. He talked about competition at work and being scared to lose his daughter to college -- something that made Claire happy. At least he wanted her in that way.

It had started to be something of a relationship. She began to know the things her dad liked -- he liked being on top because he liked to be in control, he said, and he wanted her from behind for the same reason. He loved eating pussy, and thought hers was sweet. He liked it not shaved, but trimmed. He liked her lacy underwear. And he loved incest for the same reason she did: not despite the relation, but because of it. It was the most forbidden thing in the world.

I had to meet her, it was simple. Grace, my little girl, my plaything, my obsession. I didn't know what it was about her -- I'd spoken with other women online, but it was nothing like what I had with Grace. I could never stop thinking about her sweet little body, the sounds she made. I became jealous of her fingers on her pussy. Most of all I was jealous of her father, the man she truly wanted.

So I did the unforgiveable. I asked her where she lived.

I have a sales conference in Miami in three weeks,

I said.

I could tell my daughter it goes longer than it does. You could meet me.

It was a huge risk; what girl would say yes?

And I was right; she didn't.

I don't know if we're ready for that, dad.

She was probably right, but it still hurt.

I have to have you.

Me, too, dad. You have no idea.

Grace had begun talking more and more about Claire; it was upsetting me. I didn't want to think about Claire when I was hard and stroking myself. It brought up all kinds of emotions and desires I didn't want to feel. I told myself it was normal to be confused. But I always told Grace to stop, that I didn't want to think about her. And I didn't want to think about her. What's more, I didn't want to think about how I felt when she came up.

I began to feel guilty for neglecting her. My internet affair with Grace had gone on for a month and a half now, and I had spent less and less time with Claire. But she didn't seem to mind; she was on her phone all the time. When I asked, she said it was because she'd be graduating soon and wanted to talk with the people who were important to her. Fair enough.

We got in a fight one morning on her way to a friend's house. I had been talking to Grace. I told her how sexy it was when a girl doesn't wear a bra. Mostly I wanted to get a picture of Grace without one; in all honesty, I wanted a picture of her face, which up until now she had not given me. No face, no videos with her normal voice, not even her hair. Just her body. Usually it was enough.