My Plan for Dad

DAY 1, IN THE LIVING ROOM

"Dad, can I ask you a question?" I asked.

I'd been working up the nerve for days now, and, finally, the time was right. If I didn't do it now, I'd never do it. It was do or die. We were relaxed on the living room couch, he was in a good mood, there was no TV or computer blasting, and our phones were in the other room. No better time than the present. Go for it! Just do it.

He nodded. "Sure," he shrugged.

"It's kind of personal," I said. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

He returned the slice of pizza that he was eating to his plate and put the plate onto the coffee table. He looked at me. "Well, that caught my attention," he said, his eyes meeting mine. "There are no secrets between us, Baby Girl. Ask what you want."

A long moment went by, with him waiting for me to speak. I swallowed my last hesitation away and came out with it. "Well, I was wondering-- how often do you masturbate?"

You know how, in the movies, when somebody is shocked, their jaw drops and their eyes open wide and their eyebrows fly up? He did that. Just like in the movies. He does that sometimes. It's really cute. Sometimes I say appalling things just to see that expression, but that wasn't my goal this time. I had other goals.

I waited for him to recover, for his face to go back to something resembling normal, then he laughed. "What brings that topic up?"

I was ready for the question. I'd rehearsed my response. "Well, one of the other nurses at work said that her husband masturbates every day. In the morning, when he's in the bathroom. You know--brush your teeth, use the toilet, take a shower. And he masturbates. He says it part of getting ready for the day."

"And she tells you this?" Dad asked. "I'm glad she's not my wife, discussing that with other people."

"No, she says he doesn't care. He says it's just normal stuff, not a big deal."

It took Dad a bit of time to digest that. Then he had more questions. He was trying not to answer, wasn't he? "What does she think of that? Isn't he supposed to be having sex with her?"

"I asked her that too," I said, trying to be as reassuring as possible. "She doesn't mind. She says they have sex at bedtime the normal amount. She's ok with it."

Dad was quiet now. He hadn't answered, so I prodded him a bit. "So I was wondering," I said, "whether all men do that, or if he's doing something different. Do you do that?"

He was thinking. I could see the wheels turning in his head as he figured out what to do. On the one hand, this was his daughter he was talking to. On the other hand, he'd always told me that sex is nothing to be embarrassed about and I should feel free to ask whatever I wanted to know. Sometimes I feel sorry for him, a single man trying to raise a daughter, ever since Mom decided to leave us and go to France to "find her true self."

He found a way to avoid the question. "That reminds me," he said. "Do you remember the time you asked me how it was possible for two men to have sex?"

I didn't remember, but it was pretty funny. I could imagine myself doing that. "What did you say?" I asked.

"What could I say? I told you the truth. You thought I was kidding. That was a long time ago."

"I hope so," I said, laughing. "I don't remember it though."

He was buying time to figure out what to say, wasn't he? But I wasn't going to let him change the subject. So I just calmly waited for him to answer my question. "She says he just does it into the toilet. Like point-and-shoot. She thinks most men do that."

Eventually, he decided to be a good father. "I don't do it like that," he said. "Not like that."

He still hadn't answered the question. I wasn't going to let him off the hook. "So how often do you do it?" I asked.

Again, he hesitated, and eventually he decided that he'd tell me. He probably figured that the sooner he answered the question, the sooner I'd drop the topic. "I don't know. Maybe four or five times a week. Most days."

I wasn't done tormenting him. "In the morning, like he does it? In the bathroom?"

Now, here's a little secret, just between you, Dear Reader, and me. I already knew that he masturbated at bedtime and how often he did it. I'd been checking his wastebasket for soggy tissues and keeping track. Also, I know where he keeps his bottle of lube, in the nightstand. Every so often, I find an excuse to go into his bedroom in the morning, to see what tissues are littered around the bed. And sometimes he leaves his browser open on his laptop, so I can go into his history and see what kind of porn he watches. But he didn't know that.

He answered. "No, normally at bedtime." Then he looked at me with a puzzled face. "So, what's this about?"

I didn't want to answer that question, so I ignored it. "How come I don't hear you?" I asked. "Don't you make noise when you do it?" That wasn't exactly true, that I didn't hear, but it seemed like the best thing to say.

"I try to be quiet," he said.

I could tell he was really hoping I'd shut up. But I had one more thing to say. That was the whole purpose of the conversation. "You don't have to be quiet," I said. "It won't bother me if I hear you." I needed to clarify a bit. "I mean, you don't have a girlfriend. It's no secret that you have to do it."

He laughed again. "I'll keep that in mind," he said. "Any other incredibly personal questions you'd like to ask? You want to know about my bowel movements too? I'll be happy to keep you posted."

"That's disgusting," I said, giggling.

I wasn't done yet. I had hoped he would ask me about my habits, but he didn't. I guess part of the Daddy Code of Ethics is that you don't ask your daughter about her masturbation. So I tried a different approach.

"Can you hear me when I do it?" I asked.

He laughed again. "Am I supposed to? I wouldn't think you'd want me to."

He hadn't answered the question. I assumed that meant he had heard, which was good. "It doesn't matter," I said. "I don't care. I guess I try to be quiet too."

"Whatever floats your boat," he said. (That's an old-person way of saying that I can do whatever I want.)

I was hoping he'd ask me how often I masturbate, when I do it, even how I did it, and whether he could watch. I was hoping he'd tell me that I could be as noisy as I wanted, so he could hear. But, of course, he did none of those things.

He just looked at me, waiting to see if there was anything else I wanted to say. I didn't, so he picked up his plate and resumed working on his slice. He turned on the TV and found the Golf Channel, which is probably the most boring thing that exists on TV, right up there with the Paint Drying Channel.

I should have left then, but I didn't. I like being with Dad. When we were finished eating, I stretched out on the couch and put my feet in his lap, and he massaged my toes. Someday I'll get him to give me a pedicure, but that wasn't the time.

Dear Reader, I bet you've deduced by now that there is more to this story than you've been told. What was I doing, asking my father a ridiculously inappropriate question like that?

The answer is that it was part of a plan, a plan I'd been hatching for months. The goal? The goal is for Dad to make love to me. Yep, that's right, I want to have sex with my dad. I know I'm evil, immoral, and sinful to want such a thing, but I can assure you, I won't be the first girl to want it. I've been thinking about it forever, but when I moved back home after school, it seemed like it might be possible.

Dear Reader, I can assure you. It's more than just possible. It's certain. I'm going to make it happen. The key is patience. Little by little, step by step, I'm going to inch him toward it until he can't resist. Patience is essential so that he doesn't figure out what's going on until he's in my trap -- or, rather, in my bed.

The first step of the plan was to find reasons to talk to my dad about sex. The more intimate, the better. He needs to start seeing me as a grown-up, sexual woman, not a little girl. That's what I was doing this night. This was just the beginning.

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DAY 2, IN MY ROOM

The conversation with Dad the previous evening started me thinking. I had told him that I don't hear him masturbating, which is kind of true, but not really. At bedtime, I hear him open his nightstand to get his lube, I hear his computer open, I hear him get into bed. If I listen carefully, I can hear the bed rocking just a bit. In about fifteen minutes, I hear him get out of bed, put the lube away, then go to the bathroom. He does it almost every night.

And you know what I'm doing while he's busy with himself? I'm doing the same thing he is. Except instead of looking at porn on a computer, I'm using a little tiny vibrator, while I listen to him and try to make out the sounds of his bed rocking.

Sometimes, if I'm feeling especially naughty, I wait for him to finish, then I go to the bathroom just before him. The goal is to run into him as I come out and he goes in. He's usually in his undies and a t-shirt, not his pajamas, and he acts all nonchalant, like nothing has been going on. Sometimes, I think I can smell his lube or maybe it's his cum, or maybe it's his sweat. Or maybe it's my imagination. It's probably my imagination.

This morning, I'd had an idea. After he went to work, I found his computer. Sure enough, he hadn't cleared his browser history and I could see what he'd been watching, from 10:22 to 10:32 last night, after our conversation. This wasn't the first time I'd snooped, but this time, I had a purpose.

I'd been hoping to see daddy-daughter porn, or, as they call it, step-daughter porn. I was disappointed. I'd been looking at his porn every once in a while for months now, and there was daddy-daughter stuff only rarely. This time, there wasn't any of that. It was mostly young girls, mostly with small boobs like me, sometimes with men and sometimes with other women, but usually alone. And they were masturbating. Bingo!

The porn he liked best was watching young girls with small boobs getting themselves off. Was it possible, just possible, that while he was jacking off, he was thinking about me? Was he aware of what I was doing, on the other side of the bedroom wall? Was he trying to hear me while I was trying to hear him?

Ever since I started masturbating, millennia ago, I'd been very careful to make sure that nobody would know what I was doing. I stifled all the noises I wanted to scream out, allowing myself freedom only when Dad wasn't home to hear. My vibrator was the quietest I could find, and I kept it under a pillow that I held between my legs. Even I couldn't hear it, and my ears were only two feet away from it.

You, Dear Reader, might ask: Why did I do that? Why was I so careful to make sure Dad heard nothing? The answer is that I did it just because I thought I was supposed to. Did I really care that he might know that I masturbate? Of course not. Everybody masturbates. And did Dad really care that I might know that he masturbates, or was he quiet, for the same reason I was, because he thought he was supposed to?

The whole thing was crazy. We were both hiding from the other something that we had no reason to hide. It was time for the craziness to end.

So that day, I decided that Dad was going to hear me. I'd prepare for the evening, so that when I heard him fetch his lube and get into bed, I would be ready. There would be no more pillow over a vibrator. I'd let the bed rock against our shared wall, just a little. I wasn't going to start screaming "I'm cumming!" or anything ridiculous like that. That would be far too obvious. I'd start out small, with just enough noise that he could probably figure out what I was doing. It would be good for me and for him too. It would help his stroking.

Time to go shopping. Fortunately, it was my day off, and I knew of the right kind of toy store only about 20 minutes away.

The salesclerk was a young woman, maybe my age, with pink and purple hair, two nose rings, red lipstick and heavy eye makeup. Undoubtably a lesbian. She was exactly the right person for the job, and I asked for her help. "What was I looking for?" she asked.

Would you believe I was pretty honest about it? I was sure there was nothing so outrageous that she hadn't heard it, maybe twice a day. So I told her that I had a roommate that I was trying to seduce and I wanted him to hear me getting off. I wanted something that would do what it needed to do without the silence.

She did not bat an eyelash. This was, I assumed, a completely normal request for somebody in her profession. I neglected to tell her that the roommate was my dad, but that didn't matter, did it? I doubt she would have cared, though. She probably hears that, too, every day.

She asked me some pretty personal questions. Did I get off easily? Do I always use a toy or do I sometimes get myself off with just my fingers? Do I normally massage just the clit or the whole pussy? Do I use more of a flicking motion or hard rubbing? Do I put fingers inside myself? Am I sitting, standing, or lying down? Face up or face down on the mattress? In the shower or tub? Do I need the toy to be hands-free so I can scroll porn, or one-handed so that my other hand can work my boobs, or is two-handed ok? Do I like to be penetrated with a human-size dildo? Do I use lube, or do I get wet enough on my own?

Can you imagine having a conversation like that with a complete stranger? But she was so calm, so matter-of-fact. I answered every question she asked, without embarrassment. It was good that she was a complete stranger, wasn't it?

There was a middle-aged man who was innocently browsing merchandise close by. I was sure he was listening, so I glared at him. He looked away.

Then she took me to the display cabinet. There were so many choices, and she explained them all. Did I want deep penetration, superficial penetration, or just clitoral stimulation, or both? Do I like strong sensations or mild? How about anal penetration? Waterproof? Corded or batteries? Remotely controlled over the Internet (!)? What was my price range?

Holy Shit.

She pointed out the ones that she and her wife liked best, and we picked out a couple that looked, maybe, right for me. I turned them on to listen and she showed me the controls for the type of vibration and the intensity. And I picked one. It was more than I wanted to spend, but sometimes you have to pay up if you want quality.

She also showed me a display of extra-revealing panties, ideal for seduction, which I hadn't intended to buy. But she was super-helpful and probably worked on commission, so I bought two of them.

On the way out of the store, I sauntered up to the nosy middle-aged man. I showed him the panties in the paper bag, and I said, quietly so no one else could hear, "My dad will love these." He turned around and looked at me in wonder. I don't know if he was appalled or jealous.

I wanted to test my new toy before Dad got home, so I left it to charge for an hour while I had lunch. It was a funny looking model, looking kind of like a cactus with two branches, or maybe a dick with two heads. (What a great idea! A dick with two heads!) One branch goes up against the clit and the other goes inside the pussy to caress the g-spot. I named him Cactus, because Two-Headed-Dick was too many syllables.

I'd never had a g-spot massager before, but the salesgirl talked me into it. She has a g-spot massager and loves it. She has a lot of massagers herself. She probably gets an employee discount.

When Cactus was charged, I played with all the buttons and controls to see what it could do. I even read the instruction manual, which is something I'd never done. This was going to be fun!

I don't normally use lube, so I borrowed some of Dad's from his nightstand and slicked-up the part that would go inside me. While I was in his bedroom, I decided I'd do my experimenting in his bed. That was pretty rude, wasn't it, but why the hell not? Maybe he'd detect a special scent in the air when he got home.

I spread down a towel to catch any juices, then laid down, arranged the pillows, put the toy in position, and pressed the button for the slowest, mildest speed and intensity. Good. Very good. I practiced different positions and techniques, following the instructions, which I had actually read.

I increased the speed and intensity little by little, and... Holy Shit! Motherfucker! Jesus Christ that was good! It wasn't long till I was bouncing up and down and gasping and cumming all over the place, once, twice, three times. I normally cum pretty easily, but, with this thing, I was in a whole different universe. I couldn't use Cactus like that very often or I'd never be able to walk again.

There was no doubt that Dad would get an earful when I was using Cactus. My challenge would be to keep myself under enough control that it wouldn't be too obvious that I was trying to entertain him. I'd have to stick to the lowest settings, which is what I did that night, after we both went to bed. I'd start with the lowest, quietest settings, then get a little louder each night, both with Cactus and with the bed bouncing and maybe a tiny bit of moaning. He'd hear for sure.

As the days went by, I listened carefully to hear if Dad was responding. I thought maybe he was rocking the bed a little more than normal, but it was probably my imagination, wasn't it? After a few days, I knew for sure that it wasn't my imagination. He could hear, and he loved it.

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DAY 5, AT THE DINNER TABLE

"You're not going to like what I'm going to say," I told him.

"Then why are you going to say it?" he asked. It was a logical question.

"Because I want to," I answered. "So here it goes."

"I'm listening."

"I was thinking about your sex life. Or, really, lack of sex life."

He thought that was funny and gave me a little giggle. "What thoughts do you have about such an interesting topic?"

"Well," I said, "Remember a couple of days ago when we talked about how often you masturbate?"

"How could I possibly forget such a thing?" he responded. "It was a memorable conversation. I was hoping you'd forget it."

"Well, I didn't," I said, "I thought about what you'd said and I decided that a grown man shouldn't need to masturbate four or five times a week. You need a girlfriend." I took his hand across the table. "May I be frank?" I asked.

"Have you ever been anything else?"

"Dad," I said, "you need to get laid."

"You decided that?" he asked.

I nodded my head, confidently. "Yep, and I'm going to help you."

"Let me guess," he said. "You just happen to know somebody who would be perfect for me."

I shook my head. "Unfortunately not. I wish I did, but I don't. I don't see many likely candidates in the nursing home."

"No cute 80-year-olds?"

"Some of the 80-year-olds are cute, but not exactly what you need," I said. "I was thinking of something else."

"I'm listening," he said.

"So you agree that you need to get laid?"

"I can't argue with your logic," he answered. "What are you thinking?"

Dear Reader, I expect that you're thinking that I'm going to offer myself to satisfy his bodily needs. Maybe a Literotica story would go that way, but this is the real world. So, Dear Reader, get real! What I actually said was this:

"I was thinking we'd put you on a dating site. I would help make the profile. I know what women think, so I could make it really good."

He shook his head. "I tried a dating site," he said.

I was aghast. "You did? When? What happened?"

"About two years ago. No decent responses. Nobody I even wanted to meet. I guess there aren't many women looking for a short, balding tax accountant. Seems like all the good women swiped the wrong way."

"Dad!" I exclaimed. "You're cute and smart and nice and sober and have an actual job. You're a catch!"