Part One
It took me a while to reach a growth spurt. I didn't start developing fully until my late teens. My father was very sweet to me: He bought me my first training bras and he taught me about sex, masturbation and menstruation. He assured me that all these things were natural and healthy, and I grew up very liberal-minded.
By the time I hit the age of 18, I was an old pro at things. I knew what to expect every month, knew that I should wear a bra outside the house, but one piece of the puzzle was missing: Sex. I was a virgin and desperately horny, waiting for the first handsome man to come along and take me.
I seemed to lean towards older men.
To me, they seemed to embody maturity, handsomeness, masculinity and sexiness. I loved grey at the temples, slight lines at the mouth and crinkles at the corners of their eyes when they smiled. The more I wrote in my diary and looked at the facts before me, the more I realized a great number of things I found attractive were also qualities my father possessed.
My father is a very handsome man. He stands at an average height, maybe 5'10" or so and has a slender frame. He has dark hair peppered with grey and many of the physical qualities that I have talked about. But it was more than that. He was caring, sweet, very compassionate and very accepting of my dreams of becoming an artist. Some parents may not be thrilled about this choice of career, but he was nothing but supportive.
My mother passed away shortly after my seventh birthday and it was just him and I to lean on one another. We both missed her deeply and we were able to pull each other out of that deep darkness by supporting each other and being there for one another.
To my knowledge, my father had never had any lovers since my mother. He just seemed so pure and non-sexual and innocent that it seemed he could do no wrong. This is not to say that he was perfect; he had somewhat of a temper and could be demanding, but beneath the rough exterior was a gentle soul.
In May of my senior year in high school, I turned 18. It was shortly after this that his behavior seemed different or odd to me. He spent more time alone, and when he was actually around me, he seemed uncomfortable, or maybe even distant. I didn't know what was going on with him, and he and I weren't really the types to confide in our deepest struggles and feelings; in our household, those were things better left unsaid.
So, I continued my education and my part-time job to keep me occupied and figured maybe he was going through some sort of midlife crisis and to just let him be. Little did I know, he was not letting
me
be.
One evening, on a Friday, I was watching one of my favorite films,
Rear Window
, and realized he had been in his bedroom for a couple hours and I hadn't heard a peep out of him. I was beginning to get an antsy, anxious feeling. The telephone rang beside me on the in-table and I jumped about a foot. I answered it.
"Hello?"
"Hi Leah, it's Mr. Henderson from the bank. Is your father home? I need to speak with him."
My father worked as a bank teller at one of the local banks and Mr. Henderson was his boss. I told his boss that I would get my father if he wanted to hold for a minute. That was alright with him.
I put down the receiver and went up to my father's closed bedroom door and knocked gently.
"Daddy? Mr. Henderson is on the phone. He needs to talk with you."
I heard a sigh in the bedroom and a squeak of his desk chair. He opened the door and smiled awkwardly. "Thank you, sweetheart. I will take the call."
He went downstairs to take the call in the living room. I was just ready to go downstairs and continue my movie, when something on his desk caught my eye: It was a journal, opened, but faced downwards on the desk. I knew I shouldn't have been thinking about it, but the curiosity inside me won the battle and I went over to see. I was hoping there would be some confessions in the diary that would give me a clue as to his odd behavior. What I read next, I read with astonishment and shock:
" -- I can't help but think about her all the time. I know she's my daughter, but I can't stop myself from wanting her. Her sexy little body, her beautiful brown eyes and brown hair. Well, what can I say? She's the spitting image of her father! I think she knows something is up; she's very perceptive and intuitive, but could I tell her? No! Because she would just think of me as a freak and a pervert -- and rightfully so! When she goes alone to her bedroom and shuts the door, lately I've been watching her through the keyhole -- and some of the sights I've seen have been beautiful. I've seen her playing with sweet little pussy, I've seen her dress and undress; all the visions I've imagined of her are ten times better when I peep through that hole."
At that point, I heard my father angrily groan downstairs and I gently, but quickly, put the diary as I had found it and snuck out, gracefully flouncing down the stairs as if I had no cares in the world.
My father had gone into the kitchen and was making a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches and asked me if I wanted one. I said no.
"More for me then," he said.
"Dad, what did Mr. H want?"
"Karen at work has a slight family emergency, so I'll have to take her place tomorrow. But luckily the bank is only open till noon on Saturdays, so it's a half-day."
"And the extra money will be nice too," I added.
He nodded. "Yes, it will, princess."
I sat down at the kitchen table, his back to me while he stood at the stove. Now
I
was the one who was feeling awkward and uncomfortable. I watched my father as he prepared his dinner. He still had on his slacks and white button-up shirt from work. The first thing he did when he came home from work was take off his tie and unfasten the top button or two. I had to admit he had very nice chest hair. It was dark and thick and curly. The perfect type to finger with my tiny fingers and -- stop thinking this way, Leah! He's your father!
But I was both fascinated and repulsed by his feelings for me. I was also flattered that such an attractive, sexy man was sexually interested in me. It also turned me on that he had been watching me. I
did
play with myself quite a bit when I was alone in my room and the fact that my father had been peeping through the keyhole made me cream my panties.
"Well, maybe I will have a sandwich after all," I added to the silence. "I am rather hungry."
"Okay kitten, no problem."
We sat at the kitchen table together and talked about school and work. I tried to remain as normal as I possibly could, but inside I was storming with lust.
Part Two
I was unable to tame my lust for my father and when he left for work the next morning at 7:30, I raced up to my bedroom, closed the door, locked it and fell on my bed. I was still in my pajamas and I tore everything off immediately.
My pussy, I could feel and hear, was glistening with wetness. I trimmed it regularly and all that was left of the hair was a soft, small triangle of dark hair between my legs. Occasionally I liked to play with myself in front of a mirror, my legs spread open wide; I liked my pinkness, how my hole dripped with my desire.
This time I did not use a mirror. I began by licking my fingers then sliding my hand down my tummy to my hole, gently sliding in one finger. Once my tightness had clamped onto my finger like a vice and I was relaxed enough to keep going (I could only fit one finger inside), I began sliding my finger in and out. My hair was fanned out over my pillow and my eyelids lowered. My mouth was open in ecstasy, biting my lip and then looking down as I fingerfucked myself.
My other hand also slid down to the wet prize and I manipulated my rosebud of a clit, which was now hard like a button. I rubbed it, thoroughly enjoying my pleasure. I played with myself often and, I have to say, my father was now centerstage in my new fantasies.
I had never seen his dick before. I was imagining it was a nice, big, fat one, one that would fill my need. I imagined him hovered above me like the arch of a bridge, looking deep into my eyes as his cock slid in and out, his powerful hands on my hips, his sexuality making itself dominant inside my walls. His beautiful, dark eyelashes opening and closing slowly as he looked at me with such love and lust, knowing he'd never want another girl.
I could feel my energy stirring and increasing. I wiggled furiously, my butt jostling and my tits jiggling as I got off with only my own body to help me. I was one horny girl. Horny to cum and horny for Daddy.
And with a little grunt and sigh, and a slight bit more effort, I came twice. I could feel my cum flood over my fingers, washing away my sin with new sin. I moaned and whispered, "Daddy...fuck me Daddy."
After I was done cumming, I gently withdrew my hands and lied naked on the bed, reflecting. Yes, it was wrong to feel this way about my father, but I couldn't help it. I had begun to see him in a new light: someone as sexual instead of pure, someone with needs instead of someone stoic. Someone, in short, who was human and just wanted pleasure like the rest of us.
Not too many daughters see their father in that light. But the revelations of his diary made me see him that way, and, right or wrong, I began to feel romantic love for him. I had always felt platonic love for him, but this was slightly different: I thought about how he looked, I thought about his smile, I thought about his depth as a man.
His diary entry was a great explanation for his recent behavior towards me. He was avoiding me so that I could not read his intentions through his actions or words. He was entirely right when he described me as "perceptive and intuitive." Now I knew why he had been acting so odd around me; he was uncomfortable about his feelings and embarrassed and ashamed. I wanted to let him know it was alright, that I welcomed his feelings for me and that I wanted him and I to come together.
