Outside, to quote Yeats, the storm is raging.
My daughter Chloe returns from the bathroom—no electricity but we do have running water—and throws her slightly chunky body back on the bed, landing her head on my left shoulder and crossing my thighs with her own smooth thickish left one, her leg bent back at acute angle at the knee. Her left hand, meanwhile, locating again in bedroom's daylight semi-darkness my hard-on in my microfiber panties, the lace waistband constraining its length, my erection, and forcing it into a long, semi-curved slant to the left—in Chloe's direction.
My daughter's entire body, in her own panty and an oversized tee, jostling itself—and me—in a final settling-in motion. Chloe sighs, blissfully, and goes back to caressing my cock's length in the silky fabric or reaching lower and fondling my balls in panty's crotch. I'm very proud of my erections—both of their size and persistence. Those herbal Viagra capsules Chloe has brought home from the healthfood store are a wonder drug. Topped off by the fact that by and large they don't give me migraines!
And yes my beautiful 23-year-old daughter, who just earned a Master's degree less than three months ago, is back working at her old digs, a nearby healthfood store called Green Life. She's a cashier—though her black-on-white namebadge reads, below Green Life's rooty tree logo:
Chloe
Good Health Consultant
As Chloe reminded me soon after her return home from college, her old (and still) Green Life manager Dustin had always said to her, "If you ever want to come back..." Chloe and Dustin had dated. Once. The now carless Chloe also reminded me that she would need wheels. "Nothing expensive. Just something used to get me from point A to point B. And to go on job interviews and stuff. This is all just, like, temporary, dad, while I figure things out and get my bearings. I'll be out of your hair in no time."
Although, at the moment, she is back in my hair, having slipped her hand under the lace and explored my bare penis down to the base. Her enquiring fingers pull up, slightly, circle my cock and give it a stroke, one, all the while stretching panty's delicate, expensive nylon blend. Maybe a cold-water soak would restore their sexy shape?
"I can't believe you're ready again already, dad," Chloe says, thinking better of it and extracting her hand, returning it to silken surfaces. "I'd suck you some more but this is all so, like, yummy comfortable."
"This is fine," I agree, as my daughter's hand resumes its slantwise caress. "My penis has a mind of its own these days."
Chloe giggles, settling her cheek, if that is possible, even deeper into my fatigued left shoulder. Stray wisps of her hair get in my mouth and I have to brush them away, before returning my left hand to Chloe's slimly pantied left hip swell. "This is fine just like this," I repeat, wondering if these wonder capsules my daughter has brought home from Green Hell as she used to call her place of summer employment, if Nature's Own as the dubious product is called, is going to give me a stroke. At the tender age of just shy of 47. What is that disclaimer they run during football game commercials for the real Viagra? "If you have an erection lasting more than four hours..."
This brownish powdered Chinese shit, it's indefatigable.
"Daddy, have I told you how proud I am of you?" my daughter now asks, rhetorically, left hand collecting a crotchful of balls, then letting them avalanche back down to the bedsheet.
Probably.
"The way you're openly exploring your feminine side? Self-examining your sexual identity? I think it's...great! I'm so proud of you!" squeezing my balls again in her excitement, before her hand returns to its elongated caress, higher up.
"I wouldn't say it's open," I protest, mildly.
"I've only ever seen you in mom's panties. What else do you wear?"
I clear my throat. "They're not your mom's."
Chloe lifts her head, a little. "They're not?"
"No."
"They look like mom's."
"How do you know that?"
"Because, like, we're the same size and I used to, like, borrow 'em sometimes?" Duh! "And they're her brand?"
"Your mom hardly ever wore lace panties. Unfortunately. Besides, she took all that stuff with her when she flew the coop."
"What's flew the coop mean?"
"You don't know what flew the coop means?" I suddenly feel old, code 10 erection not withstanding.
"Would I be asking you if I did?" Chloe was nothing if not contentious. Having graduated from an earlier prolonged stage of petulance.
"It means...leave," my definition containing a note of bitterness. With a guy ten years her junior who rode a motorcycle. Like that's gonna last, big cock not withstanding.
"Well why didn't you just say that?" And I realize I'm not the only one for whom this subject raises bile. "What's a coupe? Like a car?"
"Chicken coop," I further explain, my daughter's semi-fetal body physically contracting against mine.
"Ew! God! You know how crowded those conditions are for those poor, like, birds?"
Aren't they just simply...birds? Fucking chickens?
"No."
"It's awful, daddy," jostling the entire queen-sized bed. "That's why at Green Hell we only carry certified free-range chicken. And free-range eggs."
"The eggs roll around free? On the farm, in the dirt?"
Daughter's hot breath streaks across my chest. Just before her once-caressing hand rises up to spank, gently, my right pec. "Stop it! But getting back to you...," hand sliding my torso's length back to lace. "What else do you wear when you, um, dress up?"
I shrug. Horizontally. "This is about it."
"Just women's panties?"
"And stockings sometimes. Pantyhose..."
"How come I've never seen you in them?"
"It's...summer?" The bad news is the hurricane has knocked out our power. The good that the storm, all the wind-blown rain, is keeping the temperature down. It's quite pleasant here in the boarded-up bedroom daylight darkness. My daughter and I have had sex, twice (there's nothing else to do), and I've hardly broken a sweat. Although, true, I've been on the bottom both times. Chloe? Another slightly saltier story.
"Is that why you shave your legs?" she persists.
"It's kind of gross otherwise."
"And your chest?"
"What about it?"
"Is that because you wear a bra?"
I wince. I actually did buy a bra once. Twice. The first time the hook-and-eyes at the back snapped. Not enough circumference. The second time...well, the cups were just too large even under a bulky sweater. The hazard of buying sight-unseen online. It's not like I can walk into a brick-and-mortar and try on a variety of A and B-cup sizes until I find the improbable right one.
"No," I lie.
Chloe's head rises off my shoulder again. Bringing some welcome weight compression relief. "Want to try on one of mine?" She lowers it. Ow!
"No, dear. Thanks."
"I bet I have one that'll fit! Halloween's coming up. We could have a dress-up party!"
"Oh great. A man in women's underwear greeting trick-and-treaters at his front door?"
"It's not trick and treat. It's trick or...Besides, you could throw on a robe."
"Right. A man in a robe and pantyhose. That'll work. Sure..."
"Still. We could have a dress-up party sometimes. It doesn't have to be on Halloween. We could have another pizza party! What else do you wear?"
I sigh. I'm over this. This...discussion. "Nothing, darling." I press on, reluctantly: "My shrink says that I'm a fetish crossdresser," Chloe's head bouncing off my chest again.
"You have a shrink? Far out!"
"Not anymore..."
"Of course not! You don't need one anymore, dad. Now you have me!"
My daughter, with an undergraduate degree in psych. And now a going-to-waste Master's. I inwardly shuddered.
"Tell me everything!" head painfully bouncing some more.
"I don't think so," I winced.
"No, tell me! Did you used to dance when mom was still around?"
My own head rose. Off the pillow. "Dance?"
