Reality Is Different

She could feel him standing there behind her, just a foot or so away. See him past her in the mirror, towering above her, filling up the little bathroom. Smell the whiskey on his breath, heavy in this early afternoon - even hear it, a trace of slurring there amidst his smirking drawl. "Well, look at you." The words were drawn out slow and lingering. "What're you getting all tarted up for?"

Firm. As firm as she was able, anyway. "I have a date tonight, daddy." She resolved not to look at him, not to notice his gaze in the mirror, focused rather lower than her eyes. Just paid attention to the tube of lipstick in her hand, spreading out its careful sheen of scarlet on her lips.

"A date?" He almost scoffed. "With who?"

"A boy from school." Lipstick done. Mascara... "You don't know him."

"Keeping it a secret, huh?" Closer now. His chest an inch behind her back - she almost jumped to feel suddenly his hand stroke down her outer thigh, crossing from her dark red dress onto bare flesh. "You girls and your secrets...showing off your legs." And then back up again, the fabric sliding slightly on her skin as his fingers crossed her stomach, rose up on her breast. Found her nipples, already peaking up a bit despite herself. "Hell, you ain't got a bra on. Little slut...you gonna put out for this boy of yours?"

"Daddy!" She tried to sound shocked, to be admonishing. To push his hand away with hers, for what good it ever did. "Stop it! I'm not. It's our first date, okay? He's nice."

"'Nice.'" A grunt of humor in his tone, repeating it. His hand retreated now, but only just - it still was slipped around her waist, holding her against him. Her ass pressed back against him, and she could feel his hardness there against the bottom of her spine, long and firm. Shameless. Reckless. "I've heard that before...just means he don't know how to treat a hot little slut like you." His other hand lifting up the bottom of her dress, forcing down between her thighs to tease her pussy through the silken surface of her thong. "Means I'll have to take care of you when you get home all hot and bothered, won't I?"

"You never

have to

do any of that." Crossly. Mostly cross, a breathless shiver sneaking disobedient into her voice as his fingers slid insistently against her, massaging through the fabric at her clit. He knew her too well, knew her body, how to make her wet...she squirmed a little in his grasp, a token try for freedom with her hands still occupied, knowing how useless it would be. "I could get you in trouble for this, you know. If I called the police..."

He laughed at that, arrogant, self-assured, and she loved and hated how it sounded roughly in her ear, how it tingled down her spine. "Trouble, nothing." And his hand dove beneath her thong, slipped on skin already growing damp with her excitement, his middle finger gliding slowly along the channel of her lips. Not quite going inside her, not yet. "Cops come out here, they'd just need one look to see I'm doin' a god-damn public service. God knows what you'd get up to if I didn't keep you satisfied."

"Daddy..." It was hard for her to focus, hard to speak. He was so infuriating when he did this. Not least because he was so good at it...she could hardly find the will inside her to resist him as he bent her down over the counter, brusquely yanked down her thong with her dress still hiked up around her waist. Suddenly exposed, the cool air blowing agonizingly across her wet and heated puss as he now cupped it from behind, squeezed it possessive in his grasp. Pathetic little words. "Daddy, stop. He'll be here soon to pick me up. I have to get...ahh..." She couldn't help the cry that tumbled out of her as his finger forced her open, plunged deep inside her with just that perfect touch, as her hips instinctively pushed up and back against him, pleading to be taken.

"There's my little slut." Affection in his tone, amidst the drunken gloating. Joined by the sound all too familiar of his zipper pulling open, the sensation of his cock so hard and hungry pressed against her entrance. The bottle of mascara tumbled on the counter, forgotten. "Still want me to stop?"

"Mmph." She groaned a little, her cheek pressed into the granite countertop. Feeling his cockhead sliding teasing on her thickened outer lips, his hand upon her back, holding her in place. "Just..." Trailing off. She didn't want to say it. He always made her say it.

"What's that, now?" She could hear the feral grin upon his lips, delighting in his control. Taunting her. The slow, unbearable rhythm of his thickness rasping just against her, her lips barely parted on its length.

A breath, before surrender. "Just fuck me, daddy. Just...quickly, please."

"'ts more like it." One hand on her waist, holding her steady - then she squealed softly, mewled with sensation as she felt him force his way inside, filling her up, pressure on the edge of pain. A groan behind her, lustful and commanding. "Fuck...you got such a tight little pussy, baby girl..."

"Ahn..." She could answer nothing more coherent than that, hands grasping helpless for the edges of the counter as his manhood scraped against her inner walls. So big, reaching up into her depths, making her feel so damned full when he stopped for just that briefest moment at the apex. Her hips rolling back against-

Bang!

My eyes are startled from the glowing screen by the sound from downstairs of a door slammed closed.

Shit.

I didn't hear him pull up. A rush of color sears abruptly on my cheeks as I quickly close the browser window and leap up from my seat, struggling to button closed my jeans about my waist. Dashing to the bathroom in the hall, to clean off any trace or scent that might reveal what I was doing. There's a certain paranoia even just with this - what if he hears the faucet running? What if he wonders why I would happen to be washing up just as he was coming home? What if...

"Sarah, you up there?"

His voice booms up the stairwell, and I can only pray my own sounds normal as I call back down. "Yeah, I'm home!" Staring across the sink at the girl looking back at me from inside the mirror. The woman, I guess. Theoretically. Doesn't feel all that much like it, particularly with the childish blush still glowing stubborn on my face, embarrassed and aroused, lingering there for anyone to see despite my sternest efforts to glare it down, away. I shouldn't even be reading that stuff anymore. I told myself I wouldn't. It's messed up, is what it is. Crazy. Makes me think of crazy things. Daughters with their Daddies...

I wasn't even aware of it, until recently. I mean, I'd heard about dads who abused their kids, but that's just depressing, not the same thing at all. I'd never heard about them voluntarily together, about the girls who liked it...it was only a month or two ago that I was looking at a website for anonymous confessions, and happened across one entitled "Daddy's girl" - a certain curiosity tickled in my chest just from that short, familiar phrase, an intrigue that I could not name.

The author was a woman, or at least she claimed to be. She wrote that she'd been sleeping with her father since she was a teenager, that she loved it, loved the way it made her feel. That it had started one night when they were watching a movie together on the couch, when his hands slipped down to where they never had before, touched her in the places that a father doesn't. That he'd been the first man she went all the way with...maybe even more shocking than all of that was her admission that even now, with her married to another man, she still often saw her dad behind her husband's back. And though she was faithful enough (ha!) to keep it just to blowjobs and some petting, she said that she was wavering on even that. That for all she loved her husband, he didn't make her feel the way her Daddy did.

I wasn't even sure if I believed it, when I first read her confession. Or even now, to tell the truth. People really

did

that? It seemed incredible, impossible...and yet somehow quietly compelling. Like a car crash you can't quite look away from, or a cliff that urges you to step up close and peer over the edge, even as your stomach clenches tight in terror of the drop below.

Her account was simply stated, even euphemistic, not touching overmuch on the lurid details of what went on between them - but my heart still beat a rapid patter when I was finished reading, fascinated and appalled. It stuck with me that evening, that night, laying sleepless in my bed as the notion worked its way slowly through my mind. As I tried to decide what I thought of it, if I even believed that it was true or just someone's notion of a joke, an invented tale to rile people up. Trying to imagine what it would be like if it

were

real, what I would feel if my own dad one day just put his hand upon my breast, what I would say or do. If I might even like it.

I didn't have an answer to any of those questions. Not then. But it captured my imagination, a quiet ache of intrigue; I read her confession over again the next day, poring over every word, and this time there was no question of my excitement as she told of how he'd sometimes leave her mother's bed to see her in the night, how he'd volunteered to chaperone her senior prom only for the two of them to slip away together while her date was left alone to mind the punch. It was insane. It was awful - but that was part of what made it so enthralling. To think of someone doing something so forbidden, so dangerous and wrong...it was a tingle up my spine, a hushed and breathless thrill of feeling.

There were other stories, too, when I looked for them. Other confessions, similar but different. Different relations - kissing cousins, brothers with their sisters, mothers with their sons...but it was the tales of dads and daughters that I really looked for, that set my pulse to race. Reading sometimes just about an isolated moment, a singular event; a man who felt his daughter up while she lay drunk and passed-out on the couch. A girl who'd crept into her father's bed one night after being dumped. Sometimes about affairs that went on for decades, the women twice as old as me, their fathers senior citizens...

It wasn't long at all before I'd exhausted everything which that site had to offer, or at least what I could locate on its creaky interface. But I found other places, when I cast a wider net. Not confessions now but stories, fiction - they were just as electrifying for me to read, maybe even more. What they lacked in credibility was made up for in wildness, in sheer abandon, reading about girls who happily declared themselves their Daddy's slut, his slave, or about fathers who taught their innocent and wide-eyed little girls how to please them, how to suckle at their cocks 'just like a lollipop.' I lost myself in every story, excitement pulsing damp and hungry down beneath my stomach as I held the vision in my mind of a girl stripped and trembling before her Daddy's eyes, squeezed beneath a stern and loving hand. Fingers slipped into my panties, rubbing slow and soft, nurturing the creamy warmth that sweetly flowed inside me as the stories played out in my head. Letting it collect between my thighs, until my breath comes deep and rapid, until I can do nothing more than just surrender to the feeling, close my eyes and bite my lip as I frantically frig myself across the edge, as-

Enough! Enough. I glare at myself in the mirror, toss a splash of cooling water on my face to finish off the simmer of arousal that still lingers on my cheeks. I don't need to think about this now. I

shouldn't

think about it now. There's more important stuff to worry about. Sort of.

The aging wooden staircase creaks in half a dozen places as I finally make my way downstairs; it opens up into a mid-sized living room full of slightly ratty furniture, clustered vaguely around a television set that had been new once, years ago. A tall and sturdy figure standing there, looking out the picture window to the street outside as I step quietly into the room. My dad. My daddy - though I haven't called him that in years. Different from the ones that I've been reading about. The father in the stories is always an Adonis, his body cut and chiseled from endless hours in the gym. Never really looking more than maybe thirty-five, his rugged, handsome face by some miracle unwrinkled, and just a dash sometimes of salt mixed in amidst his gorgeous head of hair. The pinnacle of masculine perfection, his merest glance enough to drench the panties of any woman he might encounter, young or old. A stranger or his kin...

I mean, I love my dad, and I guess I likely see him through a daughter's eyes. But all the same, that isn't him. He's a big man, strong and stout, but he's got a little belly going - nothing too bad, but I can't pretend that it's the sort of body that would win him Mister Universe. His dark and wavy hair is thinning at the top, the hairline higher on his scalp than it is in photographs we have from years ago; I can tell that bothers him, from the jokes he makes sometimes about getting a toupée, the tiny note of sadness in the smile he gives me when I tell him that he's being silly, that he still looks fine. And when I look for them, it isn't hard to find the crow's feet standing at the corners of his hazel eyes, nor the laugh lines there around his lips, a legacy of all his easy, friendly grins.

There's one now, in fact, sunny in his features as he turns to greet me. "Hey-a, sweetie." One thing alike the stories - his teeth still perfect, sterling white, shining at me through his smile. "Not that I'm not glad to see you, but how come you're still hanging around here today?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" The question comes out half rhetorical - I already know the answer. I guess. I just want to hear him say it. Or maybe I'm pretending that it isn't true.

He laughs, anyway. He has a nice laugh, solid and hearty. Genuine. "Well, gee. I could have sworn that today was your birthday. The big two-oh, comes but once a lifetime." Affection in his gaze, warm and vibrant. "Shouldn't you be partying it up with your friends? Staying out until all hours, leaving your poor old man to wonder if you haven't gotten yourself killed?"

From someone else, to someone else, there might have been a shade of ugly accusation to this seeming of a joke. But I'm not much of a party girl, and he's not exactly controlling - far from keeping me at home, he's usually the one to urge me out, to try to push me past my mild shyness. Introversion. Whatever you want to call it. "Eh." I just shrug, vague and noncommittal. "I don't really want to make a big deal out of it."

"Well, that's just ridiculous," he gently chides me. "What could be a bigger deal than your birthday?" Gestures grandly with his hands - he has big hands. Sturdy, like the rest of him, roughened by his work. I often find myself thinking about them, these days. What those hands could do. Where he might pinch or squeeze, or penetrate, if he wanted to. If I wanted him to.

He glances at his watch; I do the same, reflexively. A little after four. "Well, tell you what." Just the slightest note of bargaining, slipped in amongst his cheer. "It might not be the coolest joint in town, but you can have a party here. Call some friends over, I'll clear out so I don't cramp your style. Maybe I'll pick up a cake or something, if you're not too mature for it these days. Or, heck, if you ask nicely, I might forget how old you are and pick up a case of beer. Whaddaya say?"

I have to laugh a little at the offer, roll my eyes. "Well, number one, it's a Friday afternoon, so everybody's already going to have plans. Two, like I said, I don't even feel like a party. And three, even if I did, I don't drink."

"Really?" He affects surprise, raises one eyebrow with tolerant amusement. "Funny thing, I often seem to find an extra empty or two in the recycling after you have friends over."

Embarrassment touches briefly to my cheeks, and I look away, glancing out the window. Autumn there outside, a scattering of brown and golden leaves fallen in the yard. I know that soon enough he'll be out there to rake them up, putting in his hours in the sun, coming back inside with the scent of his exertions. Another difference. In the stories, a father's sweat is the strongest aphrodisiac, a powerful and manly musk whose slightest whiff leaves his daughter humming with desire. With him, it just smells like sweat. Not bad - not exactly. Just... "Anyway, I don't drink

much

."

"Well, that's good to know." A crooked smile hangs for a moment on his lips before falling to a more sincere expression. "Look, if you really don't want a party, I guess that's up to you. But you should do

something

. It's a milestone, after all. Not a teenager anymore. Not technically, anyway." Another flash of pearly white. "How about we just get a nice dinner at your favorite restaurant?"

"La Cabaña?" It's silly how much I brighten up at the suggestion. But I do like going there, and we haven't been in quite a while.

"As far as I know, yeah, that's still the one." He chuckles mildly, confirms. "What do you think?"

"Well..." I hem and haw a bit, but really, there's no reason not to. I mean, it's expensive, but...what the hell. He's right, it

is

my birthday. "Okay, okay. Fine."

"Good." His eyes crinkle up a little at their corners when he smiles. Strange, sometimes, the things you notice. "Guess I'd better get changed. Don't want to show up looking like a bum, in a dirty work shirt. And

you

, young lady," already moving towards the bedroom door, he abruptly whirls around to point at me, frowning in a momentary artifice of sternness. "Are going to order something new this time. No more enchiladas."

A little huff of laughter escapes me at the warning. I do get the same thing there pretty much every time we go. What can I say, it's delicious. But dad's always after me to broaden my horizons. "All right!" I throw up my arms in mock surrender. "I promise. Something new."

"Good," he repeats, quietly affectionate. Looking at me for just half a moment longer before he turns again to trundle up the stairs. Normal, totally, the same kind of little parting glance he's given me forever. No reason I should feel my heartbeat thumping faster in my chest. But it feels like a date, almost. A little. The two of us going out together to a fancy restaurant. I've read stories like that, a girl and her father thrown together for an evening in some romantic setting. He sees her in the candlelight, or yields to her urging for a dance, and suddenly he realizes the woman she's become, realizes the desire that he's never admitted, even to himself. She feels it too, tension electric in the air between them as they slip into flirtation, the spark of primal hunger in her Daddy's eyes as they caress across her body, poured into an outfit tight and daring.

An outfit. I glance down at myself, suddenly dismayed. And what am I wearing? A plain and faded t-shirt I've had around practically forever, and a pair of jeans already worn for two days in a row. Dad's not the only one who needs to change. I mean, obviously none of that stuff is going to happen with us. But I can still try to look nice for him. As nice as I'm able, anyway.

---

That's a challenge of its own. Upstairs again, gazing discouraged into the full-length mirror fastened to the inside of my closet door. Standing there in just my light blue bra and panties, taking inventory of myself. Depressed, as always, with what I find...my dad may not be quite the same as all the Daddies in the stories, but he's a hell of a lot closer than I am to the daughters. They're always glowingly beautiful, sexy, sultry. Silken hair and flawless skin. Small enough of stature that they can easily still curl up in their Daddy's lap, or be turned over his knee. Slender bellies, and massive, heaving breasts, so large that he can't help but stare, can't help but want her. Can't even fit one completely in his hand, when he fondles her at night.