Red Hair Red Face

It just wasn't a question I was prepared and ready to answer right then.

Certainly, as an author you get asked many weird and wonderful ones, from 'which is your favourite – cat or dog?' (my normal answer being 'that depends how hungry I am') to 'what's your favourite position for sex?' ('with someone else, but two at a push, three at a shove, and with the local rugby team at a BIG price'). I take them lightly, you see, and truthfully, I often enjoy the Q&A sessions we're encouraged to participate in from time to time. You hear the same old ones being asked almost every time, and that's just fine if they're of genuine interest to your audience, and you hear the occasional new one, which can often be of more interest to you.

But that one, that day... it was a first, and as much as I tried to bluff an answer, in truth it shook me rigid.

It wasn't sinister and in retrospect it might even have been a perfectly valid question that could and should have evoked a reasonable response that was of interest to the would-be journalist and his readers. Could have, would have – but didn't. Instead it brought to mind something that I have steadfastly tried to forget for nearly thirty years, and which sends blood scalding my cheeks when I fail.

"Did you have any very embarrassing moments as you became a mature, sexual woman?"

As my cheeks began to flame, and that suppressed memory flooded my poor brain, the guy gave some supplementary words about how that could have influenced the way I have written over the years and blah, blah, blah – I'd stopped listening. My mind was trying so hard to bring back that memory and I was simultaneously trying to generate enough internal white noise to stop that happening.

I gave some lame response, something like, "We all do surely?", and quickly switched to another questioner.

I believe I managed to answer a few more questions (including the cat/dog one) before my agent wrapped things up and let me off the grilling hook. And there it should have ended.

My mind, though, that 'dirty, creative whirlpool' (to quote one okay critic), had other ideas, and try as I might – and believe me, I certainly did – the question, and more to the point the event, just wouldn't go back and hide under its rock.

I'm nearly fifty now and we were talking – or not – about an event that happened when I was more than thirty years younger; eighteen-and-three-quarters to be precise, more than half a lifetime ago. It had been a memory that had nearly surfaced in full before, but I'd managed to beat it back into its cage on every other occasion, more or less – until this time.

There was no rhyme or reason why that should have been the case, but it was. It was a done deal and the damn thing kept badgering me for days and days and days. It even started to screw up my sleep patterns, popping into my head just as the sweet dreams were queuing up to introduce themselves.

The start was three weeks ago now, and this is my final attempt to put things to bed, so to speak – a last try at getting that bloody memory to piss off again and give me some peace.

So, here's what happened to the teenage idiot me...

I was, as I've said, approaching nineteen, still living at home with my parents having just taken my A level exams and waiting as patiently as any eighteen-year-old for the results – as in, not very. I was confident and happy, though, feeling as if my grades were going to be good enough to get me into the university of my choice, and that a great career lay ahead of me. Better still, those balmy Summer months had finally – at last! – seen my boobs swell to more acceptable dimensions.

I'd been a slow developer, physically, but then the miracle expansion happened after I turned eighteen. It wasn't exactly Jack and the Beanstalk or Alice in Wonderland, growing and growing and growing – but 30 graduated to a very respectable 34, and better yet, the old 'a' became a 'c'! Truthfully, when the first tightening of my bra began to become painful, such was the speed of expansion during this growth spurt, I panicked for a day wondering if I was pregnant. I mean, you hear stories about how women's breasts grow when they're cheating a stork out of a job, and I was eighteen and... And then I realised I was still a virgin. Yes, really.

In six months, I expanded four inches, and my pride expanded several feet. Things seemed to have settled down by that Summer and shock-of-shocks, I was actually hoping that there wouldn't be any further growth. For one thing the required clothes shopping was seriously eating into my pocket money, and in any case I rather liked things the way they had become.

Although 'liked' is really understating things. I adored how people looked at me all of a sudden, now I was eighteen and developed, especially the men – all men. Well, all straight men anyway. So, perhaps you can imagine just how proud I was of my new appendages.

And that sort of brings we to the evening in embarrassing question.

One other thing that I'd done since I was too young to even remember doing it – and when, more recently at that time, I wasn't immersed in homework or studies – was have my bedtime story. And yes, it sounds horrifyingly childish I know but back then my dad had the most amazingly wonderful voice, full of Anthony Hopkins-like grace and depth, a touch of the Morgan Freeman, even, at times. I was an addict, and it really was such a calming time, perfect before a nice, long sleep.

So, every night I could, I'd perch on dad's thighs just as I'd always done, and he'd come up with a story for me. That would have been a cats and dogs and other furry loves of my life thing when I was truly tiny and had graduated through soft horror in my early teens to mystery and fantasy by the time that evening rolled around. That was the other major attraction of dad's stories – I may be a well-enough known writer now, but dad had been doing it long before I could even write my own name.

Not many toddlers, kids or teenagers could boast that they had heard stories told to them by their very own, professional storyteller; and that he had a voice that could melt granite.

During the weeks before that fateful evening, though, there had been a difference – and one that had made the drop-dead stupid teenage me very, very keen on story-time for an altogether different reason.

Now, you have to remember that as stupid as I was, I wasn't entirely dumb. Girls talk – as well as lie, bitch and exaggerate – and we read, and we learn. Just because we're not male doesn't mean that we don't, by eighteen anyway, understand how some things work in the male world. Sitting on your father's lap is one of those things.

Of course, we knew well enough that there are anatomical differences between the genders and the less dumb amongst us knew what that lump under our butts was if we still sometimes sat on dad's lap. We also knew that just because it was sometimes a little firmer than others, well that was nothing more than a contact thing, an entirely natural and non-sexual circumstance. That was the normal order of things, anyway.

But as I say, I had become even keener on story-time because something had changed – and changed at the same time as my bra size had. As I also say, some of my tops were plain stupid, totally wrong – and if you hadn't guessed already, I'd noticed that when I wore something that was perhaps just the tiniest bit too revealing then that lump – yes, that one – would become a little firmer than I had ever felt it before. The link to me was as clear as crystal.

Don't get me wrong. I wasn't suddenly picturing myself as a seductive teenager, out to seduce her own father – not even close – it was just that I kept thinking, 'if even my own father can't help but react in that very manly way to his own girl, just how attractive I must be now!'. That thought about how gorgeous I must have been in his eyes meant, to me, that I must be just as gorgeous in other men's eyes as well – but dad was there, and that proof was always so close at hand. Or leg, anyway.

Those sorts of thoughts were so new to me, but so very arousing. I'd have my bedtime tale, and retreat quickly to my room, climb into my lovely bed and let the arousal suffuse me. And yes, I would masturbate slowly and firmly, a new type of excitement soon bringing me to climax. It was all so innocent and yet steeped in sensations that grew out of something so taboo in an odd way – a heady mix for a headstrong teen.

That evening, though, the fateful one...

Dad had been out of town for almost a week, signing books and doing what he did to earn for us all. That, of course, had given me time to think and plan, a chance to make sure I was ready and eager for his return for all sorts of reasons – although story-time was dominating my teenage mind. It also gave me time to dare myself, to challenge my own 'girlish' suppositions, and to plan accordingly as my body seemed to dictate. It was a time that took on an enormous sense of excitement, and I even challenged myself to bottle it all up for my post story-time trip to my lovely soft mattress, lovely firm fingers and lovely naughty thoughts.

My only remaining challenge to myself was what to choose to wear for the story. I was, by then, aware that my wardrobe choices had often been... what's the word? Oh, yes, naff. But I'd spent an age that week procuring a couple of new tops with the express aim of attracting eyes – dad's eyes, to be precise. And I emphasise again, it was the effect I was seeking, not the man.

But it really boiled down to just how daring I could be – and that's where the previous naff choices presented an unexpected opportunity. One of the tops was simply a little too big – I loved the look of the thing, but they only had them in a size that was one too big for me, really. That, though, was a chance... it would gape if I leaned in certain ways, and if I wore something very skimpy underneath... and then I had the most wicked, naughty, wonderful idea... What if I wore nothing underneath?

By the time that thought crossed my mind, dad was driving into the garage at the side of the house, and there was next to no time to decide. The surge of excitement that the sound of his car's engine had already produced doubled – or maybe trebled. With shaking hands, knowing the chosen – oversized – top was sufficiently thick to at least disguise what was beneath, I made the instant decision. My bra landed somewhere behind my bed, and the last blouse button was being done up before my dad's keys rattled in the front door lock.

Then, though, there were hours and hours to endure. Welcomes, supper, details told of the week, more welcomes from neighbours, more chat about the week, more, more, more – or so it seemed to me. But my eyes were on the living room clock almost constantly and everyone had their own bedtime marked out by the passage of the old-fashioned clock hands. Mine was half-past eleven, the last of the kids to go up – but not before fifteen or twenty minutes of story-time.

Surely you can understand how it was feeling for me?

I tried to pass the time any way I could – I even did some of the washing up, much to my mother's amusement/amazement. I tidied the junk mail (into the recycling bin – yes we lived in a, then, very forward thinking place), I polished the trophy cabinet (possibly or possibly not obscuring dad's writing awards even more than they already were), I even brushed the cat (until even that docile mog decided to head for the cat flap) – and the hands on that old clock moved ever slower. Even when the little hand clicked on to the eleven and the big hand began its descent towards the magic two or three, the slowing of time continued, and everything took on an almost surreal feel. My excitement level seemed to stagnate, to somehow still remain and yet leaving me feeling somehow outside of things, my inner senses dulled to the point of anaesthesia.

But then, oh then... I was suddenly and completely shocked when dad said, "Story-time, G?" – and I saw that the recalcitrant clock had shifted from three minutes past eleven to sixteen minutes past. And somehow, I hadn't noticed.

What I did notice was every nerve-ending in my body come to life, one by one but a million to the second. Dad stood without waiting for an answer and headed out of the room – and I knew it was finally happening. For real and right then.

Dad made for his study and I followed, desperately trying not to run and push him onward, ignoring his casual questions about what story I might want told, just saying something bland about, "Anything as long as it's you,", my mind a complete whirl. He wasn't nearly as eager as me, and somehow that excited me even more – I was going to surprise him in the nicest way.

It was what I'd been waiting for so, so, so long – and now it was about to happen!

But as I say, my mind was spiralling off in a million directions all at once, and for all my preparation I suddenly felt assailed by doubts. Even as he sat on his 'story chair' and patted his thighs, gesturing for me to settle there, I felt pang after pang of uncertainty. What if the he didn't react 'down there' at all? What if he laughed at my silly loose blouse rather than admire it? What if he just told a silly story and never even looked down at me? What if I was doomed to go to bed with nothing to think about? What if... what if... what if... A thousand doubts per second ran through my dumb brain.

Somehow, some way, I pushed all of the doubts to one side – if not locking them away – and I turned my back on dad for a few seconds to check that the blouse really was showing plenty of cleavage, checked that my skirt wasn't too obviously short, checked that I could still manage to breathe – at a push. And then turned back and went to him, went to the legs that he'd indicated with that patting hand, took a couple more calming – huh! – breaths and sat down.

I had almost managed to convince myself that there wouldn't even be the olden firm lump that my eighteen and not yet developed self had generated just months before, that mankind-natural reaction that all men seem to feel. I had also almost managed to convince myself that one sight of me so close to him would have dad laughing, or maybe even abandoning story-time and sending me off to bed, telling me I looked like a dumb clown... I had so many negative thoughts pouring through my stupid teenage brain by then – but they were dispelled – joyously, delightedly – in a fraction of a second as the backs of my thighs met the tops of his. Relief flooded through me as my left thigh felt the welcoming lump that indicated that every one of my doubts had been unfounded.

My dad wasn't just firm, there was no doubting that he was positively hard. And better yet, so much better yet, that hardness solidified further in the first few seconds after I sat down. He even tried to pull back a little! Not that he was going to be able to do that easily with an admittedly small, but undoubtedly fully grown, young woman sitting on his thighs – especially a young woman who was determined to get her full share of naughty thought sensations in preparation for her bedtime. My heart was in my throat, a tangle of excitement where there had been so many last-minute doubts just seconds before. I was all ready for pure enjoyment all of a sudden, and it was time to get back to my little plan.

That cunning plan was nothing much in truth – although some might disagree – 'just' being some casual leans forward at appropriate points in whatever story dad told. Given that I was side on to him and given that the blouse was both a size too big for even my well-blossomed new boobs and only buttoned to a point very low in my cleavage, there was every chance he would be able to see a lot. Not a nipple or anything quite so brazen – no one had ever seen those in anything approaching a sexual way at that point in my life – but he'd certainly have been able to see a lot of newly developed flesh. I was certain of that, er, point given that I'd spent almost an hour beside my bedside mirror working out the best angles...

And so the story began, and as the word count rose, so did my excitement.

In truth, the only thing I can remember about the story itself is that it was set in a freshwater river. Let's just say I wasn't exactly paying attention to the meaning of the words as dad's rich, burring tones washed over me. What was grabbing my attention much, much, much more clearly was the pressure on my left thigh – and the way that seemed to be building. I don't know to this day whether he'd reached a point in the tale that justified a laugh – but that was what I did at one point, leaning forward a little as I giggled. Of course, I'd hoped for a physical reaction – nothing major, just a twitch or an increase in that pressure on my thigh. But I was a little disappointed when dad just carried on with his fishy tale.

So, still excited despite the first attempt's failure, I tried it again a minute later, leaning forward a fraction more as I laughed.

#

And my heart started to truly hammer when dad's voice faltered for a second or two, and best of all, that pressure against my leg increased. All of my meticulous planning was working, and my excitement levels soared a few more notches. My poor underdeveloped brain began to whirl once more, but this time with an odd mix of success, arousal and the knowledge that my planned bedtime fun was going to be stratospherically wonderful that night. Teenagers are so incredibly addictive creatures, though – and this one wanted a little more and a little more.

For some strange reason I began, it seemed, to find humour in every other sentence that dad uttered, rocking forwards as I giggled, my excitement levels rising with every rock as the blouse gaped and my dad's voice repeatedly faltered, his lump pressing ever harder against my thigh. And as with all addictions, they demand a little more every time.

My brain really had been left behind by then, conscious thought processes being far too complex and sensible for that overly excited teenager. There were more leans, more giggles, more squirms by then too – and more faltering words from the, by then, clearly agitated dad. Bit I still wanted just a little more to take up to bed with me a little later...

And that's the only other thing I can honestly remember about dad's story that night.

One of the characters was a pike and then he introduced the stickleback into the tale. And that latter character gave my addicted, whirled-up mind a chance to go just that little bit further.

"Tickle!" I squealed, "That's not fair! I'll tickle you first!"

Of course, I hadn't really misheard his words. Of course, I didn't need to open that line of possibilities. But of course, I really had been flying higher and higher on the excitement and arousal. I wasn't really thinking by then, not when I turned and started to tickle dad's ribs, giggling and already squealing as he retaliated.

Everything was going perfectly. Better than perfectly. All of my hopes and plans were succeeding in ways that were going to provide so much material for my bedtime play – and heck, was dad so hard against my thigh by then!

Actually, no... in my addiction-induced extra action, the impromptu tickle-fight, somehow, I'd squirmed around a little, and that hard, hard lump wasn't pressing my thigh any longer – I was pretty much sitting right on top of it...

And that brought another no.

I hadn't planned on getting quite so excited – and I hadn't planned on my already rather short skirt riding up quite so high as I sat there...

And so, excited wasn't quite the right term... Not at all the right term. I suddenly felt the tightening in my belly, the loosening of my hold over the sensations deep within me – felt the blue touch-paper starting to spark and crackle.