I knew at nineteen my daughter was too old to still be climbing into my lap. My little girl, taking in her Daddy's masculine scent, subtly, sexily arousing herself having learned exactly which of her certain little movements would make my cock rock hard under her bottom, us both aware of her breasts mounding from her chest, her nipples plainly visible, how they tingled and ached to be touched; it was all I could do sometimes to not just take my daughter right then.
Our game was, she would sit on my lap, both of her legs over mine and I would open and close my knees with her rhythm, My arms around her waist, my hands clasped in front of her, her hands on mine, she seemed to delight in my looking over her shoulder, her full breasts and nipples so sexily pushing out from her chest.
I still remember the first time when she started the game. She was wearing a flannel nightgown, and I noticed how beautiful she was in the winter evening light. She liked it when I noticed and commented on her eyes, her suddenly focused on her legs dangling from mine. She wanted comment on her figure and I smiled and told her she was lovely, how she was Daddy's girl, and she laughed (I love my daughter's laugh) her breasts jostling and swaying so seductively, her nipples hardening and pressing so sexily through the soft material of her flannel nightie. I couldn't take my eyes from her breasts, the thin feather-soft flowered fabric touching her like that, the shape of her breasts. My desire to touch and feel them exceeded my will.
With each movement, her feminine rounds fluidly defined the cottony soft nightie, and in my lap and despite myself my cock responded to her relentless little rocking motions her so warm and naked underneath. I breathed in her distinct smell, my daughter her sparkling flirtatious eyes. I suppose I did know, I could tell; she was seducing Daddy, and I suppose I was playing my own little game if even just on myself.
As I opened and closed my legs as had been our little evening ritual, her tender thighs spread with mine, little butterfly wings we would say her nightgown riding higher and higher on her smooth bare legs, I remember becoming acutely aware of the sweet musky scent of my little girl's sex. I remember, how she would snuggle against me, turn up and kiss my cheeks, her lips warm and wet and her kisses progressively longer and fuller each time. How she let go of my hands and rested hers on her upper thighs, her eyes closed her mouth open her breathing slowing our legs opening and closing with her motions. Pulling and pushing, her breasts jostling, my cock getting harder and harder watching them, wanting them in my hands, in my mouth. How her fingers began involuntarily cinching the material of her gown up her legs exposing more and more of her tender inner thighs as if she wanted to reach herself touch herself in front of me, for me. As if she wanted to show herself to Daddy, become more than father and daughter, prolonging her little agony, savoring her little game, pulling me further and further over that deliciously intoxicating edge.
One evening I saw us reflected in the blank TV screen in front of my chair. Seeing our reflection was like watching an arousing film witnessing what I was physically experiencing while and as I did it, looking up between my daughter's legs, her at nineteen on my lap her bare legs dangling out over my thighs, opening and closing. Soon after, I looked forward to the game too, very, very much. So much, I began anticipating her coming in from being out each evening, her bathing, changing into her nightie, and her climbing into my lap to watch T.V. with me. Her taking my hands in hers, holding them on her lower belly, her settling in. Her lovely breasts pushed together between her arms, her nipples hard and pushing out, her flannel nightie pulling up higher and higher revealing her bare smooth glowing legs.
Sometimes she would hold my hands very tightly, her nightie bunched up as high as her hips. Her panties unselfconsciously visible, her breathing slow and heavy her legs rhythmically opening and closing Daddy's legs, at her will, our game, now so purposeful, a secret, something we knew we did in private, just me and my daughter.
I would subtly offer resistance as she squeezed her thighs back together, which she seemed to like. Her breathing would quicken, sometimes a little moan, her bottom tightening and lifting as she squeezed. She would sometimes breathe out loudly, or in tiny gushes, or let out soft little mewling sounds opening and closing our legs, biting her lower lip as she worked her legs and hips to squeeze Daddy's legs back together, the very effort sending little humming vibrations straight between her legs deep into her groin her belly. Her sweet musky arousal filled the air around us as she lay back against me, melted into my lap her head moving side-to-side, safe and warm on Daddy's lap the T.V. fading away. I watched, mesmerized, my breathing beside hers, my looking down over her shoulder at her breasts, the way they mounded, pushed up, jostled ever so slightly her figure so clearly defined under her thin, soft flannel gown, my cock already hard and pulsing under her. I know I should have stopped her, stopped myself. At first I figured what harm could come of it, what harm could come of a father and his nineteen-year-old daughter, his lovely daughter playing such an innocent loving game.
Then there was the one evening when she climbed into my lap, upset and almost in tears. I asked what was wrong, and she pleaded, "My breasts hurt, Daddy, they ache Daddy, please..." her body swelling, cramps, in pain, her pleading, "they hurt, Papa, make the ache go away, Papa," her tensing and fidgeting unable to get comfortable.
At first reluctant, her mother upstairs, thinking what would her mother have done, I reached up her sides and lovingly, delicately, traced little feathery lines with my fingers up toward her swollen hot breasts, her taut aching nipples, my words a whispering lullaby of, it's okay baby, let Daddy help, let Daddy make you feel better.
She quieted almost immediately relaxing into my chest. Her light breaths turned to ah'ing and then cooing, her hips moving involuntarily, pressing down, her bottom rotating and pushing into Daddy's lap. Before I knew what was happening I realized I was trying to make her feel more than better, more than trying to make her breasts stop hurting. Increasingly I was kneading my daughter's aching swollen breasts in Daddy's big hands, massaging her breasts through her soft flannel nightie. Pulling gently on her hard nipples to relieve the ache, her tears stopped and she began breathing out in a murmuring soft hum, "Mmmm, Papa, that feels so good, nnnn, don't stop, don't stop...feels so good," her breasts so firm and ripe and swelling hot in her Daddy's big hands.
I'm not sure I could have stopped. Her breasts looked so exquisite through the flannel material of the gown, the way they felt and looked, full and flesh-hot through her nightie. I was transfixed, aroused, doing what I'd been thinking for weeks. I kneaded, cupped, and squeezed my daughter's lovely breasts, squeezing them out toward her nipples so incredibly erotic through the flannel gown. I wanted to suck her nipples into my mouth, suck on them through her nightgown, and whispered, "Let daddy make them feel better, baby."
