My parents' divorce hit Dad hard, and he had no idea it was coming. One morning about six months ago, Mom abruptly moved all her things out of the house just after Dad left for work. When he came home that night, he found a half-empty, half-trashed house, many of his possessions damaged or just dumped on the floor, and a terse note from Mom saying she'd found someone else and was moving to Nevada.
Mom didn't tell me, either; she sent a postcard from St. Louis telling me that the split wasn't my fault and apologizing for not letting me know, but she didn't want anyone to talk her out of it. She's tried to contact me off and on since, but I won't talk to her. What she did to Dad was simply too awful, too mean. He's not a bad man, and he deserved better treatment than that. He should have had a chance to save his marriage.
Dad was an emotional train wreck for several weeks, drinking so heavily that I feared for his health. But that period passed, and he slowly returned to his old fitness schedule and start adjusting to life without Mom. He pushed me away during this period, saying, "I need to be alone for awhile, Lena. I don't want you to see what a pathetic old man I'm becoming."
"You'll never be pathetic to me, Dad. I love you."
"I love you too, but I'm really angry right now and I don't want to take my pain and rage out on you. I won't be cruel." He didn't have to add, "like your mother."
After almost half a year of this, I couldn't take it anymore, so when Dad's 48th birthday started to loom, I took the opportunity to call him and offer to take him out to dinner: "You need something besides frozen pizza and bag salads," I told him, and, with a smile in his voice he agreed: "All right, Lena. This could be fun." I arrived at six-thirty to pick him up.
Dad opened the door, Scotch in hand. He'd been drinking a little, I saw, but you'd never peg him for 48; his wavy hair was as black as it had ever been, with only a few lines around his deep blue eyes and hints of grey around the temples betraying the fact that he was older than 35, and he had been keeping up his workout routines. Gone was the fat that started to develop after Mom left, replaced by a flat belly and good muscle tone. He looked relaxed and casual in a midnight blue polo shirt and matching slacks. He gave me a hug and a quick, tight peck on the lips, our usual greeting.
"Wow," said Dad, "you've never been more beautiful, Lena."
Since this was a special occasion, I had donned a shimmering white satin cowl neck blouse, sheer black stockings, a wraparound skirt, and three-inch heels. The blouse covered my bosom nicely, not too close, but enough to indicate what delights might be hidden underneath. My hair takes after my mother's, light brown almost to the point of being blonde, though unlike her, I keep it styled short. It's full enough to frame my face, but not so much that it gets into my eyes, which are the same as Dad's.
"Happy birthday, Dad," I replied, twirling so he could get a complete look and acknowledge his approval, and then stepping inside.
My heart sank as I saw what was left of my childhood home. Mom had taken all the good furniture, and Dad had mostly replaced it with cheap and used pieces from second-rate consignment stores. The paintings and prints, all gone; only a few family photos and some pictures of me from a summer vacation we took in Maine back when I was sixteen adorned the flat white walls now.
That brought back some strange memories. At the time, just eight years ago, I felt gawky and awkward, and I had a hard time meeting boys. But Dad did everything he could to make me feel beautiful and desirable, and I developed a hidden crush on him. Sometimes I had deeply erotic dreams in which Dad took me to bed and made love to me in dozens of exotic and exciting ways. I still had those dreams every once in a while, especially since the divorce. In some of the photos I'm wearing a tiny yellow-gold bikini that barely contained my burgeoning bosom (I have quite the rack, I'm told), and Dad's got his arm around my waist and holding me close, or we're holding onto one another while swimming in the ocean, each looking happily into the other's eyes. I had fantasized that Dad had a crush on me, too. But now I looked at the photos with an adult's eyes, and I blushed to the core; in some of them, you can see a distinct bulge in Dad's dark swimming trunks.
My stomach fluttered at the thought Dad might have wanted me, and I wondered what I would have done had he made a move. Would I have done it? Would I have gone to bed with him? All the old, romantic notions I had as a teenager washed over me for a second, but I put them aside. I wondered why, of all the photos he could have put on the wall, he chose those.
We made mostly small talk at dinner, talking about Mom as little as possible, but I felt uncomfortable. Dad couldn't stop staring at me, and he kept smiling to himself, as if he were keeping a secret I wanted to know. He wasn't the man who raised me. Something had changed.
I felt more and more tense as the evening went on, and relief after we left the restaurant. Later, we had an awkward moment standing at the front door, as if neither of us knew what to say or do. I finally said, "Good night, Dad," and leaned toward him for our usual little kiss. I was completely unprepared when his strong arms encircled my waist, catching my breath. He pulled me in close and kissed me, hard and firm, his tongue caressing my lips. Startled, I jumped back.
"Dad!" I snapped. "What the hell was that?"
He, too, appeared stunned, as if someone other than he had just tried to lick the back of my throat.
"I'm sorry, Lena," he said, his face beet-red with embarrassment. "I didn't intend to really do that. I've been lonely, and I've missed you and I'm a little tipsy. I got carried away."
But I didn't resent the kiss; the unexpected surprise unnerved me more. The kiss's electricity crackled its way through my system, stirring bizarre and conflicting emotions, and making me a little light-headed. My adolescent fantasies started to boil again, but the more rational part of me wanted to slap him; he shouldn't have kissed me that way. That part of me wanted to run, but another part of me, tingling between my legs, wanted to rush into his arms and kiss him back.
Dad turned his face away as an anxious silence filled the air between us.
"It's getting late, Dad," I whispered at last, my voice dry and husky. "I'm going to go."
"Wait," he said. "I have something for you. I found it while I was straightening out the house."
He drew a small volume from his coat pocket, its garish, multicolored flower pattern instantly familiar: my teenage diary! The one in which I had written, in close, exquisite detail, all my dreams and fantasies about making love to my father. I almost fainted. I barely stopped myself from punching him.
"You shouldn't have read that, you dirty old man," I barked. "Jesus, you need help!"
"I know," he replied. "I'm sorry."
"Now I really have to go," I said, snatching the book from his hand and running off into the dark.
I cried for an hour after I got home, barely able to even look at the diary, my ears burning with shame at all the embarrassing secrets within. I ignored it until I went to bed but I couldn't get to sleep. Having never reread what I wrote, I had to know what was in there, what set Dad off like that. With trembling fingers and tight breath, I took a look at the words I set down so many years ago: they were the clumsy, florid words of an innocent young girl who had read too many romance novels, but they also inflamed my fantasies about my father anew, and my pussy started to moisten. I put the diary down and my mind drifted to earlier in the evening, to that kiss which still lingered on my lips, to what I would have done if I had kissed Daddy back. My fingers slid under my panties as I teased my clit and grew very wet.
In my new fantasy, Dad expertly removed my blouse as I managed to get his shirt off. Our clothing soon disappeared and we mashed our bodies together on the living room sofa. As my fingers churned away, we found ourselves naked on a nice, soft carpet I dreamed up, Dad kissing his way up to my boobs, licking them, biting them, playing with them before opening my legs and thrusting his long and thick manhood deep into me. My breath started coming in short, hot gasps as I imagined that huge hog of his moving in my pussy.
The dream Lena asked Dad if he loved her, and he said he did, loved her like no one else. I held him close and whispered "Daddy" into his ear, over and over as he made love to me, my fingers matching the rhythm of my father's dream cock, until--
"Daddy!" I called out as a high tide of orgasm surged through my body. My mind flooded with images, images of French kissing my father, of Dad masturbating to my diary, of my fucking him to the point of exhaustion. Not until I came two more times did I at last fall asleep.
I barely remember the next few days, so confused were my emotions and distracted my thoughts. Dad didn't call; I think he was ashamed, and I was afraid I had alienated him. I started to worry about him, and the dreams about making love to him came back every night, sometimes with powerful ferocity. After more than a week, I couldn't stand it anymore. I'd already lost my mother; I couldn't bear to be estranged from my father, too. I formed a plan.
I waited until Friday and chose my wardrobe carefully. I knew how Dad liked to see women made up, so I carefully applied clear lip gloss and black eyeliner. Because it was raining, I put on a long, stylish trench coat and a trilby hat. I waited until after seven; if I knew my dad, he'd be settling in about now for a long evening of TV.
"Lena!" he said, opening the door. "God, I was afraid you'd left me forever. I can't apologize enough for my behavior last week. I couldn't be more sorry."
"It's okay, Dad," I said, stepping in. "I know life's been difficult for you these last few months. I've been thinking things out."
"Please forgive me."
"I have."
"Thank God. I thought I had lost you."
"Never."
We were standing a few feet apart, the air heavy with a thousand unspoken thoughts. Finally, Dad said, "You look exotic tonight. You look just like a film noir seductress from the forties. Let me take your coat and I'll get us some drinks."
I smiled sexily and shrugged my coat off. Dad's eyes bulged out and he caught his breath, for underneath the coat I wore a sheer black lace baby doll nightie, a black lace pushup bra, black lace panties, black stockings and my black three-inch heels. A heart-shaped gold locket dangled just above the cleavage on my jutting breasts.
"Jesus, Lena! What--"
I stepped close enough to touch him, my heart hammering and my thoughts racing, praying I wasn't making a fool of myself. "I told you I've been thinking about things," I said.
"My God, what have I done?" he said, but didn't turn away.
"Maybe what you should have done a long time ago," I said, cupping his balls, which radiated heat through his khakis like a pair of burning coals. "My diary really turned you on, didn't it? Well, it's turned me on, too."
"Oh, Lena," he said, "you don't know what you're doing to me."
I straightened out the crowbar growing in his pants and tenderly squeezed its length with my fingertips.
"I have a pretty good idea, Dad."
