Emmy and Her Daddy Ch. 01

"Do you really think I'm beautiful Daddy?"

Was she serious or just playing, fishing for a compliment? I wasn't sure.

"Yes, the prettiest girl in the world, soon to be the prettiest woman."

With a slight blush, she kissed my cheek, her lips dwelling on my skin a beat or two longer than normal. Her hand was on my chest.

"Thank you Daddy. I think you're the handsomest man. When we get to Miami, the night I turn eighteen, I'm gonna ask you for another present, but for now it's a secret."

I never heard from Dr. Fulgum. Had Emmy changed her mind? Probably not. More likely Mary Ann Fulgum, a family friend and Emmy's doctor for years, decided to maintain my daughter's privacy. I pushed it out of my mind.

* * * *

We arrived in Miami Thanksgiving morning. It was a special occasion and I booked a two bedroom suite with an ocean view at the Ritz Carlton Bal Harbour. Emmy had packed as if we were going on an expedition; I tipped the bellman after he deposited her voluminous baggage in her room.

Emmy had, for the most part, kept our plans in the dark, generically instructing me on what to pack. I was told to bring credit cards and cash; Emmy had said she had a few special treats in mind, but she wouldn't be paying for everything. We ate Thanksgiving dinner at the hotel; it was unexpectedly good. I wore slacks and a sports shirt, she a green loose-fitting shirt with three quarter length sleeves and a tiny black skirt. She was, I thought, a young woman, not a teen-aged girl. After we ordered dessert Emmy reached into her purse and pulled out two tickets. They were for the Miami Heat game that evening.

I love basketball.

"Ohmigod honey, I can't believe this. How did you, where did you, they must have cost a fortune. I'm supposed to be treating you."

Her broad smile showed she'd gotten the reaction she'd hoped for.

I leaned over to kiss her. She turned her head, offering me her lips. We kissed and I took her hand in mine, "Thank you Emmy, thank you very much."

"Anything for my handsome Daddy."

We took a town car to the game. The seats were mid-court, ten rows back. Emmy folded her arm in mine. At halftime we were shown on the scoreboard - they're always looking for pretty girls - which elicited a happy laugh and a quick wave from my delighted daughter. After the game, the weather perfect, Emmy suggested walking back to the hotel.

The streets were crowded, the curbs lined with food trucks. Emmy and I washed down ceviche de corvina with coconut milk straight from the coconut, listened to street musicians, marveled at the murals and local architecture. The smell - a combination of ocean spray and Cuban spices - was intoxicating. Emmy clung to my side, laughing, eyes sparkling. I was with the prettiest sweetest lady in the city.

We got back to the room after midnight. Emmy asked me to take the first shower, she said she needed an extra long one. I obliged her and was sitting in the living room in my robe when she ducked into the bathroom.

Still wound up from the evening I turned on the television, but found nothing of interest and decided to fetch my Kindle from the bedroom. When I passed the bathroom I heard a moan. I stopped, unsure of what it meant. It was followed by a second moan. It's meaning was clear. Emmy was masturbating.

I'm not sure why I was surprised. Still, I was startled, frozen in place. My mind's eye envisioned Emmy, water cascading down her body, a finger on her clitoris, two more thrust inside her. Then she moaned again, this time more intensely, interrupting my reverie. I scurried to my bedroom, grabbed the Kindle, returned to the living room, but couldn't focus. I was still thinking about what was going on in the bathroom, but the shower was too loud, the distance too great for me to hear anything more. Eventually the water was turned off and I heard Emmy's voice. She'd cracked open the door, a sliver of her face visible.

"Daddy, I forgot my nightie. Can you get it?"

"Yes honey, where is it?"

"I left it on my bed."

"Do you need a robe?"

"Yeah Daddy, I packed mine, but I forget which suitcase. Once you get my nightie I'll find it.

The lingerie was where she said it would be. A coral satin slip, I held it up to light. It was sheer. It was also small; it would barely reach her butt. I looked at her luggage. What else was in there? Emmy joked about spending all the money she made waitressing on clothes, which left me out of the loop on what she bought. Maybe I should pay more attention.

I walked back down the hall, knocked on the door, a hand emerged. I handed it the slip.

"Thank you Daddy."

"Where did you get that thing?"

"Why, do you like it Daddy?"

"It's tiny."

"Well Daddy, if it makes you feel better, you're the only guy who's seen it."

"Okay, lets keep it that way."

The door shut, reopening minutes later. At the sound I looked up from the book I was not reading. There was a mirror on the wall; I saw Emmy walk down the hallway to her room. I knew I shouldn't, but I watched. Her back was to me. The slip had molded itself to her still damp buttocks. I had seen her backside dozens of times, she preferred a thong when lounging by the pool, but there was something about this moment that was different. Was it the forbidden nature of my covert glance?

I could hear Emmy rummaging through her luggage before she reappeared wearing a pink full-sized dressing gown. Bare foot, she padded over and sat next to me.

"Daddy, this was the best Thanksgiving ever."

I lay an arm over her shoulder and pulled her close.

"It was great."

We talked briefly of the day. Emily leaned into me, fiddled with her hair, walked her fingers up and down my thigh, promised more fun tomorrow. I said I was ready for bed; she said she'd stay up awhile and text some friends. I kissed her on the cheek and headed for my bedroom. Emmy turned the television on. Good, I thought, ambient noise. I pulled out my penis. I did not, I swear I did not, think of Emmy. I thought about a saleswoman for Grainger who'd been an occasional guest in my bed. And yeah, her butt reminded me of Emmy's.

* * * *

I woke the next morning, made a cup of coffee, and opened my computer to check on the office, responding to the most important messages. I did not know my barefoot daughter had entered the room until she leaned over me from behind, wrapped her arms around my chest, pressed her body to my shoulders, kissed the top of my head.

"Morning Daddy."

"Morning."

"Working?"

"Just checking on a few things. There's coffee in the kitchen."

"Thanks." She glanced at my mug. "Almost done Daddy? Need a refill?"

I looked at my cup. She was right. "Sure, thanks."

She walked around the couch and bent at the waist for my coffee cup. Her hair fell across her face. I looked up and saw her full breasts over the hem of her gown. I turned away, but not before being struck my how well-endowed my daughter was, even more so than her mother.

She stood up. "Let's see if I remember. Glass rinsed out, a little bit of skim milk, a half pack of fake sugar, the pink kind not the blue kind, shaken not stirred. Do I have it right?"

I laughed. "Yes honey."

When she returned from the kitchen she sat on the coffee table in front of me, closed my computer, pushed it to the side, and leaned forward, her hand on my knee.

"Daddy, I don't tell you often enough how much I appreciate how hard you've worked to take care of me."

I blushed. "Thank you."

She shifted her position, moving closer. Our knees touched. She stretched, her body swaying back and forth, as if getting used to being awake. She returned her gaze to my eyes.

"I was thinking we couldn't just party while we're here, so I scheduled a yoga class and some gym time this morning. The Ritz-Carlton has a deal with a local gym. They got a kick-boxing class I want to try. That way when a bunch of beautiful women attack you on the beach I can fend them off. As for my handsome Daddy, I was thinking some weights and the treadmill."

She ran her hand down my leg, squeezing my calf. Several strands of hair fell across her face. She pushed them behind her ear, then, absentmindedly, brought them back to her mouth, chewing on the ends. "Whatcha' think?"

I can't say hitting the gym was tops on my list, but Emmy was right, it was a good idea. I nodded my approval. My daughter smiled. She had perfect teeth and a beautiful smile.

* * * *

I've never been big on yoga; I've attended only a handful of classes. Emmy, on the other hand, was devoted to it. While I struggled to assume a facsimile of each pose, I marveled at my daughter's grace and flexibility. When we were done she took hold of my hand and introduced the two of us to the teacher; they spent several minutes discussing yoga in a parlance with which I was unfamiliar. She then headed for the locker room to get ready for kick boxing. Despite my initial reluctance, I got in a strong kettle-bell work-out. I did the same on the treadmill, although I had to get one of the club's twenty-somethings to show me how to work the damn thing, its bells and whistles a mystery to me.

When done I wandered down the hall to the boxing ring. I stood to the side, outside Emmy's range of vision, not wanting to disturb her workout. She was standing, her feet at shoulder width, forearms in defensive position, gloved fists pointing at the ceiling. She jerked her right knee up, lowered it to the floor, then kicked again. This time her extended leg smashed into a heavy bag, forcing it back several feet. I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of that. Alternating legs, she repeated the process for about three minutes.

When the trainer blew his whistle Emmy, clearly exhausted, walked to the side of the ring and laid her hands, encased in oversized white boxing gloves, on the middle rope. Her tank top exposed her midriff. Her hair, pulled into a pony tail, was askew, draped over her shoulder. Her face was flushed; she was covered with a veneer of sweat. She was breathing heavily. She leaned her head back, her mouth, framed by her full lips, slightly ajar. I glanced to my right. Several men were staring at her. I couldn't blame them. She was stunning.

The trainer blew his whistle, time for the cool down. Emmy pulled off the gloves, picked up a jump rope, and effortlessly completed the task. I thought about her as a child, jump roping with friends, always claiming to be the best on the block.

When the class was dismissed I waved. Emmy walked over, wrapped her arm around my waist, slid her slick body against mine, kissed my cheek. Her breasts, still heaving as she caught her breath, were pressed to my side. Guys looked at her; desire on their countenances. Guys looked at me, admiration, or was it jealously, in their eyes. I may have been her father, but a part of me liked this image: a still-in-shape older man and his beautiful young girlfriend.

"How long you been watching?" she asked.

"About ten minutes."

"How'd I do?"

"You're unreal, a combination of grace and strength."

She took my hands in hers and stepped back, the look on her face one of genuine pleasure. "Thank you Daddy." She squeezed my arm. "How 'bout you Daddy, you have a good work-out."

"Sure did."

We headed back to the gym. "Daddy, instead of showering here, let's do it in the hotel. I checked the stalls, they're kinda yucky. We can sneak in the back door; that way we won't make spectacles of ourselves."

I thought about my sweaty daughter walking through the hotel's lobby in that outfit. No guy would object. Still, I saw her point.

"Sure honey. I'll get my stuff."

I'd been chatting with the front desk clerk for about twenty minutes when Emmy arrived, gym bag slung over her shoulder. She'd fixed herself up: applied a bit of make-up, reworked her pony tail, and was wearing a light green jacket with the gym's logo on it. When she saw me her face lit up in a wide bright smile. The girl had a way of making you feel special. She declined my offer to carry her bag, locked her hand in mine, and we walked back to the hotel.

* * * *

After my shower I put on my robe and, having no idea what she had planned, headed towards my daughter's room. "Emmy, what are we doing today? What should I wear?"

Emmy yelled, "I laid your clothes out on your bed Daddy," just as I came around the corner. Her back to the half-open door, Emmy was leaning over her bed, arranging a few things. She was naked. I stopped and caught my breath. I was staring at her ass. While Emmy was thin, somehow she still managed a bit of heft on her rump. The hours she spent in the gym were also evident; her butt floated in the air, immune to gravity. A bit oval, more apple shaped than round, weight nicely centered. Her skin was flawless.

My daughter started to turn. I stepped back. I had just checked out my child's behind.

"Daddy, is that you?"

"Yes pumpkin. I didn't realize that you were..." I stopped. Should I confess that I'd just seen my daughter au natural?

"I'm sorry Daddy. I should have closed the door," and then, after a pause, "Did you like what you saw?"

"Its hard for me to accept you're all grown up."

I was still only a few feet from the door, her image pulsated in my brain. I couldn't flee down the hall, she was talking to me. Then her head snaked around the door frame.

"Daddy, even when I'm an all grown up, I'll be your little girl."

An arm emerged. She blew me a kiss. "Promise me Daddy, promise me I'll always be your best girl."

I was staring at her face, imagining her nude body. I said nothing; it must have been obvious my thoughts were scattered. Emmy raised an eyebrow, waiting for my response.

"Of course Emmy, you'll always be my best girl."

Again, her full lips parted and she smiled, not a wide grin, but a sweet subtle one, one of happy acceptance. She reached out, took hold of two of my fingers, and pulled me towards her. Her hand went to the side of my head, cupped my face, drew it to hers. Her thick lips met mine and she kissed me, enveloping my lips in hers. It lasted less than a heartbeat. It seemed much longer.

She pulled back. "Thank you Daddy, that's all I've ever wanted to be, your best girl." Her head disappeared. She shut the door. I stood there. There was a definite throbbing in my groin.

I took a deep breath, went to my room, dressed, returned to the living room, checked e-mails. About forty-five minutes later Emmy walked in, announcing her presence with a "Ta-da!"

She was wearing a tiny pair of denim shorts, Dr. Martens leather boots, and a backless halter top held on by spaghetti straps. Funky round sun glasses were tucked in her cleavage and she sported a metal bracelet and a few rings. It was a hippy happy look, but a kind that only a beautiful woman confident of her appeal could wear. That was Emmy.

"Whatta ya think Daddy-O?"

"I think I might need to hire you a bodyguard."

She laughed, walked up to me, ran her hand down my biceps. "I was hoping my handsome Daddy would take that job."

I smiled; she continued. "Today's a big day for street festivals in Miami. I've scoped out some, but best I can figure spontaneity is key. So I decided to dress comfortably."

And so we hit the streets. I couldn't remember having more fun. We watched the crowning of a beauty queen, enjoyed the work of local artisans, wolfed down Cuban fare from omnipresent food trucks, and more than anything else, danced. No matter what was played - Latin Jazz, Funk, Caribbean, Reggae, Salsa, Merengue, Bachata, Balada - the rhythm would inhabit my daughter's body and she'd move as if born to it. Wherever we went Emmy made friends; she mixed with the musicians, the vendors, the sponsors, strangers from the crowd, laughing and dancing with all of them, but always reserving the final few numbers for me. At first I tried to refrain - afraid of looking like an old fool - but I always gave in and, as time went by, and aided by some Bacardi, I relaxed, happily letting her drag me into the crowd. I had, in my youth, been a good dancer - it was something Emmy's mother and I loved to do. I found I could still cut a rug.

For the evening's finale, a concert by Skakira, the crowd migrated to the beach. Skakira danced and sang and Emmy was lost in the music; her body one with the sound. I may have been Emmy's father, but there was no mistaking the unalloyed sexuality of either woman. And Emmy, who had freely danced with others throughout the day, insisted that when it came to Shakira, only Daddy would do.

We got back to the hotel after midnight. It was now my daughter's birthday. I asked her to wait on the balcony. Although she'd said the only thing she wanted for her birthday was the trip, I had noticed her admiring a friend's woven braided gold necklace. When I joined her on the balcony she could tell by the gleam in my eye something was up.

"What is it?"

"Turn around, I want to put it on you."

She turned, facing the harbor and downtown. I kissed the back of her head, said happy birthday, and slipped it around her neck. She looked down, ran it through her fingers, turned, smiled, blushed slightly.

"Daddy, thank you, its so beautiful. You didn't need to, all my life you've done so much for me. I told you all I wanted for my birthday was your company."

"I remember sweetheart, but you only turn eighteen once. And you make it look beautiful."

My daughter stood on her toes and kissed my lips, then turned in my arms, her back to me. She looked out over the city. When she shivered I wrapped my arms tighter around her. She leaned into me.

"You have fun today, Daddy?"

"Yes Emmy, I can't remember enjoying myself more."

She placed her hands on mine and rolled her shoulders, snuggling against me. "I'm glad Daddy, I want this to be the best vacation ever."

"Well, sweetheart, you succeeded. I'm lucky to have a girl like you."

Again she turned in my arms. Facing me, she touched her necklace, kissed my cheek, then whispered in my ear. "I'm the lucky one Daddy. No girl's ever had a Daddy as handsome and wonderful and kind and caring as you." She lay her head on my shoulder. "I loved dancing with you today. Could we dance again, right now?"

We swayed together, holding each other tight, moving on the balcony, listening to the sound of the night. When done Emmy kissed me, her thick lips dragging over mine. We walked back inside holding hands.

"You want to take a shower Daddy?"

"No honey. I think I'll lay down and pass out."

She made a face, the kind that says men can be so gross, and kissed me again. I went to my bedroom, stripped, listened to my daughter's light step in the hallway, heard the shower turn on, imagined her stepping inside, imagined her masturbating, took my erection in my hand. As I came I heard a ping on my phone. It was a selfie of Emmy blowing me a kiss. The message was simple: "Thanks for a wonderful day. I love my Daddy."