Reality is Different Ch. 02

The jeans are first to fall, crumpled to the floor about my ankles. Then my blouse, unbuttoned slowly by my awkward, shaky fingers while he circles round me in slow, appraising silence, his gaze devouring the slow unveiling of my body. My bra - he stops behind me then, steps up close enough that I can feel him there, goosebumps rising on my skin. Waiting, while I unhook the stubborn clasp, free my breasts to breathe the air, the stiff excitement of my nipples betraying me arousal for him to plainly see. As if he didn't know already, as if he couldn't read me like a book...it's just a moment after that his strong arm slips around my waist, pulls me back against his chest. A little squeak of terror escaping from my throat to feel his hardness pressed against my bottom through the sturdy fabric of his work pants; up above, his other hand comes round to close around my breast, to squeeze it in his grasp. First softly, but then harder, rougher, pinching agonizing at my throbbing nipple.

"There's my girl." The approval, the affection in his voice makes me want to just collapse against him, surrender to his strength. Sensation flowing hot inside my veins with the scraping of his thumb against that pink and pebbled peak, rubbing it between his fingers, tweaking to and fro. His tones seem almost to hiss with satisfaction. "I love these little tits of yours, sweetheart."

"They're not too small?" It's a struggle for my tongue to shape the question, to speak my fear. My voice emerging tiny, trembling.

"No." His lips are buried in my hair, kissing forceful at my scalp between his words. His other hand descending from my tummy to slip into my panties, warm and rough against my dewy flesh. Gliding on my petals, in my most private place, taken for his own. "They're just right. The perfect size for me to squeeze..." And as though to demonstrate the point, he abruptly grips me tighter. Not just at my breast - around my pussy, too, cupped within his fingers, my thickened lips abruptly sizzling with pleasure as they're gently crushed beneath his hand. The feeling of it arcing up along my spine in a shiver, an overwhelming spasm of delight...

This time I do collapse, my knees buckling beneath me as his touch reverberates along my nerves. But my daddy is prepared, ready, catching me before I fall as if it'd been expected. Hauling me up again into the air as though I weighed nothing whatsoever, one arm behind me back, the other one beneath my knees. Smirking softly down at me as I struggle just to weakly grasp his shirt, as I stare up submissively into his eyes.

"Daddy..." The word escapes my fantasy, finds my lips in real life, its sweetness tingling upon my tongue. Spoken weak and plaintive, like a prayer, like a plea. Help me, daddy. Save me. Love me. Take me...my fingers working quick between my legs as I slump down awkward in the chair, but in my imagination I'm still quiescent, limp, a rag doll in my daddy's arms. Almost naked, just my panties there to hide me from his eyes. He carries me like that across the little distance to the bed, and then he drops me, lets me tumble down in disarray across the covers. Stands so tall above me as his familiar hands stroke bare across my skin, straighten out my tangled limbs, and that same look I thought about before is solid in his gaze, ownership and love, possessive adoration. His palm atop my thigh, his thumb outstretched to caress across the very bottom of my panties, and the terror that I feel is blended with my pleasure to make a greater whole, a joy that aches and cries inside me, escapes in little gasps from between my parted lips. There isn't any thought in me that I should try to keep his fingers from curling into that tiny scrap of cloth, that I should keep him from pulling them away, the damp fabric stretching in his hands as he smoothly sweeps it from my legs and tosses it to crumple on the carpet.

I'm exposed to him. A flutter in my stomach, an electric twinge along my nerves. My tawny little thatch of fur unveiled to his eyes, the glittering of pinkness that it hides pulled slowly open as his strong hands spread apart my thighs, a rose that's blooming in the light, and the knowledge of his gaze there in my secret place is a thrilling agony. Wondering what he thinks of it. What he really would...his right hand drifting lightly down my thigh again, and I can only hold my breath to feel it gently close around my puss. To hear his voice rumble down again from high above me, rough and husky, the most familiar sound in all the world. "What is this, Sarah?"

Thought is hard to manage, in the midst of this sensation. Words, harder still. They stumble from my tongue, breathless, hopeful. "It's my pussy."

"Wrong." Firm, reprimanding. It seems punishment enough to feel his hand retreat, not to have him touch me anymore, but that proves just a prelude to the sweetly textured pain that shudders through me as he slaps it down again upon my dampened, blood-thick lips. A helpless cry forced from my throat, my hips rolled back into the covers as though they could escape, as though to flee...at least, until his sturdy fingers stroke there softly for a while, soothe the stinging of the hurt he had to give. "I'll give you another chance." His eyes boring into mine. "Whose is it?"

Now I know what he wants me to say. "It's your pussy, daddy." Whispered with a giddy tremor up my spine - and how glad I am to see the tiny nod he gives me, the subtle smile that pulls approving on his lips. To hear ecstatic in my ear the rasping sound of his zipper fly as it's undone.

"That's right, baby girl." Affection and desire, rushing hot within his tones. I'm still staring fixed into his eyes - I don't see it, only feel as his manhood slaps down thick upon my mound, as the head draws slowly back to nestle there between my sopping lips, pushing just a fraction of an inch within to bump against my barrier. "It belongs to me. You belong to me. My sweet little pussy, my little cunt." Harsh words again, glittering sharp inside my mind, a note of anguish distantly delicious as he bends down closer, as one strong hand rises up to grasp upon my cheek, to run his calloused thumb across. The smile on his face is predatory, frightening, exhilarating. "This is going to hurt you."

It does. My hymen is no guard against his force, splitting like a tissue with his single thrust. My innocence extinguished with a stab of pain that arcs like lightning up along my nerves, a strangled cry escaping high up in my throat, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. I whimper like a wounded animal, but my sobbing is devoured by his hungry kisses, his sternly weathered lips mashed to mine. And with every rapid heartbeat the pain becomes a little less, dulls into the distance until I can begin to feel other things. His cock inside me, pushing slowly in and out, smearing red with my own blood. Filling up the emptiness I never realized I felt. The almost groaning of sensation as my body stretches to his girth, the quiver there inside me of that something that I could not begin to name. The knowing it's my Daddy taking me at last, my pussy opening to welcome him inside me on a tide of my arousal, hips pushing back inexpertly to meet his thrusts...his voice is growling above me, insistent in my ear, all-important. "No more boyfriends, baby girl. Daddy doesn't share. You aren't even going to talk to boys without getting my permission."

A breathless, keening whisper. "Yes, Daddy." It feels so good to tell him yes, to agree with him, to obey him. And it's hardly any kind of loss - what use would I have for any boy, when I already have my Daddy?

"No more classes, either." He continues, murmured, husky orders, his accelerating thrusts as punctuation. "You don't need them to be my slut, my pretty little cunt. You're going to stay at home the way a good girl should, cook and clean for me the way your mother didn't want to do. You're going to be here any time I want you, ready to be fucked."

"Yes, Daddy." It comes out mewling, a tiny little cry. My legs bent back and wrapped around his waist, begging him to stay inside me as his thickness pounds within, an alternating sense of emptiness in his withdrawal and overwhelming pressure as he pushes deep inside again, the friction of his shaft against those puffed and pinkened lips like liquid joy along my nerves.

"No clothes." He growls close beside my ear, pawing at my breast, my body rocking back and forth beneath his thrusts, and his words are all that's left inside my mind. "I want you naked, baby girl. I want that sexy little body of yours on display for me to see, for me to use, any time I get the urge." His fingers tracing up between my breasts, along my sternum - then they grip around my neck, gently squeeze, and the subtle terror of this threat is but another thrill, a spice that's added to my bubbling of bliss. "Maybe just a collar, hm? Something so anyone can see who you belong to."

"Yes, Daddy." The words are almost hidden by my panting, by the faintly liquid sound of slapping, sweating flesh as he drives into me like a jackhammer, every thrust bombarding pleasure on my mind. My arms locked desperately behind his neck, holding tight, hanging from him like a lariat when he raises higher. Delirious with delight, intoxicated with my Daddy's touch...

"And maybe I'll knock you up, too." His voice echoes in my soul, taunting, tantalizing, while my body shakes and shudders like I'm taken by an epileptic fit. He's near the edge himself, swollen huge inside me. That electric moment of release looming misty there before us. "You want that, Sarah?" Words carried on his lips, pressed deliciously against my skin. "You want me to cum inside you, get you pregnant? You want that skinny little belly to fill up with your daddy's baby?"

"Ohh...yes, daddy, yes, yes..." Again the words rise up to touch my tongue for real, the borders of my daydream blurring with my own exhilaration, with the heat of my arousal. I'm teetering before the precipice, fingers stroking swift and shameless at my clit, holding on that last plateau where I have to either back down and let myself relax or else just dive right off the edge. My eyes shut tight to better see the visions in my head, encouraged by the liquid sounds of sex still coming from the headphones. Slightly awkward, tricky, with the chair's stiff back behind me - but the thought again of where I am right now just serves to send another shiver up my spine, urgent and ecstatic. In my daddy's bedroom, in his chair, where he's cum who knows how many times himself.

It makes me feel so close to him, thinking about that, as though the fantasy is real. His throbbing manhood sheathed so deep inside me. His arms locked around my back, crushing me so tightly to his chest that I can't breathe, that I don't want to breathe. The deep and manly groan he makes, ringing so divinely in my ears...then his shaft swells up one last time, and he explodes into my depths. My daddy's cum, spurting up in jets so powerful and thick that I can feel them paint my inner walls. Each salvo striking deep into my womb, and such an agony of pleasure crawls perfectly along my nerves to think of it, of being filled to overflowing with his seed, his essence, of it planted in my garden, of carrying my father's child...

"Daddy..." It's a squeal from the apex of my throat, twisted sideways in the seat, frantic motions half-unconscious as I madly pinch and twist my button, driving headlong off the edge. Ecstasy devouring my mind, shattering my conscious, and for some mad, eternal moment I'm lost inside of it, carried from the world by the waves of rapture rolling so delightful from beneath my belly. My hips rocking back and forth as though the dream were real, as though to push my daddy deeper still inside me, to milk his manhood of its most precious load. Heaven shining golden there behind my eyes, no more or less than just my father's bed.

I don't know quite how long it takes before my nerves begin to settle once again, before I can begin to think. A moment taken there to breathe before I even try. My frantic heartbeat slowing, scooting back to sit up in the chair as I let my mind to drift across the content of my fantasies...jesus. Even this is too familiar now, the mingling of weary, blissful afterglow with my misgivings of reflection, the queasy sense of trepidation that I get when looking back on what so recently had thrilled me. Something like regret, or self-recrimination, for the ideas I had welcomed eagerly into my head, that I giddily imagined as though there was nothing wrong with them at all. Fantasizing about my dad making me drop out of college to be some kind of sex slave. It's horrifying, ridiculous. Embarrassing. I don't want that. No doubt on that point, no ambiguity of feeling, no quiet longing lurking there below the surface - even if there is something of excitement in the fantasy, I'm certain that I don't want anything like that for real. Even the idea that started all of this, of him catching me...I don't want that to happen, either. It would be just...

Tension abruptly prickles paranoid on the back of my neck - I hesitate for just a moment before shifting in the chair to glance behind me. Relief flooding just as swiftly through me, slackening my tightened shoulders to see that I'm alone. Thank god. But I still hurry up a little to shut down everything, return the headphones where I found them. Getting caught like that...yeah. I can feel pretty sure it wouldn't work out quite so nicely as it does in all the stories, in my daydream. That isn't any way I'd want him to find out what I've been feeling, what I've been thinking about.

And at the end, likewise taken from the stories, the words that my imagination placed upon my father's lips about him making me pregnant, about carrying his child...that one is pretty crazy, too. Sick, impossible. I'm nowhere close to feeling like I want a baby, and even if I were, I'm not an idiot - I know how awful it would be if I had one with my dad, the mutations or whatever that can come from the pairing of two people closely related to one another. On top of all the social reasons, the emotional and moral for why such a thing is never done. I know. But the thought of it still lingers quiet in my mind a while, even now that reason is returned. Being planted with my father's seed. Bearing him a child...

I don't think it's for the thing itself, the perverse allure that the image carries. Not like I've got a hankering for morning sickness, aches and pains, for my belly swollen up like a balloon. It's...it's about the bond that it implies, I think. Like what you tell a kid about where babies come from, "when a man and woman love each other very much." About loving him, being something for him that I - god, I don't know. Outside his room now, my clothing straightened up again, everything set back the way I found it, pretty much. Leaning with my back against the wall as the peaceful glow of my release is slowly set to stir again by the conflict of my feelings, my thoughts. I love him, yeah. No one in the world who means as much to me, and sometimes I don't know even how to say it, how to show it. Could be that's where some of these fantasies are coming from, some unconscious need to express the affection that I feel for him. Being taken to his bed, tasked to cook and clean, as though I were a housewife. His wife.

How absurd, the hollow pang I feel in my heartbeat, considering the notion. It's silly, something like that. So...domestic. But there's a kind of sweetness to it, too. Simplicity. If I could focus all of my attention just on making him happy, not have to worry about anything beyond these four familiar walls, if I didn't want to. If he could handle things in all the world outside, and I could be the devoted woman he deserves, the one my mother wasn't. Staying here with him, to greet him with a kiss when he gets home from work, serve him his favorite meal, to snuggle up against him in his bed at night. We already share so much. It would only be a little more, a little further...

Well. I'm being foolish, probably. But not all of that is even such a bad idea, necessarily. Helping out around the house, cooking...there's no reason why I couldn't do that for him, why I shouldn't. I mean, I tend to have a fair amount of time between my classes, or after them, when dad is still at work. We've kind of eaten staggered meals a lot the last few years, TV dinners, fast food, that kind of thing. It might be nice to change things up a bit, to cook for both of us. Sometimes, at least. To give it a try...I'm not exactly a great chef. I mean, I know the basics, and I even enjoy it, to an extent. The instant stuff is just - well, easier. But it might be fun, to do it properly. For him.

---

It's about an hour later that my dad gets home. This time, I don't fail to notice his arrival, the heavy diesel rumble of his work truck pulling up the drive, and I'm standing ready for him in the middle of the living room by the time he opens up the door, steps through. Backlit for a moment by the sun outside, as though he were a hero in a movie, showing up to save the day.

"Hey, dad." I'm first to speak, to greet him with a slightly giddy smile. Sitting back against the armrest of our couch, an ambiguous, uncertain tingle in my legs. His familiar features, worn and slightly wrinkled, look so handsome to me today. Standing tall before me in his rugged blue work shirt, a little rumpled now and dirty from his labors of the day. I almost feel like I should rush in to meet him with a hug. Or more than 'almost.' That's what a girl might do if this were a story...but I guess that's why I can't, shouldn't. I just sit there where I am, instead.

"Hey there, kiddo." If he's a bit surprised to see me down here waiting for him, he hides it well. Just quirks a smile back at me, gestures with one hand at me while he steps into the house. "What's up with the apron?"

My fingers trace along it for a moment, down my chest. It's simple, cotton, discolored in a couple places with old stains. "I thought I'd make us dinner today." And there is a certain pleasant pride to say it, grinning foolish. Tempered just a little by the wondering of worry that rises up, reflective. "Uh, you didn't eat already, did you?"

"No, no," his voice is just a trace distracted, working through the usual routine of getting home. Taking off the heavy toolbelt that he wears around his waist, loaded down with gear - I used to think he looked like a hero from a comic book with all that stuff, like Batman taking off for work. Just a moment's hesitation before I scurry over to help him with it. "Thanks, sweetie. No, not yet...you don't have to do that, though. Sounds more like my job, parent and all. What do you feel like having? I'll try my best to cobble it together."

"Daaad." Affectionate exasperation. Of course he'd try to take the burden on himself. "You have a job, remember? An actual one, keeps you pretty busy? You need a chance to take it easy, not have to worry about anything." And when he makes as though to protest again, I add "Anyway, I already made it. I'm keeping it warm in the kitchen right now."

Slightly parted lips close and open once before he speaks again, wryly. "Ah." A shrug, genial, accepting. His gaze drifts past me to the adjoining dining room, small and cozy. Eyebrow lifting just a trace to see how I've neatly set the table up with cloth placemats, napkins, silverware. "Well, I guess that's that, then. May as well eat now...what's the occasion, if I might ask?"

"No occasion." His hand is rough, calloused in my own as I gently tug him towards the table, to his chair. "I just thought it would be nice, you know? We aren't really eating together as often as we used to. I kinda miss it."

"Since your mom and I split up, you mean." His voice comes quietly beside me, just a shade restrained.